The Mountains Bow Down

by Sibella Giorello

  The clock was still ticking in my head. “What does this have to do with the chapel?”

  She looked up again. “If I tell you the truth, will you believe me?”

  “The truth? Yes.”

  “I got saved.”

  It took me a moment and she misread my silence.

  “Yeah, I know, jailhouse conversion. Go ahead, make fun of it. But I didn’t do it to get out early. I did it because now I was a different me. I was a better me.” She stopped picking her hands and her voice went up an octave. “And who was my biggest champion? Judy. She helped me get back on my feet. She got me to play music again.”

  “Did she know about you and Milo?”

  She shook her head. “But I knew.”

  “Did she know about any of the affairs, before the tabloids broke the news?”

  “I could never tell. She was crazy-blind in love with Milo, and everyone in Hollywood puts on a front. Even the nice people. But if she knew, she didn’t care. And she didn’t try to stop him.”

  “And you two took a roll in the chapel—for old time’s sake?”

  “No!” She came off the bench. “That is not what happened.”

  “Then tell me. The truth.”

  “I was playing a set in the bar—”

  “What night?”

  “Monday.”

  “The night she died.”

  She picked at her hand again. “I was playing in the Sky Bar. I was so tired. Really tired. I had twenty minutes off after the first set. In the old days I would’ve fired up a joint but I went down to the chapel. I can’t explain it, there was this heaviness in my heart, like that feeling of being homesick.” She sighed. “I know now it’s like grief. Nobody was in the chapel, and I just wanted to pray so I got down on my knees in front of the cross and—”

  “What cross?”

  She blinked.

  “MJ, what cross? There’s no cross in there.”

  Her lips trembled and as the words came I realized this confession was for two audiences. One was spoken, for me, but the other came softly, a hushed entreaty with that same sweet and devastated voice I’d heard last night—forgive me, she was saying—then describing the empty chapel at that late hour and how she didn’t think anybody would come in—mercy, have mercy—and how she had knelt at the foot of a large wooden cross that hung on the wall above the platform, feeling a desperation so dark that she laid her hands on the wooden beam.

  “I don’t know how long I was praying. Maybe a long time. But suddenly I felt someone behind me, pulling me by my hair. I grabbed the cross, holding on and—” She lifted both hands, displaying the palms lined with slivers. Her voice was shaking. “He pulled, and I didn’t want to let go of the cross. There was this horrible sound, and it must have scared him because he let go of my hair and when I turned around—oh, God—it was Milo.”

  “Alone?”

  She nodded. “The cross came crashing down, just missing us. I started crying and he put his hand over my mouth. He was snarling, like an animal, telling me I’d teased him long enough.”

  My question cloaked the air, not needing to be spoken between two women.

  She shook her head. “He was too drunk and finally he left. There I was, sprawled out with that fallen cross.” She began whispering again.

  “What happened after that?”

  “I had to go play.”

  “In the bar?”

  “That’s part of my contract, playing at any parties. I need the money. But Sandy chewed me out for taking such a long break— like I was goofing around. Then he gave me the sniff test.”

  “The what?”

  “Smelling me, to see if I fell off the wagon.”

  “You didn’t tell him about Milo?”

  “C’mon. Which of us would he kick off the movie? Not Milo.” She opened her hands, displaying the damage. “This looks good now, but I played two sets with my hands on fire. And the next morning, when I heard Judy was dead, I decided this was the cruise from hell.” She looked at me, hard. “I mean that, as a place.”

  I nodded. I knew what she meant.

  And I wasn’t about to disagree.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Vinnie the bodyguard stood outside the Tiki Bar on Deck Seven, looking like something that had rolled off Easter Island.

  A crowd had gathered outside the bar, primarily Asian tourists, and they held digital cameras above their heads, hoping to catch a picture of an American movie star. At six five, Vinnie towered over them. And me.

  “You,” Vinnie growled.

  “Me.” I smiled.

  “Jack said to let you in.” He stepped aside, reluctantly.

  As I passed through the palm-treed entrance, I heard murmurs of envy coming from the crowd. I’d been granted special favor, as though the rules that applied to everyone else didn’t pertain to me. Heading toward the bright lights of the movie set, the place populated by beautiful people, I could see how septic pride might seep in before it was even detectable. And I recalled Sparks’s description of Milo’s debauched behavior—Guy started believing his press. But believing propaganda wasn’t the real problem. That was a symptom. Pride was the problem. Because pride created monsters.

  The monster named Milo Carpenter sat in a black canvas chair sipping from a paper cup that I doubted contained water. Behind him was Jack, and to their left was a grass-skirted bar where Larrahrhymes-with-Harrah was getting her face powdered. She pulled her lips over her teeth like somebody missing dentures and wore a teeny-tiny tank top that displayed her pneumatic chest and thin muscular arms. Beyond her, two tables had been pushed together to make the empty bar look crowded. Some scruffy-looking extras sat at the tables, playing cards. In the back corner, MJ sat at an upright piano, picking at her hands.

  The director, Martin Webb, conferred with Sandy Sparks next to one of the film cameras. Since Jack and I couldn’t come up with anything further on Webb, we weren’t able to pursue him, at this point. He’d flushed some drugs, paid for damages to the wildlife center, and Geert was done. I watched the director pouting as he listened to Sparks and recalled our background check. Webb was nearly broke. So where did he get the money for damages?

  Jack walked over to me. I stood on the edge of the set and in a low voice told him MJ’s version of what happened. When I described the attack, muscles began knotting in his jaw. At the end, he walked over to Milo, still sipping from the paper cup. I followed.

  “Let’s go have a talk,” Jack told him. “Somewhere private.”

  “I can’t,” Milo said.

  “Why not?”

  “My kicks, man. I can’t walk anywhere. I got blisters all over my feet. Like walking on knives.”

  I was hoping Jack would just grab him and drag him out of the Tiki Bar.

  Instead, he said, “What size do you wear?”

  Milo looked down at Jack’s feet. “Eleven.”

  “Mine are twelve. You want to try them on?”

  “Hey, man, that’s cool.” Milo nodded. “Real FBI agent shoes. Yeah, I can get inside my character.” He set the paper cup down on a copy of the script for Northern Decomposure. Maybe this script had the new spiffy ending, where the wife dies.

  Milo yanked off his right shoe. Alcohol had slowed his movements, and his toenails peeked through threadbare socks. “Someday you’ll tell your kids Milo Carpenter wore your shoes.”

  “A real honor.” Jack handed Milo his brown Clarks.

  He managed to tie the shoes by himself and was standing to test the shoes when the woman primping Larrah rushed over. Her graying hair escaped from a topknot, looking like wisps of smoke. She was breathless.

  “You can’t wear those,” she said. “They’re brown.”

  “The black ones gave me blisters.” Milo slurred the last word. “I’ve got, like, twenty pivots in this scene—and a roundhouse—and then I have to walk over and tell those dirtbags at the table what I think of them.” He pointed at Jack. “And he gave me these shoes.”

&nbs
p; Her eyes looked tired. She stared at Jack’s socks. Then his face. “Who are you?”

  “He’s my consultant,” Milo answered. “A real FBI agent, Jack Stephens—”

  “Stephanson.”

  “—meet Mary quite the contrary. Mary’s our head of wardrobe.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Her mouth was grim. “Wardrobe, makeup, set design.” She pointed at Milo’s feet. Jack’s russet brown Clark’s were creased across the toes from heavy wear. “Are they real?”

  Jack looked confused. “They seem real to me.”

  “What I’m asking,” she said peevishly, “are these shoes what an FBI agent actually wears?”

  “Hey, Mary.” Milo hung on the M too long. “If Judy knew I had to work in those cheap shoes, she’d be taking names right now. Don’t talk to me about the budget.”

  At the mention of Judy, she placed a hand on Milo’s shoulder, the back of it covered by swaths of eye shadow and lipstick. She gave Milo a maternal squeeze, then turned to Jack with the hard look from before. “I can’t pay you for those things. We don’t have money in the budget.”

  “Mary,” Milo said, “he wants to be part of movie history. The shoes are a gift.”

  I glanced at Jack. The shoes would be better if we used them for hitting Milo over the head. But Jack said nothing and pulled on the black shoes.

  Mary said, “Martin throws one of his fits about continuity, I’m not taking the blame.”

  “We’ll do retakes.”

  “On this budget? Think again.” She hurried back to the bar and picked up her makeup kit, rushing over to the tables where the extras played cards.

  Milo stared down at the brown shoes. “I’m walking in my character’s heart and soul. I can feel his pain.”

  “Me too.” Jack winced. “These shoes don’t fit. I need mine back.”

  “You can’t—I’ve got a fight scene.”

  “I’ve got a life.” Jack yanked one of the black shoes off, holding it out to Milo.

  But before Milo could reply, Martin Webb raised a compact megaphone. “We roll in one minute.”

  “I can’t wear those again.” Milo bent down to the floor, grabbing a leather satchel. He made two passes through the contents before coming up with a keycard. “There’s a pair of brand-new sneakers, top-of-the-line, in my closet. They’re too big for me.”

  Jack hesitated.

  “C’mon, man, they’re yours, no charge. I’ll even autograph ’em.”

  Webb lifted the megaphone. “Let’s move, people!”

  With a sigh, Jack took the keycard.

  Milo gave a soft bounce on his toes and lifted the paper cup, downing the amber liquid. He continued to stare up into the Tiki Bar’s rafters, and when I followed his gaze, I saw fake parrots roosting over the tables. “Judy, baby,” he said. “Check it out. It’s just like the fat suit. Now I got this character nailed.”

  “Let’s go!” Webb yelled.

  Milo grabbed Jack’s arm. “And grab me some thick socks, will ya? I got a little too much room in the toes.”

  He strode for the grass-skirted bar and waited while Mary buffed his face with a powder puff. Behind him Larrah Sparks closed her eyes and clutched a stone in one hand—undoubtedly something from my aunt—chanting some kind of incantation for idiots.

  Quietly, Jack and I turned to leave. He walked like an old man with bunions.

  “That bad?” I asked.

  “Unbelievable.” He smiled, slipping the keycard in his back pocket.

  “That was pretty smart.”

  “All in a day’s work, Harmon. All in a day’s work.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Milo Carpenter’s cabin smelled of scotch and a sour stench that made me wave my hand in front of my nose. I followed Jack into the living room, and neither of us said a word.

  We both knew what was about to happen.

  Jack stood at the desk, running his eyes over a laptop that had been turned off, while I walked into the bedroom.

  The king-size bed was made, undoubtedly by a steward, and the white pillowcases looked clean as frost. The closet’s door was open and Judy Carpenter’s clothes hung, the draping silks and satins waiting for her return. She favored the same sort of tunics as my aunt, paired with palazzo pants. Her sandals were high glittery things in gold and silver and brought to mind the image of her bare feet, how the dying skin had matched her blue nail polish.

  In the other room, I heard a closet door sliding open, and it brought another unexpected wave of admiration for Jack. He had played Milo like a Stradivarius. There was a legal term, called “the expectation of privacy,” and it was no small thing. In multiple cases, the courts had upheld the idea that if a person didn’t expect privacy, he couldn’t sue over the loss of it later. If a cop pulls over a driver and asks for permission to search the trunk, the driver who says yes loses any expectation of privacy. The same held true for people who left their curtains open on windows that faced public roads. When Milo gave Jack his room key, asking an FBI agent to get his shoes and socks, he also surrendered an expectation of privacy.

  On the small bureau by the closet, two clean drinking glasses waited on paper doilies. Next to that was yet another copy of the script, the title page covered with notes. A woman’s handwriting, curls and flourishes. I read the words. Movie talk, about scenes, where people should stand.

  “Grab the socks,” Jack called from the living room.

  I opened the top drawer and found underwear. Women’s. Expensive, lacy. And sad, given what we knew about their marriage. Searching for the socks, I pushed the lingerie aside and saw a wooden box. Rectangular, about six-by-eight inches. I stared at it, convincing myself that it wasn’t inconceivable a drunk would keep socks in a box.

  I lifted the lid.

  The jewelry was mostly heavy, ornate necklaces, the type that anchored blousy tunics and wide satiny pants. Sets of matching earrings were equally elaborate. But the only blue piece was a turquoise combination of hammered silver, done in a southwestern style. The rest were reddish stones—pink quartz, some garnets, even a necklace with watermelon tourmaline where the pink graduated to green. Nothing like the blue bracelet.

  On the inside of the lid, below the small mirror, a brass plate held an inscription.

  To Judy, the real gem in my life.

  —M.C.

  M.C. Milo’s initials. And it was dated six weeks back. Was the jewelry box some kind of truce?

  Or a parting gift?

  I dropped the lid.

  And heard an odd plunk.

  Opening it again, slowly, I could hear something roll. Picking up the box, I tilted it from side to side, then rapped my knuckle across the lid. The hollow sound was almost as loud as the debate inside my head, the one insisting Milo gave the FBI permission to enter his room. Permission to look for socks. And socks, they could be anywhere.

  Using the small pocketknife that Geert allowed me to keep, I shimmied the thin blade between the lid’s mirror and the wood. Working it carefully so I didn’t crack the glass, I caught a glimpse of my face. Strands of brown hair hung over my face. My forehead rippled with worry. But that was nothing compared to the expression in my eyes. Not just tired. Not just worn out. I looked like somebody tired of listening to some story, yet afraid to hear the ending.

  The mirror popped off. And a large blue stone tumbled into my palm.

  “Bingo,” I said.

  “What?”

  I whirled around.

  Jack waited in the doorway, wearing the new tennis shoes. “This is not what I wanted to see.”

  “Then don’t look.” I turned my back to him.

  The blue stone winked with chameleon charms, its color shifting with the fluidity of warm water. To my naked eye, it looked similar to the gemstones in the gold bracelet, only this stone was much larger. Close to ten carats, it had been cut into a cabochon shape to highlight the intense internal fire. I lifted the box and peered into the secret compartment. One corner looked shiny an
d when I touched it with my knife blade, a black prism rolled out. It was a slender double-terminated crystal—both ends perfectly formed, closing the prism—and it seemed genuinely black. Not darkest purple, not midnight blue. Black.

  Earth didn’t produce many black crystals. There was onyx and some forms of hematite. Even fewer black crystals occurred naturally as prisms. Black tourmaline came to mind. Or this could be a synthetic stone, cut into form. But none of those stones were worth hiding.

  Unless somebody else wanted them, badly.

  Pulling several sheets of Kleenex from the dispenser on the bureau, I wrapped the stones and dropped them into my pocket. I replaced the mirror, wiped my fingerprints off the glass, then returned the box to the top drawer, once again covering it with Judy Carpenter’s futile lingerie.

  When I turned around, Jack was still in the doorway.

  “He gave you the key,” I said, my cheeks reddening. “There was no expectation of privacy and socks can be kept anywhere.”

  “Did you get the socks?”

  My face was on fire when I turned around, opening the drawers again. “It’s not breaking and entering.”

  “Harmon . . .”

  “Jack, we’ll never get a search warrant in time. In two days the killer walks off this ship. I just want to check out these stones, especially since I don’t have that bracelet anymore.”

  “Check out the stones,” he repeated carefully. “Then what?”

  “Then back in the jewelry box.”

  “You don’t think he’s going to miss them?”

  “Give me thirty minutes. He won’t even know they’re gone.”

  “And if he comes back before thirty minutes?”

  “Just don’t give back the key until I’m done.”

  “Oh, is that all?”

  “C’mon, Jack. You’ll think of something. McLeod always says you have a silver tongue.”

  “Sliver. He says I have a sliver tongue. And how did it become my responsibility to cover up for your problem?”

  “He didn’t give me his shoes.” I looked at his feet. The shoes were pale blue, almost glacial, glowing like a really bad wedding tuxedo. No wonder Milo didn’t want them. Even a drunk could see they were hideous. “How do they feel?”