3 Requiem at Christmas

by Melanie Jackson

“And that is very odd because I don’t do portraits.”

  “Me either.” Elizabeth chuckled. “This is very bad of us. It’s objectification. Of a friend.”

  “Yes,” Juliet agreed.

  “Yes,” Raphael said, but both women just laughed.

  “The thing is, I’m not at all sure that he’d mind. He’s reserved, not shy.”

  “I think you’re right,” Juliet agreed and went to find the lady manning the booth to pay for the Zorro mask.

  Chapter 6

  What was she doing? Just wandering through the hotel? Or was she killing time, waiting for someone? Could she have found a buyer? No! No! It couldn’t be that. She couldn’t have found anything! He had to find it—had to get it back. Had to. People were getting impatient…. Maybe she had it in her room. If she found it. How could he get in to look?

  * * *

  Away from the babble of strange, cloying voices practicing fake accents, Juliet began to fall under the influence of the glittering lights and soft organ music piped through the inn. She could—almost—imagine going out into the night and skiing. They offered night skiing on one of the runs, but she preferred cross-country and thought that perhaps she would wait for morning and slightly higher temperatures. Dark and snow brought up too many unpleasant thoughts.

  She walked slowly through the lobby, admiring the poinsettias and other evergreens. No traditional Christmas greenery had been missed—pine, spruce, holly, even mistletoe woven into kissing balls. She wondered if they had somehow managed to dye the complimentary goldfish red and green.

  A tired mother was dragging an even more tired child toward the elevators.

  “I’m not going to bed! Not ever! Ever!” the boy insisted tearfully. “I don’t care what Santa Claus says!”

  Juliet shuddered. There was one upside to her old job. It had stopped her from having children, something she knew she was emotionally ill suited to do. She was barely fit to raise a cat.

  She stopped in front of the inn’s largest window that stretched from floor to the top of the small mezzanine. The stores at the arcade were still open, still twinkling bravely in the night, and the full moon on the mountains gave the snow an eerie glow. It was beautiful, but she didn’t feel at ease. She had been increasingly more edgy since nightfall.

  “Some say that ever ’gainst that season comes, wherein our Savior’s birth is celebrated, the bird of dawning singeth all night long; and then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad—no fairies take, nor witch hath power to charm,” she murmured.

  “At least the brain hasn’t malfunctioned in the cold,” Esteban said. “That’s a relief.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Is it normal to go around in public quoting Shakespeare?”

  “Depends. Lots of people quote and misquote Shakespeare. They just don’t know it. And with all the weirdoes in the hotel, a little Shakespeare is nothing.”

  She smiled over her shoulder at him. She was rather glad he wasn’t wearing his mask. He had been so pleased with it that she feared he might take to wearing it all the time.

  “There’s a steakhouse over there,” Esteban said. “Everyone speaks highly of it.”

  It was a tempting thought. They wouldn’t need to walk through the snow so she needn’t change clothes. There were sleighs and taxis, or they could take the gondola that stopped at a platform on the third floor.

  But outside, under the portico, there was Mr. No-neck’s satellite, scanning the dark intently as he waited for something. He had a black ski mask over his face but it wasn’t sufficient to disguise the gun he carried at his waist. Especially when he raised his arms and the short jacket rode up his large body.

  “Christmas might stop the witches and fairies, but it does nothing to deter the human villains. I’d like to know what he’s doing out there,” Juliet murmured.

  Esteban moved closer so he could study the masked man. She could feel the heat radiating from his body. She had noticed before that he ran hot.

  “You could rush out with a hug and season’s greetings, and then pump him for information. I think he’d be less inclined to slug you than me.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it, not even if I were twenty years younger. That tent in his pants is in the wrong place for that kind of happiness. I wonder if he has a permit to carry concealed and why he doesn’t use a shoulder holster like real villains do.”

  As though feeling their scrutiny, the orbiter turned to look at them. His eyes were flat, as black as his mask. Juliet resisted the urge to wave and made herself look right past him and study the arcade.

  “I think he’s suspicious of us. Perhaps you should kiss me. It would give us a plausible excuse to stay here and see what happens.”

  She ignored the stock flirting. If she ever did kiss Esteban it wouldn’t be for another’s delectation.

  “I know what will happen and we won’t learn anything if we stay here. I just wonder if Mr. No-neck has been out visiting a burned-down cabin. His anxiety over a missing person or property must be pretty high to keep him here.”

  “And I think it would be nice to know what the other party members look like. They tend to spend a lot of time in ski masks.”

  “I’ll draw you a picture. Over dinner. I’m actually starving.” She turned from the window and smiled.

  “You should have finished your pasties. Don’t you know children are starving in Ethiopia?”

  “Well, they weren’t very good, even for fair food. In fact.…”

  “Yes, they were terrible. And so was your pink popcorn. Feel like a steak?”

  “And a baked potato.”

  * * *

  The restaurant’s ceiling was low and beamed, and it gave a feeling of intimacy in spite of the large number of tables that were rather close together. Christmas music played in the background, but it was mellow instrumental songs and kept at low volume so that guests could actually speak to one another, if they chose.

  They were shown to a table near, but not next to, the large windows that overlooked the inn and its formidable collection of twinkle lights and a snowy field which looked as cold and lifeless as the surface of the moon. Juliet didn’t mind the downgrade in tables. The cold off the giant sheets of glass would be unpleasant and she had had enough of chilly things for the day.

  It was pleasant to find that the napkins were cloth and the candle was real, and low enough that it did not interfere with eye contact. Naked flames at eye level were as effective as a curtain at hiding people’s faces, and Juliet would have been sorry not to see Esteban’s eyes, which were a deeper gold than the small fire burning between them. In the rest of the restaurant the lighting was as subdued as it could be to let waiters see the entrées they carried and to not trip over each other. It fostered the illusion that they were alone. She suppressed a smile, thinking about what she and Elizabeth had said that afternoon. It hadn’t all been a joke. She would like to try painting Esteban.

  The waiter was fairly emphatic about the excellence of their specials so Esteban surrendered to his judgment and had the venison. Juliet remained firm and ordered a steak. For auld lang syne circa 1970, they began with a cheese fondue which was served with artisanal breads and crisp wedges of pippin apples.

  There were a fair number of kilts in the dining room, though they were now paired with shirts and shoes—and sometimes snow boots. One caught her eye particularly because it was about the size and color of a hot-air balloon and the man seemed vaguely and unpleasantly familiar. Perhaps she had seen him at the fair.

  “It isn’t polite to stare,” Esteban said, also staring. “What a striking set of colors he chose. Do you think he’s colorblind?”

  “It’s just Clan Buchanan, and there is no choosing involved. It just goes with the territory,” Juliet answered. “I would have thought everyone would be at the ceilidh by now.”

  “The what?”

  “A dance,” she said, simplifying. “The clan is having a fund-raiser tonight. I should think that attendance is all but manda
tory.”

  Somehow it seemed fitting that Mr. No-neck and a satellite should arrive only minutes after them and that they were taken to the reserved table near the plate glass window. On the way No-neck paused to speak to the balloon, who did not look honored by the visit. In fact, he looked unnerved. In his fear, he reminded her of someone though the brain couldn’t place the details.

  No-neck stared at them as he passed their table. Even above the strong omnipresent smell of searing meats, Juliet could smell his musky cologne that trailed behind him like a dirty kite when he circled her chair. Esteban’s lovely eyes suddenly looked very hard and Juliet recalled their first meeting where she had decided that he was ruthless. No-neck obviously sparked Esteban in the same way.

  Everyone around them seemed to be drinking beer. Lots and lots of beer. Juliet wondered how many of them were on her floor and if she would be kept up all night by flushing toilets. If she drank like that at bedtime she’d be up all hours nursing a hyperactive bladder. It also killed brain cells, something she felt she could ill afford. She was obviously getting old.

  “What are you thinking?” Esteban asked. He sounded amused. His expression had once again smoothed itself into something nonthreatening to civilized people.

  “That I wasted my youth. I should have guzzled beer and gone to orgies when I was in my twenties and the body was more forgiving.”

  Esteban laughed softly.

  “My imagination fails me. Juliet Henry at an orgy?”

  “It fails me too. And that’s just sad.”

  Once food was laid out to their satisfaction and the noise had reached annoying levels that would prevent eavesdropping from other tables, Juliet and Esteban began to speculate wildly about what No-neck was doing in town and came up with an improbable but exciting list of activities that contained everything from stealing paintings by old masters, knocking over casinos, or smuggling miniaturized nuclear devices. Of course, they could only enjoy the exercise because neither of them believed that No-neck was trading in weapons. If he had been any kind of serious player in the armaments business, Juliet would have heard of him. She had the feeling that Esteban would have known him too.

  “We should get going if we want to foregather with our neighbors,” Esteban said when Juliet declined dessert. “They are meeting in the bar again this evening.”

  “Do we want to foregather?” she asked, then answered herself. “I guess I should. I haven’t been terribly social so far and I am thinking about going skiing tomorrow instead of heading back to the fair.”

  “I may see you out there. If I finish in time.”

  She did not ask what he needed to finish. Esteban was an artist but he was also a private investigator. They made a point not to enquire too deeply into each other’s lives and what lived in the shadows, though there was genuine affection between them.

  “Dinner is on me,” Esteban said. “I’m working a job that pays for incidental expenses.”

  “Thank you. That was lovely, though I will be lucky if the ski lift can haul me up the hill after all that.” She spoke randomly, aware that one of the satellites was walking by their table. She actually had no intention of using the ski lift. She was going cross-country.

  * * *

  “He’s fatuous,” Juliet said, speaking of their local newspaper editor back in Santa Cruz. Like Molière, Juliet felt that most critics were like children who could whip horses but not drive them. This was particularly true of people who didn’t actually understand or even like art. She was trying to be sociable and participate in a discussion about the influence of art critics, but her brain was occupied with other things and her eyes were getting tired of all the plaid in the bar.

  “He has gas?” Carrie gasped and giggled. Two martinis were obviously too many, or maybe she didn’t know the difference between fatuous and flatulence. She also smelled like half the inventory of the drug store perfume counter had ended up on her neck and wrists. Juliet found herself fighting a sneeze. She also knew that truculence and tears were coming as soon as someone suggested that she had had enough to drink. Usually everyone played nice because they didn’t want any more blood feuds. The last neighborly quarrel had ended with someone dead.

  Raphael winced at the giggle and then said that he was tired.

  He didn’t specify of what.

  “Coward,” Juliet mouthed and got the tiniest of smiles.

  Asher and Elizabeth also made their excuses. At their defection, Juliet’s patience failed her and she rose too, mouthing apologies and excuses. Her nicer side said she should stay but her other side was stronger and smarter and knew her limitations. The room was too warm, thick with bodies and all their conflicting smells. She just wanted away from it. That left Rose on the hook to be Florence Nightingale since she was Carrie’s roommate, but pity didn’t delay Juliet.

  Raphael waited politely for her by the elevator. He had accurately anticipated her tolerance levels.

  “So do you want to come up and look at my etchings?” he asked.

  “Not unless they are a damn sight better than the etchings in my room. Did you notice that poor cat?”

  “Yes. Truthfully, my etchings are no better, but I have a flask of McCallum’s.”

  “That beats an almost empty Amaretto bottle and a broken-kneed feline.”

  “Two minds with but a single thought….” The idea really was amusing him and Juliet wondered why. Was the thought of being romantically involved with her that ridiculous? Was it because of his partial paralysis? Or was it something about her?

  “Well, yeah, only I am betting there are more than two minds that want to get away before the two-bit actress gets any drunker,” she said, not wanting to venture into emotional territory.

  They ran into Harrison and Darby as they got off the elevator. The composer was clearly agitated and his hair looked like he had been pulling on it. Juliet might abandon Rose, but she couldn’t ignore Darby’s look of appeal.

  Raphael stuck out a hand and held the elevator door open for them.

  “The brother’s here,” Harrison said without preamble. “Joshua. He’s come up from Las Vegas and he’s wearing a hideous orange and purple kilt. He says he needs to be at the concert as a sign of respect for his brother and I have to find some way to fit him in the front row along with some other clan people. And here it is, a Requiem Mass. Will he think me insensitive if I don’t ask for a moment of silence? I mean, that would be strange, redundant, since the whole Mass is a memorial concert for the dead.”

  Juliet blinked. Holtz had a brother? And he was in Tahoe, also sporting a Buchanan tartan? Well, it made sense since this was where the murder investigation was taking place.

  Harrison kept talking.

  “He wanted to stay in his brother’s room because the hotel is booked, but Captain Denver won’t let him—and I guess he didn’t say no very politely. And the man is also upset about his car, but what can I do about any of this? I can’t even give him his brother’s things, because I have no ‘things.’ No one else does either.”

  “His car?” Juliet asked.

  “The Jaguar belonged to his brother—Holtz’s brother—the living brother,” Darby answered, taking a turn and not managing to convey information any better than her lover. This news brushed Juliet’s mind and then clung like cobweb. Holtz hadn’t been driving his own car? Could this have been a case of mistaken identities leading to the wrong man’s death? She frowned and made an effort to tune back in to Darby. “I don’t know why he is bothering us. I know grief can take people different ways but this guy seems manic, like the devil is chewing on his ass.”

  “Do we know what the brother does?” she asked after a glance at Raphael.

  “He’s some kind of accountant—big business stuff,” Harrison said. “He is also the founder of some Scottish charity—alba-gumball or something. They are having a fundraising dance tonight.”

  “Alba gu bràth,” she corrected while wondering if the brother was an accountant for Mr. No-n
eck. A case of mistaken identity might explain a lot of things if the brothers looked alike. After all, who was a more likely target: the opera singer or the crooked accountant? “They are one of the factions working toward Scottish independence. Usually nonviolent. No proven connection to the IRA. And it’s a ceilidh.”

  Everyone stared at her. It reminded Juliet that they didn’t know anything about her old job in intelligence.

  “That’s a Scottish folk dance and sing-along. Look, the Mass is for your father, Harrison—honoring his memory as a soldier who gave his life for our country. You don’t owe anyone anything except a great concert. Put the brother up front in reserved seating if you want, but the rest of the Buchanans and AGB can take their chances with seating like everyone else,” Juliet said, trying to pour some oil on the turbulent water. It would have worked better if she wasn’t distracted, but she made an effort to focus on Harrison’s concerns. “You will make an announcement at the beginning of the show, right? About how the tenor part will be sung by someone else? Just add that Holtz’s death is a tragic loss for all music lovers and how you are glad that Holtz’s brother could be with you—then let it go. The audience—most of them—don’t care about the details. They are here to play dress-up, get drunk, and go skiing. The announcement should be enough for the brother and Holtz’s friends.”

  “Do you really think so?” Harrison asked hopefully.

  “Yes.” And if not, they could do something anatomically unpleasant to themselves.

  Darby smiled her thanks at Juliet for calming her stressed-out lover.

  “Well, that’s settled. All that is left to do is confirm with the candy shop that our sweets will be ready for the party.”

  “Where is Captain Denver, do you know?” Juliet asked. “I think maybe I’ll go have a visit with him.”

  “He’s taken a room—Pinewood four. It isn’t supposed to be rented because of the renovations but they let him have it for his investigation. That’s third floor near the fire stairs. Do you think you can get him to be more polite to Joshua Holtz?” Darby asked. “The man is really broken up.”