“That’s what she said.”
“1 thought she was claustrophobic. I saw her at a reading in the Willard Reading Room. When I closed the door she panicked, pushed me aside, and ran out.”
“Sometimes if a claustrophobic person has a place to see out of she can cope. A window helps, but not this window.” He pointed to the brick wall and laughed a deep laugh that displayed the gold in his teeth.
“The door had a deadbolt. The maintenance man claims he locked it for the weekend, not knowing anyone was inside.”
“Well, if Maia was trying to kick she wouldn’t have gone into that room with heroin. An addict alone with her ansia, that’s a recipe for disaster. What exactly was the illustration? The police didn’t say.”
“It was a drawing of Spiral Rocks, an archeoastronomy site in southern Colorado that the artist Edward Girard is developing. Do you know if that place had any special meaning to her?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I met her last year, and she talked to me about the Venus-Jupiter conjunction. Maia is the name of a star in the constellation Pleiades, which many cultures have considered the constellation of the homeless. It’s possible she had an interest in astronomy.”
“She was an intelligent woman. That was obvious. But she revealed very little else about herself while she was here.”
“She told a graduate student that she became homeless because Coyote chased her.”
“That’s not surprising. Many women become homeless because they’re running away from an abuser. They go to a new city, assume a new identity, and hope the guy won’t find them. Coyote isn’t a bad name for that kind of a predator.”
“Do you know if Maia was an assumed name?”
“My guess would be yes, but I don’t know for sure.”
“I’m a mother myself. It bothers me that no one has filed a missing-person’s report.”
“It’s tragic, isn’t it,” Christopher asked, “that someone as bright and attractive as Maia could fall through the cracks and no one cares?” His expression changed to the droopy frown of a clown.
“I care,” Claire said.
“Good. Somebody needs to. Somebody needs to care for every single person who has ever passed through this shelter. I can’t do it all myself.”
“I’d like to make a contribution.”
“Money is always welcome. We need sheets, we need blankets, we need pots, we need pans, we need art supplies for our workshops. You name it, we need it.” He put his hand on his bookshelf. “One hundred dollars will get you a signed copy of my book. Two hundred dollars will get you two.”
Claire already had signed copies of his books. “I was thinking of a painting,” she said.
“The ones on the living room walls are for sale.”
“They are not quite what I had in mind. Do you know if Lisa painted Maia?”
“She did. It was a lovely painting. Why don’t you talk to her about it? She lives in the Old Albuquerque High School.”
“I could stop by on my way home.”
“I’ll call her and tell her you’re coming. Would you like to join us for dinner? We’re having franks and beans tonight, right out of the can, and a Jell-O salad.”
It sounded like the perfect comfort meal, but Claire had other things on her mind. “I need to get going,” she said. “Thanks for your help.
“My pleasure,” Christopher said, smiling and squeezing her hand.
Chapter Nine
CLAIRE DROVE EAST ON CENTRAL to the Old Albuquerque High School. For years it had been an abandoned wreck of a building with broken windows and boarded-up doors, home to derelicts and strays, but it had recently been renovated and the former classrooms turned into light-filled studios.
Claire parked her truck, went into the lobby, and rang Lisa’s bell, Lisa buzzed her in. When she reached Lisa’s floor, Claire found her standing in the doorway waiting. Lisa was small and slender. She wore the sandblasted jeans that were currently in fashion, but her sandblasted sections had been tinted pink instead of the usual shimmering white. Her cropped top showed her navel. Her hair was short and spiky with a purple streak. Her long fake nails were the same shade of purple. She wore rings on most of her fingers. Claire guessed her to be in her early twenties.
Lisa invited Claire into her studio, where a large window faced south looking down at Central. An easel was set up in the corner. The only paintings displayed on the walls were abstractions.
“The developers did a wonderful job with this building,” Claire said.
“Didn’t they?” said Lisa. “My mother rents this unit for me. It’s halfway between UNM and my work at the shelter. A studio with northern light would have been better for painting, but I like looking down on Central.”
“Are those your paintings?” Claire asked of the abstractions.
“No,” Lisa said. “I’d never put my own work on my walls. I’d always see things I’d want to change.”
“Your portraits of the homeless are wonderful,” Claire said. “Christopher showed me the ones at the shelter.”
Lisa seemed embarrassed by the compliment. “Chris likes to hang the paintings with circus scenes at the shelter. He loves the circus and dresses up as a clown for special events. I don’t necessarily see the homeless as circus performers, but that’s often how they see themselves. There’s an element of fantasy in the circus that takes them away from their real lives. Everyone has a dream image. I try to find out what it is and paint that image. If I ask the homeless how they want to be portrayed, I get mumbles and blank stares or sometimes the name of a celebrity. If s better just to talk to them for a while and see where that leads. Or else I show them other portraits I’ve done and an idea comes out of that. Chris said you were interested in the portrait I did of Maia?”
“Yes.”
Lisa squeezed her hands together. “I was shocked by her death. It seemed like she had the potential to get it together, if any of my students did. She was smarter than most of them. She came in here with a clear idea of how she wanted to be portrayed. She saw herself as dancing in a circle with other girls.”
“Do you still have the painting?” Claire asked.
“No. It has been sold. Every year the Downtown Gallery on Central has an exhibit to benefit Chris’s shelter. They put Maia’s portrait in the window. Somebody saw it there, fell in love with it, and bought it for twenty-five hundred dollars, the best price we’ve ever gotten for a painting.” Lisa had a proud glow and rightfully so, Claire thought.
“Do you know who bought it?” she asked.
“No. The shelter wanted to get the buyer’s name, of course. A person that generous is worth keeping in touch with, but it was a cash deal and the buyer never gave the gallery a name or address.”
“Someone walked in off Central with twenty-five hundred dollars in cash? Who walks around with that kind of money?” Claire asked.
“It wasn’t a drug dealer, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Lisa said. “Even if it was, Chris probably would have sold the painting. The money all goes to a good cause. I don’t get any of it. As far as my mother is concerned, I’m a grad student, not an artist.”
“How do you know the buyer wasn’t a dealer?” Claire asked. “Maia died of a heroin overdose. She must have gotten it from a dealer.”
“The gallery owner told me the buyer was a conservatively dressed woman who said she saw the painting in the window and fell in love with it. People react strongly to my paintings.”
“Of course they do. You do exceptional work.”
“Thank you,” Lisa turned away from the compliment and walked across the room to her computer. “I photograph all my paintings and store the images on my computer. Would you like to see Maia’s?”
“I would.”
Lisa tapped a few keys and brought up an image of girls in long white dresses dancing in a circle. Most of their faces were turned away, hidden by swirling hair or blurred in the motion of the dance. But one face was perfectly clear—Maia as s
he might have appeared in her early teens or even younger. She had the same high cheekbones and brown hair but this face had vitality, youthful optimism, and color.
“It’s lovely,” Claire said.
“I call it Summertime. That’s Maia, of course,” Lisa said. “Maybe you noticed that there is only one clear face in each of my paintings. I like to give the homeless a moment in the sun, one moment they don’t have to share with anyone else. It makes them feel important, if only for a little while.”
“Did Maia say how many girls she wanted in the painting?”
“She wanted a total of seven.”
“Did she tell you how old she wanted to be?”
“Twelve. I had to imagine what Maia would have looked like at twelve. She seemed to think I got it right.”
Lisa’s computer had a large screen with high resolution. Claire could clearly see New Mexico in the background of the painting. “The adobe wall, the mountains in the background, the hollyhocks in bloom—were those her idea?”
“Not exactly. She wanted a New Mexican setting and that was my interpretation.”
“Did that make you think that she was raised in New Mexico?”
“Maybe, or maybe she wished she’d been raised here. I couldn’t say.”
“If she was raised in New Mexico, a mother or someone here should be looking for her. According to the APD no one has filed a missing-person’s report.”
“People from a happy home don’t run away and live on the street,” Lisa said. She had a youthful style, but her work had given her a wise and mature outlook. “Most of them want nothing to do with the people they left behind. Often they are afraid they will be pursued. It’s unusual for them to choose an image of themselves as younger or as part of a family. They prefer to be painted as part of the circus, or alone, or with animals. I don’t know if these girls were Maia’s real sisters or friends or just people she imagined.”
“Was Maia her real name?” Claire asked.
“I doubt it. Most of the people I meet don’t use their real names.”
Claire stared at the seven girls dancing on the screen. There was a shadow in the corner cast by a tree outside the frame of the painting that seemed to be reaching towards the girls. “In Greek mythology Maia is one of the seven daughters of Atlas and Pleione,” Claire said. “They were playing in the woods when Orion, the hunter, saw them and became infatuated. He pursued the girls but Zeus saw the sisters were in danger and he turned them into doves who flew away into the sky. They became the constellation Pleiades.”
“I didn’t know that,” Lisa said, “but it wouldn’t surprise me if Maia identified with that story. What homeless person wouldn’t rather be a star in the sky?”
“Do you know if she had an interest in astronomy?”
“She never talked about it to me. Maia was very intelligent, but shy. She didn’t like to talk about herself. Mostly we talked about Chris, the other people at the shelter, how she spent her days studying in libraries around town, visiting museums, attending public lectures and readings. I was glad I was able to paint her dancing and happy as she might have been. Did you know her well?”
“Not really. I talked to her twice, but I wouldn’t say I knew her. I got involved because the police found an illustration stolen from the library in the storage room with Maia’s body. It was Spiral Rocks, an ancient site in southern Colorado. Did she ever say anything about Spiral Rocks to you?”
Lisa shook her head. “No. Chris said she died from a heroin overdose. She seemed straight when I saw her, but it doesn’t surprise me that she would get on drugs. Many people at Hope Central get there because they abused drugs. Some of them even ask me to paint them the way they feel when they are high. Look at this.” Lisa’s long nails clicked a few keys and another image filled the screen. “This woman was a friend of Maia’s. It’s a tough painting that has been hard to sell.”
A woman with hair streaked the color of cherry Jell-O floated above a river. She had a stoned expression with a smile full of holes. Her body stretched out like smoke as it followed the curves of the river.
“That looks like Ansia,” Claire said.
“You know her?”
“Zimmerman Library is a mecca for the homeless,” Claire said. “Sometimes Ansia hangs out there. She and Maia were friends?”
“Yes. They looked out for each other. Would you like me to print out a copy of Maia’s image for you?”
“Please. Could I have Ansia’s, too?”
“No problem.”
When the images were printed Lisa apologized for the poor quality, but Claire got what she wanted—a face recognizable as an alive and vibrant Maia. “Did you paint her in this room?” she asked.
“Yes. I do all my portraits of the homeless here. It’s convenient for me and for them.”
“Did Maia seem claustrophobic to you?”
“She might have been. She asked me to leave the door open. She sat at the window.”
“I’m afraid she panicked when the maintenance man locked the door to the storage room and that’s why she took the heroin.”
“Any addict who has heroin in her possession is going to use it,” Lisa said. “Maia might have already been high when she went into the basement.”
It was a possibility Claire hadn’t considered. She studied the portraits Lisa had given her. Even in the form of color printouts from a computer, they were exceptional. “Are you in the School of Fine Arts at the university?” she asked.
“No. I’m getting a master’s in social work.”
“You’re very talented. I hope you’ll continue painting. Many people can do social work, but very few are artists.”
“I’d like to paint,” Lisa said, twisting her rings around on her fingers. “But I made a promise to my mom that if she helped me get through school, I’d find a real job. She raised me herself. It was often a struggle for her. She’d like me to have some security in my life.”
Lisa’s talent was her security, Claire thought, but she wasn’t Lisa’s mom. She thanked Lisa for her help and left her studio.
Chapter Ten
BEFORE SHE HEADED HOME, Claire turned her truck around and drove west again on Central. By now it was dinner time for most people and a line had formed at Tucanos Brazilian Grill. Other Central Avenue businesses stayed open later now that the movie theater and Tucanos brought people downtown in the evening. Claire drove a few blocks farther, parked, and walked to the Downtown Gallery. Most of the people downtown were clustered around the theaters, bars, and restaurants. The block the gallery was on was quiet enough that Claire wouldn’t want to hear the sound of footsteps behind her. Lights were on at the Downtown Gallery. The windows were full of Southwestern scenes—clouds billowing in blue skies, piñones casting long shadows—scenes Claire had seen often enough in life and in art. The paintings in these windows were too ordinary to have pulled her into the gallery.
She opened the door and stepped inside. A tinkling bell alerted a woman who sat at a table leafing through a magazine. Emotions ruffled the woman’s face before she spoke: annoyance that she had been interrupted, alarm that someone had entered the gallery at this hour, then relief that Claire didn’t appear to be a threat and might even be a legitimate customer.
“Hello,” the woman said, standing up to greet Claire. “How are you?”
She wore a plum-colored dress with a stained-glass pendant hanging from her neck. Her hair was blond and silky as a spaniel’s. It rested on her shoulders but she cupped her hand and pushed it up as if she was afraid it was going to fall out. Her voice was bright and quick. Her manner was nervous.
Claire found herself mimicking the woman’s chirpy tone as she replied, “I’m fine. And you?”
“Good. It has been quiet tonight.”
“Do you always stay open in the evening?” Claire asked.
“After Tucanos opened, Rachel, the owner, thought it would be a good idea, but we don’t get many customers at night. I’m Linda Butler.” She ext
ended her hand.
“Claire Reynier.”
“People are willing to come downtown at night to eat or go to the movies but not to buy art. Not yet, anyway. Rachel wanted to stay open until nine, but I talked her into closing at eight.” She looked at her watch. “Only half an hour to go. Do you like Janelle Aland’s work?” Linda asked, waving her hand at the Southwest landscapes. “She has an elegant style, don’t you think?”
Claire thought that was more a statement of hope than of fact. To her the paintings lacked any style.
“Actually I was interested in the Hope Central show,” she said.
“That show closed. The artist, Lisa Teague, does incredible work. The gallery is always busy when the Hope Central show is on, although a lot of the traffic is homeless people looking at pictures of themselves and their friends. It’s a good cause. We take a tiny commission, but most of the money goes to Hope Central. The show usually sells out.”
“I work at Zimmerman Library at UNM,” Claire said. “A homeless woman I met there was in one of Lisa’s paintings called Summertime. She told me you sold it.”
“That was a gorgeous painting,” Linda said. “Absolutely gorgeous. Rachel put a high price on it, twenty-five hundred dollars, but it was worth every penny. We had it in the window for two weeks. There were a lot of inquiries but no one willing to pay the price. Usually Lisa’s paintings go for around a thousand. The last night of the show a woman came in and said she had to have it and that was that.”
“Did you get the woman’s name, by any chance?”
Linda tugged her pendant as she asked, “Why do you want to know?”
“The homeless woman in the painting was found dead recently in a storage room under the library. The police haven’t been able to identify her and notify the next of kin. They’ve been showing a photograph taken after her death around the library. People will glance at a photo of a dead person, but they won’t really look at it. I thought if I had an image of her alive it would help to identify the victim. If I could find the owner of the painting she could give me a photo of it. She might even know the woman’s identity.” It sounded convincing enough to Claire, especially since she hadn’t mentioned that she already had a copy of the painting in her truck. Linda seemed too preoccupied with closing time to scrutinize Claire’s words. Her eyes kept turning toward the door as if measuring the degree of darkness beyond the glass.
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