The Shadow of Venus

by Judith Van GIeson

  “Most of the library works, but I don’t like that tower. It’s supposed to be reaching for the sky, but it’s squat and dumpy.” Edward threw a rock in the pond, causing the tower’s reflection to ripple and lengthen. “There. That’s better,” he said.

  “I spoke to June here,” Claire told him. “It was evening and she pointed out the Venus-Jupiter conjunction. This is where she told me: ‘Venus is brighter than most people know, so bright it casts a shadow. It’s visible in the daytime to those who have eyes to see.’ ”

  “That sounds like something a daughter of mine would say,” Edward replied. “It’s interesting, isn’t it, how she took after both me and her mother? It makes sense with her mother, since Veronica raised her, but with me it has to be genetic. What other explanation is there for her interest in art and in Venus?”

  “That she knew all about you and followed your career.” It seemed obvious to Claire. “Anyone who visits a library has access to the Internet. There’s lots of information about your work on-line—Spiral Rocks, the Maximum Moon, the Venus Chamber, can all be found on the Internet.”

  “Can they?” Edward was indifferent. “I never look. I leave all that to Jennifer.”

  “If June tried to contact you, if she had wanted to come to the celebration, would she have gotten Jennifer?”

  “Most likely. If I answered the phone, I’d never get anything done.”

  “Would Jennifer have connected her to you or brushed her off?”

  “That would depend on what June said. You’d have to ask Jennifer. She’s talking to the galleries in Santa Fe today, trying to promote my smaller installations. I gave a sample of my saliva to the police this morning so they’ll know for sure whether June is my daughter. Once they establish that, they can release the body. If she is my daughter, I want to take her back to Spiral Rocks and bury her there. Maybe near the Venus Chamber.”

  “Where was Veronica buried? Do you know?”

  “Somewhere in Taos, I suppose.” He slouched on the bench and stretched his long legs out in front of him.

  “She died near Buffalo Point, not at the Taos Gorge Bridge. I found the article about her that appeared in the paper.”

  “What did I say? The bridge? Maybe that’s how I visualized it in my mind. Does it really matter whether it was the bridge or the point? She died in the Rio Grande Gorge.”

  “It could make a difference. In some ways her death resembles June’s. They might be suicides. Then again they might not,” Claire said, trying to pass her suspicions on to Edward.

  He refused to accept them. “Of course they were suicides,” he said, sitting up straight on the bench and tossing his hair back over his shoulder. “When I was at the police station this morning, no one suggested anything other than a woman in trouble alone with her drugs.”

  Claire moved on. “I talked to Sophie Roybal, another young woman who was abused by Damon Fitzgerald. She lives in Durango, yet she knew about June’s death. She knew I’d been to Taos. There’s a strong network among the people who lived in the Cave Commune.”

  “It’s not a network, it’s a web, and Damon Fitzgerald is the spider. I have no connection to those people.” Edward threw another rock in the pond. It landed near a startled duck that responded by quacking and flapping its wings. “I don’t want anything to do with that untalented predator, but I’d like to meet the artist who painted June while I am in town. Can you arrange it?”

  “I’ll call her. How long are you staying?”

  “Through tomorrow. I’ll give you my cell phone number. There’s a sculpture around here somewhere called The Center of the Universe. Have you got the time to show it to me?”

  Claire made the time and they walked along the side of Smith Plaza that was landscaped with rosemary bushes. Edward snapped off a twig and sniffed it as they walked by. The strength of his own wild animal odor came and went depending on proximity. In The Center of the Universe two large metal shapes connected in a cross tall enough to walk through. Most people did it as quickly as possible. It resembled a sterile metal tunnel, a dead zone devoid of any sense of feeling or life. The only escape was an opening in the top revealing a patch of blue sky. Claire couldn’t imagine a sculpture more different from the sinuous, evocative chambers Edward had created at Spiral Rocks. There she felt stimulated and sheltered at the same time. Here she felt oppressed.

  Edward stopped in the middle of The Center of the Universe, looked up, and stared with longing at the sky as if he already missed being on the mesa with his stars and his rocks. As a student walked through the sculpture, her cell phone rang.

  “Hey, what’s up?” she said without breaking stride.

  Edward laughed. “Whatever happened to ‘be here now’? I hope the artist was being ironic when he named this piece.”

  “I’d like to think so,” Claire said.

  “I’ll let you know when the DNA results come back. I’m going to Los Angeles to finish an installation at MOCA, the Museum of Contemporary Art, next month. Maybe I can recover June’s body on my way back. I’d like to do it all in one trip if possible. I’ve gotten so I hate to be away from Spiral Rocks. It’s the center of my universe.”

  “It’s a good one,” Claire said.

  She left Edward on the far side of the sculpture, walked back to her office, and called Lisa Teague to tell her about Edward’s interest.

  “Edward Girard is Maia’s father?” Lisa asked. “Oh, my God. How did such a wonderful artist’s daughter end up homeless on the street?”

  “He hasn’t seen her since she was an infant.”

  “You’d think someone as talented as Edward Girard would stay in touch with his own daughter. Wouldn’t he want to see what kind of talent she had? I love his work.”

  “Have you been to Spiral Rocks?” Claire asked.

  “I wish. I saw one of his smaller installations in Denver.”

  “Spiral Rocks is a magnificent place. I went there for the Maximum Moon celebration, and I showed Edward a copy of Summertime. He admired it very much and said he would like to meet you.”

  “Just say where and when.”

  “I’ll give him your number. You should be hearing from him or the publicist who arranges everything for him. Her name is Jennifer Rule. I’m still trying to track down the woman who bought the original of Summertime. You haven’t heard any more about her, have you?”

  “No,” Lisa said. “To tell you the truth I’d rather not know who buys my paintings. Before I take them to the shelter or the gallery I hold a little ceremony and say good-bye. It’s like sending a child off to school. They don’t belong to me anymore. They belong to ... whoever. You should have one yourself.”

  “I should,” Claire agreed.

  “When I paint one that’s just right for you, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks,” Claire said.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  A NOTECARD CAME IN THE MAIL FROM LISA TEAGUE with a replica of a painting that was unmistakably hers on the front. A woman in pink balanced very carefully on a tightrope. She was in the precarious situation of a homeless person, but her face was fresh and clean and full of hope. Claire liked it—she liked all of Lisa’s paintings she’d seen—but this wasn’t the one she wanted to own.

  “Hi,” the note read. “This is a computer-generated image of a painting that’s still available, if you’re interested. It was great to meet Edward Girard. Things might have ended up very differently if Maia had only known her father. He had nice things to say about my work and bought three paintings. Jennifer, his publicist, wants to show them to gallery owners she knows in Santa Fe. Thanks so much for telling Edward about me. Lisa.”

  Claire called to thank her for the note.

  “Did you like that painting?” Lisa asked. “The model is doing well at the moment. She’s out of the shelter, studying at TV1. A rare success story.”

  “I like it,” Claire said. “But I don’t think it’s the one I’m looking for. I’ll know it when I see it.”<
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  “I’m sure you will. Edward Girard was great, very encouraging. I hope he’s not being so kind because he feels guilty about his own daughter.”

  “You do exceptional work,” Claire said. “Edward recognizes that.”

  “He says I should forget about social work, forget about school, forget about having anything to fall back on, and just paint.” She laughed. “That also means forget about paying the rent, forget about getting along with my mother.”

  “That’s what it takes to be an artist.”

  “It’s what Edward did. He’s a genius. His work will last, but his daughter posed for one of my paintings. She died alone of a drug overdose. To put art first isn’t an easy decision.”

  Claire believed that it wasn’t a matter of making a decision, that for artists like Edward there was no choice. If Lisa saw a fork in the road, she might never fulfill her potential as an artist. On the other hand she would be a dutiful daughter. She might become a mother.

  “Did you meet Jennifer?” Claire asked her.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you think of her?”

  “She came to my studio, but she wasn’t thrilled by Central. She acted like she was protecting the famous artist from the riffraff, but I guess Edward needs that. I paint riffraff myself so I have to be in touch with them. Jennifer liked my work and she has a lot of connections.”

  What kind of a connection does she have with Edward? Claire wanted to ask. Is she sleeping with him? How far would she go to protect him? She left those questions locked in the closet and said goodbye to Lisa.

  ******

  Claire was walking down the library steps on her way to the Humanities Building when a woman approached her. She was about Claire’s height but broader and more muscular. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, making her look almost young enough to be an undergraduate. She had an undergraduate’s way of speaking in italics and ending sentences with a question mark that should have ended in a period.

  “Claire Reynier?” the woman asked.

  “Yes?” Claire answered, trying unsuccessfully to place her.

  “My name is Bettina Hartley. You met my husband, Bill? In Taos?”

  “That’s right. I met him on the path near the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge,” Claire said. “How did you know who I was?”

  “Bill described you and told me where you worked. He’s a good observer.”

  Claire thought that everyone in Taos knew far too much about everyone else. One reason she didn’t want to live in a small town was that she valued her privacy. It unnerved her to think that all she had done was visit Taos and now people she’d never met could identify her.

  “Bill said you left a message on our answering machine?”

  “Yes. I was hoping to talk to him while he was in Albuquerque.”

  “He’s with the police department now and he asked me to come over and visit with you. Bill didn’t scare you at the gorge, I hope,” Bettina said.

  “It was unnerving to meet a man there, but I wouldn’t say that he scared me.”

  “Bill can be kind of intense at times, but he’s a good man, very devoted to me and our daughter, Rose.”

  “You look so young to have a twenty-year-old daughter,” Claire said.

  Bettina smiled at the compliment. “Bill said you knew June?”

  “I met her in the library a couple of times. I wouldn’t say that I knew her.”

  “June was a sweet child, and smart, too. It’s just a shame what happened to her. To be abused by Damon Fitzgerald, then to lose her mother, and finally to die of an overdose at such a young age.” She shivered although the temperature was at least ninety degrees.

  Claire agreed that those events were all terrible.

  “Did June tell you about her meeting with Bill? I hope he didn’t frighten her when he talked to her.”

  Claire couldn’t help noticing that this was the second time in a very brief conversation that Bettina Hartley had hoped her husband hadn’t frightened a vulnerable woman. Although the only information Claire had about Bill’s meeting with June came from Bill himself, it was tempting to answer “Actually, he scared the hell out of June” just to see what kind of a reaction that would get from Bettina, but that was a lie and lying was a line Claire wasn’t ready to cross.

  “He told me the librarian at the Main Library on Copper asked him to leave,” Claire said. “I gather he raised his voice, which could be intimidating to someone as fragile as June.”

  “Well, sometimes he loses his temper and does raise his voice, but that’s as far as it ever goes. Really. Bill is very strong, of course; he won an Iron Man Triathlon last year, but he would never hurt anyone.” Bettina tugged the leather strap of her shoulder bag for emphasis. “I know the police will understand that when they talk to him.”

  “I would think if he was going to hurt anyone, it would be Damon Fitzgerald,” Claire said.

  “He gets angry whenever he sees Damon and punches the steering wheel, but that’s the only way he expresses it. I’m sure if Bill got into a physical fight with Damon, he would win. But Bill would never resort to physical violence. Never.”

  Claire wondered whether Bettina meant physical violence with a man or with anybody. Was Bill Hartley a man who had a taboo about not fighting other men but was unable to control himself when it came to women? Had Bill ever hurt Bettina or his own daughter? Why had Bettina brought up the subject of her husband’s temper? “Bill seemed very upset by Damon’s affair with your daughter,” Claire said.

  “Rose always was a daddy’s girl,” Bettina replied. “She could do no wrong in her father’s eyes. He puts her on a pedestal, and of course it was terrible for Damon to get involved with her. But she was sixteen. She wasn’t a child. Bill forgets that we were sixteen when we got together and only eighteen when Rose was born. She’ll get over Damon. It’s good for her to be out of Taos and away from all the gossip, but we miss her. We’re a close family. Bill’s hope is that Damon will be put in prison and then Rose will want to come back home.”

  “I was told that people were very angry with Veronica about June,” Claire said.

  “Very angry.” Bettina swung her ponytail for emphasis. “She should have protected her daughter. Absolutely. Do you think that June could have inherited a suicidal tendency from her mother? Is that possible?”

  “June’s father thinks so,” Claire said.

  “That’s good, isn’t it? I mean better that than someone else harmed June.”

  “The police have found no evidence to support that,” Claire said.

  “It’s very sad that June died. Very sad. Now it looks like the most Damon Fitzgerald will ever get is a slap on the wrist.”

  “Unless he does it again.”

  “Do you think he will in Taos with everybody watching their daughters now and watching him?”

  Claire recalled a sexual offender who came to New Mexico after serving his prison sentence but was hounded and driven from town to town, never being allowed to stay in one place long enough to cause any harm. She couldn’t imagine that happening to Damon Fitzgerald. He was too shrewd, too cunning, too capable of turning on the charm when he had to. “I don’t know,” Claire said.

  “Well, I don’t want to take up any more of your time,” Bettina said, giving Claire’s hand a little pat. “I just thought I’d stop by and visit for a while while Bill was busy with the APD. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you so much.”

  Claire watched Bettina walk away. A decisive swish of the ponytail seemed to imply she thought this meeting had accomplished something. But what? was Claire’s question. Bettina had obviously been looking for information about Bill’s meetings with Claire and with June. Did she fear he’d been violent or threatening? Bettina was likely to know more about her husband’s capacity for violence than anyone else, but how much of that knowledge would she share? Bettina struck Claire as one of those women with a cheerful, self-effacing manner who tries to make things better but ends up making
them worse, which could indicate a subconscious desire to mess things up. If there had been any incidents of domestic violence in the Hartley household, Allana Bruno would know about it, unless the violence had never been reported.

  Claire went back to her office, wondering whether Bill knew about Bettina’s visit. She waited all afternoon to see if he would show up or call himself, but he never did.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  THE FOLLOWING DAY CLAIRE TOOK ADVANTAGE of her lunch hour to drive downtown to Copper to the main branch of the public library. She parked on the corner of Sixth Street in front of a parking meter painted with art deco swirls. A homeless man had parked his shopping cart piled high with clothes and bedrolls beside the library. Claire was glad to see that he was engrossed in a book.

  She walked around the corner and went through the library’s main entrance. There was fluorescent lighting in this library and red plastic chairs at laminated tables. Security guards in blue windbreakers were strategically placed. This library had none of the charm of Zimmerman and it seemed strange to Claire that Maia would hang out here. It was possible she got sick of being in the same place all the time or maybe being at Zimmerman 24/7 made her too easy to find.

  Before she left her office Claire did her homework and learned that the librarian she needed to talk to was named Dorothy Bronwin. She took the elevator to the second floor and went through the glass door marked ADMINISTRATIVE TECHNICAL SERVICES. Dorothy was in her office clicking away at her keyboard. Claire tapped on the open door and Dorothy looked up.

  “May I come in? I’m Claire Reynier.”

  Dorothy didn’t stand up and say “Welcome,” but she didn’t say “Go away, I’m busy,” either, so Claire stepped into the office. “I work at the Center for Southwest Research at UNM.” Claire did not follow Bettina’s example and add a question mark to the end of her sentence. She was who she was, even though she knew that might cause resentment here. Public librarians tended to think of university librarians as humorless and arrogant intellectuals. University librarians worked in a highly competitive atmosphere where they were forced to act humble until they were granted tenure and earned the right be as arrogant as everyone else. Claire had been in academia long enough to know how often arrogance masked insecurity.