The Confidence Woman (10 page)

“I saw Elizabeth in Tucson,” Claire said. “She didn't tell me she had been in Santa Fe in April or that she had seen you.”

“Under the circumstances, would you have told anyone you'd been in Santa Fe in April? She comes here a lot actually for Forest Watch events. I told Dante all about our little dinner.”

“Elizabeth
implied that whenever Evelyn was murdered her significant other, Jess, would provide her with an alibi.”

“He may have been here, too. I ran into Lizzie downtown the next day with a hunk. She had a glow that could have been postcoital, or maybe she's on hormone replacement therapy. I asked her if she was taking Premarin and she said she wouldn't because it wasn't natural. I said horse urine is natural, isn't it? That's what Premarin comes from, you know.”

“I know. Where did you and Elizabeth have dinner?”

“Santa Café.”

“Did Dante ask for a receipt?”

“Yes, but I didn't have one. Lizzie paid.”

“That sounds like a shaky alibi to me,” Claire said.

“A lot better than yours, though, isn't it?” Continuing her assault on political correctness, Ginny ordered veal and another glass of wine, although she had yet to finish the first one. Claire ordered the rack of lamb with rosemary.

“Did you say you were in Tucson?” Ginny asked.

“Yes.”

“What were you doing there?”

“My ex-husband's mother died and I went to the funeral.”

“That must have been fun.”

“Before I went to see Elizabeth I stopped at the sorority house.”

“Does it look any better?”

“Somewhat. I saw the Goodwill box and it reminded me of the time Elizabeth came across Miranda Kohl wearing her jacket. Do you remember that?”

“How could I forget? It was one of Lizzie's finest moments.” She reached across the table and wagged her finger in Claire's face, doing a sloppy imitation of an angry Elizabeth Best. “ ‘Take my jacket off right now, bitch, or I'll call the police.' Elizabeth has always suffered from poor anger management. Usually you see more self-control in a PC princess.”

In essence it was the incident Claire remembered, although the details differed. She was unable to remember Elizabeth's exact words. She certainly didn't remember the use of the
b
word. “Do you remember who Miranda's roommate was at the time?”

“It was Annie Hutchinson, no?”

“No. It was Evelyn Martin.”

“Are you sure?” Ginny's finger paused in midair as she asked this question.

“Yes.”

Ginny
smiled, and Claire noticed that her teeth were stained from smoking. She dropped her hand back into her lap. “That's good for you, isn't it?” Ginny asked. “Miranda has a better motive than any of us. So Evelyn was a klepto back then. She robs us, stuffs the clothes in Miranda's closet. Miranda gets blamed. Years later she finds out that Evelyn has robbed again. She goes to see her to settle up the old score. Evelyn feels threatened when Miranda confronts her. She attacks. Miranda fights back and bops her over the head…. Only how did Miranda find out that Evelyn had robbed again?”

“Lynn told her that Evelyn had visited and something she valued had disappeared.”

“They always were good friends, weren't they? What has become of Miranda anyway?”

“She's an actress. She's shooting a new TV series in Mexico.”

“Did you tell Dante about Evelyn and Miranda being roommates and all?”

“I felt that I had to.”

“Of course you did,” Ginny soothed. “We have to do whatever it takes to protect ourselves. They don't serve veal and Chardonnay in the state pen.”

When the veal arrived, Ginny ordered another glass of Chardonnay. By the time the meal was over she had four wineglasses in varying degrees of fullness lined up in front of her as if she was a pack rat stockpiling sustenance for a dry day. Would those glasses be considered half full or half empty? Claire wondered. When the check arrived, the waiter placed it in the middle of the table. Ginny grabbed for it.

“I'll get it,” Claire said.

“It's on me,” Ginny replied, whipping out her credit card.

“It was my idea to have lunch.”

“Don't worry about it. I had an excellent divorce lawyer.”

As they left the restaurant, Ginny wove her way through the maze of tables, bumping into one and apologizing for the silverware that clattered to the floor.

When they reached the parking lot, Claire became afraid to send Ginny out onto the road in her condition. Even if she didn't hurt herself, she could hurt someone else. She lived close enough that she could walk home, but Claire doubted she would.

“I'd be happy to give you a ride home,” she offered. “You could take a nap, walk back, pick up your car later.”

“What do I need a nap for?” Ginny snapped.

“You've been drinking.”

“I had one glass of wine. Big deal. So what?”

“You had four glasses of wine.”

“I did not.”

“You did. I counted them.”

“You're
counting my drinks, Clairier?” Ginny's face turned red and puffy with anger. Like liquid in a too-full glass her emotions seemed to be sloshing over the edge. “Who the hell are you? My mother?”

Claire put out her hand. “Just give me the keys, Ginny.”

“You know ever since you reappeared in my life, you've done nothing but criticize me. I write artbabble. I drink too much. I lied about my alibi. Well you're wrong about one thing. I'm quite capable of driving my own self home if you would just get the fuck out of my way.” She took the keys from her purse and shook them in Claire's face.

A well-dressed woman walking down Canyon Road stopped and stared at them. A tussle in Geronimo's parking lot went beyond unseemly in Claire's mind. She stepped aside, let Ginny pass and watched her stumble across the parking lot to her car, wondering what to do next. About the only thing she could do now was follow her home, and then what? Pick up the pieces if Ginny ran into something on the way? As Claire began walking toward her truck, she heard the sounds of an engine starting and wheels crunching gravel. Then the sound of a car racing across the lot. Claire turned around to see Ginny's black BMW backing rapidly in her direction.

“Stop,” she yelled, but Ginny seemed to have lost control of the car and it careened toward Claire.

Time entered another dimension. The BMW was speeding toward Claire, yet at the same time it appeared to be moving in slow motion, allowing her time to watch in disbelief. She knew she had to get out of its path. She needed shelter and she needed protection. The only shelter handy was under the bed of her truck. At the last second Claire threw herself out of the way and under the truck. Ginny hit the brake and the car spun gravel, barely missing the next vehicle. The gravel flew like buckshot and stung Claire. She felt she was a shooting-gallery target that had been shot full of holes. Ginny shut off her engine, opened the door, jumped out and ran toward Claire, who was crawling out from under her truck.

“Oh, God,” she cried. “I must have popped it into reverse instead of drive. I am so very sorry, Clairier.”

Claire brushed the gravel from her hands and knees and examined herself, half expecting to find bullet holes but seeing only scrapes and bruises. “You don't need to floor your car to get out of the parking lot, Ginny.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, letting her shoulders droop. Her spine appeared to contract as her body sank into a posture of remorse. She handed Claire the keys. “Would you park my car and give me a ride home in your truck, please?”

Claire took the keys and got into Ginny's car, which was still in reverse. She looked at the gears and saw that one would have to be very out of control or very drunk to mistake reverse for drive.

Ginny huddled in the corner of Claire's cab and her body language was contrite on the way home. All she said was, “When I knew you in college, I never would have imagined you driving a truck.”

Ginny
apologized again when they reached her house. Claire gave her back the car keys and said, “Promise me you won't go after your car until you're sober.”

“I promise,” Ginny replied. “Thanks ever so much for bringing me home.”

Claire drove down Acequia Madre and parked in the first lot she came to, which was at Downtown Subscription, feeling bruised and shaken and not up to driving any farther. Books of the West, the bookstore she intended to visit, was on the far side of town, but the walk would do her good. She walked down Paseo de Peralta past the Gerald Peters Gallery, turned left onto East De Vargas, walked through downtown and across the Plaza. Santa Fe might have been a ghost town for all she saw of it.

All she could think about was Ginny Bogardus, wondering if she had really been angry, drunk and out of control or if she'd been pretending. There was a lot of wine left in the glasses. If she hadn't been drunk, what could have prompted her to aim her car at Claire? Poor anger management, or was Ginny more calculating than she pretended to be? What good would it do her to run over Claire and have two old friends dead in the space of a month? Scaring her, however, might serve some purpose. Obviously she and Elizabeth were not simpatico, but the dinner alibi had served both of their interests. Claire didn't believe it for a minute, but she didn't know what she could do about it other than tell Detective Amaral. She wasn't afraid to tell him, but she hated to think that her only defense was to keep pointing her finger at someone else.

When she got to Books of the West, Josh Brainard sat her down in the back room and left her alone while she picked through a box of Western Americana he had recently acquired from an estate. The routine of picking up the books, examining them and setting aside the ones she thought the library could use helped calm her nerves and restore some sense of tranquility to the day. She found five books she wanted and paid Josh for them.

As she walked out of the store, she glanced at her watch. It was five-thirty. If she left Santa Fe at this hour, she'd be battling commuter traffic as well as driving into the setting sun. There was something else she could accomplish here before she left for home.

With the books in hand, she walked to the main library on Washington, where the bulletin board was always a good source of information. She searched through the notices of lectures, conferences, events, massage therapists, yoga instructors and astrologers and found a posting for Forest Watch on a sheet of recycled construction paper. The notice had a listing of conferences for the spring season. She checked the dates and found there had been a conference in Santa Fe the week of April 21, and the subject had been restoring endangered species to New Mexico's forests. A Web site was listed and a number to call for further information. She copied the URL and phone number.

Then she walked back across town to her truck and drove to Tano Road. The hour of the day when the runner had seen someone arguing with Evelyn Martin was approaching. Claire was curious
about
the evening light, the lay of the land and how much the runner would have been able to see. As she drove west on Tano Road the sun outlined the clouds with gold and highlighted the dead bug smears on her windshield. At this time of day beauty was intensified, but so was ugliness. It was a light that emphasized every flaw and wrinkle.

Claire remembered exactly where Evelyn's house was and parked in the driveway. Apparently no one had decided to exorcise Evelyn's spirit yet; the house looked just as empty as it had the last time. The windows were still blank. It was a house where someone had died, but Claire had to wonder whether it was a house where someone had lived. Had Evelyn had any life here? She walked down Tano Road and stopped beside the juniper bushes. The land sloped and there were steps leading down toward the house, which would make it possible for two people to stand on different levels and create an illusion about their respective heights. Two people of different sizes might appear to be the same height, or conversely, two people of the same size could appear to be different heights. As the sun sank over the horizon, one last ray moved across Tano Road, warming the stucco walls of the house and landing on Claire's hair. She could see her reflection in one of the blank windows. It was impossible to tell in this light whether her hair was silver or gold. The sun dropped behind the horizon, turning Claire's hair gray and the house the color of mud.

She heard the sound of feet pounding the road and stepped out from behind a juniper. The runner approaching was a thin woman with long white arms and legs and a lanky, loose way of moving. Her light-brown hair bobbed up and down behind her. Claire judged her age to be mid-thirties. She seemed very focused on the run and didn't notice Claire standing in the shadows beside the road.

“Excuse me,” Claire said.

The woman darted to the side, then began running in place. “You startled me.” She grimaced. “I don't like this house. A woman was murdered here. You're not thinking about renting it, are you?”

“No. I knew Evelyn Martin, the woman who was murdered here.”

“Really?” said the woman. She stopped running and stared wide-eyed at Claire.

“Have we ever met?” Claire asked. “You look familiar.”

The woman shook her head and said, “I don't believe so.”

“Are you the runner who talked to Detective Amaral?”

The woman's hands were on her hips and her knees were slightly bent. Her expression turned wary. “How do you know about that?”

“He thinks it was me you saw arguing with Evelyn Martin.” Claire was aware that she was taking a risk. If the woman perceived her as a threat, she might tell Detective Amaral, who could consider this trying to influence a witness. If Amaral indicted her and the case ever went to court, the woman might identify her just because Claire's face had become familiar. If she antagonized the woman, she might
identify
her because she disliked her.