The Confidence Woman (9 page)

“Detective Amaral?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”

“Can we talk?” he asked.

“Let's go to the food court and get a cup of coffee,” she suggested.

“I'd prefer to talk in your office,” he replied. His voice seemed to have gotten more precise since the last time they talked.

Claire didn't want to be seen arguing with him at the information desk so she led him down the hallway to her office. She shut the door behind them, sat down at her desk and offered him the visitor's chair. Amaral remained standing just long enough to remind her how tall he was. She was tempted to close the blinds, but that was sure to arouse the curiosity of her coworkers.

“This is a beautiful building,” Amaral said once he sat down. “It must be a pleasure to work here.”

“It is,” Claire replied.

“Can you tell me where you were on the evening of April twenty-first?” he asked. Clearly the amenities were over.

“Not offhand.”

“Would you check your calendar, please?” The words were polite but clipped, the manner less deferential than it had been at their last meeting.

Had he come to her office, Claire wondered, to surprise her? Would he know her calendar was in her office and she wouldn't have time to concoct an alibi with him sitting right in front of her? Had he been able to establish a time of death? Whatever date he mentioned she knew she had done nothing wrong, but he was making her feel that she had. She checked the calendar on her computer and found no entry for the evening of April 21.

She told the truth. “I don't have anything entered. I suppose I was home taking care of my garden or my cat.”

“Do you have any witnesses?”

“Not that ì recall. Why?”

“We
have reason to believe that was the evening Evelyn Martin was murdered. The postmarks on her mail indicated that was the last day she picked it up. A runner on Tano Road saw two women arguing in front of the house near six-thirty p.m. One of the women fits your description.”

Six-thirty would have given Claire plenty of time to get to Tano Road after work. “I didn't go to Santa Fe that evening,” she said. “If I had it would be entered on my calendar.”

Amaral's quizzical expression implied it would be easy enough to delete an entry from a computer calendar. Claire thought he was underestimating her intelligence. If she had wanted to conceal her whereabouts, she would have entered something else on that date. Something in the runner's description made Amaral consider her a suspect. Was this the time when she was supposed to hire a lawyer? But hiring a lawyer seemed to imply she had done something wrong and she knew she had done nothing wrong.

“What exactly was the runner's description?” she asked.

“I can't reveal that information,” was his tight-lipped response.

It seemed to be time to tell him about Miranda, although Claire regretted that the job had fallen to her.

“There's something else you need to know,” she said. “A woman in our sorority named Miranda Kohl was Evelyn Martin's roommate. Elizabeth Best came across Miranda wearing her jacket and caused an unpleasant scene. The housemother investigated and found Miranda's closet full of stolen clothes. Miranda was forced to leave the sorority house. She dropped out of school and became an actress.” Claire hated to bring up Lynn's name, but she felt she must. “Lynn Granger has stayed in touch with Miranda over the years. She told her Evelyn had visited and had most likely robbed her. It wouldn't have been hard for Miranda to make the deduction that Evelyn Martin had been the one who stole the clothes and framed her in college.”

“How would this Miranda Kohl have known that Evelyn Martin was in Santa Fe?”

Because Lynn's husband suggested she move there? Claire wondered, but her response was, “How would any of us have known?”

Amaral shrugged. “How long have you known about Miranda Kohl?”

“I knew about the theft in college, but I had forgotten about it until I went back to Arizona last weekend and visited the sorority house. I saw Lynn on Sunday and she said Miranda had told her she believed Evelyn had robbed her.”

“Can you tell me how to reach this Miranda?”

“She's on location for a TV show, but her husband can connect you.”

While Claire looked up the number and wrote it down, Amaral's eyes circled her office taking in the books on her shelves. Harrison walked by the window. His eyes landed and lingered on Detective
Amaral.
Claire wondered if he could tell that she was talking to a detective. The thought made her feel guilty, although she knew she had nothing to be guilty about. She knew that even to think of guilt could make it appear on one's face, and she feared that Detective Amaral would read it in her expression.

“Have you been able to locate
The Confidence-Man?”
he asked.

“No,” she said. “None of the dealers I contacted have seen it. Are you sure it wasn't at Evelyn's? Did you search the house thoroughly?”

“Very thoroughly. The book was not there.” Amaral's lips tightened, suggesting he didn't enjoy being questioned himself. He changed the subject. “I'd like the dealers' names and addresses,” he said.

Claire wrote them down for him.

After he left she reflected that although none of the sisters had admitted to knowing that Evelyn was living in Santa Fe, it was possible that one or more of them had known. Evelyn might have told Elizabeth or Jess where she was living. Ginny might have run into her somewhere. Evelyn might even have told Lynn, although Claire didn't like to think Lynn would conceal that fact from her. She wondered whether Evelyn had made it into the Santa Fe phone book. She got on the Internet, searched the Santa Fe White Pages and found the phone number and address listed on Tano Road. All it took was knowing, or suspecting, that she lived in Santa Fe to locate her.

******

When Harrison came back later in the day, Claire wasn't surprised to see him. He picked up a glass paperweight from her desk, balanced it in his long white fingers and paused before he spoke. She supposed he was debating how to ask whom she had been talking to, but she didn't intend to give him any help.

“You were talking to a detective earlier?” he asked.

It must have been the graduate student at the information desk, Claire thought. He heard her say “Detective Amaral” and told Harrison. She'd have a word later with that student. “Yes,” she admitted.

“Have we had another theft?” Harrison asked. It wasn't so long ago that a valuable box of books had been stolen from Claire's truck.

“We haven't, but I have,” she replied. “I had a signed first edition of Herman Melville's
The Confidence-Man
stolen from my bedroom by a friend from my college days who visited me last year. The woman was found dead in her house in Santa Fe along with a list of stolen property. I didn't notice the book was missing until the detective told me.” Claire didn't say that the detective believed Evelyn Martin had been murdered and that she herself was a suspect. “The man you saw in my office, Detective Dante Amaral from the Santa Fe Police Department, is investigating the theft.”

“That's a valuable book to be sure. Melville signed a very limited number of copies.”

“I'm
aware of that. I called the rare book dealers who were likely to come across it, but no one has yet.”

Harrison stared at the paperweight as if he were looking into a crystal ball. “I did my dissertation on Herman Melville.”

“So I heard.”

“The Confidence-Man
was the last book Melville published in his lifetime.”

Harrison had a knack for telling Claire things she already knew.

“It was too metaphysical, too full of the existential enigma of the self to ever be a popular book,” Harrison said.

Claire had the sense she had heard that phrase before. It was possible Harrison had used it in another context. This was a man who punctuated his sentences with “to be sure.”

“I didn't know you collected Melville,” Harrison said.

“I don't,” Claire replied. “That book was offered to me when I worked at the U of A library, and I bought it.”

“It's the one book of his I don't have in a first edition.”

“Oh?” Claire responded.

“Signed first editions are very rare. You'll be sure to let me know, won't you, if you get it back?” Harrison put the paperweight down on her desk with a thump.

“All right,” Claire said, knowing she had no choice, suspecting that Harrison would want to buy the book from her and would offer her less than it was worth. He was known for his parsimony.

******

Becoming a murder suspect and having a boss who talked about the existential enigma of the self and coveted a book that rightfully belonged to her was a lot to process in one day. When Claire got home to her house in the foothills, she let Nemesis out, put on a pair of gardening gloves, picked up the pruning shears and went to her wall of roses. The flowers were a kaleidoscope of color—orange, gold, magenta, Don Juan red. Whatever arrangement they formed, they were magnificent. She began cutting off the spent blossoms while she tried to make sense of her day. That Harrison was a pompous pain was a given. That she had to get along with him was also a given. She worked her way through the Sweethearts. That she had become a suspect in a murder investigation was a thought as alien and shocking as discovering a husband had been unfaithful. She had the same sensation she had when she learned about Melissa—could this possibly be happening to her? Could a detective who was young enough to be her son doubt her word? She nipped off a dead magenta flower. She could see how under the pressure of being misunderstood a person might do something totally rebellious and out of character. Perhaps that was what
had
motivated Evelyn Martin. Had anybody ever understood Evelyn? She began deadheading the Don Juans. Where would this all lead? She couldn't possibly be arrested or prosecuted for murder, could she? As she reached for a spent blossom a thorn stabbed her arm, drawing blood. The shears clattered as they fell to the ground.

“Goddamn you, Evelyn Martin,” she said.

Chapter
Nine

C
LAIRE SPENT THE WEEKEND INDOORS
; the wicked winds and swirling dust made it unpleasant to be outside. When she wasn't practicing tai chi, she wondered whether she ought to consult a lawyer. There was a woman lawyer in town she knew and liked, but hiring a lawyer lent credence to rumor, gave substance to shadow. If she kept quiet and did nothing, suspicion might blow away. While New Mexico appeared to be drifting past her window on the spring wind, it was easier to believe that what seemed threatening now would be gone tomorrow.

On Monday evening Ginny called her. “Has Dante been in touch with you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And where were
you
on the evening of April twenty-first, Clairier?” she asked.

“At home. And you?”

“I went out to dinner.”

“Are you still finding Dante attractive at this point?”

“He's getting more tense,” Ginny said. “Tension can spoil a man's looks.”

“I imagine he told you about the runner.”

“He did.”

“Did he give you any details of the runner's description?”

“No.”

“I have to be in Santa Fe on Thursday to look at some books for the library. Would you like to have lunch?”

“I'd love it,” Ginny said.

“Could we meet at Geronimo at one?”

“I'll be there.”

******

Claire got to the restaurant first and was sitting at the table when Ginny arrived. She watched her maneuver her way around the tables that filled the room. Her total concentration on the task made it appear that Ginny had already been drinking. Claire wondered if the runner on Tano Road could possibly have mistaken her for Ginny. They both had hair that appeared blond in some lights and gray in others. Claire's hair color was natural. Ginny's wasn't, but that wouldn't make any difference to a casual
observer.
Ginny was shorter and heavier, but how well could a runner judge height and weight at dusk in a place where the land sloped and the house was hidden by juniper bushes?

“Clairier!” Ginny said when she finally reached the table.

“Hello, Ginny.”

“Could we sit outside on the porch?” Ginny pleaded; she could smoke on the porch.

“It's too windy,” Claire replied.

“I hate these spring winds. It feels like the air is full of galloping ghosts. Waiter,” Ginny called. “A glass of Chardonnay, por favor.” She looked at Claire's glass. “And what is that you're drinking?”

“Ginger ale.”

“You are so good. You were always so good. It must drive you crazy to be a suspect in a murder investigation.”

“I'm not thrilled about it.”

“If you wanted to do it you could pull it off, but me . . . Do you believe that anyone would seriously suspect me? When Dante asked where I was on the night of April twenty-first, I had to laugh. I drink. I write artbabble for CultureVulture. I'm everything I pretend to be, but a murderess? I'd never be capable of that. Ah, here comes my Chardonnay. Thank you so very much,” she said to the waiter. She turned back to Claire and smiled. “Besides, I have the perfect alibi.”

“Oh?”

“I had dinner that night with Miss Lizzie.”

“You and Elizabeth had dinner the night Evelyn Martin was presumed murdered?” Her perfect alibi was far too perfect in Claire's opinion.

“Yup. She was in town for an environmental conference—save the wolves or the whales or the spotted owls. One of those things. She looked me up.”

“You didn't tell me you had seen Elizabeth.”

“I must have been having a senior moment. It wasn't my idea of a fun way to spend the evening. Lizzie is such a perfect PC princess. She brings out the worst in me. I told her that Forest Watch—the environmental organization she belongs to—is a bunch of smug, arrogant, self-serving trust-fund hippies. I said if anyone found a wolf on private land, that person ought to shoot, shovel and shut up. Lizzie got pissed off and told me I was an ignorant right-wing redneck bitch. ‘Proud of it, too,' I told her. I doubt
we'll
ever be having dinner again.”