The Shadow of Venus (24 page)

“Are you sure you want to talk to
her
?
”
he asked.

“Yes,” Claire replied.

When she reached her office, she shut the door behind her, called Celia, and asked if she had spoken to Detective Owen.

“Not yet, but I left a message,” she replied.

Claire hung up and turned toward her computer, tapping the keys to see what images she could pull from the darkness, hoping a Google search would determine whether any of the people connected to Maia went to the West Coast before Memorial Day. She was looking for information to give Detective Owen when she called back and for pictures to show Ansia. Claire had read somewhere that the main Google office had a screen displaying all the words being searched at any given moment, providing an overview of the world's ever shifting interest. The most popular searches were of well-known celebrities, although occasionally the name of a lesser-known celebrity showed up as the answer to a question on a quiz show.

The names she was searching would have very low priority on the Google scale. The most famous person connected to Maia and the one person Claire knew would appear on a search engine was
Edward
Girard, who had told her he was setting up an installation at MOCA, the Museum of Contemporary Art, in Los Angeles. If a person were in the market for top-of-the-line designer heroin, L.A. would be as good a place as any to look. Given the name, the China White probably came from Asia, making it even more likely to be sold on the West Coast. Although Edward hadn't been a model of familial devotion, Claire found it hard to believe that he could be responsible for giving heroin to his own daughter. Nevertheless she entered his name in the search engine.

There were many entries for Edward Girard, making it difficult to tell if any had been added since her last search. She came across the Web site for MOCA, which announced that Edward Girard's installation would open in September. The museum's Web site did not reveal if or when Edward had been in town to help with the installation.

Claire moved on to Jennifer Rule, who might well have accompanied Edward on his trips to the West Coast. She'd come to Albuquerque with him. She had the schizophrenic job of promoting the artist at the same time that she needed to shelter him. Did she want to protect him badly enough to try to prevent the scandal that would follow June's testimony about Damon Fitzgerald? June died right before the Maximum Moon celebration and a few months in advance of Edward's museum exhibition. It was a time of maximum achievement for Edward. It wouldn't reflect well on him to have it known that he'd ignored his daughter and she'd been abused by her mother's boyfriend in Taos. But Claire had no idea if Jennifer even knew he had a daughter.

If Edward had been telling the truth, he didn't know what had become of June in Taos, but it hadn't taken Claire long to find out. She had been struck by Jennifer's odd reaction to the photocopy of
Summertime,
the way she treated it as if was an annoying and threatening bug. It could have been because Edward admired the artist and Jennifer saw talented women as competition. Or had she seen the painting as a threat to Edward's career and her job? Claire didn't consider Jennifer a middle-aged woman, but she wasn't looking at her from the perspective of a graduate student. She didn't see Jennifer as a plain, nearly invisible person, either, but she could visualize her wearing large black glasses and a hat. She could also imagine the ambitious and focused Jennifer considering a homeless person a nonperson.

Claire entered the name Jennifer Rule and learned that she was as good about getting her own name out there as she was about publicizing Edward Girard's. Whenever Edward's name was mentioned, Jennifer's was likely to be connected to it. She had her own slick and professional Web site, which included a photograph showing every chestnut-colored hair in place. Claire made a note of Jennifer's URL, then printed out the photo.

From Jennifer's Web site Claire learned that she was the publicist for several artists. Edward Girard was the biggest name on Jennifer's client list, which didn't necessarily mean he was the biggest moneymaker. The museum installation would be prestigious but Edward was unlikely to make much
money
on it. Although Spiral Rocks was magnificent, Edward didn't charge admission. Jennifer promoted Edward's installations, as well as a book about his work, on her Web site. And there was something else Claire learned from Jennifer's Web site that she had yet to see in the articles about Edward. Filming would begin soon at Spiral Rocks for a PBS documentary.

Claire printed out that page, too. Next she searched the name Bettina Hartley. She hadn't considered Bettina middle-aged either, but that was an image makeup—or lack of makeup—could change. The only place she found the name Bettina Hartley was on Web sites devoted to class reunions and genealogy. Claire tried Bettina's husband, Bill, and learned what she already knew: He was a ski instructor in Taos who had won an Iron Man Triathlon. The Triathlon had its own Web site and on it Claire found a picture of Bill accepting his trophy. Bettina stood behind him with her blond hair tied back in a ponytail. She looked even younger in this photograph than she did in person. Claire printed it out anyway; if nothing else a positive ID of Bill would be useful.

Next she searched the all too common names of Maureen and Nancy Prescott, but nothing of value came up. She tried the even more common name of Sharon Miller, getting fifty thousand hits, which was about as useful as getting none. Claire was curious about where Sharon lived before she moved into her getaway house in Taos with Damon Fitzgerald. She called Sophie Roybal to ask.

Sophie happened to be at home and her voice was far more welcoming this time. “I'm glad we had the chance to meet and talk,” she said.

“Me, too,” Claire replied. “I hope we can do it again. Could you tell me where Sharon Miller lived before she moved to Taos?”

“It was in the Bay Area near San Francisco, but I don't know exactly where.”

“What was the creative career she pursued without success?”

“She tried to be an actress. When she first came to Taos she appeared in some amateur productions, but then she gave that up and decided to make Damon her career.”

“Thanks,” Claire said. “Please call next time you come to Albuquerque.”

“I plan to,” Sophie promised.

Claire had learned what she needed to know about Sharon Miller, but not everything she needed to know about Damon Fitzgerald. His name was her next search. She was sure Jennifer would be gratified to learn that Edward Girard had produced far more hits. Damon appeared mostly as a speaker at alternative housing conferences, but Claire also found his name on a Web site for the Center of Light Chapel, not in the prominent position of the Phoenix architect who won the commission, but in a discussion of the designs that were rejected. The committee wanted a dome that reached for the sky and Damon's design was considered cavelike and uninspiring. One critic went so far as to label it dull. The criticism raised the question in Claire's mind of whether it was a humiliating public rejection that started
Damon
on his spiral of abuse. Or was it the confirmation of something he might have already suspected—that he didn't have the talent to be an important architect?

Claire printed out that page and continued her search. On the more recent site of a conference about the use of solar energy she found Damon listed as keynote speaker. Speaking was something at which he excelled. There was a photo of him smiling for the camera. The conference took place from May 16 to May 20 in San Francisco. Claire checked the list of attendees and was not at all surprised to find Sharon Miller's name there. She hoped to find a picture of her on the site, too. Sharon was not on the presenters' page and to be an attendee didn't merit a photograph. Claire searched the site until she came across a page of photographs taken at various conference functions. She found Damon and Sharon standing together at a cocktail party, apparently unaware of the camera. Damon wasn't looking at Sharon. In fact, he was smiling at another woman. No one was looking at Sharon, leaving her with no one else's expression to reflect. Her slouch and anxiety were all her own. Sometimes the camera caught truths the naked eye did not. Claire sent Damon and Sharon's image to the printer, too.

Chapter
Twenty-nine

S
HE STOOD UP TO STRETCH HER LEGS
and go to the bathroom. By now it was late enough that the wrought iron gate separating CSWR from the main library was locked. Claire had to key in her code to leave without setting off the alarm. She notified the student on the Information Desk that she was taking a walk and would check in on her way back. A reference librarian waylaid her in the lobby to discuss their boss. It was always a guilty pleasure to bitch about Harrison and Claire lingered while the librarian complained.

When she passed by the Information Desk again the student said no one had been looking for her. Claire went to the gate and punched in her code to open it again. She walked down the hall to her office, opened the door, and had the disturbing sensation that she had stepped outside her body and was looking back at herself. There was a woman in the office wearing Claire's sage green cotton dress. The woman's back was turned and her head bent over the desk. It wasn't until she straightened up that Claire knew for sure it was Ansia. She hadn't realized when she gave away the dress how unsettling it would be to see Ansia wearing it. As Claire got older she discovered how women's fears changed with time. Fears that had once been projected outward became internalized. Once her greatest fear had been of the harm that men could inflict but tonight the fear that brought out the rats was of turning into a ranting, raving, drug-addicted woman who slept in the backseat of a junked car and peed on her clothes. Claire wanted to run from the image but this was her office. She saw a bouquet of wilted flowers lying on her desk, roses that were still red at the center but turning brown at the edges. If this was Ansia's gift, she should be thanked for it.

But first Claire asked, “Ansia? How did you get into my office? The gate was locked when I went out.”

“I have the code,” Ansia said. “Maia gave it to me.”

That was a code Celia needed to change immediately without waiting for Seth to be chastised or tried by committee.

“The student at the Information Desk didn't see you?”

“Nobody saw me,” Ansia said. She held out the skirt of the dress with one hand and made a curtsy. Claire accepted the gesture as a thank you.

“It looks good on you,” she said. Ansia seemed to smell better in the dress. At least the office didn't reek of ammonia. “Thank you for coming. I have some pictures and one of them might be the
woman
who told you she was Maia's mother. Would you be willing to take a look?”

Ansia nodded.

Claire took the pictures she had printed and showed Jennifer Rule to Ansia.

“Her hair is too pretty,” Ansia said. ‘“That's not her.”

Next Claire handed over the picture of Bettina and Bill Hartley accepting the triathlon trophy.

“That's the man who came,” Ansia said. “Didn't I tell you he was a runner?”

“And the woman?” asked Claire. “Do you recognize her?'”

“She's too young to be the woman I talked to,” Ansia said. “She looks like a girl.”

“She looks older in person,” Claire said.

Ansia shook her head.

Ansia became so agitated when Claire handed her the picture of Sharon and Damon that the paper shook in her hands. She resembled a too-full bowl with a surface that remained smooth and tranquil when the bowl was held perfectly still, but the slightest push caused the liquid to churn and slosh over the edge. Claire assumed it was the sight of Sharon that brought on the anxiety, but Ansia was more interested in Damon.

“You know this man?” she asked.

“I've met him,” Claire said.

“Does he work here?”

“No. He lives and works in Taos.”

“I saw him here with Maia,” Ansia said. “They were arguing on the steps.”

“When?”

Ansia's eyes glazed over as she struggled to remember. Claire wondered if she was on drugs and if so, how long it had been since she shot up, how long it would be before she needed to shoot up again. “Right before Maia died. Is this man a john?”

“No. He's the man who abused Maia when she lived in Taos. He's to blame for her ending up on the street. Maia had agreed to tell the Taos County DA about him.”

“Did he know that?”

“If he was arguing with her, I would say that he did. What about the woman? Do you recognize her?”

Ansia stared at Sharon's picture. “I don't know. The woman I saw was wearing a hat.”

“Was she wearing glasses?”

“No.” Ansia put the printouts down, went to the picture of the dancing girls on Claire's wall, and touched the shadow coming out of the corner of the painting. “That's him, isn't it?”

“I think it is,” Claire replied.

“Men.
They use you, abuse you, and leave you all tore up.”

“These are nice flowers,” Claire said, picking up the roses, trying to calm Ansia by diverting her.

Ansia stared at the bouquet as if she had forgotten all about it. “They're for Maia. I found them in the Dumpster. I want to leave them here in the place where she died. Can I keep these pictures? They will help me remember.”

“Sure,” Claire said.

“Take me to the room where Maia died.”

“It's supposed to be locked after hours,” Claire replied.

“I have the code.”

“It won't work. That room is used only for storage and it's locked with a dead bolt and a key.”

Ansia shook her head, flapping the cherry red hair against her cheek. “Maia wouldn't sleep in a room like that,” she insisted. “Take me there.”