Miranda's Revenge (11 page)

She realized she'd drifted off and brought her attention back to Max. “Sorry. I wasn't paying attention. What did you say?”

“The woman with dark hair there is Renate Franz.”

Miranda eyed the woman curiously. Small, neat and dark, she had a great figure and good bones in her face. Probably close to sixty, but didn't look it unless you noticed her jawline. “How do you know her?”

“Christie introduced me last night at the hotel bar. Renate has come to town for her holiday. She likes to watch the runners.”

Of course. Renate represented Claude's work, and Christie had probably met her in those circumstances. But a little light blinked on, too. “Did Christie know Renate in Bavaria?”

“I don't know.”

Miranda nodded. The whole thing kept getting more and more tangled, like a maze with no outs. That was why Bavaria had rung a bell when she talked with Max before. “So what did you learn?”

“Not a lot, Miranda, but I offer it in goodwill.”

“Okay.”

“Claude lived in Bavaria for a long time. Not just a student period. Years.”

“Doing what?”

“I do not know that. Christie said he spoke perfect German with a Bavarian accent.”

Miranda had not spent tons of time with her dead brother-in-law. He and Desi met around the same time Miranda flew the nest, and she had not been around him a lot. Mostly she'd liked him. He'd been charming, intelligent, easy to get along with. She knew he'd spent time overseas, as a student and in the Peace Corps, which is where he and Desi met. “Hmm. But that would make sense if he lived in Bavaria, right?”

“I suppose,” Max said.

Except, somehow it felt wrong. How did a guy like that, raised in the barrio in Denver—and he'd often made much of his ghetto childhood—get the chance to go to Europe? It didn't add up.

Suddenly she realized she was missing a fantastic opportunity. “Max, will you do me a favor?”

“Yes. Anything.”

“Introduce me to Renate, then make up some appointment you have to keep so I can talk to her. Don't say my last name.”

“I was hoping we might have lunch, Miranda. I was hoping you might give me another chance.”

“Sorry,” she said. “That's just not ever going to happen.”

“I was an idiot to let you get away,” he said with what sounded like genuine remorse.

“Maybe,” she said, “but maybe we are just not right for each other.” Reaching across the table, she took his big hand. “Can we be friends? I do so like your company.”

For a moment, he looked at her, then squeezed her fingers. “Yeah, sure. Friends.”

“Good. Now introduce me to Renate, and remember, I'm an artist from New York City.”

Renate looked up with a pleasant expression when Max approached, including Miranda in her smile. “Hello.”

Max spoke in German, and at first, Miranda was afraid of what he was saying, but that was silly. He gestured to Miranda, and she heard her name, but nothing else.

“So you are an artist?” Renate said, pushing her plate away so she could put her hands on the table.

“Yes. I've been to your gallery in Manhattan. It's wonderful.”

“Please, sit down. Tell me about your work.”

“I have to go,” Max said, and bent to give each of them polite kisses on both cheeks. “Call me, Miranda, and we will have a lunch before I go to New Zealand.”

“I will, Max. Thank you.”

He raised a hand in farewell. Renate politely focused on Miranda, who suddenly felt clammy. What would she say? What did she want to find out?

Anything that would help, she realized. Brushing hair from her face she said, “I'm mainly a sculptor,” she said, “with a sort of whimsical style.”

“Yes. Have you a gallery you work with?”

It wasn't a lie to say, “Not at the moment. I was working with a woman who died, and the son didn't want to continue.”

“Not Rosa Hart?”

“It was,” Miranda said. “We worked together a long time.”

“Well, give me your card, and we will meet again in the city. Will you like that?”

“Of course. Yes. I don't actually have a card on me, but I'll be glad to bring you one, or I can call you when we go back to the city.”

“That would be fine.”

Now what? Miranda hadn't got anything! “I saw the Tsosie exhibit a few months ago. Did it do well?”

“Very well. Native American art is extremely popular now, which is why I come to Mariposa on my holiday. Often, I have found good work at the craft shows here.”

“The Tsosie work seemed to really take off after his death. Did you help create that demand? It seemed so smart.” Stupid, Miranda thought. And leading.

But Renate straightened a bit. “The story added a layer of—” She struggled with the word. “Magic? Mystique.”

“I can see that would be true. Did you know him very well? I seem to remember reading he spent time in Bavaria, is that where you met?”

Renate frowned. “Were you his lover?”

“God, no!”

“I knew him well, since he was a child. I think, had he lived, he would have made a big mess of his life and there would have been no more art.”

“What, like drugs or drinking or something?”

She shook her head. “Women. He had a weakness for women.”

Miranda lifted a shoulder. “Well, he obviously pushed somebody too far finally, didn't he?”

“Yes. It is too bad,” she said, but it was rote, not meant. Her eyes narrowed suddenly. “What was your name, please?”

“Miranda Rousseau.” Only after she said her whole name did she realize her mistake. So much for playing private investigator.

“I thought so. You are the sister of Claude's wife, is that right?”

Miranda hesitated, but there was nothing to be gained by lying. “Yes. Desi Rousseau is my sister.”

“I do not want to speak with you any longer.”

Miranda stood, partly to keep Renate from running away, partly out of respect. “I'll go in one minute. But it seems like you might know something, or maybe your sister—”

“What sister?”

“Elsa. She told us that you are.”

The art dealer's face went very still. “I see.” Her graceful hands rested on her forearms. “What do you want?”

“I just want to think about this a little. Claude led her on a merry chase, and she didn't deserve it. Now she's fallen in love, she's happy and she's going to have a baby and all that needs to happen is for everybody to come forward with the information they have so that she can get on with her life.” She tossed hair over her shoulder. “Doesn't that sound fair?”

“I did not know she was pregnant. And I thought the charges would be dropped by now.”

“They haven't. If you would just go tell the police what you know, it might really help.”

“I will think about it.”

In her purse, Miranda's phone rang and she suddenly remembered the sari guy. She held out her hand. “Thank you for giving me this time. I have an appointment. Thanks for your time, Ms. Franz.”

“I am still interested in your work. Call me when you return to New York.”

“I will. Thank you.” She rushed out and on the sidewalk, yanked her phone out of her pocket and looked at the name. It was Naagesh and Sons Imports, and she stabbed the number in. When a man answered, she said breathlessly. “I'm sorry. This is Miranda Rousseau. I'm here. Do you have the saris?”

“I do. Can I show them to you?”

“Yes. Where are you?”

“I am at the Hotel Mariposa, in the lobby.”

“I'll be right there.” She slapped the phone closed, and dashed the two blocks to the hotel, hoping she wasn't looking too rumpled in case she ran into James. She paused for a moment, brushing hair into place, smooth her skirts, and she even took a second in the blazing sun to put on her lipstick.

A butterfly danced nearby and she smiled. James must be about somewhere. Smiling happily at both the possibility of finding a beautiful sari for her sister and seeing James, who might just be her lover someday soon, she pushed through the giant doors of the old hotel, into the light air-conditioned lobby.

She spied a dark man with an armful of gilded scarves first. She waved and headed toward him.

“Miranda! Aren't you going to say hello, darling?”

She whirled, struggling to keep the dismay off her face. “Mother!”

C
arol Rousseau was a New England blue blood, and looked it. Her hair was smoothly cut into a sleek, dark pageboy she could let swing or gather into a ponytail for a game of tennis or sweep into an updo with glittering jewels tucked into it discreetly. Her figure was not an ounce over what it had been the day she graduated from high school, and she had no tolerance for anything less. She found fat vulgar.

Today she wore a yellow cotton suit with short sleeves, and a jaunty little boater hat on her head. “You look wonderful as always, Mother,” Miranda said, bending to kiss her cheeks Continental fashion as she insisted upon. With Max, she didn't mind. With her mother, it grated.

“Where's Daddy?”

“He's gone to take the car around.” She peered at Miranda. “You've been in the sun too much again, haven't you? I'm starting to see sun damage around your eyes.”

“I have sunscreen SPF 50 on, Mother,” she said. “I'm not sure what else a person can do.”

“Wear a hat, darling.” She touched her own.

“I'll think about it,” she said. “I need to talk to that man over there for a few minutes. I'll come find you when I'm done. Will you excuse me?”

“Of course, dear.”

Miranda dashed across the room, smarting even though she knew better than to expect anything besides criticism from her mother. She hurried over to the man with the scarves and took no small amount of satisfaction in knowing how much her mother would hate the fact that the bridesmaids were so errantly dressed.

James spied Miranda's hair from the elevator, and—ridiculously, joyfully—his heart leaped. He made his way through the lobby, crowded with more runners and their relatives, and vacationers in expensive resort wear, homing in on Miranda. It seemed as if a shaft of light fell on her, but when he blinked, he realized it was only his eyes that saw her that way.

She was wearing the most amazing dress. Sheer enough he could see the straps of her undergarment, and buttons all the way up the front that he instantly imagined undoing, one at a time. She was admiring a fall of pale pink and green fabric, woven through with threads of gold, and although he thought it beautiful, he hoped she wasn't choosing that particular color scheme for herself.

He came up beside her. “Hello, little girl. Is that for you?”

“Oh, God, no. I'd look terrible in these colors. It's for Desi. What do you think?”

He nodded at the man who'd brought the saris, and shrugged. “I have no idea, Miranda. This is not my area.” He pointed at a length of blue silk on the chair. “That color would look beautiful on you, I think.”

“Think so?” She picked it up and draped the gossamer, embroidered scarf around her neck backward, letting the hems trail behind her. She put out her hands. “Do you like it?”

James swallowed. The blue in the scarf picked out the blue in the flowers on her dress, which drew his eye to the lace edging on whatever it was underneath the dress, and her breasts, moving with her arms.

“Beautiful,” said the salesman.

“Yes,” James said. He imagined the scarf over her white body, with nothing else on it, and urgently wanted to make it true. “I'll buy it for you.”

“Don't be silly. I have pots of money my grandmother left me. Save your money.”

Stiffly he backed away. “Okay.”

“Oh, James, I'm sorry, that sounded careless and rude and—” She broke off. “Sorry.”

“It's okay,” he said, even though it wasn't. There was, suddenly, a giant hole in his gut, that thing that told him how foolish he was for longing for things so far out of his reach. Not only beautiful, not only well-traveled, but rich, too. “I'll wait for you in the bar over there.”

She looked at him for a moment. “Okay.” To the man she said, “I'll take the pink and the blue,” she said.

In the bar, he was sorely tempted to order just one beer. It might ease the sting of that careless rejection, and help him sleep later. But the race was in the morning and he'd just as soon have the best chance he could. There were schools of thought that said a beer would be all right, but he noticed the difference in his body when he had one and when he didn't.

He settled next to an older man with the clean jaw and good shoes of a yachtsman. “How're you doing?” he said.

“Fine, fine. You here for the run?”

“Among other things.” He eyed the man's rangy leanness, the sun-freckled forehead. “You, too?”

“Yeah, well, we'll see how I do. It's a tough run, especially for an old dog like me.”

“Better to run than not.”

“I reckon so.” He sipped a clear drink.

James ordered a soda water with lime and waited for Miranda, eyeing her as she paid the man for the clothes. He grinned, showing very white teeth, and saluted her as he left, whistling on his way out. Obviously well paid.

Miranda came toward the bar, and he saw the cynical tightness in her mouth, but felt no urge to erase it. Her arms full of clothes, she came into the bar, shaking her head.

The man next to him stood, a little formally, and said with genuine pleasure, “Miranda, girl! You're a sight for sore eyes, as always.”

Politely she kissed his cheek. “Hello, Daddy. You're looking well.” She drew James into the circle with a gesture. “This is James Marquez. He's helping us figure out the Claude business.”

The man held out a hand, his gaze direct, his grip firm. Miranda said, “James, this is my father, Paul Rousseau.”

James halted midshake and blinked. “The poet?”

“God love you, boy. Yes.”

“I've read everything you've written, sir,” James said honestly, an attack of hero worship filling his lungs. “Poems, short stories, the essays on running for the
New Yorker,
the travel pieces in the
Atlantic—
” He paused, feeling idiotic. “I love your work. Very much.”

Rousseau smiled. “Thank you, son. As a runner, you're probably in tune with some of the same things I am.”

“Right.” He felt flummoxed, pleased. Also conscious of Miranda standing beside him radiating a tense, weird energy. He gave her a glance, and she met it with a heavy-lidded blink. “You might appreciate this, sir,” he said to her father. “I met Peter Bok when I first got here the other day.”

“No kidding. Didn't he set the record for this race?”

“Whoa, whoa,” Miranda broke in. “If you guys are going to talk racing, I'm leaving. I'm going to take these back to the house and I can meet you here in an hour if that works?”

“Are you talking to me or our friend here?” Rousseau asked.

“I was speaking to James, but of course I will see you.”

“Didn't Juliet set up a dinner somewhere?”

“I don't know. I haven't heard.”

“She did.” Rousseau glanced at his watch. “Six o'clock, so we can meet her beau. I thought you were going to be there.”

James saw the panic on her face and said, “I'm really sorry, but I need her tonight. She's been helping me collate facts, and there's been a lot of information that's come in today.”

Her expression of gratitude was reward enough. “I'll see you and Mother after dinner, how's that? And I'll be there to cheer you on tomorrow for the race. Shouldn't you have been here to acclimatize or something?”

“Our cabin is at eight thousand feet, sweetheart. I've been training all summer, but thanks for your concern.”

Miranda wrestled with the clothes in her arms. For a moment, James was torn between helping her and staying to talk to a poet he had admired for years. Thinking of her uneasy relationship with her parents, however, he knew which side he'd better land on if he ever wanted the chance to talk with her again.

“Miranda, I'll help you carry those back. Sir,” he said, standing, “it was great to meet you. I hope we'll have a chance to talk more tomorrow.”

“I'm sure we will. Good to meet you.”

“Thank you,” Miranda said as she dumped half the weight into his arms. “I have a lot to tell you.”

“And I have a lot to tell you.” As they walked down the sidewalk, thin plastic covering the silk, he said, “I didn't realize your background was so—” he floundered for the word “—high end.”

She said nothing for a moment, and her face gave nothing away. “Is this going to be an issue between us?”

“Is there an us?”

Her irises were as liquid as mercury. “That's not a fair question.”

“I think it's very fair.”

“Why do I have to say first? Why don't you say? Is there an us?”

Suddenly he got it. She wasn't rejecting him; she was afraid of being rejected.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “From my end, the answer is yes.”

She swallowed. Dipped her head. “Mine, too.”

“Miranda.” He touched her smooth, perfect jawline. “I meant it, last night. There's something here that matters. Let's see what it is, huh?”

“It goes both ways, though. You don't get to set all the rules.”

“Okay, which means what?”

“Look, I'm sorry I hurt your feelings over the sari. But the truth is, it was just expedient. Here is a fact—I have money. I have money of my own and I have a fat inheritance my very wealthy grandmother split among my sisters and I, and I'll probably have more when the poet and his wife kick the bucket. So, it was just expedient to say I'd pay for it when I'm sure you—”

“
Don't
have any?” He halted in his tracks.

She stopped. “Well, yeah.”

“I'm hardly poor,” he said stiffly.

“I'm sure you aren't.”

“The thing is, you robbed me of the pleasure of buying you something by making the assumption that I couldn't afford it.”

“I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.”

“I know.”

They stood on the sidewalk holding yards of bright silk, and Miranda wouldn't look at him. “This is crazy,” he said. “I don't want to fight with you.”

“Then get off your high horse and don't be so proud.”

“I'll do that if you'll stop trying to be in control of everything.”

Her head popped up. “I'm not doing that!”

“Oh, really?”

He saw the recognition dawn on her face. “I don't mean to.”

“I'm sure you don't.” He shifted the silk on his arm. “You know what I'd like to do, Miranda? I want to come with you to the dinner for your parents and see how the family dynamic works.”

She looked positively horrified. “Why?”

“I want to know who you are.”

Her entire body went still, which served to underline how she was always in motion. “This is kind of weird, James.” She looked off toward the ski slopes, the top of the mountain, anywhere but his face. “We only met a few days ago.”

“That's true,” he said. And left it at that.

At last, she looked at him. “Okay. We'll go to dinner. But no fair thinking I'm a bitch, or fawning over my father. There are things you don't understand.”

“Deal.”

They took the saris to Juliet's house, and Miranda was parched and hot and faintly irritable. Juliet was nowhere in sight, but her big red dog, Jack, made an absolute fool of himself over James.

“Okay,” she said, nudging him aside. “That's enough.”

“He's cute,” James said, chuckling, bending to scratch the dog's chest and sides with expertise.

“Do you want something to drink?” Miranda asked, pulling open the fridge. “There's soda water. I noticed you drink that a lot.”

“Sounds good.” The kitchen and living room were divided by an open counter and James sat on one of the stools. “We do need to touch bases. A lot of information came up today.”

She settled across from him, leaving the counter safely between them. “I heard some things, too. You go first.”

“I met with Christie Lundgren,” he said.

Miranda blinked. “No kidding? That's pretty interesting. What changed her mind?”

“As long as you weren't around, she'd talk to me. And it was illuminating.” He quickly recounted the highlights.

“So, who does she think killed Claude? The dentist's wife?”

“Maybe. I was intrigued by the art connection, actually.” He explained Christie's confusion on Claude's art pieces.

“She made a good point—why would his work be so popular so fast? I mean, it happens, but not very often,” Miranda said. “I have some more to say about that, but I'll hear all your material first.”

James nodded. “I also used some connections to get the sheriff to let me look at the files for Desi's case, and there are some interesting things in there. For one thing, the car that nearly killed her appears to have had state license plates.”