“Oh.” She looked depressed.
“Tell you what. Call him, say you talked to me and that you want to help if you can. Tell him the truth, and tell him if he needs to get in touch with you he can call me.”
She brightened. “All right.”
He dialed the number for her and listened while she talked at length with Martinez. Finally she wound up the conversation. “If you need to reach me, call Mr. Eagle, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” She hung up. “God, I hope that’s the end of that.”
“So do I,” Eagle said. “Where are you staying?”
“I found a nice bed and breakfast off Canyon Road.”
Eagle thought fast. This woman was not his client, she was not a suspect in the murders, she was square with the D.A. No problems here. “Would you like to have dinner one night soon?” he asked.
She flashed her smile. “I’d love it.”
T
he week before Christmas, the weather did the right thing. In the middle of the night snow began to fall in Santa Fe, and by the time Wolf woke up there was a soft coat of white on the mountainside at Wilderness Gate. When he saw it, he remembered Christmas.
Wolf had been working nonstop on Jack’s last screenplay—editing, rewriting, tightening. He’d gotten it down to a hundred and ten pages, then sent it to Hal Berger in L.A. for revised costing. In the normal course of events, he’d have been in preproduction in a week, ready for casting by the new year and shooting in February, but not now. All he could do was get the script right and wait.
Wolf had spent the last Christmas in Santa Fe with Julia, who hadn’t liked Christmas much, except for the gifts he gave her. She wouldn’t have a tree in the house—claimed she was allergic to them, so they had just gone to a few parties and had slept late on Christmas morning.
Thinking back, he realized he hadn’t had a proper Christmas since the death of his first wife, and he had always loved the holiday.
Glancing at his watch, he picked up the phone and called Jane Deering.
“Hello,” the sleepy voice said.
“Come on, it’s eight o’clock. How come you’re still in bed?”
“Oh, hi. Sara’s out of school for the holidays, and we’re both sleeping in.”
“What are your plans for the holidays?”
“Oh, not much. We’re sticking close to home.”
“I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you pack a bag for yourself and Sara, get on a plane this afternoon, and come to Santa Fe for the holidays?”
There was a long silence at the other end.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “How’s it going to look? Well, I know I screwed it up when you were here before, but this time we’ll lie low, take drives in the desert, stay home a lot.”
“Wolf, I don’t know.”
“Sara will love it here. It’s snowing; we’re going to have a white Christmas.”
“Kids are funny about Christmas. I don’t want to upset her by yanking her away from home.”
“Talk to her about it, see what she says, and call me back.”
“Okay, give me an hour.”
Wolf hung up, went to the kitchen, and made himself some breakfast, nervous about what her answer would be. If she couldn’t come, then he’d be stuck in the house by himself. He’d been turning down invitations to parties, even one for Christmas dinner with friends, and now he
realized, too late, that he didn’t want to be alone. The phone rang; he grabbed the kitchen extension.
“Okay, you’re on. We’re arriving in Albuquerque at four o’clock.”
“That’s terrific! I’ll meet you.” The hell with not leaving Santa Fe.
“I assume I don’t need any hot dresses this time?”
“All you need is jeans and a warm coat. It’s cold here.”
“See you at four.”
Wolf hung up the phone, elated. He had one hell of a lot to do before his guests arrived.
By lunchtime, he had filled the Porsche with presents and Christmas tree decorations. The plaza was alive with shoppers, and he had exchanged greetings with a dozen friends and acquaintances. Every shop and house was decorated for the season; he had forgotten how lovely Santa Fe could be at Christmas.
By one o’clock, he was shopped out and starving. He pointed the car toward Santacafé, and miraculously found a space in the parking lot. The place was jammed, and as he squeezed through the front door, he was greeted with a sight that struck him like a blow: standing at the reservations booth, talking on the telephone, was a woman who looked so much like Julia that he at first thought he was hallucinating. True, her hair was dark, where Julia’s had been sandy blond, but everything else—her gestures, movements, and above all her smile—were Julia’s.
From behind, a large hand took his elbow and steered him into the bar alcove to his left.
“Hello, Ed,” Wolf said, looking up at the lawyer.
“Hello, Wolf,” Eagle replied, grabbing a barstool and
shoving it under his client’s backside. “I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve got something to tell you.”
Wolf was barely paying attention, craning his neck to catch sight of the front door. “There’s a woman out there who looks enough like Julia to be her twin,” he said.
“Wolf, it’s Julia’s sister.”
Now Wolf gave him his whole attention. “I thought she was in prison.”
“She was unconditionally released last week. She turned up in Santa Fe and came to see me—I had offered to help her, never believing she would turn up here. I gave her a few names, and she got a job here; she’s keeping the books for the restaurant and working the lunch shift at the desk.”
“Jesus Christ, she gave me a start,” Wolf said. His pulse was starting to go down.
“I’m sorry about that. I was going to call you about her. I really had no idea the resemblance was so strong.”
“It’s uncanny,” Wolf said.
“I’d never even seen a photograph of Julia, so I didn’t know. I’m sorry if it upset you.”
“It didn’t exactly upset me; it was more of a disorientation, like going back in time—Julia here, in this restaurant, where she had been so many times.”
“I understand. Again, I apologize for not letting you know about her sooner. I don’t really have a good excuse.”
“It’s okay, Ed. I’m fine.”
“I was on my way back from the men’s room when I saw you. I’d better get back to my lunch group.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
Eagle stopped. “Wolf, would you like to meet her?”
Wolf considered that for a moment. “I don’t think this is a good time, Ed. After all, she’s working.” In fact, he was terrified of meeting her, of being anywhere near her.
“Sure, I understand. Another time.”
“Sure. What’s her name?”
“She’s known as Barbara Kennerly. She seems like a decent person, in spite of her past.” Eagle explained the circumstances of her imprisonment. “I think she was just caught up in something she couldn’t control. She had some therapy in prison; she’s all right now, I think.”
Wolf nodded. “I hope so, for her sake.”
“In my experience, the most ordinary people can get caught up in something extraordinary. Half the people I defend are just folks.”
“Like me,” Wolf said.
Eagle smiled. “Like you. And like her, too. Try not to hold her past against her.” Eagle excused himself and went to join his party.
Resisting the urge to leave, Wolf forced himself to order some lunch at the bar and tried to keep his mind on it. He was still disturbed, though, and when he left the restaurant, he was glad she wasn’t at the desk.
E
d Eagle checked the contents of the refrigerator, then spent a couple of minutes arranging things. He took a head of romaine lettuce from the icebox, rinsed it, and set it aside to drain. He got down a wooden salad bowl from a cupboard, separated two egg yolks from the whites, and opened a can of anchovies. He looked around; everything else was at hand.
The headlights of a car flashed briefly by the kitchen window. Eagle rinsed his hands and walked to the front door. Barbara Kennerly was just getting out of what looked like a brand-new Jeep Cherokee.
“Hello,” he called.
“Hello, yourself,” she replied, reaching back into the car for something and coming out with a large bunch of flowers.
“Come into the house before you freeze.”
“I like the cold weather.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place.” He laughed, closing the door and helping her off with her coat. She was dressed in flannel slacks and a heavy, long-sleeved silk blouse. She was not wearing a bra, he noted. “It’s supposed to go down to ten degrees tonight.”
“Fine with me,” she said. “Have you got something I can put these in?”
He led her into the kitchen and found a vase, then watched as she expertly arranged the flowers. “They’re beautiful,” he said. “Thank you for bringing them.”
“Well, if you’re cooking, it was the least I could do. I would have brought some wine, but it probably would have been the wrong thing.”
“Don’t worry, we’re well fixed for wine. Would you like a drink, or can I force some champagne on you?”
“Oh, yes, please, force me.”
He got out two crystal flutes and opened a bottle of Schramsberg
blanc de noirs
.
She raised her glass. “To freedom,” she said.
He clinked his glass against hers. “I’ll drink to that.”
“Mmmm,” she said, savoring the wine. “It’s delicious. French?”
“Californian. The best, I think; equal to a lot of the French stuff.”
“And the glasses—they’re Baccarat, aren’t they?”
“You have a good eye.”
“You have good taste, sir.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“I’m not old enough to be called ’ma’am,’” she said solemnly.
“You’re right. How old are you, anyway?”
“I’m thirty-two. Do you always ask women their age?”
“Always. It’s an important question.”
“Why is it important that you know a woman’s age?”
“Knowing her age is not important. What’s important is if she will
tell
you her age. You passed the test.”
She laughed. “I’m glad.”
“So, no more ma’ams; I’ll call you Barbara.”
“I’d like that better. I’m still getting used to it, you know. There’s a girl at work named Hannah, and I have a tendency to turn whenever somebody speaks to her.”
“Why did you change your name?”
“I would have thought that was obvious,” she said. “But it wasn’t just to get away from the ex-convict label. I simply didn’t want to be Hannah Schlemmer anymore. I didn’t like what she had become, and while I was inside I made a point of becoming somebody I liked better.”
“So how do you feel about Barbara Kennerly these days?”
“By the time I got out, I was liking her a lot. She’s changing, though. She’s reinventing herself, now that she has her freedom.”
Eagle took some beef tenderloin from the refrigerator and began expertly trimming and slicing it. “Something I don’t understand,” he said.
“What’s that? Barbara Kennerly is an open book; she’ll answer any question.”
“You just arrived in a new car.”
“And I found an apartment today, too. It’s been a big day for Barbara.”
“How does Barbara afford all this?”
“Ever the inquisitor. I don’t mind telling you. I didn’t get anything from my husband’s estate—under the circumstances—but Murray was a generous man, in some ways. He was in the jewelry business, and he gave me a lot of jewelry. When I got out, I went to New York and sold some of it.” She pulled back her hair to reveal a very nice
diamond earring. “Not all of it, but some. I’d been around the diamond business enough to know how to go about selling it without getting scalped, so I have enough of a nest egg to get me going again.”
“Now, that’s very interesting,” Eagle said. “But you had a public defender at your trial. If you’d sold the jewelry then and used the money to hire a good lawyer, I don’t think you’d have done any time at all.”
“You know a lot about my case, don’t you?”
“Do you mind that I know?”
“No, I don’t. Like I said, Barbara is an open book. I’ll tell you straight, I didn’t do that because I was stupid. It wasn’t until I was in prison that I learned from my…new colleagues what the score was, and by that time it was too late. And I’ll tell you something: I don’t regret what I did.”
“You don’t regret going to prison?”
She sipped her champagne and shook her head. “I don’t know what I would have done if I’d walked after the trial. I needed to get my head on straight again, and prison did that for me, gave me a chance to think about what I’d done wrong and what I was going to do to fix myself.”
“That’s what prison is supposed to be for, I guess.”
“Well, it worked with me. I’m never again going to break any law—I’m not going to speed, I’m not going to get a parking ticket, I’m not going to jaywalk.”
“That’s a good resolution.”
“And I’m keeping it forever.”
Eagle dropped the sliced meat into some clarified butter and sautéed it. While that was happening, he took the salad bowl, crushed some garlic in it, added a few anchovies, pureed them with a fork, added the egg yolks, and began dripping oil into the bowl as he whipped the combination into a froth. He seasoned it with salt and pepper, added a spoonful
of coarse Dijon mustard, then grated fresh Parmesan cheese into the mixture, whipping it up with a fork.
“What is it?” Barbara asked.
He dipped a finger into the bowl and offered it to be tasted. She sucked the dressing from his finger, and he liked the way she did it.
“Mmmm,” she said. “I hate anchovies, and I got worried when I saw them go in, but this is terrific!”
He tore the romaine lettuce into bite-sized pieces and dropped them into the salad bowl, tossing them until they were lightly coated with the dressing.
“Caesar salad!” she said. “I’ve never seen it made before, just ordered it in restaurants.”
He sprinkled some croutons on the salad and served it. They ate at the counter, while he kept an eye on the cooking.