Wall of Glass Page 10

  Opposite the pottery were the kachinas, handcarved wooden dolls, painted and feathered. There were four of them, each perched on one of the display stands, each lit separately by a small spotlight. I strolled over to the nearest one.

  It was two feet tall, an animal figure of considerable power, a wolf or a bear. Below a sort of skullcap made of feathers was a head of white fur and a white wooden snout filled with needle-sharp teeth. Its eyes were blood red, with round black pupils. Its body was that of a man, smoothly sanded, painted white. More white fur ran down its spine, and tufts adorned the back of its hands and its white leather boots.

  A good deal of care had been taken with the details. The leggings and armbands were of leather, painted black and dotted with white. Its loincloth was white cotton, embroidered with a geometric design of green and red. Each tiny, carefully shaped finger was tipped with a claw carved from thin translucent shell.

  I took a look at the card taped to the stand. The price was $3,500. Took a look at the artist’s name.

  John Lucero.

  “That’s Hon,” said a voice behind me.

  I turned. “It’s who?”

  She smiled as she came up to me. She had wide handsome lips and bright white teeth with an attractive overbite. There was a small cleft in her chin and another one, barely visible, at the tip of her nose. Her eyes were brown, laugh lines crinkling at their corners. In her late thirties, or early forties, she wore a beige cashmere sweater, a black skirt, and black flat-soled shoes. Her hair was her most impressive feature. Deep brown, laced heavily with silver, it was long and thick and it outlined her shoulders like an aura. To make it look so artlessly dramatic, she probably spent the cash equivalent of a Santa Clara bowl every month or two.

  She said, “Hon. The Bear kachina. The Hopis believe he can cure serious diseases.”

  “How is he at bruises?”

  She looked at my left cheek. “Did you walk into a door?”

  “Three or four of them.”

  She laughed softly and held out her hand. “Silvia Griego.”

  I took it. “Joshua Croft. Are all the kachinas as expensive as this one?”

  If she resented the question, she didn’t show it. She smiled, and in a reasonable, well-modulated voice that probably sold a lot of kachinas, she said, “That’s actually one of the least expensive. I couldn’t let you have that Buffalo over there, for example, for less than forty-five hundred.” She nodded to the figure on the stand farthest away. No bigger than this one, it sported an elaborate headdress of feathers.

  “Lot of money for a doll,” I said.

  No doubt she’d heard the same sentiment expressed before, and more diplomatically, but once again she merely smiled. “They take time,” she said, “and they take care. The artist, John Lucero, is one of the few today who works from a single piece of cottonwood root. Assuming you can locate a piece, which is getting more and more difficult to do, the wood has to be dried for a period of time before it can be worked. And John makes the paintings himself from native materials. Iron oxides, copper carbonates, vegetable dyes. The others use acrylics.”

  “Acrylics are bad,” I said.

  “Acrylics are perfectly fine,” she said, “if you like them, and many people do. It’s a matter of taste. But personally, I happen to prefer a somewhat softer tone.” End of lesson. Her smile became speculative. “But I don’t think you came here to discuss kachinas.”

  “No,” I said. “I came here to discuss Frank Biddle.”

  I’ve discovered that one of the advantages, or disadvantages, or simply one of the side-effects of growing older, is that whenever I meet people now, I can somehow see in each of their faces the face of the child they once were. Long ago, before things started happening. It’s not a trick I do intentionally; it simply happens, more or less easily.

  And Silvia Griego, just then, made it easy. All at once, her grown-up face collapsed. One moment she was a handsome, friendly, self-assured career woman; the next she was a stricken young girl, mouth open, eyes tight with fear, shoulders slightly hunched against an expected blow.

  Surprised, a little alarmed, and maybe a little guilty, I watched as she pulled herself together. With a visible effort she straightened her back, brought her adult face back into focus. Without looking at me, she said, “In my office,” and she turned and strode off toward the door at the far end of the room. I followed her.

  She pulled open the door, stepped inside, and said something to someone in there. I waited, and after a moment the Pepsi-Cola girl sauntered into the doorway. She gave me another knowing smile as she passed by, heading back toward the front of the gallery.

  Silvia Griego turned to me, mouth set, eyebrows lowered, eyes staring somewhere in the middle of my chest. “Come in.”

  The office was airy and spacious, with cream-colored walls and white shag wall-to-wall carpeting. To my immediate right, an L-shaped desk held a computer workstation and a bulky printer. On the opposite wall was a painting of a landscape that I recognized as Diablo Canyon, down by the Rio Grande. Beneath the painting sat a couple of comfortable-looking white chairs; and high above it on the wall, braced with metal struts, were two television screens, each showing a view of the gallery. When I’d been in there, I hadn’t noticed any cameras. I wasn’t supposed to, of course.

  Beyond the desk, an open door led out onto a small enclosed courtyard of Russian olive and flagstones. Although there was no one visible out there, Silvia Griego crossed the room and shut the door. Her eyes still avoiding mine, she came back around the desk and sat down behind it in the padded leather swivel chair. She put her arms along the arms of the chair, took a deep breath, and looked up at me.

  “What do you want?” she said, her voice flat. She was back in control now, or she’d convinced herself she was.

  “Mind if I sit down?” I asked her.

  Pursing her lips as though she minded very much, she nodded to the pair of white chairs. I took one, sat back, crossed my legs. Casually, taking my time. I had an advantage over the woman, even if I didn’t know yet what it was, and I couldn’t afford to lose it before I did.

  I said, “Frank and I had a little business deal going.”

  She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. A defensive gesture, shielding herself against me. “What sort of business deal?”

  “Frank had something I wanted.”

  Even as wary and guarded as she was, she was able to look me over clinically, head to toe and back again, and say, “I’m not surprised.”

  I ignored that. “I figure you and Stacey Killebrew know where I can find it.”

  “Then why not ask Stacey Killebrew?”

  I smiled, shook my head. “Wrong question. The right question would’ve been, ‘Who’s Stacey Killebrew?’”

  She frowned. “Just what is it you want from me?” Anger was beginning to build up behind the wariness. At me, possibly at herself for the slip.

  “You know Killebrew,” I said.

  “I know of him.”

  “Never met him?”

  “Not that I can recall.”

  When people make equivocal statements and stare at you defiantly, they’re lying.

  I said, “Was Lucero in on this?”

  Her eyelids fluttered briefly and her voice, when it came, had lost its anger and become uncertain. “John? In on what?”

  “The necklace.”

  She frowned again, looking genuinely puzzled. “Necklace?”

  “Felice Leighton’s diamond necklace.”

  “Felice?” She sat back, put her arms along the arms of the chair. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m looking for the necklace,” I said.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know anything about any necklace.”

  “Why’d you fall apart out there when I mentioned Frank Biddle?”

  “All right,” she said, crossing her arms again. “Just who are you?”

  “I’m a private investigator,” I told her. “I’m working
for the company that insured the necklace.”

  She looked at me for a moment. “Do you have any identification?”

  I reached into my jacket, took out my billfold, opened it, leaned across the desk, and showed her the ticket. Still sitting back, she studied it, nodded.

  She said, “The diamond necklace Derek gave her a few years ago?”

  Sitting back down, I nodded.

  “When was it stolen?”

  “Last year. October.”

  She shook her head. “She never told me.”

  “Biddle never mentioned it?”

  A surprised look. “You don’t think Frank stole it?”

  “The day before he died, Frank was talking about offering it back to the insurance company.”

  “Frank wasn’t a thief.” A simple statement.

  “How long were you involved with him?”

  “I don’t really see that that’s any of your business.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe you’d rather talk to the cops.”

  She smiled, and I knew then that whatever my advantage had been, I had lost it. “I’ve nothing to hide from the police. Or from anyone else. But now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an opening tomorrow and I’m really quite busy.” She stood up.

  I stood as well. “Thanks for your help,” I said.

  She nodded, and the smile became ironic. “Anytime.”

  WHEN I GOT BACK to the office at one o’clock, the telephone on the desk was making noises. It’s not one of your more expensive models, and it sounds like a large retarded bird in considerable distress. I snatched up the receiver and plopped myself down into the chair.

  “Mondragón Agency.”

  “Joshua?” The smoky aristocratic voice of Mrs. Leighton.

  “Felice. How are you?”

  “Rather confused at the moment.”

  “How so?”

  “I just had a call from a friend of mine, Silvia Griego. She tells me that she had a visitor this morning who wanted to know about a necklace of mine. She described him, and I’m quoting now, as ‘an attractive thug,’ and said that he gave his name as Joshua Croft.”

  “It’s a common name, I understand, among attractive thugs.”

  “Joshua, why are you asking Silvia about the necklace? She’s one of my oldest friends, and she never even knew the thing was stolen.”

  “One of your oldest friends, and you never told her about the burglary?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone about it. Derek asked me not to. All of us, me and the children. You have to understand his sense of pride. More than anything else, I think, he was embarrassed about the theft. He saw it as a personal thing, as though it happened through some mistake of his.”

  “What about the newspaper? It wasn’t listed in that update they run of all the local burglaries?”

  “No. Derek’s got a friend down there, one of the editors, and he called him and asked him not to mention anything about the necklace.”

  The Incorruptible Press strikes again.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, “why you’re bothering Silvia.”

  “Silvia knows some people who knew Biddle. I was just following up some leads.” I saw no need to tell her of Biddle’s involvement with Griego. “And how are you doing these days?”

  “Much better than when I left your house the other night.”

  “You seemed fairly composed at the time.”

  “Bravura acting. Oscar material. I was a shambles. Couldn’t sleep a wink all night. I kept hearing that window of yours crashing apart. You were very brave, you know, rushing outside like that.”

  “Careful,” I said. “You’ll turn my head.”

  “And Kevin’s quite taken with you as well.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s decided he wants to be a private investigator himself.”

  “That should tickle your husband.”

  A throaty chuckle. “Derek’s out of town for a few days. Actually, that’s my ulterior motive for calling. I’m getting cabin fever, sitting around all day. I was wondering if we could get together, you and I. We could have lunch—I was thinking the Toad Garden, my treat—and we could discuss your progress.” The Toad Garden, despite its name, dished up the most expensive lunches in Santa Fe.

  “It wouldn’t take a whole lunch to discuss my progress,” I told her. “One appetizer would just about do it.”

  “You don’t feel you’re any closer to finding the necklace?”

  “It’s still too early yet. And thanks for the invitation, Felice, but I’ll be busy all day today. No time for lunch. Maybe later in the week.”

  “Oh drat,” she said with mock petulance. “I was looking forward to it.”

  “When’s your husband coming back?”

  “Tomorrow. Why?”

  “Sooner or later I’m going to have to talk to him again.”

  “He’s not really an ogre, you know. Most of the time, he can be quite reasonable. I’m sure that the two of you, given a second chance, would get along very well.”

  “Let’s hope so. Could you ask him to call me?”

  “I shall. And give me a jingle tonight if you get tired of sitting alone while bullets come whizzing through your window.”

  “I’ll do that. Bye now.”

  “Bye.” She put several more syllables, and several more shades of meaning, into the word than I remembered it having.

  I hung up and noticed that the green indicator on the answering machine was lit, telling me that urgent messages, maybe even Clues, awaited me on the tape. Just as I was reaching for the rewind switch, the phone squawked again.

  “Mondragón Agency.”

  “I am not going to get angry.” Rita’s voice, cold and flat, precisely enunciating every syllable.

  “Good for you.”

  “You have every right in the world to make a total and utter fool of yourself.”

  “Says so right in the Constitution.”

  “If you want to get your brains, such as they are, splattered all over some barroom floor, it’s really none of my business.”

  “I’m glad you’re being reasonable about this. And I truly admire the way you turn a phrase.”

  “I spoke to Hector this morning.”

  “And he finked on me.”

  “He told me what happened last night.”

  “Like I said.”

  “Hector was less than straightforward, but I gather, reading between the lines, that if he hadn’t shown up there last night, you’d probably be dead today.”

  “A bit of an exaggeration, Rita.”

  But not by much. Killebrew had drawn back his leg for the kick, and, lying there groggy and immobile, all I could do was watch it happen and know that when it did, my head would snap like a football off a tee, spinning up toward the goal post.

  And then, behind him, someone had called out, “Freeze!”

  The crowd parted and Hector was standing there. He wasn’t holding his gun, but his sports coat was open and if he wanted to, all he had to do was reach inside and slip it from the holster. Most of the people, like Killebrew, who have an interest in these things know that the Santa Fe Police Department favors the Smith and Wesson 586, and they know that the magnum .357 load it carries will do some fairly serious damage to bodily organs.

  A fair fight, everyone had said as they gathered around, most of them grumbly and querulous, disappointed that Killebrew hadn’t scored the extra two points. After hauling myself to my feet, I had refused to press charges against Killebrew, who still hadn’t lost his wide yellow grin. Hector had walked me out to my car, explaining that he had had second thoughts about my going to the bar alone. I had thanked him for those. A bit incoherently, but profusely.

  Rita said, “I thought you were going to avoid Killebrew.”

  “I thought so too. Killebrew had his own ideas on the subject.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone there,” she said.

  “You’re right, dear.”

  “Someday you’ll
go off somewhere and Hector won’t be around.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  There was a silence on the line, and then she said, “Joshua.” Her tone turned the word into a warning.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Stop it.”

  I laughed.

  “You think it’s funny?”

  “Moderately, yeah. Rita, I’m all right. I appreciate your concern, and I’m grateful for it, but I’m sound in mind and body, and I feel tip-top, absolutely hunky-dory. I’ve already filed away the thing last night as a learning experience.”

  “I’m not so sure about the sound-in-mind part.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you still have all your teeth?”

  “Sure. I’m keeping them in a cigar box in the desk drawer.”

  “Joshua.” Another warning.

  “I’m okay. Really. A tiny bruise, nothing else. A little Max Factor and no one will ever know. By the way, I spoke to Silvia Griego today.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “Someone has to.”

  She sighed. “All right. What did Griego have to say?”

  I related the conversation and my feelings about it.

  Rita said, “So what you’re saying is that she knows something about Biddle, something that frightens her, but it’s something that may have nothing to do with the stolen necklace.”

  “Yeah, that was the hit I got. I don’t think she knew about the necklace. Felice Leighton never told her, and it looks to me that Biddle never did either.”

  “You’ve been in touch with Felice again?”

  “We had,” I said, “a brief but enlightening chat. She didn’t know, apparently, that Biddle was seeing Griego.”