3 Requiem at Christmas (8 page)

She walked slowly through the lobby, admiring the
poinsettias and other evergreens. No traditional Christmas greenery had been
missed—pine, spruce, holly, even mistletoe woven into kissing balls. She
wondered if they had somehow managed to dye the complimentary goldfish red and
green.

A tired mother was dragging an even more tired child toward
the elevators.

“I’m not going to bed! Not ever! Ever!” the boy insisted
tearfully. “I don’t care what Santa Claus says!”

Juliet shuddered. There was one upside to her old job. It
had stopped her from having children, something she knew she was emotionally
ill suited to do. She was barely fit to raise a cat.

She stopped in front of the inn’s largest window that
stretched from floor to the top of the small mezzanine. The stores at the
arcade were still open, still twinkling bravely in the night, and the full moon
on the mountains gave the snow an eerie glow. It was beautiful, but she didn’t
feel at ease. She had been increasingly more edgy since nightfall.

“Some say that ever ’
gainst
that
season comes, wherein our Savior’s birth is celebrated, the bird of dawning
singeth
all night long; and then, they say, no spirit dare
stir abroad—no fairies take, nor witch hath power to charm,” she murmured.

“At least the brain hasn’t malfunctioned in the cold,”
Esteban said. “That’s a relief.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Is it normal to go around in public quoting
Shakespeare?”

“Depends.
Lots of people quote and
misquote Shakespeare. They just don’t know it. And with all the weirdoes in the
hotel, a little Shakespeare is nothing.”

She smiled over her shoulder at him. She was rather glad he
wasn’t wearing his mask. He had been so pleased with it that she feared he
might take to wearing it all the time.

“There’s a steakhouse over there,” Esteban said. “Everyone
speaks highly of it.”

It was a tempting thought. They wouldn’t need to walk
through the snow so she needn’t change clothes. There were sleighs and taxis,
or they could take the gondola that stopped at a platform on the third floor.

But outside, under the portico, there was Mr. No-neck’s
satellite, scanning the dark intently as he waited for something. He had a
black ski mask over his face but it wasn’t sufficient to disguise the gun he
carried at his waist. Especially when he raised his arms and the short jacket
rode up his large body.

“Christmas might stop the witches and fairies, but it does
nothing to deter the human villains. I’d like to know what he’s doing out there,”
Juliet murmured.

Esteban moved closer so he could study the masked man. She
could feel the heat radiating from his body. She had noticed before that he ran
hot.

“You could rush out with a hug and season’s greetings, and
then pump him for information. I think he’d be less inclined to slug you than
me.”

“I wouldn’t count on it, not even if I were twenty years
younger. That tent in his pants is in the wrong place for that kind of
happiness. I wonder if he has a permit to carry concealed and why he doesn’t
use a shoulder holster like real villains do.”

As though feeling their scrutiny, the orbiter turned to look
at them. His eyes were flat, as black as his mask. Juliet resisted the urge to
wave and made herself look right past him and study the arcade.

“I think he’s suspicious of us. Perhaps you should kiss me.
It would give us a plausible excuse to stay here and see what happens.”

She ignored the stock flirting. If she ever did kiss Esteban
it wouldn’t be for another’s delectation.

“I know what will happen and we won’t learn anything if we
stay here. I just wonder if Mr. No-neck has been out visiting a burned-down
cabin. His anxiety over a missing person or property must be pretty high to
keep him here.”

“And I think it would be nice to know what the other party
members look like. They tend to spend a lot of time in ski masks.”

“I’ll draw you a picture.
Over dinner.
I’m actually starving.” She turned from the window and smiled.

“You should have finished your pasties. Don’t you know
children are starving in Ethiopia?”

“Well, they weren’t very good, even for fair food. In fact.…”

“Yes, they were terrible. And so was your pink popcorn. Feel
like a steak?”

“And a baked potato.”

*
 
*
 
*

The restaurant’s ceiling was low and beamed, and it gave a
feeling of intimacy in spite of the large number of tables that were rather
close together. Christmas music played in the background, but it was mellow instrumental
songs and kept at low volume so that guests could actually speak to one
another, if they chose.

They were shown to a table near, but not next to, the large
windows that overlooked the inn and its formidable collection of twinkle lights
and a snowy field which looked as cold and lifeless as the surface of the moon.
Juliet didn’t mind the downgrade in tables. The cold off the giant sheets of glass
would be unpleasant and she had had enough of chilly things for the day.

It was pleasant to find that the napkins were cloth and the
candle was real, and low enough that it did not interfere with eye contact.
Naked flames at eye level were as effective as a curtain at hiding people’s
faces, and Juliet would have been sorry not to see Esteban’s eyes, which were a
deeper gold than the small fire burning between them. In the rest of the
restaurant the lighting was as subdued as it could be to let waiters see the
entrées they carried and to not trip over each other. It fostered the illusion
that they were alone. She suppressed a smile, thinking about what she and Elizabeth
had said that afternoon. It hadn’t all been a joke. She would like to try
painting Esteban.

The waiter was fairly emphatic about the excellence of their
specials so Esteban surrendered to his judgment and had the venison. Juliet
remained firm and ordered a steak. For
auld
lang
syne
circa 1970,
they began with a cheese fondue which was served with artisanal breads and
crisp wedges of pippin apples.

There were a fair number of kilts in the dining room, though
they were now paired with shirts and shoes—and sometimes snow boots. One caught
her eye particularly because it was about the size and color of a hot-air
balloon and the man seemed vaguely and unpleasantly familiar. Perhaps she had
seen him at the fair.

“It isn’t polite to stare,” Esteban said, also staring.
“What a striking set of colors he chose. Do you think he’s colorblind?”

“It’s just Clan Buchanan, and there is no choosing involved.
It just goes with the territory,” Juliet answered. “I would have thought
everyone would be at the
ceilidh
by now.”

“The what?”

“A dance,” she said, simplifying. “The clan is having a
fund-raiser tonight. I should think that attendance is all but mandatory.”

Somehow it seemed fitting that Mr. No-neck and a satellite should
arrive only minutes after them and that they were taken to the reserved table
near the plate glass window. On the way No-neck paused to speak to the balloon,
who
did not look honored by the visit. In fact, he
looked unnerved. In his fear, he reminded her of someone though the brain
couldn’t place the details.

No-neck stared at them as he passed their table. Even above
the strong omnipresent smell of searing meats, Juliet could smell his musky
cologne that trailed behind him like a dirty kite when he circled her chair.
Esteban’s lovely eyes suddenly looked very hard and Juliet recalled their first
meeting where she had decided that he was ruthless. No-neck obviously sparked
Esteban in the same way.

Everyone around them seemed to be drinking beer.
Lots and lots of beer.
Juliet wondered how many of them were
on her floor and if she would be kept up all night by flushing toilets. If she
drank like that at bedtime she’d be up all hours nursing a hyperactive bladder.
It also killed brain cells, something she felt she could ill afford. She was
obviously getting old.

“What are you thinking?” Esteban asked. He sounded amused.
His expression had once again smoothed itself into something nonthreatening to
civilized people.

“That I wasted my youth. I should have guzzled beer and gone
to orgies when I was in my twenties and the body was more forgiving.”

Esteban laughed softly.

“My imagination fails me.
Juliet Henry at
an orgy?”

“It fails me too. And that’s just sad.”

Once food was laid out to their satisfaction and the noise
had reached annoying levels that would prevent eavesdropping from other tables,
Juliet and Esteban began to speculate wildly about what No-neck was doing in
town and came up with an improbable but exciting list of activities that
contained everything from stealing paintings by old masters, knocking over
casinos, or smuggling miniaturized nuclear devices. Of course, they could only
enjoy the exercise because neither of them believed that No-neck was trading in
weapons. If he had been any kind of serious player in the armaments business,
Juliet would have heard of him. She had the feeling that Esteban would have
known him too.

“We should get going if we want to foregather with our
neighbors,” Esteban said when Juliet declined dessert. “They are meeting in the
bar again this evening.”

“Do we want to foregather?” she asked, then answered
herself. “I guess I should. I haven’t been terribly social so far and I am
thinking about going skiing tomorrow instead of heading back to the fair.”

“I may see you out there.
If I finish in
time.”

She did not ask what he needed to finish. Esteban was an
artist but he was also a private investigator. They made a point not to enquire
too deeply into each other’s lives and what lived in the shadows, though there
was genuine affection between them.

“Dinner is on me,” Esteban said. “I’m working a job that
pays for incidental expenses.”

“Thank you. That was lovely, though I will be lucky if the
ski lift can haul me up the hill after all that.” She spoke randomly, aware
that one of the satellites was walking by their table. She actually had no
intention of using the ski lift. She was going cross-country.

*
 
*
 
*

“He’s fatuous,” Juliet said, speaking of their local
newspaper editor back in Santa Cruz. Like Molière, Juliet felt that most
critics were like children who could whip horses but not drive them. This was
particularly true of people who didn’t actually understand or even like art. She
was trying to be sociable and participate in a discussion about the influence
of art critics, but her brain was occupied with other things and her eyes were
getting tired of all the plaid in the bar.

“He has gas?” Carrie gasped and giggled. Two martinis were obviously
too many, or maybe she didn’t know the difference between fatuous and
flatulence. She also smelled like half the inventory of the drug store perfume
counter had ended up on her neck and wrists. Juliet found herself fighting a
sneeze. She also knew that truculence and tears were coming as soon as someone
suggested that she had had enough to drink. Usually everyone played nice
because they didn’t want any more blood feuds. The last neighborly quarrel had
ended with someone dead.

Raphael winced at the giggle and then said that he was
tired.

He didn’t specify of what.

“Coward,” Juliet mouthed and got the tiniest of smiles.

Asher and Elizabeth also made their excuses. At their
defection, Juliet’s patience failed her and she rose too, mouthing apologies
and excuses. Her nicer side said she should stay but her other side was
stronger and smarter and knew her limitations. The room was too warm, thick
with bodies and all their conflicting smells. She just wanted away from it.
That left Rose on the hook to be Florence Nightingale since she was Carrie’s
roommate, but pity didn’t delay Juliet.

Raphael waited politely for her by the elevator. He had accurately
anticipated her tolerance levels.

“So do you want to come up and look at my etchings?” he
asked.

“Not unless they are a damn sight better than the etchings
in my room. Did you notice that poor cat?”

“Yes. Truthfully, my etchings are no better, but I have a
flask of McCallum’s.”

“That beats an almost empty Amaretto bottle and a
broken-kneed feline.”

“Two minds with but a single thought….” The idea really was
amusing him and Juliet wondered why. Was the thought of being romantically involved
with her that ridiculous? Was it because of his partial paralysis? Or was it
something about her?

“Well, yeah, only I am betting there are more than two minds
that want to get away before the two-bit actress gets any drunker,” she said,
not wanting to venture into emotional territory.

They ran into Harrison and Darby as they got off the
elevator. The composer was clearly agitated and his hair looked like he had
been pulling on it. Juliet might abandon Rose, but she couldn’t ignore Darby’s
look of appeal.

Raphael stuck out a hand and held the elevator door open for
them.

“The brother’s here,” Harrison said without preamble.
“Joshua. He’s come up from Las Vegas and he’s wearing a hideous orange and
purple kilt. He says he needs to be at the concert as a sign of respect for his
brother and I have to find some way to fit him in the front row along with some
other clan people. And here it is, a Requiem Mass. Will he think me insensitive
if I don’t ask for a moment of silence? I mean, that would be strange, redundant,
since the whole Mass is a memorial concert for the dead.”