Circles of Confusion (29 page)

The reality of what had been done to the house, of the violation of her sanctuary, engulfed Claire when she opened the door. Everything was in the same sorry mess it had been when she ran from it. Had that only been last night? Her fingers itched to make just one thing right, to get out a broom or set a chair back in place. Instead she made her way to the kitchen with its floor covered in spilled flour.

She knelt down and tried to read the scuff marks. She thought of ancient hunters in primeval forests who could read the story told by every bent twig. It wasn't as easy for her, especially since a half- dozen people must have walked through this space since she had been here last. But finally, Claire found what she had half remembered from the night before. Next to the refrigerator was a huge footprint, half again as big as any of the other tracks.

And Claire could only think of one man mixed up in this affair who had such huge feet. Karl Zehner. So Karl had been here then, here before Claire came back from New York. He had to have something to do with Charlie's disappearance. Had he stashed her someplace as a bargaining chip? Had he killed her when he realized she didn't know where the painting was? Claire thought about Charlie, tried to imagine her life snuffed out, and failed. Wouldn't she know if this woman who had been like a second mother to her was dead?

Before deciding it was safe to leave, Claire spent a long time peering out each window. No cars came down the street and the neighbors' houses were still and presumably empty. Still, she couldn't shake the idea that someone was observing her. She looked at her watch. In another ninety minutes, she was scheduled to meet Dante. She wanted to arrive at their meeting place ahead of time. She would watch, wait and make sure he was alone and she wasn't followed. And she would decide whether she should try to trust him. After a deep breath, she slipped out the side door.

A white van squealed into the driveway. Doors were flung open and a man and woman leaped out and began to run toward her. Claire had never seen either one of them before. No matter. She knew what they were after. Acquiring what might be a twenty- million-dollar painting was a sure way to make a lot of people decide they needed to separate you from it.

Something squarish, black and mechanical was balanced on the man's shoulder. My God! Claire thought wildly. A rocket launcher? The woman clutched a black wand, and now she pointed it directly at Claire.

Claire grabbed the stunner from her jacket pocket. The clerk's instructions from an hour before flashed through her brain.

"Roll tape, Brad!" barked the woman. Even without heels she would have been taller than Claire, but in her cream-colored pumps and matching suit she was terrifying and beautiful, an Amazon warrior queen. Claire didn't wait to figure out what she meant, just ran forward to meet her. Remembering the I-Spy clerk's instructions, she aimed for a spot just above the tan and freckled cleavage.

It was as if the woman had run full-tilt into an invisible wall. She fell backward so hard that gravel sprayed from the impact. One of her shoes flew past Claire. The woman's hands rose to clutch her chest, tears washing across her face. Her glossy hps opened and closed, emitting no sound.

Remembering her other would-be assailant, Claire went into a crouch and pivoted to wave the stun gun menacingly at Brad. But he had eyes only for the stunned woman lying on the ground. She had progressed to making a faint mewling sound. He threw his giant weapon down on the driveway, then knelt next to his fallen comrade, pressing his fingers to the tops of her heaving breasts as he searched for the wound.

"What did you do to her? What did you do?" He leaned forward, shouting. "Liz, can you hear me? Liz? We're going to get you to a doctor right away."

Liz's lips moved, and they both leaned forward to hear. Although the salesman at I-Spy had assured her that the stun gun would leave no lasting damage, Claire was beginning to worry.

The woman struggled to form the words. "Get the shot."

The shot! Claire grabbed Brad's weapon before he could. As her fingers fastened on the handle, she finally recognized it for what it was. Not some strange futuristic weapon, but a videocam.

Understanding opened in her like a ragged seam. Liz must have thrust a microphone toward her, not a weapon. Which meant that these two were—"You're TV reporters?" XQQSME

"Just let me get a peek at the little one." The old woman tried again to elbow her aside, but Claire clutched the handle of the baby stroller even tighter. Under the shelter of a multicolored canopy, the blanket-wrapped bundle didn't stir. Which wasn't surprising. The whole setup—stroller, blanket, and Baby Newborn—had been purchased twenty minutes before at Toys "R" Us.

Claire tried to mimic the no-nonsense tones of an experienced mother. "I'm sorry, but if Jessica wakes up, I won't be able to get her back down again."

"And when are you due to give her a brother or sister, dear?"

Too late, Claire tried to step back, but the liver-spotted hand landed on the high arc of her belly.

The old woman, who had already confided in Claire that she had had "seven of my own," clearly knew that something was amiss. Under the lip of her clear plastic rain bonnet (which was tied firmly over a wig in a particularly unconvincing shade of tan), her eyes widened. Her mouth opened and then closed again. Finally, she turned on her heel and walked away, muttering and shaking her head.

With a sigh, Claire sat down on the bench outside Meier & Frank.

It offered a clear view of the Lloyd Center Mall skating rink, one floor below. In the basket of the stroller lay her backpack and Susie's old clothes.

Her new belly, encased in a virginal-looking pink-and-white- flowered maternity top, protruded into her peripheral vision, startling Claire for a moment. It had taken a bit of fast talking to persuade the clerk at Motherhood to allow her to purchase not only a maternity outfit but also the pregnancy-shaped pillow that hung from a hook in the dressing room. It had probably rested on a hundred tummies before Claire's, while newly pregnant women imagined how they would look with a cute little strap-on belly— forgetting to factor in the swollen feet, varicose veins and stretch marks. Claire had told the spiky-haired clerk that she wanted to scare an old boyfriend, and the girl had allowed herself a small smile before agreeing.

BBNBRD

Her new disguise had been prompted by the fact that too many people knew what she looked like now, with dark hair and Susie's clothes. Her co-workers, Karl, KMDR-TV's Liz and Brad—and potentially all of Portland, if Liz and Brad broke their promise and aired Claire's reluctant interview tonight instead of three days from now.

First they had tried to lure her by promising to tell her side of the story. When that didn't work, they had threatened to broadcast footage of her lunging at Liz with the stun gun. For emphasis, Liz had rubbed at the faint red mark on her chest, plaintively asking Brad if it would show on camera. At Claire's insistence the negotiations had taken place inside the van, which Brad had driven several miles from Claire's house.

They had finally made a pact: KMDR would hold off for at least three days before airing any footage of her. In return, Claire would agree not to talk to any other reporters—and to allow them to film the painting a new anonymity might allow her to retrieve. Liz's azure eyes—a little too riveting to be real—had gotten even wider as she contemplated the idea that this "exclusive" might catapult her into a larger media market. Their two-person "news crew" broadcast local news twice a day on a station that devoted the rest of its airtime to the Home Shopping Network. She was meant for better things than KMDR, Liz had confided to Claire, while Brad watched her with what seemed to be lust-tinged amusement. Things like her own talk show or anchoring a program like Hard Copy or Inside Edition.

Despite their promise, Claire thought the chances were about fifty-fifty that Liz would give in to temptation and decide that half a scoop was bigger than none. But even if she didn't show up on KMDR's newscast tonight, Claire's new look was already overexposed.

Then she had remembered Lori's complaints five years before, when she had given birth to her son Max. "It defies the laws of physics," Lori had said. "I can push the stroller right through a crowd—and no one looks at me. It's as if I've become invisible. Guys in suits, teenagers, working women—it's like I don't exist for them at all." The funny thing was, now that Claire had a stroller—adding an additional pregnancy had been her own inspiration—she noticed how many women like her crowded the mall. There were dozens of other women piloting their own strollers, often with an extra kid reluctantly being pulled along by the hand. She had never taken notice of all these mommies before, but they must have surely been here.

For the fourth time, Claire ran her eyes over the people who encircled the ice skating rink. There! Was that Dante's dark head?

Something loosened inside her as she realized it was him. Among predominantly milk-pale Portlanders, Dante's olive skin and long dark curls looked even more exotic than they had in New York. As she watched, he craned his neck to scan the faces of the people sitting on the benches on the upper level. Without pausing, his gaze swept past her face.

Claire gripped the handle of the stroller harder. She had to decide now—did she trust him or not? Had he been the one who had followed her through the museum and then broken into her hotel room in New York? Could he somehow be involved in the terrible things that had happened here? Had he really come to Portland to help her? Or was he just looking for another chance to get his hands on a priceless and beautiful object?

Without making a conscious decision, Claire found herself on her feet. Before she could even raise her hand, Dante swiveled his head to look at her. His face suddenly creased into a smile. He gave her a little nod before taking the escalator stairs two at time.

"And how's the little mother?" he asked, bending down to kiss her cheek. His cool lips left behind a humming patch of skin.

"It's a long story." She suddenly realized how hungry she was. Her last full meal had been J. B.'s omelet, some twelve hours before. "Can I tell it to you over a plate of pasta?"

"Certainly. Will there be two or three of us at dinner?"

It took Claire a second before she realized he was referring to the stroller's occupant. "Baby Newborn doesn't really require food. But I know a neighborhood place where they'll let us park the stroller next to the table."

"I kind of like you as a brunette," Dante said as they left the shopping center. He had taken over pushing the stroller and his black satchel was now stashed in the stroller basket on top of Claire's things. "And I think the pregnancy gives you a certain glow." His smile, made raffish by his gold earring and mended tooth, was replaced with a swift, serious sideways glance. "But can I ask about the painting? Is it safe? Do you have it with you?" He cast a glance at the jumble of packages that filled the stroller's basket.

"It's not here. And I think it's safe. At least for now." She felt a prick of doubt. She wished Dante had asked about how she was doing—although it was clear that she was okay—or at least about Charlie.

At 4:00 p.m. on a Monday afternoon, the sponge-painted ocher walls of Raphael's held only empty tables, two waiters and a busboy. While they perused the menus, their waiter brought a bowl of olive oil and a hand-formed loaf of bread. Dante watched with an amused smile as Claire dipped slice after slice in the fragrant oil, alternating bites with bits of her story.

When their food came—Claire had ordered smoked salmon chowder and Dante pasta with sausage and red peppers—she eyed his plate hungrily before picking up her soup spoon. As soon as she lifted it to her mouth, she realized she had made an inspired choice. Each mouthful offered a new flavor: smoky caramelized onions, feathers of fresh dill, tiny new red potatoes, smoky slices of salmon, kernels of fresh sweet corn that popped between her teeth. When Claire finished, it was hard not to pick up the bowl to drink the last drops. Using the last piece of bread, she compromised by wiping the bowl clean.

Dante pushed the remains of his pasta toward her. "Still hungry?"

"Well, if you don't mind . . ." Claire realized she had been making little sounds of delight when she ate. She flushed as she remembered Troy's insinuation that a woman's reaction to food foretold what she would be like in bed.

Luckily, Dante couldn't read her thoughts. "So you think this Avery guy's chauffeur broke into your hotel?"

"I'm not absolutely sure, but yes, I think so. What I don't know is whether Troy knew. And if so, did he put the guy up to it? I mean, why would he want to steal it if he thought it was a fake?"

"Two possibilities. One is that he told you it was a fake so he could buy it from you cheap and then auction it off as his own fantastic find. The other is that it really is a fake, but that he was hoping to pawn it off on someone gullible he knew from Avery's. There's a lot of people who would be willing to pay a fortune to own a secret Vermeer, even if they could never show it to another soul."

"You're forgetting a third possibility. What if the chauffeur got the idea himself? After all, he heard us talking about the painting and he knew exactly where I was staying."

"But where does this Karl guy come into the whole thing? Do you think he kidnapped Charlie?"

"I know he was in our house. No one else has feet that big." Their waiter was busy telling a joke to the busboy, so she risked taking a sip of wine from Dante's glass. She wasn't up to listening to any lectures about endangering the health of her imaginary unborn baby.