The Shadow of Venus (12 page)

Edward smiled. “Much as I'd like to do so I can take no credit for the rising of the moon.”

“You can take credit for the viewing chambers. I hope they endure for centuries to come.”

“Or as long as anyone is left on earth to see them,” Edward said.

Claire believed the universe would continue its dance whether there were humans and animals around to notice or not. But she hadn't come to Spiral Rocks to solve that particular conundrum.

“Is the light of Venus really bright enough to cast a shadow?” she asked.

“Yes, but not when there's a full moon. Come back at the dark of the moon at a time when Venus is the Evening Star. Venus has an eight-year cycle, and the chamber is set up for viewing it at the times of maximum brilliance.”

“I've heard that there are people who can see Venus in the daytime.”

“It's not that hard if you know where to look. Venus is easiest to see just before sunrise or sunset when the viewer is standing in a shadow that minimizes the effects of the sun. On the other hand the shadow of Venus may best be seen when the viewer stands in the light. That's why the inside of the chamber is painted white. Sand and snow are also good backgrounds.”

It was Claire's chance to bring up the subject of Maia and she went with it. “My name is Claire Reynier. I work at the library at UNM in Albuquerque,” she said. “A young woman who called herself Maia died in a basement storage room recently. Do you know anybody with that name?”

“In mythology,” he said, “but not in life.”

“She told me Venus could be seen in the daytime. An illustration of Spiral Rocks by the expedition artist Quentin Valor was found next to her body. It had been cut out of the library copy of
Ancient Sites.
”

Edward leaned against one of the rocks and crossed his arms. “Oh?” he asked.

“Maia was a homeless person who had no identification. The police haven't been able to establish who she was or where she came from. She was medium-sized, pale, with straight brown hair and high cheekbones. She was neatly dressed.”

“How old was she?”

“Around twenty, I'd say.”

“Was
she good-looking?”

“In a quiet way. She could have been striking if she'd made more of an effort. She acted like she didn't want to be noticed. An Albuquerque artist named Lisa Teague painted her portrait. She asked to be represented dancing in a New Mexico setting with six other girls. Considering that she called herself Maia, the painting could be seen as representing the seven daughters of Atlas and Pleione, who became the constellation Pleiades.”

Edward watched and waited to see where this was going. His face had a strong bone structure. The light of the descending moon created dark shadows under his chin and deep pockets around his eyes.

From her limited supply of facts about Maia, Claire pulled out two more. “She died of a heroin overdose. She seemed to be claustrophobic.”

Edward left the support of the rock and stood up straight, spacing his long legs apart for balance. “You could be describing a woman named Veronica Reid who lived here nearly twenty years ago,” he said. “She had fine cheekbones and was beautiful back then. She had an interest in the stars. She was afraid of lots of things—heights, depths, shadows at sunset, the light of the moon. Mostly I'd say she was afraid of her own potential. She wanted to be an artist, but fear got in her way. Fear of failure? Fear of success? Who knows? Veronica liked drugs, but she never took heroin when I knew her.”

“What happened to her?” Claire asked.

“She died in Taos a couple of years ago.”

“Oh, no. How?”

“Someone sent me a clipping from the Taos paper saying she'd fallen or jumped from the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge. According to the article she didn't leave a suicide note so no one knew if her death was accidental or deliberate. Maybe she conquered her fears or maybe she gave into them. Only suicides get to choose their own death. It's how Veronica would have wanted to die, anyway. Quick and dramatic, running away from her demons.”

“Who sent you the clipping?”

“I don't know. It had a Taos postmark but no return address.”

“How old was Veronica when she died?” Claire asked.

“Pushing forty.”

“Why did she leave Spiral Rocks?”

“The women who come here always leave,” Edward said with a resigned shrug. “It's too isolated and lonely. I don't pay enough attention to them, they say. I get irritable when they interrupt me, but that never stops them from interrupting me. My first loves, they tell me, are stars and rocks. Being creative is a selfish life, but if you're truly creative you have no choice but to seek the light. Van Gogh said, ‘I am not ashamed to say it exists, this white light—and that I seek it.' “

Claire
understood how women would be attracted to the artistic Edward and also how he would drive them away. He was as magnetic and as cold as the moon.

“Veronica went to Taos and moved in with an architect there named Damon Fitzgerald. I never heard from her again,” he said.

As the moon approached the horizon the shadows of the rocks lengthened until they extended over the edge of the mesa. There was a pause and a deep breath from Edward before he said, “I haven't talked about this for years and it's not an easy thing to do. Veronica and I had a daughter conceived at the last Maximum Moon, which would make her almost eighteen years old. Veronica insisted on naming her June, which I thought was a banal name. If June decided to rename herself Maia, who would blame her? When June was six months old Veronica left and that was the last time I ever saw either one of them.”

That Maia could be Edward Girard's daughter was stunning news. Identifying her and connecting her to a parent made Claire feel she had dropped a burdensome backpack, but her sense of relief was tempered by Edward's lack of connection to his daughter. “Didn't you try to find June after she left?” she asked.

“I knew they were in Taos, that they were living in the Cave Commune with the architect Damon Fitzgerald, but Veronica had started a new life and didn't want anything to do with me. She ended up hating it here. Art is a jealous wife, and when you're married to your work you don't get a divorce. If this Maia is our daughter, she resembles her mother in more than appearance—the fears, the attraction to drugs. Veronica's own mother committed suicide when she was young. When a mother kills herself it becomes a strong undertow in a child's life. In most families suicide would be unthinkable, but children of a suicide always know that option is there if they want to take it. They fear it at the same time they are drawn to it. I wasn't really surprised to learn that Veronica might have killed herself. Did Maia commit suicide, too?”

“No one knows. She didn't leave a note. Apparently she was once addicted to heroin but had kicked the habit. When she started up again, the heroin she took was very strong and rarely seen in Albuquerque. It could have been an accidental overdose.”

“She was homeless, you said.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe she felt she had nothing left to live for. Maybe she felt Veronica and her grandmother calling her from beyond the grave.”

“She had you,” Claire pointed out. “Didn't you want to look her up when you heard her mother had died?”

“What did she know about me?” Edward asked, tossing his head so his hair fell away from his shoulder. “In the clipping her name was June Reid. It's possible she didn't even know I was her father.”

“It
was also possible she was the one who sent you the clipping.”

“Then why didn't she say so?”

“She died Memorial Day weekend with the illustration of Spiral Rocks at her side. Suppose she was planning to come here for the opening?” Claire asked him.

“Well, that would have been an experience, wouldn't it? To have a daughter I didn't know step out of the crowd. Better that than you coming here to tell me she was dead.”

The moon had set behind the mountains in the west. It was early morning now, first light. Spiral Rocks was no longer under a lunar spell. A sliver of coral in the east signaled the rising sun. The birds began to sing their morning song.

“I have a copy of Lisa Teague's painting in my truck,” Claire said. “Would you like to see it?”

“Over a cup of coffee?” Edward asked.

“All right.”

“Meet me at the house.”

The sleeping bags had begun to stir as Claire crossed the campground. She opened her truck, picked up her folder and her book, and walked to the house.

She smelled coffee brewing as she stepped onto the porch. The house where Edward lived was ramshackle, sprawling, sparsely furnished. Claire knocked on the screen door. When no one answered, she let herself in. She found Edward in the kitchen making coffee. The light suspended over the table was fluorescent, which surprised her. She didn't use harsh fluorescent bulbs in her own house and expected an artist to be more sensitive to light.

“I often work all night,” he said, “and drink coffee all day. I've got a java jones. That and my work are my addictions. Do you have any?”

“I work too hard myself,” Claire admitted.

“Sometimes it's easier to work than it is to live,” Edward said.

“Sometimes.”

She sat down at the table and he poured her a cup of strong coffee. She opened
Ancient Sites
to show him the Quentin Valor illustration.

“I've seen it,” he said. “1 love Valor's work. He has a fine eye for line and detail.”

She handed him the photocopy of
Summertime
and it settled as lightly as a feather on his rough and callused hands.

“When you told me the subject of this painting I expected romantic crap, but this artist has talent.”

Edward's eyes were intense as they turned from the picture to Claire. “I've always wondered if my daughter was artistic.”

“Is
she your only child?”

“Yes,” Edward said.

“When Maia lived at the Hope Central Shelter she studied with Lisa Teague. Maybe Lisa could tell you more about her.”

Edward's eyes returned to the image. “Given the hollyhocks and the adobe walls, I'd say the setting of this painting is Taos.”

“Did your daughter have half siblings in Taos? Is that why she asked to be painted with six other girls?” Claire was hesitant to mention the story of Coyote and the possibility of abuse to a father, even a father as remote as Edward Girard.

“June was the only child mentioned in the article I received about Veronica's death. Damon Fitzgerald sees himself as a kind of hippie Frank Lloyd Wright surrounded by adoring groupies. Veronica hated solitude. I'm sure she liked living in a commune and having lots of people around. If you ask me, Fitzgerald's one contribution to architecture has been to reinvent the cave. Veronica and I visited the commune before she got involved with him. His houses are built into the mesa with a southern exposure but they're dark and damp. Energy efficient, maybe, but miserable to live in. Not much of an accomplishment to build a career on.” Edward's eyes were full of disdain.

“Your chambers remind me of caves carved out of a cliff and tipped upside down,” Claire said.

“Maybe Damon and I have more in common than Veronica, but my caves are observatories, not meant to be lived in.”

In dawn's sharp light Edward Girard had turned edgy. He fidgeted and seemed anxious to stop talking and get back to his work. Claire recognized that it was time to leave, but she had a few more questions.

“The painting was in the window of the Downtown Gallery in Albuquerque,” she said. “A woman in her forties or fifties went into the gallery claiming she had to have it. She paid all cash. Do you have any idea who that was? Could it be someone who recognized Maia?” Claire's fantasy that the woman had been Maia's mother had come to a depressing end.

“I don't know. Veronica was an only child so it wouldn't have been anyone related to her. It might have been someone from the commune.” He shrugged. “Maybe it was just someone who fell in love with the painting. That happens. There are women who fall in love with my work and mistake it for love of me. A couple of months around here disabuses anyone of that notion.”

“The Albuquerque police have a photo of Maia taken after she died. Would you be willing to look at it to help them identify her?”

“How could I identify her?” Edward asked. “I haven't seen her since she was six months old.”

“You could compare her appearance to Veronica's. “

“True.”

“Do you see any resemblance between Veronica and the girl in the painting?”

“Some,” he admitted. “Will I see anything of myself in the girl in the police photo?”

Much as she would have liked to see something of Edward in Maia, Claire did not. Edward was a man who attracted attention. Maia was a woman who tried not to. Both of their faces were defined by their bone structure, but Maia's bones were fine and delicate and Edward's were coarse. Claire didn't see any similarity in the hair or the eyes, either. The one thing they had in common was that Maia's remoteness in death resembled Edward's remoteness in life. “DNA analysis could establish for sure if you're her father,” was all Claire could say.

“I'll think about it,” he replied.

With no warning, a woman stepped into the kitchen, startling Claire. “Sorry,” the woman said to Edward, stopping in her tracks. “I didn't know you had company.”

She was the woman Claire had seen talking to Edward the previous evening. It was still very early in the morning, but she was perfectly groomed. Every strand of chestnut hair was in place. Her makeup was perfect. Her jeans didn't have a wrinkle in them.

“Time to go back to the difficult part of my work,” Edward said, rolling his eyes for Claire. “Jennifer Rule, meet Claire Reynier. Jennifer is my publicist. She has appointments for me to keep, right?”