The Shadow of Venus (18 page)

“I suppose you could say that John Gaw Meem reinvented the pueblo with all these vigas and corbels,” he said. “I know other architects criticize him for not being more creative, but this building works as a library. In a way it's a cathedral of learning. Students like to study here, don't they?”

“Yes,” Claire said. “And it's a pleasure to work here, too.”

Edward wore hiking boots, faded jeans, and an equally faded shirt, the same way he had dressed at Spiral Rocks, but he seemed different here. At Spiral Rocks he was master of all he surveyed and at ease. Here he had the edgy alert quality of a wild animal in an alien environment, seeing all, hearing all, smelling all. Unlike the students who walked around with their ears glued to their cell phones, oblivious of their surroundings, Edward was acutely aware of where he was. He held his head high. His eyes circled the Great Hall. He had the ripe odor of a hiker who has spent days out on the trail.

Claire showed him the Willard Reading Room with its interior windows that faced the hall and exterior windows that faced the cactus garden. Today it was full of light and space and nearly devoid of people. She told Edward about her encounter with June and how packed the room had been that day.

“I'm not comfortable in rooms full of people myself,” he said. “The Navajo always leave a line to the edge of their weavings as a way out. An open door could have the same effect. I wonder if June came to Zimmerman to die because she admired the building. This would be a good place to die.”

“She died in a storage room in the basement. It didn't have high ceilings and vigas and light,” Claire said. She couldn't tell a father it did have dirt and roaches. “Would you like to see it?”

“No.” Edward's answer was short and definite. “I'd prefer to go outside. Could we talk there?”

“All
right,” Claire said.

They went outside and sat down on a bench beside the duck pond, where the reflection of the library's tower rippled across the water. Sitting next to Edward on the bench brought his wild animal smell closer. Claire knew what smells revealed among animals—fear, submission, aggression. She didn't smell fear or aggression on Edward. She smelled an unease that she couldn't identify.

“Most of the library works, but I don't like that tower. It's supposed to be reaching for the sky, but it's squat and dumpy.” Edward threw a rock in the pond, causing the tower's reflection to ripple and lengthen. “There. That's better,” he said.

“I spoke to June here,” Claire told him. “It was evening and she pointed out the Venus-Jupiter conjunction. This is where she told me: ‘Venus is brighter than most people know, so bright it casts a shadow. It's visible in the daytime to those who have eyes to see.' ”

“That sounds like something a daughter of mine would say,” Edward replied. “It's interesting, isn't it, how she took after both me and her mother? It makes sense with her mother, since Veronica raised her, but with me it has to be genetic. What other explanation is there for her interest in art and in Venus?”

“That she knew all about you and followed your career.” It seemed obvious to Claire. “Anyone who visits a library has access to the Internet. There's lots of information about your work on-line—Spiral Rocks, the Maximum Moon, the Venus Chamber, can all be found on the Internet.”

“Can they?” Edward was indifferent. “I never look. I leave all that to Jennifer.”

“If June tried to contact you, if she had wanted to come to the celebration, would she have gotten Jennifer?”

“Most likely. If I answered the phone, I'd never get anything done.”

“Would Jennifer have connected her to you or brushed her off?”

“That would depend on what June said. You'd have to ask Jennifer. She's talking to the galleries in Santa Fe today, trying to promote my smaller installations. I gave a sample of my saliva to the police this morning so they'll know for sure whether June is my daughter. Once they establish that, they can release the body. If she is my daughter, I want to take her back to Spiral Rocks and bury her there. Maybe near the Venus Chamber.”

“Where was Veronica buried? Do you know?”

“Somewhere in Taos, I suppose.” He slouched on the bench and stretched his long legs out in front of him.

“She died near Buffalo Point, not at the Taos Gorge Bridge. I found the article about her that appeared in the paper.”

“What did I say? The bridge? Maybe that's how I visualized it in my mind. Does it really matter
whether
it was the bridge or the point? She died in the Rio Grande Gorge.”

“It could make a difference. In some ways her death resembles June's. They might be suicides. Then again they might not,” Claire said, trying to pass her suspicions on to Edward.

He refused to accept them. “Of course they were suicides,” he said, sitting up straight on the bench and tossing his hair back over his shoulder. “When I was at the police station this morning, no one suggested anything other than a woman in trouble alone with her drugs.”

Claire moved on. “I talked to Sophie Roybal, another young woman who was abused by Damon Fitzgerald. She lives in Durango, yet she knew about June's death. She knew I'd been to Taos. There's a strong network among the people who lived in the Cave Commune.”

“It's not a network, it's a web, and Damon Fitzgerald is the spider. I have no connection to those people.” Edward threw another rock in the pond. It landed near a startled duck that responded by quacking and flapping its wings. “I don't want anything to do with that untalented predator, but I'd like to meet the artist who painted June while I am in town. Can you arrange it?”

“I'll call her. How long are you staying?”

“Through tomorrow. I'll give you my cell phone number. There's a sculpture around here somewhere called
The Center of the Universe.
Have you got the time to show it to me?”

Claire made the time and they walked along the side of Smith Plaza that was landscaped with rosemary bushes. Edward snapped off a twig and sniffed it as they walked by. The strength of his own wild animal odor came and went depending on proximity. In
The Center of the Universe
two large metal shapes connected in a cross tall enough to walk through. Most people did it as quickly as possible. It resembled a sterile metal tunnel, a dead zone devoid of any sense of feeling or life. The only escape was an opening in the top revealing a patch of blue sky. Claire couldn't imagine a sculpture more different from the sinuous, evocative chambers Edward had created at Spiral Rocks. There she felt stimulated and sheltered at the same time. Here she felt oppressed.

Edward stopped in the middle of
The Center of the Universe,
looked up, and stared with longing at the sky as if he already missed being on the mesa with his stars and his rocks. As a student walked through the sculpture, her cell phone rang.

“Hey, what's up?” she said without breaking stride.

Edward laughed. “Whatever happened to ‘be here now'? I hope the artist was being ironic when he named this piece.”

“I'd like to think so,” Claire said.

“I'll let you know when the DNA results come back. I'm going to Los Angeles to finish an installation at MOCA, the Museum of Contemporary Art, next month. Maybe I can recover June's body on my way back. I'd like to do it all in one trip if possible. I've gotten so I hate to be away from Spiral
Rocks.
It's the center of my universe.”

“It's a good one,” Claire said.

She left Edward on the far side of the sculpture, walked back to her office, and called Lisa Teague to tell her about Edward's interest.

“Edward Girard is Maia's father?” Lisa asked. “Oh, my God. How did such a wonderful artist's daughter end up homeless on the street?”

“He hasn't seen her since she was an infant.”

“You'd think someone as talented as Edward Girard would stay in touch with his own daughter. Wouldn't he want to see what kind of talent she had? I love his work.”

“Have you been to Spiral Rocks?” Claire asked.

“I wish. I saw one of his smaller installations in Denver.”

“Spiral Rocks is a magnificent place. I went there for the Maximum Moon celebration, and I showed Edward a copy of
Summertime.
He admired it very much and said he would like to meet you.”

“Just say where and when.”

“I'll give him your number. You should be hearing from him or the publicist who arranges everything for him. Her name is Jennifer Rule. I'm still trying to track down the woman who bought the original of
Summertime.
You haven't heard any more about her, have you?”

“No,” Lisa said. “To tell you the truth I'd rather not know who buys my paintings. Before I take them to the shelter or the gallery I hold a little ceremony and say good-bye. It's like sending a child off to school. They don't belong to me anymore. They belong to ... whoever. You should have one yourself.”

“I should,” Claire agreed.

“When I paint one that's just right for you, I'll let you know.”

“Thanks,” Claire said.

Chapter
Twenty-two

A
NOTECARD CAME IN THE MAIL FROM
L
ISA
T
EAGUE
with a replica of a painting that was unmistakably hers on the front. A woman in pink balanced very carefully on a tightrope. She was in the precarious situation of a homeless person, but her face was fresh and clean and full of hope. Claire liked it—she liked all of Lisa's paintings she'd seen—but this wasn't the one she wanted to own.

“Hi,” the note read. “This is a computer-generated image of a painting that's still available, if you're interested. It was great to meet Edward Girard. Things might have ended up very differently if Maia had only known her father. He had nice things to say about my work and bought three paintings. Jennifer, his publicist, wants to show them to gallery owners she knows in Santa Fe. Thanks so much for telling Edward about me. Lisa.”

Claire called to thank her for the note.

“Did you like that painting?” Lisa asked. “The model is doing well at the moment. She's out of the shelter, studying at TV1. A rare success story.”

“I like it,” Claire said. “But I don't think it's the one I'm looking for. I'll know it when I see it.”

“I'm sure you will. Edward Girard was great, very encouraging. I hope he's not being so kind because he feels guilty about his own daughter.”

“You do exceptional work,” Claire said. “Edward recognizes that.”

“He says I should forget about social work, forget about school, forget about having anything to fall back on, and just paint.” She laughed. “That also means forget about paying the rent, forget about getting along with my mother.”

“That's what it takes to be an artist.”

“It's what Edward did. He's a genius. His work will last, but his daughter posed for one of my paintings. She died alone of a drug overdose. To put art first isn't an easy decision.”

Claire believed that it wasn't a matter of making a decision, that for artists like Edward there was no choice. If Lisa saw a fork in the road, she might never fulfill her potential as an artist. On the other hand she would be a dutiful daughter. She might become a mother.

“Did you meet Jennifer?” Claire asked her.

“Yes.”

“What did you think of her?”

“She came to my studio, but she wasn't thrilled by Central. She acted like she was protecting the
famous
artist from the riffraff, but I guess Edward needs that. I paint riffraff myself so I have to be in touch with them. Jennifer liked my work and she has a lot of connections.”

What kind of a connection does she have with Edward? Claire wanted to ask. Is she sleeping with him? How far would she go to protect him? She left those questions locked in the closet and said goodbye to Lisa.

******

Claire was walking down the library steps on her way to the Humanities Building when a woman approached her. She was about Claire's height but broader and more muscular. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, making her look almost young enough to be an undergraduate. She had an undergraduate's way of speaking in italics and ending sentences with a question mark that should have ended in a period.

“Claire Reynier?” the woman asked.

“Yes?” Claire answered, trying unsuccessfully to place her.

“My name is Bettina Hartley. You met my husband, Bill? In Taos?”

“That's right. I met him on the path near the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge,” Claire said. “How did you know who I was?”

“Bill described you and told me where you worked. He's a good observer.”

Claire thought that everyone in Taos knew far too much about everyone else. One reason she didn't want to live in a small town was that she valued her privacy. It unnerved her to think that all she had done was visit Taos and now people she'd never met could identify her.

“Bill said you left a message on our answering machine?”

“Yes. I was hoping to talk to him while he was in Albuquerque.”

“He's with the police department now and he asked me to come over and visit with you. Bill didn't scare you at the gorge, I hope,” Bettina said.

“It was unnerving to meet a man there, but I wouldn't say that he scared me.”

“Bill can be kind of intense at times, but he's a good man, very devoted to me and our daughter, Rose.”

“You look so young to have a twenty-year-old daughter,” Claire said.

Bettina smiled at the compliment. “Bill said you knew June?”

“I met her in the library a couple of times. I wouldn't say that I knew her.”

“June was a sweet child, and smart, too. It's just a shame what happened to her. To be abused by Damon Fitzgerald, then to lose her mother, and finally to die of an overdose at such a young age.” She shivered although the temperature was at least ninety degrees.