The Confidence Woman (11 page)

“It might have been you,” the woman said, studying Claire. “It was at this time of day. The sun was setting. The women both had highlighted hair. Their age was around fifty. One of the women was heavier than you.”

“How much heavier?”

“One was a fourteen, the other was a twelve, is what I told Amaral.”

“What about height?”

“They were about the same height.”

“Were they standing on the steps?”

“They might have been.”

“Were they arguing?”

“I'm not sure I should be telling you this if Amaral considers you a suspect.” She began jogging in place again.

“If I am a suspect, it will come out sooner or later.”

“One woman seemed very angry. I heard her call the other one a bitch.”

“Had you ever seen Evelyn Martin before then?”

“No—she was reclusive. She never came out of the house. I wish they'd get this place rented and someone would move in. It gives me the creeps.”

“Do you live nearby?”

“Just down the road.” She looked at her watch. “Is that all?”

“Yes. Thanks for your help.”

“Don't mention it.”

Claire watched her run away and disappear into the growing darkness like Alice's white rabbit. She looked back at the house and saw the shadows of the juniper reaching for it like arms full of evil intent. The shadows could work on her behalf. She wasn't a lawyer, but she thought a good one could make use of the shadows. The runner was right—this was a spooky place. She got in her car and drove back to Albuquerque.

Chapter
Ten

W
HEN
C
LAIRE OPENED THE DOOR TO HER HOUSE
that night, she had the same sensation she'd had since learning about Evelyn's death—that her home was not the haven it had once appeared to be. As if he sensed her unease, Nemesis allowed her to pick him up and hug him before darting out the door. She walked through the house, looking for signs of disturbance, wondering if Evelyn Martin had taken anything else while she was here, something that might not have been missed yet. Claire examined the living room, the bedrooms, the bathrooms and the kitchen but found nothing amiss. The mug with coffee residue at the bottom was still in her kitchen sink, an unread newspaper lay on the sofa in the living room, the books in the bedroom were in place on the shelves. She played back the phone messages, found one from Lynn Granger and called her back.

“Did Amaral check your alibi?” Lynn asked.

“Yes.”

“I figured if he called me then he contacted all of us. Steve and I were home on April twenty-first. Amaral got in touch with Miranda and asked her for an alibi, too. She was in Mexico on location for her new show.”

“You've heard from Miranda?”

“She contacted me after she heard from Amaral.” Lynn paused then asked in a hesitant voice, “How did Amaral know about the connection between Miranda and Evelyn, Claire? Did you tell him?”

“Yes,” Claire admitted. “I felt that I had to. I thought she should tell him herself, and I left a message for her with Erwin. But she never called me back. Amaral believes I fit the description of the woman the runner saw arguing with Evelyn.”

“Did you tell him about Miranda because you don't have an alibi yourself?”

Although Lynn was speaking, Claire heard Steve's skeptical voice. Lynn was her oldest friend, and Claire had always known her to be a trusting person. She had to overcome some skepticism herself before she told Lynn the truth about her lack of an alibi, but she did it for the sake of honesty and friendship. “Yes,” she said. “I was home with my cat as my witness.”

“What about Ginny and Elizabeth? Do you know if they have alibis?”

“I had lunch with Ginny today. She told me Elizabeth was in Santa Fe on the night in question and they had dinner together. It sounded like a manufactured alibi to me. After lunch I told her I thought she'd had too much to drink and that she shouldn't drive home. We had an argument, and she almost ran
me
over with her car.”

“Deliberately?”

“I'm not sure whether or not it was deliberate. Maybe she was drunk. Maybe she was pretending to be drunk. It's hard to tell with Ginny.” Claire was aware of the Freudian theory that the results of a person's actions could be interpreted as the intent of that person's actions. When the person wasn't willing to admit her motives consciously, the subconscious took over. She supposed that principle could be applied to drinkers. Alcohol made it possible for unacknowledged anger to seize the moment.

“That makes you the only suspect who doesn't have an alibi?” Lynn asked.

“Apparently.”

“Amaral can't be serious about suspecting you, Claire, even if you don't have an alibi.”

“I hope you're right. I went to Evelyn's house this evening. Amaral's witness ran by and I talked to her. Her description was vague enough to fit any of us. The woman she saw had blond or gray hair and was middle-aged. I suppose Miranda is blonde by now, too.”

“The last time I saw her she had red hair. I have it on video. Would you like me to send you a copy?”

“Please.”

“The Lemon Pledge commercial and some other clips are on the tape. Have you checked your email today?”

“Not yet.”

“Miranda said she was going to send you one.” When Claire got off the phone she got on her computer and found the e-mail from Miranda. “Hi, Claire,” it began.

Erwin said you wanted to get in touch with me. It has been a long time, hasn't it? I hope you're doing well. As for me, the new series that I am working on is very promising. I play a mother, wouldn't you know? We're on location in Mexico and I am muy busy. I hardly have a moment to myself. Erwin said you wanted to talk about Evelyn. I did wonder if she had set me up in college, but I didn't believe she was capable of it until recent events. I don't hold a grudge. Time wounds all heels. I have Erwin and my career. My life has turned out well and hers did not. Living well is the best revenge. Hope to see you again one of these days.

Miranda Kohl

Claire supposed that any day now technology would advance to the point where people could
affix
their signatures to their e-mail, but it hadn't happened yet. Signatures played an important role in Claire's profession. She studied them and felt they could reveal something about the state of mind of the inscriber. She had to rely on the tone of the e-mail to judge Miranda's state of mind. It was so offhand and breezy it might have been dashed off by a college student. Miranda seemed far less troubled about Evelyn Martin than Claire was, but she had been on location on the night in question. She was not a suspect.

Claire began to ache from the tension of the day and from tumbling beneath her truck. She filled her bathtub with hot water, scented it with lavender oil and climbed in. The smell of the lavender and the heat of the water helped to put the day in perspective. The bad news was that Ginny had almost run her over and she had the scrapes and bruises to prove it. From the point of view of the investigation, however, there had been some good news. Elizabeth and Ginny's alibis could well be bogus. The runner had not recognized her, making Amaral's case more circumstantial. That she could be a suspect seemed so absurd—she hoped Amaral would drop his investigation and she would never have to mention the fact that she'd talked to the runner or that she doubted Ginny and Elizabeth's alibis. She revised her gettingdivorced mantra and repeated it to herself. “You know who you are, you know what you haven't done.”

In the morning she answered Miranda's e-mail. “Nice to hear from you,” she wrote. “I'm glad to know you are doing well. I hope our paths cross again someday. I'll look forward to the new series. Your old friend, Claire.”

Even though it was a short message, she rewrote it several times before sending it into cyberspace. No matter how often she rewrote it, the college-girl tone remained. It seemed to come naturally for former acquaintances to lapse into the lingo of the time they knew each other. Every group had its own way of talking. These days as people moved in and out of marriages, homes and jobs, language changed to fit their new circumstances. The only person she knew whose language was unlikely to have changed was Harrison. She imagined that the first words he ever spoke were pompous. She thought about his phrase, “the existential enigma of the self.” It was one of those phrases that could mean everything or nothing. One possible meaning was that it was the condition of humans to change, redefine themselves and wonder exactly who they were. Her old friends might not be wondering about their own identities, but she was. Even if they weren't lying outright they could be using language to conceal their actions and intent. Miranda's offhand breeziness, Lynn's thoughtful hesitancy, Ginny's drunken bravado, Elizabeth's dramatic anger could all be performances.

It occurred to Claire that Ginny's word didn't have to be the last word about the dinner with Elizabeth. She found the Forest Watch URL and typed it into her computer. The Web site came up. The board members were shown, including Elizabeth Best. Claire couldn't disagree with Ginny's assessment that they all looked like they had benefited from trust funds. For someone whose wineglass was always half full, Ginny was capable of acute observations. The man who ran the organization was named Brian
Duval.
There was a photograph of him and the rest of the staff, all of whom seemed to be young, good-looking and athletic. Forest Watch had a workshop coming up in Albuquerque on the spotted owl, and Elizabeth Best would be leading that workshop.

Claire looked up her number and called. “Has Detective Amaral been in touch with you about the night of April twenty-first?” she asked.

“Yes. I told him I was in Santa Fe that night having dinner at Santa Café with Ginny. I have the credit card receipt to prove it.”

“I had lunch with Ginny yesterday.”

“Was she sober?”

“She didn't appear to be. She told me you're involved in the Forest Watch endangered-species program.”

“Didn't I tell you that myself?”

“Not that I recall.”

“When I talk to Ginny about Forest Watch, she makes rednecked remarks like the only good wolf is a dead one.”

“She enjoys ticking you off.”

“So I've noticed.”

“I read that you're leading a workshop in Albuquerque on the spotted owl.”

“I am. Next week.”

“Is it open to the public?”

“Yes.”

“I'd like to come if that's all right with you.”

“Why wouldn't it be?” Elizabeth asked.

“Could we meet for dinner afterward?”

“I don't know if I'll have time for dinner, but you're welcome to come to the workshop. Let's have a drink anyway.”

“Do you need a place to stay when you're in town?”

“No. I'll be staying at the Hyatt where the workshop is taking place.”

******

When Lynn's video of Miranda Kohl arrived, Claire made a bowl of popcorn and played it on her VCR. One of the pleasures of being single was that she could eat popcorn and watch videos whenever she wanted to. This one began with the Lemon Pledge commercial. An old woman in a faded dress slowly polished her furniture. She wore her white hair in a topknot and had the shuffling movements that came
with
osteoporosis and advanced age.

“Let me help you with that, Grandma,” said a sweet little girl in a party dress.

“I've always used Lemon Pledge,” the grandma said.

“That's why your furniture is so beautiful,” the little girl said, smiling at her reflection in a highly polished table. “I can see my face in it.”

The commercial was as saccharine as overly sweetened tea. Claire played it several times, hitting the pause button whenever Miranda faced the camera. In the old woman's face she still saw something of the wide-eyed ingenue she had known.

She watched the rest of the video. Most of the segments were bit parts in TV series. In one Miranda played a mother. In another she played a hard-edged businesswoman in a power suit. Claire supposed those were the two roles that were available for actresses in their fifties. As the mother, Miranda's hair was russet-colored and curly. The businesswoman's was slick and black. Claire thought she was more successful as the mother than the businesswoman. Miranda's ingenuous quality didn't serve her well when she played hard-edged. Elizabeth had called her a space case and the Miranda Claire remembered had been a rather vague and dreamy person. When Elizabeth had confronted her, she hadn't fought back. She dropped out of school rather than stand up for her innocence, yet she'd had the spunk to go after parts. Perhaps because she could play a role and didn't have to be herself. It was easy enough to assume an actress wasn't what she pretended to be, but most likely the sentiments expressed in her e-mail were honest. Her life
had
turned out better than Evelyn's. Lynn continued to be proud of their friendship and to follow her career with interest. She thought Miranda lived a more exciting and expressive life than she did, but if Miranda's life was so satisfying, how to explain Erwin Bush? To be fair, Claire had remained married to Evan for twenty-eight years, and she'd always have trouble explaining that.

She remembered that somewhere in her house she had a photo album full of sorority pictures. She searched through bureau drawers and closets until she found it buried on the floor of the guest-room closet beneath a box of family photos. It was a U of A photo album with a photomontage of the campus on the cover. Claire opened the album and came across photographs of Evan when they first started dating in her junior year after she got back from a semester in Europe. A window that opened on her life in Europe closed once she met him. He looked serious and preppy then and he looked serious and preppy now, although with more stomach and less hair. But Claire liked to think that she had changed.