Triple Exposure (3 page)

“I don’t get it,” said Rachel. “What would she want with me?” Since the trial, the only people who had sought her out had been vultures interested in getting the inside dirt on…
Oh, hell. Don’t let this be about the trial.

The Range Rover slowed as it approached them. Inside, Rachel made out two forms, but could only discern the features of the passenger, a narrow-faced woman with a raven’s wing of jet hair cut in an aggressively angled bob.

The SUV came to a stop, raising puffs of dust from its four tires. Inside the vehicle, a scrawny scrap of an animal—Rachel was undecided between dog and rat—bounced wildly. A moment later, the tall, slender passenger edged out, scolding, “No, Coco. Bad Coco,” before shoving the fawn-colored creature back inside and closing the door.

She drew in a deep breath as if to regroup before turning, perfectly balanced on the three-inch heels of her black boots. Otherwise, her elegant form was swathed in charcoal gray, a beautifully tailored riding jacket over a matching wool sweater and a long skirt. Her face had an ageless, airbrushed quality, marred only by her frown at the yapping and window-scrabbling going on behind her.

She extended a slender hand that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a cocktail glove, or holding a cigarette at the end of a slim, jeweled holder. “You must be Rachel Copeland. I’m Antoinette Gallinardi. It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”

The crème brûlée smoothness of her voice had Rachel mentally rechristening her “Art Deco Woman.” The kind of woman mortal females tended to despise on sight. Rachel, however, reserved judgment.

“As always, it’s nice to see you, ma’am, but my daughter just got in,” her father explained. “She’s tired, hungry.”

Gallinardi withdrew her hand from Rachel’s. “Please forgive me. I was so eager to meet you that the moment my assistant told me you’d been seen driving through town, I asked her to bring me straight over.”

Disturbed that the woman’s assistant would recognize her—how closely had people here followed the media coverage from Philadelphia?—Rachel glanced at the figure still seated in the vehicle. She was unpleasantly surprised to recognize Terri Parton, who had been just a year ahead of her in school. Which wasn’t nearly far enough for Rachel’s taste. Though Terri had put on weight with the years, she’d kept her trademark blonde locks, which were even longer and more silvery than they’d been when she had run the cheerleading squad like her own petty fiefdom. She shot Rachel a look that said time hadn’t softened her opinion of the geek-girl she and her friends had considered far beneath their notice. Or maybe she was remembering the day Rachel had buzzed the picnic, an act that drew attention to the private party Terri had been conducting in the backseat of her Chevy with the soon-to-be-
ex
band director.

Surely, Terri would have moved past the fallout from that old scandal by this time….

“I believe the two of you went to school together,” Gallinardi said. “Terri Parton-Zavala?”

“Sure, I remember her.” Rachel guessed that Terri must have married Cristo Zavala, a trombone player—a self-styled
ladies’ man who had liked to run around asking girls if they’d enjoy the honor of blowing his horn. If those two had hooked up, they deserved each other.

“But I don’t understand,” Rachel added. “Why would you rush over here to meet me?”

Dumb question,
she thought bitterly. For months, she had been fending off not only anonymous callers and obnoxious reporters, but acquaintances eager to pick the story’s bones. Had she really gone to her apartment with Kyle Underwood a few, short weeks before his murder, as witnesses had testified despite Rachel’s denial? Had there been more to those pictures of the two of them than the salacious details that came out during the trial?

Whether Terri had put Gallinardi up to it or she’d come of her own accord, Rachel couldn’t allow that garbage to get a foothold here in Marfa—even if it meant cutting off Art Deco Woman at the knees.

Gallinardi looked at Walter, her sleek black brows arching in surprise. “You haven’t told her?”

He grimaced. “I haven’t had the chance yet.”

Splashes of pink suffused fashionably gaunt cheeks. “I see I’ve made a mess of things, Ms. Copeland. But please, let me assure you, it’s your talent that’s made me overeager. The work you did for
Nouveau West
—the images of the Marfa of your childhood were breathtaking.”

Terri Parton slipped out of the vehicle but took care not to let the frantic dog escape. “Rachel,” she said with an unenthusiastic nod.

Rachel returned it and lied, “Nice to see you, Terri,” though her head was spinning with Art Deco Woman’s words.
Talent. Over eager. Breathtaking.

“You saw my…photos?” Rachel had given up on anyone from the art world noticing her work by the time the magazine had bought the rights to print her Marfa series. For years, she’d had an online gallery featuring images she had taken before leaving and on her infrequent visits home, along with a great deal more work she’d done along the
East Coast. For years, her sales were barely enough to cover the cost of maintaining the online storefront and camera supplies. To survive, she’d turned to bridal portraiture—never her favorite—and teaching classes at a community college just outside of Philadelphia. Which had put her squarely in the path of a student named Kyle Underwood.

The crack of her old handgun reverberated through her mind, and her throat closed at the memory of hot spray against her chill skin. Along with her stark-naked stalker, her burgeoning career had died that night, too. Or so Rachel had thought.

Art Deco Woman nodded. “Oh, yes. Everyone in the foundation agrees you have a very fine eye.”

When Terri—who’d grown even heavier than Rachel had first realized—reddened and pursed her lips, Rachel was fairly sure she’d gone from hell to heaven.

“Those photos form an extraordinary chronicle of how art has changed, perhaps even
saved,
this community,” Gallinardi went on.

Rachel resisted the urge to argue about her choice of words. For one thing, Gallinardi was at least partly correct that the attention of the art world had saved Marfa. But even more importantly, Rachel was soaking up every drop of praise like a parched desert drinking in the rain. Pathetic, yes, but after the year she’d had, it was all she could do not to wag and whimper at the woman’s feet. If Terri weren’t there bearing witness, Rachel probably would have slobbered just a little. Instead, she managed, “Thank you,” trying to sound modest but not unused to such praise.

Stick
that
up your megaphone, Terri “Let’s Make GeekGirl’s Life a Living Hell” Parton.

Terri, for her part, affected boredom by averting her eyes and sliding her tongue against the inside of her cheek, a habit Rachel remembered from their years in grade school.

“We were hoping,” Art Deco Woman went on, raising her voice to be heard over her dog’s noise, “that you might allow
us to license some of your earlier images for our campaign and that you’d consider photographing some of Marfa’s local artists at their work.”

Terri’s sly smile forced Rachel to slow down and consider.

“What sort of campaign is it?” she asked.

“We’ll be sending press releases, with copies of your images, to various news outlets, along with art and travel magazines. We’ll use them to promote a showing of works produced by other local artists and offered up for sale. And we’d very much like for you to be the featured artist at the exhibition.”

Rachel barely caught her jaw before it swung open like a loose hinge. This was…this was beyond imagining. A well-publicized showing, for a pariah like her? Sure, she’d had a few successes, from commercial gigs to the
Nouveau
West
series to acceptance of her work in a couple of prestigious art photography shows, but never before had she achieved the kind of . . .

Never before had she been notorious: a woman accused of sleeping with a very young—almost criminally young—man. A woman who had been tried for killing him. Quite a curiosity…and Terri’s amused look confirmed that there was something beyond the foundation members’ admiration in play.

Was the wreckage of her life the honey sweetening this deal, forming the newsworthy “hook” this Blank Canvas group was seeking to publicize its goals? Rachel’s face burned at the thought, igniting the short fuse of her temper. Even worse was the idea that Terri might have been the one to suggest this appeal to Geek-Girl’s vanity.

“And of course, there’ll be remuneration,” Gallinardi added, darting a frown over her shoulder toward the small dog’s histrionics. “Or should I discuss your fees with your agent?”

The flame sparked ever closer toward detonation. Sure, Rachel could expect to be compensated for the work used
to illustrate articles or publicize the event, but this wasn’t a real art show. If it were, she’d be expected to pay a jury fee even to be considered. Competition for display in such shows was fierce, not so much for the modest prizes of a few hundred or perhaps a thousand dollars, but for the prestige of winning and the boost it would give one’s studio. Rachel knew she was good, but she was honest enough to know her work was not so special or well-known that she could expect to circumvent the rules.

Apparently annoyed by her hesitation, Terri interjected, “Oh, come on, Rachel. Don’t play coy. You can’t
possibly
be mulling better offers.”

The ice-blonde woman’s employer shot a stern look in her direction. “Perhaps you could go back and see to Coco, before she chews her way through my upholstery.”

“Uh, yes, ma’am. I’ll do that.” With a look of pure resentment, Terri stalked off to do her boss’s bidding.

The moment the SUV’s door slammed, Art Deco Woman’s expression shifted from angry to contrite. “Please accept my apologies. I can promise you, I will speak to her about that display of rudeness.”

“What’s this about, Ms. Gallinardi?” Rachel asked her. “And I mean
really,
not whatever cover story you and Terri have trumped up.”

“Rusty,” her father warned before he looked pleadingly at the gaping woman. “Please forgive my daughter. She’s not herself right now. The long drive—and then, the other thing. She’s been under a great deal of stress.”

Gallinardi blanched, teetering on her spiked boot heels. “I’m aware there have been…difficulties, and my assistant’s comment was unfortunate. But clearly, my timing has been—”

“No
coincidence?”
Rachel finished for her, which earned her another alarmed look from her father.

She closed her eyes and dragged in a deep breath to clear her head. These art people brought in business for her dad, and more than that, they’d become a real presence in this
town. If they chose, they could make her father’s life incredibly unpleasant. For his sake, she could at least pretend to think about the woman’s offer.

“I—I’m sorry I snapped,” Rachel managed. “It’s just—this is a little overwhelming.”

Gallinardi visibly relaxed.

“I was wondering,” Rachel asked Art Deco Woman, “do you have a card? I’d like to call—to have my representative call you to discuss this. But it’s been very nice to meet you.”

Gallinardi smiled, nodding, and produced an elegant, dove-gray card from a stylish black purse. “Certainly, Ms. Copeland. And I sincerely hope we’ll have the chance to work with you. There’s a bit more to it than we’ve discussed, but we can talk about the details later.”

Once Gallinardi climbed back inside her Range Rover and headed for the exit, Rachel’s father said, “Nice recovery. You had me worried for a minute.”

“Sorry,” she said simply, not wanting to alarm him with her suspicions until she had a better handle on the offer.

“And I didn’t know you had an agent for your photos,” he added.

Her dad looked so impressed that she couldn’t help smiling. His idea of a photographer was still the department store guy who distracted howling babies with rattles long enough to snap a few shots.

“I don’t,” she said, “but I know where I can hustle up a reasonable facsimile in short order.”

“And here I was, worrying they’d knocked all the starch out of you this past year.” He gently popped the side of her arm. “That’s my Rusty. That’s the girl who always knew how to set this town on its ear.”

Rachel’s mood darkened as she thought,
Unfortunately,
Marfa’s always had a way of setting me on my ass in return.

Monday, February 11

Zeke spotted her first as he rode in off the desert: a lean woman in faded jeans and a brown leather jacket standing by his paddock. As he watched, she reached across the fence to stroke the new mare’s thin neck. Though the horse, a brown-and-white pinto fuzzy with her winter coat, looked pleased with the attention, Zeke felt only irritation. A glance in the direction of the shrouded sun told him it was maybe eight thirty or nine, no later. Too damned early in the morning to have to talk to customers.

He puffed out a breath that rose like dragon smoke on the cold air. Dealing with people shattered the calm he’d built by seeking out wood, an early-morning ritual in which he imagined the twisted, skeletal forms of dead trees expressed as chairs and tables, headboards and smaller pieces that followed nature’s lines. Today had been a good day; amid a powdered-sugar swirl of snow flurries, he’d found some particularly high-quality mesquite, a hard, durable, and ancient specimen in a deadfall he’d somehow missed on earlier forays. Before he’d finished cutting it and loading Gus, his pack mule, the flurries ended without chilling either man or beast too badly.

Leading Gus, Zeke nudged his oversized mount, Cholla, into a jog. Pricking his ears forward, the buckskin clattered over hard-packed soil with big, shod hooves as black as his long stockings. When the pinto whinnied a greeting to her two pasture mates, the woman turned in his direction, jolting
him with recognition. Rachel Copeland waved and smiled, though he hadn’t seen her face-to-face since their first meeting in the café almost a week earlier. This morning, her unbound hair flamed redder in the sunlight, so he hadn’t recognized her from behind.

Which was pretty damned ironic considering that he had dreamed of her just last night—a dream from which he had awakened cursing and questioning his reasons for remaining celibate.

Too dangerous, getting close to anyone, let alone a woman. Too
unfair to pull her into something I can’t risk explaining.

Zeke’s breath caught, the jagged edge of his attraction slicing deep. He needed to steer clear of this woman even more than most. Lust was one thing. He could deal with that. But her presence, considering her recent troubles, had stirred up old memories, sleeping dogs that rose, snarling, with their glittering teeth bared.

She gave the mare a final pat and said, “Hi there. I was worried I might miss you. Patsy told me you go out riding in the morning, but she didn’t know the time.”

He couldn’t guess how Patsy had gleaned even that much information. He barely spoke to her, at least no more than he had to. When people talked, they let their guard down. They let things slip that ought to be kept private.

He swung down from his horse’s back and led the buckskin to the hitching post.

“What do you need?” His words came out blunter than he had intended. But instead of apologizing, he let the question ride.

“Relax. I didn’t come for small talk.” She smiled, as if she found him amusing. No flinching today; the little lioness had recovered. Gesturing toward her camera case, she added, “Just a few photos, if you’re willing.”

His turn to spook now, taken aback by the idea.

“No.” The word came out clipped and pebble-hard, but curiosity got the better of him. “Why?”

Her brows rose. “No one explained it to you?”

He shook his head and then turned to unhitch Gus from the loaded travois he’d been dragging. Two more bundles of wood lay across the mule’s back, carefully padded by a thick horse blanket. Since Zeke’s equines were his workforce, he took their care seriously. Since they were also the closest thing to company he had, he went out of his way to keep them comfortable as well as healthy.

“Do you want what they told me, or would you rather have the truth?” she asked.

“I’m a big fan of cutting to the chase.”

“There’s a shocker.” A hint of a smile bubbled through her words. “The Blank Canvas Foundation is throwing some crumbs to the natives. Took me a few days to figure that out and a couple more to decide it’s a good deal. They’re putting together a special showing for area artists, letting us sell our work to help them publicize their views. The event will be well advertised and should draw some serious collectors, so we’ll all profit from—”

He turned to look at her, indicating his derision with a reflexive snort. “I’m no artist. I just make furniture out of useless scrub wood. So why tell me about this?”

“I’ve been waiting for a while, and you left your workshop door unlocked.” She jerked a nod in the direction of the long, low, concrete building, which in a bygone day had been a candelilla factory, where the spiky desert plants were once processed for their wax. “I went in and looked at your stuff, and I’m afraid I have bad news…”

She drew it out with a grave nod. “You’re definitely an artist. Your work—it’s fantastic and utterly unique. I’ve never seen anything like it in my—”

“You walked inside my
home?”
He lived on one end, which he’d restored and refinished to create a rudimentary apartment. On the end opposite was his showroom, an informal space where he displayed and sold his finished pieces.

She raised her palms in surrender. “I didn’t go anywhere other than your workspace, but I’m sorry. You can quit glaring at me, Mr. Pike.”

“It’s Zeke,” he said as he removed the mule’s packs. “Just Zeke. And I’m not glaring.”

When he glanced her way, her pretty nose scrunched. “Maybe you should check that theory in your mirror sometime. Or lock your door when you aren’t in the mood for visitors. Even a Keep Out sign would suffice.”

He didn’t take to mockery, wouldn’t put up with it. “Or I could take a page from your book. Shoot unwelcome callers.”

Her mood turned on a dime, the lightly teasing smile vanishing. Soft brown eyes went ironwood-hard as she stepped nearer, thrusting her chin toward him. “Screw you, then,
Just
Zeke.
If you don’t want me taking pictures, bringing in more business for you, say so, by all means. But don’t you dare take potshots at me about a situation you don’t understand at all.”

Zeke felt a rush of heat, along with a swift kick from his conscience. There was a fine line between unfriendliness and cruelty, and he’d just stepped across it. “You’re right. I was out of line.”

“You sure as hell were.” Fair as she was, the color that rose to her face made her appear sunburned.

He knew he should make amends, but he wasn’t sure how. So instead, he asked, “Those snooty art folks pay you for the pictures?”

“Yes, if it’s any of your business—”

“Then take as many as you want. Anything in the workshop or the showroom.” He pointed to the far end. “Long as you steer clear of my apartment.”

Or more importantly, of the secret stashed inside. He should have burned it by now, every last trace of the man he’d once been. But he couldn’t bring himself to destroy the letter.
Her
letter, and his last, remaining link.

Never try to come back,
she had begged him,
and don’t risk
sending me more money. Because they’ll find you and they’ll kill
you, one way or another, just the way that they killed him. And I
can’t live through it again. I won’t
….

He forced himself to put the past aside, to live solely in
the present, dealing with life moment by moment as it unfolded. It was the only way for him to stay sane, to keep his lungs working and his heart beating. Because he owed his mother that much.

“Don’t worry,” Rachel said sullenly. “Your bedroom’s the last place on this planet I have any interest in exploring.”

He turned back to the task of unsaddling his mount. Best to ignore her, he decided. But as he checked both animals’ hooves for stones and turned Cholla and Gus loose with the pinto, Zeke couldn’t stop picturing the way her face had closed. Couldn’t stop thinking of how she had bared her claws at his insult.

From the time he’d been a kid, his mouth had always gotten him in trouble. He’d thought he had learned better than to use it.

He was moving the mesquite and trying to forget her when she came out of the workshop, her head shaking.

“Camera battery’s gone bad.” Her forehead creased as she frowned. “It’s not holding a charge worth anything, and I left my spare back at the casita.”

Patsy had mentioned Rachel was staying in one of the two tiny guest houses she and Walter usually reserved for visiting pilots. He’d never understood why The Roost’s owner felt the need to try and chitchat, but instead of asking, it was easier to simply listen as he watched the planes and tiny gliders mount the sky.

“You can come back,” he said, bothered that Rachel wasn’t meeting his eye. “Anytime you like.”

She stared long enough for him to see her indecision. Probably debating whether he was worth the aggravation.

Decision made, she nodded. “All right. I’ll stop by. I need to take my grandma to see her doctor in Alpine, so it probably won’t be until this afternoon.”

As Rachel neared the fence-line, the pinto mare thrust her head across to nudge Rachel’s arm. Pausing to scratch her spotted neck, Rachel took a deep breath, then said, “Look, it’s probably not my business, but this horse . . .”

She trailed off, her face flushing.

“What?”

“Well, she’s sweet as anything, but she could really use to put on some weight.”

“You’re right.” He allowed himself to relax into a smile. “It’s none of your business.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he kept going.

“It was none of mine either when I found her starving in some overgrazed patch of nothing that was supposed to be a pasture. There was another horse there with her—buzzards were eating what was left of it.”

“You saved her.” Some new emotion dawned in Rachel’s expression, but it had been so long since Zeke had seen approval, he didn’t know how to react.

“Listen, I’m no bleeding heart, but I know potential when I see it. And this mare’s got potential. What she needs is time and care and good feed.”
Like you,
it came into his mind to say, but he bit down on such foolishness.

“So you bought her?”

He shook his head. “Had a talk with the ignorant fool who owned her. Made him see the wisdom of giving her to me. Unless he wanted to hear from the law about that dead horse.”

“You
are a nice man. But don’t worry.” When she smiled, her nose crinkled again, and this time he made out a faint smattering of freckles across the bridge. “We’ll keep it our secret.”

As she turned and walked back toward her van, his gaze lingered on the sweet sway of slim hips and the flutter of her red-brown hair in the cool breeze.

And something in him was resurrected—something that would better remain dead and buried until his body shared its dusty grave.

“Don’t know why you’d want to drive this awful thing,” Rachel’s grandmother, Benita Copeland, complained. “A person needs a ladder to climb up into this monstrosity.”

As they’d headed east on Highway 90, it hadn’t taken long to leave tiny Marfa in the rearview. Once they crossed the currently dry Alamito Creek, the wintry-dull desert plain rolled out ahead, bounded only by the knobbed silhouette of Cathedral Mountain in the distance.

“I knew I was moving, and it held most of my stuff.” Rachel didn’t bother explaining that after her Mini Cooper had been repossessed, a friend with an uncle in the car business had given her the ugly gold van, with its peeling “wood grain” panels. She’d been grateful to have any mode of transportation, particularly one that could haul all her photography equipment—and serve as temporary housing in a pinch. “You’re just put out because you’ve been scheming with your canasta buddies to sneak out late at night and go joyriding in that zippy little car I used to drive.”

Her grandma, who had given up her driver’s license years before, laughed and waved aside such nonsense in a gesture that sent upper-arm flab swaying dangerously. Always a heavy woman, she wore a deep purple pantsuit that made her look a little like an eggplant, along with square-framed, thick-lensed bifocals. On sunnier days, she donned enormous sunglasses that fit right over the top of her regular pair. Today’s heavy, low clouds nixed that fashion statement, just as it had grounded all the sailplanes.

“That’s probably for the best.” She sighed. “If I got down inside one of those little jobbies, you’d probably need a forklift and a team of chiropractors to get me out again. It just seems a girl your age should have a spiffier set of wheels, that’s all. Back when I was young, I had this bright red-and-white T-bird. You know, the ones with the big fins? It was a convertible, but no matter how my mama scolded, I never covered my hair with a scarf. I just let it stream out, blonde and beautiful, and drove the menfolk wild.”

“Sounds like a lot of fun.” Rachel smiled, knowing from family photos that her grandmother had kept a tight cap of perm-fried, brown curls close to her head throughout her younger years, curls that had stood the test of time, though
they had long since silvered. Rachel suspected, too, that Benita, who had never had much—nor liked to part with—money, was speaking of a car she’d seen in advertisements instead of anything she’d really owned. Since Rachel’s last, brief visit two years earlier, either her grandma was growing more inclined toward exaggeration, or problems with her memory were painting her younger years a rosier hue.

Over dinner last night, Patsy had cast her vote for something more serious.
“I’m afraid it could be a problem. With her
living on her own much longer, I mean. She’s a diabetic, Walter, and
keeping her blood sugar stable is a tough balancing act, especially
with her vision the way it is.”

But Rachel’s father had been adamant. Anger flashing in his eyes, he’d snapped,
“She’s been managing for twenty years.
She knows what she’s doing. Sure, she forgets little things now and
then, the same as anybody, and she has to use a magnifying glass to
read the labels. But I gave her my word she’d live out her life in the
house Dad built her, and there’s no way, no way in hell, I’m going
to break that promise.”