3 Requiem at Christmas (5 page)

The walk had been effort enough. Juliet lived on the side of
a mountain. Once a week she did a hundred-yard dash to beat the high school
football team to the bakery for lunch-hour cupcakes. Occasionally she did yoga
with Mickey Shaw on days when he wasn’t sun-worshipping in the nude. She
considered this to be sufficient exercise for a woman of her age. Unfortunately
it had not prepared her for hiking through snow at six thousand feet in an
increasingly chill wind, especially not with sore muscles.

Posh was soon discovered, it being the only formal clothing
store among the various sporting goods and athletic clothing shops whose window
displays absolutely bulged with seasonal gifts, framed in garland and tinsel
and twinkle lights blinking in fake snow.

Though the streets and stores were awash with Santa hats and
reindeer antlers made of felt and candy canes that could double as walking
sticks, none of this had encroached on Posh. The boutique was not meant to
appeal to the hoi polloi. They specialized in vaguely medieval-looking dresses
made of stretch velvet in jeweled colors. By the door was a small sign in gold
scrollwork: Shop Here
For
Beautiful Things.

It lacked delicacy, but as a practical admonition, Juliet
thought it sound advice. Defiance of convention was for the young. No matter
that it would probably be ten below and snowing, one should wear a dress and
stockings rather than ski pants and a parka to a Requiem Mass. That the dress
was beautiful was an added benefit.

Their stock had been depleted by fairgoers, but Juliet’s “handmaiden”
found two gowns in her size, one black and one a sort of fiery topaz which she
tried on in front of a mirror grand enough to grace Versailles. It was no
contest. The black was elegant but so boring and expected. She opted for the
topaz dress, never having owned anything in that color—except Marley—and, after
due reflection, she admitted that she didn’t really own Marley. He was, after
all, a cat.

The store had a small stock of lingerie, so abandoning
herself
to the feminine pleasure of wallowing in the silken fleshpots
of womanly commerce, she bought lacy gold underthings and some thigh-high
stockings, which she hoped would stay in place without garters.

Silly and useless sandals in gold completed her purchases,
though she had hesitated before buying them. Her mother had been fond of the
story of the magic shoes and had told it to her when she was very young. As a
child she had found the idea of shoes that wouldn’t stop dancing to be amusing;
as an adult, what stuck in her mind was the part about
you shall dance until you are a ghost, until your skin hangs from your
bones, and even when the skin is gone and only your entrails remain, they too
shall dance
.

“Rot and nonsense,” she scolded under her breath. “Anyway,
I’m not dancing.”

She had added the shoes to her pile of loot and then fled
before being talked into buying anything else frivolous. Her savings account
couldn’t withstand the damage. The shoes and underthings cost more than her
monthly rent.

The weather had improved while she was prancing up and down
in front of the store mirrors, and she decided that she would drop off her
packages in her room and then venture over to the fair to see what was new in
the world of bagpipes and the Clan Buchanan.

She made one more stop. Winter’s Candies and Confections
was
tucked behind a display of straw reindeer next to a
tanning salon. The shop was too crowded to tempt her to make a purchase, but
she noticed that all their candies—chocolates, jellies, or hard-boiled sugar—were
all wrapped in seasonal red and green foil. The sign on the door had been
reprinted on the gift bags people were carrying and neither mentioned any other
locations. The dead man had gotten his candy here.

Deciding she had had enough of fresh air and snow, Juliet chose
to spring for a sleigh ride back to the inn. It was pleasant enough being
pulled along behind a horse, but she had to admit that it would be a better
activity with a partner along for the ride.

Still in a social frame of mind, when Juliet ran into
Raphael in the elevator she impulsively asked him if he would like to go to the
fair with her. He considered for only a moment but then agreed. They
synchronized watches and arranged to meet in the lobby in ten minutes. She
liked Raphael a lot. It was wonderful to be
herself—
her
full self—and not leave her companion bewildered.

Juliet put the coincidence of the candy out of her mind as
she ran a brush through her turbulent hair whose wildness would only be subdued
by a hat.

So the dead man had bought candy there—so what? She wasn’t
going to think about the killing any more. She had already decided that. She
was going to the fair to see friends and eat bad food and listen to Celtic
music.

The killer huddled
under the covers, cradling a bottle of scotch and trying to get warm. The motel
was a cheap one, but they took cash and didn’t check ID. Anyway, with the
weather so bad, he had been lucky to get back out to the road and to find
someone to give him a lift. As soon as it was light he would have breakfast and
rent a car—then arrive at the Aspens bright and early. He had the room key he’d
taken from the sporran. If the police hadn’t gotten in to search then there was
still a chance that he could fix things.

*
 
*
 
*

“My father loved Christmas,” Raphael said as they strolled—and
rolled—toward the park where the fair was being held. The path from the inn had
been cleared and salted. The crystals made an odd crunching sound under
Raphael’s wheels.

The park, too, was clear of snow, and there had been no
trouble getting to the clan tents which were soggy but still standing. Juliet
had deliberately taken them by the marquee for Clan Buchanan, hoping to hear
something of interest, but obviously word of the killing hadn’t reached them,
though one woman asked where Holtz had gotten too. The red-haired boy passing
out flyers for the
ceilidh
fundraiser of
Alba
gu
bràth
had suggested that maybe he was at singing practice.

Juliet blinked at Raphael’s words and stopped thinking about
the Cornish pasties that smelled wonderful but which would coagulate in her
stomach and give her indigestion all afternoon. Of course Raphael had had
parents and there was no reason that one of them shouldn’t have liked
Christmas. It was just that the artist was so completely an adult and so above
regular human failing that one tended to forget that he had had a human childhood
and to think that he had been self-engendered—born whole and mature like some
of the Greek gods.

Juliet tried to think of a conventional reply. She was not
sure that she wanted to admit to anyone how severely her Christmas spirit had
been amputated and that she pretty much abjured all Christmas traditions. She
didn’t need to spread-eagle her feelings about Christmases past and ruin his
fun.

Raphael looked up and shook his head. His eyes were
sympathetic. It was comforting to be with someone who understood her mood even
if he didn’t share it.
And the other way around too.
Sometimes she found being around people was fatiguing.
But
not Raphael.

“There’s Hans,” Juliet said, still not sure how to answer
Raphael’s observation and knowing that he hadn’t been trying to head the
conversation in any particular direction. “Business looks good.”

Hans
Dillmeyer
had paid for a
booth at the fair. He carved many things in wood, but specialized in crèche—old
European-style manger scenes, though he was not such a slave to Christian
iconography that customers could not purchase new world animals for one’s
manger if one wanted a couple of llamas or bison to adore the baby Jesus.

Hans was wearing some version of lederhosen that suggested
he belonged more to the Tyrol than to the Gaels, but the green wool and rakish
hat rather made him look like a leprechaun and his smile was infectious. No one
seemed to mind the geographic off-note. In fact his table was swamped with
customers and Juliet did no more than wave.

They found Rose at the end of the aisle near the stage where
a harpist was performing, and she was also doing a booming business. A lot of
people apparently liked itchy goat sweaters in bright Christmas colors.

“You’re enjoying yourself?” Raphael asked. The noise level
was fairly high inside the giant tent.

“Oddly enough, yes.
And you?”

“Yes, though like you I find it a bit odd, this dressing up
when it isn’t Halloween.”

Celtic festivals, Renaissance fairs, and the like were not
Juliet’s favorite venue, partly because she usually ended up dressed as a wench
which added no credibility to her claim to be a serious artist, but also
because she didn’t understand the mentality of those who liked to dress up in
costumes and pretend to be something they were not. Too many years of trying to
get through the lies and illusions of everyday life, she supposed. People
probably couldn’t help their unconscious lies and exaggerations, but going out
and inventing ones deliberately seemed very weird, not to mention that they
were like termites chewing up the real culture and history of the Gaelic people
and replacing it with … filler which was mainly excrement.

Being there was like drinking carbonated scotch or
scratching in public, and it had no relevance to her life.

But all that prejudice against costumes and faux-cultural
experiences was wiped away when she saw the beautiful white wool cape, lined in
amber satin and embroidered in heavy gold thread with Celtic knots around the
hem.

“
Oohhh
, the Snow Queen,” she
breathed, making a noise very much like something Carrie Simmons would emit if
she saw her favorite boy band.

Raphael turned his head to follow her gaze.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I don’t mind waiting.”

“Oh … no … I, uh….”

“Go,” he said. “It would suit you. I’ll be over here
sampling the scotch. I have been wondering what Stag’s Breath tastes like.”

“You’re sure?” she asked, but he had already turned away.

The cloak was not inexpensive, but Juliet was so in love
with the image in the mirror that she decided she could live on beans and toast
for the rest of the month so she wouldn’t have to eat into any of her
investments.

“Would you like me to put that in a garment bag for you?”
the tartan-wrapped proprietress asked.

“No. I’ll wear it. You can wrap up my coat instead.”

She joined Raphael at the scotch tasting booth which was
really a series of long tables. Juliet stayed back from the somewhat sticky Formica.
She was already feeling uneasy about wearing white in a park.

“How is the Stag’s Breath?” she asked.

“Not as nice as your cloak,” he answered, setting down his
glass. The liquor was barely touched.

“Maybe you should keep it for paint stripper,” she
suggested.

“It would ruin my brushes. Shall we be off?”

“Did you want to see more of the fair?” she asked. “There is
a bagpipe competition starting in about ten minutes. Or Clan Buchanan is giving
a demonstration in the use of medieval weapons—claymores, bows and arrows, and
sgian
dubhs
.”

“I so rarely use medieval weapons anymore. I blame
Eliphalet
Remington. And I wouldn’t dream of tarrying here when
I can tell you have something else in mind.”

“I
was
thinking of
dropping in on Harrison and seeing how rehearsals are going. I am very glad
that there was an understudy for the tenor. I know how important this
performance is to him.”

“Let’s head for the church then,” Raphael said agreeably. “I
haven’t seen it yet and I am told it is an architectural masterpiece.”

“The pictures are gorgeous. I guess the acoustics are tricky
for recording, but Darby sounded like they had figured it all out.” Juliet
realized she was chattering about things he already knew and made herself stop.

Saint Clair Church was all that Darby had said it was and
more, though the chalet-like outside gave little hint of the visual treasure
within. Some people like their churches filled with art, but nothing could
match the majesty of the view from the giant windows. Postcards could not do
full justice to the scale of the building, the warmth of its wood beams, or the
beauty of the giant windows that looked out on the snowy woods and the
mountains beyond.

Raphael and Juliet stayed to the back of the hall since
rehearsals were in progress and various technicians were doing something complicated
with wires. The sound was lovely, but Juliet found her eyes passing over the
people in the audience instead of resting on the singers. The day had been
lovely, a holiday paradise, but she had not forgotten that a member of the
choir had been murdered the day before and they had no idea why.

A man in the fourth row caught her eye. He was sitting
sidewise, his face in profile. Something about him seemed familiar, though
after a moment Juliet realized that it wasn’t specifically his face she was reacting
to so much as his type.

From her old job, Juliet knew a bit about politicians and
crooks of other stripes. Some men—the rich or powerful, but usually men who
were both—seemed to be the center of a lot of orbiting bodies. Their
satellites’ paths weren’t always elliptical and they could alter course at a
look or a nod from the dark star who hired them. They might travel around in expensive
cars, hover in doorways obstructing routes, or move down dark alleys in the
small hours of the night with God only knew what lurking in their hearts. The
orbiters almost always carried guns.
Almost always.
There seemed to be an exception for the money men—the clever accountants who
did math like nobody else—and of course for the lawyers who used other kinds of
weapons to defend their clients.