Drowning Pool (Miss Henry Mysteries) (3 page)

Juliet
also met, but didn’t particularly like, some of her fellow artists that shared their flying deathtrap to Quatros Cienegas. Bertram
Fröndenberger was the least objectionable of them, being old and rather vague, perhaps because of his macular degeneration which would eventually end his career. She hoped that there would be someone at the castle to look after the beige and rather irritable painter and steer him away from steep stairs and suits of armor that castles seemed to always have lying around. If not, she feared she might end up being his minder. Juliet could forgive his being rather offhand with her when they were introduced, because he created exquisite altarpieces in the form of the traditional fourteenth-century triptychs. Allowances had to be made for genius. Besides, he seemed to be genuinely glad to see—at least to squint at—Raphael.

The others? Well, Juliet allowed them to be very popular, but their art was a long way from what she considered genius, and whatever else they were, it was not touched by the hand of
Divinity, unless you counted Bacchus. That did not mean that she was surrounded by fragile egos. Far from it. There was in fact very little room for her on the plane, what with their narcissism taking up every available inch of space.

Juliet resisted putting fingers in her ear
s to block them out but it was a struggle. Matthais San Marco, of the narrow black mustache that belonged on a silent movie villain, did giant, blotchy canvases in angry colors that reminded Juliet of nothing much except maybe an elephant’s bottom, assuming they came in shades of violet and lime green. On the upside, his paintings made her see the relative merit in the work of her neighbor, Asher Temple, who was at least soft-spoken. She would have to tell Asher that when she got back home, though in a more tactful way.

Beside him was a creature which everyone claimed was female.
Guda Stoss had elbowed her way into the mostly male, rough and tumble world of metal sculpture, an accomplishment which Juliet would admire unstintingly if she had not also taken on all the worst male characteristics Juliet could imagine, including but not limited to spitting, scratching below the waist, and using foul language. She also smelled like an ashtray in a gentlemen’s club because she carried and smoked cigars. Juliet was not a woman who clung to the trappings of youth and femininity with morbid hysteria, but she at least made an effort to comb her hair and slap on a little lipstick before going out in public. Guda had rejected all that. She was deliberately ugly in form and in manner. Even her hands were unattractive, which was not always the case with sculptures. Their hands might be strong and calloused, but not unkempt.

Raphael was unfailing
ly polite when she addressed him, pretending not to notice her avid eyes. He was polite to everyone when in work mode, but Juliet could tell by his pinched face that he was repelled by Guda. That hopefully meant that Juliet would not be forced into spending a great deal of time with her.

In an effort to distract herself from her growing hostility
toward her fellow travelers, Juliet gazed out the small window, hoping to see something of interest. By the light of the setting sun, the land was a dusty gold with occasional intrusions of what looked like obsidian blades. As the plane banked and began to descend, she saw four emerald patches that she assumed were the famous protected lakes of Quatros Cienegas.

Then she saw the airstrip, which seemed impossibly short
, and a limousine that was impossibly long. There was also another vehicle which looked a great deal like an armored car. And there were armed guards—just to add tone to the event. Other than that, there were no signs of life or movement in the light of the dying sun. It seemed to be a dead land, but at least it was land, so Juliet welcomed it.

Juliet was so relieved to be getting off the airplane and away from the reek of Guda Stoss that she forgot to think about the possibilities of crashing more than seven or eight times
as they bumped along the unpaved airstrip in the backend of nowhere.

Though there were people to meet them, their landing was not the usual happy airport reunion scene. In fact there were no happy faces
in the crowd. No one in the landing crew looked happy either, and it momentarily subdued the bickering chatter of the artists.

Juliet was the first person out of the
plane. She did it graciously, but the need to escape the smell of the Stoss woman had become critical. Her headache was worse and she felt on the verge of nausea.

The second vehicle
was
an armored car, and two equally armored guards climbed out and began stowing the carefully crated art as quickly as it came off the plane. Such caution seemed unnecessary, though she supposed the dollar value of the art in the hold was actually very high. Still, who was around to steal it? The only living things were the buzzards circling in the bare sky.

Equal swiftness was used to tuck the passengers into the limousine
, though Juliet could see no need for hurry unless it was to ply everyone with champagne and air conditioning. There was even a ramp for Raphael’s chair, which made boarding easy. On the surface it was all very thoughtful. Underneath, she sensed a compulsion for control that bordered on bullying.

One of the guards
overseeing the loading of the artwork was an early example of
Homo erectus
. Juliet knew it was not always accurate to judge a book by its cover, or the state of a person’s mind or soul by their fleshly exterior, but she found the man to be repellant. His right hand was severely scarred and looked like a topographical map. She had seen burns like that before. They were chemical. He seethed with suppressed anger and she was only too glad to avoid him and the oversized pistol in his shoulder holster.

Juliet reminded herself that millionaires—billionaires—were more than people who had a lot of money. They had power and influence and private armies
, and they thought nothing of ordering the world to suit their whims and comforts. That was lovely when it was being used for your benefit.

But
experience had taught her the capacity for ruthlessness was always there under the surface thoughtfulness. Somewhere near puberty it began to rise up, creating the next generation of tyrants. That these instincts were sometimes glossed over with education and good manners and excellent taste did not mean that the ruthlessness was not there and fully functional. And the wealthy could be very dangerous, because they had little experience at being thwarted and tended to over react in swift and decisive ways when angered. Then there was the matter of greed. Unchecked, it started making decisions—usually bad ones.

Von Hayek’s army was dressed
up as footmen and chauffeurs and probably gardeners and maids, at least when other people were around, but she was willing to bet that they didn’t spend a lot of time doing domestic tasks like the real servants.

Oh well, at least they were being chauffeured in style to their doom.

There was a road of sorts that led to the castle, a rutted track that had probably been in use during the days of Cortez. The limousine drove beside it, followed by the armored car. Eventually they began to climb as they mounted the spur of stone that had thrust up in the middle of the desert. Mountain tops were always popular locations for castles. They had good views and it made the edifices more impressive.

The castle was
only reached by passing through a thick wall so tall that they could not see over it from the road. She caught only a glimpse of what she thought was a bird, but told herself she might well be mistaken because of the failing light. Still, a part of her was sure that she had seen a giant raven and the symbolism added to her unease. The choice to put up a wall around the castle might have been an aesthetic one, recalling the ancient days of battles and fortresses. Coupled with the armed guards, it might also suggest paranoia that such an attack could happen again.

The castle itself
, when finally in view, was doing a good impression of being abandoned in the last century until the security lights popped on, flooding the earth and sky with light that could probably be seen from space. It also pointed out graphically what a strange building it was. The size was expected but not the unorthodoxy. It was startling enough to catch her off guard.

Juliet had been expecting something that felt like a theme park
castle, a recreation that had the general outlines of something medieval but which would feel fake close up. But that was not the case. Von Hayek’s castle felt genuinely medieval—just not medieval Europe. Whether it had been built on the remains of an older temple that was already in situ, or if the builder had incorporated Aztec carvings brought in from somewhere else, it was an authentic creation, a hybrid of architecture that felt both real and monstrous, a testament to strength and not harmony. There were crenellations and towers but also a pyramid. The designer had to have been schizophrenic or else trying to please two masters.

There were carvings in the stone that
had been fretted by the wind and sand and heartless time, but this particular figure had been deeply scrivened. The foundation to the left of the massive doors was sporting a snake eating a skeleton. Or perhaps regurgitating it. Neither option was one Juliet wanted to see and she thought it rather lacked something as a welcome mat, which might have been intentional.

She glanced up at the gargoyles perched in their
unneeded flying buttresses where they could leer down at the people below. They were not dragons or horned demons of Notre Dame but instead representations of the god Quetzalcoatl.

What she could see no sign of were the solar panels that her research assured her were used to power the castle. This idea had pleased her but perhaps it was misinformation.
Certainly there had been no warning about the abortion of taste that was the castle itself.

The artists around her seemed to have been struck dumb, perhaps overwhelmed b
y the art from another era. Or perhaps they also sensed the building’s hostile nature. More likely they were trying hard to think up something admiring to say in case their opinions were asked. Juliet had already decided on “not my field” as her answer should anyone seek her opinion of the architecture.

If Juliet ha
d ever been rapturous of castles, she had gotten over it after working in one where she found a body bricked up in the fireplace. All other considerations aside, they were uncomfortable and inconvenient for modern living. She appreciated the engineering in a clinical way since it could not have been easy to glue all those disparate styles together, but was not at all inclined to fantasize romantically about Rupert of Hentzau or the Count of Monte Cristo. Especially not there where Rupert and Montezuma would have been alike offended and bewildered by the structure.

“Home
, sweet home. I wonder where they keep the monster,” Juliet muttered and got a quick smile of understanding from Raphael, who was a bit of an artistic purist and did not like mixing cultural messages in his art. The castle had to offend him too on an aesthetic level though he would never let anyone see it. He had an excellent game face.

Footmen dressed a bit like bellboys
in a Hollywood film swarmed out to deal with the luggage. They were all locals from the look of them, which should not have surprised her but somehow it did. Perhaps she was thinking of matters too historically. Relations had been rather sticky back in the day when East had met West, with the descendants of Alexander the Great and Caesar Augustus doing their level best to exterminate the children of Montezuma and steal their gold.

But that was long ago and these impoverished lands were probably glad to get some of that stolen gold back in the form of wages.

The thick wooden doors which might have come off a cathedral were standing wide so that they could enter the great hall, which was as architecturally confusing as the exterior.

They were greeted by Henrik von Hayek
, who welcomed them with formal words and explained that his father was resting but would be joining them at dinner. Their host looked like he had entered the final stages of consumption, and in spite of his pleasant voice his cold eyes did not seem to regard his guests with favor. Juliet did not think that he had contracted anything fatal though, unless wealth could be considered a chronic problem. He was just very lean and his yellowed fingers suggested an addiction to nicotine.

No mention was made of Mrs. Hayek
or any little von Hayeks, and they were quickly handed off to a housekeeper in traditional black who was not identified by name, being a servant and therefore a nonhuman. Their luggage was once again lifted by uniformed footmen who loaded it into an elevator concealed behind a tapestry mounted on a swinging arm. Henrik most graciously suggested that he and Raphael should also travel up in the elevator, and since Raphael did not care to be carried in his chair if there was any other option, he agreed equally graciously. Von Hayek shook hands with Raphael and he showed none of the usual emotions by those confronted with a wheelchair. That might have been because his immobile face could not express repulsion, curiosity, or pity. Juliet found she liked him just a little for managing the moment graciously. But then Raphael, with his slightly haggard beauty, still had the gift of charisma and when he chose to use it, he could be as riveting as Rasputin or Elvis. Juliet admired the public Raphael and understood the construct and why it was needed, but she greatly preferred to spend time with the private person who was her neighbor in Bartholomew’s Wood.