Drowning Pool (Miss Henry Mysteries) (5 page)

They fell in behind Judith Karenina and Matthais San Marco. Though Judith was far older than Juliet, Matt
hais felt no need to offer an arm for support or even good manners. Perhaps he was deterred by the bristling feathers. Juliet noticed that Oscar Dandie had gotten stuck with Guda Stoss and was walking with wrinkled nose.

“And you are?”
she asked politely.

“
Forgive me. I am Phillip Smythe, Mr. Henrik von Hayek’s personal secretary. He has put me in charge of organizing this event and seeing to the comfort of his guests.”

If that was his only job Juliet would eat her hat.
It would give him a good excuse to talk to the guests though.

“I had the privilege of uncrating Mr. James’
s paintings earlier this evening and I noticed that he had used you as a model.”

“Yes, I am his favorite
Biblical crone. I believe he could paint me as Saint Wilgefortis and make me look good beard and all,” Juliet answered without thinking.

There was a tiny snort that might have been a suppressed laugh. Juliet glanced at his face but it was again smooth.

“Sorry, I meant to say that I have been privileged to model for Raphael several times and in every case he has made me look far better and more noble and spiritual than I ever expected to look even in my youth.”

“Mr. James is a great artist
and I am sure he could make you look good—even in a beard.”

The backhanded comment startled her and Juliet took a turn at not laughing.

“He certainly is a great artist, but how rude of you to say so to my unbearded face. I think that you should suggest something about how my inner purity shines through in his art.”

“
No, I don’t think I could say anything like that,” he said after a moment of consideration. “Though it is a very nice face.”

This time Juliet did laugh.

“Have you had your job long?”

“
Long enough. And I don’t see how it can be rude to compliment Mr. James. He is a very important guest. It would be offensive not to state plainly—especially within Mr. von Hayek’s hearing—that he is a great artist,” he added smoothly. “But what I meant to say was that I was also much struck by your own painting. I don’t know what I was expecting but it wasn’t that. It is bleak and haunting, not something I will soon forget.”

But he hadn’t said he liked it. That was okay since she wasn’t sure that she liked it either.

“Thank you. That was the intent,” Juliet said, sincerely pleased. Compliments on her appearance meant little. Compliments on her art got closer to her heart, or at least her ego.

“Mr.
von Hayek—Mr. Henrik von Hayek—was also quite taken with it. I think Mr. Klaus von Hayek will like it as well when he is able to see it.”

“Oh
, good. Then perhaps our hosts will not feel that I am here solely as Mr. James’s floozy.” Juliet glanced at Guda Stoss. “Though if he does, I suppose that it is my own fault.”

The
y entered the dining room. It was huge and depressingly formal. The roaring fire was a nice touch. The air in the desert got quite cold once the sun was down and the room needed something to make it welcoming.

“Floozy?” This time the smile was open. “Oh, I don’t
believe anyone, even Miss Stoss though she might pretend otherwise, would mistake you for that. I certainly wouldn’t, whatever else the others might fail to perceive about you.”

Juliet wasn’t sure how to take that. Was it a veiled
reference to her former career?

“I think you underestimate Miss Stoss.”

“No, I don’t think I do.” His voice was dry. “She just makes a habit of being offensive as a means of drawing attention, or so her file says.”

He had to be hinting that he knew who she was.

“I suppose that we have all been thoroughly vetted?” she asked.

“Down to your pretty pink toenails.”

“Red toenails. I painted them yesterday. Your information is out of date,” she chided.

“I shall see to that
omission at once, though I doubt Señor Calderon will be concerned at the lapse.”

“
Seño
r
Calderon is in charge of security?” she asked.

“Yes, and you may have every confidence
that your art is safe in the castle,” he said as if this was a concern. His eyes flicked to his employer who was standing just inside the dining room door.

Was it too soon to ask about medieval Italian art that was lying around the castle? Probably n
ot, if Smythe was a friend, but most definitely if he was a foe. In any event she couldn’t risk it with so many people around them who might overhear the question.

“I shall rest easy at night
knowing my painting is safe.” Though she would rest even better if her person was equally secure.

The furniture in the dining room was slightly oversized and she felt like a child who would
need a booster chair to sit at the adult table. Conversation echoed until it got caught in the peculiar buttresses at the ceiling where it was swallowed. It was not a friendly room, even if you were seated above the salt.

Smythe
stopped before a tall wooden chair and pulled it out for her. There was enough space at the long table that they were not pressed cheek to jowl, which was fortunate because the array of cutlery at each place setting required rather a lot of space. Three knives, four forks, three spoons, and something that looked like a nut pick. Juliet was appalled.

“How many courses are there?” she whispered.

“Just nine,” Smythe whispered back. His breath tickled her ear.

Nine courses? They would be eating until midnight.
It would take everyone at least an hour to settle in after that. Possibly longer. She wouldn’t be able to explore until nearly dawn.

Juliet took
her seat with a word of thanks, slightly disappointed that she was seated between Matthais San Marco and Bertram
Fröndenberger. At least Raphael was sitting across from her so she had something nice to look at when she peered around the giant candelabra.

Henrik von Hayek stood, tapping his glass for attention.
The throne at the head of the table was the last word in gothic awful. The canopy was probably supposed to represent deer antlers but looked like scythes. It dwarfed their host.

Again there was no Mrs. Hayek, at least not in attendance.
And Klaus von Hayek, the magnet that had ostensibly drawn them together, had yet to make an appearance. She wondered how sick he was that he couldn’t attend his own party or even see the art his guests had brought.

Or could it be that he wasn’t in the castle?
Had some urgent business called him away?

“I regret that my father is not well enough to be with us tonight, but please don’t let his absence dampen your pleasure. A special feast of many
regional cuisines has been prepared in your honor.”

San Marco
also stood and made an elegant toast to their missing host and they all sipped politely, though Juliet felt dirty drinking to the health of a Nazi collaborator.

Juliet had attended enough dull formal affairs while in Washington that she knew what was expected of her. Repressing a sigh as a dish of something
pungent, green, and soupy was put before her, she picked up the farthest spoon, dipped it in the green slush filled with lumps that looked and smelled like it had been pulled from the Sargasso Sea. She then turned to
Bertram
Fröndenberger and asked him what he was working on.

Fortunately he wanted to tell her every detail
of his project so it was several minutes before she needed to speak again.

Eventually
Fröndenberger ran out of things to say about altarpieces and asked Juliet what she was doing. She did not feel like explaining that her next job would be screening Halloween t-shirts and trick-or-treat bags, so she invented a task, which seemed like a better and better idea as she talked about it.

“I am thinking of painting something local that has grabbed my interest.
I will start with sketches—that is always how I begin. It allows me to drink in the atmosphere. But when I am home and have my paints I will do a better study.”

“And what is this local place or thing? There is very little in this area except fish and turtles.
There are also, I believe, poisonous snakes and insects.” The tone was slighting.

Juliet rather liked fish and turtles but realized that cathedrals were more
Fröndenberger’s natural habitat.

“There are gardens,”
von Hayek said, proving that he was keeping at least half an ear turned their way. “Many are overgrown though and I fear that there are rats in the untended areas.”

He sounded apologetic, but Juliet wondered if it was meant to discourage her
from wandering. If so, that might be a sign that she was on the right track.

“
I am not especially fearful or bats and rats and things that usually bother other people,” Juliet said. “I live in a wild bit of forest where nature is not held back by doors and windows. I’ve learned to cope with the creepy-crawlies.”

Fröndenberger
snorted. This wasn’t entirely true about the artists’ compound being wild, but she wanted to establish the idea that she would not need a particularly pressing reason to be wandering around the foliage while she looked for hidden doors—if that became necessary.

“
Have you heard the legend of the god of the Smoking Mirror and his handmaidens?” she asked the table at large. “They are—well, like the Greek Naiads—who live in the local pozas. You can tell where they are because water lilies grow from their bodies.”

If she had thought that this
bit of morbidity would discourage
Bertram
Fröndenberger from further conversation, she was mistaken. It had also caught the attention of Matthias San Marco.

“
Naiads? But how lovely. But what is this story and who is Smoking Mirror?” Fröndenberger asked, his expression warming to genuine interest.

“About the god I cannot speak with any authority.
I would love to see a local picture or sculpture of him since there are supposed to be differences. But the maidens….” Juliet decided to go for it. It would give her a good excuse not to eat any more of the bitter goop. The story she had read online would require some editing and enhancement, since it was purportedly an English translation or a Spanish translation of a Latin account, written by a monk who had a dry style and who was likely not given to factual accuracy when local legend conflicted with his own doctrinal training.

“The poza is the life blood of the desert
, an oasis for man and animal alike. Rains are rare here in the wastelands and perhaps that is a good thing if the legends are true. For it seems that the god of the Smoking Mirror may travel down these seasonal rivers and seek out the unfortunates who die in childbirth, for it is they who become his handmaidens.”

By now Raphael was also listening. Though he was two seats down from Raphael, she had the feeling that Smythe was paying
close attention too. She decided to pull out a few more stops on the tremolo. Let them think she was a kook who believed in ghosts and goblins. It was excellent cover and would make everyone underestimate her intelligence.

“
It was a strange night.
The air was damp, drowsy with heat, and the evening was full of scents both pleasing and dreadful. Plants blossomed madly in the sudden showers of rain that had fallen all day and into the night, but they decayed too because it was not a healthy water. It was red—red with dust probably—but it looked like blood and was poison to the land.

“Cora was large with child, her first
, and she was also large with worry because the rains had created a flood around her house and her husband was not able to get to the village and fetch the midwife. She had been in labor a long time and was growing exhausted. Her husband, too, was filled with dread. His mother and sister had both died in childbed during the summer rains and he knew all too well the story of the Smoking Mirror.”

Juliet looked up and down the table. She had nearly everyone’s attention, including her host.

“There was a scream outside. One of the goats was caught in the rising water. Cora’s husband went to help because they were poor and the goat was important. But he was also caught in the waters—perhaps snagged by a branch or perhaps by something else—and since it was dark and there was no moon it took him a long time to rescue the animal and fight his way back to their house.

“But when he
finally returned it was to tragedy. There was blood on the floor but Cora was gone. He ran outside, following the trail of blood and calling her name, but she was nowhere to be seen and she did not answer.

“
The floodwaters were ebbing by then and the sun was on the rise. Of his wife there was no sign, but floating away down the rust colored stream was a white gown and a water lily with a flower of darkest red.”