Miranda's Revenge (16 page)

Her throat, on the other hand, looked shockingly bad. Enough that it would make people uncomfortable to look at her. She dug through her suitcase and found a soft, long scarf knitted out of a metallic shimmer lace. She looped it twice around her throat, loosely, and it covered it fine.

Juliet was waiting in the kitchen. “Good morning, brave girl. Can you talk yet?”

“I can whisper, but even that hurts a little.”

“Okay, here's the deal. I've been on the phone with the sheriff and it appears that the house was rigged to blow when the light switch was flipped. Luckily it didn't quite go off the way it was supposed to, so you got lucky.”

“Who is it?”

“He has a record for theft and arson, but they haven't tracked it all down yet.”

Miranda nodded. “Does Desi know?”

“Oh, yeah, and she is fit to be tied.” She grinned. “At this very moment, she's meeting with the Ute tribal council, to see if they want to make a bid on the land.”

With a grin, Miranda pumped the air. “Brilliant,” she whispered. She glanced at the clock, and pointed. “I'm going to ReNew for some chai. See you later?”

“Absolutely.”

Miranda bought the newspapers in front of ReNew, which was insanely crowded with relatives and friends of the runners. A part of her wanted to be annoyed with them, taking up space in
her
restaurant, but why was it any more hers than theirs? She squeezed into a corner with her chai and cinnamon twist to read about Renate Franz's murder.

Even the Denver papers carried the story, laden as it was with big-name Olympic sports and layerings of the art world, and speculations about business. In a sidebar in the Denver Post, there was a photo of Desi and Tam from an earlier news story, along with news of the fire.

She grinned to herself over Desi's move to sell the land to the Utes. So smart! It benefited the tribe in ways the casinos never could, something that was important to Desi, and the tribe would likely take care of the land more responsibly. And it would mean Desi would finally be out of danger.

Although not yet cleared. The newspaper still called Desi “a person of interest in the murder of her husband, Navajo artist Claude Tsosie.”

According to the article, the police didn't have any leads in the shooting of Franz. But suddenly, Miranda wondered how Elsa was taking it. Might be worth finding out.

It would be even better if the whole thing just died a natural death. If Desi were let off the hook, the land went to the Utes, and whoever killed Claude fell over a mountain somewhere.

And they could all just live happily ever after.

She certainly intended to. The air this morning seemed freshly washed, sparkling with possibilities. She felt she'd been given a reprieve, a chance to throw off the shackles of her control and cynicism and live a freer, fuller life. In memory, she kept seeing the expanse of that bejeweled sky, the distance and hugeness, and her sense of her own small importance in it.

And yet, each star sparkled, each one added its own light. She would do what she could to make sure she added hers instead of hiding it.

After she finished her coffee, she headed over to the race tent. The day was painted in blues—blue sky, blue mountains, blue and white tent. A small crowd milled around, looking at the jewelry and paintings offered by the booths set up to take advantage of the people drawn by the race. Miranda drifted by them, admiring blown glass beads and intricately laced ribbon bracelets, and the omnipresent flower crowns woven with ribbons that seemed to show up at festivals everywhere. Miranda thought of Glory and her very long hair, and bought one made of tiny rose pink rosebuds. “Will this fit a five-year-old?” she asked in her ruined voice.

“It will.” The woman, well into her sixties, with sun-worn skin and irregular teeth, said, “You need one for yourself, dear. All that hair.”

Miranda smiled, shaking her head.

The woman held up one woven of vivid blue bachelor buttons and sprays of white baby's breath. It was almost the exact color of her sari, and impulsively, she thought, why not. “Okay,” she whispered, and paid for them both. Glory's went into a little bag. Her own went on her hair. On her hair, her beautiful hair, which had almost been burned off. She would never apologize for it again.

She looked at her watch. Not quite ten. The first runners wouldn't be back until just after eleven, probably. She really needed to be here when James came down that mountain. Restlessly she walked circles around the block, thinking.

Renate, Christie, Elsa, Claude. The land. Claude's paintings. Somehow it was all connected, she could feel it.

As she came around the corner the third time, she saw her mother sitting on a bench, a white hat shading her face. Dressed crisply in white capris and a turquoise top and white shoes, she looked ready for a day on a boat. Her lipstick was coral. She'd brought a magazine with her.

Miranda froze. Did she go sit with her mother or keep walking around the block?

As if someone shoved her from behind, Miranda took a stumbling step forward. Fine. She'd go sit with her mother. Tossing back her hair, she hoped her hicky showed.

“Good morning, Mother,” she said, taking the seat next to her.

“Hello, Miranda.” Her mother gave her a quizzical glance. “What's wrong with your voice? And your hands?”

“Long story.”

“Hmm. Your hair looks pretty like that.”

Surprised, Miranda said, “Thanks.”

“Did you see your young man off this morning?”

“He's not really my young man, but no way. I think the race started at six-thirty or seven.”

“He seems a nice fellow. You and your sisters have all gone for such dark men, my goodness! Between Desi and Juliet, we'll have three or four nationalities covered!”

Miranda told herself to just breathe through her annoyance. “Well, that's America for you these days. I bet Desi and Tam will have linebacker children.”

“You never know. Look how different you girls all are.”

“Mother, please.”

“Please what? You are all quite different.”

“I have a different father. That might account for some of it, huh?”

“What are you talking about, Miranda?” Back to her mom's old denial routine.

“Mom, I was there, the whole year when you and Daddy were fighting. I heard you tell him I was not his child.”

“Oh, that.” Carol waved a hand. “Big lie.”

“So he
is
my father?”

“In every way that matters.”

Miranda gritted her teeth. “So he
isn't?
”

“Let it go, honey.” She shaded her eyes with a hand. “Anyway, look at the top of the mountain. There's a runner.” Same mother. Same denial routine. Miranda wondered why she continued to even bother. Seeing the runner, she couldn't help but think of more important things…like James.

“Oh, my gosh!” Miranda looked at her watch. It would take a while for that runner to get to the bottom of the trail, but still, the time was going to be a very, very good one. It was a lone runner, out in front. Way out in front, and it was impossible to tell much detail. He wore a white singlet and blue shorts and had dark hair.

She jumped up. “I think it could be James!” Her throat hurt, and she laughed anyway, so excited. “Wow, what if he wins! Wouldn't that be cool?”

“Not your young man, hmm?”

“We haven't known each other but a few days.”

“Sometimes, Miranda, you just know. I met your father at a party when I was twenty-three and we've been inseparable ever since.”

Miranda bit her tongue. “I know, I've heard the story.”

“We love each other, you know. I don't claim to be a perfect person, and God knows you had a bad time of it especially, but the one thing that's true is your father and me.”

It was so passionately said that Miranda was shaken into a new look at her mother. “Is everything okay, Mom?”

“It's fine.”

But Miranda saw the fine trembling of her mother's lips and knew it wasn't. She didn't push it. For once, she just let things be. She put her arm around her mother and gave her a bracing little hug. “Let's go cheer on the finishers, shall we?”

Carol nodded, looking suddenly every day of her sixty years. “I'm sorry about last night,” she said suddenly.

Miranda stared at her. “Apology accepted. Once you get to know Glory, you'll fall in love with her. We all have.”

“I'm sure.”

A few more runners came around the top of the hill, but the one in front was still in the lead. His pace was steady, absolutely even, his shoulders back, head tall. As they stood there, a butterfly fluttered around her face, a mourning cloak butterfly with black and blue wings. Miranda felt it land on her shoulder, and just let it be, thanking it for the blessing of its presence, feeling absolutely connected to everything holy.

And she could see now that it was clearly James. He ran like a gazelle, as if it required no effort, his legs lifting, moving, lifting, moving, his arms pumping, hands loose.

Miranda had never been much for sports, or athletes, until Max, and that had not happened because of his skiing but in spite of it, on the off-season. She had always held a certain scorn for those who ran or cycled, pouring their passion into something so disciplined and unappealing.

But James, running, was one of the most beautiful sights she'd ever seen. As he ran down the mountain, his face a blank mask of concentration, her heart swelled.

“He is a beautiful runner,” her mother said beside her.

Miranda knew the exact moment when James spied her. He still did not break rhythm, just ran steadily, steadily, steadily toward her, his eyes burning. And suddenly, he was running very, very fast. The power surge.

If it wasn't so damned geeky, she would have had tears in her eyes.

An old man waited nearby the ribbon drawn across the finish line, a stopwatch in his hand. A crew of other race coordinators were there, too, cameras and hats and papers in hand. As James crossed the finish, the old man chortled, pumping his fist in the air. “Three hours, thirty-one minutes! New record!”

James slowed to a walk, pacing out, his chest heaving. Sweat coated his chest, back, arms. His hair, slick and black above a red sweatband, was soaked through, and he took two cups of water, pouring one over his head, drinking the other down, still pacing. He raised a hand at Miranda and she, familiar with this part from years of her father's races, waited until he went through his finishing routine. The judges gave him a medal, his picture was taken a dozen times and the crowd was cheering. The old man came over and gave him a hug, and Miranda felt her throat tighten.

“I think that's Peter Bok,” Carol said. “He's famous for winning this race for something like twenty years in a row.”

“Seventeen,” Miranda whispered.

The other racers, a trail of three, then another two, were nearing the last stretch. When they straggled across the finish line, Miranda waited to hear the time: three hours, forty-four minutes. She smiled at James, who was walking toward her, a grin on his angled, exotic face. Before she could say a word, he grabbed her and kissed her, and he smelled of sunlight and good, healthy sweat, and the pheromones in his scent just about knocked her flat. A blistering series of images flashed in her mind as he kissed her, and she didn't pull away, though she giggled at his display. “Eww, ewww, eww!” she said as he let her go. “Man sweat. Cooties.”

He laughed and bent, putting his hands on his knees, stretching his lower back, maybe his hamstrings. “That was some race. Everything just flowed. I'm really pumped just this minute.”

“Congratulations,” she said. “New record. Oooh. That's very sexy.”

He peered at her. “What happened to you?”

“Long story. Tell you later.”

He reached for the scarf around her neck and she grabbed his hand. Hard. “Leave it alone, James.”

His eyes burned. “For now,” he agreed.

Carol offered her hand politely. “Well done,” she said.

“Thank you.” He drank from a bottle of blue sports drink. “Listen, I'm going to go shower and get something to eat. Do you want to wait here, or come with me?”

“I'll stay here and wait to see my dad come through.”

“You have time to go and come back before your father finishes, Miranda. He'll be another hour.”

“I'll wait with you,” she insisted.

James leaned in and gave her another kiss. “Won't take me long and then I need some serious calories, and we can go see what the sheriff has turned up on Renate Franz.”

“It's a deal.”

He raised a hand and walked off toward the hotel, three blocks away. To her mother Miranda said, “
Look
at those legs.”