The Shadow of Venus (10 page)

When Pietro returned to the room, they made love with a sad tenderness. Afterward she snuggled beside him and told him the story of George Hogan's betrayal and the fear she thought she had conquered.

“Is that why you have to go home?” he asked her.

“It's just that staying in Italy is too big a step for me right now.”

“I am sorry that man touched you, Clara,” Pietro said, kissing the top of her head. “But it doesn't
matter
to me. I love you. You're not alone in the world. The same thing has happened to other girls I know.”

“Really?” Claire asked.

“Sure. It's always an uncle or a family friend, so the girls don't want anybody to know. But keeping it hidden is poison.”

For years Claire had felt isolated by George Hogan's hands, but Pietro told her she had sisters in other parts of the world. Now she knew there were girls in the sky, as well.

Claire sat up, flipped open the drain, and listened to the water gurgling out of the tub. Girls who'd been abused didn't wear a badge. Anxiety was one obvious clue. So were homelessness and drugs. Claire's buttoned-up attitude was more subtle, but Maia might have seen something that made her think she had a sister.

Claire stepped out of the bath and reached for a towel. A handful of moths flew out, flapping their wings in her face. She shouldn't be surprised by moths anymore, but they still startled her.

******

In the middle of the night she heard the sound of a girl crying. Her father came into her bedroom and sat down on the edge of her bed.

“You were crying,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“No.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Yes.”

“Of what?”

“Everything.”

“I have fears, too,” he confided. “I can't stand to be closed in. I'm afraid of tunnels. I don't even like to be in movie theaters.”

She knew that.

“I'm afraid I've passed my fears on to you.”

“It's not your fault.”

He had come to her room to comfort her, to tell her everyone had problems, even fathers, and she shouldn't be ashamed of or embarrassed by hers. She loved her father, but it didn't comfort her to know that he had fears. It was her chance to tell him about George Hogan, but she couldn't do it. She felt that her father was even more vulnerable than she was. She never told anyone about George Hogan until the night in Venice when she told Pietro. She would always be grateful to him for listening.

Not long ago she had tracked him down in Florence, where he now taught, and contacted him by
E-mail.
When he told her that he was married and his wife was dying of cancer, she felt it was wrong to go on fantasizing about him. There hadn't been any E-mails for months. But she saw now that there was a reason to be in touch that went deeper than dreams and memories of romance. Pietro had opened doors and helped her by listening and telling her she wasn't alone. Now it was her turn to be there for him.

In the morning she typed an E-mail that was brief but full of feeling, a poem in spirit if not in style. By now everybody their age knew death and fear. She couldn't say to him that I am the only one who knows what you are going through, but she could say

Pietro, something happened recently that reminded me of how valuable you were to me when you listened to my story in Venice. You changed my perception of myself, and I will always be grateful to you for that. I know what a difficult time this must be for you. If you need me, remember that I am here.

Now that she had finished it, she didn't know how to end it. She tried variations on the theme of “best”: “all my best,” “best wishes,” “best regards.” None of the “bests” seemed right. She moved on to “yours”: “yours always,” “forever yours.” They weren't right, either. “Cheers?” “Onward?” They were words she used for friends, not former lovers. She settled on “fondly” and clicked the
SEND
button.

Chapter
Twelve

W
HEN SHE GOT TO WORK IN THE MORNING
Claire took a couple of thumbtacks and pinned
Summertime
to her wall in a place where it could easily be seen from her desk. Unlike Celia's office where every surface was covered with weavings, paintings, sculptures, santos, and
milagros,
Claire's still had plenty of white space to fill. Claire sat down at her desk and studied the placement of the picture. She got up to straighten it, then called Celia.

“Can you come to my office? There's something I want to show you.”

“Okay.”

Celia came to the doorway wearing a beige linen dress and a necklace with matching bracelet made of spikes of coral. She spotted the
Summertime
addition immediately. “That's it?”

“Yes,” Claire said.

“Where did it come from?”

“An artist named Lisa Teague paints the homeless at the Hope Central Shelter. The paintings are sold to raise money. You saw the photo of the dead Maia. Could you identify her here?”

“That's easy. Only one of the girls is showing her face. It has to be Maia, no?” Celia walked up close to examine the picture.

“Yes. That's how she asked to be painted, the way she looked when she was twelve years old, dancing in a circle with six other girls. Lisa made me a copy. The painting has been sold.”

“Do you think that someone who only knew the adult Maia could identify her in this painting?”

“It's possible,” Claire said. “She looks much brighter, livelier, and younger here, but the bone structure and the hair are the same. The Downtown Gallery had an exhibit of Lisa's paintings and this one was in the window. A woman walked in off the street and paid twenty-five hundred dollars cash the Thursday before Memorial Day. It makes me wonder if she knew Maia and recognized her. If she knew the story of the seven sisters.”

“You'd better tell that to Detective Owen. We need to find out who Maia was and who let her into the basement. Harrison has been on my case about it. In his opinion it's my fault that she got into the storage room.”

“That's not fair. You have to give a code to everyone who works and studies here. It's not your job to police the department.”

“You know as well as I do that Harrison is not fair. He has too much tenure, too much seniority,
and
far too much ego to be fair.”

“True.”

“It's a beautiful picture,” Celia said. “It looks good in here.”

She left the office without saying, “It's about time you put some artwork on your wall,” but Claire suspected she was thinking it.

Claire sent Lawton Davis an E-mail telling him she had a picture of Maia she wanted to show him. Then she went to the Anderson Reading Room and began to search the illustrated expedition books. With trepidation she opened
Incidents of Travel in Central America, Chiapas and Yucatan
by John Lloyd Stephens with illustrations by Frederick Catherwood. It was a book she dearly loved. It was a good omen that every one of Catherwood' s classic drawings of the Mayan ruins was in place. As she went though the Stephen Long expedition illustrations by Titian Ramsay Peale and the
Journals of the Wilkes Expedition
and found every illustration exactly where it was supposed to be, her anxiety began to fade. The deeper she got into the task, the more she could enjoy the beauty of the expedition illustrations. By late afternoon when the last book had been put back in its place on the shelf still intact, she was close to believing that Maia had not been systematically looting the library and trading the illustrations for drugs, that there had to have been another reason for taking Spiral Rocks.

She went back to her office and called Detective Owen, watching the girls dance across her wall while she dialed the number.

“And how are you?” Detective Owen asked.

“Good. And you?”

“Busy,” Detective Owen said. Claire had heard on the news about a murder-suicide in the South Valley and wondered if Owen was involved in the investigation.

“I won't take up much of your time,” she said. “I went through all the expedition books today, and I didn't find a single missing illustration.”

“Good,” Owen said.

“It could be that Maia had a reason to take Spiral Rocks, and that's the only illustration she took.” Claire told Owen about Lisa Teague and
Summertime
and asked if she would like to come by to see her copy of the painting.

“I won't be able to do it today,” Owen said. “Could you fax me a copy?”

“Sure,” Claire said. “The original of the painting was in the window of the Downtown Gallery in a show of Lisa Teague's paintings to benefit the Hope Central Shelter. Linda Butler, who works at the gallery, told me that a woman saw the painting in the window, said she had to have it, and paid twenty-five hundred dollars cash.”

“When was that?”

“The
Thursday before Memorial Day.”

“We'll check it out,” Detective Owen said. “Thanks for your help.”

Claire faxed the picture to Owen. Then she tried Edward Girard's number again and was surprised when a woman answered.

“I'm Jennifer Rule, Edward Girard's publicist,” the woman said. “Can I help?” She had a rapid-fire, I-have-too-much-to-do way of speaking as if she had about thirty seconds for Claire.

“I'm interested in Edward Girard's work,” Claire said. “I'd like to come to the Spiral Rocks opening.”

“Come, then,” Jennifer replied. “It's this Saturday. Everyone's welcome. Be sure you get here before sunset in time to watch the moon rise. We have a place to camp on the property. Bring your sleeping bag if you want to spend the night.”

After Claire hung up, she sat looking at her books-with-wings screen saver and thinking about who she could ask to accompany her. Celia was her first choice, but she knew Celia and her husband had plans to go to a wedding in California this weekend. She tried her friend the bookseller, John Harlan.

“Damn,” he said. “I'd love to go, but I have to work.”

She called her friend Madelyn in Tucson, who also had plans. It was one of the rare occasions when Claire wished she still had a husband, a companion who'd accompany her to every movie she wanted to see and drop whatever he was doing for a quick trip to Spiral Rocks. But she reminded herself that when she did have a husband, he wasn't that companion. She and Evan never took spur-of-the-moment trips anywhere. Every excursion was mapped out and planned in advance. Even the music they played in the car was chosen by Evan. Whenever they went to the movies it was a movie he wanted to see.

There was a knock at the door and she looked up to see Lawton Davis's shy smile. “Am I interrupting?” he asked. “You look like you're deep in thought.”

“Come in. I just got an invitation from Edward Girard's publicist to the opening at Spiral Rocks. I'm debating whether to go.”

“Of course you should go,” Lawton said. “It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. When is it?”

“Saturday night,” Claire hesitated, then said, “The invitation wasn't just for me. Anybody can go. Girard's publicist said, ‘Everyone's welcome.' ” The thought that Lawton Davis would be a fun companion was rising to the surface. He knew so much about astronomy. His enthusiasm made him a pleasure to be with.

He sighed. “Unfortunately I can't do it. I have family commitments this weekend, but you must go and tell me all about it. Promise?”

“Promise,” Claire said.

“Is
that the picture of Maia?” He looked at the wall.

“Yes.” Claire gave him one of the copies she'd made. “A woman named Lisa Teague paints the homeless for the Hope Central Shelter. The Downtown Gallery sells the paintings and the money goes to the shelter. This is a copy of a portrait Lisa painted of Maia.”

“It's lovely,” Lawton said. “I'm sure you noticed that the seven girls dancing mirror the seven stars in Pleiades.”

“Maia asked to be painted that way, but she didn't tell Lisa why. We don't know for sure that she was familiar with the myth.”

Lawton studied the image. “Of course she was. The name is more than a coincidence.”

“Do you recognize her?”

“She looks very young in this picture, younger than anyone I would have in a class unless she was a child prodigy. Child prodigies I remember.”

“She wanted to be painted as she looked when she was twelve years old.”

“Even if I try to age her mentally by several years I do not remember this woman.” Lawton turned away from the picture and focused on Claire. “So it's up to you to go to Spiral Rocks or wherever necessary to find out who she is and why she died with that illustration by her side.”

“Well, actually, it's up to the police,” Claire corrected him.

“Ah, but are they willing to go all the way to Spiral Rocks? Besides, they don't have the resources of the University at their disposal and you do. They haven't even been to see
me
yet.”

“I gave Detective Owen your name. The police department has murders to solve. For them Maia is just another unidentified overdose.”

“But not for you.”

“Not for me,” Claire agreed. “I've gone through all the illustrated expedition books now, plus all the astronomy books. The only missing illustration I've found is Spiral Rocks.”

“Then you must go. The experience will be unforgettable. And when you get back, tell me all about it.”

“I will,” Claire promised.

******

Lawton had given Claire a mandate. Considering the importance of the occasion, she knew she had to go. Her truck had a camper shell. She could sleep in it if she stayed too late to drive to the nearest motel. Since Spiral Rocks was in a remote corner of southern Colorado, the nearest motel could be fifty miles away. Claire debated what one wore to the opening of a celestial artist's archeoastronomical site. Jeans would be comfortable for the drive, especially her favorite Levi's 501s, but something fancier
might
be better for the festivities. An outdoor, full moon celebration was likely to bring out the sixties in people—if there was any sixties left in people. Her daughter, Robin, used to wear Claire's sixties clothes to costume parties, but since Robin had grown up those clothes had vanished. They might even be walking down the street on the back of a homeless person. They were unlikely to fit anymore, anyway—the sixties were Claire's skinny days. She went to her closet and picked out a long skirt and a crocheted top.