The Stolen Blue Page 9

  She unfolded the paper, a photocopy of a birth certificate stating Mariah’s date of birth as March 3, 1971. The place of birth was Tucson. The mother’s name was Kathleen Geraty, and the father was listed as Burke P. Lovell.

  “Did Burke see this?” Claire asked.

  “Yes. I showed it to him as soon as I got here. He was surprised, but very happy I had come.”

  “What happened between your mother and Burke?”

  “I don’t know. My mother would never talk about it and neither would Burke. She took me to California right after I was born. I didn’t know who my father was until she told me just before she died. She wanted me to come back here and live on the ranch. She loved it here, and she knew I would, too. She said I had this place in my blood.”

  “Samantha told me you wouldn’t take a DNA test.”

  “Why should I have to take a test?” Mariah’s temper flared. Claire saw more of the Irish mother in her at that point than Burke Lovell. “Samantha is inheriting property, too, and no one is asking her to take a DNA test. How do we know that she is Burke’s daughter?”

  “Can I keep this?” Claire indicated the birth certificate.

  Mariah nodded. “I have a copy.”

  “The one document I couldn’t find in Burke’s papers was the deed to the ranch. Do you have any idea where he kept it? I think if he had a safe deposit box, I would have found a key somewhere/’

  “I don’t know,” Mariah said.

  “I’ve made an offer to the rest of the family that I’d like to make to you. Is there anything you want from Burke’s book collection?”

  “A personal history of one of the pioneer women.”

  “How about Susan McGoffin?”

  “That would be great.”

  “I put some of my favorite books in a separate box, and it was stolen from my truck after I got back to the library.” Claire watched Mariah to see what kind of a reaction this statement would get. Mariah’s porcelain skin, which responded to every change in atmosphere, showed no sign of emotion.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “Is there any way to get them back?”

  “I’m trying.”

  “How?” Her eyes danced with curiosity.

  “By talking to people I know in the trade.” It was as much as Claire was willing to reveal.

  Mariah yawned. “Anything else? Riding Burr all afternoon makes me want to go to bed early.”

  “That’s all,” Claire said.

  Mariah went to bed, but Claire sat in her chair, staring at the flames until the fire burned out.

  ******

  She went to bed in the downstairs guest room and woke up in the middle of the night, for she had to go to the bathroom. The room was freezing cold, so she stayed under the warm covers, hoping the urge would go away. It didn’t, and when she could wait no longer, she got out of bed and padded down the hallway in her stocking feet. The bathroom door was open a crack, and the light was on reaching out across the hallway floor. This was the bathroom that Burke had used. Claire felt like she was in a dream and that if she looked through the crack, she would see Burke inside. She remembered how after her father had died, he appeared over and over in her dreams, trying to tell her something she could never understand.

  You’re being stupid, she said to herself. You were in here earlier. You must have left the light on before you went to bed.

  Before she pushed the door open any farther, she looked through the crack and saw Corinne wearing a long flannel nightgown, standing beside the sink, hunched over it like an old woman. The sleeves of the nightgown were pushed up above her elbows. Corinne held a razor blade in her hand, and with a quick sharp motion made nicks in her forearm. Blood oozed from the wounds. Corinne was absorbed in the cutting and showed no signs of feeling any pain or of hearing Claire. The floor was littered with wads of bloody toilet paper.

  Claire stopped breathing as she witnessed this act as private as masturbation, as terrifying as suicide. She feared that if she startled Corinne, the razor would slip, the cut would go deeper, and the blood would spurt from her arm. She also feared the effect of discovery on Corinne’s mental state. If she walked away, Corinne might slit her wrists, but Claire didn’t believe that was what cutters did. She knew it as an act of self-mutilation from which the perpetrator drew a twisted sense of control and an adrenaline rush that blocked the pain.

  She stepped quietly across the hall into Burke’s room, where she waited behind the door listening for Corinne to fall down or cry out. For a while there was silence and then the sound of water running and the toilet flushing. The light went out, and Claire heard Corinne walk down the hallway. She waited several minutes to give her time to go back to bed, then Claire entered the bathroom, shutting the door before turning on the light. The bathroom was sparkling clean, and there was no sign that anyone had been in here spilling her own blood. Corinne had cleaned up after herself and flushed the evidence down the toilet.

  Claire went to the bathroom, then returned to bed but not to sleep. The scene she had witnessed held her with the force of a nightmare. She tried putting it in some kind of rational perspective. Corinne felt unloved and rejected by her father, scorned by others. The father had been too powerful and too feared for Corinne to express her resentment toward him, so she got in the habit of taking it out on herself. Claire spent hours chasing those thoughts around the bed.

  She fell asleep finally, and at daybreak woke up to the smell of coffee. She dressed and went into the kitchen, where Corinne was standing at the stove with the sleeves of her nightgown pulled down to her wrists. “Good morning.” she said, seeming wan but rested.

  Claire supposed the cutting had been cathartic, and Corinne had slept deeply afterward, but witnessing it had left her feeling ragged. “Good morning,” she answered. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table.

  “You know, Corinne, I felt depressed after my father died, and I went to a therapist in Tucson. I could give her your name if you ever feel you want to talk to somebody.” Claire felt that to go any further might shatter the glass house of Corinne’s privacy. Or was it the glass house of her own reserve?

  “I don’t want to talk to anybody,” Corinne said, turning her back and stirring the hash browns on the stove.

  “She was a big help to me,” Claire said.

  Corinne shook her head and kept on stirring.

  Through the window Claire saw Jed walking by. “Does Jed drink coffee?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How does he like it?”

  “Black.”

  “I’ll take him a cup.”

  Claire poured a coffee for Jed, took a couple of quick swallows from her own mug, and went outside hoping the cold air would clear the cobwebs from her head.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Jed said when she handed him the coffee.

  “Can we talk?”

  “Sure.”

  They walked to the end of the porch where a couple of idle rocking chairs waited, and sat down.

  “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” Jed asked.

  Mist rose from the gurgling river. A raven squawked and flew overhead. The air was fresh and cold. “It is,” Claire agreed.

  “Pleasure to be here on a day like this.”

  “You love this place, don’t you?”

  “Sure do.”

  “I wonder if you could help me with something.”

  “I’ll try.” Jed sipped at his coffee and stared at the river. He hadn’t looked directly at Claire yet, which she attributed to shyness.

  “Samantha tells me that the rest of the family is unhappy that Burke left Mariah the ranch.”

  “They’re busy in Santa Fe and Phoenix. They never spend any time here.” Jed kept his eyes on the middle distance. “But Mariah loves this place. She’s a strong woman—the only one who’s not afraid to ride Burr.”

  “And Corinne?”

  “I don’t know. It’s hard to tell what moves Corinne. I think
she’d sooner live here than any place else. The rest of the world scares her. But that’s not the same as loving the place.”

  “You witnessed Burke’s signature. Do you think he was incompetent or under the influence when he signed the will?”

  “No, ma’am. I think he knew what he was doing. He wanted Mariah to have the ranch.” Jed finished his coffee, put the mug down on the wooden boards of the porch, and squirmed in his rocking chair like a child getting ready to ask, “Can I go now?”

  “You want to get back to work?”

  He nodded.

  “Thanks for your help.”

  “Glad to do it,” he said, springing out of the chair. The rocker continued to rock while he hopped down the stairs, loped across the yard, and disappeared into the barn. Claire steadied his chair with her hand and got up carefully, leaving her rocker standing still.

  She went back to Burke’s office and gathered up the papers she thought she’d need. She’d been through the papers, she’d talked to Corinne, Mariah, and Jed. There was no reason to stay except to help Corinne, and Claire didn’t know how she could. When she went to the kitchen, Corinne was sitting at the table with Mariah, helping Eric eat his cereal.

  “Mariah,” she said, “could you help me with something in the office?”

  “Okay,” Mariah got up and followed her.

  “I’m worried about Corinne,” Claire said when they were safely away from the kitchen. “Does she seem all right to you?”

  “She’s been down about Burke’s death—we all have—but I think she’s coping.”

  “Does she ever leave the ranch?”

  “She has a friend in Reserve. She goes up there sometimes and spends the night.”

  “Keep an eye on her for me, will you? Let me know if she seems to be getting more depressed.”

  “All right.”

  ******

  Claire’s truck pulled her out of the Blue and back to the highway. At one point she looked down into the valley and saw Burr pacing his corral. The road to Albuquerque seemed full of obstacles. Ravens picked at the bones of a coyote in the middle of Route 180. North of Quemado, cattle that were being herded from one end of a ranch to another forced the truck to a standstill while they swarmed around her like water. Construction brought traffic to a halt on the Rio Grande Bridge. In her weariness she saw the orange barrels that marked the lanes with an hallucinatory intensity.

  Chapter Seven

  WHEN SHE GOT HOME, CLAIRE CHECKED THE MAIL and the call-screening box, let the cat out, and logged onto America Online. There were twenty messages. Sherry@hotmail.com promised, “You won’t regret it cum and see.” Steve@aol offered, “Health, Financial Freedom, and Free Cars.” Earl@Rte66.com said, “Turn your washing machine into a cash cow.” There was nothing here that made Claire want to read any further. A smiling face had not responded to her frown. No one was offering to sell her The Brave Cowboy. She deleted all her messages without opening any of them, and spent the rest of the weekend practicing tai chi, reading, and watching figure skating on TV.

  On Monday morning before work, she called Tamara Hess, the therapist she knew in Tucson, to ask her advice about Corinne. “Cutting doesn’t usually lead to attempted suicide or violence against others,” Tamara said. “There are people who have been doing it for thirty years. They have to keep going deeper and deeper, and eventually they can sever an artery or a vein. She needs help. Can you get her to come in to see me or someone close to where she lives?”

  “I don’t know if there is anyone closer,” Claire said. “She lives in the Blue.”

  “Maybe not.” Tamara agreed.

  “Should I have intervened? It seemed to be such a private act.”

  “Cutters are deep in denial. Sometimes they let their wounds fester until they smell. She might resent interference from an outsider, but what about the family?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Claire replied, but she wasn’t optimistic; everyone else in the Lovell family seemed mired in their own problems.

  ******

  When she got to her desk at the library, she found a voice mail from Walter Massey. She was debating whether to call him back, when Ruth poked her head through the door to ask how the investigation was going.

  “Nothing new,” Claire said.

  “If the books don’t turn up soon,” Ruth said with a laugh, “we’ll have to send out the posse.”

  “Is Harrison getting anxious?” In her job Ruth had to deal with Harrison on a daily basis, whereas Claire was able to keep her distance.

  “He’d be happier if the books were back in the library.”

  “So would I.”

  Ruth tipped her head to the side, a sign she was about to ask a question. “Where did you get the window of your truck fixed?”

  “At the Chevy dealer.”

  “Did they do a good job?”

  “Yes, and their courtesy van brought me back and forth to work. Why?”

  “Gail wrecked her car last year. Since then she’s been having problems with it that no one has been able to fix. I had to give her a ride to work this morning.”

  “She doesn’t have a Chevy, does she?” Claire remembered Gail’s car as being a small brown hatchback scarred by scratches, pockmarked by dings.

  “No, a Honda.”

  “She ought to take it to the Honda dealer.”

  “I think she owes them money.”

  The comment surprised Claire, since she was convinced Gail made more money than she did, and she never had any problems taking care of her truck. “Didn’t she have insurance?”

  “It was an older car; she’d let the collision insurance lapse.” Ruth looked at her watch. “I have a meeting,” she said. “Gotta run.”

  “Talk to you later,” replied Claire.

  She watched Huckleberry Finn and Portrait of a Lady sprout wings and fly across her computer screen while she called Walter Massey, who wanted to make a date for lunch.

  “I have my own lawyer, and she’ll probably want to come along,” Claire replied.

  “Who is it?”

  “Sally Froelich.”

  “Oh, sure. I know Sally. She and I go way back.”

  “So she said.”

  “You name the time and the place.”

  “How about Thursday at noon at the Artichoke Café?” It was a restaurant Claire liked that was located right across the street from a public library devoted to genealogy, one of her favorite places in Albuquerque.

  “See you there,” Massey said.

  ******

  On Thursday morning, Sally called to say something had come up that would require her presence in court all day and she’d have to cancel the lunch date.

  “Should I go without you?” Claire asked.

  “It’s up to you. I think you can handle Massey, and it might be interesting to hear what he wants. He’s liable to be more forthcoming if I’m not there. When two lawyers get together, sometimes all you get is legalese.”

  “All right,” said Claire, thinking it would be good to get the meeting over with.

  “Don’t reveal any secrets or make any promises.”

  “I won’t,” Claire said.

  ******

  The Artichoke Café turned out to be a good choice; Massey was obviously uncomfortable there. Claire supposed he would have been more at home at the Petroleum Club or the Black Angus Steak House. After a few minutes with Massey, Claire began to relish seeing him uncomfortable. The Artichoke Café was a small restaurant with tables squeezed close together, and Walter Massey was a big man. He stood over six feet tall and weighed at least two hundred pounds. His suit might have been expensive, but to Claire it looked sleazy, and she wasn’t impressed by the size of the diamond in his ring. She sat on a banquette in the corner, and he sat across from her in a chair that was too small for him. While they ate, he shifted his weight from one corner of the chair to another, as if the legs were uneven and he couldn’t keep his balance.

  “What is it you
do at Zimmerman Library?” he asked.

  “I’m in charge of collection development.”

  “Oh?”

  “I buy books for the Center for Southwest Research.”

  “I graduated from UNM.”

  “Did you?”

  The waitress delivered a basket of bread and took their order. “Burke Lovell must have thought well of you to make you his personal representative.” Massey tore the end off the loaf of bread and bit into it.

  “We were friends for a long time,” Claire replied.

  “Settling an estate is a big job.”

  “Sally helps.”

  “I’m sorry she couldn’t join us.”

  When the food arrived, Massey looked at his plate and commented, “I like my meat with a little more char on it than that,” but he ate it anyway. He had ordered lamb, the only red meat on the menu. As he cut into it, bloody juice spread across his plate, staining his mashed potatoes pink. He finished first and leaned back in his chair thinking, Claire suspected as she ate her pasta, of a big, fat cigar, but this was a smoke-free restaurant. As soon as she put her fork down, he began to question her. “Were you present when Lovell signed the will?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have information that he was incapacitated at the time.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “No?” Massey leaned across his plate, hunching up his broad shoulders like a vulture picking over a carcass.

  “No.”

  “I have a sworn affidavit from the nurse Kassandra Wells saying that Lovell was stumbling and slurring his words.”

  “How did you get her to say that?”

  “She volunteered.”

  The waitress came around offering a dessert cart and coffee. Massey took a cherry tart, but Claire had lost her appetite.

  “My clients also don’t believe that Mariah is Burke’s daughter.”

  “He believed she was. She believes she is.”

  “Can she prove it?”

  “She has a birth certificate.”

  Massey’s tart left a cherry stain at the edge of his mouth. Claire was tempted to lift her napkin and wipe it off. “A birth certificate can be faked. A DNA test would prove or disprove paternity without a doubt.”