Volpe lifted one expressive eyebrow. “No? Sweat socks sound like the essence of Modern Art to me.”
By then their White Russian drinks had arrived and Temple was taking some solace in sipping a cocktail that tasted more like dessert than some Nouveau Cuisine blueberry aspic flan with seaweed garni.
“The key to a robbery,” she said, “is who would want the scepter.”
“It’s a priceless artifact and quite beautiful. Who would not?”
“But what would anyone do with it?”
“There are always the rogue collectors, my dear. I find them fascinating, and am sure that I’ve met a few. They are fabulously rich, their walls are papered with Old Master paintings, and yet you suspect that somewhere in some bank vault of a room they harbor some of the century’s missing masterpieces for their own private delectation, almost like an upscale pornography collection.”
Temple made a face. People like that were true culture vultures, accent on the word “vultures.”
“It is pornography or greed that inspires your obvious distaste?” he asked.
“That kind of greed is pornographic.”
“Nothing I can exercise, in case you’re wondering.” Volpe shook out his French cuffs, displaying his gold-and-malachite cufflinks. “I earn a decent, vulgar salary with consulting positions like this, but I earn my living as a professional guest and ‘interesting person’ on three continents. I could never afford to underwrite a major art theft, much less sit on the monetary results of it. And, as you say, the scepter is too rare and valuable to merely sell.”
By then the salads had come, frills of greens obviously hydroponically grown on Mars. Temple had seen curled dandelion stems (as a child, when that had been a game) that looked more edible. A bowl of dressing with little black specks that looked like nits floating in it sat alongside her plate.
Volpe noticed her dubious summation and called the waiter over. “Russian dressing, if you please.”
“This is the house recipe—”
“And most tasty upon a house, no doubt. But we celebrate all things Russian here.” As the waiter whisked away the offending bowls, Volpe leaned over the table, and said sotto voce, “A bottled mayonnaise–heavy abomination, I foresee, but better than that green mess with the measles.”
Temple laughed. “So. If a spoiled billionaire didn’t order the scepter stolen, who else would want to take it?”
Volpe folded his arthritic yet graceful hands under his chin, resting it on one pointed forefinger. “You think too reverentially, in terms of Great Art, or Great Decoration, in this instance. Have you considered Eastern European politics, my dear? Such a ripe field for treachery. All those barbarous Asian states nestled up against Mother Russia’s far eastern flanks. Terrorists of the Muslim persuasion? Oh, the global ramifications, plus the jewels wrested out of their frame, worth enough to fund any amount of lethal mischief anywhere. Osama bin Laden isn’t made of all the money in the world. An influx of imperial Western wealth would be welcome to aid in its downfall.”
“That would make more sense of Art Deckle’s involvement. Terrorists might recruit someone dubious like him. And terrorists of all stripes now attack Russia, including Muslim Chechen rebels.”
“How history turns. So amusing. I remember when our Russians were rebels against their countrymen. Now, they are besieged from without. ‘Art Deckle,’ by the way! The man had gone utterly show biz. A sad fate for Olga’s brother, once a promising ballet dancer.”
“That would make him adept at upper-air acrobatics, though, the kind necessary to attack the scepter from above.”
“True. But his injury had been devastating: the leg shattered from ankle to thigh. He would have been mad to attempt such a feat.”
Temple nodded. Max could do it. Maybe had done it, who knows? He didn’t seem to be confiding in her anymore. She swallowed a lump of regret, remembered her own torn emotions, tried to think more generously. And who was to say this recent death hadn’t been a tragic accident? Maybe Art-Andrei had been trying to prove to his sister that he still had the chops to perform, if not in this show, in another?
Their entrees arrived while she mused, and she shook off her speculations to find Count Volpe’s dark eyes focused solely on her face.
“You pity that dead man,” he said.
Yes, and all the performers who meant to fly and who are then deprived of that freedom, the Mystifying Max included.
“It must have been a diminished life.”
“And a diminished death. Trapped like a fly in amber in that net of elastic cord. Olga would never admit it, having long ago become the Iron Woman the ballet demands, but she felt the shattering of her brother’s leg long ago in her own imperious limbs. She cannot be as indifferent to his final death here, and now, as she pretends.”
“She pretends?”
“Don’t we all, Miss Ninotchka? We White Russians who . . . decorate . . . this mummer’s show pretend we are content in our remade Western lives, but we ache for the old days we barely remember. We weep to see our people consuming two quarts each of vodka a day, and being known for a gray, laboring life in the shadow of a Kremlin that is scattered and attacked and, sadly, second rate now in world affairs.”
Temple felt for the old woman and her cataclysmic times.
She ached for her own old days that she could so readily remember and wept inside to think of Max trapped and reduced, and herself safe elsewhere. Happy.
The Wrath of Carmen
The house was empty.
Molina slapped her car keys onto the high counter that divided kitchen from living room.
When had Mariah’s schedule gotten tighter, busier, more demanding than hers?
Band practice. Soccer practice. Cheerleader practice. (Boys still dominated basketball, but there was a fledgling girls’ team. Not for Mariah. Too short. Hence, a cheerleader.)
The striped cats, Tabitha and Catarina, came twining around her ankles, mewing, plaintive. They were suffering from Home Alone syndrome too.
Carmen unloaded a couple of cans of cat shish kebob or whatever onto some saucers and put them on the floor. The cats settled down to eat, feet neatly tucked.
That reminded Carmen to kick off her leather loafers, murder in this hot weather, and lift her legs one by one to peel off the knee-highs she wore with them. Sure, Temple Barr could clatter around bare legged on her perky mules or whimsical high-heeled sandals. She was a PR woman in the entertainment industry. Dignity was not a job requirement. Carmen padded barefoot on the cool laminate floor to the fridge to extract a Dos Equis. Kid not home; mom could chill out. As much as mom could ever chill out.
Female homicide lieutenants did not ever want to look bright and breezy. Carmen shook her head. This was a tourist town where the street cops wore summer uniforms of beige Bermuda shorts, but casual was not an option for her.
And that was okay. She wasn’t a casual kind of person. Casual doesn’t cut it working your way up on the force, being a single mother. Aaaiiy!
She sat heavily on the off-beige sofa covered in a wide-woven jute fabric. Fairly cool. The shoes and socks had left welts on her arches and ankles. So had the ankle holster she’d taken off first.
She’d left her guns on top of the eating bar. Mariah wasn’t here. Cats don’t have opposable thumbs to handle firearms. She’d stow them in the bedroom gun safe after she’d cooled off with half a beer.
Condensation dimpled the brown bottle. Dew for the drinking woman. The beer tasted effervescent and stinging.
So. Mariah was off social butterflying. Maybe Larry was off. Carmen felt like some adult company. Tabitha ratcheted up the side of the couch to one arm, then blinked solemn yellow eyes at her. Me? Snag upholstery?
Cats were born hostile witnesses. Mum to the max.