My imagination, Charlie thought. Everyone's looking at the jewelry, because it's so different with its primitive designs. Even from across the room, Kate's silver and topaz choker was striking against her pearly dress and her silky blond hair. Kate was so beautiful, with the gamin quality of a Meg Ryan or Goldie Hawn, a perky, carefree perfection that Charlie greatly envied.
"What?" Max said. "What are you staring at? Kate? But you are the most beautiful woman in the room."
"You, Captain Harper, are the biggest con artist in the room." She smiled and touched his cheek. "I'm so glad Kate came. She drove clear down from the city for tonight-well, other errands, too. But she planned her time specially for tonight."
"Maybe she plans to buy a drawing or two before her favorites are gone, or maybe to take back for some client- maybe she plans to do a whole interior around a group of your drawings."
"You're such a dreamer. I know she loves San Francisco, but I do hope she moves back to the village-that she rents the other side of our duplex." Charlie had bought the run-down duplex last spring, before they were married, as an investment. Ryan Flannery, her tenant in one apartment, had done considerable repairs in lieu of rent.
"It's your duplex," Max said. "You're grinning. What?"
"I still don't feel like a landlord."
"What does a landlord feel like? Does this take special training? You think you're not mean enough, tough enough?"
She gave him a sly look.
"Tough as boots," Max said. "You don't mind having friends as tenants? With Ryan in the other unit…"
"I love having Ryan there. We haven't disagreed yet. The few improvements… We settle the cost over a cup of coffee. Ryan does the work, I buy the materials. What could be simpler?"
"I married a sensible woman, to say nothing of her beauty."
The biggest improvement so far to the duplex, after the initial painting and cleaning up, had been the backyard fence for Ryan's lovely weimaraner, an addition well worth the money. It was a real plus to have a guard dog on the premises. Ryan's side of the building had already been the scene of a kidnapping, and, just a month ago, the scene of a shocking murder. Such events were not all that common in their small quiet village, but Charlie and Max both hoped the big, well-trained dog would put a stop to any unsettling trend.
The other tenants, in the one-bedroom side, would be leaving in February, four months hence. Charlie wondered if Kate would want to wait that long. She watched Kate and Ryan, and Ryan's sister Hanni, with their heads together laughing. Golden hair and dark, and Hanni's premature and startling white hair. The three young women had started in her direction when they were sidetracked by Marlin Dorriss, who seemed to want to escort them all to the buffet table-Charlie guessed Dillon's mother hadn't accompanied him; the two did not overtly flaunt their relationship.
It was amazing to Charlie that since moving to the village, she had acquired three close woman friends her own age, trusted friends even besides her aunt Wilma. She had never had girlfriends in school, had always been a loner. She hadn't known how comfortable and supportive female friends could be-if they were women who didn't fuss and gossip, who liked to do outdoor things, who liked animals and liked to ride. Women, she thought amused, who preferred an afternoon at the shooting range to shopping. Though Charlie had even begun to enjoy shopping, when she had the spare time.
She could never get over the fact, either, of her sudden success as an animal artist. After giving up a commercial art career at which she had been only mediocre, and moving down to the village to open a cleaning-and-repair service, she had suddenly and without much effort on her part been approached by a gallery that loved her work. Her animal drawings and prints had been warmly accepted in the village and far beyond it, in a way almost too heady to live with. Even Detective Garza, that very discerning gun-dog man, had commissioned her to do his two pointers, and she considered that a true compliment. She watched Garza start through the crowd now, as if to speak to Max; she supposed the detective would take Max away from her.
The square-faced Latino looked very handsome in a pale silk sport coat, dark slacks, white shirt, and dark tie, particularly as she was used to seeing him in an old, worn tweed blazer and jeans. She could see a tiny line of pale skin between his short-trimmed dark hair and his tan.
Easing through the crowd to them, Garza gave her a brief hug and turned his attention to Max. As Max squeezed her hand and moved away with him, Charlie turned toward the curator's desk where Anne Roche, the Doberman woman, had made herself comfortable in one of the two leather chairs.
Anne was a frail, fine-featured woman, cool to the point of austerity. Everything about her spelled money: her glossy auburn hair sleeked into a perfect shoulder-length bob, her creamy complexion and impeccable grooming. Her easy perfection made Charlie uncomfortably aware of her own freckles and kinky, carrot-red mane. Anne was interested in a portrait of her two champion Dobermans. Anne's looks might be intimidating, but her love of animals and her shy smile put Charlie immediately at ease. She spent some time telling Charlie how much she loved her work, particularly the quick action pieces.
"And the cats," Anne said, her brown eyes widening. "Some of your cats look so perceptive they make me shiver. And your foxes and deer and raccoons-so wild and free. Those aren't zoo animals."
Charlie laughed. "I watch them from our porch and from the kitchen windows. We live up in the hills above the village, so there's open land around us. The fox comes almost every night, though we don't feed him."
"Well, he's very fine. I have to say, your work is the best I've seen, and I'm quite familiar with the drawings of Pourtleviet, and of Alice Kitchen. Have you thought of producing a book? A coffee-table book?"
Charlie smiled. "I do have a small project in the works, not a coffee-table book, but with cat drawings."
"I'm glad to hear that. I wish you well with it. When can we get together for some sketches of the dogs? I'd like you to do them on the move, at least for the first work, some of those wonderful quick sketches."
They were discussing a time convenient to them both and were going over Charlie's fees when the waiter who had approached Kate so rudely, and who had eyed Charlie's barrette, started toward the desk with a tray. He was young, maybe thirty, dressed in white jacket, black slacks, and black bow tie. His stark blond hair topped a perfect tan, as if he surfed or played tennis. Maybe a sports bum working as a waiter to support his habit? His handsome, tanned face was closed of any expression, withdrawn and bland. But as he held out his tray of champagne, his look changed to one of surprise.
He crumpled and fell suddenly, dropping the tray, scattering glasses in a spray of champagne, landing hard across Charlie, hurting her leg as she fought to steady him and herself. It happened so fast she couldn't hold him. His weight twisted them both as he slid from her grip to the floor, pulling her with him; she went down in a tangle of sprayed wine and breaking glass.
He lay white and still beneath her. He had made no sound as he fell, no cry of distress or pain. As Charlie untangled herself and felt for a pulse, Max was beside her pulling her away, his lean, lined cop's face frightened, his demeanor stern and quick. "Get back, Charlie. Get away from him. Now."
Charlie struggled up, her gold sheath soaked with wine, and she slid fast behind the desk as Max's officers herded everyone back. Max knelt beside the tall, liveried man feeling for a pulse, feeling the carotid artery, turning back the man's eyelids. Around them the din of voices had stopped as suddenly as if a tape had been turned off, the crowded room so still that the running footsteps of the two officers who had moved to secure the front of the building echoed like thunder. Detective Garza's voice was a shout as he called on the police radio for paramedics. Charlie watched the scene numbly. The client she had been talking with had disappeared into the crowd. As sirens came screaming from a few blocks away, Max performed CPR, and his officers secured the front and back doors. The gallery windows blazed with whirling red lights. Sirens still screamed as two medics pushed through the crowd to crouch over the waiter. As Max rose, the look on his face told her the man was dead.