Her hidden life, the memories of her marriage, seemed to be very near the surface, boiling cold behind her smooth dark face.

Remembering what Paola had once told me, I asked her bluntly, “Was he homosexual?”

“Bi,” she said. “I don’t believe he had much to do with men while I was married to him. But he always loved the company of young men, including his high school boys when he was a teacher. It wasn’t a bad thing entirely. He loved to teach.

“He taught me a lot, too,” she added thoughtfully. “The most important thing, he taught me to speak correct English. That changed my life. But something went wrong with his life. Maybe it was me. He couldn’t handle me.” She moved her body impatiently from the waist down. “He always said it was my fault that his life went off the track. Maybe it was.”

She lowered her head and clenched her fists. “I used to have a bad temper. I used to fight him hard, physically. I used to love him, too, very much. Paul didn’t really love me. At least not after I became his wife and stopped being his pupil.”

“Who did he love?”

She thought about the question. “Paola. He really loved Paola—not that it did her much good. And he loved some of his students.”

“Does that include Richard Chantry?”

Her black gaze turned inward toward the past. She nodded almost imperceptibly. “Yes, he loved Richard Chantry.”

“Were they lovers in the technical sense?”

“I think they were. Young Mrs. Chantry thought so. In fact, she was considering divorce.”

“How do you know?”

“After Paul moved in with them, she came to me. She wanted me to break up their relationship, at least that was the way she put it to me. I think now she was trying to use me as a witness against her husband, in case it came to divorce. I told her nothing.”

“Where did the conversation take place, Mrs. Grimes?”

“Right here in the shop.”

She tapped the floor with her toe, and her whole body moved. She was one of those women whose sex had aged into artiness but might still flare up if given provocation. I kept my own feet still.

“What year did you have that talk with Mrs. Chantry?”

“It must have been 1943, the early summer of ‘43. We’d only just opened this shop. Paul had borrowed quite a lot of money from Richard to fix the place up and stock it. The money was supposed to be an advance on further art lessons. But Richard never got his money’s worth. He and his wife moved to California before the summer was out.” She let out a snort of laughter so explosive that it jangled her beads. “That was a desperation move if I ever saw one.”

“Why do you say so?”

“I’m absolutely certain it was her idea. She pushed it through in a hurry, practically overnight—anything to get Richard out of the state and away from my husband’s influence. I was glad to see the twosome broken up myself.” She raised her spread hands and lifted her shoulders in a large gesture of relief, then let them slump.

“But they both ended up in Santa Teresa, after all,” I said. “I wonder why. And why did your ex-husband and Paola go to Santa Teresa this year?”

She repeated the gesture with her arms and shoulders, but this time it seemed to mean that she didn’t have any answers. “I didn’t know they were going there. They didn’t tell me. They just went.”

“Do you think Richard Chantry had anything to do with it?”

“Anything is possible, I guess. But it’s my opinion—it has been for a long time—that Richard Chantry is dead.”

“Murdered?”

“It could be. It happens to homosexuals—bisexuals—whatever he is or was. I see a lot of them in this business. Some of them go in for the rough trade almost as if they wanted to be killed. Or they wander away by themselves and commit suicide. That may be what Richard Chantry did. On the other hand, he may have found a soul mate and is living happily ever after in Algiers or Tahiti.”

She smiled without warmth but so broadly that I could see that one of her molars was missing. Both physically and emotionally, I thought, she was a bit dilapidated.

“Did your ex-husband go for the rough trade?”

“He may have. He spent three years in federal prison—did you know that? He was a heroin addict on top of everything else.”

“So I was told. But I heard he’d kicked the habit.”

She didn’t answer my implied question, and I didn’t put it to her more directly. Grimes hadn’t died of heroin or any other drug. He had been beaten to death, like William Mead.

I said, “Did you know Richard Chantry’s half brother William?”

“Yes. I knew him through his mother, Mildred Mead. She was a famous model in these parts.” She narrowed her eyes as if she had remembered something puzzling. “You know, she’s gone to California, too.”

“Where in California?”

“Santa Teresa. She sent me a card from there.”

“Did she mention Jack Biemeyer? He lives in Santa Teresa.”

She knitted her black brows. “I don’t think so. I don’t think she mentioned anybody by name.”

“Are she and Biemeyer still friends?”

“I doubt it. As you probably know, he inherited Mildred from old Felix Chantry. He stashed her in a house in the mountains and lived with her for years. But I think he broke off with her long before he retired. Mildred was quite a lot older than Jack Biemeyer. For a long time she didn’t show her age, but she’s feeling it now. She made that clear in the card she sent me.”

“Did she give you her address?”

“She was staying in a motel in Santa Teresa. She said she was looking for a more permanent place.”

“Which motel?”

Her face went vague in thought. “I’m afraid I don’t remember. But it’s on the front of the card. I’ll see if I can find it.”

^chapter

24

She went to her office in the back of the store and returned brandishing a postcard. On the front was a colored picture of Siesta Village, which was one of the newer waterfront motels in Santa Teresa. A shaky hand had written on the back, beside Juanita Grimes’s name and address in Copper City:

Dear Nita:

Am staying here temporarily till I find a better place. The foggy whether does not agree with me, in fact am not feeling too well. The Calif, climate is not what its cracked up to be. Don’t quote me but am looking for a nursing home where I can stay temporarily and get back on my feet. Not to worry—I have friends here.

Mildred

I handed the card back to Mrs. Grimes. “It sounds as if Mildred’s in some trouble.”

She shook her head, perhaps not so much in denial as in resistance to the thought. “She may be. It isn’t like Mildred to complain about her health. She’s always been a hardy soul. She must be over seventy by now.”

“When did you get this card from her?”

“A couple of months ago. I wrote her an answer and sent it to the motel, but I haven’t heard from her since.”

“Do you know who her friends in Santa Teresa are?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. Mildred was pretty close-mouthed about her friends. She lived a very full life, to put it mildly. But old age finally caught up with her.” She looked down along the slopes of her own body. “Mildred had a lot of trouble in her time. She didn’t go out of her way to avoid it, either. She’s always had more guts than she could use.”

“Were you close to Mildred?”

“As close as any other woman in town. She wasn’t—she isn’t a woman’s woman. She’s a man’s woman who never married.”

“So I gather. Wasn’t William an illegitimate son?”

Mrs. Grimes nodded. “She had a long love affair with Felix Chantry, the man who developed the copper mine. William was his son.”

“How well did you know William, Mrs. Grimes?”

“Paul and I saw quite a lot of him. He was a budding painter, too, before the army took him. Paul thought he had more potential talent than his brother Richard. He didn’t live to develop it. He was murdered by an unknown hand in the summer of ’43.”