Vienna (8 page)

“What about Edgemont and Hoorn?”

Pages from a yellowed book shelved in the Cart House's library. “They were members of the Order of the Golden Fleece.” Hand-written ancestry charts hung on the library's gray walls, crowded next to photographs and old drawings and certificates and medals. The clutter scared Vienna until she studied each item and made certain it all fit inside her head.

“What else?”

Vienna found an encyclopedia entry, but it sounded too long for an American's attention span. She moved on. “There is a history of their deaths.”

“This will take a while, Vienna. Let's hear it.”

With newfound perception, Vienna understood that Justine wasn't really interested in the two martyrs. Then why?
Does she want to show the woman I'm not normal?

“Vienna, are you okay?”

“May I have some water?”

“Of course.” Justine filled a paper cone from the shop's watercooler.

Vienna drank it, noting as she did that the woman cutting her hair stopped. She'd forgotten that she needed to be still. And there was the real reason Justine wanted to hear the story.
Do I not move when I read?
Vienna felt rising shame, but refused to show it. Let Justine play her little games.

“Lamoral, Count of Edgemont, and Philip de Montmorency, Count of Hoorn, were executed by order of King Philip II…”

Vienna unfolded the story from memory. Not long in, she looked in the mirror in front of her chair and saw the woman glancing at Justine. Justine's only response was to raise her index finger to her lips. Vienna closed her eyes.

Count Hoorn was commending his spirit to God when the woman told Vienna she needed to open her eyes. Vienna looked into the reflection of a stranger. Her hair was the same brownish-red, but it was so shiny. It hung low on her forehead, swept to the left. From her temples to the back of her head, it fell straight and full and sleek to her shoulders. Like the beautiful pictures she saw in Saint-Hubert. She slowly reached up to touch it.
Feelings of corporeal dislocation are strong indicators of incipient seizures.
So her doctors warned.

“Do you like it?” Justine asked.

“It's pretty, I think.”

“Me too.”

Vienna turned her head from side-to-side, watching her hair catch the light.
Angle of incidence equals angle of reflection …
“How much do I owe you? I have twenty euros and—”

“Already paid,” Justine interrupted. “And don't get comfortable in that chair. We're just getting started.”

They stepped to the sidewalk and Justine gave another address. Vienna found it on her map and turned left. Justine followed without question.

She doesn't know where we're going! I could have gone the other way.

Vienna had always assumed that real lies—significant ones—were something she could never aspire to. That was part of how she was. But now … She detoured three blocks before meandering back almost to where they had started. Justine didn't notice.

She's so stupid.

Uncertain how to use her newfound power, Vienna resumed the correct course. They ended up at a shop that sold nothing but glasses. “Mikli unisex,” Justine said. “Keep it black on the arms, and darker red for the frames.” She requested several more pairs of glasses, creating an embarrassing pile of rejects on the table in front of Vienna. “I like the first pair,” Justine said. “What about you, Vienna?”

“Okay.” The lenses were narrow ellipses that curved slightly around her eyes. The geometry could be approximated in Euclidean space by …

“
Vous avez bon goût,
” said the young man helping them. “We require three days for the prescription.”

“No prescription needed.”

The man bowed slightly. “Then you may take them with you. The total is three hundred and eighteen euros.”

Vienna felt a warm flush spread across her face. “We can't—”

Justine cut her off with a slice of her hand. “You're new here?” she said to the man.

“Oui. This week.”

“You must learn it is distasteful to speak of money in public.” Justine handed the man an American Express card, black with metallic swirls along the edges. It was not nearly as colorful as most cards Vienna had seen, but the man stammered as he took it. “Of course, mademoiselle.”

“Please add twenty percent for your service.”

The man nodded again. “Merci.”

Outside, Justine took Vienna by the arm. “Our studious doll needs a timepiece. She has places to go, cops to outsmart, wars to study. We want classic and quiet. Something less ostentatious from Rolex.”

“But those are expensive.” At least Vienna had heard they were. She had no idea what a Rolex looked like.

“Not for girls who dye their hair neon blue, they aren't.”

Vienna looked away. “I saw the picture they took of you when your hair was like that.”

Justine smiled. “You don't approve?”

“How can you be nude while people take your picture?”

“That shot was taken by Flora Kierse. She is very sweet, on the far side of sixty, and has exactly zero interest in seeing females naked. Unless my gaydar is broken, her assistant has even less. You have to learn what people are after.”

“Okay.”

“Flora Kierse is trying to understand the human condition. Good photographers have that angle: Demarchelier, Biyan, Holt. Flora's fascination comes through in her pictures. It's what makes her a master. ‘The proper study of mankind is man' and all that.”

Vienna saw the words. “Alexander Pope, ‘An Essay on Man.'” She read several sentences. “He published the first part anonymously.”

Justine laughed. “You know it's okay to take Pope's advice.” She nodded toward a knot of people standing at a gallery window. “See the man in the black pants?”

“Yes?”

“He is—as you would say—a poser.”

Vienna looked back to Justine. “How do you mean?”

“Black Versace pants, black tee, and a black belt. Very swank. Did you notice his shoes?”

“No.”

“Light brown,” Justine said. “You don't spend that kind of money on clothes and get it so wrong unless you're a hack.”

That made no sense. “Is this important?”

“Such observations lead to the most intricate puzzles.”

“Puzzles?”

Justine hesitated before continuing. “What was Grant doing in the hotel bathroom when he was murdered?”

Vienna sighed. Why was talking to Justine so futile? “His real name wasn't Grant Eriksson. It was David Andries.”

“He will always be Grant to me. That's all I knew him as.”

Vienna shrugged. “What difference does it make where he was?”

“Our suite at the Cosmopolitan had two bedrooms with attached bathrooms, plus a small kitchen and great room. James told me there was no sign of a struggle; the assumption being that Grant knew his killer. But why was he in my bathroom? People go to kitchens to talk, or maybe the great room.”

“He was running away?”

“That's what the police think, but it doesn't work. Grant was a careful man. Why run to the worst possible room? There was no way out. There wasn't anything there he could use as a weapon.”

“But the bathroom door could be locked.”

“Against a man with a gun? It doesn't take much to break through a bathroom door. Any decently strong man could do it.”

“Maybe he was shot by a woman.”

Justine exhaled. “Not Grant. He would never have run from a woman. Such an ignominious retreat was not in his genes. He may have been shot trying to sweet-talk a woman, but he never would have run.”

“Then he was looking for something?”

Justine shook her head. “There was nothing in the bathroom except what is in every bathroom.”

“Then I don't know.”

Justine shook her head. “Neither do I. It doesn't make sense.”

Vienna shrugged. “Neither does dying your hair blue and being starkers.”

“Starkers?”

“Nude.”

“Ah! Gotta love British slang.”

“But why do it?”

“Because it beats flipping burgers for a living.”

Vienna looked down. “I don't understand you at all.”

“Good. I make my money by keeping them guessing.” She patted Vienna's arm. “Now we have to be careful. This next shop is right next to the Grand Place.”

Since Justine was being so mean, Vienna took another detour. But it all went wrong because in the end it didn't matter if Justine was lost or stupid. The truth was that she was placing her trust in Vienna. No one had ever done that before and Vienna didn't like it because what if she took a detour and they were crossing a street they had no business being on and a speeding car hit Justine and killed her? Even if no one else discovered the truth, God would know.

And now it seemed there was no way it couldn't happen.

Vienna stopped. Her throat tightened below the saliva that flooded her mouth.

“Vienna? Are you okay?”

No words would come.

“Vienna? It's okay. I'm here. Do we need to go back to the hotel?”

“I took a wrong turn.” Not really the whole truth, but maybe enough?

“Are you lost?”

Vienna shook her head.

“Then no harm done. It's a beautiful day for a walk.” Her voice was different somehow.
She knows!

“I promise I won't do it again.”

This time Justine was silent longer. “Vienna, this medieval maze has me completely flipped around. You're faring better than I am.”

“I took a wrong turn on purpose.”

Justine smiled, lifted her hand to Vienna's cheek, and brushed away a tear that Vienna hadn't even noticed. “I don't blame you for taking the long way. I'm excellent company.”

And that was completely wrong and insulting as well. No one would want to be stuck with this boorish American. Vienna swallowed.
Unless they were brain damaged
. Which explained why it suddenly seemed that Justine was right after all.

She trusted me.

Vienna looked from the corner of her eyes and saw that Justine was watching her, a faint smile and no sign of impatience. That was something new, too.

“We need to cross the street and turn left and in two blocks we will be on the right street. But we have to be careful because sometimes people drive too fast.”

“Lead on MacDuff.”

Which wasn't what Macbeth said at all, but Vienna decided she could keep that to herself.

Another shop and Vienna was lost in cases of gold and diamond watches. Justine settled on one with a silver band and a dark blue face that Justine said was steel. It had roman numerals and a modest crown where “XII” should have been. Vienna loved it and since it wasn't covered in diamonds it must have been cheaper.

There were several routes to the next address, which Justine called, “One of those cute European boutiques that sell perfect clothes.”

“Should I take a long way or a short way?” Vienna asked.

“I'm in no hurry.”

Which maybe meant it was okay to take a longer way.

They ended up at a store that had more open space than inventory. Justine gave nonstop instructions in English. “Let's try a black A-Line, below the knees.” And: “We need a belt, not dominatrix gear.” Vienna thought the silk half bra and sheer panties that Justine chose hardly qualified as respectable, but the best option was to accept them without argument and get something over them.

Of course Justine was unhappy with the fit of everything. She ordered a small squad of clerks off with instructions for tailoring. “We only need one outfit to take with us,” she said. “Forward the rest to the Radisson SAS under my name.” The black credit card produced obsequious guarantees.

Vienna walked out wearing a new dress, soft and black. Whatever her underclothes were like, the dress covered everything from her neck to her ankles.

“Why is it you pose nude while I am dressed for mass?”

Justine started to say something, stopped, and then smiled. But it didn't look right. “Just luck, I guess.”

Vienna was certain that made no sense even to Justine. Maybe it was one of those puzzles she had been talking about.

Back near the Radisson, Justine turned through a narrow ally that stank of rancid grease and fermenting fruit. She knocked on a battered door and was waved into the Radisson's kitchen. Up the elevator and into Justine's suite.

Her nasty agent was waiting for them. Vienna imagined him with one of those big, black cowboy hats. “You turned off your cell,” he said. “Want to guess how many calls you missed? And in the unlikely event you had any doubts as to the score, Jordan Farquar flew in from New York last night.”

“Tell him I'll give him ten dollars if he gets his mouth surgically removed. I'll be in the gym.”

“Justine. You have to stop. We need damage control.”

Justine did not turn to face him. “I've followed every word of advice you've given over the last two years. I've been a good client, made you good money.”

“I would never say otherwise, but—”

“But nothing. I am going to do my Pilates. I'll be ready at five o'clock for the press. You have to be happy with that.”

Hargrave shook his head. “This is a mistake.”

“Not the last, and you've said nothing about Vienna.” Which really didn't fit in the conversation at all.

Hargrave turned and gave a small nod to Vienna. “You look nice.”

Silence was the better part of prudence.

“Now, if you could talk sense into Heather, we would all be happy.”

“She hasn't made sense all day.”

“I can see that.”

Justine hissed like air leaking from a tire and walked to the bathroom. She came out a minute later in dark blue sweats. Her shoulder-length hair was gathered in a tight knot off her neck. “I'll be back in an hour. Take care of Vienna.”