Winifred might have invited her to live in the old place while she worked on the Quintrell history, yet Carly had the uneasy feeling that everyone else would rather she went home.
When she'd arrived, the guest quarters weren't fit for a rat-which according to one of the maids, the ranch had plenty of. Winifred had been furious about the state of the guest quarters because "everyone knew" Carly was coming today. Rather than being apologetic about the oversight, the maids were surly, saying they hadn't been warned that the guest was coming a month early. Carly had overheard the maids talking flawless English with Winifred, but when it came to the forgotten guest, the language of the day was Spanish.
Carly had started to respond in kind, then decided she could play the yo no comprendo game. So if Carly lacked something in the guest quarters-toilet paper for instance-she went to the main house and got it or asked Winifred to tell the maids what was needed. It was cumbersome, but worked well enough once Carly understood the game. The towels and sheets she'd requested were even clean, if old enough to vote.
Besides, eavesdropping on the blond hispana maid and her buddy was just another way to fill in the gaps of the local story. At least Carly hoped it would be. The tirades and weeping about Alma's no-good ex-felon boyfriend were better suited to TV daytime drama than the Quintrell family history.
The door leading into the entrance hall of the guest house from the courtyard didn't respond to Carly's key. She tried again, eyed the sagging doorframe, and gave the door a judicious thump just below the lock. The door opened obediently.
Wonder if the same trick would work on the maids.
Smiling slightly, Carly pulled the door shut behind herself, discovered that the lock was broken, not stubborn, and shrugged. The old house wasn't exactly a magnet for visitors or thieves.
The front gallery was well rubbed and clean beneath the dust, telling Carly that the neglect was relatively recent.
"Wonder if the hired help used the Senator's illness to slack off," she said into the microphone. "I'm getting the feeling that Winifred doesn't have much clout around here. That could be a problem. If the living aren't willing to cooperate, I'll be stuck with photos and newspaper files and such. Oh well. Won't be the first time."
Unlike the other doors in the house, the openings leading into the outer world made a grand statement-huge double doors with a beautiful handmade wrought-iron bar thrown across the eight-foot width to secure the opening. The bar's grip was worn smooth by the countless times someone had grabbed it and moved it aside. The lock on the front doors was ancient and worked better than any modern lock in the house. The big skeleton key she'd been given turned easily and smoothly in the lock.
Carly hesitated, then shrugged and locked the door again behind her. Wind swept down from the cloud-shrouded peaks. She pulled her wool jacket more closely around her. The weaving was from the town of Chimayo, a place renowned for the quality of its wool garments.
Bright, distinctive Southwest designs covered the jacket. The wool was thick and heavy, but no longer stiff. She'd worn the jacket for years and would wear it for years more. Chimayo weavings were made for the long run by people who understood the climate of northern New Mexico and southern Colorado.
The new house was a few hundred feet away. If dead or dormant plants were any indication, the pathway between the houses wound through a kitchen garden, a rose garden, and a family orchard. At the moment, everything that wasn't white with snow was brown and ragged.
"Note: Ask Winifred for photos and/or memories of the garden in spring and summer and fall. In the right seasons, it must have been a favorite place for parties and quiet breakfasts."
Carly ducked her head against the wind and moved as quickly as she dared with ice hiding under some patches of snow. Her shoes were sleek and leather and totally wrong for the outdoors at seven thousand feet in the winter. When she was more familiar with the intimidating Miss-not Ms.-Winifred, Carly would wear more casual shoes. Until then, it was leather shoes and wool slacks and cashmere turtlenecks under one of the three jackets she'd brought.
The new house had a sweeping modern design with a wall of triple-paned glass facing the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, which rose almost seven thousand feet above the Taos TypeValley floor. The layout of the house suggested a boomerang with the outer edge made of glass and the inner edge enclosing two sides of the patio with its zero-edge pool shimmering with concealed lights. Off to one side, connected by a glassed-in walkway, was an apartment once used by visiting dignitaries and now home to Pete and Melissa Moore.
"Interesting," Carly murmured into the microphone. "Most people cover their pools in winter. Wonder if there's a story behind that, or if it's just an oversight because of the Senator's long decline."
The shorter side of the boomerang enclosed Miss Winifred's suite and the specialized accommodations for her sister, Sylvia Quintrell, the Senator's widow. Not that Sylvia knew she was a widow. She hadn't spoken to anyone or otherwise acknowledged her surroundings since the 1960s.
"Note: See if there are any movies or videos of Mrs. Quintrell before her illness."
Carly crossed the patio, skirted the pool, and arrived at Winifred's door on a blast of wind that rocked her. She lifted the antique knocker-an upside-down horseshoe, to hold all the luck inside-and rapped three times.
No sound came from inside the house.
She waited, shivering in the wind. She'd decided to knock again, harder, when the door opened. Alma's angular, aloof face appeared in the narrow opening. The maid didn't say a word.
"Miss Winifred is expecting me," Carly said.
Alma hesitated just long enough to make Carly angry before she stepped out of the way and grudgingly allowed the guest inside. Alma looked mussed and irritated, as though she'd been interrupted in the middle of some important task.
"You'd be much more attractive if you'd smile," Carly said pleasantly in the language Alma acted as if she didn't understand. "Perhaps if you smiled more, you'd be married."
Alma's eyes narrowed slightly, telling Carly what she already knew: the maid understood English quite well.
"But not all women are suited for marriage, are they?" Carly continued in the same friendly voice. "Though it's a pity you don't have Miss Winifred's resources. Being a housemaid at seventy sounds quite bleak." Carly's sympathetic smile was all teeth.
Alma was forced to smile and nod in return, the timeless response of someone who didn't comprehend a language-or wanted to appear not to understand.
"Very good," Carly said. "You're quite pretty when you smile." For a bitch.
The maid turned abruptly and led the way through a living room, past a small kitchen-dining area, and through the double doors that combined Winifred's bedroom with her sister's rooms. With a curt gesture, Alma turned and walked away, her spine straight and her dark slacks rumpled.
Carly took in the room with a glance. Sylvia Quintrell was a slight, motionless mound beneath the blankets of a hospital bed. An IV dripped fluid and medicines into her body. A feeding tube lay concealed beneath the blankets. The bed was positioned so that its occupant could look out over the patio gardens and pool. The murmur of Jeanette Dykstra's muckraking talk show Behind the Scenes came from an old TV set.
The room was hot enough to grow orchids.
Winifred sat in a leather recliner next to the bed. She was wearing black-blouse, jacket, slacks, and shoes. It wasn't out of respect for the recently dead Senator. Black was simply her preferred color.