Chapter Three

CLAIRE HAD DINNER WITH HER FRIEND JOHN HARLAN after work and didn’t get home until nine. Her house was dark and her cat, Nemesis, was waiting at the door. She fed him and went into the bathroom. When she turned on the light a flock of moths flew out of her towels and beat their wings against the light fixture. Every few years Albuquerque had a moth infestation. There was nothing to do about it but turn off the lights whenever possible and wait in the dark for them to go away. A moth settled on the windowsill, giving Claire a moment to examine it. The wings were the color of parchment and had a pattern that resembled endpapers. She knew if she touched the wings they would leave a smudge on her fingers. While the moths fluttered around the light, Claire stared at herself in the mirror. What had Jane Doe seen that made her use the word “beautiful”? Claire couldn’t continue to think of the deceased as Jane Doe. She had to find another name for her. If she couldn’t discover the woman’s true identity, she would pick a name herself.

Claire liked the way her hair looked now—short and curly with hairdresser highlights. She had good bones and robin’s-egg blue eyes. She wasn’t bad looking but it had been a long time since anyone had called her beautiful. Knowing that a joyful expression could momentarily transform most people, Claire tried to bring back the enthusiasm and the radiance she had felt when she introduced Jorge Balboa, but she couldn’t do it. Her features settled into a worried frown. The moths beating against the light were distracting and she was disturbed by the things she’d learned from Detective Owen.

She turned off the light and paced her house in the dark. The compliment had been so unexpected and so pleasing she had wanted to cherish it, to bring it out of memory from time to time and polish it. She hated to think it came from a drug addict who went around the library after hours cutting illustrations out of valuable books. But until Claire examined every illustrated book the library owned or knew more about the woman, it was a fear likely to come, flapping its wings, out of the night. She didn’t see the woman she met as a street person or an addict, but then how to explain the China White and the plastic bag containing a toothbrush, a change of clothes, a comb, and baby wipes? How to explain how the woman gained access to the basement and the Anderson Reading Room?

Claire had a more recent edition of Ancient Sites, too recent to be valuable. She went to her bedroom and shut the door, hoping to lock the moths out before she turned on the light. She took the book from her bookshelf and turned to the illustration of Spiral Rocks. In the years since the Duval exploration a great deal had been learned about the sacred sites the expedition visited, some of which—like evidence indicating there was cannibalism at Chaco Canyon—Claire would rather not know. It had been established that some buildings at Chaco Canyon were orientated toward the sun and others toward the phases of the moon. The spiral carved into Fajada Butte recorded solstices, equinoxes, and other cycles with amazing accuracy.

But little was known about Spiral Rocks. Since it was a small site, located now on private property, it hadn’t been studied the way Chaco Canyon had. Claire looked at Quentin Valor’s illustration of the rocks pointing toward the sky and wondered whether there was any astronomical significance to the site. Was the rock formation worshipped by the Anasazi or used by them in some way as a calendar? Jane Doe had expressed an interest in Venus. It was possible she had an interest in astronomy, too. She might even have taken courses in the subject.

A solitary moth had made its way into the bedroom and fluttered toward the light with the ardor of an addict. Claire turned off the lamp, but the moth found the warmth and beat its wings against the bulb as if it had discovered a long lost mate. The moth infestation resembled having a house full of unwelcome intruders, restless thoughts, spirits of the dead, and the unnotified next of kin.

Claire didn’t sleep well, was awake at dawn and at her office by eight. She took her copy of Ancient Sites to work with her. Before she even sat down at her desk, Celia showed up at the door wearing a crimson dress that flattered her vivid coloring and reflected her angry mood.

“I am deeply, totally, pissed off,” she said.

“About Jane Doe?”

“Yes. How in the hell did she get into the basement and into the Anderson Reading Room after hours?”

“Could she have worked here at some point or been a graduate student?” Claire asked.

“The detective showed me the photo, but I didn’t recognize her. She hasn’t been an employee or a student at the center since I’ve been here. I never gave Jane Doe a code, but somebody must have.”

Claire’s mood was beginning to feel like she had dressed in scratchy brown burlap. “Wouldn’t someone have noticed Jane Doe if she was in the Anderson Reading Room after hours? There are security guards on duty then.”

“There are, but they don’t check ID. Suppose they did see Jane Doe and thought she was a grad student or a staff member. Could she have passed for one?”

“Yes. She wasn’t outrageously dressed or out of control like Ansia.”

“There are lots of legitimate people who work late in the Anderson Reading Room. Detective Owen is going to show the photo to the guards. Maybe one of them will remember Jane Doe. If the guards find a door open or anything out of order at night they are supposed to report it to me. Every time someone punches in a code anywhere in the center the time and date are recorded. I told Detective Owen I would go through the records and see what I could find.”

“If s also possible someone carelessly left the door to the Anderson Reading Room open and Jane Doe let herself in.”

“Well, then, did someone leave the elevator door to the basement open, too? You can’t get into the basement without taking the elevator and the elevator won’t move unless you enter a code.”

“What’s the room she died in like?” Claire asked. Like most people who worked at the library she avoided the utilitarian part of the basement.

Celia shrugged. “Beige. Depressing. There isn’t much in there except for empty boxes and dead roaches.”

“That whole part of the basement is depressing, isn’t it?”

“Some people think it’s enlivened by ghosts,” Celia said. “Supposedly it’s haunted by the very first librarian here, who is seen from time to time wandering around in a pinafore dress.”

“Have you ever seen her?” Claire asked.

“Only her shadow.”

“Did Detective Owen tell you about the illustration that was cut out of Ancient Sites?”

“Yeah. I bet you were thrilled about that.”

“I wasn’t happy. I brought in my own copy,” Claire said, opening it to the Spiral Rocks illustration. “It’s possible Jane Doe cut out this particular illustration because it meant something to her.”

“The meaning of those rocks is obvious, isn’t it?” Celia said, raising her thick and luxuriant eyebrows.

“Maybe there’s a deeper meaning.”

“So to speak,” Celia laughed. “Why are you so interested in Jane Doe?”

“I met her, or maybe I should say I talked to her. I was standing by the duck pond at dusk last year and she came up and pointed out the Venus-Jupiter conjunction in the evening sky. She told me Venus was so bright it could cast a shadow. She said it was visible in the daytime to those who had eyes to see. Maybe she had an interest in astronomy or archeoastronomy.”

“Maybe,” Celia said. “The person here who knows the most about that subject is Lawton Davis in the Department of Earth and Planetary Sciences. You should talk to him.”

“I will. I spoke to Jane Doe again at the Jorge Balboa reading,” Claire continued, “when she offered me a seat. Ansia appeared in the doorway and began to recite an ode to heroin, drowning out Jorge Balboa. I got up to close the door and Jane panicked, pushed me aside, and ran out.” Claire didn’t repeat the “You look beautiful” remark. She felt foolish doing so in front of Celia.

“Homeless people aren’t in the best of mental health,” Celia said. “Maybe Jane suffered from claustrophobia.”

“If she was claustrophobic, what was she doing in a locked room in the basement?”

“She didn’t lock it herself,” Celia said. “The storage rooms have deadbolts that can only be locked with a key. The police didn’t find a key inside the room. Trust me, I asked. Paul Begala in maintenance says he always locked that door before he went home and he locked it on Friday night. He didn’t realize anybody was inside, he says. When he opened it again on Tuesday morning he found Jane Doe dead.

Because Detective Owen told me to, I’m going to check the records to see who used the code to get into the basement on Friday. But it won’t prove anything. Any number of people could have gone down there on Friday. I pointed out to her that the elevator also stops at the stacks.”

“What about the Anderson Reading Room records?”

“I’ll check them, too, but I think it will be the same story. The code only needs to be used after hours, but everybody who works or studies here has a legitimate reason to use the Anderson Reading Room day or night. I have to go.” Celia raised her eyes to the ceiling. “I have a meeting with Harrison.”

Harrison Hough, their prickly boss, was difficult in the best of times. “I suppose he’s going to get on your case about Jane Doe entering the basement.”

“I suppose he is,” Celia replied.