Chapter 7

Lex went to connect with his colleagues while I made a beeline for the room to take advantage of the small pocket of time before dinner. I had just dropped onto the bed with the critical guide in hand when my phone rang. Glancing at the screen, I smiled and answered.

“I’m furious with you...” my mother said loudly.

I braced myself.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d been nominated for an award? I’ve been toasting you with champagne all afternoon and gushing about you to Daphne.” There was a swallowing sound. Evidently the champagne was still flowing in New York.

Daphne Duvall was my mother’s dearest frenemy. Although they’d been close forever, long before Daphne married a corporate tycoon and my mother became a famous artist known as Violet O, there had always been a fair bit of turmoil in their relationship. That was just how Daphne rolled. But my mother was the type of person who was energized rather than drained by drama, so the friendship served a purpose for her too.

“And then Daphne complained endlessly that I didn’t tell her first. You know how much she needs her gossip.”

Daphne wrote a gossip column for a tabloid, so it was literally her job. Between the two of them, my mother and Daphne had quite a pipeline of information coming and going.

“But I’m out of practice telling her things, aren’t I, as she hasn’t been around for ages, having jetted off to—where was it? Cozumel? Cartagena? Copenhagen? Something with a C, anyway—to be nipped and tucked again, though she told us all that it was for a spiritual retreat.” She giggled. “She’s running out of reasons to give us. I don’t know why she won’t admit that she’s doing maintenance. Everyone knows, anyway. No one’s eyebrows are that high up on their forehead without a little surgical boost. She does look smooth, I’ll give her that. But back to you, darling, congratulations.”

“Thank you. How did you—”

“Calista, of course. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t know anything that’s happening with my very own daughter.”

“We talk all the time, Mom.”

“I would not know one single thing, Lila. It’s tragic. A mother likes to be in the loop.”

“You are in the loop. And I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“That’s not the point, is it, that you’ll tell me something after I ask you? I want you to offer it. To want to tell me.”

“I do. It’s just very b—”

“Well, do it more often. I know you’re busy. But I love you. The loop is sacred. Please acknowledge that, darling.”

“The loop is sacred. And I love you too.”

“Good. Anyway, this afternoon when I was out shopping for a new frock with Daphne—and I did buy a lovely purple number for the opening party tomorrow. I know, there’s no room for error in that sort of timeline. And I still need shoes. But it’s no secret that I like to live on the edge.” She laughed. “Poor Daphne couldn’t find a thing...wait. Where was I going with this? Oh yes! Your cousin texted me the news, so we immediately ran to the most charming wine bar on the block to celebrate. Now, tell me absolutely everything!”

I gave her an overview—excluding the part about Ellis and the subsequent investigation—and was rewarded with additional kudos and questions, then another round of updates on Daphne’s more exasperating behaviors.

“Oh, I’ve just had the best idea—I should catch the red eye. Wait, do you call it a red eye if it goes west instead of east? Maybe not. The point is, I could fly overnight and be there to witness your glorious panel in the morning! I think I know where my passport is.”

“You don’t need your passport to come to Colorado, Mom.”

“Are you sure? The rules keep changing. Last time I flew to Paris, I couldn’t even bring my lotion onboard.” An artist of various mediums who was rough on her hands, she made sure a bottle of soothing cream was never far from her at any given time.

“Yes, I’m sure that you don’t need a passport. And you are allowed to bring a small container of lotion. Just Google the size.”

“Oh, your generation and your Googling. Takes all the mystery out of everything. There’s something to be said for having to wait longer than four seconds to get an answer, believe me. Back in my day, we suffered for weeks and months at a time, not knowing things. It was almost an art form. Wait...” I heard the sound of paper being ripped off of something. “I just had an idea.”

I waited for her to jot a note, knowing from experience that she wouldn’t be able to hear anything else until she had recorded the concept that would lead to a new project. When I was growing up, she had frequently halted in the middle of grocery shopping, birthday parties, parent-teacher conferences—whatever—to rip a shred of paper from the nearest available source and capture the stirrings of the muse. She’d pull a pencil from somewhere inside her heavy coils of copper hair and scrawl away on something. I’d inherited the tendency to shove writing utensils into my own braid when I was distracted. Sometimes, at the end of the day, there would be a handful in there. It always made me think of her.

I was grateful that she’d taught Calista and me to honor inspiration whenever it occurred. We dropped what we were doing to scribble things down these days too. The lessons of Violet O ran deep.

“Ooh, that’s a good one,” she murmured.

I took that to mean she was done being inspired for now and we could move on. “Speaking of art, don’t you have an opening this weekend? You just mentioned it.”

She paused. “Oh, you’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. I may have had too much champagne. That’s it. I’m cutting myself off.” I heard another swallow followed by the clink of glass on granite. “But you know I’d fly to the moon if I could to support you. I’m so proud of you, darling. Brava!”

I thanked her and asked her to tell me about her latest work. She enthusiastically complied, and ten minutes later, I felt as though I’d visited the gallery to see her interactive exhibit, “Danger Street.” As she described it, the installation featured a tunnel with scenes from noir films silently projected onto the ceiling. Along both walls were red doors in various shapes and sizes. Behind most of the doors were mannequins in gray trench coats onto which a line from a famous mystery was projected. A new door led to a new line from another mystery. Although the quotes had been selected from different books, they wove together into a new layer of narrative. The more doors were opened, the more lines were bestowed, and the further the story progressed. However, behind some of the doors were mirrors, where the line appeared on the viewer as an invitation to reflect upon its relation to their own lives. The deeper the viewer went into the exhibit, however, the darker and foggier it became, until the only thing visible in the final door was not the mannequin or the viewer, but the line itself.

“Do you see? The line is the end of the line, darling. But the ending is also the beginning of understanding.”

My mother had always said things like that.

“It sounds intriguing. Very meta. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. I hope it completely destabilizes reality for everyone.”

My mother had always said things like that too.

There wasn’t always an obvious response to be made.

“So many levels of meaning at once…but enough of that. I don’t like to explain my art, as you know. Especially if you haven’t experienced it yet. Now tell me about Lex. How is he?”

“Great. I’ve enjoyed helping him with the case—”

“What case?”

I stopped short. I hadn’t wanted to mention Ellis. She would worry. Come to think of it, I probably should be worrying too, about being in this hotel with a murderer. If the killer was actually staying here. There was no way of knowing. It wasn’t like I could simply call the front desk and inquire.

I aimed for intentionally vague. “Oh, a case that required input about academia.” There. That should sidestep things nicely.

“It’s not another murder, is it?”

I couldn’t lie to her. So I explained.

“I’m so sorry to hear that. And I’m glad that Lex is there. Not because you can’t take care of yourself—of course you can. You’re a strong woman. But because having a person who is skilled in weaponry nearby makes me feel better.”

“Skilled in weaponry?” Did she think I was dating a medieval knight?

“You know what I mean. Someone with firepower.”

We did another round of well-wishing about our prospective activities and were just saying goodbye when she launched her final piece of advice.

“Please be careful, darling. You never know who is lurking outside your hotel room door.”

Great. Now I would be thinking about that all weekend.