Into Thin Air Page 15

  He followed a handful of arriving guests across a redwood footbridge over a gurgling stream. Near the entrance to the Rostagno home there was a garden of carefully displayed rocks, an impressive assortment of shapes and colors. One of the guests explained to his friends that the rocks were not rocks but expensive ceramics produced by a Hopi artist from Taos.

  The usual hired servers greeted them in the foyer, pretty blonde women who lived to ski. They looked stunning in male tuxedo shirts, black trousers, bow ties. The young woman who took his suede jacket had danced with him one night at the Paradise.

  “Isn’t your name Steve?” she smiled, trying to place where they’d met.

  Another girl offered to get him a drink, and he went to lean against a massive white column, searching for Cecilia Rostagno among the clusters of guests making conversation in a sunken living room with the monumental proportions of an ancient forum. Like most parties in Aspen, this one promised its share of faded celebrity, the lesser has-beens who’d once held court near the margins of fame but who were now dissipating further into obscurity. They clung to this society for the gouty food and drink and the vain possibility that an ad-man from Cleveland might remember who they were and offer them a steady job endorsing cat food.

  He recognized an aging actress who had starred in several forgettable spy movies in the sixties, and at least one forgettable television series where she played somebody’s testy wife. A surgeon’s scalpel had kept her cover-girl features intact, but her thick platinum hair, the hallmark of her screen presence, looked as though it was now maintained with the aid of high chemistry. Wineglass in hand, she was speaking to an eccentric screenwriter with wild devilish eyebrows who had collaborated with her on a picture fifteen years ago, the last time either one had worked. Kurt vaguely remembered the film as a lame jet-set romance shot on a Caribbean island. The tabloids had made a field day of the alcoholic binges, the pills, the mysterious suicide of her lover found hanging in a shower stall.

  Sitting on a sofa next to his young wife, the mother of their two-year-old, an over-the-hill novelist, now in his seventies, was entertaining a group of graying matrons who still read his books. He was an imposing figure—large, overfed, Buddha-like, his hair nearly gone except for long frosty wings combed back over his ears. In spite of great wealth he always wore the cheap sport jackets and checkered pants of a small-town Rotarian. He held uncompromising opinions on every conceivable subject and was known to browbeat dissenters. A dozen of his books had been blockbuster best-sellers, nearly all of them made into movies. But the younger generations were not interested in the war in the Pacific, or endless rehashes of Nazi intrigue. His sales figures had been slipping for twenty years, and it was rumored he was deeply depressed and unable to write anymore. Over drinks one evening in the Jerome Bar, Kurt had learned from the man’s research assistant, a Princeton woman who’d probably written his last three books for him, that the great novelist’s publishing house of five decades was trying to dump him. Tonight, however, he carried on in fine form, lecturing and laughing and waving the glass in his hand. The elderly admirers were hanging on his every word.

  The waitress brought Kurt a vodka tonic and he moved on, circling the periphery of the party, looking for Cecilia. Near the master fireplace, chatting with the dignified reserve of gentility, stood several people who had known Kurt’s parents. They were Institute folk, harmless highbrow millionaires who had escaped to Aspen in the fifties to avoid the rat race and live off their prodigious fortunes. Observing them now, he imagined how his father might have appeared had he survived—erect, tan, sparse of hair, his flesh a little loose at the neck. One man was a Russian who had defected after the war to work for the CIA. Kurt’s father liked him because he was well read in four languages and played a fair jazz clarinet. At a Christmas party one year, when the Muller boys were home from college and feeling unusually hostile toward the older generation, Bert had asked the retired agent, in front of a house full of Institute cronies, to account for his whereabouts on the day John Kennedy was assassinated. It was meant as a joke, an awkward attempt at humor after a few drinks, but the old fellow was not amused. As Kurt recalled, the man sputtered a bit, contradicted himself, then grew angry and stormed out of the party. Their father glared at Bert, then laid a forgiving hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘I never realized until my boy’s interrogation,’ he said to his puzzled colleagues in the circle, ‘that poor Yulie knew Oswald.’

  Kurt watched the silver-haired Claudio Rostagno stride down the marble steps into the living room, making his way toward tennis rival Bob Graeber and the other hotel developers. Rostagno glad-handed the men, gripping their upper arms with a virile tug, and bent to kiss the wives on each cheek. His manners were courtly, European. From time to time he punctuated his conversation with a stiff-shouldered nod. Kurt wondered where the man’s daughter was and how long he could remain unnoticed in these outer shadows. He hated parties and didn’t relish the idea of getting caught up in this gathering and its idle conversation.

  Rostagno handed a drink to his wife, the belle dame Patricia Graham, now enjoying the flawless plasticity of her fourth face-lift, one for each husband. Kurt suspected that this house belonged to her. She was a New Orleans girl with family money from a banana empire in Honduras and with each marriage had acquired even greater prosperity. Kurt had met her some years ago when she came to his office to request a restraining order against estranged husband number two, the alcoholic Texan with the world-renowned gun collection who’d made a habit of abusing the poor lady at social functions. Kurt had thrown the sorry bastard in jail one snowy night for taking drunken pistol practice on her Mountain Valley mailbox.

  Patricia Graham was speaking with a ravishing young brunette the locals called the Merry Widow. Though not yet thirty, the woman had been widowed three times, all of them reckless men prone to accidents with hunting rifles and fast cars. Tonight she was escorted by a glamorous male model wearing a gem earring, chic Italian shoes, and an expensive Armani suit. She had no doubt picked him up in New York, where she kept an apartment in Soho. The young man seemed unaware of how ludicrously overdressed he was for an Aspen party.

  Kurt finished his drink down to the ice. It was only a matter of time before someone recognized him and came over to talk. Where the hell was Cecilia?

  Meg had taught him that on painful occasions like these, when trying to avoid social interaction, one should always look passionately at the art. It was wise advice. The homes of the Aspen rich were filled with strange abstract doodlings, vast canvases of drips and splatters, art by the square yard. Kurt turned his back to the party and chewed his ice and gazed at a colossal rectangular painting composed of two angry slashes of color, red and black.

  ‘What’s this stuff all about?’ he had once asked Meg on one of their early dates, a gallery opening below the old Opera House. She was an amateur photographer and had studied art history in college.

  ‘It’s about art supplies,’ she’d said with a cunning little smile.

  Sometimes he missed her. Seventeen years together, a wonderful child. Maybe they should have tried harder to live with the differences.

  “This Gottlieb is strange and very beautiful, don’t you think?” a voice behind him said. “I’ve always felt there is something terribly disturbing about it.”

  Cecilia had found him. Tonight she looked more enchanting than ever, her strapless dress a striking aquamarine color that brought out the rich creaminess of her skin. The fluff of black hair on her bare shoulders reminded him of Graciela.

  “Would you care for another drink?” she asked.

  He swallowed the ice in his mouth. “Yes, thanks,” he said.

  Cecilia looked over the guests milling about the living room and signaled to a server. “Do you know any of these people?”

  “Not my crowd.”

  “Mine either,” she said with a mischievous smile. “Shall we make a change of scenery?”

  She took the server aside and wh
ispered something, then turned to Kurt. “She’ll send down a bottle,” she said.

  She stepped closer and looked up into his face, at the small row of wiry stitches in his forehead. She touched a button on his shirt, fingered it, feeling its roundness. “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said in a quiet voice, her eyes fixed on the button. “I’m glad you did.”

  “I take my private consultation very seriously,” he said.

  She placed a warm hand flat against his chest. “Good,” she said, a naughty smile brushing her lips. “Let us go find out what you have in mind for my little room.”

  They went downstairs to a cavernous wing buried in the cliff. Huge white columns gave the space the gloomy, vaulted coldness of a temple ruin. Cecilia escorted him through the arcade and out onto a marble balcony for a view of the stars. It was a crisp summer evening in the mountains and she pressed close to him. Down below, on the dark floor of the Valley, lights clustered in unknown constellations. Head beams inched along a far-off highway.

  “You were very impressive at the club today,” she said. “Do you enter competitions?”

  “I just like to stay in shape,” Kurt said. “An old man like me never knows when he’ll need a little extra endurance.”

  A thin dark eyebrow lifted. “I like older men,” she said. “They’re more entertaining.”

  She was clutching her elbows now, shivering from the cold, and he suddenly remembered the moment in the Grottos when he covered Graciela with his jacket. “It’s chilly out here,” he said, placing his hands on Cecilia’s bare shoulders.

  “Yes,” she said, her shoulders relaxing. “Shall we go inside?”

  She took him to a small fumoir with wood paneling and a stone fireplace and poured pinot noir into two long-stemmed glasses.

  “So, my friend,” she said, shifting closer in the antique French love seat. “What do you do when you are not working out at the club?”

  Kurt sipped the dark wine. “I’m an instructor at a place called Star Meadow,” he said. “Massage, yoga, t’ai chi.” He watched her eyes for the slightest response. “It’s a retreat for old hippies who can’t cope. We do lots of seminars. Have you heard of it?”

  Cecilia smiled at his description. “Yes, of course,” she said. “It’s that place run by Matt Heron, isn’t it? What is he like?”

  “Helluva guy,” Kurt said. “Real down to earth. We just had a very unfortunate thing happen out there and Matt handled it great. Did you read about that South American writer they found floating in the Roaring Fork? The guy was attending one of our conferences.” Kurt shook his head. “The potential for a major pr disaster. But Matt handled it like a pro.”

  Narrowing her eyes as if recalling something that had happened years ago, Cecilia made a deliberating nod. “I did read about it, yes,” she said. “The authorities think there was a drug ring involved.”

  Kurt laughed. “Matt told me that’s all a lot of jive. The cops know who’s behind it, but they’re keeping it quiet. The murder didn’t have anything to do with those Mexicans in Emma.”

  Cecilia lifted the wineglass to her lips. Her dark eyes studied him. “I hope everything works out for you,” she said in a husky voice.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “We’re off the hook. Matt says the cops will arrest somebody soon.” He glanced down at his glass, turning the stem. “I really shouldn’t be talking about this, but they think it happened in the guy’s room at the Meadow. They found a broken wineglass with somebody’s prints all over it.”

  She rubbed a finger slowly, absently, around the lip of her glass, tracing its shape with a nail the color of an exotic fruit. After a moment she placed the glass on the coffee table, stood up, and crossed the room to lock the door.

  This could get interesting, Kurt thought.

  She watched him, her shoulders against the door. A wave of soft black hair fell across that dazzling face which was so capable, in the smallest momentary drama, of mischief and sexiness and trouble.

  “I’m trying to decide if you are a man who can be trusted.”

  Graciela had wondered the same thing. He drank his wine and waited.

  She studied him for a few seconds longer, then sauntered across the room to the fireplace. She knelt on one knee, exposing a muscular brown thigh, and reached back into the hearth. Underneath a loose stone there was a small, ornate jewel box. She brought the box back to the coffee table, set it before them, and opened the brass-hinged lid.

  “I must be cautious,” she said. “I have my little secrets.”

  Kurt hadn’t done cocaine in years. He had given up drugs altogether, mostly to play it straight around Lennon. He didn’t want to live with the hypocrisy anymore.

  “My father does not approve, to say the least,” Cecilia said.

  She dipped a tiny silver spoon into a plastic bag and brought the coke to her nostrils for two dainty sniffs, pinching her nose. She offered the spoon to Kurt but he hesitated, considering for a moment what to do.

  “Do you?” she said.

  He knew if he declined, their night together would be woefully short and unrevealing. He had no choice.

  The coke burned straight through his sinuses and into his brain. The rush was immediate and breathtaking. There was no doubt about the purity of her stash. This was high-grade cocaine.

  “Let me show you something,” she said, pushing a button on a console by the love seat.

  A faint whir sounded across the room and the wood paneling began to slide away, exposing a large video screen. Cecilia touched another button and a view of the upstairs living room flickered into focus. More guests had arrived. The aging novelist was still pontificating to his audience around the sofa.

  “Father likes to keep an eye on things,” she said, flipping to another room. Two men wearing starched white jackets and chef hats fussed over an assembly of hors d’oeuvres. Waitresses darted in and out with trays of drinks. Cecilia used the control device to direct the surveillance camera around the kitchen. She zoomed in on the girl Kurt had danced with at the Paradise.

  “What do you think of this one?” Cecilia asked. “She’s very pretty, isn’t she?”

  The girl had stopped at a work station to arrange a stack of napkins on her tray.

  “Yes,” Kurt agreed. The coke had gone to his throat, numbing his vocal cords.

  Cecilia curled her lip in mock jealousy. Her eyes wandered over the stitches in his forehead. “You like her?” she asked.

  “I’ve seen her around town,” he said. “She’s a great dancer.”

  “Is she good in bed?”

  Before he could devise an answer she bent over the jewel box and had another spoonful of coke. She flipped past several empty rooms of the house, cold palatial chambers filled with cold colors and cold furnishings, until she located a bedroom where two people were roaming about on their own, examining objects—the books on a nightstand, feminine bottles and lipsticks and a mess of jewelry left on a vanity. It was the Merry Widow and her escort.

  “Whose bedroom?” he asked.

  Cecilia focused the camera on the young man as he sniffed a perfume bottle and then sprayed some on his neck. “It is mine,” she said, somewhat dismayed.

  The Merry Widow opened the drawer of an antique chiffonier and ran her hands through slinky lingerie.

  “Do you know these two?” Cecilia asked. “I have heard that this woman is quite bizarre,” she said. “We mustn’t let her out of our sight.”

  The Merry Widow ventured into an adjoining room and called to her date. The young man put down the tube of lipstick he was tasting and followed after her. Cecilia clicked another channel and found them in a large gleaming bathroom, her private dressing area. Marble steps led down into a round marble tub spacious enough for a bacchanal of Roman gods. The Merry Widow knelt in her tight black dress and turned on the shining spigots. The young man brought over a tray of bath beads and beauty oils. Soon frothy white bubbles lathered the tub and they began to undress.

  “
And how about this one?” Cecilia asked. “Does she excite you?”

  “She’s nice.”

  He had to keep his head on straight, but the coke was giving him such a rush it was hard to focus on anything except the Merry Widow’s lovely nude body stepping into the bath. So far he had made absolutely no progress engaging Cecilia about Quiroga and Graciela.

  “Do some more with me,” Cecilia urged, touching her nose, scooting closer to him. She retrieved the spoon and filled another nostril.

  “I’m okay like this,” he said.

  This whole deception left him hollow. He was beginning to feel ashamed of himself.

  “Come on,” she nudged Kurt with her shoulder. “Do a little more for me.”

  Trapped now, helplessly compromised, stricken with indecision, he snorted another spoonful and closed his eyes while the coke blazed through him, slicing raw every nerve end. He didn’t know where any of this was leading and he felt paralyzed, unable to follow the strange receding arc of the evening. As he watched the couple on the video screen embrace in the thick white foam, Cecilia rested her warm hand on his knee and began to scratch him gently with her long nails.

  Find a way, he told himself. Get her to talk.

  The young man cupped foam in his hands and stroked the Merry Widow’s breasts, massaging them, sudsing her dark nipples. They leaned forward to kiss, an exchange of tongues. Her hand searched under the foam, taking him. A delicate fist rose to the surface, disappeared, rose again, a fine knowing rhythm.

  Cecilia stared at the screen. “Does this amuse you?” she asked, her nails making the lightest scrape against his knee.

  “It’s better than the Playboy channel,” he said. He was hard as a pillar and certain she knew it.

  Cecilia picked up a phone on the console and touched two numbers. “Rafael,” she said, her voice stern, “we have a problem. Two people have left the party and are intruding where they do not belong. You must go to my bedroom at once and ask them to leave.” She listened to the voice on the other end. “Yes,” she said, her nails scraping gently. “In my bath. Please have them removed.”