The Mountains Bow Down (11 page)

“Claire, you're causing a scene.”

“I'm going to figure out what's going on here.” She pointed to the pink stone. “You can't fool me. I'm a clairvoyant.”

“You mean crackpot,” Jack said.

The other diners continued to stare. Gentlemen in tuxes and festive red bow ties, the ladies in luxurious gowns. And here came Paolo, rushing across the room, hurrying past the white-clothed table where my mother sat beside my aunt. My mother was watching this, looking disturbed.

“Claire, sit down.”

“I know you two are up to something.”

“Sit down or I'll—”

“I heard what you told your mother. You're a liar. Glaciers?” She pointed at Jack. “He's an FBI agent. No wonder that poor woman—”

I jumped up. “One more word and I'll—”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Yes. Say one word to her and you will regret it for the rest of your life.”

“Don't think you can push me around.” She spun on her heel, tripped on the long sari, then picked it up and stomped back to my aunt's table.

Paolo stood beside our table, wringing his hands. “Everything is all right?”

“Everything is fine,” Jack said. “Can we send a drink over to that woman?”

“But of course.” Paolo bowed. “What would you like to send?”

“Hemlock.”

“
Scusa?
”

I sat down, my heart pounding. “Never mind, Paolo. We're fine, thank you.”

With another discreet bow, he walked away. Several people stopped him, asking questions. I waved at my mother, smiling. She nodded, then stared down at her silverware.

I took another roll from the basket. Three pats of butter this time.

Jack said, “Let's talk about this guy.”

“Milo Carpenter is basically a—”

“No, the guy you think you're going to marry.”

I bit the roll. Chewed. Then bit again.

“Harmon, I flew up here on a moment's notice. The least you can do is tell me about your fiancé.”

“I didn't ask you to come, Jack.” I glanced at my wristwatch. “Right after dinner, my aunt's giving one of her crystal seminars for the movie people. I don't expect Carpenter to show up. Maybe you can get him to talk.”

“Life is boring without you.”

I buttered another roll and stared out at the room, waiting for my steak. If I had to, I could eat my way through this mess.

Oh yes.

I could.

After a perfect filet marred only by Jack's company, I walked through the ship's thematic wonderland designed to stave off midsea boredom. Every public area had a grand theme, from dining rooms that resembled Italian trattorias and Japanese sushi gardens to outrigger lounges and leather-scented English pubs.

There was even Pharaoh's Tomb, where my Aunt Charlotte was holding her seminar. Appropriately cavernous, the tomb room had pillars painted into leafy palm trees and gilded sphinxes that bookended a low wooden stage where, according to the ship's daily schedule, a standup comic would appear in the blue hours.

Unfortunately, the audience here now didn't understand what a joke this show was too. Sitting in the front rows, the beautiful movie people stared at the table on stage draped in velvet and displaying dozens of polished crystals. Under the lights, each stone gleamed with promise. My aunt stood beside them, proud as their earth mother.

Next to her Sandy Sparks held a microphone and spoke in a somber voice.

“This is a tragedy,” he was saying. “Nobody saw her suicide coming. And Milo, obviously, the man's devastated. I've spent some time with him, and I've been trying to decide where this leaves us with the movie.”

He paced the stage. My aunt still wore her formal wear from dinner, but Sparks was dressed like a little kid. T-shirt and jeans, tennis shoes and a bright-blue baseball cap with some kind of Roman warrior over the bill.

“Nobody worked harder than Judy to get Milo where he is today. Not even Milo. If that sounds crass to you, you didn't know the woman. She wanted Milo to own the box office.”

I glanced around the room. In the deep shadows a bar ran along the back wall. I walked over, still listening to Sparks, and asked the Filipino bartender for a club soda with two limes.

The movie people seemed to hold their breath as Sparks spoke, waiting on his next words. Only his wife wasn't listening. Larrah cupped a hand over her mouth, talking into her cell phone while Sandy glared at her.

“I've decided to keep filming,” he said. “It's what Judy would have wanted. We're going to honor her life by not quitting.”

The applause continued for several moments, until Sparks held up his hand.

“But one condition. And I'm serious about this. If anything leaks to the press about her suicide, or anything about Milo's condition, I'll know where it came from. When I find out who's talking—and I will—you won't be able to collect garbage in Hollywood. Is that understood?”

Nods all around. Except Larrah. She was still on the phone. Sparks lifted the warrior baseball cap, running a hand over his thinning black hair.

“Another person Judy believed in was Charlotte Harmon and her work with crystals. Judy said this movie could reach number one at the box office if we just followed Charlotte's direction.” He smiled at my aunt. “Are you ready?”

My aunt's face looked drawn and sad, but she took the microphone. Larrah Sparks snapped her phone shut, then raised her hand.

“You have a question?” Aunt Charlotte asked.

“I feel sad about Judy,” she said. “Do you have a crystal for that?”

My aunt nodded. “Grief. I feel it too. And I do happen to have some . . .” She paused. “Judy asked me to bring . . .”

My aunt gazed at the crystal display, unable to finish what she was saying. After a long uncomfortable moment, she looked up. Under the stage lights her tears were white. “The stone is called Jet. It has a lot of healing properties. Judy asked me to bring some. I thought it was in case people got sick.”

She dabbed her eyes with the sleeve of her tunic. I heard sniffles from the crowd. But then she lifted her face.

“Sandy's right. We've going to carry on. For Judy. It's what she would want. Who's ready to start?”

Larrah Sparks was first on the stage. My aunt handed her a piece of Jet.

“But it's black,” Larrah said.

“Yes, the Victorians wore it with their mourning clothes. It's excellent for grief.”

“But black washes me out.” Larrah held the stone as if it was fungus. Polished to a high shine, the stone reflected light like a mirror. “Don't you have something bright and happy? You know, not so gloomy?”

“Jet's been used to ward off evil spirits as far back as the Middle Ages.”

I picked up my drink. There was nothing “magical” about Jet. It was fossilized coal. But the lovely lemmings continued to crowd the table.

All except one.

She headed toward the bar as if in a hurry, her wild black hair spilling like ink over a soft Bohemian-blue dress.

“Close your eyes,” my aunt was saying to Larrah. “What do you feel?”

Larrah's pale hand clutched the black rock. My aunt waited for a response, then continued her tutorial.

“The vibrations within these crystals will tune you into the universe. Once you're on that cosmic vibration, nothing can hold you back as an artist. I've seen this again and again.”

They listened like children hoping a fairy tale would finally come true, rapt and captivated by the promise. But here's what was true. Minerals could emit vibrations, most notable being atomic energy. And the cells inside our bodies rely on energy, including the electricity that signals complicated processes such as insulin secretion or the production of white blood cells. But to believe that mineralogical energy could be matched to human emotions and produce hit music and great performances was an idea that made Claire seem like a left-brained skeptic.

“When we discover which crystal matches your movie character,” Aunt Charlotte continued, “you're going to experience a total transformation. Now, Larrah, what role are you playing?”

“I'm playing the victim.” She said it with no trace of irony. “So my vibration should go with her vulnerability. But I'm going to show this character has interior strength too, you know what I mean?”

I turned to the woman in the blue dress. She was ordering a Sprite with lemon and lime.

“Yes, lemon,” the bartender replied.

“And lime.”

“Yes, lemon.”

“No, and lime.”

“Yes, lime.”

“I want both, one each.”

“Yes,” he said as if he had no idea what she was talking about, then left to make the drink.

“Not interested in this?” I asked in a low voice, nodding at the stage.

She glanced over, giving a shy smile. “I like my feelings the way they are. And besides, I'm not really an actor.”

“You're part of the crew?”

“I'm a musician. I play the piano player in the movie, but since that's my real-life job, it's not really acting.”

I extended my hand. “Raleigh Harmon.”

“MJ,” she said, shaking. “I've seen you around the set.”

“I'm related to the crystal lady.”

“Oh—I'm sorry, I didn't mean—”

“I think it's a crock.”

She looked relieved, then glanced back at the stage. Her hazel eyes, along with her mouth, drew down at the outer edge, giving her a wistful expression. “Last time it was worse,” she said. “We had to do past life regression.”

“Last time?”

“Judy was really into this stuff.” MJ sighed. “It was for another movie, and I played another musician. Really stretching here, you know? But Judy brought in this guy who wanted us all to settle our past lives, so we could move forward. Make peace with all that stuff you supposedly did before you were yourself.”

“You knew Judy pretty well?”

“She produced my CD. Then she put me in movies so I could make some money. I didn't agree with all her ideas, but she sure took good care of me.”

Her drink arrived with two limes and one lemon. She thanked the bartender and stabbed the plastic straw through the ice, forcing carbonated bubbles to explode at the surface. Her hazel eyes became as watery as opals.

She almost whispered. “I can't believe she's gone.”

“You were surprised?”

She hesitated. “Sandy said we're not supposed to talk about it.”

“I agree with him. I'm just curious. I didn't know her long, but she sure didn't seem like the type to commit suicide. Especially like
that
.”

MJ continued to stare into her drink. “Are you a cop?”

“Pardon?”

“You sound like a cop.” She looked over, leveling me with her eyes.

“I'm helping Milo with his role. I'm an FBI agent.” I paused. “But I still wonder why Judy would kill herself.”

Without a word, she picked up her drink and walked back toward the crowd. Only she hovered at the edges, some lovely butterfly with a broken wing, while Larrah Sparks tried to find the right crystal, the accurate vibration for Barbie as a victim. Aunt Charlotte placed a violet-blue stone—fluorite was my guess—in the actress's thin hand.

“Feel anything now?” my aunt asked.

“Maybe . . .”

I felt something, and it was gripping my shoulder.

Claire had changed from the yellow sari into gray sweats. The pink stone was still glued to her forehead but the adhesion was giving way. The crystal tilted, the third eye of a drunken cyclops.

“I just figured it out,” she said, letting go of my shoulder. “You think somebody murdered Judy. So Mr. Toxic came on board to help you.”

Here was another problem with Claire. She had busted-watch accuracy. Twice a day she managed to be right.

“Where did you get that idea?” I asked.

“Raleigh, I'm a clairvoyant.” She leaned in with the inebriated third eye. “You can't fool me. I know when something's going on.”

I wanted to push her back, get her out of my personal space. Instead, I praised her. “Your clairvoyant skills are excellent, Claire.”

As expected, the compliment confused her. She took a step back, relaxing. “I probably came on a little too strong at dinner,” she admitted. “But it's because I feel responsible.”

“For what?”

“For Judy. I tried to tell Charlotte.”

“That Judy was suicidal?”

“No, about the vibrations. In the crystals. They're not the same. I told Charlotte we're getting too close to the North Pole. I told her how magnetic forces can make the needle on a compass go crazy. I think that's what killed Judy. This crazy magnetic energy.”

“It's crazy all right.”

“Are you calling me crazy?”

“I'm saying there's no wa—”

“You think I'm crazy!” Shouting again.

The pretty people on stage turned around. I waited, holding my peace, until the lemmings returned to their tutorial. My aunt was explaining how the Pueblo Indians buried their dead with Jet so they had protection in the afterlife.