5 Blue Period Read Free Page B

geometric shadows.
    She watched until the raptor disappeared and then went in to make herself some coffee on the machine that someone had thoughtfully installed in the guest cottage where she was staying. It was one of three tiny little huts clinging to the cement-hard earth and rock at the edge of Blue Period’s vineyards. Raphael had the one next to her and on the other side the cottage was reserved for someone named Max Schneider, who was some sort of business associate of Carl Owens. Juliet was under no illusions as to why she was being honored with accommodations at the winery. It was all Raphael’s doing and she was grateful. The local hotels and B and B places were expensive.
    Juliet ’s legs hurt and she decided not to walk to Trefoil. She wasn’t enthused about the grape stomp, but she would make an effort to win and that meant saving her muscles.
    It was too nice a morning to be alone and she was glad when she found Raphael up and about. The artist was not a habitual early riser and often slept late when he had had a long night. His muse was more nocturnal than a creature of daylight hours, which was often inconvenient given the painter’s need for good light.
    “Good morning, Raphael. What a gorgeous day.”
    “It is indeed a lovely thing. I would like it more if there were coffee.”
    “I’ll show you how to use the coffeemaker,” she said politely.
    “Thank you.”
    As she demonstrated the personal brewer, Juliet asked if he would care to join her on a trip to a nearby winery and he agreed with equal politeness. They both spoke as though they had an audience. Seeing Talbert, or whoever the NSA agent was these days, had put them on their guard. It was within the realm of the possible, even reasonable, that their cottages had been bugged. They could have searched for listening devices and removed them, but knew that it was easier to just leave them in place and chat about nothing while they sipped their chosen beverages.
    They left for Trefoil at ten.
    “Did you really ride in a hot air balloon?” Raphael asked as they turned off the paved road and started uphill. It was a relief to escape the flatulent truck which seemed to be held together with rust and bungee cords and was quivering with the effort of dragging itself up the mild incline.
    “I did,” she said grimly. “I even saw the petrified forest and got talked into bathing my face in mud and went to see a French film in an open-air theater where I was attacked by mosquitos who sniggered at my insect repellant.”
    “Poor Juliet. I really am sorry about the delay.”
    “I forgive you. No doubt it will provide inspiration for my art.”
    “I can’t wait to see it.”
    Juliet pulled into the tiny gravel parking lot that could hold six compact cars.
    The winery Juliet was scheduled to visit was located on a bluff and guarded on its vulnerable side by an old wrought-iron fence and a pair of wooden doors, almost gray with age. The right one had a smaller, human-size door with a grille built into it. This was open. It was barely wide enough to accommodate Raphael’s chair and beyond the narrow opening was darkness.
    “Good morning, would you be Juliet Henry?” A pleasant voice asked from out of the gloom. There was a bit of Ireland in it and he rested lingeringly and lightly on his vowels.
    “Indeed, and you are Mr. Mulligan?” Juliet said and smiled warmly as Seamus Mulligan stepped into view. He was an older man, but erect and strong in the arms, which she could see because of his rolled-up sleeves. The scent of lavender surrounded him. He wore heavy jeans with large patch pockets that had nothing to do with fashion and everything to do with habitually carrying the tools of his trade.
    “You are not wrong,” he agreed.
    “This is my friend, Raphael James. If it is possible, he would like to take the tour with me.”
    “Mr. James, I’m honored. We’re all fans of your work here.” The words were mild but sincere. He went on before