A Fit of Tempera (7 page)

“Could be,” said Renie. “Did he rant like Hitler?”

Lark laughed, a small, painful sound. “Only if you had a late paper. He was very good. I found his lectures enlightening as well as refreshing. He had more to offer than most professors. And he didn't toe the academic party line.”

“That's my Bill,” said Renie.

Judith had accepted a straight-backed oak chair from Ward Kimball. Discreetly, she studied the renowned painter as he sat down in front of the rolltop desk. Riley Tobias was right: Ward Kimball had aged, and not particularly well. His white hair was still thick, as was his beard, but his hazel eyes were tired and the skin sagged on his cheeks. He was not a big man, and his spare frame had a fragile air. The Roman nose that had dominated and lent strength to his face now had a predatory look, as if the goodwill he had shown to men had been replaced by a need to be wary, even aggressive.

Yet his eyes were still kind, if guarded. “Lark could make tea or coffee.” He spoke with pride. “We have seltzer, wine, and mineral water, too.”

Judith declined, saying they'd just eaten. “We just finished when the undersheriff and his deputy showed up. Did you talk to them?” she asked artlessly.

“Not yet, but I know him.” Ward Kimball's expression was wry. “Dreadful man. The undersheriff, I mean. I met him when someone broke into my studio a year or so ago.”

Judith leaned forward. “Oh, no! Did they take anything valuable?”

Kimball shook his head. “There was nothing to take. I haven't painted for some time. My personal treasures are all here in the house. We've got an alarm system for it.” He waved a hand at a Kenneth Callahan watercolor, a Dale Chiluly vase, a Mark Tobey sketch, a Ward Kimball mixed media of Glacier Falls. “Lark paints,” he added with another proud smile, and pointed to a small oil on tempera depicting wildflowers. “Isn't that enchanting?”

Judith marveled at the exactness of the work. Slim silver stems boasted graceful white flowers. A cluster of purple blooms drew the eye to the background. The grass seemed to move on a summer breeze.

“It's wonderful. Amazing,” she added as Renie got up
from the dark green leather footstool to admire Lark's work.

“Can you tell how good this is?” Renie asked, as usual abandoning tact for the sake of truth. “Lark, you're very talented.”

Lark turned in the direction of Renie's voice. “Oh, I can sense that it's right. I'm able to discern colors and shapes. I spent as much time as Nature would allow studying those flowers—mostly with my fingers, of course. But I have a photographic memory. Or is it photographic fingers?” Her smile was faintly impish.

Judith turned to Ward Kimball. “Did you teach her?”

“In the beginning.” He looked away. “Then Riley helped a bit with her technique.” His tone was flat.

In the leather chair, Lark coiled as if she were going to spring across the room. “Riley was marvelous! He was patient, understanding, kind! And
he
never patronized me!” The last was hurled as an accusation that made Ward Kimball flinch.

“Lark,” he said wearily, “you know it's not easy for a parent to teach a child. A father is always a father. It can't be helped.”

With surprising agility, Lark jumped up from the chair and left the room. A sob tore from her throat as she slammed the study door.

Ward emitted an embarrassed little laugh. “Lark's upset. She was fond of Riley. So was I,” he added a bit hastily.

“Of course you were,” Judith said smoothly. “Everyone knows that.”

“Of course.” Ward's shoulders sagged; he looked not only old but defeated. “It's a terrible tragedy, not just for those who knew him, but for the entire art community.”

To Judith, it seemed like an exit line. Yet she was loath to leave Ward Kimball alone with his grief-stricken daughter. “Had you seen Riley lately?” Judith kept her voice natural. It was a polite stall, she told herself—not an attempt at sleuthing. She ignored Renie's bemused expression.

The guarded look intensified in Ward's eyes, but his response came easily enough. “I stopped by this afternoon, as a matter of fact. He was working, so I didn't stay long.”

Riley Tobias had not been at work when the cousins had seen him, and Judith doubted he was when Ward came calling. But she only had Clive Silvanus's word for the quarrel. “Was he upset or anxious?” she asked.

Ward adjusted the shawl collar of his loosely woven navy blue sweater. “No, he was his usual self. Caught up in his painting, of course. I understand that very well.”

Renie leaned forward on the footstool. “What was he working on?”

Ward's forehead wrinkled. “One of those so-called portraits. I'm not keen on them, but Riley would call my opinions archaic.”

Judith saw Ward's gaze stray to the door. No doubt he wanted to check on Lark. But Judith had one more question: “Did Riley have any enemies who'd want to see him dead?”

Sitting up straight in the oak swivel chair, Ward seemed to consider the query very briefly. “Oh—not really. Rivals, possibly. Any successful artist invites a certain amount of envy and spite. Riley could annoy, he could shock, he could be perverse. But enemies? There was always a lovable quality about him. Allowances have to be made for creative people. I suspect he was forgiven as much as any man ever was.” A wistful note had crept into Ward Kimball's voice. He stared up at the ceiling where the tulip lamps cast scallop-shaped shadows. “Yes, he had a knack for repentance. In the end, everyone always forgave Riley Tobias.”

Judith shook her head. “No. Not everyone. His killer didn't forgive him.”

Ward seemed unshaken by Judith's pronouncement. “Oh? I wonder. It wouldn't surprise me if whoever murdered Riley has forgiven him.” The old artist's voice took on a harsher edge. “Now that he's dead, of course.”

J
OE
F
LYNN URGED
his wife to flaunt her talents. She had a gift for piecing odd lots of information together. She could get anybody, even killers, to open up. She was a born observer, a student of human nature, a font of logic. So what if the investigating officer was a crude, unprofessional boor? All the better. Such a backwoods boob couldn't catch an anteater in an elevator. Judith had aptitude, perception, and experience. Coupled with Renie's knack of going for the jugular, they made a terrific team. Joe would cheer them on from the sidelines, at least when he wasn't being distracted by such mundane matters as chasing down murderous gang leaders, doped-up convenience-store killers, and a wacko who had carved up three people with a grapefruit knife.

Judith still couldn't believe what she'd heard as she dialed her mother's separate line in the converted toolshed that stood behind Hillside Manor. Joe couldn't be serious about telling her to get involved in the Tobias investigation. That wasn't like him. On previous occasions he had warned her off, even forbidden her to join the hunt. It was too risky, too dangerous, too out of her league. Judith waited through seven rings before Gertrude Grover answered.

“What's the matter with you?” Gertrude barked. “It's after eleven. I was asleep.”

“Fraud,” countered Judith. “You and Sweetums always watch the news. Besides, I had trouble making the call. This pay phone at the auto court is really outmoded. Is everything okay?”

Gertrude snorted. “Okay? Is it okay to live in a paper box? That's about how big this stupid toolshed is. No room to swing a cat. And believe me, I tried. That mound of mange is still dizzy.”

Judith leaned against the glass door of the booth, waiting for an eighteen-wheeler to pass. After six months, she was used to her mother's complaints about the apartment in the former toolshed. But she knew Gertrude wouldn't want to be anywhere else—unless it was back in the third-floor family quarters of Hillside Manor. That, of course, was impossible, since she refused to live under the same roof as Joe Flynn.

“You probably called that shanty Irishman first,” Gertrude accused. “Or did Serena tie up the line with that addled sister-in-law of mine? Deb rang up
twice
today, just because she fell out of her wheelchair.”

Alarmed, Judith glanced through the glass at Renie, who had not yet called her own mother. Renie looked back with a question on her face.

“What happened?” Judith demanded. “Is Aunt Deb all right?”

“Black and blue always were her colors,” Gertrude replied blithely. “Oh, Deb's fine. She just bounced around a little. Mrs. Parker and her ugly mutt, Ignatz, were there, so she stuffed Deb back in the wheelchair and screwed in all her missing parts. Deb was reaching for a doughnut. Serves her right. I'm sure glad I'm not stuck living with her anymore.” Gertrude let out a little hiss as she caught herself making an admission that might be construed as positive. “I mean, at least I don't have to listen to her whine and jabber here while I'm trying to sit down with my entire body in
the same room
.”

Aware that Renie was growing anxious as well as impatient, Judith told her mother to take care and prepared to hang up.

“Take care? Of what?” Gertrude huffed. “My health, which stinks? My belongings, which have shrunk to about fourteen items? Your wretched cat? He hauled in an almost-dead pigeon today. I baked it and sent it over to Deb.” Gertrude chortled in Judith's ear.

“You didn't—Aunt Deb wouldn't eat pigeon,” Judith protested.

“I wasn't talking about the pigeon.” Gertrude chortled some more.

Judith sighed. “Now, Mother, stop trying to horrify me. Renie and I got a real start on cleaning and fixing up the cabin today. If you need anything, you can call Joe.”

“I know what to call him,” growled Gertrude. “Lunk-head, for starters. He had the nerve to come by this evening and tell me I should open a window to get some fresh air. Since when do I need advice from that twerp? You don't need it, either, Judith Anne. Any wife who listens to her husband is a certified sap.” She banged the receiver in Judith's ear.

“What's wrong?” Renie demanded as Judith emerged from the booth.

Judith explained. Renie attacked the phone, knowing that her mother was a night owl, too. Indeed, the sisters-in-law had more in common than they'd admit. The experiment of having them live together had failed, but deep down, they both loved—and needed—each other. At least at a distance.

Judith knew Renie's call to her husband would be brief. Indeed, Bill Jones was an early riser who had probably already gone to bed. Renie's three grown children—Tony, Tom and Anne—never lingered on the line with their mother. But Aunt Deb would chat forever. Judith contemplated waiting in the car, but was afraid she might fall asleep if she got comfortable. To stay alert, she began to amble aimlessly up and down the drive.

Traffic on the highway was very light. The filling station and the office were both closed. Five vehicles, including the white Mercedes, were now parked in front of the little cabins. Lights glowed behind the curtained windows of two of the units. Wandering around in front of the auto court, Judith noted that somebody was still up at the Mortons'. She was only half-surprised to see Carrie Mae Morton come outside in a gaudy floral print bathrobe.

“I know you,” said Carrie Mae, keeping her voice down. “You were here today with Riley's girlfriend.” She glanced at the phone booth, where Renie was propped up against the wall. “Her, too. Were we introduced?”

“Not really. It was pretty hectic.” Judith extended her hand, introducing herself—and Renie by default. Carrie Mae remarked that the Grover cabin didn't get used much, at least not during the year that the Mortons had lived across the road. Judith admitted that was so, but explained how she and Renie were spending a few days doing some maintenance work.

“You sure picked a bad time,” Carrie Mae said cheerfully. “Did you see those TV cameras and reporters? Newspaper people, too. They were here for almost an hour. Me and Mort got ourselves on the ten o'clock news.”

Judith let out a little gasp that Carrie Mae took for excitement. But it wasn't. Judith had purposely avoided telling her mother about Riley Tobias's murder. The ten o'clock news was aired over a local station; Gertrude always watched the network affiliate at eleven. Riley Tobias was sufficiently famous to make both broadcasts. Judith hoped that she had been talking to her mother when the story hit the airwaves. As much as her mother criticized Aunt Deb for being a worrywart, as often as she raked Judith over the coals, Gertrude couldn't stand it if she thought her only child was in the slightest danger. If Judith was protective of her mother, Gertrude, in her own way, was equally protective of her daughter.

Carrie Mae was rambling on about the interview, which, according to her, could have filled up an hour time-slot.
Judith tried to refocus, but she was getting very tired. She had risen at six, prepared breakfast for Joe and her four guests, packed, checked on Gertrude, picked up Renie, and driven more than sixty miles to the cabin. The cousins had put in a busy afternoon, working around the cabin. Then all hell had broken loose. Now it was eleven-thirty, a stranger was sleeping in the spare bedroom, and Carrie Mae Morton was talking Judith's ear off.

“…a hippie type, that's what I told them,” Carrie Mae was saying as Judith finally tuned back in. “There's still a few of 'em, living by the old sawmill up the Jimmy-Jump-Off Creek Road. They come in for gas now and then. It figures, don't it?”

“It…could,” Judith allowed, not quite following Carrie Mae's brand of logic. “Do they do drugs?”

Carrie Mae gave Judith a condescending look. “Does a dog have fleas? 'Course they do—they even grow the stuff. You'd think that dopey undersheriff would have busted 'em a long time ago. On the take, that's what. Those hippies have. money to spare, believe me.” She sniffed with disdain, red curls and big bosom shaking.

Carrie Mae's hippie theory wasn't implausible. Abbott N. Costello
had
mentioned grand theft. Maybe it was a relatively simple murder, with robbery as the motive.

Judith pointed to the white Mercedes. “Is that Mr. Dixon's car?”

“Dixon?” Carrie Mae's mouth twisted in the effort of remembering. “Oh, right. Sort of a spiffy guy. I guess he knew Riley, huh?”

Judith nodded. Inside the phone booth, Renie looked paralyzed. “When did he check in?” Judith tried to keep the question casual.

Again Carrie Mae screwed up her face. “This time? Let me think…it was soon after that whirlybird took off from Riley's and just before Rafe put peanut butter on the pig. We keep a few animals out back, you know. Well—I guess it was around four, maybe sooner. It's hard to keep track of time.”

Briefly, Judith commiserated. “I take it Mr. Dixon was here to see Riley?”

“Must have been. Lousy timing for him, too, huh?” Carrie Mae smiled broadly.

It was, of course. Unless…Judith put another question to Carrie Mae: “Did you or your husband happen to see anybody over by Nella's house around five o'clock?”

Carrie Mae tugged at the ties of her floral bathrobe. “You mean around the time Riley was killed? Nope. I was thrashing the kids. They were trying to put a dress on the dog. My best dress, too.” Carrie Mae's full lips puckered in disapproval. “As for Mort, he was out feeding the chickens and slopping the pigs. He always does that about then. When he's done, I fix dinner and we all sit down to the family trough.” She squealed with laughter at her own humor, sounding not unlike one of the Morton pigs.

Renie finally staggered from the phone booth. After a few more desultory exchanges with Carrie Mae Morton, the cousins got into the blue compact and drove the short distance to the family cabin.

Both the fire and the lanterns had gone out. Although the night air had grown cool, the cousins decided against coping with the stove. Renie lighted a single lantern while Judith peeked in on Clive Silvanus. She stood in the doorway for several seconds, waiting for Renie to illuminate the room. When the light finally flared up, Judith let out a resigned sigh.

“I knew it,” she said, turning away and letting the plaid curtain fall into place. “He's gone.”

“Good riddance,” said Renie, yawning.

“Probably,” responded Judith, kicking off her shoes. If she hadn't been relieved, and tired, she would have felt uneasy.

Instead, she went to bed. Renie carried the kerosene lantern into the back bedroom. Yet more blue-and-white plaid covered the twin beds. It occurred to Judith that Grandma Grover must have bought the stuff in bulk, rather than by the yard.

The cousins settled down; the lantern light faded into darkness. Less than two feet separated the beds. On many a long-ago summer night Judith and Renie had gotten into trouble for talking too much, getting up repeatedly, insisting on using the chamber pot, or beating each other over the head with their pillows. They would complain of grizzly bears at the window, garter snakes on the floor, and ghosts hiding outside in the woods. On this night in early May there were potheads up the road, burglars on the loose, and a murderer lurking in the shadows. Times had changed, and so had Judith and Renie.

Forty years after making mischief and giving their imaginations free rein, the cousins simply went to sleep.

 

The morning mist was on the river; the dew was still on the grass. Mount Woodchuck was partially obscured, but the cousins knew that by noon it would reappear. Unless it rained. Judith and Renie breakfasted on buttermilk pancakes, link sausage, fried eggs, orange juice, and hot coffee. They talked of mothers, matrimony, and murder, but not necessarily in that order.

“Joe must be using reverse psychology,” Judith asserted. “You know how he is about me playing sleuth. So why has he changed his tune? Because we're leaving tomorrow afternoon?”

“Maybe. But I think you were right the first time,” Renie said, buttering four dollar-sized pancakes in turn. Not a morning person, she seemed more alert than usual. Judith figured that her cousin was also responding well to the rustic comforts of the cabin. It was much more agreeable to wake up to the sound of a rippling river than to the buzz of an alarm clock.

“Bill's the one who knows psychology,” Judith mused. “Then my mother tells me I'd be a sap to ever listen to anything Joe said. If I keep out of this case, I'd be playing right into his hands. But if he's serious, then I'm defying him. What would you do, coz?”

“Be confused,” Renie replied, drizzling syrup over her
pancakes. “Which I am. I don't know what the hell you're talking about.”

For a few moments the cousins ate in silence. At last Judith spoke again. “If Carrie Mae Morton is right, it shouldn't take too long for even a dim-bulb like Costello to track down those aging hippies.”

Renie nodded. “They'd know Riley had valuable artwork. I've no idea how you fence a curlew sculpture, but I suppose it can be done. Face it, coz, there may not be much of a mystery about this case. The way things stand, I don't even know where you'd begin.”

Judith was cutting up her sausage and didn't see Renie's eyes dance. “Oh, there could be other motives besides robbery. Why hadn't Riley handed over the painting to Dewitt Dixon? What's their mutual history? How much is Clive Silvanus really hiding behind that overdone Good Ol' Boy exterior? Where
is
Clive, if it comes to that?
Did
Ward Kimball have a serious quarrel with Riley, and if so, what was it about? Was Lark in love with Riley? How did that sit with Iris Takisaki? Why did Lazlo Gamm suddenly show up, literally out of the blue? Where were all of the above between five and five-thirty yesterday afternoon? We know where Iris was. Dewitt had checked into the motel by four, Ward and Lark were in the vicinity, so was Clive, and we know approximately when Lazlo Gamm left because we heard his copter. But how do we know he didn't come back?”