1 Portrait of a Gossip

by Melanie Jackson

  Her legs were protesting heavily as she toiled up the hill for what she decided would be the final trip of the day.

  She and Garret ate outside because he was still dusting for prints. Not that finding a neighbor’s prints would be conclusive. Any one of them might have been in the bungalow while welcoming a new resident, or protesting Harvey’s drunkenness, or telling the sot to go to hell. Certainly, Robbie Sykes’ prints would be inside.

  “The computer is missing. We know he had one because there’s a printer and scanner on the dining table,” Garret said. Her mouth full, Juliet nodded. “Have you ever been inside the bungalow?”

  Juliet swallowed.

  “No. Do you want me to look around anyway?”

  “Actually…. Yes. I want to know if anything strikes you.”

  “Okay.” She wiped her hands on her paint rag. “I won’t touch anything.”

  Garret rose, bringing his sandwich with him.

  Several things struck Juliet. The first was that Harvey had no books.

  “Have you found an e-reader, like a Kindle or an iPad?” she asked.

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “It’s just odd that a writer would have no books. I know a few and they are all avid readers. That makes me think that this writing gig is a one-off tell-all kind of thing and not a change in careers.”

  Garret nodded as he finished his sandwich. Juliet had the feeling that this wasn’t what he was hoping she noticed.

  His towels, bathrobe, and barware were monogrammed with the names of upscale hotels. So he was also sticky-fingered though he could have afforded to buy anything. This added to Juliet’s distaste.

  Obeying an impulse, she looked under the sink and then frowned at the piles of mouse droppings. Either Marley was a rotten mouser, or the rodents were especially pushy higher up the mountain. Harvey Allen was barely cold but they had already moved in.

  Unless they had already been there.

  Juliet looked at the painted boards under the pipes. They were all shriveled, but the one in the middle had a suspiciously perfect knothole in the center where the paint had been rubbed away from the smoothed edge.

  “Have you got a pocket knife?” she asked Garret who knelt beside her. There was no way she was sticking her finger into that black hole.

  “Yes, but let me.”

  Juliet shifted to give him room. He pried the board up carefully and sure enough there was a hollow spot between the joists. It was currently vacant, but it had obviously been used as a nest for many years and was lined with chewed-up money.

  Garret smiled grimly.

  “I wish I thought this was Harvey Allen’s stash, but it’s too old.”

  “And none of it is salvageable,” she agreed regretfully, thinking that she had better check on her own stash of cash and documents. “I wonder whom it belonged to.”

  “Someone who lived here in the sixties,” Garret said, peering at the smelly fragments.

  Juliet stood, knees popping a bit, and moved on to the south wall where there was a desk and several framed checks hung at random, creating a kind of glass crazy-quilt pattern. The desk of burled wood looked like it had been scarred by small pox. Since wood didn’t usually catch human diseases, Juliet diagnosed cigarette burns as the likely culprit. It was missing a computer, confirming her suspicion of a computer pogrom. She was betting that his phone had also been euthanized.

  “No phone?”

  “No.” The sheriff mulled for a moment then added, “It seems from what everyone has said that this guy had about one brain cell, and everyone knew what he was. So how could anyone be dumb enough to fall into his clutches?”

  Juliet knelt down and looked under the desk, making sure nothing had been taped to the bottom of the shallow drawer.

  “Bacteria are single-celled creatures, but people lose to them all the time too. Sometimes because they are innocent. Sometimes because they are distracted and careless in dealing with them.” She got to her feet. “And once Harvey has bored into you…. If you are angry and have money, you use an attorney to get even. If you are poor enough—and angry enough—you use a gun.”

  “You did work in prediction, right?”

  She nodded, not entirely happy that the sheriff knew this much about her.

  “But before you get too excited about having a secret weapon, you need to know that there is a big difference between calculating the statistics of mass human behavior and guessing what a single person will do. Anyway, the homicidal mind was never what I studied. I hunted for theoretical traitors and spies, people putting out disinformation—a sort of forensic accountant really. Not a criminal psychologist.”

  “But still.”

  Juliet shook her head.

  The wall was more interesting than the abused desk. Instead of awards for journalism, Harvey had framed Xeroxes of large checks from some of the world’s most disreputable magazines. Apparently these were his medals and honors.

  “He’d work for anyone, wouldn’t he?” she murmured. “I mean why limit yourself to tabloids when you can do political smear jobs? Some of these groups are notorious for their campaigns of disinformation.”

  Her eyes skimmed names and titles on the checks. All the payments were drawn on commercial banks except one. The one on the far right in a red frame was a personal check from someone named Charity Jones made out in November of 2010. It was for ten thousand dollars.

  “What do you think?” Garret asked.

  “It’s a break in the pattern. The name is familiar too—why?”

  “Suicide. Last year.”

  “That’s right! She was the actress who turned out to be a cross-dresser.” Juliet frowned at the check. “You think this was hush money paid to Harvey? It would be like him to frame blood money in red.”

  “If it was hush money, it didn’t work. Harvey Allen is the one who outed her—him. She had just landed a big role in some film—”

  “And got fired after her true gender was made public. My God! He was a nasty piece of work.”

  “We are checking to see if Charity has any family in the area. I know it’s a long shot since the killer almost certainly had to be in the compound, but we need to check on it anyway.”

  Juliet nodded.

  * * *

  Her ears were burning by the time she made it home and she knew the neighbors were probably talking. Feeling like the oracle at Delphi—or perhaps the whore in church—Juliet set up her easel on the first terrace, not far from the community room, and got out her tray of watercolors which she rarely used.

  She didn’t have long to wait until the first of her fellow citizens came to ask questions about what she had seen at Harvey’s. The first to arrive at her easel was the usually tactful and incurious Darby O’Hara.

  “Rumor has it that the sheriff is smitten with you.” Darby sat on a nearby bench. The first terrace had three of them. Everyone up the mountain had to make do with rocks.

  “More like smitten with my tuna sandwiches. He hadn’t reckoned on being here so long and didn’t bring a lunch.” Juliet dabbed at her canvas. So far her herb garden was amorphous. “I think he was also looking for an interpreter.”

  Darby blinked.

  “An interpreter?”

  “Yes, someone who can explain what all the histrionics over a man no one liked or wanted is all about.”

  Darby chuckled.

  “Carrie Simmons? Or has he been to see Rose?”

  “By now, probably both—and not necessarily because he felt the need to interview them yet.” Juliet dabbed some more. “I shouldn’t joke. It’s an upsetting business.”

  “Yes, of course,” Darby agreed mechanically. “Only … not as upsetting as it would have been if someone besides Harvey had been killed.”

  “True. But can we be sure that the killings will stop with Harvey?” Juliet spoke without thinking.

  Darby’s lips parted but no sound came out. She looked like someone had, as Juliet’s grandma used to say, slapped her i
n the face with a fish.

  “Precisely. We assume that someone killed Harvey because he was nosy and annoying and maybe even trying a spot of blackmail—but we don’t know that this is true. In fact, outside of Asher and Raphael, no one has much money, so it may not be a motive at all. We shouldn’t assume anything.” Juliet changed the subject. “I need to ask Robbie to put in an order for cat food. It’s getting expensive feeding Marley nothing but tuna. And it probably isn’t good for him.”

  “Marley—oh, the cat. You’re going to take care of him?”

  “I don’t have a choice. He’s just moved in.”

  Darby chuckled again. She was comfortable talking about the cat.

  “Cats are that way. Do you want me to take a look at him? Make sure he’s healthy?”

  “It would be great if you could. I expect he’ll be along presently. He seems to be a bit lost today and inclined to follow me around.”

  “Poor puss.” Her voice was warm with sympathy that hadn’t been there for the cat’s owner.

  “You were wise not to try making it to the gallery last night. I got the car stuck in the mud and had to have it towed. It will have to be cleaned before I use it again.”

  “I heard. That will be expensive, though Brenner will do a good job.”

  “It has to be done regardless of price. Honestly, it smells like a sewer. I wonder if the septic fields flooded.”

  Darby shook her head, nose wrinkling.

  “I was just happy to spend the night indoors with the electricity on. Usually we lose it during bad rains. Harrison Peters popped in just as it started to come down and we had a cup of coffee and a visit.” Darby blushed. It showed clearly on her pale skin. “I hope he didn’t get too wet walking home later.”

  “He should have been fine if he left before five. After that he was headed for muddy shoes.”

  “I think it was a little later than that.” Her blush deepened. Juliet was glad that she couldn’t really suspect Darby of killing Harvey Allen and that she gave the young and reclusive composer a partial alibi.

  “How is the opera coming?” Juliet remembered to pretend to paint.

  “Very well. He is feeling the pressure of the deadline. I don’t know that six months is reasonable for writing a full opera score.”

  “I have no idea either,” Juliet admitted. “It doesn’t sound very long.”

  “Still he was lucky to get the commission. We are all lucky to find work in this economy.” She meant creative work. “And speaking of luck. Here comes your new friend.”

  Juliet looked for Garret and then dropped her eyes nearer to the ground.

  “Meeooow.”

  Darby reached down to pick the cat up. She did this easily. Her feet were clubbed but she had worked for many years in a veterinary practice that treated large animals as well as domestic pets.

  She looked the cat over, checking his teeth and gums and then peering in his fur.

  “No sign of fleas. Harvey must have been responsible enough to use flea control,” she said grudgingly. “Actually, Marley looks to be in tip-top shape.”

  When she set the cat down her lap was covered in fur.

  “You might want to brush him while he’s shedding. You don’t want him to get fur balls.”

  “Okay,” Juliet agreed a bit doubtfully, deciding not to ask about fur balls since she figured that was another name for hair mats. And if it wasn’t, she didn’t want to know. “Do I need a special kind of brush?”

  “Yes. I’ll loan you one,” Darby said, standing. She didn’t bother trying to smooth the fur away. “And a litter box. You can use shredded newspaper or dirt for now, but you will want to get some cat litter. The biodegradable stuff is best.”

  “Thanks. You know, I have a feeling that owning a cat may turn out to be expensive.”

  Darby grinned at her.

  “I think I’ll let it all dawn on you gradually,” she said and then shuffled away.

  Juliet finished her rather mediocre illustration and decided that it would do. Though there was still daylight to be had, Juliet chose to close up shop and fix an early dinner. She felt the need of a shower and there was a fair chance of getting at least better than tepid water if she bathed early.

  “Come on, Marley, let’s see if I have anything besides tuna in the cupboard. I better have some fruit or veggies today or I’ll get rickets and scurvy.”

  Chapter 6

  Juliet had never had a cat, but she assumed that they, like the dogs she also never had, would enjoying having their own bed in preference to sleeping with her. Of course, because Juliet had never owned a dog either she didn’t realize that she had made two erroneous assumptions about where the species prefer to sleep.

  She discovered the first soon enough when Marley ignored the pile of towels she had put out for him and settled on her pillow instead.

  “Look. You may not have fleas, but that is my pillow. This is your bed,” she said reasonably, picking up the cat and setting him down on the chair where she had put the towels. “See, this is nicer, cat-sized.”

  Marley stared at her with wide eyes, the tip of his tail twitching.

  “Well then. You’ve got your litter box and the water dish. So … goodnight.”

  Marley waited until she was in bed with an open book and then rejoined her. He kneaded the blanket at her side for a minute then curled his back into the curve of her body.

  “So that is a definite no to sleeping on the chair?”

  The cat purred and Juliet gave in.

  Sleep was in short supply, though she found Marley comforting even if the foreign presence sometimes forced her into odd positions. Her nose also felt a little burned and she vowed to wear a hat the next day since she would probably be out with her easel again. Being outside made it much easier for her neighbors to stop by for a casual visit and tell her all the things they wouldn’t say to the sheriff, but thought that he should be made aware of.

  Part of her sleeplessness was being unable to expunge the image of the dead man dropped into his lounge chair. Why there? Because he was shot in situ? It didn’t seem likely that Harvey would be sitting around watching the storm come in. Like Juliet, Harvey was not a child of nature. In fact, an artists’ compound in the California mountains was a strange choice for either of them. Juliet was there because it was as far from Washington D.C. as she could get and not set off alarms in high places that didn’t like former employees to indulge in foreign travel for at least a year after they left government employment. But what about Harvey Allen? Had he chosen the place for its peace and quiet as he wrote his book? Or was it a place where he could hide out and see everyone who approached the compound and evaluate them for threat?

  So, if he wasn’t nature watching, why was he outside? Was he taking down his shotgun mike, making himself an easy target for the murderer as he stood on a bench with his back to the trail? And was he put in the chair after he was shot because it was easier to hoist a body into a dead man’s carry if it wasn’t lying flat on the ground? Or was this just some deviant, artistic personality at work? If so, Juliet wasn’t sure if she could understand the killer enough to discern any patterns. The people she hunted—or, more often their work—were all sane, smart, and operating under rules that she understood. In spite of what she had said to the sheriff about artist and craftsmen, what did she really know about her neighbors and what motivated them?

  The thoughts circled for hours, doing endless laps around the same block and not producing any answers. Increasingly she felt the burden of death and knew she had a responsibility to discharge, even if the task seemed almost impossible in the dark hours.

  Eventually dawn poked its nose through the one small window in the bedroom, signaling that it was time to be up and doing. Knowing the devastation a sleepless night wrought, Juliet brushed her teeth and combed her hair without looking in the small mirror over the sink. Over the years the cottage’s artistic occupants had made improvements. One stonemason had laid the bathroom floor
in some kind of marble that looked like withered salami. Then in an effort to distract the eye from the abomination, he had compounded his sin by painting the walls barn red, which left everyone looking like they had a bad case of rosacea.

  Juliet rarely wore makeup, but when she did, she used a hand mirror in her studio. Experience had taught her that foundation and blush applied in the red room always needed drastic modification when seen in the light of day. She hadn’t the hardihood to see her reflection in any light before coffee.

  Marley had no such qualms. He was happy to walk up and down the sink’s narrow ledge, patting at his reflection in the glass and trying to chew on her toothbrush and getting drinks from the faucet.

  He felt no guilt about the circle of pumpkin-colored fur left on the previously white bedspread either. Juliet decided that perhaps chenille was not the best choice of materials for a bedcover with a feline in residence.

  After offering Marley the last of her tuna, and armed with a thermos of coffee, Juliet took up her hat, the easel, and a fresh canvas and set out to find some light shade where the reflected light would be good for painting but not so bright as to add to her sunburn. She decided to tackle the lupines again. They were a popular choice for t-shirts.

  “Lovely,” she said to herself, finding a place at the base of the trail. The stalks of blue jewels rising out of the rocks and dirt were unmoving. The air just hung there, heat latent but not yet realized. Juliet peered through the branches at the sky, which remained blue, though the sultry air made her wonder about thunderstorms.

  She was careful in the arrangement of her stool and easel. There were young redwoods pushing out of the debris-covered ground, looking like baby fingers gripping an old tree limb. The largest redwoods were awe-inspiring and even a little frightening in their size and age, but the little ones just looked vulnerable.

  Juliet hadn’t been working long before she was joined by another early riser. A quick look at Mickey’s face told her that hers had not been the only sleepless night.