1 Portrait of a Gossip

by Melanie Jackson

  “Gift, singular. Good evening, Elizabeth,” Juliet said, allowing Asher to help her out of her coat and to stand her umbrella outside the door. “I hope the cupcake isn’t too battered. That trail is dreadful in the rain. Pigs on roller skates would have managed it more gracefully.”

  “Good heavens, my dear. What a night to be out in! But it is wonderful to have some company to break up the peace and quiet. I don’t hardly know what to do with myself on these rainy nights when even Carrie won’t come for a visit, and poor Jillian is hiding under her bed.”

  She reached out veined and calloused hands to take the offered bag. The fingers tremored slightly as she opened the small sack.

  “Well, personally I’d say prayers of thanks for the deliverance,” Juliet muttered without thinking and got a crack of laughter from Asher and a slight smile from Elizabeth. “But why is Jillian hiding under her bed?”

  “She is terrified of lightning.” Elizabeth removed the pink box and opened the lid. “Lemon—my favorite. Thank you!”

  “I had to wrestle the high school quarterback to get it too,” Juliet said, taking the chair that Asher dragged forward.

  She had never been this close to Elizabeth before and she usually wore a large brimmed hat when outdoors which obscured most of her face. Juliet found herself studying her. She had been pretty once, a feminine version of her son. Age had done its work, of course, but Juliet thought her the more attractive of the pair because of her sweetness of expression which was so much more appealing than Asher’s perpetual sardonic sneer.

  “There goes the kettle. I’ll get the tea, Mother,” Asher said and headed for the small alcove that functioned as the kitchen.

  Elizabeth looked for a place to set her cupcake and finally settled for laying it over some strips of rosewood she had obviously been sanding. Once her hands were empty she returned them to her lap and let them clasp one another.

  “You do such beautiful work,” Juliet said sincerely. “If I could afford it I’d have you make frames for all my work. It would elevate it all the way to art.”

  “It is kind of you to say so. Do you do other kinds of painting?” Elizabeth asked. Her son’s angry red blots made a strange backdrop for the very old-fashioned lady who resembled nothing so much as Whistler’s mother.

  “You mean pure art rather than for commerce?” Juliet asked and then shook her head. “Rarely. I have come into the game rather late and need to take projects that will pay before I build my name. Assuming I have the courage. As yet my skin is rather thin. The fame will probably have to come after I am retired or dead. Or perhaps I shall be one of those whose name is writ on water and never have fame at all.”

  “Are you fond of Keats?” Asher asked, showing he caught the reference. He was carrying a tray with a teapot and three cups over to his guest. He hesitated when he reached them, also thwarted by the lack of available surfaces.

  “Let me,” Juliet said and fetched an empty work stool. “Keats isn’t my favorite poet, but his story does move me to pity. So many of the poets lived in cruel centuries. It is amazing they survived long enough to leave us anything at all.”

  Asher’s smile was almost warm.

  “Well, this is very cozy,” Elizabeth Temple said as Asher poured out the tea. He offered both milk and lemon but Juliet opted for plain. “Now, dear, not to hurry you because I am glad of the company, but if you felt like it, you could tell us why you really came.”

  That was direct. Juliet sipped her tea and then decided on a half-truth.

  “It’s about Harvey Allen. I wished to discuss something—but thought I would try it with rational people first.”

  “We’re honored to be chosen,” Asher said ironically.

  “You’re closest and it’s raining,” Juliet answered in a tone that matched his own and got another laugh.

  “Go on, please.”

  “I’m in a bit of a social quandary. One of us has died—been murdered, in fact—and in any other circumstance I would expect someone to hold some kind of memorial gathering.”

  “Because it’s what civilized people do,” Asher murmured.

  “But in this circumstance?” Elizabeth prompted after frowning at her son.

  “I can’t find anyone who didn’t despise and loathe him. At least, did you despise and loathe him?” she asked mildly, looking between her host and hostess.

  “Thoroughly,” Asher agreed.

  “Sadly, I, too, did not care for him,” Elizabeth added. “Such an unpleasant man, always looking for hurtful things to say. It makes it hard to respect him even when he’s dead.”

  “Nothing so became his life as the leaving of it,” Asher murmured, mangling Dickens.

  “Well, that makes it nearly unanimous. I haven’t spoken to Jake and Jillian yet, but I suppose it is too much to hope that they liked him.”

  “Way too much,” Asher agreed. “We made the mistake of having them to tea. Jake actually had to be restrained from punching him once. I don’t know what the detestable idiot said to Jillian but it made her cry.”

  Juliet nodded. This meant she would need to have a visit with the Holmeses and soon.

  “Poor thing. She has seemed so unwell lately. And that horrid man had the knack for provoking either tears or violence from his victims.” Elizabeth sipped her milky tea.

  Juliet found it interesting that she used the word victim.

  “Well, I suppose it would be in bad taste to throw a thank-God-he’s-dead party. Especially since someone would blab and it would end up on Facebook or YouTube or something, so maybe we shouldn’t get together after all. I can just send flowers for the funeral. If there is one. I haven’t heard anything about arrangements. Was there any family?” Juliet finished her tea. There was nowhere to put her cup so she let it rest in her lap.

  “Not that I’ve heard of,” Asher said. “That is possibly a good thing. One hates to think of too many Harvey Allens roaming the earth.”

  “Yes, and I fear that Carrie wouldn’t be able to resist talking about that kind of party. She adores publicity,” Elizabeth agreed. “It is also difficult because one of us killed him.”

  “It certainly looks that way.” Tired of holding her cup, Juliet set it on the floor. “I suppose it wasn’t either of you.”

  “Quite certain.” Asher was amused rather than offended. “We were together that afternoon and evening, so someone else will have to be nominated for the public service award.”

  “And I am afraid my homicidal days are over,” Elizabeth added lightly.

  That was true, but her son’s were not, at least in theory, and he seemed plenty vitriolic. It would hardly be the first time that a mother had lied to protect her child.

  “Well, there goes that idea too. Have you met the newest tenant yet?” Juliet asked, changing the subject since there was no chance of either of the Temples saying anything incriminating.

  “A new tenant?” Elizabeth asked, glancing toward Asher.

  “Yes, Esteban Rodriguez. He carves life-size marionettes out of goat bones.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “They’re good,” she admitted grudgingly. “Disturbing and morbid. But then so is he.”

  “You’ve met him then?” Asher said.

  “Yes, at the new gallery. Raphael introduced me. He is moving into the cottage next to Harvey’s once the repairs are finished. He’s another of Mr. Biggers’ artistic acquaintances. He didn’t say anything about knowing Harvey though.”

  Not directly.

  “Is he personable in other ways?” Elizabeth asked.

  “He might be Raphael’s twin,” Juliet answered with more truth than tact and then thought about what she had said. There really was a scary level of resemblance between the two men. She hadn’t thought about it before because Raphael was in a wheelchair and Esteban had been standing, but the two men were probably of the same height and their shoulders had the same build and their coloring was nearly identical. The only difference was in the texture of the ski
n. Esteban had seen some long, hard miles in the great outdoors and Raphael was understandably pale.

  Elizabeth sighed.

  “That’s … well, I guess it’s to be expected. Great artists aren’t always socially inclined. We must make allowances.”

  Juliet wondered if that was how she excused her son’s own standoffishness.

  “True. But I won’t hear a word said against Raphael,” Juliet said lightly. “He said I paint beautiful botanical illustrations.”

  “You do,” Asher said in a voice so flat that it almost removed all feel of it being a compliment.

  “Thank you. They are my bread, if not my butter.” Juliet refused to feel either elated or humbled by his comments.

  “If you really wanted to have a gathering, I suppose we could have one to welcome this new artist,” Elizabeth said. “I imagine it’s been hard adjusting to this life, especially if you did a lot of entertaining back east.”

  Juliet hadn’t done any entertaining outside of a meeting room on the third floor of her office building, and there they had served only coffee and adrenaline, but she found that she liked the idea of having a party with finger food and silly drinks or snobby wines. And there was a note of wistfulness in Elizabeth’s voice. Juliet thought that probably she missed going to openings, dressing up and seeing other artists in a social situation.

  They both glanced at Asher who said, “Don’t look at me. You ladies must do what you want. By all means have a party if that’s what you wish, just don’t involve me in the planning.”

  “Let’s think about it,” Juliet answered, getting to her feet. “You should both meet him first. He didn’t strike me as a party kind of person. In fact, I’m not sure he’s housebroken. It will be interesting to see how well he’d get on at a show. The gallery might have to keep him locked in the back room. At least until the public acquires a taste for his art. He’s damn-your-eyes handsome but truly—well, he makes Raphael look like a social butterfly.”

  Chapter 9

  A few of the cottages had gone dark and eyeless while Juliet visited with Asher and Elizabeth. The rain was heavier, too, and the lightning had begun to dance and flicker off to the north. In the distance was the unhappy tremolo of a hound. Perhaps it was Erik. It was better to think it was the Great Dane than to imagine wolves in the woods. Such thoughts were a frightening reminder that she was a frail animal in a place that could kill her if she ever lost the safety of her walls and the warmth of her fire.

  Climbing back to her cottage would be difficult and wet even with the aid of her feeble flashlight and the questionable protection of her umbrella.

  But, starting up the trail, she could see that one cottage was not dark. Standing outside her own bungalow and closing up her useless umbrella, she could see the light through the rift in the trees behind her studio. Harvey Allen’s cottage was showing a soft glow in one window. The eeriness touched her, colder than the wind.

  “No,” she said, having an instant of supernatural dread which she strangled immediately.

  She looked again, thinking that the light might be coming from the cottage next door. Perhaps Robbie Sykes was working late on repairs.

  But no, the dim light dredging through the gloom was definitely coming from Harvey’s bungalow.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” she whispered, then almost screamed as Marley rubbed against her legs. The cat had heard her and come out to welcome her home.

  “Dumb cat!” she gasped, but stooped to pet him. “What are you doing out in the rain?”

  “Meow.”

  “Yes, I see it. And I don’t believe in ghosts,” she repeated.

  But she did believe in murderers. A cautious person would risk going down the trail and finding a bungalow with a light on and asking for help before investigating. Or calling someone for help on the phone.

  But in the time it would take Sheriff Garret to arrive—and to be guided up the mountain in the rain—whoever was in the cottage could get away. Going herself to see who was there might be the best and fastest way to discover the killer.

  “Meow.”

  “Okay. I’ll call Robbie first.”

  Juliet opened her door wide so that she could watch the trail while she telephoned. She went automatically to the crank phone but then hesitated. She could call Robbie that way, but it would wake all her neighbors since the phone rang at every cottage. Did she want to do that? To scare everyone into thinking there was an emergency, since there was an unwritten rule about using the phone after nine o’clock at night.

  She went to her purse and dug out her disposable phone which she had purchased after leaving the NSA. She hadn’t figured out how to store phone numbers in the directory so had to pull out her address book. She punched in the number for the caretaker, but there was no answer.

  Juliet went outside and peered through the trees looking for lights at her neighbors’ cottages. It looked like there were lights both at Raphael’s bungalow and at Darby’s cottage. But neither of them could manage to get up the hill, especially in the dark and rain.

  “Damn it.”

  Juliet chewed her lip.

  “I won’t go inside the cottage. Won’t even get that close,” she whispered to Marley. “I’ll just watch from the trees and see who leaves. Then I’ll call the sheriff.”

  That sounded safe and sensible but still required more courage than she was used to exerting. Juliet was not the stuff of which movie heroines were made. Many kinds of people worked for the NSA. Few were likely to ever star in a thriller. Even the people in the field were boring, just everyday citizens leading everyday lives and occasionally phoning in observations of the people they were sent to watch. Then there were analysts, the eggheads who juggled the data and found ways to apply it. That was where Juliet had fit in the hierarchy.

  “You stay here, Marley. You’ll just get wet and muddy if you come.”

  She was going to get muddy too. She would bring her flashlight, but the umbrella was staying behind. She would need both hands for the climb.

  On such a wet night, Juliet assumed that all the forest creatures would be safely abed, and perhaps many of them were, but not at least one large opossum who hissed at her when she overlooked him with the flashlight’s feeble beam and almost trampled him on the path.

  At the first unearthly hiss, terror made a big bounding leap from her head to her heart and kicked it into overdrive. She dropped her flashlight and it rolled away as she tried to run in three directions at once. What skin had not already prickled from the cold went goose-bumpy with terror. Gasping, she leaned against a redwood and watched the white hump waddle away, forcing a tunnel through the underbrush of the woods. It kept hissing recriminations.

  “Stupid critter!” she whispered, knowing the need for silence but still wanting to shriek and run away. What was she doing? Her actions were crazy and she was going to give herself a heart attack. She should go back to her cottage and call the sheriff. Let him come and wait in the forest with the hissing possums and the freezing rain. And maybe the killer.

  She froze. Floating on the air was the smell of tobacco. Opossums might do any number of amazing things, but none of them smoked cigarettes.

  “Miss Juliet,” a voice said softly.

  Juliet whipped around and would have screamed then but a hard hand covered her mouth, stifling her cry with brutal strength. She fought but it was useless. The hands that pulled her against the tall, hard body were relentless and bit into her cheeks.

  “Hush! It’s Esteban Rodriguez.”

  Juliet stopped struggling. It was unlikely that Harvey’s killer would pause to identify himself if he meant her harm.

  The hand eased away from her mouth and she was allowed to turn and face her assailant.

  “Your door was open, a light was on—but you weren’t there. Then I saw the light from the cottage,” the harsh voice whispered. It was very dark but she could feel his eyes searching her face.

  “Yes, someone is in Harvey’s cottage.
I saw the lights too.” She didn’t ask why he was at her bungalow or even in the compound. That would have taken more breath than she possessed.

  “And you came to investigate?” The whispering voice was disapproving.

  She drew in a few more breaths.

  “I tried calling for help but there was no answer at the caretaker’s cottage. In fact, I wonder.…” She would feel silly if it was Robbie up there doing some kind of maintenance.

  “Perhaps—” Esteban stopped and whirled toward the woods where they both heard some rustling in the brush.

  “It’s probably the opossum,” Juliet said after a second. “I scared him—well, he scared me—a little bit ago.”

  He listened a moment longer but there was nothing but the sound of rain and distant thunder.

  “Very well, let us go on to the cottage.”

  “In a moment.” Juliet had found some courage. “What are you doing here?”

  Esteban turned on his own flashlight. It was much brighter than hers had been.

  “Visiting with Raphael.”

  “Uh-huh. Want to try again? And maybe this time you could use the truth. Who are you really? Why are you here? On the hill? In the rain?”

  She expected him to say that he was Raphael’s brother or cousin and Raphael had sent him to check on the Harvey’s bungalow.

  “The truth.” He laughed a little. “Very well. Since Raphael thinks so highly of you. I am Esteban Rodriguez, a puppet-maker. But until about three years ago, I was also a private investigator. Mr. Biggers hired me to look into things up here because of all the complaints about Harvey. It’s doubly important now to find out what he was doing since the man is dead. Raphael is my contact. And my fee for the job is a year’s board at Bartholomew’s Wood.”

  “Okay then,” Juliet said, not sure if she believed him, but deciding that she wouldn’t disbelieve him until after they had investigated the cottage and gotten out of the rain. The cold was miserable.

  The forest was a lot less frightening with a decent flashlight and a strong man—armed, she noticed—at her side. It hadn’t occurred to her to bring a gun. She needed to stop being stupid and recognize—all the way to her soul—that her refuge was no longer safe.