No porch light glowed to light their way and they had to use the flashlight to avoid the patio furniture which the sheriff had left in the middle of the tiles. The door to the bungalow was shut and locked, but as Juliet told the sheriff, the locks to the cottages were all the same and her key opened Harvey’s door.
“Wait. No footprints.”
Their own muddy shoes had violated the clean patio but theirs were the only prints. Whoever had been there—if anyone had been there—had taken off their shoes before venturing on to the dry porch. If they were smart enough to do that, chances were that they had also worn gloves.
Unless they really were dealing with a ghost. A spirit wouldn’t leave footprints either.
They scraped off the worst of the wet and mud and then ventured inside cautiously and quietly, but their precautions were unneeded. Unless someone was hiding under the bed or able to fit themselves in the small cabinet under the sink, there was nowhere for anyone to hide.
Juliet sniffed at the air.
“What is it?” Esteban asked.
“Cigarette,” she said. “At least some kind of tobacco.”
Esteban also inhaled and then nodded. His face got hard and he drew his gun. What he planned to shoot, Juliet didn’t know, but she supposed it was better to be prepared. It also occurred to her that the noise they had heard on the trail might not have been the possum after all and that made her shiver.
“I’ll start over here.”
While Juliet peered under the bare mattress—perhaps the sheriff had taken the sheets as evidence—Esteban looked into the studio. Both spaces were empty. A quick look under the sink confirmed that no midget killers were hiding there either.
Esteban began opening dresser drawers but they were empty. All traces of Harvey Allen had been removed. Except for the framed checks on the wall. Juliet went over to the desk near the window where the light was coming from. The cookie jar lamp was plugged into a plastic box with a digital display. The dim light on the low table made her shadow long and weak.
“So, our intruder is a five-dollar electrical device,” Esteban said, peering over her shoulder.
Juliet sniffed and shook her head.
“Not unless the timer has started smoking cigarettes. This is recent.” She pointed at the ash that had fallen on the desk. There was black fingerprint powder everywhere, but there was some white ash there as well. Most had been brushed away but a streak or two remained.
“So…. What were they after? What did they think to find that the police would leave behind?”
Juliet pointed at a small blank spot on the wall. The red-framed check was missing.
“What was it?” Esteban asked. He was scanning the display with interest.
“A check. A personal check from an actress named Charity Jones.”
Esteban thought for a moment.
“The cross-dresser who topped himself?”
“Yes. Harvey Allen was the reporter who outed her. Him.”
“After she had paid him?” The voice sounded slightly outraged at this act of dishonor.
“Presumably. She’d be a great suspect for the case—except for being dead.”
The shingles creaked, caught and twisted by the wind whose moaning sounded an awful lot like voices.
Chapter 10
They went back to her cottage and Juliet made tea. It was after midnight but she didn’t feel at all tired.
Nor did she bother upbraiding Marley for sleeping on her pillow and getting muddy paw prints on the bedspread. She just took the towels from the bed he didn’t use and handed one to Esteban and then used the other to blot her face and hair.
She put the kettle on and then stirred up the fire. Esteban was touring her studio, looking at her botanical drawings and her oils of the local wildflowers which would be on some tourist’s chest by next summer. He made no comment about her work and she was too much a veteran to ask if he liked them. One shouldn’t ask questions one didn’t want answers to.
“How do you know Raphael? If that isn’t too personal a question?” Juliet asked, raising her voice slightly to be heard above the rain.
“Raphael, Biggers, and I served together.” He did not specify when or where.
“I’ve been thinking,” Juliet said as she poured tea into mugs and brought them to her small table. “Robbie Sykes smokes cigarettes. So does Jake Holmes—his wife, Jillian, may smoke too. I think Rose Campion also smokes, but not in public. Asher and Hans smoke pipes.” She didn’t mention Mickey’s occasional indulgence. That hadn’t been marijuana smoke they’d smelled. “Raphael smokes cigars, but he obviously wasn’t the intruder.”
Esteban nodded and cradled his tea. The mug disappeared in his hands which were scarred with hundreds of tiny white lines. She supposed that carving bone led to cuts in the fingers.
“Darby doesn’t smoke. I don’t think Harrison or Carrie or Elizabeth do either. And it couldn’t be Elizabeth anyway. She is wheelchair-bound. It was a car accident about two years ago.”
“Harrison?” Esteban asked.
“Opera composer—the new kid on the block.”
“The young black man who never looks at anyone?”
“Yes, except Darby. They seem to be keeping company these days.” She shook her head. “I have also just had the thought that we may not have been chasing the murderer. You knew that Harvey had been spying on people? Maybe even trying to blackmail some of them?”
“Yes. That was Mr. Biggers’ fear.”
“Well, it could just be one of his victims was making sure that there wasn’t anything incriminating lying around.”
“Perhaps.”
“So, do we call the sheriff tonight, or wait ’til morning?” Juliet asked.
“Best do it now.” Esteban was not enthused.
Neither was Juliet, but she dug out her phone and looked up the sheriff’s number.
“Deputy Hendersen,” the sleepy voice said.
“This is Juliet Henry up at the Wood.”
“Yes, Miss Henry. Has something else happened?” the deputy asked, sounding much more awake.
“I’m not sure. I think there may have been someone in Harvey Allen’s cottage tonight. I went up to check when I saw the light, but no one was there. I wouldn’t have thought about the matter again since the lamp is on a timer, but I smelled cigarette smoke.”
“There was no sign of a break-in?”
“No. There weren’t any clothes or linens inside. I assume the sheriff took them?”
“Yes, we have all of them here in the evidence room.”
“Do you know if the sheriff also took the check—the one in the red frame?”
“I—I don’t think so. There wasn’t any chance of getting DNA evidence off of it so probably not.”
“Well, mention to the sheriff that the check is missing, okay? I’ll talk to him in the morning if he has questions. It’s late and I’m going to bed soon.”
“Okay. Goodnight then. You aren’t worried are you, Miss Juliet?”
“About the intruder? No. I’m fine. Goodnight, Deputy.”
“Were you lying?” Esteban asked as she turned off the phone and slid it back into her bag.
“No. I’m not worried.” Juliet had a gun and was competent with it. Her boss had insisted that all his employees carry firearms and had paid their monthly range fees. She hadn’t had the gun out in over a year, but Juliet didn’t think that her skills had deteriorated all that much.
“I meant about being tired and going to bed?”
“No, I meant that too. As soon as we finish our tea I am throwing you out and getting some sleep.”
“Fair enough,” he said, but she thought she heard him sigh.
* * *
On the west side of the mountain giant boulders dammed some pockets of soil where plants grew, but the mountain became balder the higher you climbed and rocks became larger and less negotiable in sneakers. They had once been sharp upthrusts. Broken into red blades by great earthquakes, but t
hey had been fretted to blunt lumps by millennium of wind and rain. There was beauty there, but it was sere and there was less of it every day as summer bore down on them and the plants set seed and then died.
Though she still wanted to talk to her neighbors, Juliet had some work that needed completing. It was a bother to set up the silk-screens for making t-shirts, so she wanted all her images chosen before she made the effort. But she would need to start soon. Memorial Day was only three weeks away.
Juliet decided to leave the compound and head toward town where the occasional fog made everything moister and greener. She eventually found a shady cloister by the creek where one of the rare native lady’s slippers bloomed. The banks were overgrown with brambles, which was part of the charm, and what sun leaked through the trees threw nets of gold into the rippling water. The smell of the forest was strong. It always was after a hard rain.
The colors were muted out of the sunlight though, and they would need to be goosed if she decided to put this on a t-shirt. It was a lovely tableau in every other way, the green fern and water drops still clinging to the flower petals. Maybe it was a little static, and a little plain without some shadows to add depth and interest, but it would do well enough with some embellishment which could be added later.
She sat for a while on a slab of stone, performing the difficult exercise of not thinking and instead just listening to the small sounds of the forest and stream. Everyone talked about the woods being silent, but actually the forest never was. It simply didn’t have the human sounds that people think of as noise.
Feeling more peaceful, she set her easel up carefully on the uneven ground and began to sketch. She had blocked in the stem and one blossom when the other flower shook violently and out shot a bumble bee, legs heavy with pollen, fat body listing to the left as it chugged away. Juliet chuckled. That was what was needed to add a touch of whimsy to her painting—a bumble bee.
Her seat was fairly close to the road so she was not surprised when Sheriff Garret spotted her easel and stopped to talk to her.
“Juliet,” he said. “Henderson said you called last night.”
“Sheriff. Off to look at Harvey’s bungalow? I’m afraid there isn’t much left of the ash on the desk and by now the smell is long gone.”
“Have to look anyway. For what good it will do.” She nodded. “So, did you notice anything else last night? Any patterns? Any break in patterns? Any damn clue about who it was screwing around with my crime scene?”
Juliet repeated what she knew of her neighbors’ tobacco habits. Garret nodded and took notes though it wasn’t much to go on. He had to be as frustrated as she was, knowing someone was a killer, a murderer who walked among them but without telltale blemish—no horns, no hooves, perhaps even fair of face or voice.
Who could it be? Physically, she had to rule out Raphael, Elizabeth, and Rose—probably. Emotionally she wanted to rule out Darby, Mickey, Hans—everyone. But anyone could, at least in theory, have an accomplice who was physically and mentally more ruthless. This was a possibility that she didn’t want to think about. Accomplices could alibi one another and they might never find the killer.
“You’re a million miles away,” Garret said.
“Just thinking. It wasn’t marijuana and I don’t think it was a pipe or cigar, but I couldn’t swear to the last two things. Sorry.”
Garret grunted and then pretended to admire the creek. Or maybe he did admire it, but he was also debating whether to share something with her.
“I thought you might want to know about that Esteban Rodriguez. He checks out.”
“Is he really a retired private investigator?” she asked.
“Yes.” Garret stared at her and then shook his head in admiration and annoyance. “Is there anything you want to tell me about him in return since your sources seem to be as good and maybe better than mine?”
“Nothing like the horse’s mouth for details,” Juliet agreed. “As long as it isn’t lying, of course. Esteban says that he and Raphael and Mr. Biggers all served together. I am assuming he meant in the armed services and not some sentence in a penitentiary.” Juliet began to add the bumble bee to her drawing. Maybe it looked a little cartoonish—perhaps too large to be true to scale—but it would make for a great children’s shirt. She should have thought of kid’s clothes before.
“He is a veteran,” Garret admitted. “But he also worked border patrol. Retired after he was shot a second time. I guess he was smart enough to take a hint and get out before it came to a feet-first exit, which is more than some guys manage.”
Juliet looked at Garret and then nodded.
“That feels right. He seems….” She thought about it. “He doesn’t seem like regular law enforcement, not a rules and regulations person, but he is someone working on the side of order.”
She didn’t mention the gun.
“He doesn’t give you the creeps?” Garret asked. “He’s seems snake mean to me.”
“He probably is,” Juliet agreed, remembering the feel of his hand on her mouth and how easily he’d manhandled her. “At least in the wrong situation. He doesn’t give me the creeps exactly, but I want to know what kind of dreams he has to make those damn puppets. Now those give me the creeps. And I think anyone who buys them has lizards in the brain.”
The sheriff nodded.
“So, after a visit with Rodriguez, you came out to paint flowers?” Garret was staring and Juliet had the feeling he was trying to puzzle her out. She looked away, watching the road as a red convertible negotiated a tight turn. She didn’t feel like explaining that their conversation had taken place late the night before over a friendly cup of tea. That might give him the wrong—or right—impression.
“Yes, and for a change of view. Things were feeling a bit claustrophobic up there. I think it has begun to dawn on people that there is a killer among them and it isn’t good for morale. Hopefully I’ll be able to look at things with fresh eyes after a break. Right now, I don’t feel like I’m getting anywhere.”
“There are all kinds of interesting things in the compound though,” Garret said, rolling up his sleeves. Heat was beginning to build in the air. “And it might be safer in there with other people. Even with a killer around.”
“True, but I don’t think I’d risk putting the really interesting things on canvas and I need more images for my shirts.”
At the crack of laughter, Juliet looked over her companion who almost never laughed and whose tone was nearly always one of underemphasis. She realized then that in her discomfort with his gaze that she had been staring at Carrie Simmons who was driving by in her red convertible, wearing a caftan of brightest orange with an enormous purple hat. Riding beside her with an arm over the seat and almost around her shoulders was a laughing Jake Holmes. Maybe he was catching a ride with her because his ankle was too sore to drive. But maybe not.
“I see what you mean.”
“Have a heart! I didn’t mean Carrie. I’m not that catty. Out loud.” Though she was catty enough to wonder about that arm and why they were laughing.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. You should be safe enough as long as you’re alone. Just keep an eye out. If you’ve been discreet there is no reason why the killer would be interested in you, but I am a great believer in that whole ounce of prevention thing.”
“Me too.” Though she hadn’t really been all that discreet with some of her neighbors, had she? “You can check up on me when you leave. You’re off to the Wood now?”
“Yeah. I want a word with Mickey Shaw too, and then I’d better speak to Raphael James before I leave.”
“Okay. But it’s yoga day,” she warned.
“Uh-huh. What does that mean exactly?”
“It means Mickey is doing yoga.”
“And he’ll be bothered if I interrupt?” Garret guessed.
“No. Mickey won’t be bothered, but you might.”
“Why?” Garret began to sound wary and Juliet chuckled.
“
Because Mickey does yoga in the nude.”
“Good God.”
“It was a little disconcerting the first time I saw him. It was my second day in the Wood and it had me really wondering about what I had gotten myself into. Believe me, you don’t want to be standing behind him when he does sun salutations.”
“No kidding. When will he be done?”
“Give him to eleven and you should be safe.”
Garret looked at his watch.
“I think I’ll go see Raphael first.” He paused. “I don’t suppose you’d be ready for a lunch break around eleven forty-five?”
“All things are possible with faith.”
“Then I’ll hope to see you then. Uh—your place or mine?”
Juliet looked down at her paint-stained jeans. Was this a date, or a chance to compare notes after he’d talked to witnesses? Did it matter?
“I guess it had better be mine. I’m afraid it’s tuna again, but I got some fresh rolls at the bakery.”
“Sounds good.”
Juliet waved the sheriff goodbye and then finished her drawing. She glanced at the watch she kept buckled to her easel and decided she could paint better back at the studio where the light was superior. That would give her more time to clean up for lunch. It also seemed like a good time to stop by the Holmeses’ bungalow and see how Jillian was feeling. Maybe she was under the weather or suffering from seasonal allergies. But maybe it wasn’t a virus bugging her so much as a female fungus in a purple hat that had attached itself to her husband.
Could that be what made Jake Holmes so angry at Harvey? Had Harvey intimated to Jillian that Jake was having an affair? Husbands really didn’t like getting caught. They hated that about as much as wives disliked having someone tell them about their spouse’s affairs.
Chapter 11
Juliet decided that climbing up and down mountains with an easel was a pain, but it was doing wonders for her gluteus maximi and hamstrings.
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