A Fit of Tempera

by Mary Daheim

  “Okay, okay,” huffed Costello, momentarily distracted. “Now about this lurker—you never saw him?”

  “Or her,” Judith said mildly. “It’s almost the twenty-first century, remember?”

  Costello made an impatient gesture. “Whatever. Well? A no-show, you say?”

  “That’s right,” Judith replied calmly. “He—or she—apparently left or hid. Naturally, we can’t be certain that the person who killed Riley is the same one Iris spotted over at Nella’s.”

  “Naturally.” Costello’s voice was coated in sarcasm. “You see anybody else lurking around this afternoon?”

  Judith said they hadn’t. The ear-shattering arrival of Lazlo Gamm’s helicopter hardly qualified for Costello’s description. “Hovering, not lurking. An art dealer from Hungary landed his helicopter in the meadow just as we were leaving earlier.”

  Costello was wreathed in skepticism. “Boy, you people up here on the South Fork sure put on airs. What’s wrong with a good old Chevy?”

  “Funny you should ask,” Renie snapped, looking up from her place on the sofa. “First it was a leak in the brake fluid, then it was the power steering, and finally the whole damned transmission went out. Seventeen hundred bucks later, and it still doesn’t reverse like it should. That’s why we brought my cousin’s compact. Any more dumb car questions?”

  It seemed to Judith that Renie and the undersheriff weren’t hitting it off. “Rhetorical,” she murmured, moving toward the sofa and attempting to jab at Renie’s upper arm. “Shut up.” Judith turned back to the glowering Costello. “Lazlo Gamm—he’s the art dealer—landed just as we were leaving with our water buckets. Riley Tobias greeted him like a long-lost pal.”

  Costello finally stopped giving Renie the Evil Eye. “Hungarian, huh? They’re pretty sinister, aren’t they? What did he have against Tobias?”

  “Nothing,” Judith answered hastily. “As I said, they seemed to be friends from way back. The helicopter took off about an hour later, maybe less.”

  Costello fixed his steely-eyed gaze on Dabney Plummer. “You know how to spell ‘Lazlo’?” Plummer nodded. “Who else?” demanded the undersheriff.

  Judith considered; Ward Kimball’s visit was hearsay. She decided not to mention it. “Iris Takisaki came down from the Green Mountain Inn along the river, but that was later—just before she came back to tell us about the prowler. You certainly don’t have a problem with time of death—it had to be in that five- or ten-minute interval while Iris and my cousin and I were over at Mrs. Lablatt’s.”

  Costello gave Judith a disparaging look. “Hey, this isn’t television. All we can say right now is that Riley Tobias died somewhere between four-fifteen and five-forty-five this afternoon. Maybe we’ll never come any closer. It’s a shame we couldn’t get here sooner, but whoever reported this homicide was either on drugs or slow in the upper story.” He tapped his graying temple.

  “Hey,” Renie exclaimed, “what are you talking about? I was the one who called! I may have been ticked off by that stupid phone, but I don’t do drugs and I’m not slow. Who’ve you got manning the phones? Dumbo?”

  Costello sneered at Renie. “Right, sure. I guess when you’re filthy rich, you can afford to be dumb as dirt. Not to mention take as many drugs as you please. Well, in the end, it’s all the same—an OD in a body bag.” For the first time, he gave the merest hint of a smile.

  Renie leaped up from the sofa and spun around the room. “Oh, good grief!”

  Judith intervened. “Is that all? I can’t think of anything else we can tell you that would be helpful.”

  The threatened smile actually materialized, though Costello bestowed it on Dabney Plummer. Plummer grinned in response, looking a lot like a rabbit. “You hear that, Dabney? The suspect says she can’t think of anything that would help us.” The undersheriff chortled nastily, then swung back to face the cousins. “How about the deceased’s plans for the afternoon? How about all those empty beer cans? How about grand theft? What does the suspect have to say about that?” The last words came out on a roar.

  “Theft? Suspect?” It was Judith’s turn to be annoyed. “Now just a minute, Mr. Costello—my cousin and I aren’t suspects. In fact, my husband is a policeman. He probably knows more about homicide than you and all your deputies put together.”

  Abbott N. Costello again refused to be impressed. But he did lower his voice. “You think that people related to law enforcement officers never commit crimes? Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Okeydokey,” murmured Renie, who had slipped over to the bedroom door. Surreptitiously, she glanced around the curtain to make sure that all the commotion hadn’t awakened Clive Silvanus. It hadn’t.

  “Then drop the ‘suspect’ stuff,” Judith demanded, her black eyes snapping. “And what’s this about grand theft?” Involuntarily, her gaze darted to the Murphy bed.

  “Never mind,” huffed Costello. “Just answer the question about Tobias’s plans for the afternoon.”

  Judith gave an impatient shrug. “If he had any, he didn’t tell us. I think he was surprised by Lazlo Gamm’s arrival. But I suppose he was expecting Iris. She said so, anyway. Did he have an appointment book or a calendar?”

  Again Costello gave his deputy that snide smile. “Listen to that, Dabney! The policeman’s wife wants to know if the victim had an appointment book! Or a calendar! Now isn’t that clever detective work? Her husband must have taught her everything he knows!” He chortled and Dabney grinned.

  The cousins exchanged more glances, both of them angry, yet trying to warn each other to keep calm. They waited in silence for the next outrage from the undersheriff. He was now scowling, his gray eyes raking over the cabin one more time. Judith thought he lingered a bit too long on the curtain that covered the Murphy bed.

  But a moment later, he was pointing that beefy finger at Dabney Plummer and saying, “Out.’” The lawmen left without another word. In fact, Judith realized, Dabney Plummer had never spoken at all. She said as much to Renie.

  “I wouldn’t talk to Costello, either,” Renie replied. “What a creep.”

  Judith went over to the window next to the stove. She could see the undersheriff’s and his deputy’s flashlights bobbing through the woods. When they disappeared among the trees, she turned back to Renie.

  “Let’s go. Clive Silvanus won’t wake up until next week.” Judith grabbed her jacket from the hook next to the bedroom door.

  Renie was puzzled. “Go? Go where?”

  Judith rummaged in her purse for her car keys. “First, to see Ward Kimball. And Lark. Second, to use the phone at the gas station to call home. Third, to Xanadu, or any place where I wouldn’t expect to ever see Abbott N. Costello.” In her agitation, she dropped her keys, stooped to retrieve them, and looked up to see the perplexed expression on Renie’s face. “Oh, right—and fourth, to keep out of this murder case. I wouldn’t get involved with that bozo for a million bucks!”

  “So,” Renie inquired as they headed down the road in Judith’s Japanese compact, “why are we going to see Ward Kimball and his daughter if you don’t intend to play sleuth?”

  Judith turned just enough to give Renie a baleful look. “To offer our condolences. I don’t care what that drunken case of Southern Discomfort said about Ward and Riley quarreling—they’ve been close for years. Ward wasn’t just a mentor to Riley; he was a father, too. Riley’s death must have devastated Ward, especially if he’s in poor health.”

  Judith slowed to take the curve in the road that followed the bend in the river. Putting on her turn signal, she slowed a bit more to make a left off the highway and onto Ward Kimball’s private road.

  There was no gate. Ward Kimball was of a generation and a disposition that trusted other people. His home, as well as his studio, was farther off the highway than the Grover cabin. Judith drove slowly along the winding road until she came to a clearing. She pulled up to a big log, next to an aging but well-cared-for Volkswagen bus. Ward had owned the bus for almost as long
as Judith could remember. He had never become wealthy, but he had made money from his art. Yet it hadn’t gone for material possessions. Briefly, Judith speculated on what Ward Kimball had done with his earnings. Travel, perhaps. He had certainly roamed the globe. Art, certainly. His private collection was small but magnificent. And Lark, of course. Ward Kimball had spared no expense where his daughter was concerned.

  The house was modest yet handsome. It had been built just after World War II, when Ward had gotten out of the Army. Then he and his wife had remodeled it in the early sixties, after Lark had been born. Her handicap had dictated certain changes, but Ward had wanted to emulate the architectural style of Native Americans in the western part of the county. Interestingly, many of the coastal tribes’ traditional houses had an uncanny resemblance to beach homes in southern California: High ceilings, big windows, shake exteriors, shingled roofs, and huge stone fireplaces were prominently featured. Judith had always wondered if the white man’s builders hadn’t stolen more than just the land from the Indians.

  In a typical Pacific Northwest display of skittish weather, the moon was now obscured by clouds. The outlines of the studio and the other outbuildings could be seen across the open area in front of the house. Oddly enough, Ward Kimball had not built right on the river. Perhaps he was afraid of floods; the Grovers had suffered for their temerity, having had to move the cabin twice in the past forty years. Of course, Kimball owned a great deal more property. Judith figured he had at least a full acre.

  It appeared that only one room was lighted inside. Kimball had electricity, running water, and a telephone. Real plumbing, too, Judith reflected, vaguely recalling that she’d heard he’d had a hot tub installed a few years back.

  The single swing of the brass knocker with Kimball’s name engraved on it brought no immediate response. The cousins waited at least two minutes before Renie reached out to rap again. Before she could, the door swung away from her hand. Ward Kimball’s shadowy figure stood before them.

  “Ward?” Judith peered into the semidarkness. “It’s us, Judith and Serena Grover. From up the road…”

  “Come in.” Kimball gestured urgently, as if he thought the cousins might have a posse at their heels. “Here, we’re in the study. The Higbys up the road stopped to tell us about Riley. Isn’t this a terrible day? I’ve lived too long.”

  The study was illuminated by a desk lamp with a green shade and a pair of wall sconces shaped like tulips. It was a small room, made even smaller by the crammed book-shelves, folios, cassettes, and heavy oak furniture. In a dark green leather chair next to the rolltop desk, a slim figure seemed folded up, like one of life’s discards.

  “Lark,” said Ward Kimball in an uncertain voice, “we have guests. The Grover girls, from next door to Riley.”

  Judith couldn’t help but smile faintly at Ward’s description. But of course, in Ward Kimball’s mind, she and Renie would always be the Grover girls.

  “Hi,” Judith said, going straight to Lark and reaching for her hand. “We had to come and say how terrible we felt about what happened today.”

  Lark Kimball lifted her head. Her blighted, beautiful blue eyes were red, and the perfect complexion that Judith remembered was blotchy. She didn’t wear glasses, which Judith assumed would do no good. There were tiny lines on Lark’s brow and around her eyes, no doubt caused by making an onerous effort to see. But the golden hair shimmered in the lamplight, the fine features had been honed by time, and the slender figure had blossomed in a delicate yet provocative manner. Judith felt an awful pang: How sad to be so lovely—and not be able to fully appreciate it.

  Lark’s smile was tremulous, touching. Except for those fine lines, she looked much younger than thirty-two. Perhaps her limited ability to see the ugliness of the world had helped preserve her innocence—and her youth. “I remember you!” Lark cried. “Your husband has a wonderful voice. He’s a jolly man, isn’t he?”

  Judith saw Renie smirk. “Dan had a wonderful voice—and he could be sort of jolly.” Judith gulped. Jolly, as in tight as a tic, or on a sugar high. The last jolly memory Judith had of Dan was when his fifty-four-inch belt had broken and his pants had fallen down. “I’m afraid Dan passed away a few years ago. I’ve remarried.” Gently, she squeezed Lark’s slim hand.

  Lark lowered her head. “Oh! I’m so sorry! He must have been young, too.” She paused to gather her composure. “Is that your sister with you? The designer?”

  “My cousin. Serena. Yes. She’s still married to Bill Jones, the psychologist at the university.” Judith let go of Lark’s hand and stepped aside for Renie.

  Lark took Renie’s hand in both of hers. “I went to the university. I took a class from a Dr. Jones. Was that your husband?”

  “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 chai
r 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.”