A Fit of Tempera

by Mary Daheim

Iris considered. “Probably not. Such sales are very discreet. At those prices, the purchaser deserves his or her privacy. Riley was pleased, of course. At least for a while.” She shook her neatly coiffed head. “He was so up and down. Life with Riley was never smooth.” Her smile was tinged with sadness.

  Allowing for a brief, tasteful pause, Judith went on. “What we’re trying to say is that Riley told Clive he had in fact given me ‘Spring River.’ But why do you think he’d do such a thing when it was already sold to the Dixons?”

  Iris got up from the cane-backed dining room chair in which she’d been sitting. “He liked to tease people. Sometimes, he even liked to set up situations that pitted one person against another. Though I don’t know why he’d involve you, Judith. You’re outside the art community. That wasn’t Riley’s way.” With a wistful shake of her head, Iris fiddled with the onyx fish amulet that hung at her breast. “I suppose we’ll never know, will we?”

  But Judith wasn’t one to give up when it came to seeking solutions. “Maybe,” she allowed, wondering if Iris should be given a look at Lark’s painting in Nella’s icehouse. She decided against it, afraid that the hostile feelings between Iris and Lark might only cloud the issue.

  Sitting on a hassock by the fireplace, Renie looked up from the box of paints she’d been perusing. “Has Dewitt paid for his painting yet?” She nudged the box, but found it too heavy to move.

  Iris was lighting a cigarette. “I’ve no idea. You’d have to ask Clive.”

  Figuring that was a hopeless idea, Judith didn’t comment. She switched conversational directions to the murder investigation. Iris scoffed.

  “That idiot of a Costello doesn’t know anything. He’s all finished with the studio, so I’m free to clean. It was a halfhearted effort, if you ask me. Everything about that undersheriff is ineffectual. Costello insists Riley was drunk when he was killed, which sounds preposterous. But given that, anyone could have strangled him with that wretched picture-hanging wire. Yes, there were fingerprints.” She paused to blow out a cloud of smoke. “Riley’s, mine, Lazlo’s, Ward’s, Clive’s, Dewitt’s, probably yours. And Lark’s.” She pulled deeply on her cigarette and lifted her eyebrows at the cousins.

  “Lark’s.” Judith ran her tongue over her lips. “Do you think Lark saw Riley the day he was killed?”

  Iris was at the liquor cabinet. “Would you like a drink? I don’t usually indulge before noon, but it’s getting close and I’m a wreck. Martinis?”

  “Vodka for me,” said Renie, giving up on her attempt to move the heavy box of paints out of the way. It was easier to move the hassock.

  “I’m okay with gin,” said Judith, her brain still whirling with the logistics of switched canvases. The autumn painting had fetched forty grand, sight unseen. Mr. Kwan of Hong Kong had wanted a Riley Tobias work, and Judith figured that was what he’d gotten. As far as she knew, Lark hadn’t painted any autumnal scenes. But the first of the “Spring” paintings had been switched, with Lark’s shipped to the anonymous buyer and Riley’s sent to his brother. Then the Dixons had come along, and Judith had been the recipient of the real Riley Tobias work. Meanwhile, Riley had hidden Lark’s canvas in the icehouse, awaiting delivery. Did Clive know about the switch? It appeared not, or else he wouldn’t have given Dewitt the wrong painting. The real question was, did the Dixons know?

  Judith heard almost nothing of the conversation between Renie and Iris. They were back to harping on corporate ignorance, with Iris complaining about the need to create a palette of colors for individual companies, and Renie griping about the difficulty of adhering to those same guide-lines in graphic design.

  Iris busied herself with bottles, glasses, and a shaker, all of which were stored in an eighteenth-century Portuguese armoire. Apparently mistaking Judith’s blank expression for boredom, Iris returned to more personal matters. “I don’t know what to think about Lark. She had a terrific crush on Riley. He was very sweet with her, as far as I could tell. I think Ward disapproved. Oh, not at first—he felt Riley would make a better teacher, if only because he wasn’t her father.” She poured out the gin martinis first and handed a glass to Judith. “Except,” she added with a strange, bemused look on her oval face, “he was.”

  TWELVE

  JUDITH ALMOST DROPPED her martini. “What?” She gaped at Iris.

  Iris mixed vodka and vermouth with efficiency. “You never guessed?” She shook her head sadly. “Oh, Riley was a lot younger than Ward’s wife. Maybe that was what appealed to her. I wouldn’t know—it was before my time. Naturally, Ward was furious. But he’d waited so long to have a child. It’s possible he couldn’t have any of his own.” She stopped talking long enough to give Renie her drink. “Then, when Lark was born blind, Mrs. Kimball—Felice, I think her name was—felt so guilty. And Ward couldn’t reproach her. The tragedy was too dreadful. So they pretended the child was his. To compound the disaster, Felice died a few years later. What good would it have done to advertise the truth? Despite her betrayal, Ward had loved his wife. Lark was the cherished legacy from Felice, and it didn’t matter who had fathered her.”

  “Oh, my!” Judith’s exclamation was very soft, but nonetheless deeply felt. “Does Lark know?”

  “Certainly not.” Iris sat down again in the cane-backed chair. “What good would it do to tell her now? Especially with Ward so ill. Really, he’s been a wonderful father.”

  “But Riley knew?” Renie queried.

  Iris nodded vigorously. “Of course. How else would I know?” She bit her lip and frowned. “Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have told you. Honestly, I don’t know what got into me! All these years I’ve guarded this secret as if it were my own, and now…” She buried her face in her hands.

  “It’s the strain,” Judith offered in consolation. “The truth can’t hurt Riley now, I suppose. Though Ward and Lark should still be protected.”

  Iris looked at Judith between her fingers. A twisted smile played at her lips. “Oh, yes—Lark must always be protected! I wonder what it’s like to come into this world and have everyone offer themselves as your personal shield for as long as you live.”

  Renie gave a little snort. “I don’t think Lark looks at it that way.”

  Putting her chin on her fists, Iris stared out through the slits in the blue blinds. The midday sun was shining directly on the river. The snowfields on Mount Woodchuck seemed to have shrunk in the past twenty-four hours. But Iris didn’t seem to be taking in the scenery. Nor did she respond to Renie’s remark.

  “Shall I fix some lunch?” She was sitting up straight now, her usual brisk manner back in place.

  To Judith’s surprise, Renie declined. “We’ve got some stuff at the cabin we ought to eat up before we head home. Thanks, though, Iris.”

  Sipping their drinks, the three women turned to less volatile matters than Riley’s death, missing artwork, and the Kimballs. Real estate seemed a safe topic; they discussed current property values in the country versus in the city. Judith, however, couldn’t resist one pointed question:

  “Once you sell this place, will the money go into Riley’s foundation?”

  Iris’s face was expressionless. “No. He left me this property. In fact, I own it now. Some years ago, he signed a quitclaim deed. That’s why I don’t have to hold off for probate or anything like that.”

  Judith nodded. “That seems fair. You helped keep it up; you lived here, too. You did a lot for Riley. In many ways, you…uh…” Judith decided to quit while she was ahead. “Twenty years is a long time,” she amended.

  Now Iris gave Judith a droll look. “There is such a thing as a common-law wife. I could qualify, I guess. But it’s not necessary. Except for a bequest to his brother, Yancey, everything else Riley acquired goes to the foundation. It’ll be wonderful for aspiring minority artists.”

  Renie was cradling an eighteenth-century creamware potpourri holder in her hands. “What,” she asked, “about Riley’s personal collection? He has some nice things, like this.”


  “A good question.” Iris smoothed a stray strand of hair away from her forehead. “It’s occurred to me that wherever the foundation is ultimately housed, there should also be a museum. Small, of course. Most of the pieces Riley owned were works he admired tremendously. Many of them inspired him in some way. A few were gifts, but all the same, I think that, along with selected paintings and sketches of his, they would make a fitting tribute.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Judith commented. “It also sounds like a lot of work. Who’s in charge of the foundation?”

  Iris carefully set her martini glass on the dining room table. She gave the cousins a self-effacing look. “I am.”

  “We should drink the rest of the juice,” Judith argued as she and Renie crossed the road to the Woodchuck Auto Court. “Why do we need to buy pop?”

  “You drink the juice,” Renie retorted. “I’m dying for a cream soda. I’d forgotten that I don’t like martinis, even ones made out of vodka.”

  Kennedy Morton was waiting on a customer at the filling station. The cousins went into the office, where Renie delved into the old-fashioned cooler, searching for cream soda. She found a bottle, rather than a can, and appeared very pleased with herself.

  The proprietor entered, shaking his head. “People expect too much. Just because I got gas doesn’t mean I got tools. I sent that bozo up to Gary Johanson at Green Mountain. Gary knows more about fixing cars than I do.” He glanced at the bottle Renie was holding. “That’ll be a buck-ten. You need an opener?”

  Renie didn’t. She paid for the soda, then followed Judith out into the midday sun. “That was a real bombshell about Lark,” Renie said, keeping her voice down, since several of the Morton children were tumbling about in the grassy area by the rental cabins.

  “It sure was.” Judith, however, sounded a bit vague.

  “I didn’t know what to make of it,” Renie went on. “I was kind of surprised that Iris is head of the foundation, too. But I suppose it makes sense.”

  “Yes, it does.” Judith was even more remote. Renie realized they were walking in a circle.

  “Buzz, buzz, here’s your coz.” Renie jabbed at Judith’s arm. “What are you doing, jumping into a quandary?”

  But Judith merely gave a slight nod in the direction of the little cabins. “Erica Dixon. She’s in the doorway. See, you can just make out her white slacks.”

  “White slacks! Women who wear white slacks should stand on a pedestal with an inscribed plaque at their feet. They must never eat. I couldn’t keep white slacks clean for a—”

  Erica emerged, interrupting Renie’s harangue. Judith called out a greeting. “Are you and Dewitt staying on for the funeral Saturday?” Judith asked as Erica came around the white Mercedes in her white slacks and a black silk blouse.

  “We might as well.” Erica looked glum. “This is a fine mess, if you ask me.”

  Four curious faces had slipped up behind Erica. Judith recognized Velvet, Giles, and Rafe. They were joined by a slightly older girl who might or might not have been of school age. It was she who tugged on Erica’s white slacks.

  “Hey, missus, can we sit in your car? It’s pretty and I’m Skye.”

  Erica glowered at Skye and her siblings, then tried to pull free. She failed. “The car’s locked,” she said firmly. “Now go away. Please.”

  Amazingly, the children obeyed, but Erica’s formerly pristine slacks now bore several brown marks. Renie snickered behind her hand. Judith tried to cover her cousin’s lack of tact by responding to Erica’s original complaint:

  “You mean the ‘Spring River’ debacle? I thought Clive had handed it over to you and Dewitt.”

  Erica rolled her eyes. “Clive! He doesn’t even know where the painting is! I refuse to ask Iris. She tries to be polite, but naturally, she resents me. And that Philistine of an undersheriff doesn’t seem to care about art! He says the studio at Riley’s is full of pictures. Why not just take another one and be done with it?” Erica threw up her hands.

  Renie had regained control of her better self. “Gee, I guess we were mistaken. Did you see ‘Spring River’ in progress? I hear it was…intriguing.”

  “Of course I saw it.” Erica gave Renie a petulant look. “It wasn’t quite done, but I could tell it was one of the best things Riley had painted in years.”

  Renie assumed her middle-aged ingenue air. “Interesting. I’ve heard people talk about ‘Spring River’ as if Riley had painted it with his lips. Tell me, Erica, did you and your husband see the same picture at the same time?”

  Erica was beginning to wilt, from either emotion or the full sun. “No, we didn’t. We each made a trip up here. Oh, we came together once, but Riley wouldn’t let us see anything but sketches. Then I drove up in early April to see the work in progress, and a couple of weeks ago, after I’d left for Europe, Dewitt came back to finalize things. Riley was almost finished by then.” She was fingering her cheek, gazing off in the direction of the gas pumps.

  Renie pressed on. “Did your descriptions of the painting agree?”

  Erica Dixon made an impatient gesture. “Certainly. Dewitt had to admit that Riley’s last landscape had a lyrical quality. My husband realizes he has to put petty jealousies aside when it comes to a serious investment in art.”

  Back on the grassy patch, the four Mortons had joined hands and were playing something resembling Ring-Around-the-Rosy. Or the Bataan Death March, given the number of punches and kicks that were being exchanged.

  Judith’s and Renie’s gazes locked briefly. It was obvious that they were thinking along the same lines. “So,” Judith remarked in a casual voice, “you came up here to discover that Dewitt hadn’t yet taken possession of ‘Spring River’?”

  Erica removed a pair of expensive sunglasses from the pocket of her black silk shirt. “That’s right. And Clive insists he can’t find it. We don’t know whether to sue him or the estate. Dewitt urges caution, but as soon as we get back to town, I’m calling our attorney.”

  A pickup truck with three teenagers in the back pulled into the filling station. Their radio blared Nirvana. Judith wondered if Nella Lablatt would come out and join them.

  “At least you haven’t paid for it,” Judith shouted over the din.

  “What?” Erica yelled back, her piping voice very shrill. “But I have! That’s what’s so aggravating. I’ve spent seventy thousand dollars for nothing! Wouldn’t you be wild?”

  “I’d be broke,” Judith muttered, but of course Erica couldn’t hear her. The cacophony rose to headache-making proportions. With a nod at Erica, a shake of the head for the pickup, and a gesture to Renie, Judith started for the road. Two minutes later, the cousins were safely within their own gate, entering the cabin.

  “Erica’s out a bundle,” Renie commented.

  “And Iris hasn’t seen the money.” Judith gave Renie a sidelong look.

  “Meaning Clive has it? But who’s got the Tobias?”

  “Dewitt,” Judith answered promptly. “But I wonder where. Maybe he dropped it off in town on his way to pick up Erica at the airport.”

  “So what happens to Lark’s canvas?”

  Judith didn’t feel qualified to answer that question. Making luncheon suggestions was more in her line at the moment. “We have hot dogs and that’s it,” she said, temporarily giving up on theories. “Do you want to eat at the Green Mountain Inn?”

  “No.” Renie sighed. “We ought to make good our threat to clean out the icebox. And do likewise with the downspouts. Which comes first?”

  In a fit of virtue the cousins opted for labor before leisure. To further enhance their work ethic, they washed windows, too, inside and out. It was after one-thirty when they finished. Renie held up four skinny hot dogs and made a face.

  “Where did Falstaff’s keep these? In the pet-food section? Maybe we’ve earned lunch out after all.”

  Judith was leaning against the linoleum-covered kitchen counter. “We haven’t earned anything, coz. I feel like a flop. Joe’s
pulling my chain about another B&B, Mother got stuck in a can of chili, my house may be under water, and I haven’t got the foggiest idea who killed Riley Tobias. The only thing this trip has accomplished is getting Dan out of the basement.”

  “Maybe he enjoyed the ride.” Seeing Judith’s long face, Renie immediately regretted her flippancy. “Hey, remember that friend of my mother’s, Mrs. Jorkins, who used to take her son, Will, for a Sunday drive? Except Will lived in Wisconsin, so she drove his framed eight-by-ten picture around every weekend?”

  A faint smile touched Judith’s lips. “Yeah, I remember. Mrs. Jorkins is dead, too.”

  “But Will isn’t. He teaches at the University of Wisconsin. I forget which branch.” Renie set out a kettle for the hot dogs.

  Rousing herself from lethargy, Judith got busy with carrots and celery sticks. “I guess I’m still bowled over by Iris’s revelation about Lark. I wonder if Nella knows.”

  “She would if anybody did.” Renie scooped water out of the fresh bucket they’d brought from Riley’s well. “The question is, how does it figure into the murder?”

  Tossing carrot peelings and celery leaves into the garbage, Judith gave Renie a rueful look. “I haven’t gotten that far. I’m still working on why Riley would propose to his own daughter. At least I’ve got a plausible answer to that one. Maybe.”

  Renie juggled hot dog buns. “Gee—I almost forgot about that! ‘Weird’ doesn’t begin to describe it. That’s sick.” She paused, a knife hovering over the butter dish. “So what’s your explanation?”

  “It’s not a satisfactory one.” Judith put the celery and carrots into a tall glass. “I’d guess that Riley was stringing Lark along. Let’s say that he had indeed lost it. Or at least gotten off on the wrong track. Along comes Lark, who is very talented. Whether she’s Riley’s or Ward’s daughter doesn’t matter in this context—she could inherit her gift from either of them. But she’s more than good, she’s brilliant. She may not know that. Ward would, but he’s overly protective. Perhaps he doesn’t want her paintings exposed to the dog-eat-dog art world. Riley, however, takes advantage. He sells them as his own. It’s as good as a cash cow. Lark paints; he makes a bundle. Clive can’t tell the difference. He’s the moneyman. But Riley has to keep Lark at the easel, under his thumb. Am I making sense?”