A Fit of Tempera

by Mary Daheim

  Parking at the edge of the driveway, Judith waited while Renie went in search of Erica Dixon. Less than a minute passed before Erica came out of the motel unit, her toilette rejuvenated.

  “I don’t get this,” she said, leaning in the open window on the driver’s side of the car. “Your cousin says you have a painting to show me.”

  Judith nodded. “We do. You want to drive or walk across the road to Nella’s?”

  Erica frowned. “Nella’s? Since when did she start peddling pictures? Is it something she crocheted?”

  Judith had no opportunity to answer. Erica turned on her heel and started for the road. Renie got back in the car and the cousins drove the short distance to Nella’s.

  Nella Lablatt had Lark’s painting in the middle of the living room. Lark was pale; Ward looked proud; Nella was mixing margaritas at the wet bar.

  “If you feel a tequila, you’ll feel just fine,” said Nella by way of greeting. “Hey, Erica, you want a cutting of dogtooth violet?”

  Erica gave a start, not at Nella’s offer, but at the sight of Lark’s canvas. “My God!” she exclaimed. “It’s ‘Spring River’!” She rushed across the room and knelt to examine the painting. Or, it occurred to Judith, to pay homage. Except for Nella’s swizzle stick stirring up a storm, the room was silent. It was Ward Kimball who spoke first.

  “Riley Tobias didn’t paint that, Erica. Lark did.” His voice was very quiet.

  Erica whirled on her haunches, almost upsetting herself. “What? That’s crazy! I saw Riley working on this!”

  “Working?‘’ Judith asked, also speaking softly. “Or looking?”

  Awkwardly, Erica stood up. “What do you mean?” Confusion enveloped her face. “Oh! Well—I didn’t actually see him apply brush strokes, if that’s what you’re saying. But Dewitt did. He told me so, and he wouldn’t…” Her voice trailed off in perplexity.

  “I assure you,” Ward said, assuming the dignity of venerable artist as well as proud parent, “Lark painted this. I will also attest to the fact that”—his voice caught and his gaze flickered at his daughter, who remained motionless—“Riley inspired as well as taught her. In that sense, this painting is indeed a legacy of Riley Tobias.”

  Erica stopped staring at Ward and looked again at the painting. She sighed. “It’s stunning. I said so before it was completed, and I’ll say it again. But I couldn’t think of paying seventy thousand dollars without the Tobias imprimatur. I want a refund.”

  “From who?” Judith interposed. “Clive? Iris? The estate? Who made that check out, Erica? And who was the payee?”

  Erica tore her eyes from the canvas and stared at Judith. “Dewitt wrote the check. I assumed it was made out to Riley.” Suddenly she looked confused. “But it was dated yesterday…and Riley was already dead…”

  “You’ll have to sort that out as best you can,” Ward said calmly. “As for Lark’s painting here, we didn’t say it was for sale.”

  Erica’s face fell. “Now just a minute, Ward! I made an offer on this picture, and even if I did it under false pretenses, I still want it. How about seven thousand?”

  Ward’s eyebrows lifted imperceptibly. He gazed at Lark, who was still immobile. “That’s a considerable difference,” he said mildly.

  “It’s also one hell of a price for a newcomer,” Erica snapped. “Take it or leave it.”

  Ward was still watching Lark. She must have sensed his eyes on her, for at last she moved. “We’ll take it if you agree to buy the rest of the series,” Lark said quietly. “There will be three more, though the first one seems to be owned by an anonymous collector. Riley and Clive sold it for sixty thousand dollars.”

  Erica gulped, but to her credit, she didn’t fall down foaming at the mouth, which Judith would have done in a similar situation. “I’ll have to see the other works in progress,” she said.

  “You can see ‘Midday’ right now,” Lark replied. “It’s halfway finished.”

  “All right.” Erica waved her hands. “I’m not agreeing to buy them all, not with the first one God-knows-where. But I would like a chance to view the companion piece to ‘Spring River.’”

  “It’s not ‘Spring River,’” Lark said stiffly. “It’s ‘Morning.’ Don’t confuse me with Riley.”

  Nella had come from behind the bar and was handing out margaritas. “No chance of that, kiddies. Your stuff is a lot prettier than Riley’s, Lark. His last few pictures looked like bird doo to me. Drink up, we’re celebrating.”

  Resignedly, Judith accepted her drink and licked at the salt on the rim of the glass. Ward and Lark were now seated on the love seat. Erica was pacing the room, her eyes glued to Lark’s canvas. Judith wondered if she was calculating the value of her investment.

  “To Lark,” Nella said, hoisting her glass. “And to Erica, too. You’re a smart cookie, kiddo. You won’t be sorry you bought Lark’s pictures.” She beamed. “Just think, I almost replaced Ike with that masterpiece. I’m glad I didn’t. I’d have missed the old geek.”

  Lark suddenly looked guilt-ridden. “Oh, Nella! I forgot I offered to give you that painting! I’m sorry! I’ll paint you a special one, of your garden.”

  Nella sat down in the rocker. “Now wouldn’t that be nice? I’d like that. We’ll spend an afternoon going over all the flowers and leaves, and the rocks, too. I’ve dried and pressed some of the special ones over the years, so you can study those. Maybe you can paint it to size, so I won’t have to worry about where it’ll fit.”

  Judith pressed her lips together to keep from laughing at Nella’s concept of creativity. She sought out Renie to see her reaction—but Renie wasn’t there. It dawned on Judith that her cousin had been among the missing for several minutes.

  No one else seemed to notice that Renie had disappeared. Under the influence of Nella and the tequila, the little group had grown quite matey. For all of her material trappings and self-assurance, Erica Dixon showed a proper respect for Ward Kimball. Lark warmed to the topic of her painting and described “Midday”—not in color and perspective, as a fully sighted artist might have done, but in texture and perception.

  Judith went over to the window by the wet bar to check on the tow truck’s progress. There was no sign of either truck or car, so she assumed the Mercedes had been hauled away. She was about to rejoin the others when she tripped over Renie. Judith stared.

  “Hi,” said Renie in a small voice, struggling to get up. “I was looking for my purse.”

  “Your purse is next to the potted fern. The potted fern is next to the potted guests. Have a drink and join us. Yours is sitting on the bar.”

  “I’ll pass,” Renie replied, dusting off her sweatshirt. “We’ll talk more later.” Casually, she strolled over to the footstool and sat down.

  “Well, where have you been?” Nella asked brightly. “You didn’t get your drink.”

  “Sorry,” Renie responded. “I have to watch my salt intake. I tend to bloat.” She gave Nella a wide smile. “I was admiring your crewelwork by the bar. I’ve no knack for that sort of thing.”

  “Don’t be crewel, as Elvis used to say.” Nella burst into laughter. “Now there was a singer,” she went on, doing her own bit of rock ’n’ roll in the rocking chair. “These new groups are well and good, especially Pearl Jam, which is my favorite, but how they dress! Grunge, they call it. As far as I’m concerned, they look just like three out of my five husbands. I forget which.”

  The talk turned to fashion, music, hair dos and don’ts, and, eventually, Riley Tobias. After a second margarita, the mood became maudlin. Judith and Renie offered their excuses. They had to pack up and get ready to head home. Nella insisted they have “one for the road,” but the cousins declined. One had been enough for Judith, and Renie was quite satisfied with none at all.

  “Well?” Judith inquired when they reached the car. “Lucky you—Nella left the safe open when she got out Lark’s canvas. What did you find there, coz?”

  In the passenger seat, Renie was looking s
mug. “No passport,” she replied.

  “Okay,” Judith said, humoring her cousin as she made the tricky reverse out of Nella’s drive. “What, then?”

  “Five marriage licenses. Birth certificates for all of her children. Three divorce decrees. Two death certificates for the husbands who died. I forget which.” Renie gave Judith an impish look. “And Nella’s birth certificate.”

  “And?” Judith drove through the open gate to the family property.

  Renie now gazed straight ahead. “That’s it.”

  Judith glared at Renie. “So why the cat-in-the-cream look?”

  Turning in her seat as Judith pulled up next to the cabin, Renie rolled her eyes. “Oh, coz, come on! You’re the super sleuth! But there,” she added in mock reproach, “I’m being unfair. I forgot to mention the part about Nella’s birth certificate. She was born in Revelstoke, British Columbia.”

  Judith turned off the ignition with an impatient, jerky motion. “Big deal. It’s a crime to be a Canadian?” She opened the car door and gave it a kick. “Are you sure you weren’t under the bar swigging tequila?”

  “Coz.” Renie was wearing her aging-ingenue look again. “It is a crime. At least if you’re impersonating a United States postal official.” Over the roof of the car, she blinked four times in a row.

  “Oh!” Judith’s hand flew to her mouth. Then she laughed. “Oh, oh! Nella took FDR’s appointment under false pretenses! Oh! That’s funny!” She laughed even harder.

  “Right,” Renie agreed with a grin. “What do you bet Nella’s big secret about her trip was visiting relatives up in British Columbia? Maybe some of her kids moved back there. Whatever, she doesn’t want anybody to know she isn’t an American citizen.”

  “Maybe she was naturalized,” Judith argued.

  “Then why weren’t her papers in the safe? Everything else was.”

  “But she hasn’t been postmistress for years,” Judith said.

  “She gets a Federal pension, I’ll bet. Social Security, too. Somehow Nella must have fallen through the immigration cracks. With all her changes of husbands and names, it probably wouldn’t be hard to do,” Renie observed. “And what’s the big deal? I’m sure she did as good a job for the Stars and Stripes as she would have done for the Maple Leaf.”

  Bemused, Judith started toward the front porch of the cabin. “You’re right, it does explain her reticence. Maybe we were wrong about Erica not being in Europe.”

  “Maybe you were wrong,” Renie declared. “I’ll bet Erica brought Nella those postcards as a souvenir, in thanks for starter plants or something. And the Dixons didn’t want anyone looking in their trunk because…they didn’t want anyone looking their trunk.” She lifted her hands in an offering to the obvious.

  Judith gave Renie a pat on the shoulder. “Match point, coz. I liked the part about your purse. Nice ruse.”

  “It was all I could think of. Anyway, none of them heard me.” Renie chuckled as they went inside the cabin. “I might as well have been out in the icehouse stealing Nella’s rhubarb juice. But a lost purse is always a valid excuse.”

  “Right,” Judith agreed. Suddenly she froze, one hand on the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room. She stared at Renie. “What did you say?” But before Renie could reply, Judith waved a hand. “Never mind, I just had a weird idea. Let’s get our stuff together. It’s going on five and I want to get out of here before I decide I’m going crazy.”

  For once, Renie didn’t press Judith for an explanation. The open road lay ahead, and so did dinner. After their relatively meager lunch, the cousins were looking forward to a full meal somewhere between the cabin and home. They packed their suitcases, put the few leftovers into the picnic hamper, and looked for any items they might have missed. The curtains were pulled, the stove was checked, and the door was padlocked. Their final stop was under the vine maples, where they said a prayer for Dan McMonigle.

  “Well,” Judith said as they got into the car, “we did everything we set out to do this trip. Except catch a murderer.”

  “That wasn’t on our agenda,” Renie reminded Judith. “Let’s just be thankful that our mothers didn’t catch the murder on TV. Otherwise, they’d have been driving us nuts with calls about our safety.”

  Judith gave a faint smile as she turned the key in the ignition. “Mine was probably too busy soaking her hand after the bout with the chili can last night. And yours doesn’t watch the news, so that—” She broke off, frowning at the dashboard. “Damn. The key’s stuck. At least nothing is lighting up.”

  “You probably jammed the wheels,” said Renie. “Give it a jerk.”

  “The jerk’s out under the vine maples,” Judith replied, but her frown deepened. “Oh, dear—I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve hexed us.”

  Showing mild concern, Renie leaned forward as far as her seat belt would allow. “You were annoyed with me when you pulled in. You shut the engine off too hard. Just jiggle the key and it’ll free up. Trust me. Bill has taught me everything I know about cars.”

  Judith gave Renie a baleful look. “Bill knows as much about cars as I know about Freudian psychology.”

  “True.” Renie gave her cousin a mischievous look. “But then, my husband is not a Jung man.”

  “Cut it out,” Judith grumbled, wrestling with the ignition. “I’m not in the mood for your wretched puns. Damn, I wish Mike were here. Unlike our husbands, past and present, he does know something about cars.”

  “Oh, right,” jeered Renie. “I remember two winters ago when he and Kristin drove up here at night to do God-knows-what, and they locked the keys in this very vehicle. You had to get Carl Rankers to drive you all the way…”

  But Judith wasn’t listening. “Do you suppose it’s the battery?”

  Renie considered. “Bill would say it’s the grommitz. He always says that.”

  Grommitz or not, the compact wouldn’t start. Heaving a sigh of resignation, Judith opened the car door. “We’d better call Gary Johanson. Let’s go over to the auto court and use the phone. I’m too tired to walk up to the Green Mountain Inn.”

  Again Renie offered no argument. But as they reached the highway, they noticed Dewitt Dixon arguing with Kennedy Morton. The debate was short-lived: Morton slapped a greasy rag against his palm and strode off into his little office. Dewitt stood by the gas pump, apparently still fuming.

  “Is your car going to be okay?” Judith asked after hauling Renie across the road. “Cars are sure a trial. Mine won’t start.”

  Dewitt turned slowly and glared at Judith. It was obvious that he didn’t care to share troubles. “Bodywork on a Mercedes is always costly,” he said in a cold voice; then his eyes sparked and he stormed over to stand toe to toe with the cousins. “You meddled! You ruined everything! How could you? I hope you enjoy your hideous painting! It cost me plenty!” Turning on his heel, he started back toward the motel.

  “Whoa!” Judith called, hurrying after him.. “Where is my hideous painting? I don’t have it.”

  Dewitt took three angry steps before he stopped abruptly and spun around. “You don’t?” He looked astonished as well as incredulous. “Then who does? It’s gone. It’s been gone since yesterday.”

  Renie put a hand on his arm. “It’s true, Dewitt. Judith hasn’t seen Riley’s canvas since you and Clive took it out of the cabin Tuesday night. Where did you put it?”

  Dewitt gestured over his shoulder. “In the motel room, under the bed. I knew Erica would never look there. She’s afraid of mice.” The color had drained from his face.

  Judith glanced over at Nella’s house, wondering if Erica was still there, filled with triumph and tequila. “What did you tell your wife?”

  Dewitt swallowed hard. “Nothing. Yet. I don’t know where she went.”

  The cousins decided to leave Dewitt to his own devices. And to Erica. But Judith wasn’t satisfied. “Who could have taken the blasted thing now?” she muttered as they started for the phone booth.

  “Cl
ive, in a double cross?” Renie suggested.

  “Maybe,” Judith replied, but sounded dubious.

  For the first time, they noticed that a glazier’s truck and a phone-company van were pulled up in front of Riley Tobias’s house.

  “Alexander Graham Bell is calling,” Judith remarked. “Let’s see if Iris is having a phone installed. If it’s new, it might work better than this relic at the Woodchuck.”

  Iris, however, was outside, supervising replacement of the window Judith had broken with the falling ladder. Suffering a twinge of guilt, Judith hailed Iris.

  “Don’t fuss,” Iris said. “It’s covered, except for a small deductible.” She sighed, gesturing at the workmen’s vehicles parked in front of the house. “Wouldn’t you know it? They all come at once, and make you wait until the end of the day.”

  “Right,” Judith agreed, wondering how Hillside Manor was faring under the care of Arlene Rankers. Hopefully, the flood problem would have been resolved by the time Judith got home. “You’ve having a phone installed?”

  Iris nodded. “I may have to be here to help show the place after I put it on the market. I didn’t want to stay incommunicado.” She made a wry face. “Besides, it’s an added selling point if I make this house as up-to-date as possible.”

  The glazier was putting the finishing touches on his handiwork. Renie cocked her head as the lowering sun struck the new window. “Do you think the studio will add or detract from the sale?”

  Iris shrugged. “Who knows? I don’t expect to find another artist who’ll want it. But it’d make a great guest house. Of course, there’s no plumbing.” She excused herself as the glass man came forward, ready to deal with the billing process.

  “Looks good,” Renie remarked absently. “Gosh, it’ll be strange to have a new neighbor after all these years with Riley.”

  “Probably some Yuppies,” Judith replied with equal vagueness. Her gaze was on the studio door. “Who drank?” she asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

  Renie’s gaze narrowed. “If it wasn’t Riley, it had to be Iris. Or Lark,” she added with a grimace.