The Tree of Death

by Marcia Muller

At first I didn’t think the truck would stop, but then I heard the hiss of its air brakes as it rolled onto the shoulder ahead of me. It was a shiny aluminum semi. I forgot my aches and pains and ran toward it.

  The door of the cab swung open on my side, and a voice spoke in flat, southwestern twang. “Hey, little lady, the road’s no place to be this late at night. Hop on up.”

  Por Dios, I thought, don’t let him be the type who expects exotic payment for a ride. Because, whether he is or not, I badly need the ride.

  In the light of the cab I could see a sallow face with a ruff of beard. The trucker was smiling as I reached for the door. Suddenly his expression changed. His mouth hardened, and his eyes narrowed.

  “Rough night, lady?” He pulled the door away from my outstretched hand.

  “Please, you’ve got to help me…”

  “I don’t got to help nobody.” He slammed the door. “You’re walking trouble, lady, and trouble’s what I don’t need.” He threw the rig in gear and began pulling away. I jumped back to avoid being hit. Gravel sprayed up at me, and I twisted my ankle and fell. I hit the shoulder hard as the truck pulled out onto the road.

  I lay there, listening to the truck’s gears whine as it vanished down the highway. My headache intensified into waves of pain, and the nausea returned. When I could move, I pulled myself to my knees and retched. After a while the nausea faded and I sat back, breathing heavily.

  My purse lay a few feet away. I dragged it over to me and fumbled for a tissue. I scrubbed at my hands, then gingerly touched my face. There were cuts on my forehead, probably from rolling down the embankment to the onion patch. I felt through the bag for some hand cream or Chapstick and had a sudden, horrible thought. Frantically I searched the front compartment, where I kept my keys.

  The extra set of keys to the museum, the ones I’d removed from the hook in Frank’s office, were gone. The killer had taken them. He wouldn’t have to rely on his mysterious method of coming and going anymore. Probably he’d gone back to finish moving the artifacts. Right now he could be…

  A second engine noise came from the north-the unhealthy tick-and-purr that characterizes an old Volkswagen. I pulled myself to my feet, half afraid to stick out my thumb. Lights washed over me, and a decrepit black VW pulled onto the shoulder and rattled to a stop. I took a couple of steps toward it and clung to the door handle. It was all I could do to keep from falling.

  A round-faced, curly-haired woman stared out at me. “That’s a terrible place to hitchhike in the dark! I almost hit you.” She pushed the door open.

  I sank into the passenger seat. When I turned to her, the woman was looking at me with alarm. “My God, you’re hurt! And here I am bawling you out for hitchhiking in the wrong place! Are you okay?”

  The sound of a friendly voice nearly reduced me to tears. I had to wait a minute before I could speak. “I feel horrible, but I don’t think I’m badly hurt.”

  “You sure look a fright.”‘ She pulled down the visor in front of me, and I stared into a mirror. My face was cut around the forehead, and my blouse was torn.

  “No wonder I scared that truck driver,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “A truck driver. He stopped for me, but took off after he got a good look.”

  “Probably afraid he’d be blamed for it. I should get you to a hospital.”

  “No!”

  She merely looked at me.

  “Really, I’m okay.” If I went to a hospital, I’d have to explain. They would call the police. At any rate, I would be delayed and…

  The woman frowned in concern. “You don’t look okay.”

  “But I am.” Quickly, I thought. “Listen, my mother lives in Goleta, in the big trailer park near the beach. Can you take me there?”

  The woman looked relieved. Obviously my own mother would know what to do with me. “Sure. Just direct me.” She didn’t ask any more questions as we drove south on the highway and then through the dark streets of Goleta. At the gate of the mobile home park, she wished me luck. I wondered if she’d check the papers later to see if anything about me ever turned up.

  I went through the gates and cut across the lawn by the recreation center toward my mother’s trailer. AD its windows were dark. What else would they be at two-thirty in the % morning? I knocked softly; my mother was a light sleeper.

  In moments she opened the door, clad in a long nightgown, her hair in a braid that fell over one shoulder. Right behind her was Nick, wrapped in a horrible paisley bathrobe. I was so glad to see them, I didn’t even bother to give them a sly look.

  “Por Dios, child!” my mother exclaimed. “What has happened to you?”

  There’s something about coming home to mother that opens the floodgates. I started to cry. She put her arms around me and helped me into the living room. Nick calmly went about turning on the lights. Mama sat me on the couch.

  “Look at you!” She touched the cuts on my forehead.

  “First that awful murder, and now this. I knew I could trust my feelings. Nick, get the first aid kit.”

  “Mama, I’m okay.”‘ I pulled a tissue from my bag and blew my nose. “I have to get to the museum…”

  “The museum? At this hour?” She looked amazed. “You are going nowhere with that cut on your head.”

  “Mama…”

  Nick returned with the first aid kit. My mother began rummaging through it.

  “What, did Frank’s murderer try to kill you, too?” Nick asked.

  “I think so.”

  “You think?”

  “I didn’t see whoever it was. It was dark.”

  My mother got a wet washcloth and started bathing the cuts. While she applied antiseptic and Band-Aids, I told them what had happened-all of it, even the embezzlements.

  “You ought to go to the police right away,” Nick said.

  “But I can’t tell them about the embezzlements, not yet.”

  “Can’t you just say you were in the cellar looking for the arbol de la muerte? If you tell them today, they might be able to find out who hit you. Someone must have noticed him trying to get back to town.”

  “You’re right. I’ll talk to Lieutenant Kirk. And then, after the opening, I’ll tell Carlos and him about the embezzlements.” I looked at my watch. “That’s only fifteen hours away. But right now I should get to the museum before the murderer takes away all the evidence.”

  “When did this happen, when he hit you?” Nick asked.

  “Around ten.”

  “It is now a quarter to three. He won’t still be at the museum.”

  He had a point. Time had more or less compressed for me, but I realized it wouldn’t have taken the killer that long to remove the artifacts. He’d already taken them out of the cellar by the time I got there. All that remained after he returned from dumping me off was to load them and leave.

  “But what if he’s left the museum unlocked?” I asked. “And then someone else comes in and steals our collections?”

  “Didn’t you say he took your keys?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that he somehow managed to lock up after he killed Frank?”

  “Right.”

  “This is a very careful killer. I don’t think you have to worry.”

  “Besides,” my mother added, “you ought to see a doctor about that bump on your head.”

  “I’m okay, Mama. No doctors.” I hated doctors.

  “Just like when you were a little girl.” She smoothed my hair back and looked closer at my head. “You could have a concussion.”

  “ But no brain damage.”

  “Oh, Elena.”

  “Please, Mama, I just want to go home to my own bed.”

  “There I draw the line. You’ll sleep here where I can watch you. This couch makes out into a bed.”

  “But-”

  “What about your car?” Nick asked.

  The car, of course! “I’D have to wait until the gas stations open…”

  “I can take c
are of that. You just give me the keys. The station down the street opens at six. I’ll have one of my old fogies drive me up and bring the car back so you’ll have it when you wake up.”

  “That’s ridiculous to ask you to go running around at six in the morning!”

  “No, it’s not,” my mother said. “Actually, you’ll be delaying him. He and the old fogies jog at five-thirty.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I think I’ve been overruled.”

  “That’s right,” Nick said. “You listen to your mother.” Meekly I got up so she could open the sofa bed. I got under the covers, feeling strangely like a little girl with the chicken pox. Nick turned off the lights, and they went into the bedroom and shut the door. As I drifted off, I was conscious of their low voices, probably discussing me and the trouble I’d caused over the years. There was something comforting in knowing that certain things never change…

  twelve

  I woke up around eight, my head still aching. My car was outside, filled with gas. Mama was making pancakes, but I couldn’t eat. She gave me a good hard look and, for once, didn’t lecture me about not eating breakfast. She did manage to force some coffee and orange juice down me and seemed to consider that a sort of victory.

  As I was brushing my hair before the bathroom mirror she came in and said, “You’re going straight to the police, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you can’t go to a police station in that blouse.”

  I looked down. The blouse was torn in several places.

  “It is an invitation to rape,” my mother added.

  I wanted to ask her how she thought I could be raped while surrounded by policemen, but she had left the room. When she returned she was carrying one of her own blouses. “Just until you can go home and change.”

  I put it on. It was a couple of sizes too large for me, and the way it fit reminded me of my gym blouse at the Catholic girls’ school. All it needed was my last name embroidered on the pocket.

  By eight-forty-five I was on my way. Since volunteers and staff would be lined up at the museum, waiting to get in and set up for the opening, I decided I had better stop there first. Certainly whichever one of them had the extra keys wouldn’t reveal that by producing them and opening up.

  Vic, Maria, Isabel, and three volunteers stood by the front door, looking around anxiously. When I approached, they turned and stared at me and my bandages with varying degrees of surprise. I tried to assess each person’s reaction to see if any of.them seemed shocked to see me alive. They were all pretty taken aback, however, so I couldn’t tell.

  “Elena, qui pasa?” Maria demanded.

  “No questions now. We’ve got a lot to do today. Do you all know what you’re supposed to take care of?”

  There were murmurs of affirmation as I turned the key in the alarm switch and opened the carved door.

  “Good. I have some things to take care of this morning also, away from the museum, but I’ll be back early this afternoon. We’ll hold a general meeting at four, to go over final preparations for the party. Isabel, will you be in charge while I’m gone?”

  She nodded, anxious eyes on my face.

  I took a quick trip through the galleries. Our collections were unharmed. Nick was right; the killer was a careful person and evidently had no interest in anything other than the artifacts he’d removed from the cellar. Reassured, but still reluctant to face Dave Kirk and give him my partial story, I went home to change my clothes.

  I gathered up yesterday’s mail-bills and a request for money to save the whales-and went to the bedroom. The house had an unlived-in look, with coffee cups piled in the kitchen sink, rust forming from a drip in the old-fashioned tub, and a lumpy, unmade bed. After the opening, I’d have to give the place a thorough cleaning and start spending more time here.

  Then I thought, what if the lieutenant remained convinced of my guilt? Could they arrest you on the flimsy kind of evidence he had? Bring you to trial? Convict? I might never get to spend more time at home. I might-Nonsense, Elena, I thought. When he hears about last night’s adventure he’ll realize you’ve been telling the truth all along.

  Won’t he?

  The immediate-and much more solvable-problem was what to wear. I had to go to the police station. Our board chairman, Carlos Bautista, had said he would drop by the museum at one. But I also was going to help with the food preparations; in a small museum no chore was beneath anybody. Deciding on practicality rather than protocol, I put on a pair of faded jeans and a cotton blouse. I went to the bathroom, took a couple of aspirins, and then removed the bandages and looked at my forehead. The cuts were small, really, and without the bandages wouldn’t attract much attention. And attention-and questions about what had happened-was exactly what I didn’t want. I washed my face, redid my makeup, and then I drove to the police station.

  Kirk was in his cubicle, looking as if he hadn’t moved since yesterday evening. If he was surprised to see me, he didn’t show it.

  “Good morning, Miss Oliverez. Have a seat.”

  I took the chair I’d occupied for all those hours yesterday.

  “Have you been in an accident?” He motioned at the cuts on my forehead.

  “Not exactly. I’ll get into that in a minute. I have some things to tell you.”

  “Go ahead.” He leaned back in his chair, his discounting-the-information pose.

  “I found out who Frank De Palma’s girl friend was. It’s Gloria Sanchez, the woman who bought La Galena from him.”

  “I see. How did you come by that fact?”

  “I went over there to…” I couldn’t go into that without telling him about the embezzlement. “I was passing by and wandered in because she had a couple of Jesus Herrera’s camaleones on display. Frank’s brother Robert was there collecting Frank’s things.”

  “Things?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “His bathrobe, for one.”

  “How do you know what Mr. De Palma’s bathrobe looks like?”

  Irritation flashed through me, and I felt it reflected in my eyes. “Robert came out of the living quarters at the back of the gallery holding a bathrobe and asked Gloria Sanchez if that was all of Frank’s things.” I spoke slowly, trying not to lose my temper. “And, afterward, he confirmed that Gloria and Frank had been having an affair for five years.”

  Kirk nodded. “All right, Miss Oliverez, I’ll check it out.”

  I was sick of his standard refrain-check it out.

  “What else do you have to tell me?”‘ Kirk asked. “I’m beginning to enjoy these little conversations with you.”

  My hostility bubbled over, and I glared at him. “It all started when I went back to the museum last night to look for the murder weapon.”

  This time I had succeeded in startling him. “The murder weapon?”

  “The tree of death.” I explained how it had been missing and my reasons for thinking it had been used to kill Frank.

  “And did you find this tree of death?”

  “No. Someone found me first.” I went on with my story.

  Kirk nodded, still looking skeptical, but his eyes were somewhat concerned as he glanced again at my forehead. “You were hit on the head about what time?”

  “Maybe ten.”

  “And came to in this field?”

  “After midnight.”

  “Good. If your story is true, someone may have given your assailant a ride back to town. Or he may have called a cab. I’ll check it.”

  “What do you mean, if my story is true?”

  “I also want to check your car for fingerprints and other evidence. I assume it’s still on the highway where it ran out of gas?”

  “No, it’s downstairs in the parking lot. A friend of my mother’s got some gas and brought it to me. I drove back to town.”

  Kirk straightened his chair. “Now, that, Miss Oliverez, is one reason for my saying if your story is true.” He looked at his watch. “It is eleven in the morning. You say you got to your mothe
r’s around two-thirty. But you did not call us then to report the attack. Instead, you slept, got up, retrieved your car. By letting another person drive it and then driving it yourself, you probably destroyed any evidence that might have been there. You claim you were assaulted and technically kidnapped, yet you slept, changed your clothes, and, for all I know, ate a hearty breakfast before you bothered to inform us of anything.”‘

  I looked down at my hands. He had a point.

  “Also, Miss Oliverez, you tell me your assailant took your extra set of keys to the museum. Didn’t it occur to you that he might have robbed the place blind? Shouldn’t you have called us immediately and asked us to send a squad car there?”

  “But he didn’t take anything. I checked…”Again, he had a point. It didn’t make sense unless I said I knew the person’s reason for taking those keys. And I couldn’t…

  I looked at my watch. The opening was seven hours away. Was it worth keeping silent until then? I could tell Kirk right now, ask him not to do anything until after the opening. But, no, he would probably send men over there, arrest Vic and Tony.

  I couldn’t do it. I’d worked hard for the museum. For five years I’d struggled to bring it into its own, to give our people and their art the standing they deserved in this community. I was not going to throw that all away by revealing our staff as embezzlers on the day of what should be our greatest triumph.

  And, face it, I’d worked hard for me. I’d come out of the university with a lot of flimsy theoretical training and landed myself a better job than most graduates. Sure, it had little prestige. Sure, I’d done everything from making coffee to cleaning the rest room. But it was a damned good job for someone whose grandparents had been migrant field workers, and I’d made something of it. If the museum sank in the wake of a scandal, I would sink with it. Then there might not be a second chance for me.

  “Well, Miss Oliverez?”‘ Kirk said.

  “All right! I didn’t handle it well. I’ve never been involved in anything like this before, and I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Logic should have told you that.”

  “Then I’m not logical! Would you give me a break?”