1 Portrait of a Gossip (3 page)

The probable cause of death was not hard to find. There was
a hole in Harvey’s sweater—just a tiny one—but there were traces of blood
around it which the rain had failed to wash away. Juliet judged it came from a
small caliber weapon, discharged at short range since it had burned the wool
fibers. It had entered the heart which was why there had not been a lot of
bleeding and what gore had escaped had mostly been pounded away by the hard
rain. The killer had either gotten lucky with a moving target, or Harvey had
already been passed out.

And it was murder. Sometimes she hated being right.

Juliet had not cared for her neighbor, but she cared even
less for mayhem. Disorder offended her, and murder was the ultimate in
disorderly and uncivilized conduct.

She also knew that with very few exceptions—so few that
unless one lived next door to the Dalai Lama one needn’t disturb the statistics
looking for anomalies—that anyone can be driven to murder by extraordinary
circumstances. Admittedly, some people were a lot less likely to resort to
violence than others, but since none of her neighbors were the Dalai Lama and
all of them had been cut off from the rest of the world by a storm last night,
Juliet had to assume that the killer was among them.

Unless…. There was one slim possibility.

She circled the cottage looking for the old trail to the top
of the promontory. At one time there had been a path around the compound which
rejoined the road further down the hill.

A long-ago earthquake had fractured the mountain promontory the
compound was built on, and there were places where the sheer drop-off was
spanned by makeshift bridges of
slabstone
. No one was
supposed to use the trail because it was considered unsafe, the shale flaking
away in great slabs every winter after the ice had done its work, but she knew
that a few of her painter friends had sought out the old gate last summer,
hoping for a new and exciting vista to paint or photograph.

They hadn’t stayed long.

The path was as bad as she remembered from her first
exploratory visit in the fall, but at last she reached the rear fence and
examined the narrow gate that led to the outside. Since no real maintenance was
done up there the fence was deteriorating, and far more quickly than the stone
path. The wood had dry rot, but the gate was closed, its bolt and lock in
place. Someone could have climbed over if they were careful and small, and had
done it before the storm turned the ground to mud, but it didn’t seem likely.

There was also the matter of how someone would have reached
the back gate to begin with since the old path wasn’t even a ledge wide enough
for rodents anymore. Unless they were trained in rock climbing and had scaled
up several hundred feet of sheer cliff from a river that was running high and
white, it didn’t seem likely that this was how the killer arrived or escaped.
The odds were better in favor of the killer being someone inside the compound.

“And that isn’t good news.” Sighing, she turned and went
down to meet the sheriff.

White Oaks had one sheriff and a deputy who worked half time.
They got lucky that morning and drew the long straw. Sheriff Garret arrived
only twenty minutes later. He was accompanied by an ambulance that doubled as
the coroner’s van and was attended by Dr.
Hyder
, who
was prepared to give either first aid or pronounce death, depending on which
was needed. He was the town’s only doctor and saw to both the births and deaths
of those locals who chose not to visit the HMO about fifty miles down the
coast.

Juliet watched him climb the trail. He paused to look at her
easel and said something to Asher Temple who was standing in his door, smoking
his pipe and scowling.

“Miss Juliet,” Sheriff Garret said when he finally reached
Harvey’s yard. They had met at an art show last summer and Juliet was pleasantly
surprised that he remembered her name. It was possible, maybe even likely, that
the sheriff investigated everyone who moved into Bartholomew’s Wood. There had
been some disreputable drug-dealer types over the years and it would not be
surprising if the local law kept an eye on the tenants. Still, it was nice that
he recalled her since her official background was so very beige and
respectable. “You found the body?”

“Actually the cat found the body,” she said. “Marley came to
get me. I think he wanted breakfast.”

That was an oversimplification of events but she chose not
to explain more.

“And you followed him back up here?” No skepticism in the
voice, but Juliet knew it was probably there. She supposed that it did rather
sound like an episode of
Lassie
.

“It was easier than shooing the cat out of my paints. Harvey
kept Marley’s food on the porch so it wasn’t a problem.”

“I see. And he couldn’t feed his own cat?”

“Well, not to speak ill of the dead—”

“Oh, please go on. People spoke plenty ill of him while he
was alive.”

It didn’t surprise Juliet that her neighbors had complained
to the sheriff about Harvey’s behavior. Harvey was loutish when he was drunk.
And complaining to Robbie Sykes did no good because he took his orders from the
owner and the owner didn’t care.

It did surprise her that the sheriff was open to talking
about it with her.

“Well, he drank.
A lot.
Often he
didn’t wake up until late. If I had had a sandwich with me I would have shared
that instead, but I came out early and was empty-handed and decided it would be
easier to walk up the hill for cat food than go back to my cottage and make
tuna fish.”

Garret nodded once. He wasn’t wearing a cowboy hat, but he
should have been. He also would have looked more at home in something besides
hiking boots, though they were sensible footwear given where he would be
investigating.

Dr.
Hyder
joined them and gave Juliet
a nod and gentle smile.

“Miss Juliet.” She had been in last December with a case of
bronchitis. Like Garret, the doctor had a hint of accent from somewhere in the
south. Juliet guessed Tennessee.

The sheriff had obviously had no doubts about Harvey being
dead after a single glance at the body, though he listened attentively and
unhappily when the doctor mentioned the bullet hole and the heart and all the
basic facts that Juliet had already deduced.

Like Juliet, he would have preferred that this be a natural
death. He wasn’t looking for thrills or extra work. And maybe he also felt that
murder seemed like an obscenity in that place. It was rather like a monastery.

The compound was closer to New Age than Dark Age, but it
didn’t have the modern amenities or sentiments that came with other planned
communities. No cable television or enormous water heaters. If one wanted
prolonged water wallowing, one went to the lake or to the hot springs in town.
It was a place of purity and a kind of innocence. Worship went to art more than
God, but the residents were devout in their veneration.

Deputy
Hendersen
arrived then,
carrying a camera and some kind of kit, probably for collecting evidence. He
was breathless and red in the face. His skin wasn’t happy to be out in the sun
and it made his eyes pucker, and his nose, always red from his chronic skin
condition, was already beginning to peel.

He would look worse after he and the sheriff carried the
body back down the hill. The morning was advancing and so was the sun, and
though there was a road of sorts to the second terrace, there was no way to
drive the ambulance up to the top of the mountain. They would have to carry a
stretcher to the van.

Juliet considered offering him her sunglasses, but his head
was large and they probably wouldn’t fit. Anyway, they were prescription and she
had a feeling that she would
be needing
them shortly.

“Where is the cat now?” Garret asked as the doctor began
bagging Harvey’s hands and Deputy
Hendersen
started
snapping pictures.

Juliet pointed at the roof.

“I really do think that you should see what the cat is
worrying up there. He’s been at it for some time. I have a touch of vertigo, or
I would do it myself.”

The sheriff showed slight surprise at these words, but
obligingly pulled up a bench and reached into the gutter. Marley backed off and
waited patiently.

The sheriff pulled out a black tube that was trailing some
wire.

“It’s … I don’t know what it is,” he said, stepping back
onto the patio. “There’s some kind of a swivel mounting up there.”

“It’s part of a parabolic microphone,” Juliet said
helpfully.
“More commonly known as a shotgun mike.
It’s kind of like a giant hearing aid. There should be a dish thing on the end.
It seems to have been pulled off.”

“Yes?” Garret looked at the tube in his hand and then at
Juliet. “Why would he have a microphone?”

“It’s used for many things—collecting wildlife sounds for
instance.”

“And do you think Harvey was collecting wildlife sounds?”
Garret asked.

“No. Harvey was not a nature lover.” Juliet sighed. “I’m
sure he was spying on his neighbors.”

“A high-tech peeping Tom.
That
sounds more like Harvey Allen,” the sheriff agreed. “Any thoughts on why or who
he was spying on?”

Juliet considered.

“Harvey was generally obsessed with learning secrets. Some
people are built that way. And he wanted to know everything, even when he
couldn’t necessarily profit by the knowledge,” she finally said. “He was
probably listening in on all of us.
Recording us too.”

That annoyed her though she had nothing to hide since
retiring.

“I suppose I’ll have to look for recordings inside. And
listen to them.” Garret sounded disgusted.

“Yes, you must,” Juliet agreed, but having a moment of
intuition she added, “But you won’t find any. I think whoever tore the top off
the mike probably also removed Harvey’s computer.
So much
easier and safer than trying to erase files.”

The sheriff tilted his head as he considered this.

“Any guesses about where the computer is now?” he asked
politely.

“Probably dropped off the cliff and into the river,” Juliet
answered, waving at the trail that rose behind Harvey’s cottage. “There’s a
gate up there from the days before the cliff started crumbling. No one is
supposed to use it because it isn’t safe, but it’s there and we all have keys for
it somewhere. They came with the cottages.”

“Care to show me this gate?”

He seemed to take for granted that she would want to offer
help and wasn’t shooing her away from the investigation in the usual
territorial police manner. In Juliet’s experience, there was a lot to be
learned about people in seeing what they took for granted.

“Not really,” she half lied. “But I suppose I must. The
trail really is rather dangerous. But let me feed the cat first or he’ll tag
along and end up with stickers in his fur.”

Because the cat also expected things.
Like meals and a roof over his head and someone to brush stickers out of his
fur. Juliet shook her own head, realizing that she had just acquired a cat.

There was still a narrow band of shade at one side of the
trail and Juliet did her best to use it since she was wearing neither sunscreen
nor a hat. A woman her age did not look cute with a peeling nose. Heat had
begun condensing around the rocks. It was enjoyable for a time since shock had
chilled her, but Juliet didn’t want to be up there once the breeze died and the
air became breathless. Once the heat set in there was no cooling until
afternoon when they got some cloud cover and the wind began running back down
the draw. Once in a while they would have fog but it was rare that it reached
this far over the mountain.

“Miss Juliet—” The trail had widened another few inches and Garret
came up beside her.

“Just Juliet, please.
Miss Juliet
makes me feel like my grandmother,” she answered absently. Her nerves were
wrung dry. Being a loner, she wasn’t used to dealing with strangers in the
early hours that she usually gave over to painting. Her brain, however, was not
in the mood to let the problem go, so she knew it was pointless to try and get
back to her paints just yet.

She was also getting hungry and wished she had something
sweet at her bungalow besides some nasty Christmas chocolates that tasted like
they were stuffed with antacids and mouthwash.

“Juliet, can you explain the difference between an artist
and an artisan and a craftsman?”

This exasperated question brought her back to the present
and she wondered what Asher Temple had said to him. The sheriff was not an
unintelligent man, but he was likely a bit out of his depth. For a here-and-now
man who probably played softball, liked fishing, and watched
American Idol
, a crowd that lived in
some mental construct, emoted freely, and had no similar connection to reality
or pop culture—not even TV—would be an enigma shrouded in mystery.

“Who do you think will win
American Idol
?” she asked.

“
Er
… maybe the boy from Georgia.
He’s got a lot of personality and a good voice.”

Juliet nodded.

“To answer your question, the difference is ego, mainly.
Fortunately my neighbors’ eccentricities haven’t blossomed into full-fledged
egomania.
In most cases.”
He blinked at her answer and
then smiled a little, making Juliet realize that he had been looking unusually
grim since he arrived. That was hardly surprising, of course, but she preferred
the friendlier version of the law. Juliet went on attempting to explain. “Artists
are often lost in creativity though. Not just focused on a job, but obsessive
to the point of being blind to the needs of anyone or anything else. Things
that you would think were standard knowledge, writ large in letters of fire,
are sometimes missed. You know that poem about no man being an island? That
isn’t true of artists—at least not the young ones who know they are destined
for greatness and possibly immortality. Think of the mad scientists from the
movies.” The sheriff snorted. “The rest of us—the craftsmen—are happy to create,
but we are more competent and workmanlike. We remember to feed ourselves and
are aware of others’ feelings and reactions. We don’t feel that
art
exempts us from good manners or entitles
us to special behavior.”