A Fit of Tempera (25 page)

Horrified, Judith backed away from Iris and bumped into Renie, who was standing next to the new window. “You wouldn't do that! Nella and the Mortons will see the fire right away! And what about your cock-and-bull robber story?”

Iris appeared unconcerned, though her voice was showing signs of strain as she continued to yell above the Valkyries' wild cries. “Thieves fall out. A couple of days ago, didn't Clive and Dewitt think you were hiding a seventy-thousand-dollar painting? Let Costello try to unravel it. It won't matter to me. I'll be halfway to Glacier Falls, going
to see the undertaker.” She aimed the gun at Renie. “You've got an awfully big mouth, Mrs. Jones.”

“And about now, it could eat an elephant.” Renie appeared unnaturally composed. Judith's heart was pounding too hard to let her brain figure out why.

It was the brilliant light flooding the room that distracted Iris just as she was about to pull the trigger. Her attention shifted a fraction too long; Renie came down hard on the floorboard that covered the empty liquor bottles. The two-foot plank flew up, knocking Iris off-balance. Judith fell on top of her, trying to grab the gun. A shot went off, lodging somewhere in the rafters. Renie had scurried around to help Judith, getting an armlock around Iris's neck. She squeezed, hard. Iris screamed, turned purple, and slumped onto the floor. Wagner's Valkyries raged on.

The gun fell from Iris's hand. Judith pushed it aside. “Thank God for the sheriff,” she murmured, going limp.

“The sheriff?” gasped Renie as bodies hurtled into the studio. “It's not the sheriff, coz. It's the TV reporters. I think we just made the eleven o'clock news.”

 

Undersheriff Abbott N. Costello arrived two minutes later with Dabney Plummer and three other deputies. So did the entire Morton clan, the Dixons, and Nella Lablatt. The television crew had been so busy setting up equipment and giving orders to one another that Judith and Renie were able to escape in the confusion. Had Iris not been half-conscious, she, too, might have gotten away. Through the studio windows, the cousins saw an aggressive female reporter trying to interview her.

“Clearly,” the reporter was saying, more into her microphone than to Iris, “the studio of the internationally acclaimed artist Riley Tobias has once again been a scene of wanton violence. What is your reaction to this latest outrage?”

“My attorney!” croaked Iris, struggling to sit up. “I want my attorney!”

“An understandable reaction, given the social ills that beset contemporary society,” the reporter said smoothly, if loudly, over the music. “Would you care to comment on how it feels to…”

Judith turned away, almost colliding with a young man uncoiling a length of orange cable. Costello and his men had rushed past the cousins, either not recognizing them or not caring. Somebody turned off the CD player, but the night was still filled with unnatural sounds.

Nella, wearing a voluminous pink bathrobe and gold lamé bedroom slippers, stood on tiptoes to get a better look. “What's happening? Is somebody else dead?”

The four oldest Morton children shrieked with delight and charged toward the studio. Kennedy Morton darted after them, shouting.

Judith tried to steer Nella out of harm's way. “There's really nothing to see. I'm afraid Iris killed Riley.” She spoke very quietly, lest Nella succumb to shock.

But Nella merely snorted. “Iris! Can't say as I blame her, in a way. Riley gave her a bad time. A woman should take only so much. Then she's got to draw the line.”

Dumbfounded, Judith said nothing. Costello came back out of the studio, with Dabney Plummer at his heels. This time, the undersheriff noticed the cousins.

“You two again! You put in the call? What for?” He was scowling under his hat. “You had the gall to use the word ‘emergency,' and all these dumbbell reporters hear it on the radio band and come a-running! Sheesh!”

Judith explained, aware that some of the TV personnel had formed a circle around them. “It appears that Iris Takisaki murdered Riley Tobias. When my cousin and I confronted her with the accusation, she pulled a gun on us and threatened to kill us. Luckily, we disarmed and subdued her before she could carry out her intentions. We'd like to file a complaint.”

Costello looked skeptical. “This sounds screwy to me. You two gave her an alibi. Got any proof?”

“We can make a statement,” Judith said calmly. “The
important thing is that Ms. Takisaki is placed under arrest.”

“I don't have a warrant.” Costello made as if to walk away.

Judith grabbed him by the sleeve of his jacket. “Now just a minute.” She stood close to him, almost treading on his shoes. “You've got a murderer in there,” she said between clenched teeth. “You've got the press all over the place. You've got two people who will testify that the suspect was about to assault them with a deadly weapon. You've got a chance to be a real hero. And if you don't act fast, you're going to get egg all over your face, and the next thing you know, you'll be sitting outside the Tin Hat Cafe with a tin cup.” Judith gave Costello a little shake. “Get it?”

Her words seemed to sink in. Looking surly, Costello pulled free of Judith's hold, but he marched off to the studio, where his other deputies apparently were questioning Iris. More TV correspondents, along with print and radio reporters, had arrived, apparently drawn by information on the police band.

Wearily, Judith drew Renie aside. “We'll probably have to go into the county seat to make our statement and file a complaint. Maybe they'll give us a ride home.”

“Maybe they'll give us dinner,” Renie said, but she didn't sound hopeful.

Judith uttered a lame little laugh. “I couldn't figure you out in the studio, coz. At first I thought you were being reckless with Iris because you were hungry. Then I realized you saw those TV people arrive before she and I did.”

“I saw them pull in when you turned on the CD player. Iris's back was turned and she couldn't hear them over the music. I knew it wouldn't take long before they made themselves known to you and Iris. Journalists are pushy.”

Judith sighed. “Thank God for that.”

A few feet away, Nella Lablatt and Carrie Mae Morton were engaged in animated conversation. Dewitt and Erica Dixon were being interviewed by a rival TV station. More
people had shown up, including the seventy-year-old couple from Oregon who looked pleasurably excited. Their overnight stay at the Woodchuck Auto Court had turned out to be more entertaining than they'd anticipated.

A hush fell over the crowd as Undersheriff Costello emerged from the studio with Iris in handcuffs. Her carriage was proud; her expression, defiant. She didn't look at the cousins.

Over by the fence, a group of reporters had gathered around Dabney Plummer. At last Plummer was speaking. Judith and Renie stared.

“What's that all about?” Renie asked of another, passing deputy.

The broad-shouldered man gave Renie a curious look. “What do you mean? It's a press briefing.” He frowned at Renie. “Dabney Plummer is our official spokesperson.”

Judith and Renie were speechless.

 

A moment later, Costello hustled Iris into the backseat of his patrol car. The Morton children crowded as close as possible. Costello and the square-shouldered deputy also got in and drove off with a squeal of tires, flashing lights, and the siren's wail. Judith expected the Morton kiddies to be impressed.

They weren't. Standing close together, their faces downcast, they began to chant:

“No more Sweet-Stix! No more Sweet-Stix! No more Sweet-Stix now!”

 

Carrie Mae Morton insisted that the cousins come over for a nice glass of wine. Since the county car in which they'd be traveling couldn't leave for some time, Judith and Renie reluctantly gave in.

The Morton living room was still in disarray, with piles of laundry all over the floor, a spilled bowl of chili covering an easy chair, and a small pig sitting on top of the TV.

“Dang!” exclaimed Carrie May, searching frantically for a place to put her guests. “Thor! Rafe! Get Omar out of
here! The TV's no place for him—put that pig in the kitchen, where he belongs. Better yet, take him outside.”

Thor and Rafe didn't budge. They were too busy putting the dog's fur up in curlers. Omar the Pig toddled down from the TV, waded through the laundry, and climbed up onto the only vacant chair. Carrie Mae snatched him up.

“Come on, I'll put him out back. We can sit on the patio.”

The patio was five square feet of plywood, adorned with coffee cans containing almost-dead plants. The little area overlooked the small shed that served as a barn and the backyard that sheltered the family livestock. The smell was dreadful. Judith grimaced; Renie squirmed. Carrie Mae carted the pig out through the gate and let out a shriek:

“Oh, no! Look what them kids did now! They glued the goat to their trampoline!”

Trying not to gag, the cousins gingerly approached the sagging wire fence. Sure enough, a weary-looking billy goat stood in the middle of a large piece of canvas that was stretched between four pegs. Setting Omar down, Carrie Mae picked up a trowel from a rusting oil can and started to pry the goat loose.

“Need some help?” Judith offered, hoping to speed up the process and retreat from the odoriferous patio as quickly as possible.

“Naw, I can manage.” Sure enough, Carrie Mae had already freed the goat's front hooves. With an angry kick, he freed his back legs and raced off toward the shed.

Judith was about to suggest they go back inside the house when she glanced at the makeshift trampoline for the first time. She gasped. Renie stared at her cousin, then followed Judith's wide, astounded eyes.

“Egad!” cried Renie. “It's ‘Spring River'!”

“Egad!” echoed Judith in horror. “It's ruined!”

Renie, however, burst into laughter. “How,” she asked between guffaws, “can you tell?”

“S
TOP
!” J
UDITH SHRIEKED
. “I can't stand it! How could you?” She rolled over on the bed, buried her face in the white-and-yellow-flowered counterpane, and covered her ears.

Joe switched off the VCR. “I didn't
mean
to record it,” he said, though there was not a touch of repentance in his voice. “I forgot to turn off the Kevin Costner movie I was recording for you, and I taped the news by accident.”

“Like fun,” Judith muttered, raising her head. “And Mother! Wouldn't you know she'd watch the channel that would have the full, unexpurgated coverage! And for the first time in ten years, Aunt Deb watches the news, too, all because her handyman's son-in-law was appearing before the city council to protest a bounty on possums!”

Joe made no response, but removed his terry-cloth robe, dumped it on the floor, and turned off the bedside lamp. It was almost 2
A
.
M.
The exhaustion that Judith had fought off in the county sheriff's office thirty miles north of the city had now been replaced by restlessness. She was wide awake. Too many cups of coffee during the hour it had taken for her and Renie to give their
statements, too heavy a meal too late at a coffee shop a block from the sheriff's headquarters, and too much of a reaction setting in during the escorted drive home had resulted in wakefulness. The final blow had come when Judith had found Joe lazing on their bed, watching a rerun of the eleven o'clock news.

“I liked the part where Renie jumped on that floorboard and knocked Iris flat,” Joe remarked as he got into bed. “The camera angle wasn't very good and the lighting was fuzzy, but you were great going for the gun. It was better than the movies.”

“Shut up.”

“Your little speech to that Costello fellow was a gem.” Joe chuckled as he arranged the pillow behind his head. “His eyes really bugged out when you got to the part about the Tin Hat and the tin cup. Still, he was right. You had no evidence.”

“Shut up.”

“I suppose that's why you had to confront Iris with nobody else around. Poor Renie couldn't understand why you let Clive drive off and you didn't alert the Kimballs when they came to retrieve Lark's other paintings. It was damned risky, but I can see why you had to get Iris alone. If you couldn't force her to either confess or try to put you two away, she would have gotten off scot-free.”

“Shut up.”

“What really put you on Iris's trail?” Joe propped himself up on one elbow. “That tape was only the clincher. How did Iris get hold of it?”

Resignedly, Judith crawled under the covers. “I'm not sure,” she said in a vexed voice. “I think it was by accident. She may have gone snooping around Ward's studio, looking for the missing painting. Riley had inscribed the tape, from himself to Lark. Lark probably didn't realize that because her eyesight is so poor, but Renie and I saw the writing after we listened to it in the car.”

“Was the rest of the tape blank?” Joe inquired, moving one leg just enough so that it touched Judith's thigh.

“Yes, as far as we could tell. The second time around, Riley actually sounded sort of phony, like an actor reading his lines. It was ironic that Lark was such a poor judge of men—but she was more on the mark with Iris. Lark said she was a rapacious conniver. But she was wrong about Iris not loving Riley enough—Iris loved him
too
much. She couldn't bear to lose him to another woman.” Judith's voice had perked up as she warmed to her tale. And to Joe. “Iris saw that inscription on the cassette and couldn't resist playing it. She must have had a fit when she heard Riley make what amounted to a marriage proposal to Lark. Her jealously had already driven her to murder. But she didn't dare let anybody know that she had such a strong motive. That's why she made up that ridiculous story about Riley being Lark's father. Iris couldn't let anyone think she had a reason to kill Riley. So the tape had to disappear. Then there'd only be Lark's word for Riley's intentions, and that could be dismissed as the fantasy of an infatuated, impressionable young woman. Iris didn't know we'd heard the tape, too.”

Joe flung an arm across Judith's pillow. “You didn't answer the original question.”

“Oh. You mean about suspecting Iris?” Judith moved closer to Joe. “Well, there were a bunch of little things. When Renie and I first saw Iris, she had her groceries and a big shoulder bag. Then, when she came running over to tell us she heard a prowler, she claimed she was going back to the Green Mountain Inn to get her car. But she didn't have her shoulder bag. Now think about that. If she'd been telling the truth, she would have had it with her, because she would have expected to pay Gary Johanson if he'd fixed the car. If he hadn't, she'd need money for the pay phone to call for the tow truck.”

“Good,” Joe said, pulling Judith onto his shoulder. “Very good. But only suggestive.”

Feeling the warmth of Joe's body, Judith relaxed. “Gary mentioned that the problem with Iris's car was negligible. The ignition was stuck, and all he had to do was turn the
wheels to unlock it. Iris purposely jammed it as an excuse so that she could leave her car at the Green Mountain Inn and it wouldn't be seen at Riley's. She took the river route, walking along the trail, and she heard us at the cabin. Our presence might have surprised her, but it didn't deter her. In fact, it made us her stooges. She went from there to Riley's, got him drunk, strangled him, and then came over to give us her phony prowler story.”

“And nobody saw her with Riley in the studio?” Joe rested his cheek on Judith's temple.

“Nobody would, ordinarily. The house is pretty well screened from the road, and there are all those trees between our cabin and Riley's. Nella wasn't home.” Judith slipped her arms around Joe's chest. “But Iris
was
seen, and that was very unlucky for her.”

Joe's free hand traced Judith's jawline, then touched the tip of her nose. “Who saw her? That agent, stumbling around? The art collector? The Hungarian dealer? Ward Kimball?”

Judith nipped at Joe's roving fingers. “They were all gone by then. Lark, too.” She laughed, and realized her mood had definitely improved. “It was the Morton kiddies, being disobedient and crossing the road to play in Riley's yard.”

Joe made an incredulous noise. “Now how do you figure that? Or did you ask them?”

“I did, eventually. Just to make sure.” Judith pressed even closer and gave a little sigh before resuming her story. “Those kids kept yapping about Sweet-Stix. It dawned on me that they only did it when Iris was around. In fact, one of them said something about how Erica Dixon wouldn't give them candy of any kind and that she was mean. Then they tried to bribe me by saying they'd do anything for sweets. I realized that they'd learned that trick from experience. When I found a bag of Sweet-Stix at Riley's house, I knew for sure. Iris had handed the stuff out to the kids to keep them quiet about seeing her when she wasn't supposed to be there.”

“Ah! Out of the mouths of babes!”

“In this case,
into
the mouths of babes.”

“Getting kids to testify isn't easy,” Joe remarked, brushing Judith's lips with his.

“That crew will love it.” Judith laughed softly at the memory of the Morton offspring. “I should have figured some of this out sooner, frankly. Renie told me that Riley wasn't working in tempera—Lark used it, but he didn't. Maybe Iris purposely spilled the tempera to put suspicion on her rival. Or maybe, in her haste, she simply didn't think. Either way, I ought to have realized that the paint was there for a reason that had nothing to do with Riley's work. I'm still kicking myself for not realizing that Riley was dead when we saw him through the studio window.”

Joe sniffed at the scent of soap on Judith's bare shoulder. “You see what you expect to see. People are like that. And Iris knew it.”

But Judith wouldn't give herself a break. “Riley was propped up by that huge painting, the heavy easel, and that big box of paints. Still, he just had to look unnatural. But, of course, Renie and I were concentrating on finding a prowler. Looking back, I see that what really set me off was Iris's so-called revelation that Riley was Lark's father. When I stopped to figure dates and ages, like when Riley moved from San Francisco and how old Lark is, I realized there was a big discrepancy—at least six years. It just wasn't logical. And it wasn't logical for Iris to tell us such a lie unless she had a reason. There was no point in defaming the late Mrs. Kimball or even Riley. Why turn Ward into a cuckold? Why make Lark out to be illegitimate? It could only be a smoke screen to prove Iris wasn't—couldn't possibly be—jealous.”

“Ah, men and women,” Joe mused. “The eternal triangle. I sort of like an old-fashioned crime of passion now and then. It breaks the monotony of all those senseless killings where the only motive is dope—and the perps are all dopes, too. And then there are those con artists. I don't see much of them in my job, more's the pity. So Dewitt
had figured out a way to get money from his tight-fisted wife. He knew she'd be willing to pay seventy grand for a Riley Tobias, but not a Lark Kimball. So what did he do? Connive with Clive?”

“Exactly. Dewitt had seen Lark working on that canvas. I'm guessing he confronted Riley and demanded a free painting. Otherwise, he would blow the whistle on Riley's deception. Riley had to agree—he'd already passed Lark's work off as his own once, and Erica had seen the picture in progress. But before he could retrieve Lark's ‘Morning' from Nella's icehouse, he was killed. Clive knew Riley had given me a painting—he assumed it belonged to the Dixons. After he found it behind the Murphy bed, he gave it to Dewitt. But Dewitt discovered it wasn't the one Erica wanted. I doubt that at this point Clive knew what Riley had been pulling. But Dewitt had to tell him, so they got together the next morning at the Green Mountain Inn and agreed to a pact. Dewitt would ‘buy' the real Tobias with Erica's money; then he and Clive would split the proceeds. Later, they'd sell the real ‘Spring River' abroad and make even more money. But they had a problem—they didn't know where Lark's canvas was. Dewitt had nothing to show Erica when she returned from Europe. I suspect Clive and Dewitt practically had a falling-out before they even got started, each accusing the other of making off with Lark's painting. The Morton kiddies had swiped the Tobias from the Dixons' motel room, probably while Dewitt was picking Erica up at the airport. It got to be a real jumble.” Judith kissed Joe back, then stiffened and pulled away. “Say! Speaking of con games, what kind of trick were you trying to play on me? Were you serious about another bed-and-breakfast?”

Joe's dancing green eyes studied Judith's face. “Were you?”

Mesmerized by his magic gaze, Judith hesitated in answering. “I don't think so. But I suppose I shouldn't dismiss the idea out of hand.”

“No rush,” Joe said, his voice very low. “Take one thing
at a time. That's what we're doing now. At the moment, it's bed.” He kissed her again, holding her tight. “In the morning, it's breakfast.”

Judith sighed happily. “It could be more bed.”

Joe buried his face in her hair. “It could be both.”

 

Gertrude was leaning on her walker, squinting at the restored Riley Tobias painting that rested against the door to the bathroom off the entry hall. She pulled a cigarette out of her housecoat pocket and flicked on her lighter.

“What does that lamebrained husband of yours think of this thing?” Gertrude asked in her raspy voice.

Judith paused, then answered truthfully. “He says it looks like sink sludge. He thought it was a waste of money to have it repaired after the goat sat on it.”

Gertrude snorted loudly. “A lot he knows!” A cloud of smoke enveloped her small, wiry frame. “Tell you what—I've got room for it in the toolshed. You know, in my sitting room, where you hung my picture of the Sacred Heart. We can move Jesus into the bedroom. He won't mind, and I'd like to keep an eye on Him there. Get a hammer and a couple of nails and we'll go hang Riley Whazzisname.”

“He's already been strangled,” Judith murmured. “Hanging seems a bit much.”

“What? Speak up. You know I'm deaf, you knothead.” Gertrude expelled more smoke. Sweetums circled her ankles, then wove in and out of the walker's rubber-tipped legs. “Of course I know Riley was strangled,” Gertrude went on heatedly, giving the lie to her hearing deficiency. “Didn't I have to see it all on television?
My
daughter, a
Grover
, and
my
niece, another
Grover
, acting as if they were in a wrestling match! It's a wonder the whole world couldn't see your underwear!”

“Our…?” Judith was aghast. She was also strangely reluctant to part with Riley Tobias's last landscape. If that was indeed what it was. Never mind that it was plug-ugly, never mind that Joe hated it, never mind that Sweetums
was now swishing his plumelike tail and showing signs of critical disdain. “Spring River,” or so Judith had dubbed the work, since that had been Riley's title if only by default, was the work of a once-great artist. On the other hand, it had looked like hell on the staircase landing.

“Okay,” Judith agreed. “Let's put this sucker up.” She struggled with the painting and headed for the kitchen to get a hammer and nails. Gertrude clumped along behind her. Sweetums beat both of them to the back door.

“One thing,” Gertrude called as they went outside. “You got it upside down.”

Halfway down the back-porch steps, Judith turned. “Huh? How do you know?”

“Easy.” Gertrude carefully made the descent to the concrete walk. “It's a picture of an appendix. The little pink squiggly thing goes the other way.” She stopped and banged the walker. “Arlene! Hey! Stop weeding and come take a look!”