A Fit of Tempera (8 page)

Renie tried not to smile. “Yes, I can see there are a few other possibilities. But if we're going to tackle those downspouts, we won't have time to follow any of them up.”

“That's true.” Judith gazed beyond Renie to the windows at the far end of the cabin. “Do you think the old ones are usable?”

“They looked pretty beat-up to me. We could drive into Glacier Falls and get some new ones.” Renie complacently devoured egg white.

Judith finished her juice. “Where's Grandpa's ladder?”

“It broke. Mike and Tony used it to play pirates about ten years ago. My dad had one up here, but Bill took it home so it wouldn't rust. It was aluminum or something.”

“The toolbox is under the house.” Judith got up to get the coffeepot.

Renie reached for another sausage. “There aren't any tools in it. Cousin Marty borrowed them to fix his doghouse and never brought them back.”

Judith's oval face sagged a bit. “Cousin Marty has never had a dog.”

Renie gave Judith a bland look. “I know. Did I ever say Cousin Marty was
bright?
”

Pouring out coffee, Judith shook her head. “Our maintenance plan doesn't sound so good. Let's scratch the downspouts. We'll clean out the gutters instead.”

Renie raised both eyebrows. “Without a ladder?”

“We'll borrow one.” Judith sat back down in the cherry-wood dining room chair that had belonged to Uncle Vince's mother.

“Oh.” Renie was now looking ingenuous. “Where, coz? The Berkmans aren't around, neither is Nella Lablatt at the old post office, and we really don't know the Mortons that well.”

Judith leaned forward, glaring at Renie. “Okay, okay, so we'll go ask Iris. It'll keep her mind off her loss.”

“Good idea.” Renie brushed her hands together. “I was wondering when we'd come to that.”

Judith snorted and speared another pancake. “We never left it.”

Renie grinned. “I know, coz. I know.”

“B
Y THE WAY
,” said Judith as the cousins prepared to head over to Riley Tobias's property, “did your mother say anything about seeing the murder on TV last night?”

“Are you kidding?” Renie pulled on a pair of black sweatpants. “My mother never watches the news. She's afraid she'll see something unpleasant. Like the anchorman's bad toupee on Channel Six.”

“Lucky you,” Judith replied, brushing her short, silver-streaked black curls into fashionable disarray. “I have a feeling that my mother missed it last night because she was talking to me. But both of them could see it in the paper today.”

“Maybe not,” Renie said. “They're playing bridge all day.”

Judith hoped Renie was right. Five minutes later, they were going through the meadow approaching Riley Tobias's house and studio. If they needed a further excuse, they'd brought along another bucket for more water.

But the place appeared to be deserted. The studio exhibited the telltale black-and-yellow tape of a crime scene. The house showed no sign of life. The doors to
both buildings were padlocked. Out back, by the highway, there were no vehicles in the drive. Just to be sure, the cousins went around to the front and knocked. They knocked again. There was no response.

Judith wore a disappointed look. Renie tried to cheer her. “Maybe it's just as well, coz. Now you don't have to turn yourself inside out worrying about whether you're pleasing Joe or toadying to your mother. Think about it—why shouldn't they all be gone? Dewitt came to get his painting. Iris probably went back to her condo to mourn. Clive Silvanus must have to wind up Riley's business affairs in town. Lazlo Gamm flew away. And the Kimballs don't live here.”

Taking in a deep breath, Judith squared her wide shoulders. “Okay, you're right. Let's get our water and go home.”

She lowered the beige enamel bucket with its dark green trim into the well while Renie noted that the clouds were already beginning to lift off Mount Woodchuck. It appeared as if they were going to have a warm, clear day ahead of them.

Judith scanned the horizon, from the emerging crest of the mountain to the cottonwoods behind Riley's studio. “Hey—there's a ladder!” She pointed to the north side of the studio. “We might as well help ourselves. Who else is going to use it?”

The ladder was ten feet long and made of very heavy wood. Judith struggled, trying to swing it away from the wall.

“Need any help?” Renie was holding the bucket.

“No, I can get it.” But the ladder slipped from Judith's grasp, fell back against the studio, and crashed through one of the big windows. Judith jumped out of the way, shielding her face from shards of sailing glass. Renie ducked and let out a squeal.

The cousins finally dared to look at the damage. The ladder had struck the plate glass in such a way that its downward descent had virtually taken out the entire win
dow. Crime-scene tape was tangled in the rungs; the studio lay open like a big wound.

“We'll have to call somebody,” Judith said, picking glass out of her Rugby shirt.

“Not the sheriff,” Renie exclaimed in horror.

Judith bit her lip. “Yes, the sheriff. Or in this case, the undersheriff. And Iris. She'll know about the insurance.”

Renie emptied the bucket. “I'm not taking any chances. Glass might have landed in the water. Let's draw some more, take it home, and then go make our calls.”

This time, Renie lowered the bucket into the well. Judith leaned against the small woodshed by the decorated fence. She was eyeing the studio speculatively.

“As long as we're here…” She paused, nodding at the broken window. “What do you say, coz?”

Renie rolled her eyes. “Would it matter?”

With great care and diligent effort, the cousins managed to remove the ladder. With it, they also removed much of the crime-scene tape. A chopping block provided the needed height for them to reach the window opening. Tip-toeing around broken glass, Judith and Renie studied the interior.

Except for the damage caused by the ladder, the studio looked much the same as it had less than twenty-four hours earlier. The Nerd's portrait still reposed on the easel, looking, if possible, even uglier than it had the previous day. If anything was missing, Judith assumed it had been taken away as evidence by the undersheriff and his deputy. The only addition was the crude outline of Riley Tobias's body on the orange-paint-spattered floor.

“
His
portrait,” murmured Judith, and winced.

“Ugh.” Renie gave herself a shake. “The spilled paint has dried. I wonder how it got all over the floor.”

Judith spotted a cardboard box just behind the easel. “There are a bunch of tubes and jars. Maybe Riley was using one of them when he was attacked.”

Renie glanced into the box. “Could be. What about all
those beer cans Costello mentioned? Gone for finger-printing?”

“Probably.” Judith prodded at the floorboards with her canvas shoe. At least two of them appeared to have been loosened by the impact of the ladder. She bent down, careful not to touch any glass. A slight pressure sprang one of the boards like a seesaw. Judith gaped. Empty liquor bottles lay in a jumble, at least a foot deep. Bourbon. Gin. Vodka. Scotch. Rum. A single beer can.

“I don't get it,” said Renie, joining Judith by the opening in the floor. “Why didn't Riley put these in the trash?”

Judith replaced the board. “I don't know. Lazy? I always thought of Riley as a beer drinker, but there's only one can in here.”

“I never thought about him as any kind of a serious drinker,” Renie said. “Still, I haven't seen much of him in recent years.”

Judith steeled herself to take another look at Riley's outline. “He fell face-forward. See, there are skid marks in the paint. He must have been working at the easel when he was strangled. Interesting.”

“Yes, interesting, gruesome, ghastly. I may soon puke. Let's go, coz.” Renie was heading for the open window.

But Judith was still browsing. Kneeling on the hearth of the big stone fireplace, she reached into the grate and pulled out a crumpled ball of paper.

“I'll bet this is what Riley was throwing away when we arrived yesterday. I'm surprised the undersheriff didn't check it out.”

“I'm not,” Renie replied with a touch of impatience. “What are you expecting? A death threat?”

Judith had smoothed the wrinkled paper, which consisted of a single, typed sheet of plain white stationery and an envelope addressed to Riley Tobias. The return bore the surname of Tobias as well, and the address was a rural route number in Old Bennington, Vermont.

“It's a letter from somebody named Yancey,” Judith said, ignoring Renie's remark. “His brother, I bet.” She
scanned the first two paragraphs, which included an excuse for not writing sooner, news about a minor car accident presumably involving a teenaged son, and mention of a family outing to St. Catherine Lake. Judith read the third and final paragraph aloud:

“‘Honest to God, Riley, I don't know what to say about that painting you sent me for my birthday. What are you trying to do these days? You always say you want me to be candid, and usually that's not hard. Your work—in general—has been brilliant. But this thing looks like you tap-danced on it. With clogs. Go back to your old stuff, kid. I'm putting this one in the garage. Peace—Yancey.'”

Renie's impatience had flown. “Wow! He took the words right out of my mouth. You think that's Riley's brother?”

Judith nodded, stood up, and put the letter in her pocket. “It must be. The name on the envelope is Tobias, and who else but a brother would be so blunt?”

Renie grinned. “A cousin?”

Judith grinned back. “Good point. However, we'll assume that brotherly love didn't extend to Riley's new style.”

“Riley's a generous guy,” Renie mused. “He sends Yancey a painting for his birthday; he gives one away to you.” Her brown eyes swept around the studio. “What's here? A dozen canvases? Not a huge inventory. There might be more in the house, though.”

Judith agreed. The cousins also agreed to abandon the ladder, as well as their plans for the gutters. After taking the water back to the cabin, they struck out for the Woodchuck Auto Court. Crossing the highway, Judith and Renie simultaneously saw that the white Mercedes was still parked at the auto court.

“So Dewitt Dixon didn't leave after all,” Judith remarked as they reached the tarmac.

Kennedy Morton came out of the office, followed by two redheaded children somewhat older than the trio the cousins had seen the previous day. This time, Judith could
distinguish between the sexes, mainly because the girl had a huge yellow satin ribbon in her hair and the boy was naked.

“Thor!” Kennedy Morton made a pass at swatting his son's bare behind. “You get in there and put some clothes on! Just because you got a day off from school don't mean you can lollygag around here in your birthday suit!”

Thor galloped off toward the house. His sister seemed unmoved by the incident, standing pigeon-toed and staring at the cousins. The children's father wiped his dirty hands off on a greasy rag.

“Dang these kids—if they ain't squabblin', they're pesterin' the livestock. Want to buy a chicken? The Little Woman can wring a neck for you in less time than it takes to say cock-a-doodle-doo.”

“No, thanks,” Judith replied, feeling a little dazed. “We came over to use your pay phone. And to call on Mr. Dixon.” Seeing Morton's blank expression, she gestured at the white Mercedes. “That's his car. He spent the night here.”

“Oh, him.” Kennedy Morton grimaced. “Fancy fella, puttin' on airs. Why can't people be real?” He started for the second cabin, while his daughter scuffed at the gravel and wandered off. “You go use the phone. I'll fetch Mr. Dixon,” Morton called to the cousins over his shoulder.

After the initial wrestling with the antiquated telephone, Judith finally reached the sheriff's office. Her explanation about the ladder and the broken window was taken by a woman with a monotone voice who sounded bored to tears. The second call, to Directory Assistance, yielded Iris Takisaki's number in the city. Judith dialed, but got no answer.

“Maybe she's making funeral arrangements,” Renie suggested after Judith had gotten out of the booth.

Kennedy Morton returned alone. He waved the greasy rag at Judith and chuckled in an apologetic manner. “Sorry, I forgot Mr. Dixon was going up the road to have breakfast at the Green Mountain Inn. He walked.”

So did the cousins, covering the distance in just over five minutes. The Green Mountain Inn was of the same vintage as the Woodchuck Auto Court, but it had been built with more imagination and a bigger budget. The faux thatched roof was an Irish green. The second story, which housed the guest rooms, was gabled with dormer windows and shutters that matched the roof. The stucco exterior was whitewashed at least every other year. A quaint sign printed in Olde English style stood at the edge of the road. Half of the first floor was a grocery; the other half, a restaurant.

Judith and Renie had known the original owners quite well. But the business had changed hands twice since the early sixties. The cousins were only nodding acquaintances with Dee and Gary Johanson, who had owned the property since 1989.

Dee was working in the restaurant as both hostess and waitress. A rangy woman in her late thirties, she wore her blond hair in a Dutch bob and disdained cosmetics.

“Two for breakfast? Or lunch?”

It was not quite ten-thirty; the cousins had eaten only a little more than an hour ago. “Coffee,” said Judith.

“With pie,” put in Renie.

Dee led them to a place by the window. Flowered oilskin covered the tables, providing a cheery note. Otherwise, the decor was kept to a minimum—a copper warming pan on one wall, a mounted rainbow trout on another, and a montage of old photographs depicting loggers, miners, and railroad men from the early part of the century. An impressive rack of antlers loomed over the entrance to the bar.

It being midmorning in the off-season, the restaurant was virtually deserted. Except, Judith noted with satisfaction, for the two men who sat at a table across the room: Dewitt Dixon and Clive Silvanus were deep in conversation.

Dee Johanson proffered menus, but Judith held up a hand. “Just coffee for me. Really.”

Renie ordered coffee and blackberry pie with whipped cream. Dee started to move away, then turned back. “You look familiar. Are you up from Glacier Falls?”

Judith and Renie identified themselves. Dee visibly relaxed. She had the common Pacific Northwestern rural suspicion of people who didn't belong. Judith and Renie did—however tenuously.

Dee's eyes widened and she lowered her voice. “You knew Riley? Are you the ones who were with Iris when she found the body? Isn't it awful? Did you want to pass out?” Without waiting for affirmation, she leaned closer, gesturing with the menu pinned under her arm. “See those two men over there? They knew Riley, too. They've been sitting at that table for over an hour, talking like a couple of spies.”

Judith also spoke softly. “The one with the mustache is Riley's agent. The other one bought a painting from Riley.” A sudden thought struck Judith. “Is the Southerner staying here?”

Dee Johanson nodded. “He checked in yesterday around two. He went out, came back, went out again—and didn't get in until going on midnight. I suppose he was busy with the murder. You know—answering questions and helping the sheriff.”

Neither Judith nor Renie said anything to correct Dee's assumption. It appeared to Judith that Clive Silvanus hadn't yet talked to Costello. If the lawman had called on Clive at the Green Mountain Inn, Dee would have mentioned it. But Dewitt Dixon might have stayed on at Riley's house and been interrogated on the spot. Judith wondered if the two men would notice her and Renie.