1 Portrait of a Gossip (11 page)

“I meant about being tired and going to bed?”

“No, I meant that too. As soon as we finish our tea I am
throwing you out and getting some sleep.”

“Fair enough,” he said, but she thought she heard him sigh.

*
 
*
 
*

On the west side of the mountain giant boulders dammed some
pockets of soil where plants grew, but the mountain became balder the higher
you climbed and rocks became larger and less negotiable in sneakers. They had
once been sharp
upthrusts
. Broken into red blades by
great earthquakes, but they had been fretted to blunt lumps by millennium of
wind and rain. There was beauty there, but it was
sere
and there was less of it every day as summer bore down on them and the plants
set seed and then died.

Though she still wanted to talk to her neighbors, Juliet had
some work that needed completing. It was a bother to set up the silk-screens
for making t-shirts, so she wanted all her images chosen before she made the
effort. But she would need to start soon. Memorial Day was only three weeks
away.

Juliet decided to leave the compound and head toward town
where the occasional fog made everything moister and greener. She eventually found
a shady cloister by the creek where one of the rare native lady’s slippers
bloomed. The banks were overgrown with
brambles, which was
part of the charm, and what sun leaked through the trees threw nets of gold
into the rippling water. The smell of the forest was strong. It always was
after a hard rain.

The colors were muted out of the sunlight though, and they
would need to be goosed if she decided to put this on a t-shirt. It was a
lovely tableau in every other way, the green fern and water drops still
clinging to the flower petals. Maybe it was a little static, and a little plain
without some shadows to add depth and interest, but it would do well enough
with some embellishment which could be added later.

She sat for a while on a slab of stone, performing the
difficult exercise of not thinking and instead just listening to the small
sounds of the forest and stream. Everyone talked about the woods being silent,
but actually the forest never was. It simply didn’t have the human sounds that
people think of as
noise
.

Feeling more peaceful, she set her easel up carefully on the
uneven ground and began to sketch. She had blocked in the stem and one blossom when
the other flower shook violently and out shot a bumble bee, legs heavy with
pollen, fat body listing to the left as it chugged away. Juliet chuckled. That
was what was needed to add a touch of whimsy to her painting—a bumble bee.

Her seat was fairly close to the road so she was not
surprised when Sheriff Garret spotted her easel and stopped to talk to her.

“Juliet,” he said. “Henderson said you called last night.”

“Sheriff.
Off to look at Harvey’s
bungalow? I’m afraid there isn’t much left of the ash on the desk and by now
the smell is long gone.”

“Have to look anyway. For what good it will do.” She nodded.
“So, did you notice anything else last night?
Any patterns?
Any break in patterns? Any damn clue about who it was screwing around with my
crime scene?”

Juliet repeated what she knew of her neighbors’ tobacco
habits. Garret nodded and took notes though it wasn’t much to go on. He had to
be as frustrated as she was, knowing someone was a killer, a murderer who
walked among them but without telltale blemish—no horns, no hooves, perhaps
even fair of face or voice.

Who could it be? Physically, she had to rule out Raphael,
Elizabeth, and Rose—probably. Emotionally she wanted to rule out Darby, Mickey,
Hans—everyone. But anyone could, at least in theory, have an accomplice who was
physically and mentally more ruthless. This was a possibility that she didn’t
want to think about. Accomplices could alibi one another and they might never
find the killer.

“You’re a million miles away,” Garret said.

“Just thinking.
It wasn’t marijuana
and I don’t think it was a pipe or cigar, but I couldn’t swear to the last two
things. Sorry.”

Garret grunted and then pretended to admire the creek. Or
maybe he did admire it, but he was also debating whether to share something
with her.

“I thought you might want to know about that Esteban
Rodriguez. He checks out.”

“Is he really a retired private investigator?” she asked.

“Yes.” Garret stared at her and then shook his head in
admiration and annoyance. “Is there anything you want to tell me about him in
return since your sources seem to be as
good and
maybe
better than mine?”

“Nothing like the horse’s mouth for details,” Juliet agreed.
“As long as it isn’t lying, of course.
Esteban says
that he and Raphael and Mr.
Biggers
all served
together. I am assuming he meant in the armed services and not some sentence in
a penitentiary.” Juliet began to add the bumble bee to her drawing. Maybe it
looked a little cartoonish—perhaps too large to be true to scale—but it would
make for a great children’s shirt. She should have thought of kid’s clothes
before.

“He is a veteran,” Garret admitted. “But he also worked
border patrol. Retired after he was shot a second time. I guess he was smart
enough to take a hint and get out before it came to a feet-first exit, which is
more than some guys manage.”

Juliet looked at Garret and then nodded.

“That feels right. He seems….” She thought about it. “He
doesn’t seem like regular law enforcement, not a rules and regulations person,
but he is someone working on the side of order.”

She didn’t mention the gun.

“He doesn’t give you the creeps?” Garret asked. “He’s seems
snake mean to me.”

“He probably is,” Juliet agreed, remembering the feel of his
hand on her mouth and how easily he’d manhandled her.
“At
least in the wrong situation.
He doesn’t give me the creeps exactly, but
I want to know what kind of dreams he has to make those damn puppets. Now those
give me the creeps. And I think anyone who buys them has lizards in the brain.”

The sheriff nodded.

“So, after a visit with Rodriguez, you came out to paint
flowers?” Garret was staring and Juliet had the feeling he was trying to puzzle
her out. She looked away, watching the road as a red convertible negotiated a
tight turn. She didn’t feel like explaining that their conversation had taken
place late the night before over a friendly cup of tea. That might give him the
wrong—or right—impression.

“Yes, and for a change of view. Things were feeling a bit claustrophobic
up there. I think it has begun to dawn on people that there is a killer among
them and it isn’t good for morale. Hopefully I’ll be able to look at things
with fresh eyes after a break. Right now, I don’t feel like I’m getting
anywhere.”

“There are all kinds of interesting things in the compound
though,” Garret said, rolling up his sleeves. Heat was beginning to build in
the air. “And it might be safer in there with other people. Even with a killer
around.”

“True, but I don’t think I’d risk putting the really
interesting things on canvas and I need more images for my shirts.”

At the crack of laughter, Juliet looked over her companion
who almost never laughed and whose tone was nearly always one of
underemphasis
. She realized then that in her discomfort
with his gaze that she had been staring at Carrie Simmons who was driving by in
her red convertible, wearing a caftan of brightest orange with an enormous
purple hat. Riding beside her with an arm over the seat and almost around her
shoulders was a laughing Jake Holmes. Maybe he was catching a ride with her
because his ankle was too sore to drive.
But maybe not.

“I see what you mean.”

“Have a heart! I didn’t mean Carrie. I’m not that catty.
Out loud.”
Though she was catty enough to wonder about that
arm and why they were laughing.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. You should be safe enough as
long as you’re alone. Just keep an eye out. If you’ve been discreet there is no
reason why the killer would be interested in you, but I am a great believer in
that whole ounce of prevention thing.”

“Me too.”
Though she hadn’t really
been all that discreet with some of her neighbors, had she? “You can check up
on me when you leave. You’re off to the Wood now?”

“Yeah.
I want a word with Mickey
Shaw too, and then I’d better speak to Raphael James before I leave.”

“Okay. But it’s yoga day,” she warned.

“Uh-huh. What does that mean exactly?”

“It means Mickey is doing yoga.”

“And he’ll be bothered if I interrupt?” Garret guessed.

“No. Mickey won’t be bothered, but you might.”

“Why?” Garret began to sound wary and Juliet chuckled.

“Because Mickey does yoga in the nude.”

“Good God.”

“It was a little disconcerting the first time I saw him. It
was my second day in the Wood and it had me really wondering about what I had
gotten myself into. Believe
me,
you don’t want to be
standing behind him when he does sun salutations.”

“No kidding. When will he be done?”

“Give him to eleven and you should be safe.”

Garret looked at his watch.

“I think I’ll go see Raphael first.” He paused. “I don’t
suppose you’d be ready for a lunch break around eleven forty-five?”

“All things are possible with faith.”

“Then I’ll hope to see you then.
Uh—your
place or mine?”

Juliet looked down at her paint-stained jeans. Was this a
date, or a chance to compare notes after he’d talked to witnesses? Did it
matter?

“I guess it had better be mine. I’m afraid it’s tuna again,
but I got some fresh rolls at the bakery.”

“Sounds good.”

Juliet waved the sheriff goodbye and then finished her
drawing. She glanced at the watch she kept buckled to her easel and decided she
could paint better back at the studio where the light was superior. That would
give her more time to clean up for lunch. It also seemed like a good time to
stop by the
Holmeses
’ bungalow and see how Jillian
was feeling. Maybe she was under the weather or suffering from seasonal allergies.
But maybe it wasn’t a virus bugging her
so
much as a
female fungus in a purple hat that had attached itself to her husband.

Could that be what made Jake Holmes so angry at Harvey? Had
Harvey intimated to Jillian that Jake was having an affair? Husbands really
didn’t like getting caught. They hated that about as much as wives disliked
having someone tell them about their spouse’s affairs.

Juliet decided that climbing up and down mountains with an
easel was a pain, but it was doing wonders for her gluteus
maximi
and hamstrings.

The door to the
Holmeses
’ bungalow
was open. Juliet leaned her easel against the wall and called, “Jillian! Are
you working? It’s Juliet Henry. Can I come in?”

There was no answer. Fearing she might be interrupting a
writer’s trance, Juliet stuck her head in the door and looked around tentatively.
The bungalow was deserted.

A few things were evident without ever crossing the
threshold. Jillian Holmes was not a housekeeper. In fact it was worse than
that. The cottage was filthy, muddy footprints on the floor, trash and wine
bottles overflowing the small can by the sink, dust and pollen on everything
else, including the studio windows which let in the light so needed by artists
and, one assumed, illustrators.

She could smell the disintegrating leather of an old easy chair
even above the stale cigarettes and sour wine which had stained the sink’s
surround.

The place looked—felt—abandoned. The flies were dead. Even
the cobwebs were dirty, the spiders moved on to cleaner places. Most striking
of all was the empty birdcage beside the door with its few forlorn yellow
feathers at the bottom. Of course, the canary might have died of old age, but
Juliet had the uneasy feeling that someone had, in a moment of drunken grief or
rage, decided to “set it free.”

A domestic bird wouldn’t stand a chance among the cats and
hawks and ravens.

Juliet took a step inside and looked at the desk. Even the
computer was dusty, though less so than the rest of the cottage. Juliet judged
that there was about a week’s worth of grime there. Something had upset the
couple’s schedule last weekend and nothing had been done since.

There were a number of personal items among the rental
furnishing that came with every cottage, but they too looked neglected. The
flowers by the sink were dead, the paint tray was coated with lint, and the
brushes weren’t cleaned. There was a photograph by the vase. The picture was of
a younger Jillian with a man who looked so much like her that he had to be her
brother—maybe even a twin. It was smudged with dirty prints and the glass in
one corner was cracked.

Juliet knew many eccentrics, nerds and artists both, and
many were slovenly and even alcoholic and lived in places she wouldn’t send a
flea, but this cottage felt … emotionally empty.
Unloved.
Whatever their physical location, the
Holmeses
had
given up on the space where they lived. It was no longer a home.

Was this the result of Jake having an affair? Was their
marriage coming apart?

Shaking her head, Juliet retreated into the fresh air and gathered
her easel.

“Miss Juliet!” a voice called from below.

Surprised, Juliet went to the trailhead and looked down at
Raphael James.