1 Portrait of a Gossip

by Melanie Jackson

  “Miss Juliet.” The voice was quiet, his manner unusually subdued. Mickey was a morning person.

  “Good morning. It is a little sultry though.”

  “This is a bad business,” he said abruptly, taking a seat on a nearby bench. “I can see that you are troubled too.”

  Juliet wondered if she should have put on some makeup.

  “It is indeed troubling.”

  “I have been thinking, trying to reason…. It has to be one of us who killed him, hasn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so. We were cut off by the storm so it doesn’t seem possible that it could be an outside agent.”

  “And you are not a Levite.”

  It took Juliet a moment to place the reference.

  “No. I can’t just walk by on the other side of the road and pretend not to see. Especially not since I found him.”

  Mickey nodded.

  “He was a bad man, did you know? He tested my resolution to turn the other cheek.”

  Juliet hadn’t expected anyone to just come out with anything so direct.

  “Was he spying on you?”

  “Spying?” Mickey looked surprised. “Not exactly. But he did find out about something I did a long time ago. It was during the Vietnam War. I evaded the draft. And I am not sorry for it either. I have family in Canada and my being at the dairy farm helped my aunt and uncle stay there until Uncle Robert died.”

  Juliet, who had mixed feelings about being the recipient of this confidence, said, “Was he asking for money to keep quiet about this?”

  “No. What he wanted was a lookout, an extra pair of eyes.”

  “What for?”

  Mickey shrugged.

  “He was a bad man and probably knew he had enemies, the kind who would find him no matter where he hid. I said I would watch for strangers on the condition that he stopped playing stupid tricks on Rose. She has stored up enough nightmares from her old life. She does not need anyone else playing on her nerves. It was also not right of him to kill that snake and leave it on her bed. Snakes are good creatures who eat rodents.”

  Juliet digested this. She wasn’t fond of snakes but wouldn’t kill one to use as a prop in a joke.

  “Have you told Sheriff Garret about any of this?”

  He shook his head.

  “I plan to do it this morning. Will he…?” His voice trailed off.

  “I don’t think he’ll care about your long ago activities. Or inactivities. Garret is … not your typical law enforcement person. In any event, it would be better to tell him than have it come out during the investigation. And he needs to know that Harvey expected trouble.” It could explain the mike. Maybe he wasn’t spying for the sake of nosiness, but instead actually looking for an enemy.

  Mickey nodded and stared at his knotted hands.

  “I know this. I am off to town now. Can I bring you anything?”

  “Yes—if you have time,” Juliet added. “I need some cans of cat food and some kitty litter—the kind you can dump out. It’s made of sawdust or something. And a pet brush, if the market has one.”

  Juliet unzipped the wristband where she kept a lip gloss and a twenty dollar bill. She handed the money to him.

  “Let me know if this isn’t enough.”

  “You have inherited Marley?”

  “Yes—at least Marley has moved house. I don’t think there is any question of ownership. He pretty much does as he pleases.”

  Mickey finally smiled.

  “That cat was the only thing good about Harvey Allen.”

  Thinking of the checks on his wall and how he had gotten them, Juliet could only agree.

  “If I’m not here when you get back, just leave the stuff in the community room and save yourself a walk up the hill.”

  Mickey shook his head at her and Juliet knew he would toil up the hill if it killed him. She therefore resolved to spend the day painting where she could see the compound gate and intercept him before he made the effort.

  Mickey waved goodbye and Juliet smiled back. He might have had a motive for killing Harvey—and heaven knows religious people had killed before—but she just didn’t see him in the role of murderer.

  Rose Campion didn’t seem a likely killer either, but people had snapped before, and if anyone was living on the edge of snapping, it was poor Rose.

  Juliet turned and looked up the hill. The sun was getting higher. Maybe it was time to switch locations.

  Chapter 7

  Before Juliet could gather up her supplies and get settled in her chosen location on the second tier where there was a plausible clump of poppies that she might want to paint, Robbie Sykes came to tell her that the garage had called and her car was ready. She had just missed Mickey Shaw pulling out of the lot, but Robbie said he needed to go into town and could drop her at the dealership where they had towed her filthy car after getting it out of the mud.

  Juliet asked him to wait while she got her purse and toiled back up the hill as speedily as her knees would allow. The effort was not as tiring as the day before, but she was perspiring more because of the building humidity. She quickly wrapped her watercolor and slipped it into a mailer.

  Marley looked up from his nest in her pillow.

  Juliet pointed a finger at him.

  “We are going to talk about this when I get back.”

  Marley dropped his head and started to snore.

  “Have you heard if another storm is coming?” Juliet asked Robbie after she slammed the old pickup’s door. The one on the passenger side was yellow. The driver-side door was white. The truck smelled of cigarettes, though Robbie was good about emptying the ashtray and not smoking around others.

  “Yep, this evening—with light and music too. If you want some advice….” The leathery face grinned at her.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t make that mistake again,” Juliet muttered, wondering how Marley would react to the storm. She hoped he wasn’t afraid of lightning. Two sleepless nights would be more than she could stand. Did they make kitty tranquilizers? Maybe Darby would have something if he was too frantic.

  “A bad business, Harvey Allen getting killed like that,” Robbie said suddenly. “And just when I’ve gotten word to start repairs on the old cottage and we’ve had half a dozen mudslides by the east fence that need clearing off.”

  “True enough, though I don’t think there is much mourning going on around here for the late Mr. Allen. Has anyone even suggested a memorial?” she asked.

  Robbie snorted. Juliet felt in a vague sort of way that people who were near death should be solemn, respectful, perhaps horrified, but so far she hadn’t encountered any respect or horror for Harvey Allen’s killing. And only Mickey had been solemn, a fact for which he got little credit because it was due to his having to talk to the sheriff, and not respect for death in their midst.

  “Nor is anyone likely to.” Robbie glanced sideways at her. This time he wasn’t smiling. “The sheriff seems to think it was one of us who killed him. He’s been asking everyone to account for their movements from about three to six.”

  Dr. Hyder’s estimated time of death.

  “I am afraid he may be right about that.”

  “Well, I’m glad I’ve got an alibi because it is no secret that I hated the bastard. He was always calling Mr. Biggers and complaining that I wasn’t doing things right. Like I can control cellphone reception or when his Internet went down.”

  Mr. Biggers owned the compound and a few of the properties in White Oaks. Juliet had never met him.

  “Have you an alibi? I haven’t.”

  “Yes, I was helping Mister James install some track lighting. We were at it all afternoon. He’s not real friendly, but at least he never complains and is willing to pay for what he wants.” Robbie’s head swiveled her way again, but only briefly. The road was very narrow. “You don’t think the sheriff really suspects you, do you, Miss Juliet? You haven’t been here long enough to work up a real good grudge against the snoop. And—well, you’re ju
st too much of a nice lady to kill anyone.”

  “Thank you. But it is the sheriff’s job to suspect everyone until they produce an airtight alibi. I think he is looking for someone younger and stronger though. Someone—or a couple someones—who could move a body.”

  “I guess that lets out a few people,” Robbie muttered, making a mental review of the residents.

  About half the tenants, Juliet reckoned.

  White Oaks was a town that had, like Blanche Dubois, always relied on the kindness of strangers—usually tourists looking for art and a weekend away from the Bay Area or Los Angeles smog. It was therefore deliberately very charming and unintentionally offbeat, a toy village of human-size doll houses. The charm wasn’t a complete facade since a lot of very decent, happy and bohemian people lived there, but like a pretty woman slowly growing old and gaunt, she was ready to make the most of her remaining assets and was not above using cosmetic aids and trying to look younger than she was.

  The one auto dealership (also used car lot and repair shop) was at the edge of town and shared an office wall and a Judas tree with the sheriff’s station next door. The original town had been made mostly of brick because of fear of fire, but earthquakes had done so much damage that when the west three acres were purchased in the 50s for a theme park—a sort of year-round Christmas village—it was rebuilt in wood with the construction being an odd mix of the crude and rather masculine frontier forts on the east side and the steep-roofed Swiss chalets in the west, an architectural version of yin and yang.

  The dealership was at the west end and the lot was fenced on three sides with an upright log fence that might have been lifted from Fort Apache. The front was white pickets covered in a rambling rose. Several of the exotic chickens that roamed town were scratching in the dirt around the fence.

  Behind it rose the mountains, dark green and shadowy.

  That is what they meant by mountain majesty, Juliet thought, feeling suddenly very glad to be away from the dull pavement, monotonous freeways, and the government housing complex where she had lived for the last two decades. The place had been functional but ugly, without vegetation or personality. The buildings looked less like apartments than gray blisters rising out of scabby asphalt flesh. She preferred her skyline crowned with trees to smoggy horizons blocked by ugly buildings. She even liked the odd town with its pastel walls and shingle roofs where doves nested.

  Taking a last breath of clean air, Juliet turned from the mountain and went to retrieve her car.

  “Hello, Mr. Brenner. What’s the bad news?” Juliet asked as she stepped into the log cabin that was barely larger than a child’s playhouse. The owner was not her favorite person. He had a less than appealing personality that delighted in the misfortunes of others. This somehow matched the peering eyes, sloping shoulders, and potbelly. In his black shirt he looked like a spider that was missing some legs. That was how she would paint him, a spider hiding in his hole.

  “Hello, Miss Juliet. Heard you’ve had some trouble up at the Wood.”

  “Yes, a sad business,” she said repressively.

  “I guess it’s no surprise that someone punched Harvey Allen’s ticket. I’ve never met such a snoop. It was criminal the way he’d gossip.” Mark Brenner peered at her over his smudged bifocals and waited for her to answer.

  Juliet didn’t say anything childish like how it takes one to know one, but the thought did more than fleet through her mind. The difference was Mr. Brenner had kept his amateur status.

  “Criminal,” Juliet agreed because it was absolutely true. “And speaking of crimes—what will it cost me to get my car back?”

  “Well, let’s just see…. Clark just found a little more mud in the trunk and had to get out the power washer. He’ll have it out in about ten minutes. Add that on to the total and.…”

  Three hundred dollars to get her car cleaned. Juliet sighed and stuffed the receipt in her purse. It was a good thing she had a pension and other investments because three hundred dollars was a lot of t-shirts and greeting cards.

  Staying under the awning, she walked up the street toward the post office, admiring the window boxes and clay pots bursting with flowers that stood outside almost every business. Many shops also had colorful wares that spilled out to the walkway in crates and racks now that the warm weather had arrived.

  A Great Dane hung his head over a low hedge, watching the pedestrians with bright eyes. He looked friendly from his black grin to the brown wag, but Juliet decided not to introduce herself without references. Marley had showed her that there was a lot she didn’t know about animals. Maybe she would speak to him on the way back if she had a treat to offer.

  Creamy white yarrow grew outside the sheriff’s office and made that part of the sidewalk smell of honey and gave her a nice excuse for her to pause and admire. Through the window Juliet could see Mickey talking to Sheriff Garret. Both men looked at ease but focused so she decided not to intrude. Instead she sauntered up the wooden walk to the new gallery whose opening had been rained out. It was not so creatively named White Oaks Emporium.

  No one had mentioned to the new owner that traditional chalets with shutters almost never had bay windows with stained glass and somehow it had slipped by the planning department when the drawings were submitted. Or perhaps they simply felt that there was no atrocity greater than the old red toy shop that looked like an elongated cuckoo clock, so why balk at colorful bay windows? After all, the name had changed, the décor was only as different as a coat of paint could make it.

  The interior was dark after the bright of full sun, but it was not difficult to spot Raphael James’ paintings, especially not with the great man himself sitting before them, haloed with light. He might have been in a wheelchair but he gave the impression of being at least eight feet tall.

  “Miss Juliet,” Raphael said, turning his chair to face her. His hands were strong.

  “Raphael.” She made herself smile at the man whose friends and enemies alike agreed was brilliant but rather unfriendly. Most thought that was because he was a genius. Juliet wasn’t so sure. She didn’t think it had anything to do with his accident either. He neither expected nor wanted pity. “I felt bad about missing the opening and wanted to come see your paintings before they are snapped up.”

  He nodded, accepting this as his due, and waved a hand at the wall behind him. But something else caught Juliet’s eye and she turned swiftly to face a display out of a nightmare. On the opposite side of the room were half- to full-size marionettes hanging from the ceiling by rusted chains. These were puppets, but string puppets as she had never seen them. Most Dia de los Muertos marionettes were crude papier-mâché, but these looked.…

  “He carves them out of goat and sheep bone,” Raphael said. “The teeth are from an ass. Disconcerting, aren’t they?”

  Juliet stepped closer. As disturbing as the naked skeletons were, the ones dressed up in Victorian grave goods were worse. Especially horrible—or wonderful—was the baby in a christening gown sitting up in an old wicker baby carriage.

  “I don’t know if I’m appalled or fascinated. Both, I think,” Juliet whispered.

  “Gracias,” said a soft, flat voice. The man who stepped out of the back room had weathered skin and eyes like a blast furnace, and looking at him made Juliet think of the unforgiving summers in Death Valley where her family had sometimes vacationed. “Art should provoke a strong reaction.”

  “This is our new neighbor, Esteban Rodriguez,” Raphael went on politely. For him, this was downright talkative and Juliet wondered why he was condescending to speak to the peons. “Esteban, this is Juliet Henry who does lovely botanical illustrations.”

  Juliet thought it very nice of Raphael to throw in an adjective to describe her work and leave out mention of t-shirts. She might have expressed gratitude for the compliment but she was more interested in the fact that they were getting a new resident.

  “How do you do?” she asked conventionally, making an effort to meet his gaze. I
t was more difficult than she anticipated. This man had the cold eyes of some of the professionals at the NSA, and by professionals she did not mean the men who worked in the think tank.

  “A pleasure.” The voice was low but rough and Juliet wasn’t sure the tone matched the expressed sentiment. He did not offer to shake hands, which was something of a relief because she didn’t want to touch him.

  “This is a pleasant surprise. Which bungalow will you be in? Surely not Harvey Allen’s?” she added, glancing over at Raphael.

  “The man wasn’t liked but that would be indecently hasty.” Raphael’s voice was flat.

  “And I don’t think the police are done with it yet,” Juliet added practically.

  “I am next door to the dead man. Repairs are yet to be made on that cottage. I shall not join you for another week.”

  That was what Robbie Sykes had been talking about.

  “But you’ve been up to visit the compound?” she asked, wondering why Robbie hadn’t said anything about getting a new resident. It was also odd that there was no gossip in the wind. In such a small community everyone tended to know everyone else’s business. A new artist coming into the midst was news.

  “Only briefly. My arrangements to stay were made with the owner.” Just as Harvey’s had been. Juliet began to feel curious about Mr. Biggers and his choice of tenants. “I dropped in to see the accommodations one afternoon but the caretaker was out. The weather was quite bad and I did not linger once I saw the condition of the road.”

  “I saw the light,” Juliet said. “On the hill. It’s just above my cottage. I should have realized someone was there when I saw more than one porch light that afternoon.”

  Juliet became aware of Raphael’s scrutiny.

  “I think, Miss Juliet, that your real gift lies in observation.”

  Actually, it was observation coupled with the ability to recognize patterns. A tenacious memory also helped.

  “Force of habit,” she said lightly, wondering if she had been insulted, or complimented.