“Yet you do not gossip with your neighbors.”
“That is also force of habit. Our world is a small one and what goes around comes around.”
“I have never been fond of gossips either,” Raphael said. “Rumor sticks to its victims worse than gum on a cat. Even when it isn’t true.”
“Especially if it isn’t true, since those are usually the most egregious stories,” Juliet said softly. “And it can hurt worse than tar and feathers. I am careful about what I say.”
Though a part of her subscribed to the idea that one should name the devil and shame him when evil had been done.
“Give a dog a bad name and hang him. That is the saying, yes?” Esteban said. The two men were like scary bookends, alike in their disapproval.
“Yes,” Juliet agreed shortly, having had enough of conversation and great art and artists for one afternoon.
“So you found Harvey Allen an abomination?” Raphael asked. It was a question that felt like a demand for an answer.
“I didn’t before, since I barely knew him, but I rather do now.” Juliet turned away. “I need to be going. I’m here to pick up my car. It was a casualty of the last storm. You were wise to get out while you could, Mr. Rodriguez. The road was impassable by five.”
She also wanted to drop in on the sheriff and mention that there had been a stranger in the compound the day of the murder. Juliet had to remind herself that this wasn’t gossip, but rather aiding a murder investigation. She wouldn’t say anything about the two men making her jumpy. After all there had been a killing. The nervous system of their little community was bound to be twitchy.
* * *
Lured by the smell of fresh bread when she stepped out of the post office, Juliet stopped in at the bakery for some rolls, joining the confusion of students there on their lunch hour. It was only a dozen bodies, but twelve teens could feel like a hundred when they were hungry and willing to skirmish for cupcakes.
For a few minutes, the murder slipped her mind.
Armed with wheat rolls and the last lemon cupcake, Juliet pushed her way back outside. The pale blue walls of the bakery were held up by honeysuckle not yet in bloom. A skinny young man stood to the left of the door, impersonating a stork and swallowing pastries seemingly without chewing.
Juliet decided she would eat her cupcake in private. She crossed to the shady side of the square where the pet boutique was located. Most of the town’s buildings were clustered around a large, ill-kempt parking lot which had surrendered several unneeded spaces to café tables with umbrellas. The most incongruous resident on the plaza was the church—actually several churches since they shared the space—which had used to be a stable for Santa’s reindeer. The name plaques had been removed from above the eight unusually wide half-doors and the building painted white, but the general shape and low ceiling betrayed its origins. Juliet had yet to attend services there but thought she might one day just to see the interior. The other impressive building had been Santa’s workshop but was now a small theater. Painted in some kind of iridescent white paint, it was often rented out for weddings.
Mickey came into the pet boutique just as Juliet was paying for her purchases.
“Miss Juliet?” he asked in surprise.
“Hello, Mickey. Mr. Brenner called and said the car was ready. I saw you were still talking with the sheriff and decided I would come look at toys for Marley. Do you know Lucy Pollack?”
Mickey nodded politely at the plump woman in a red cardigan who was a perfect smiling match for Mrs. Claus.
“Mrs. Pollack has been explaining about cat foods and I have decided to try Marley on this one.”
Juliet held up a can. It had a picture of a Thanksgiving feast on the label. She added, “Did you know that sometimes pet foods can be contaminated and animals have died? This company has never had a problem though.”
“Well then, I guess that’s a good choice. You got the other things you need?” Mickey fished in his pocket and handed her a crumpled twenty.
“I hope so.”
“Er—I think those biscuits you’re looking at are for dogs.” He pointed at the cookie she was holding.
“Mrs. Pollack says the Great Dane who lives by the dealership is called Erik and he likes these liver biscuits. I thought I might bring him one to get on good terms. My mother always said that you never go visiting empty-handed.”
“That’s nice of you.” Mickey was beginning to grin. She supposed she was acting a little strange.
Truthfully, Juliet was feeling a little overwhelmed with responsibility. She had never had a pet as a child. Once she had brought home a stray dog, a terrier missing an ear but very affectionate and only a little muddy. Her father, Randall, had seemed willing enough to house the mutt, but his wife had been horrified at the mongrel.
The dog, Elmo, had stayed with her for the weekend, a constant companion and fast friend, but she had come home on Monday and been told by her stepmother that he had “run away” while she was at school. Juliet had only been eight, but she knew that “run away” was a euphemism for being taken to the pound. Never fond of her father’s second wife, this had driven a wedge between them that neither could overcome. That her father had been complicit in this act occurred to her, but he was the weaker personality and she knew that getting rid of the dog had been his wife’s idea. She never forgave Gwen.
Juliet swallowed and fiercely rejected the misery this memory had conjured. She had refused to give in to grief then when she had cause. Certainly she would not grieve now.
Picking up her bags before Mickey could volunteer to carry things, Juliet headed for the door which she allowed him to open for her.
“How did it go with the sheriff?” Juliet asked Mickey as he came up beside her, her mind again on present matters. The sheriff hadn’t said anything about Mickey’s visit when she stopped in. He had been busy reaching for the phone as soon as she gave him Esteban’s name. The sheriff had also nodded when she mentioned the connection of both men with Mr. Biggers.
Garret also hadn’t told her to butt out and let him handle things. That was convenient because she had no intention of sticking her head in the sand while the sheriff worked around the periphery. As Robbie had said, too many people had hated Harvey Allen and had too many motives for wanting him dead. The only way this was going to get solved was by someone on the inside noticing small shifts of patterns.
“I think everything is fine,” Mickey answered. “I don’t envy the man though. Seems everyone from Los Angeles up and San Francisco down hated the creature. There are just too many suspects.”
He echoed her own thoughts.
“So it seems. But it is often that way with people who go out of their way to collect bad karma. We just need to see that the sheriff gets all the help he needs from us and hope he finds the killer soon.”
“Yes,” Mickey agreed heavily. “Though I’m thinking whoever killed Harvey had a good reason for it.”
“Yes.” Though this was not a very Christian sentiment for a religious man to express. Harvey Allen had indeed offended Mickey in some fundamental way.
“I’ll see you soon.” He patted her on the shoulder and turned away.
“Okay. Bye.”
Undoubtedly the killer had a reason for acting. And maybe no one would ever give them a good reason to kill again and all would be well from that day forward.
On the other hand, maybe there would be others who annoyed or frightened the killer. Maybe someone else would learn their secret and the killer would murder again to keep it. They needed to find out who killed the gossip and let a jury sort out if it was justified.
“I’m not usually a fan of the ‘he just needed killing’ defense,” Juliet muttered to the Great Dane after she watched Mickey pull away in his truck. Erik was enthused about the cookie and quite ready to be friends. Juliet was obliged to wipe her hand on her paint rag to rid it of slobber. “There are too many people that it would apply to, don’t you think?”
&nbs
p; Erik panted agreement.
“I need to go. It’s going to rain this afternoon,” she said and ventured to pet the dog on the head. Erik seemed to like that as much as his cookie. “I’ll see you the next time I’m in town. I may not have a cookie though. I hope that’s okay.”
Chapter 8
Juliet found herself humming as she drove home, part of Harrison Peters’ opera that she had overheard him rehearsing on electric piano. The urge for song left her as soon as the fort wall appeared. Once the wall had been the demarcation line between the potentially dangerous outside and the safe inside. It wasn’t true any longer. Chances were good that the greatest danger to her peace and happiness was waiting inside the compound, the murderer nearby, somewhere in the shade of the redwood trees.
She pulled into their small parking lot and shut off the engine. Robbie Sykes was back and had opened the community room which was unusually full of people for that time of day. Hans was there and with his disturbed hair and tropical print shirt, the carver looked a bit like one of the more exotic chickens roaming around town.
Her neighbors had overflowed the community room and moved out to the benches nearest the lot. Juliet wanted to speak to Hans and Jake Holmes both, since they were able-bodied men and capable—physically—of moving Harvey’s body, but not with Carrie emoting in that pestilent voice. How easily she stepped into the starring role. Narcissistic, neurotic—
Juliet stopped and examined that waspish thought. She wasn’t jealous of Carrie Simmons, was she? She didn’t crave the spotlight. No, she was far happier and for more able to observe what was happening from the quiet corner of the room. She was Jane Eyre, not Emma Peel. And they were, as artists, all craving some kind of recognition. Carrie would never get it for her art, which was popular but anonymous. She was filling the need another way. She should strive for compassion. Or at least patience.
Calm again, Juliet looked over the others unemotionally. Poor anemic Rose appeared to have been living off fingernails and valium for the last two days, and Jake’s wife, Jillian, was looking like she had the flu. Though possibly it was her husband’s hand-rolled cigarettes and not the death of a neighbor that was making her appear so ill as she studied the tips of her shoes and ignored the hubbub around her. No one spoke to her, possibly because they couldn’t think what to say to a shadow.
Someone had told Juliet that Jillian had been born in Mexico. Maybe a vacation with friends and family south of the border would put some color back in her face. A thoughtful husband would take her, but Jake did not strike Juliet as someone who was greatly concerned with the well-being of others. But what did she know really? And did she want to know anything? Life was so much easier when one kept some reserve.
Still, shouldn’t she know something after seven months? It occurred to Juliet how little she truly knew her neighbors. It was the NSA all over again. She had defined these people by their vocations and not considered all the other things they might have pursued in their life. She didn’t know the date of anyone’s birthday, couldn’t even say if any of them had children.
And she had been very careful not to let anyone know about her past. She didn’t have people in for coffee or barbecues, hadn’t exchanged Christmas gifts or even sent cards. Was she maybe being paranoid? Building fences where none were needed? Maybe living in the art colony wouldn’t be like it had been at the NSA. Maybe people wouldn’t fear her, wouldn’t think that if their sins were somehow found out that the inevitable retribution of justice would follow. After all, this was an artists’ community, not the government where everyone had a reason for being in your business.
Perhaps. But her gut told her to remain silent and keep her observations locked up. She had learned to pay attention to its warnings. There were some very practical reasons for the command to know thyself. She was still adapting—perhaps even evolving to the demands of her new life. It was best to play it safe, at least with most of the people in the Wood and in town. To mangle an old cliché, what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, and everyone could go on being comfortable and unembarrassed.
Juliet gathered up her parcels from the passenger seat and pasted on her Teflon smile that she used to wear at business meetings. A few remarks like “yes, the mud came off” and “I think it’s going to rain and I need to get my easel put away” got her past Darby and the others with only minimal conversation.
She hurried up the hill, wondering if once she was gone the neighbors were trotting out their alibies for one another and maybe speculating about her own. It would be the reasonable thing to do. Most people can be fairly intelligent when it is in their own interest. Most people.
The higher she went, the more the trees thinned and the more of the hazy sun she saw, and waiting on the porch like he had done it all his life was Marley, glowing with fire-colored fur in the afternoon light.
“Meow.”
“Hello, cat,” she said fondly. “I brought you some dinner and a mouse toy filled with catnip.”
Juliet stooped to scratch Marley under the chin and shook her head at the slightly cooing voice she was using to address him. She had had no trouble shutting up her heart and life all those years in Washington, but now she found herself wanting to befriend strange dogs and buying toys for a feline who had decided to move in with her.
She even wanted to know and trust her neighbors, to paint flowers. What had happened to the old Juliet who was all intellect and little emotion? Had she been a real person, or a construct invented in a time of need? If she ever needed the old Juliet, could she find her again? Or was it too late? She knew now that self-sufficiency and physical distance from her old life wasn’t enough to keep loneliness at bay. Competency—even brilliance—wasn’t enough to stop occasional melancholy.
Was that why Harvey had had a cat? If so, it was the first human thing she had discovered about him.
* * *
Juliet tried relaxing by the small fire in the potbellied stove, listening to the rain against the studio windows, but the specter of her dead neighbor kept floating through her mind and finally she gave up the idea of staying home and dry. It was only a little after eight. She would go and visit someone, but whom? Not Jillian Holmes, if she was feeling sick, and anyway she would rather tackle the couple separately. She didn’t know Jake and Jillian all that well. They were a writing team who also illustrated their popular children’s books. Among all the strong personalities in the Wood, they kind of seemed like wallpaper—artists without egos. But most couples would unite in each other’s defense if one of them felt threatened.
Perhaps she would call in on Asher and his mother.
She still had her lemon cupcake and Elizabeth had once told her that lemon was her favorite kind of cake. It made a plausible excuse for a visit.
“You stay here,” she said to Marley. “You don’t want to go out in the rain.”
But what if something happened while she was gone? The fire was banked down and should be fine but….
“I’ll leave the door open a little,” she said, using the brick doorstop to jam the sill. “But for goodness sake, don’t go out and get wet unless it’s an emergency. Here, I’ll put out a little more of your turkey feast dinner.”
She was smiling when she left her cabin but it didn’t last. The wind made the last of the lupines dance like ghosts in the shadows just beyond the porch light, and the urgent whispering of the trees as the wind and rain rubbed their branches together was enough to disturb even someone as level-headed as Juliet, so she hurried down the trail with as much speed as safety would allow.
Away from town it was black as a sinner’s heart once night fell, and the rain, while not especially hard, had a tendency to gather itself on the tree branches and dump cuploads of cold water when shaken by the wind of passing persons.
The path hadn’t seemed so steep and uneven in the dry of the day and Juliet had never previously thought that it should be equipped with a railing, but she decided that night that she would bring up the idea
with Robbie the next time she saw him. The trail was a death trap for someone burdened with her years, a flashlight, a small plastic bag of pastry, and an umbrella. Not that the flashlight helped much. The batteries were low and a firefly would have provided more light. Thank heavens her neighbors were all home and wasting electricity on their porches. It might keep her from falling off the trail.
The mud wasn’t terrible, but she knew the rivulet of water running down the lowest part of the path was staining her shoes and she would have to just accept that her white sneakers were to remain rusty or else pay some enormous amount for a cleaner to get them spotless.
She decided that white canvas had been a mistake. She would get some new ones in navy next time she was in town.
Juliet smelled the pipe before she made out the barely seen outlines of Asher Temple, sitting on his porch. His porch light wasn’t on but when the pipe glowed brightest, it lit up his face like a demon. The effect was unpleasant but he was at least recognizable.
“Hello, Asher,” she gasped, stepping onto the shelter of his porch.
“Miss Juliet.”
Juliet wondered, as she folded up her umbrella, why it was everyone insisted on putting “Miss” in front of her name. It didn’t sound mocking—when others said it—but it made her feel old and fussy. Did they see her that way?
“I was in town today and the bakery had lemon cupcakes. I brought one for your mother.”
There was a second of silence and she knew that she had surprised Asher.
“I don’t want to disturb her if she’s asleep.” That didn’t seem likely but she was willing to give him an out if he didn’t want to ask her in. She didn’t really need to speak to Elizabeth anyway. It was Asher who interested her.
“No, Mother is still awake. Come in,” he said, rising. “I think she is making tea.”
The Temples’ bungalow was very homelike in spite of Asher’s cubist paintings hanging on the wall.
“Mother, we have company. Miss Juliet has stopped in and comes bearing gifts.”
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