1 Portrait of a Gossip

by Melanie Jackson

  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.

  “Good morning.”

  “When you have a moment, may I speak to you?”

  He was speaking to her, but she knew that raising his voice annoyed him, and he wished to be more private. Since it was impossible for Raphael to come to her, Juliet laid down her easel and hiked back down the trail. She wondered if the sheriff had said something that troubled him. She couldn’t imagine why else he wanted to speak to her.

  “I’ve had a model cancel on me for this afternoon,” Raphael said without preamble. “I was wondering if you could stand in. I’ve been meaning to ask if you would sit for me anyway,” he added before she could demure.

  “Aren’t I a bit superannuated for a model?” she asked uncomfortably. Most of Raphael’s portraits were allegorical nudes. Tasteful, of course, but still naked.

  “You look very uncomfortable, Miss Juliet. How will you feel when I ask you to take your clothes off and slip on the handcuffs?”

  “Incredulous?” Juliet laughed. “Okay, if not a nude, what are you painting?”

  “It’s for a triptych and it’s just preliminary sketches. I actually need a matriarch for one of my Bible studies and some things are better not drawn from imagination or they look like warmed-over da Vinci. You know the kind of thing. The aged women likewise, that they be in behavior as becomes holiness, not false accusers, not given to much wine.”

  “Okay. I resemble that remark. But I can’t come until after lunch. I’m seeing the sheriff at eleven forty-five,” she explained.

  “That will be fine. Thank you,” he remembered to add before turning away.

  Juliet shook her head. A great painter, she thought, but short on charm. Though she supposed she should be flattered. Most women would never have the chance to be immortalized by the great Raphael James.

  * * *

  “A smart killer, one who planned ahead, would have a made-to-measure, hand-stitched and fitted alibi.”

  “Which no one has?” Juliet asked, setting a plate in front of the sheriff and a smaller dish on the floor for Marley.

  “No. But failing a well-tailored alibi, a situation where everyone in the neighborhood hated the victim and also didn’t have alibis isn’t bad.”

  “I take this to mean that you couldn’t collect any tobacco samples and the body has failed to turn up any conclusive—or even inconclusive—DNA evidence?”

  “The rain pretty much took care of that. And though we have a bullet we have nothing to match it to.”

  “So, you’re thinking, with the lack of an arranged alibi, the killer was just an opportunist?”

  “It’s like you said that first day. I think the murderer knew they wanted Harvey Allen dead. It wasn’t a fight that got out of hand. Whoever went to his cottage that afternoon brought a gun with them. This is murder, not manslaughter.”

  Juliet agreed.

  “But they weren’t fully prepared,” Garret went on. “And I think the rainstorm messed up whatever plan they were inventing on the fly.”

  “I don’t suppose anyone here admits to having a gun?”

  “Guns are registered to Raphael James and Esteban Rodriguez, but these are large-caliber weapons—no ballistic matches with what we pulled out of the body. I’m thinking the killer’s gun was probably bought on the black market and went the way of the computer and the cellphone.”

  “Sadly, I think you’re right. If we figure this case out, it is going to be through understanding personalities and behavior, or maybe past history, but not through forensic science.”

  “I guess it’s good that you’re here then,” Garret said. “By the way, excellent sandwich.”

  The sandwich was good, but Juliet was not certain that her presence was going to be much help. So far, intuition wasn’t talking.

  “By the way—and I guess this makes me a gossip—I think Jake Holmes may be having an affair with Carrie Simmons. If not that then—well, something is wrong in Chez Holmes.”

  “Hm. I haven’t interviewed Jillian Holmes yet. She and her husband alibi each other and I’ve been waiting to get some records. There is no birth certificate for Jillian. She was born down in Mexico.”

  “How did she get a driver’s license?” Juliet asked.

  “She doesn’t have one.”

  “Hm—that’s odd.” Juliet took a bite of her own sandwich and was pleased with the touch of horseradish she had added to the mayonnaise. “You’re right. This is good.”

  “You have plans for this afternoon?” Garret asked. He meant investigatory plans.

  “I’m modeling for Raphael James.”

  “But….” Garret stopped. He’d seen Raphael’s portraits too.

  “He needs a crone. I’ll be fully clothed.”

  Garret snorted at her description.

  “Good. I know it’s art and he’s a genius but….”

  “Yeah. I hear you.”

  * * *

  Raphael sketched quickly and with assurance. Juliet was pretty sure that the moment he took up his pencil he stopped seeing her as a person—or at least a personality. She was just a face, a lean body, sturdy ankles, moderate breasts which were located where breasts belonged and not where surgeons put them.

  “You may talk, if it would put you at ease,” he said suddenly.

  “I’m not ill at ease.” And she wasn’t, just thinking of other things and feeling a little hot under the w
ool shawl he’d draped over her head. “I don’t usually indulge in idle chatter, especially not for my own entertainment. At the very least I need a cat to listen.”

  He looked up and half-smiled.

  “It needn’t be idle chatter.”

  “Yet I hear no promise to listen. I think I’ll hold my peace.”

  This got a small, silent laugh.

  “Come now! What worries you in the dark hours of the night? Nuclear war? Swine flu? The dark deeds of our ex-urbanites and late-life Bohemians here in the Wood?”

  “Miniskirts. I dread the trend. Anyone over fifty does. Especially if they have thick ankles.”

  “So, no serious answers today?”

  “Only to serious questions. And what makes you think I don’t lay awake nights worrying about hemlines? You know nothing about me.”

  “That is true, but I am finding that I would like to know about you now that I have seen there is some humor under the gravitas.”

  Juliet wasn’t sure if she was flattered or nervous to hear this.

  “Well, I was born in a one-room cabin. No, I really was. I arrived prematurely while my parents were vacationing with friends in Minnesota.”

  “See—I am riveted already. A one-room cabin—go on.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, my mother died when I was young and my father, being a weak man, immediately married a very bossy woman who hated me because I was smart and because my father loved me more than her. That this was mostly because she wasn’t particularly lovable never crossed her mind.”

  “It rarely does.”

  Juliet debated whether to stop but decided that she could add just a tiny bit more. It wouldn’t matter if her neighbor knew this much about her.

  “Things were touch and go for a while, and then just go. I went away to school—a private one for children whose parents were not interested in their offspring learning athletics or the arts. I had to paint on the sly. My father died while I was in college. Fortunately I had a full-ride scholarship or my stepmother would have cut me off without a penny. Dad forgot to mention me in his will.”

  Raphael grunted.

  “And then?”

  “And then I went to work doing something practical that paid well—” and because the recruiter at the NSA had been impossible to refuse when he presented the job as her patriotic duty, and feeling very alone in the world she had allowed herself to be inducted into the government family.

  “This practical work made you unhappy though?”

  She considered.

  “Not in the beginning. I was very good at it, but it was classified. That means a lot of lying for the greater good when I was with friends. Not to my boss, of course. I always told him the complete truth whether he liked it or not. But by the time the message got to the top and then out to the public … well, the metamorphosis was amazing. And the longer I did it, the tighter I had to hold my nose. Then something bad happened.”

  “It always does,” he murmured. “Especially if one’s work is classified.”

  “You worked for the government too?” she asked, genuinely curious. She knew Raphael couldn’t really have been born in a Paris garret with a paintbrush in hand, but it was hard to see him as anything other than an artist.

  “Briefly. I was a soldier who had talents that the government felt were better used outside the trench. Especially after I took a bullet in the spine.” There was no self-pity in his voice.

  Juliet didn’t know what to say when obviously any expression of sympathy would be unwelcome.

  “Go on. Something bad happened. Were you blamed?”

  “Not officially, but I blamed myself. Not too long after that my boss retired—he had a heart attack from the stress—and I decided that I had given over enough of my life to work that I could not talk about, or sometimes even explain to myself, so I retired too and took up an old love. I’ll probably never be great, but I am competent about my deadlines and happy with my modest amount of talent which puts food on the table. And there is the added benefit that I feel like I am doing something really rebellious and dirty each time I set up an easel,” she added, hoping that she didn’t sound defensive because she really was quite happy with her little career. And she figured that what she didn’t have in inborn talent and training she could make up for with determination.

  “Then you’re a professional and should be proud.” He glanced at her again and then frowned. “It isn’t all about doing pure but impractical art. It is about approaching what you do with respect, whether it is designing bubblegum wrappers or building cathedrals for the worship of God—stop frowning. I want stern, not constipated.”

  Juliet blinked at his definition of an artist. She felt that way herself but would never in a million years have expected Raphael James to feel that way.

  “Do you do your best every day?” he asked a little impatiently when she didn’t answer. “Is there fulfillment in the work? Then you are a professional artist who knows her market and have nothing to apologize for. Beyond that, success or failure in the realm of fame is about public tastes and artistic trends and things that one cannot control. Like hemlines.”

  Juliet made her face relax.

  “That’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  “Then I am very sad for you.” His tone was mild.

  “I can see the tears from here.”

  “Shut up. I can’t stand idle chatter.”

  After that they were quiet in a companionable way until Raphael was done.

  “Will you sit for me tomorrow?” he asked. “Say around one?”

  “Yes,” she agreed, thinking that she might even like it.

  Chapter 12

  Her phone rang at six a.m. No matter that statistics said that, being an election year, it was a robo-call or else a wrong number, still it started her heart thudding. It was conditioning from the old days when early morning calls meant a crisis out in the big, bad world.

  Wrong number, nothing to worry about. She really needed to stop living up to her gray hairs or she would end up with a lot more of them.

  “Coffee,” she muttered, being careful not to throw the covers over Marley.

  Juliet decided to set up her easel near Robbie’s cottage and waited for people to forgather for their morning coffee and gossip. Robbie raised a hand in greeting, but he looked as sober and pale as a pallbearer the morning after a wake. She wondered why he had been drinking.

  The hour being early, only a blue jay hoping for food was willing to trail her as she chose her spot. Marley had not followed her. He made it clear that before seven a.m., he found the whole painting thing to be too utterly boring, especially since his early morning nap had been interrupted by the phone.

  Truthfully, Juliet was tired of painting inside the compound too, but she hadn’t talked to Carrie or Rose or either of the Holmeses and this was the best shot since they would have to pass her on their way to coffee or their cars. She just hoped that she could find something worthy of her brush so the morning wouldn’t be a complete waste. She was turning into a real artist and resenting time away from her craft.

  There was the faint smell of smoke on the air, which made Juliet a little uneasy. Fires were not unusual in the morning. Elizabeth Temple often had one. Still, the scent was bothersome, a nagging worry. Everyone in the mountains feared fire; living among the kindling, in cottages brittle with age, caution was sensible. There had been recent rain, but much of the underbrush was already dead and tinder dry.

  “Good morning,” Rose Campion said softly, unable to pass without saying something. Jillian Holmes who had been walking with her only nodded and then went inside Robbie’s cottage. Juliet wondered if she were in dire need of caffeine or if she simply didn’t want to talk to the neighbor who was having lunch daily with the police.

  “Good morning. I think we are going to see some heat today,” Juliet answered, tossing her a slow pitch. Surely the weather couldn’t frighten her.

  “Yes. It makes me wish that I had p
ut in a garden.”

  “I was just thinking that too,” Juliet lied. “In fact, I was thinking about maybe going into town to get some plants. I know a real gardener would start with seeds, but I’m willing to cheat a bit to improve my odds of success.”

  Rose actually smiled.

  “Would you like to come with me?” Juliet asked. “I’m afraid I am pretty ignorant about plants. I did grow a zucchini in the second grade, but we never lived in places where we could have a proper garden.”

  “Well, I guess I could come. Maybe I could get a pot and plant a few things too.”

  “Would tomatoes grow here, do you think?”

  “If you have a sunny spot,” she said, growing almost animated. “Fresh tomatoes! That would be wonderful. And eggplant.”

  “Would you like to go into town after breakfast? I would suggest this afternoon since I know you paint mornings but I’m sitting for Raphael at one.”

  She might as well mention her modeling gig and see if there was a reaction. Everyone would know anyway.

  “This morning would be fine,” Rose said, looking a little bewildered but pleased by the proposed outing. She said nothing about Juliet moonlighting as an artist’s model.

  “Great. Let me know when you’re ready and we’ll go straight off—if you don’t mind me in my work clothes.”

  She giggled.

  “Of course not. They are our uniform and badge of honor. It also gives the tourists something to stare at.”

  “And here I was thinking I was just a messy eyesore,” she said, feeling pleased that she had lured Rose out. Juliet didn’t believe that tiny Rose was the killer, but she watched everyone and had been there a lot longer than Juliet had.

  “I’ll see you in about an hour,” Rose promised.

  Juliet decided to ignore the wildflowers whose petals were dropping and paint a lizard who was doing jerky push-ups on a nearby rock. She was actually tired of flowers. And she could take a little liberty with the reptile, improve on nature, maybe make the lizard’s eyes a little bigger and give him a smile.