She worked quickly and then sat back to admire her version of a reptile. She heard a soft sound off to her right and looked over to find Raphael studying her painting. The sunlight showed all the silver in his hair. It didn’t detract from his harsh handsomeness.
Juliet blushed.
“Mickey in plank pose?” he guessed.
“Shh!” she scolded, but realized he was right. The lizard did look a lot like Mickey doing yoga. “I—I just got a little bored and was messing around.”
“It’s good. You have a gift for caricature it seems.”
“One I think I’d better keep under wraps.”
“Not from Mickey. You should put it on a t-shirt for him.”
Juliet considered her painting. It really was a cute lizard.
“Maybe for Christmas,” she conceded.
“No one’s stopping off to spill their guts this morning?” Raphael asked sympathetically. “Poor Juliet. You look very irritated and bored.”
“You know, you see entirely too much,” she said crossly. “Don’t you have a naked model to paint or something?”
“You are my only model today so I would say that is up to you. I do need to do a panel of Eve before eating the apple and being covered in shame and fig leaves.”
“Oh, go away before I paint you as a toad.”
Raphael chuckled.
“If you do paint me as a toad you have to promise to show me.” He looked over her shoulder. “It seems Esteban can’t keep away from here either. I think he is even more curious about what happened to Harvey than you are.”
“Swell, that’s all I need. Nobody will talk to me if he’s here.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Esteban can be charming enough when he wants to be.”
“My point exactly. I still need to question Carrie Simmons and Jillian Holmes and I’ll be trampled in the rush to get to him.” Juliet opened a jar of turpentine and stuck her brush in it. “I should get cleaned up anyway. Rose Campion and I are going into town to choose plants for a garden. I’m going to try to grow tomatoes.”
She figured there was no point in pretending that she wasn’t asking questions about the murder, at least with Raphael.
“That is indeed dedication to the cause. Do you even like to garden?”
“I expect I’ll learn to enjoy it,” she said bravely. “Dirt is … wholesome. And I like tomatoes.”
Raphael smiled maliciously and turned his chair to face Esteban.
“Why, look. It’s the bad penny.”
“Miss Juliet,” Esteban said, ignoring Raphael. “No visitors besides this two-wheeled vagabond?”
“No, but that’s okay. He’s famous and adds to my social consequence.”
“And on that note, I think I shall leave you,” Raphael said and wheeled away.
“Hold up, Rafe,” Esteban said. “You owe me a coffee. And I have a hypothetical question.”
“I hate hypothetical questions,” Raphael answered.
“You just haven’t heard the right ones.”
“And thus I am forsaken.” Juliet sighed theatrically.
“See you at one,” Raphael called back to her. Esteban said nothing though his mouth was crooked in a smile when he glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t worry. Someone will hear you scream if I threaten your tomatoes.”
“There better not be any fig leaves and apples!” Juliet called back and then ducked her head guiltily. No one was looking at her, but Raphael was right. Down there everyone could hear a raised voice.
Speaking of overheard voices, Juliet caught just a bit of conversation between Jillian and Mickey.
“Mickey, did you ever do a wrong thing for a right reason?”
“Personally, or professionally?” he asked.
She hesitated a moment.
“Either.”
The voices faded and left Juliet wondering what they had been talking about.
* * *
White Oaks didn’t have a garden center, but they did have Flowers’ Friend, a sort of co-op where people sold their extra plants and where one could buy organic potting soils and plant food.
Juliet parked next to the door which was sporting a bright awning that might have been stolen off a circus tent.
Juliet had never explored the shop, since the smell of what she finally learned was fish emulsion and manure had been off-putting. That afternoon, with wind gusting from the east and carrying the scent of smoke, the odor was less noticeable, at least until one stepped inside and encountered it in concentrated form. She did her best not to recoil since Rose was sniffing and looking like she enjoyed it.
The man at the counter could not have been that old since his skin was unlined, but his hair was gray and he smelled musty. Or, Juliet conceded, the bags of dried moss beside him smelled musty. He smiled at them as they came in but a bit wearily, and she had the feeling that he had started living the role of the gray hair a long time ago. Or maybe business was slow during the week. They were the only people in the store.
Rose was in her element. Her habitual nervous shyness fell away and she chatted happily with Arnold Schwartz while Juliet selected a bag of potting soil that had a tomato on the label, a cardboard pot—the only kind they had outside of some small ceramic planters shaped like improbably fat fish and frogs—and one of the leggy, rather pale plants in a small cardboard pot that said “beefsteak tomato” in block letters. White roots were bursting out of the bottom and it had one blossom and one very small tomato about the size of a baby pea. The plant didn’t look especially healthy, but she figured that there was a good chance she would end up killing it anyway, so it was kinder to leave the more robust ones behind for someone with an actual green thumb.
Deciding to let them have their fun and to quiz Rose when they stopped at the bakery after—there should be time before the kids’ lunch hour—Juliet pretended to look at seed packets and watched the sun through the tree leaves whose shadows danced on the open door . She possessed herself in patience while the silver-haired bookends, in identical pairs of reading glasses, carefully read the label on every bottle and bag of fertilizer like they were the writings of Thomas Aquinas. She wished she had thought to bring a sketch book.
“You’ll want to get some marigolds too, Juliet,” Rose said, breaking off her conversation with Arnie Schwartz. “It keeps away pests.”
“Okay.” Juliet turned back to the rusty wheelbarrow where live plants were displayed. There were a few small pots of what she recognized as French marigolds sitting on a bed of straw. She sniffed tentatively at the buttery yellow globes. The smell was not sweet, but she kind of liked it. Certainly it was better than fish emulsion.
“Have you decided what to get?” she asked Rose, deciding that enough was enough.
“I think so. The thyme looks so—oh.” She stared at Juliet’s tomato. “You know, sometimes it is better to get a smaller, bushier plant.”
“You’re being tactful. You’re probably right, but this one looks so sad, I thought I would give it a second chance.”
Rose smiled at Juliet like she had just announced a cure for cancer.
“I do that too. Well, I used to. They had a table of nearly dead plants at my grocery store and I could never just walk by it without bringing something home. My husband—” But there she came to a full stop and her sad expression returned. “Well, not everyone cares about plants.”
“Well, I think it’s my week for taking in strays. But just in case I will get one of those bushy ones too. And—oh, is that catnip?” The handmade tag said it was. “I should get some for Marley.”
Juliet picked up another tomato and the catnip, which was outrageous at six dollars. She fought a short battle with monetary horror over paying for what looked like a weed, but the thought of Marley’s pleasure carried the day. Sighing, she added the herb and a second cardboard pot.
“I don’t want to hurry you,” she lied. “But I learned earlier this week that you have to get to the bakery before the kids or it’s impossible
to get any cupcakes, and I am having a terrible craving for one of their lemon cupcakes. Last time I gave mine up for Elizabeth Temple. Lemon is her favorite.”
“I didn’t know you and Elizabeth were close,” Rose said, beginning to bring pots to the counter which was actually an old wooden door on sawhorses. She was careful not to sound curious, respecting boundaries that weren’t actually there.
“We aren’t. But she’s very nice and terribly smart, and I just think that sometimes she misses being able to get out and talk to women. Oh, I know her work is absorbing—and those quilts are to die for—but I still have the feeling that she misses the art shows and such. I know that sometimes I get a little lonely for company too and I’m not stuck in a wheelchair.”
Rose nodded, not looking at her.
“Darby is very nice too. Very lively. You must enjoy her company.”
So Rose had noticed them talking.
“Yes, Darby is fun.”
“Carrie can be … colorful.” Rose’s eyes were glued on some herb that didn’t deserve all the attention it was getting.
“Carrie,” Juliet hesitated. “I don’t think she cares much for other women. Some women don’t.”
“No. And it’s made Jillian very unhappy.” Rose finally looked at her. The gray eyes were indignant, confirming that Rose had also seen what was going on with Jake and had drawn the same conclusions.
“I thought—but then supposed that maybe I imagined it,” Juliet said leadingly.
“Imagined what?”
Arnie stayed silent and began adding up Rose’s purchases.
“She seemed especially upset last weekend, but she has always struck me as being a little depressed. I don’t think she’s happy.”
“She didn’t used to be depressed,” Rose said earnestly. “But she lost her parents and then her brother last year, I think. Her dad was no loss—a brutal, drunken man, but I gather it made her and her brother very close. He helped her crawl out from under the old man’s fist, and since his death she’s been … sad. Withdrawn. And this whole thing with Harvey hasn’t helped. I think everyone is on edge.”
“Poor thing,” Juliet said. “My folks are both gone and I’m all that’s left. It can be hard being on one’s own, not having anyone left who remembers the things you did as a child.”
“Yes. But sometimes alone is better than being with someone who doesn’t care.” Juliet had the feeling that they weren’t talking about Jillian anymore.
“But I think Jake does care,” Juliet said, deliberately misunderstanding. “He’s just stupid and weak where women are concerned.”
“You may be right,” Rose said, opening her crocheted bag and pulling out a hemp wallet. “But nothing he does will ever make up for the grief he’s caused his wife. Nothing. She was so young and naïve, and she believed with all her heart that he was her savior, her knight in shining armor. And he’s nothing of the sort.”
Juliet nodded.
“Some things are beyond reparation,” she agreed.
“Yes. Now, let’s see what you’ve got there.” Rose sounded brisk. The gossip was over. “That looks good. Did you get some fertilizer?”
“Will I need some?” Juliet asked, accepting the change of subject.
“Oh yes, tomatoes are heavy feeders.”
“Well, what would be best? Is any of it less stinky?”
Rose chuckled.
“You’ll come to think of this as perfume if you stick to gardening.”
“Hmph. I may learn to tolerate it, but you won’t catch me dabbing this behind my ears any day soon. What about—is that really bone meal? I mean, meal made of bones?”
“Yes, it’s great for tubers.” At her blank look, Rose added, “Irises and such.”
“Oh. Well, you choose what’s best and I’ll hold my nose and use it. Probably Marley will like it. He seems drawn to stinky stuff.”
“You know, I hadn’t thought. Maybe you better not get any fish emulsion until you know if it’s safe.”
“Tell you what, I’ll leave it for now and ask Darby if it’s safe for cats.”
“Okay. Let’s get some seaweed emulsion for now. You need to give the plants a couple of days to get over transplant shock anyway.”
Plants got shock? Juliet shook her head. The tomatoes were doomed.
As they left the shop, Juliet spotted a woman in a large green hat and sunglasses at a table outside the diner.
“Is that Jillian?” she asked Rose, gesturing across the parking lot.
“I believe it is. Who’s that man with her? He looks familiar.”
“Yes,” Juliet said, and added as he turned his head and she saw his face full on, “Oh, he’s a writer. He does those spider books. I heard he was in Santa Cruz for a book signing.”
“That’s right! He lost his illustrator a few months ago—a car accident, I think it was.”
“Yes, down in San Diego.”
Rose and Juliet looked at each other, but neither said what they were thinking. If Jillian was looking to pick up some extra work—or even switch partners—neither one of them would blame her. Nor would they mention it to anyone, especially not Jake or Carrie.
* * *
“I think you should model for me,” Esteban said and Juliet slipped into her blue shawl. Usually that shade of ultramarine was reserved for paintings of Mary, mother of God, but she supposed it was okay for saints to wear as well. The dais where she sat was the only bit of opulence in the studio which was bare to the point of monasticism. The hangings behind the ottoman were a deep crimson trimmed in gold.
“Not in this or any other lifetime. I can leave you my body in my will though, if you want, and you can play with my bones.”
Esteban laughed and Raphael’s lips twitched.
“Found the murderer yet?” Juliet asked conversationally.
“No, but I am pretty sure I know who didn’t do it, so it’s a start.”
Juliet nodded. She felt oddly at ease with these two.
“I think by now everyone has figured out that I’m snooping and probably talking to the sheriff.”
“Does that bother you?” Raphael asked. He didn’t look up from mixing his paint.
She thought it over.
“No. Everyone should be trying to figure this out. Probably they are, in their own ways.”
“Even if they are delighted Harvey Allen is dead?” Esteban asked.
“Even if,” she said firmly. “It’s best to know the players that share your stage. I just hope the murderer is the public-spirited hero everyone thinks and not just someone inclined to do away with annoying neighbors.”
Esteban nodded, but Raphael was waiting for something more.
“Some part of me wants to advocate for the killer because, though society didn’t create him, we colluded to reward him for his horrible habits, but…. We can’t go around killing people because they know our warts and sins and may someday shame us by telling the world about them. It might feel like self-defense, but it’s not. It’s evading responsibility. And if we go around thinking that it’s okay for people to kill for this reason, then we must all share in the collective guilt for that too.”
“I agree with you, but don’t know if the others feel that way,” Raphael answered. “I think almost everyone would let this just slide on by.”
“Until someone else died,” Juliet said grimly. “I don’t want that burden on my shoulders.”
Once had been enough.
“Well, I’m off, unless you were going to undress.” Esteban lifted a brow. Juliet still marveled how human he seemed now that he had decided she was alright.
“Certainly not. You just want to see if I have a gun hidden somewhere unusual. Besides, I don’t like it when people point and giggle.”
“As if anyone would. Not every man is drawn to fourteen-year-old stick insects, you know. You should convince her, Raphael.”
“I know my limitations, you ghoul. Now go.”
“I will. I’m helping Robbie Sykes
finish plastering. Then I can get moved in. Life will be simpler when I am here full time. The studio has great space and light.”
“And the maids at the motel are a little bit disturbed by the collection of bones in your room,” Raphael murmured.
Esteban grinned. It took ten years off his face and made him worlds more approachable.
“That too. Especially since I wired up the donkey skeleton and hung it in the closet. By the way, I saw a raven flying upside down. It means something bad is coming.”
Juliet was still shaking her head when he left the room.
“Tell me he did the bone thing on a dare. Someone suggested a contest to see who could come up with the most shocking new kind of art and he went for it.”
“That is almost correct. It was an open art contest,” Raphael conceded. “But his bone puppets turned out to be popular among certain collectors who like the macabre memento mori.”
“Remember, Man, that you are dust and unto dust you shall return?” she asked, personally repulsed by the idea of handling old bones, but recognizing that this kind of art had been around for millennium.
“Exactly. Now, lift your chin a little. Try to look like you’re seeing God.”
“Okay, but if I did see God I think I’d be more surprised and frightened than anyone I ever saw in a painting.”
Juliet relaxed and tried not to be self-conscious about her hands. The paint had cleaned off, but the potting soil had stained her nails and she feared some of the smell of the fertilizer was clinging to her clothes.
“You have tomatoes?” Raphael asked, making her suspect the smell around her was stronger than her numbed nose realized.
“Yes, God help them. I sure hope Marley remembers to water them because I may not.”
“You’ll remember. I don’t think that there is very much that you’ve ever forgotten,” he said calmly.
“Well, not unless I really wanted to, and I have to confess that I’m not sure gardening is for me. Don’t get me wrong—I like plants. No one could be more admiring of the red rose or the majestic redwood than I—and painting wildflowers is the joy of my spring.”
“But?” Raphael’s head was turned away so she couldn’t see if he was smiling, but his voice held amusement.
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