2 Landscape in Scarlet

by Melanie Jackson

  It was hard to know what Esteban thought since his public face was one of mild amusement that virtually nothing penetrated. She had only twice seen his emotions on his face and the last time had been brought about by a bullet in his body. Not for the first time, Juliet reminded herself to never play cards with him.

  “Now, Juliet, you mustn’t keep all the handsome men to yourself,” Carrie cooed. Her red cocktail dress would have been great in July in Las Vegas. Since it was late October in the Santa Cruz Mountains her ample flesh was a little blue and goose-bumpy.

  “I mustn’t? But why? Anyway, Raphael wants to show me his etchings.”

  Carries mascaraed gaze turned on Esteban. She was only interested in Raphael’s fame, not in the man himself, so Juliet was welcome to him. Or perhaps she didn’t understand the etchings reference.

  Raphael did and was amused.

  “And I have a commission I must finish before tomorrow,” Esteban said, lying gracefully. “I must depart.”

  Carrie pouted but accepted his excuse. Even for her, work came first.

  “Will I see you at the Halloween party?” She barely managed to include Juliet and Raphael in the question.

  “The one at the inn? Probably not,” Juliet said. “I haven’t had time to work on a costume.”

  “And the inn is difficult for me to navigate since they have no elevator,” Raphael said.

  Carrie didn’t care. She waited on Esteban.

  “The day of the dead is a religious festival in my country,” Esteban said. “I should go and visit my grandparents that day. Since they are buried in Santa Barbara, it is unlikely that I will return in time.”

  They murmured a few polite goodbyes and then made their escape.

  “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Juliet muttered at Esteban since Mickey Shaw was outside talking to Hans while he had a cigarette and Mickey tended to gossip. “Your grandparents are not buried in Santa Barbara. They aren’t buried anywhere unless you’ve had a recent tragedy.”

  “What?” Esteban looked startled. “My pants are on fire?”

  “They should be, telling whoppers about your grandma. Hey, Mickey! Welcome back. Did you catch a big fish?” Juliet asked.

  Mickey grinned. He was wearing the t-shirt she had made for him though he had a flannel shirt on over it.

  “Sure, but you should see the one that got away.”

  “Ha! You can tell me later.”

  And then they were past the last of the people and letting themselves into the quiet of Raphael’s cottage. Esteban went at once to build a fire and Raphael opened the old curio that served as a liquor cabinet. Juliet put down her purse and sketch pad, feeling weary.

  “So, what have you learned?” Raphael handed her a glass.

  Usually Juliet enjoyed Raphael’s scotch but that night her mouth felt dry and her stomach a little rocky. She decided not to drink until she had some proper food in her stomach. Juliet passed her glass to Esteban.

  “Do you have some water or juice, or soda?” she asked Raphael.

  “Certainly. Ginger ale?”

  “Perfect. I’m going to need a little help if we do any amount of talking. The last two days have been more of a mouth workout than I realized. I don’t think I talk that much the rest of the year combined.”

  Raphael handed her a highball glass and she stared at the bubbles before taking a sip. Her dehydrated tissues responded gratefully.

  “Well, I don’t wish to tax you, but please talk just a little bit more.”

  “Xander Lawson is kind of creepy and capable of violence, but I don’t think he did it. If Comstock had had his brain beaten in, Lawson would be our guy, but the poison thing is just too indirect for a man who could have snapped Comstock in half with his bare hands. He’s also religious. And Madame Mimm believes in ghosts. All I had to do was mention Comstock might be haunting me and she fainted. Really. Passed out cold.” Juliet swallowed some more ginger ale. “And now everyone has left town. I’ve struck out with the obvious candidates and the rest have scattered. Finding out anything is going to be a lot harder now.”

  “Finding out who didn’t do it is important, yes? Especially to the innocent who would not enjoy being suspects,” Esteban said reasonably.

  “Okay, true. Not that any of them were innocent exactly. I just don’t think that Lois, Lulu, or Xander actually administered the poison. And since the law doesn’t care about the sins of the heart, Garret will have to keep looking.” Juliet finished her ginger ale. “I guess there is a small silver lining. The fair went well for me and I think for most of the others in the Woods. And I saw a number of puppets and canvases coming out of the stables, so I am assuming you did well too?”

  “Very well. The media came too late to spoil the event.” Raphael gestured at her sketch pad. Thinking he wanted to see her map, Juliet nodded.

  “I wish that I did not need to leave just now,” Esteban said. “But I do have someone I need to see down in Santa Barbara. I’ll be back on Halloween and free to help if you have any ideas you want to investigate.”

  “Thanks.”

  “In the meantime, try not to feel too much guilt.”

  She nodded.

  “It isn’t guilt so much as frustration. You know, when you cut the body, how the blood starts clotting right away, trying to close up the wound?”

  His brow went up.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, the mind does the same thing, right? Most people stop remembering and move on. They bury their memories. Witnesses become increasingly unreliable.”

  “Yes, some people willfully forget.”

  “I think Garret may be screwed unless forensics comes up with something.”

  “Juliet, these sketches are wonderful. Are they for your shirts?” Raphael interrupted, holding up the picture of the creepy oak tree so Esteban could see.

  “Maybe.” Juliet didn’t blush but she was a bit surprised by the praise and unsure what to say. “They would be good on shirts or Halloween trick-or-treat bags.”

  “But that wasn’t why you drew them?”

  “No,” she finally admitted. “It was art for art’s sake. I just felt like drawing.”

  “Shame on you!” Raphael teased. “Who do you think you are, an artist?”

  “Oh shut up. Just because I am mostly practical about my work.”

  “I hope you’ll let me buy one of these shirts.”

  “You’d wear a t-shirt?” she asked skeptically.

  “Certainly not. But I would hang it on the wall.”

  “It would ruin the tone,” she said. Then, taking her notepad, she got out a pencil and scrawled her name at the bottom of the sketch and handed it to Raphael. “There you go. Your very own Juliet Henry original.”

  Raphael blinked and looked moved though she had meant the gesture flippantly.

  “I shouldn’t let you.”

  “We’ll argue about it tomorrow. I’m exhausted and Marley will be running away from home if I don’t get his dinner.” Juliet picked up her purse. “Vaya con Dios, Esteban. I’ll hope for good weather for you.”

  “Do not worry. The devil looks after his own.”

  Chapter 8

  Juliet’s cell rang at a little after seven. She was awake but pretending not to be while Marley walked up and down her body looking for a way under the covers.

  “Hello.”

  “Juliet, it’s Garret. Could I interest you in some breakfast?”

  “Um … do I have to cook it?”

  The sheriff chuckled. It was a weary sound, but at least it was a laugh.

  “No. Come to the station and I’ll have something here.”

  “Okay. In an hour.”

  “Fine.”

  “And there needs to be coffee. I cannot face naked breakfast.”

  “There will be coffee.” Garret was sounding more cheerful. “One other thing, in case you want to dress for it. There is going to be a memorial service for Michael Comstock today at eleven.”

  “So soo
n?”

  “Comstock’s mother came over from Reno. She wants to get this over with as quickly as possible and get back to her cats. We can’t release the body yet, especially since she has made arrangements for cremation when we are done with the autopsy, but she wants to go ahead with the service. And if we do it fast, the ghouls from the press may miss it.”

  “Amen to that. Okay—where will services be held?”

  “At the stables.”

  “That’s a little macabre. I mean, considering.…”

  “I know, but it’s our only church. And I don’t propose to take her out and show her where he died.”

  Juliet shuddered.

  “Good God! No, don’t do that, not even if she asks. Look, we need to stop talking or I won’t get there before nine.”

  “No rush.”

  “Easy for you to say. I’m starving.” Juliet realized that this was true.

  Garret chuckled again and hung up the phone.

  Juliet debated the merits of attending the funeral. There was always the chance of learning something from the attendees when emotions ran high. There was also the chance that she would be stricken with madness if she heard even once more that ineffective spiritual bandage about how death wasn’t the worst thing that could happen and had everyone found Jesus so they could picnic with their loved ones on the beautiful shore of the afterlife?

  She hadn’t believed it when her dad died, and no funeral since had convinced her that dying was a good thing. For her, sentiments of this kind were like trying to stick a Band-Aid on a wound that needed a tourniquet.

  A look out the window showed the sun making a concerted struggle against the encroaching clouds. She hoped it succeeded. No one should be eulogized in the rain.

  Sighing, she went to find her black wool dress and pumps.

  Garret had been to the bakery and picked up breakfast sandwiches. They were good since they steamed the eggs with an espresso machine and it made them fluffy. As promised, there was coffee and this was where Juliet began.

  They didn’t talk about Comstock until after they had munched their way through the eggy croissants and strong java.

  “So, what’s new in the world of murder?”

  “I’ve talked to my brothers in blue and there is nothing on Comstock. Not a shred of evidence that he did any of the things people accused him of. However, there were lots of accusations and complaints.”

  “Any by the kids he worked with?”

  “No, but something was up because the kids have been tight-lipped when interviewed. They don’t accuse him, but they didn’t come forward to plead for him to be reinstated either.”

  “Did you get a name on the other kid who overdosed? The one who lived?”

  “Yeah. Vincent Hearst. The kid is living with his stepfather now. The divorce was amicable and since the mother didn’t want him living with all the gossip and pressure from the neighbors who wanted him to accuse Comstock, she’s sent him off to live with her ex.”

  “Hm. So no hope of talking to the kid?”

  “Not so far and I am reluctant to push it if the kid is really traumatized.”

  “I guess it doesn’t matter really. I just want to know.…”

  “Yeah. Truthfully, I’d feel less bad if I knew for sure that he was a bad guy. I know that isn’t the politically expedient thing to say.…”

  “No, but I feel the same. It doesn’t change what I do, but I’d have a lot less … angst, if I knew one way or another.”

  “You going to head back to the Wood and then come down for the funeral.”

  He assumed correctly that she was attending based on her choice of attire.

  “No. I need to grocery shop and may stop in at the pet boutique to get Marley some catnip.”

  “That is one cat who has fallen in gravy.”

  “Yes, but he’d prefer tuna.”

  * * *

  Juliet parked in the lot away from the squatting yew tree which now looked sinister from every angle.

  The sun was out. Barely. But the wind was creeping around, reminding everyone with soft tugs on their coats and whispers in the grass that winter was coming.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. None of the shutters were opened and the atmosphere was deadly still and gloomy.

  The paintings had been cleared away after the festival but the odor of hay remained. Juliet looked at those gathered in the church. The general texture of the funeral-goers was bland, expected. There were members of the art council, Garret and the deputy, the woman who managed the only apartment complex in White Oaks and must have been Comstock’s landlady. No friends, no colleagues, no teachers or coaches or anyone from out of town had gathered to mourn. They were all strangers to the dead man, attending his last party because it was what their social training told them to do.

  No one else could be bothered. Juliet understood. Owners didn’t want to close their businesses. And indifference, distaste, gossip, these things had stamina. It was so much easier to force a little amnesia. After all, how much did you owe someone you only knew from the checkout line at the market or the DMV? Especially if he was a bad guy?

  Juliet knew she shouldn’t have come. Excepting the older woman crying in her handkerchief, no one who had loved or hated or even known the dead man was there. Perhaps that was because he hadn’t known many people in town and none of them well. Maybe because he had only been there a short while. Perhaps because he hadn’t felt like getting acquainted with the new life that had been thrust upon him. The divorce from the old one had been bitter and it would be understandable if he hadn’t felt like dating right away. Whatever the cause, attendance was sparse and she would learn nothing.

  Juliet decided not to speak to the gray-faced woman who had to be Comstock’s mother. Her people skills were not the best at funerals and what could she say—I never met your son but I could tell from the way his body was lying there in the bushes that he must have been a wonderful man?

  Juliet took a seat next to Rose who was prepared to be sorrowful and carrying a hankie. They smiled but didn’t speak. It wouldn’t have been appropriate in the dead silent room. She noticed that there hadn’t been time to get the carpet near the altar cleaned and the tourists tromping in and out during the festival had left the fading brown rug looking like a dog that had been rolling in the dirt and weeds. It was unseemly and the lack of respect for the solemn occasion bothered Juliet.

  It was a relief when the officiant took the podium. The preacher was dressed in an Old Testament manner but his voice and message turned out to be disappointingly new age.

  The minister had obviously been briefed on Comstock’s recent, unfortunate history and made no mention of his working with children. With that off the table, it became apparent that Michael Comstock hadn’t done much with his life after the soapbox derby in the fifth grade. In the forty years he’d had to live and grow he hadn’t gone to college, married, had kids—done anything that usually merited a mention at funerals.

  “There will be no more suffering.…”

  No, nor anything else, Juliet thought harshly. Nothing would ever happen to Michael Comstock again, not down there in the earth where they were putting his ashes as soon as the police released him to the crematorium. Of course, all living things returned to dust eventually, but Juliet forced herself away from the thought.

  There was a fraught pause after the minister asked if anyone wanted to say anything. No friends got up to speak. That was when one really noticed the lack of family. It seemed wrong to send someone off without a single personal word, but it was just as wrong to go making stuff up about strangers, which is what would happen since it was only people from White Oaks who were there. Juliet again felt dismay for the mother but didn’t rise to her feet.

  This lack of friends from his old life made Comstock seem like he had always been coffin-ready. That people just couldn’t be bothered to invest in a person who wouldn’t be around for long, so why not die and get it over
with? But was that an accurate picture? Was the man truly that friendless? Might he have had friends that were too embarrassed by the gossip about him to show any support? Judgments by people in small towns tended to have long-lasting consequences. Maybe they figured it was better to let him go un-eulogized.

  Or maybe he really had been a bad person.

  After an uncomfortable moment, Deputy Henderson got up and started a video and the movie played silently on the east wall. They saw Michael as a baby, as a boy in a soapbox derby, as a shaggy teen in a navy blue cap and gown. The stroll down memory lane ended there, maybe because it was an old disk the mother had had on hand. Maybe because there hadn’t been anything to add about Michael Comstock.

  Rose began to cry at this final bit of horridness and Juliet patted her shoulder. She felt a kind of disgust too but did not permit herself the easy tears that sentimentality expected.

  His mother would miss him—how could she not? But not as much as if she had lived in the same state. Comstock was gone and no one cared.

  Juliet realized that her funeral might be very much the same.

  The calm shattered with the last amen. The need for flight away from the appalling obsequies had people moving as a flock, reaching for possessions and hurrying for the door. Juliet hoped the mother hadn’t laid on any baked meats for the mourners because there probably wouldn’t be any takers. Attendees were already regretting the social politeness.

  Juliet met Garret’s look and knew he was as disconcerted as she was.

  “What’s wrong?” Rose whispered when she looked up from her handkerchief and saw Juliet’s still, pale face.

  “I just went to my creepy place,” Juliet muttered softly. “Let’s go. I can’t take anymore.”

  “We could go get a cupcake,” Rose suggested kindly, under the cover of people getting up and gathering coats and scarves. “Cupcakes and tea are nice.”

  How sad was it that a cup of tea and a cupcake might actually make them feel better, that the tragedy of Comstock’s death could be erased by pastry? Juliet shook her head but said, “We sure need something to sweeten the day. I just hope they still have pumpkin with maple icing.”