Death Come Quickly

by Susan Wittig Albert

  The garden had been Ruby’s idea, and not something I’d been keen on doing, but I got carried away. It’s always like that, when I’m talking herbs.

  “The plants could be arranged informally, like a cottage garden. Or even arranged in a small, semiformal garden, in keeping with the architecture. It could have walks paved with white rocks or limestone flags, in a four-square design. In the center, you could have either a water feature or a small potted tree—maybe a Mexican lime—or even something very sculptural, a large yucca, for instance. In the summer, marigolds would be nice. They have lots of Mexican symbolism. And you might consider taking out the roses. They require a great deal of upkeep, and I don’t think they belong in this setting. You could replace them with low-care natives, like agarita or cenizo or even palmetto, if you wanted some drama.”

  I stopped. I was talking too much. Lecturing, actually.

  But Sharyn didn’t seem to think so. “How nice that you’re interested in doing this, China. I’ll let the board know about your generous offer, and they can decide whether they’d prefer something informal or a little more formal.”

  “China is very generous,” Ruby said, bestowing a sweet smile on me. Then she took me off the hook—well, almost. “Actually I was thinking that maybe, if she supplied the plants from her shop, the herb guild would agree to do the planting. They’ve worked with her on a number of garden projects.”

  “I could help arrange that,” Sharyn said promptly. “The president of the guild is an old friend of mine. China, if you would design the garden and supply the plants, I’ll be glad to ask her for volunteers.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said, since there was nothing to do but agree. Of course, I could put in a little sign: Plants donated by Thyme and Seasons Herb Shop. It would be good advertising—although since the museum was private, nobody but the board, and maybe some donors, would see it.

  “Well, then,” Sharyn said, very gracious, especially now that the garden question had been settled. “It’s awfully warm out here. Why don’t we go inside and chat for a few moments over a glass of iced tea. Then, if you like, I’ll be glad to give you the grand tour. I’m sure you’ll enjoy seeing the collection.”

  She led us across the plaza to a door that opened into the side of the house. As we went, I glanced around, recognizing this as the place I had seen on the video, where Christine Morris had been killed. Those were the steps where the body had lain. And over there to the left, visible through the yaupon holly hedge that had replaced the chain-link fence, was the Bowen house. It was so close that I could have thrown a rock through one of the windows. I resisted the urge to point this out to Ruby. There was no point in making Sharyn nervous by letting her know that I recognized the spot where her cousin had been murdered.

  A moment later, we were entering a light, open room—the lounge, Sharyn called it. She gestured to a seating area with a sofa, chairs, and coffee table on which sat a colorful painted tray, a confetti-glass pitcher of iced tea, and matching confetti-glass goblets. The stark whiteness of the walls was partially relieved by a vivid grouping of paintings of flowers in Mexican folk art style. There were bright marigolds, painted in rich reds and oranges and yellows, and fanciful balloon flowers and others in gorgeous purples and blues and lavender. There was a plaque under the group, and I saw with interest that they had been painted by Irene Cameron, Paul’s wife, and that they were for sale. The prices were displayed discreetly on each painting, and all were in the $300 to $500 range—a little pricey for me, but if I could have afforded to buy one, I certainly would have. I studied the paintings, wondering whether Irene might have smaller, lower-priced paintings that I could display in my shop. The marigolds would be especially nice.

  “This is the room we’re planning to convert to a dining room,” Sharyn said. “We’re expecting to expand our membership and open the museum to groups—carefully selected, of course—on a rental basis, for parties. We won’t prepare the meals on the premises, though. We’ll have them catered.”

  Ever the entrepreneur, Ruby said quickly, “Did you know that China and I have a catering service? I’ll drop off a brochure for you to review. Party Thyme—China and I and our friend Cass Wilde—would be glad to bid on the next event you’re planning.”

  I admire Ruby’s business sense. She’s way ahead of me in that department. I wouldn’t have thought of suggesting that.

  “Thank you,” Sharyn said. “Yes, do give me your brochure, Ruby, and I’ll share it with our board. We would rather do business with someone we know than with strangers, of course.” She smiled. “Now, would you like to have iced tea? Or there’s coffee, if you’d rather.”

  I accepted the offer of tea. So did Ruby, and we sat down while our hostess easily hefted the heavy pitcher and poured. I noticed her square hands and thought once again that she was a solid and muscular woman. I remembered that Ruby had said that she and her cousin were not on good terms at the time of Christine Morris’ death, and the thought crossed my mind that—

  “I’ve put together a packet of material for you, and another for the possible donor you mentioned,” Sharyn said, handing us our glasses. “Your sister, I think you said?”

  “Oh, thank you,” Ruby replied, picking up the two envelopes on the table and tucking them into her purse. “I’ll be sure to pass this on to Ramona. Your card is here, isn’t it?” She looked and found it. “Oh, yes. Well, if she has any questions, she can call you and discuss.”

  Sharyn looked gratified. “Meanwhile,” she went on, “I thought you might like to know a little of the history of this unique house.” She waved her arm in an expansive gesture. “And something about our fine collection of Mexican art. It’s one of the very best in the state, although that fact isn’t often recognized. Of course, we’re quite small in comparison to the publicly funded museums—we have just a thousand carefully selected pieces, on display and in storage. And we have remained private.”

  “Private,” Ruby mused. “That’s a little unusual, isn’t it? I thought museums were open to the public.”

  “Many are,” Sharyn said. “But Christine made that stipulation in her will, as well as appointing me to oversee the foundation and the collection itself. She wanted the house maintained as a setting for the collection, but she didn’t want a lot of curious gawkers traipsing through it every day, just to have something to do. And while there’s enough money to support the house and the collection, there isn’t enough to manage it as a museum that’s regularly open to the public. To do that, we would need to hire a larger staff, and more security. Some of the works are extremely valuable.”

  “Maybe you could just fill us in briefly,” Ruby suggested. “China didn’t grow up here in Pecan Springs the way you and I did. She may want to ask questions.” The smiles she and Sharyn exchanged were just slightly pitying, establishing the two of them as native Pecan Springers, birds of a feather. I was the outsider. Which was okay. In fact, it was a wily move on Ruby’s part, connecting her and Sharyn.

  “Oh, of course,” Sharyn replied, launching into what sounded like a practiced spiel. “The Morris collection was initially the work of my cousin, Christine, who began collecting Mexican art, both contemporary and traditional, more than thirty years ago. She had exquisite artistic taste and a very good sense of what would constitute an impressive collection. She made numerous trips to Mexico, building relationships with dealers in Mexico City and bringing back pieces that she enjoyed.”

  “You said ‘initially,’” I broke in. “Does that mean that you have continued to collect, after her death?”

  “We have accepted several donated collections,” Sharyn replied cautiously. “They are mostly folk art pieces, but there are some quite valuable paintings and a few contemporary sculptures. And the foundation itself has acquired a few items. Now, as I was saying, Christine continued—”

  “Excuse me for interrupting,” I said, “but I’m curious
. Are you able to sell items from the collection?” I smiled toothily. “That is, if I wanted to buy something, could I?”

  Sharyn waved toward the paintings on the wall behind us. “We have a few things for sale, like these splendid florals by Irene Cameron.” Her voice was a little warmer, now that she sensed that I wasn’t just a gardener but a potential customer. “As you can see, Irene is quite an accomplished painter. And some of our donors allow us to sell works that they have contributed. So yes, we might be able to arrange a purchase, if you see something you like.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She took a breath and went on with her speech. “Christine continued to expand her collection after she came here to Pecan Springs and married Douglas Clark, a well-known real estate developer, who built this unique home for her. She wanted to fill it with her art and invite the community to share her passion for the artistic achievements of our South-of-the-Border friends. Unfortunately, she died before she was able to realize all her dreams—”

  “She was murdered, wasn’t she?” I interrupted again. I was an outsider, not a true-blue Pecan Springer. I wasn’t expected to have good manners. But I was now a possible customer, which put Sharyn somewhat on the spot.

  “Tragically, yes.” Sharyn shook her head sadly. “I’m sure you remember it, Ruby. A senseless, brutal act. But Christine had had the wisdom and foresight to establish the Morris Foundation, which had already assumed ownership of her collection. At her death, the foundation took over this house and named a board of local people who shared her passionate love of—”

  “I think I heard that the neighbor who was charged with her murder was acquitted,” I said.

  Now I had her full attention. “Yes, that’s true,” she replied carefully. “The police were convinced of his guilt, and so were Christine’s friends. I know I was—the man was clearly guilty. But the jury believed otherwise.” She was frowning now, as if she wondered how her friend Ruby could have such an uncouth acquaintance. “It was a heartbreaking end to a life dedicated to the arts. But thankfully, Christine’s collection remains with us, a tribute to her memory. We do our very best to take care of it, just as she would have done if her life had not been so tragically cut short.”

  Ruby intervened hurriedly, as if she wanted to deter me from making another ill-mannered blunder. “The foundation—how is it managed? The museum has a board, doesn’t it? Does the board manage the collections?”

  “Those are good questions, Ruby,” Sharyn said, relieved to move toward safer ground. “The board employs the resources of the foundation in the management of the collection. I am the president and there are six—no, currently five members.” She hesitated, then found it necessary to explain her correction. “We just lost one of our members, I’m sorry to say. We’ll be filling her vacant position shortly. Our board is responsible for—”

  “Was that Dr. Prior?” I asked. “Karen Prior? She was a member of your board, wasn’t she?”

  Her eyes widened slightly. “Yes. I’m sorry to say that Dr. Prior . . . died last week.” She shook her head, as if in disbelief. “Another enormous tragedy—so senseless.”

  “Ruby and I both knew Karen,” I said. “I’m also acquainted with Paul Cameron. He retired from your board recently, I understand.”

  “Yes, that’s right, he did,” she said, now almost defensively. For an outsider, I had more connections in Pecan Springs than she had thought. “Dr. Cameron hasn’t been . . . well, lately. We were sorry to lose him, of course. He brought a great deal of experience to our little group.”

  I wondered briefly about that, since Dr. Cameron had told Kitt that he thought Sharyn was “as ignorant as dirt” about art. But it was likely that he had never shared his opinion with Sharyn herself.

  She was going on. “However, I’m glad to say that Dr. Cameron’s wife, Irene, will be returning to fill Karen Prior’s place. She served several terms on the board in years past and has an extensive interest in twentieth-century Mexican art. In fact, she wrote her master’s thesis on Mexican women artists. As you can see, she is quite a gifted painter herself.” She gestured toward the floral paintings. “And so helpful.” She paused, adding with evident pride, “Our board is a working board, you see. We share curatorial duties—and a great deal of the work that keeps this place going.”

  Ruby frowned. “I don’t know a lot about art museums. But isn’t that a little . . . unusual? Don’t most museums have curators who manage the collections?”

  Sharyn nodded. “Yes, of course. But we are less like everyone’s idea of a museum and more like a private collection that offers limited public access, mostly to educators and students. And since we are privately funded, our foundation can manage the museum a little more informally. But we assure our friends and supporters that we oversee the collection with the greatest diligence.”

  Yes, of course. But there was a foundation, which presumably operated as a tax-exempt nonprofit. In fact, my skeptical self was wondering if Christine’s motivation for creating the foundation in the first place hadn’t been simple greed: she aimed to save herself a bundle on taxes. The initial donation of the art, and the house, would have been tax deductible. The cost of housing, securing, maintaining, and insuring the art—a substantial outlay—could be covered by cash gifts, also deductible. The foundation wouldn’t pay sales tax on art it purchased. And if any items from the collection were sold at a profit, the foundation wouldn’t pay a cent in capital gains. (A private owner, on the other hand, would fork over at least 28 percent of the gain to Uncle Sam.) Moreover, at Christine’s death, there would have been no estate tax. A hefty, IRS-blessed gift all the way around—as long as Christine, or anyone associated with the foundation, did not use it for “self-dealing,” tax-speak for manipulating your nonprofit for your own personal benefit. For example, if the IRS discovers that you have listed a painting as the property of your foundation and then hung it on your living room wall, it will revoke its blessing and is inclined to get nasty about it.

  Sharyn was going on. “When we first began to work with Christine’s collection, we found it to be very disorganized. Some of the paintings weren’t framed and many were not yet hung, simply stacked around the walls and tucked into closets and here and there. We invited a knowledgeable gentleman—the man who had helped Christine acquire some of her art—to serve as curator. He saw to the framing and hanging of the art and established the provenance of her works. Luckily, Christine had maintained a skeletal record of her acquisitions, so he had something to go on. He no longer formally curates for us, but he’s always available to answer questions and provide guidance.”

  “Just out of curiosity,” I said, “who was he?”

  Another uncouth question. Sharyn looked like she wished she could think of a reason not to answer it. “Roberto Soto,” she said, with obvious reluctance. I caught her watching me to see if the name registered.

  Of course it did, but that was my little secret. I wondered if Soto was still in the art business. I put a tick beside my mental note to give Justine a call and see what she knew about his current activities.

  Reassured by my silence, Sharyn went on. “Mr. Soto has an art gallery in San Antonio and was a close friend of the Camerons—Paul was chairman of the museum board at that time.”

  A close friend? Remembering Kitt’s report that Paul thought Soto was as “wily as a fox,” I was a little surprised.

  “Anyway,” Sharyn continued, “Mr. Soto undertook the work for us out of his affection for Christine, whom he had known quite well. He did such a good job that we haven’t had to do anything more than update our current acquisitions. And plan and arrange exhibits for our invited guests, of course. We would do far more if we had the funding to hire even one full-time staff person.” She squared her shoulders and raised her chin, as if she were admitting to a disability. “But we don’t, so we simply go on and do whatever we can, always grateful for the board
members’ generosity with their time and talents.”

  “Very commendable,” I said and added, “But surely your board doesn’t put in nighttime duty as security guards.”

  “No, of course not.” She chuckled as if I had made a small joke, a very small joke. “We employ a security service. When Christine lived here in the house, she installed an excellent alarm system. And I live upstairs,” she added in an offhand way. “Which means that there is someone on the premises at all times. This is a quiet neighborhood, and we’ve never had any trouble. I doubt that we ever will.”

  No trouble—except for a bloody murder, that is. Had anyone inventoried the art to find out whether any of it had disappeared at the time of the murder?

  But I was distracted from that question by the thought that the director of the foundation lived upstairs. This small piece of information seemed to throw a different light on the situation. I wondered whether she was paying rent, and whether the IRS might attribute the value of her living quarters to “self-dealing”—which of course was none of my business.

  And once more, I remembered that the women had been estranged at the time of Christine’s death—so estranged that Christine had left Sharyn nothing in her will. But that situation had obviously changed. Sharyn may not have directly inherited anything from her cousin, but from the looks of things, she might as well have. She was in possession of both the house and the collection, wasn’t she? From an outsider’s point of view, it appeared that her relationship to the Morris Museum was more that of an heiress than a foundation manager or a board president. I filed the observation under “Think More about This.” I had no idea what it might mean, but it was interesting.