Death Come Quickly

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Well.” Sharyn put down her glass and stood with a smile. “I know that we’re all a little pressed for time this afternoon. Shall we take a look around?”

  “I’d love that,” Ruby said promptly. “I can’t believe that I’ve lived in Pecan Springs all these years and I’ve never seen the collection.”

  The architect had designed the interior of the house to take your breath away, and it certainly took mine. The stark glacier-white walls, some of them curving or set at irregular angles; the gleaming hardwood floors, displaying an occasional rug (carefully cordoned off as a piece of art); the sweep of vaulted ceilings, visually extending the space; the perfectly designed illumination, both track and recessed lighting. There were no windows on the main floor—partly, I supposed, for the sake of security, but also to avoid light spilling onto the art.

  And of course, the walls and floors were just the backdrop. Against them was displayed the art: paintings, collages, and textiles on every wall, pedestals displaying ceramics, shelves filled with jewelry, niches filled with sculptures, vases, folk art figures. I couldn’t have begun to name the artists or the works, but Sharyn could and did, proudly. A fumage by Antonio Muñiz, two of Enrique Chagoya’s lithographs, a life-size acrylic painting of a nude female by Jorge Figueroa Acosta, a sculptural metal figure by Byron Gálvez, a series of brightly woven native serapes, a remarkable trio of large painted masks.

  “Amazing,” I murmured. Even I, with my scant knowledge of art, could see that this was one impressive collection.

  Beside me, Ruby’s eyes were growing larger and larger. “Astonishing,” she whispered.

  Sharyn paused with us at the entrances of several smaller rooms, each one painted a different color—dark blue, mahogany, glowing gold—depending on the colors of the paintings displayed on the walls. Then, at the end of the main hall, she led us through a wide doorway into a large alcove and turned on the lights. The walls here were painted a stunning burnished copper color, against which six paintings were displayed.

  “These are among our most precious paintings,” she said. “We have two by Diego Rivera and three—actually, three!—by Frida Kahlo. And this—” She turned with a theatrical gesture to a lurid landscape of an erupting volcano that occupied one wall. “This is our Dr. Atl.” She stood for a moment, letting us take them in. “Aren’t they spectacular?”

  I let out my breath. “Truly,” I said, hardly knowing what to say. Yes, truly, truly spectacular. I turned to look at the painting by Dr. Atl, which pictured fiery lava spouting into the air and spilling over the top of a mountain, reflecting in bloodred flows across the rocky foreground. I let my glance linger on it, wondering—

  “Amazing,” Ruby squeaked. “My goodness’ sakes. I had no idea. Utterly no idea.” She shook her head. “Why, these must be worth a fortune!”

  “They are quite valuable,” Sharyn agreed quietly. “And insured, of course. But as I say, they are safe with us.”

  We stood for a few moments, looking first at one painting, then at another. And then, ready to go, I turned back toward the wide doorway through which we had come into this room. At the end of the hall, against the far wall, was the glass-enclosed stair I had seen in the documentary, the glass treads seeming to float in space, an artwork in its own right.

  And there, beside the stair, was the painting I had seen on that wall, simply framed in dark wood. Muerte llega pronto. Death Come Quickly. Karen Prior’s favorite painting, by María Izquierdo. And in my purse, slung over my shoulder, was the Sotheby’s catalog with the photograph of this very same painting—or rather, a painting by this title, perhaps the same, perhaps different. I wanted to whip it out and compare the two, but something told me that this was not the moment for that.

  I stepped close, trying to see the painting clearly enough to remember the details. It was an unsettling work and I doubted that I would ever think of it as a favorite. But there was something about it—the authenticity and power of the emotion, perhaps—that drew me into it. It was a painting of betrayal, I thought. Of a terrible loss. Of a wish for death. A wish for a quick death that would put an end to unbearable pain.

  Ruby pulled in a ragged breath. “Oh, my,” she breathed and put her hand on my arm, leaning against me. “China, I—”

  I turned to look at her. “Ruby, are you okay?” I whispered.

  “Not really,” she murmured. She closed her eyes and opened them again, and her fingers clamped down on my arm, hard, as if she were trying to anchor herself. “I don’t think I’m seeing what you’re seeing. But please, don’t let Sharyn know. She—”

  Sharyn was paying no attention to our whispers. She was lost in the painting, gazing at it with a kind of reverence. “It’s simply stunning, isn’t it? It isn’t the most valuable piece in our collection—Izquierdo isn’t nearly as well-known as Frida Kahlo or Diego Rivera and her work doesn’t command their prices. But the dark, earthy colors, and that astonishing pink flower, and the blood . . .” She took a breath. “This painting was Christine’s favorite. And now it is mine.”

  I turned to look at her, but her gaze was fixed on the painting, and a small smile curved the corner of her mouth. I wondered if she had actually heard those five words as they fell like shards of splintered glass into the fragile silence around us. And now it is mine.

  And now it is mine.

  • • •

  OUTSIDE, on the street, Ruby and I stood beside our cars, in the shade of a massive live oak tree.

  “Are you okay, Ruby?” I asked, concerned. “What did you mean when you said that you weren’t seeing what I was seeing? What was that about? What were you seeing?”

  Ruby’s face was pale and her hand, when she put it out to me, was trembling. “Nothing,” she said, in a half-choked voice. “I was seeing just . . . nothing.”

  I frowned. “You mean, you were seeing nothing out of the ordinary?” I prodded. “Just the painting?”

  “No,” Ruby said faintly. She closed her eyes. “I was seeing nothing, China. There was nothing in that frame. It was empty.” She opened her eyes wide. “Totally empty.”

  I stared at her. Ruby is a highly intuitive person, sensitive to things that other people miss. I have known her to see strange things, hear strange noises, feel strange breezes, smell strange smells. I have been with her when she’s seen ghosts, and when she’s seen dead bodies. But I have never known her to see . . . nothing, especially when there is clearly something there. And there was something. I saw it myself.

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “You’re sure? You didn’t just . . . you know, space out?”

  “No.” Ruby sounded irritated. “I did not ‘space out.’ I turned to look at that painting, just as you did. But all I could see was the empty frame, and behind it, the blank wall.”

  “Well,” I said and stopped. Ruby amazes me sometimes, and when she does, I know it’s with good reason. She understands something I’m missing. I need to pay attention. I tried again.

  “Well, why?” I managed. “Why do you think you saw . . . nothing? I mean, I was seeing a painting of a woman holding a blossom of Herb Robert—death come quickly—with blood dripping out of the petals and leaves. It’s the same painting that’s in the video Kitt and Gretchen shot.”

  “I don’t know why I couldn’t see the painting.” Ruby sounded very tired. “I just have no clue.” Her voice rose. “But it means something, China. Something serious. And I have the feeling it has to do with Sharyn.”

  “With Sharyn? In what way?”

  “I don’t know. There’s something about her that’s just . . . not right.” Ruby shook her head, perplexed.

  I shivered as I thought again of Sharyn’s hands, and the sound of her voice when she said And now it is mine. Then I remembered the Sotheby’s catalog. I reached into my purse, pulled it out, and opened it to the page that Karen had marked with the yellow sticky note.

  “I
found this in Karen’s briefcase,” I said. “It’s a photograph of the painting we’re talking about, or of something very similar. Can you see this one?”

  Ruby blinked. “Sure,” she said, looking down at the photograph. “It’s a woman, holding a pink flower.” She peered more closely. “The flower is bleeding on her. She’s sad—no, she’s anguished.” She put her finger on the painting’s title. “Muerte llega pronto. That fits, doesn’t it? Death Come Quickly.”

  “Yes, it does,” I said. “It fits.”

  Ruby took the catalog from me and looked at the cover. “Sotheby’s,” she said. “They auction paintings and stuff, don’t they?” She flipped back to the marked page. “And they’re auctioning this one? The one that everybody but me can see? The same painting? How does that work?”

  “They’ve already auctioned it,” I said, pointing to the date on the cover. “Last November. They expected to get $110,000 to $125,000 for it. But I’m not sure it’s the very same painting. Maybe it’s a similar painting, by the same title.”

  “Something very weird is going on here,” Ruby muttered.

  “Two weird somethings,” I said. “Number one, the painting you can’t see, even when it’s hanging, big as life, a foot in front of your nose. Number two, the painting that Sotheby’s auctioned off, with the same title.” I paused, wrinkling my forehead. “No, make that three somethings. The fact that Karen had this auction catalog in her briefcase. Which means that she must have spotted the lookalikes, as well.”

  Ruby looked perplexed. “You don’t suppose this had anything to do with . . . you know. With the mugging.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been concentrating on trying to figure out whether there’s a connection between Karen’s mugging and Christine Morris’ murder. But this is something different. I’ll have to think about it.” I frowned. “Any idea why you couldn’t see the painting on the wall, Ruby?”

  She was studying the photograph in the catalog. “Because it isn’t really there?” she hazarded.

  “But it is there,” I protested. “I saw it; Sharyn saw it. This isn’t the emperor’s new clothes, Ruby. We were not pretending to not notice that it’s gone.”

  “I know,” Ruby said slowly. “But maybe . . . maybe—” She closed the catalog and held it up. “Is it okay if I take this home with me? I want to do some research.”

  “Sure.” I leaned over and opened her car door for her. “What are you going to do with it? Show it to your Ouija board?” I smothered a snicker. “Ask the I Ching to give you a clue? Consult your rune stones?”

  “Don’t be tacky, China.” She stuck her lower lip out, scowling. “This is serious stuff.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, penitent. “You’re right. Sometimes my tacky self just can’t resist showing off. I know there’s a reason you couldn’t see that painting—a serious reason. I hope you can figure it out. Please use any means you can think of, including the Ouija board.”

  Ruby folded her long legs into her car. “Actually,” she said, “I was thinking of trying something else. Something different.” She closed the door, put the key in the ignition, and rolled down her window.

  “What’s that?” I asked curiously, through the open window. What could be more different than Ruby’s Ouija board, rune stones, and I Ching?

  “Google,” she said.

  I rolled my eyes. Google. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  “I thought I’d check out Sotheby’s website,” she added. “They might have posted the results of that auction—the price, maybe. I don’t know what that would tell us—probably nothing. But it’s worth a shot, don’t you think? And I could surf around and look for some of Izquierdo’s other paintings—get some information about her and her background.”

  “It certainly is worth a shot,” I said. “When you’ve got everything doped out, Ruby, call me and tell me about it. Okay?”

  “Sure thing.” She waggled her fingers at me, put her car in gear, and drove off.

  Chapter Ten

  In Devonshire, England, it is considered unlucky to plant lilies of the valley, for these tiny white bells are said to ring forth the death of the one who plants them.

  China Bayles

  “Herbs of Good and Ill Omen”

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  As I got into my car, I looked at my watch. Perfect timing—it was just after three o’clock. Paul and Irene Cameron lived only about six blocks away. I could stop in and see Paul, who should be up from his nap and ready for a chat.

  I was ready, definitely. Now that I had seen the collection for myself, I had some questions I wanted to ask him about the Morris Museum and the functioning of the museum board. What was Sharyn Tillotson’s role in the management of the collection? Did the board keep on top of what was going on, or did they let Sharyn run things, more or less? What could he tell me about the paintings that were on exhibit, those that had been purchased, and those that had been sold? But Kitt had said that Paul was unfocused and had a tendency to wander off the subject. I hoped he was feeling up to giving me some answers.

  The Camerons’ house was a large, very nice two-story frame home, surrounded by pecan and live oak trees, not far from the river. I was on my way up the walk when Irene came out on the stoop to greet me, closing the door behind her. She was wearing a painter’s smock and there was a streak of paint on one bare arm.

  “I’m so sorry, China,” she said regretfully. “But it turns out that this isn’t a good afternoon for Paul after all. He’s tired and awfully grumpy.” She sighed and made a little face. “I’m afraid he’s not making a lot of sense, either. You wouldn’t enjoy your visit. And he’d be terribly frustrated—embarrassed, too. He knows when he’s not in full control, but he just can’t stop himself.”

  I was a little surprised that she was telling me this, since we didn’t know one another that well. But I knew that she must be relieved to see a friendly face—and embarrassed herself, on behalf of her husband.

  “That’s too bad,” I said, feeling a surge of sympathy for her, as well as for Paul. Someone had told me that she had been his graduate student when they married. She must be twenty years younger than he, and very pretty, with a delicate diamond-shaped face, clear gray eyes, and brown hair that she wore plaited in a thick braid down her back. When he was on the CTSU art faculty, her life had been full of all the usual faculty doings—exhibits, lectures, parties, concerts. It must be a very different life now, and very lonely, if he continued to go downhill. How would she deal with the challenge of his care? I thought again of the rumor that Paul’s erratic financial investments had jeopardized their house and wondered how she was managing, financially. It must be a difficult struggle.

  “It is the way it is,” she said in a practical tone and brushed her flyaway brown hair out of her eyes with the back of a paint-smeared hand. “I’m afraid it won’t be long before we’ll have to make . . . other arrangements for him.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that, Irene,” I said. “He’s always been such an active, energetic guy.”

  “Oh, he still has a lot of physical energy,” she said ruefully. “And he’s bigger and stronger than I am, which makes it difficult to manage him, especially when he’s being . . . you know, contrary. He can be a handful at times. But I try to save time to do what I enjoy doing, as much as I can. He always encouraged me to do that.” She looked down at her splattered smock and managed a tremulous smile. “As you can see, I’m painting. At least, I’m trying to, although I’m a little out of practice. But I would love to sell more of my work, to help out with expenses. I actually have a show coming up in a couple of months, if I can manage to get enough done. One of our friends has promised to set it up for me at his gallery in San Antonio.”

  “That’s wonderful, Irene,” I said, with genuine enthusiasm. I could hear the strain in her voice, a little tremble, some hesitancy. Perhaps her art would help to r
elieve some of the stress of being a full-time caregiver for her husband. “I saw some of your work—the flower paintings—at the Morris Museum earlier this afternoon. They are really quite lovely.”

  A pleased smile broke across her face. “Oh, thank you! I’m glad you liked them.”

  “They gave me an idea, actually,” I said. “I wondered if you might like to hang a few of your floral pieces in my herb shop. The marigolds are especially wonderful. They would have to be priced quite a lot lower, though, maybe in the forty-to-sixty-dollar range. At that price, I think I could sell several.”

  She frowned thoughtfully. “Well, perhaps. Actually, I have several paintings of lilies of the valley—they’re smaller, and I think I could let them go at that price. As I said, I really need to help out with expenses. Let me think about it and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Oh, by the way, when I was at the Morris, Sharyn mentioned that you’re returning to the board, to fill Karen Prior’s place.”

  “Yes.” Irene gave an awkward little shrug. “I enjoyed my work with the collection and I’m glad to be going back, although I wish it could be under . . . different circumstances.” She shook her head bleakly. “That was just terrible about Karen Prior.” Her voice broke. “A mugging! I could hardly believe that something like that could happen to her.”

  “I know,” I said. “It was a terrible shock.” I paused, then added, “I saw a painting at the museum today that I understand was Karen’s favorite. I found it quite striking. I wonder if you could tell me something about the artist. Muerte llega pronto, it’s called. Death Come Quickly.”

  Irene shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t think I recognize it,” she said, after a moment. “It must not have been in the collection when I was on the board. Who painted it?”