A Fit of Tempera

by Mary Daheim

  “A shock? Not entirely.” His teeth had stopped chattering as he sat up and began digging into the pocket of his sport coat. “Riley enjoyed livin’ on the edge. He delighted in antagonizin’ people. Rilin’ Riley, that’s what Ah called him. To mahself, of course.” At last, Silvanus pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. “Do you mind? Ah may not be surprised, but Ah am shocked.”

  Obligingly, if enviously, Judith handed Silvanus an ashtray that Aunt Ellen had made from her firstborn’s baby bottle. Silvanus lighted up and puffed with relief. Renie handed him his drink, and after the first sip, he seemed to implode.

  “Now that’s what Ah call a help!” Arms and legs splayed all over the sofa, his head shot back, his chest sunk in, and his stomach suddenly bulged at his belt. Ashes flew from his cigarette; a small leather-bound notebook fell out of the pocket inside his sport coat. Clive seemed not to notice. “Yessir, Ah’m gonna live after all! Is what Ah smell taters fryin’?”

  The cousins traded perturbed looks. “No,” said Renie emphatically. “That’s wax facial-hair remover. We’re going to depilate each other after dinner. I mean, after you leave.”

  Although an expression of either disbelief or disappointment crossed Clive Silvanus’s soft face, he seemed content to console himself with his bourbon. Renie retrieved the notebook and placed it at Clive’s elbow. Judith sat down next to him on the sofa, intent on getting an explanation.

  “You said you were shocked but not surprised, Mr. Silvanus. What did you mean by that?”

  Swirling the pale mixture of bourbon and water, Clive Silvanus turned ruminative. “Like Ah said, ol’ Riley had a way about him. He put people off-balance. He made ’em sit up and take notice. He despised complacency, Riley did. Friends, foes—it didn’t matter. It was one and the same to him. Way back, he went the usual route, sellin’ his paintings on consignment through a gallery. But he’d always get mad—riled up, you might say—and move on. Finally, he hired me.” Silvanus shrugged, drained his drink, and handed the empty glass to Renie for a refill. Renie grimaced, but went into the little kitchen to comply. “Ah was always warnin’ him. ‘Riley,’ Ah’d say, ‘you behave now. Don’t go shootin’ your mouth off and antagonizin’ folks.’ But he wouldn’t listen. It was just his way.” Silvanus paused to accept another drink from Renie. She also pointed to the notebook. Clive gazed at it blankly, then put it back in his inside pocket. “Thank you, ma’am. Yessir, it was just Riley’s way. And it got him killed.”

  As Clive Silvanus took a deep swallow, Judith saw her chance to interrupt the monologue: “Do you know who did it?”

  The soft brown eyes widened as Silvanus gazed at Judith. He brushed at his mustache and wrinkled his nose. “Sure Ah do. Fine bourbon, by the way.” He made a little bow to Renie. “Ah ought to know—Ah am aware of who called on Riley this afternoon. Ah heard the quarrel. Ah heard the threats. Ah must say Ah’m sorry.”

  Judith raised her dark eyebrows. “You knew Lazlo Gamm?”

  Clive’s face sagged. “Lazlo? Ah’ve met the man. But what has he got to do with the price of pigs?” He shook his head sadly. “Alas, Ah’m not referrin’ to that foreigner. Oh, no. It grieves me to say as much, but who else could have killed Riley but Ward Kimball?”

  FOUR

  A HUNDRED YARDS upriver, on the former site of a gold prospector’s shack, stood the A-frame owned by Trent and Glenna Berkman. The Berkmans were skiers who used their river retreat mostly as a base for going up to the lifts on Mount Woodchuck. They were rarely seen in the summer, never in the autumn and spring. Through the trees, Judith could just make out the very tip of the Berkman cabin. A full moon was rising behind it, casting a silver sheen over the forest.

  At Clive Silvanus’s startling statement, Judith tore her gaze from the perfect picture framed by the homely window with its four square panes. “Ward Kimball?” she echoed. “No! You can’t mean that, Mr. Silvanus.”

  Mr. Silvanus looked as if he didn’t mean much of anything. He was pulling on his bourbon, rocking to and fro, and making a noise that sounded like, “Ummm-mm, ummm-uh-mm, ummm-mm.” Judith wondered if he was singing himself to sleep.

  “Mr. Silvanus!” Judith spoke sharply. The agent jumped, then shook himself and almost dropped his drink. He gave the cousins a shamefaced look.

  “Sorry. Ah tell you, Ah’m very upset.” With exaggerated effort, Clive began to rearrange himself on the sofa. “Ah’m not prevaricatin’. Riley and ol’ Ward were havin’ a real ruckus this afternoon.”

  “Where were you?” Judith queried, perching on the arm of the sofa.

  Clive reflected, drank, and reflected some more. His soft brown eyes were growing downright fuzzy. He started to put his cigarette out, missed the ashtray, and was about to singe the couch when Renie yanked the butt out of his hand. “Oh! Sorry.” Clive gave Renie a penitent, sickly smile. “Where was Ah? Literally and figuratively? Ah’m all at sea…Oh—outside the studio, that is. Ah had just arrived and heard them goin’ at it tooth and toenail. Then Ah skedaddled away.”

  Judith frowned at Renie, who was looking quizzical. “What were they fighting about?” asked Judith.

  Draining his glass, Clive started to slump again. “A row…a real donny…brook…” His head lolled. Judith leaned over and propped him up. She gave him a little shake. He flipped and flopped, like a soft rag doll. “Ummm-mm, ummm-uh-mm…” The odd noise faded; Clive Silvanus was also fading.

  Crouched in front of the sofa, Renie caught the empty glass as it fell from Clive’s limp hands. “We’ve got to get him out of here,” she whispered. “He’s going to pass out and we’ll be stuck with him. Besides, we only have two steaks.”

  “Rats!” muttered Judith, giving Clive another, harder shake. “Wake up! Mr. Silvanus! Hey!”

  But it was too late. Clive fell away from Judith, his head nestled on a pillow Grandma Grover had covered in crimson corduroy. He began to snore. Softly.

  “Great,” said Renie, getting up. “Now what?”

  Judith was still perched on the arm of the sofa, chin on her fist. “What do you think he weighs? One-fifty?”

  Renie considered. “He’s not much taller than you. Five-ten, maybe one-sixty, I’d guess. Which end do I take?”

  It wasn’t easy to cart Clive Silvanus from the sofa to the little bedroom off the kitchen. The cousins had only about fifteen feet to cover, but Clive was a dead weight. They ended up hauling the unconscious man across the floor and dumping him on the bed. Judith threw a striped Hudson Bay blanket over him; Renie tugged off his saddle shoes. Closing the blue plaid curtain, they left him in peace.

  “He’s not only drunk,” Judith declared as she went to the stove to rescue their dinner, “he’s crazy. Ward Kimball wouldn’t—probably couldn’t—kill Riley Tobias.”

  Renie nodded. “Silvanus is crocked. If Ward’s as feeble as Riley said he is, he could hardly have overpowered his victim and garroted him with picture-hanging wire.” She stared at the steaks. “They’re too well done. Damn.”

  “We’ll manage.” Judith quickly sautéed a half-dozen mushrooms while Renie tossed the green salad. The drop-leaf table, which could be expanded to seat twelve, stood in front of the Murphy bed. Sitting down to eat, Judith queried Renie about Clive Silvanus and Lazlo Gamm.

  But Renie had never heard of either man before today. “I’m on the fringes of the art world,” she pointed out. “My only connection is when I attend a gallery showing to get ideas for new designs, use of colors, general trends. Lazlo may not live in this area. As for Clive, I figure that under that boozy Southern exterior, he must be pretty sharp. And shrewd. He’s helped parlay Riley Tobias into the Big Time. I suspect his image is carefully cultivated to sucker potential buyers.”

  Dishing up the hash browns, Judith considered Renie’s assessment. From the bedroom, Clive’s snores erupted like a combustion engine run amok. Indeed, the sound struck Judith as almost inhuman. She cocked her head to one side and listened. The noise abated to a dull rumble.
Judith turned her attention back to Renie. “Could be,” she said. “I wonder where Clive went after he left the studio. Do you think it was his Mercedes parked at the Woodchuck Auto Court?”

  Renie shook her head. “I think Dewitt Dixon drives a Mercedes. Wherever Clive was, I’ll bet a buck he had a bottle with him. Nobody, not even in shock, could get that blitzed on two bourbons. I wasn’t exactly generous.”

  “Right.” Judith cut into her steak, which happily remained pink in the middle. “Once Clive sobers up, maybe he can deliver Dewitt’s painting. He should get a nice commission off that sale.”

  Renie was stuffing herself with steak, salad, and hash browns, all at once. “He will. I don’t know the percentage, but with a gallery it’s anywhere from ten to sixty percent. All Clive has to do is hand that baby over and…” She paused, which was just as well, since Judith was having trouble understanding her cousin talk with her mouth full.

  “And what?” prompted Judith.

  Renie’s brown eyes strayed to the curtain that covered the Murphy bed. She swallowed. “He can hand it over if he can find it,” she amended. “What do you think, coz?”

  Judith also stared at the blue plaid curtain. Then she dismissed Renie’s insinuation with a wave of her fork. “Riley Tobias wouldn’t give me a seventy-thousand-dollar painting he’d already sold. That doesn’t make sense.” Judith’s logical mind was offended by the mere idea.

  From the bedroom, Clive Silvanus’s snores had become muffled. The cousins gathered up their dishes, put a tea kettle on to heat water for washing up, and opened a tin of sugar cookies Judith had baked the previous day. The cabin smelled of woodsmoke and no-nonsense food. Judith marveled anew at the contentment within her grasp. If only Riley Tobias hadn’t gotten himself killed…

  It was going on nine when they finished the dishes. The cousins were wondering if they should leave Clive Silvanus alone while they called home from the auto court when a harsh knock rattled the Dutch door. The plaid drapes had been drawn; Judith peeked through the window over the sink to see if she could identify their latest visitors.

  “Swell,” she muttered, heading for the door. “It’s the sheriff and company.”

  Two uniformed men wearing trooper hats marched into the cabin. Both were average height; one was in his early forties, the other no more than twenty. The older of the two surveyed the living room before looking directly at Judith and Renie.

  “Abbott N. Costello.” he announced in a voice devoid of inflection.

  Judith looked puzzled. “You’re Abbott? And he’s…?”

  The fortyish lawman shot Judith a look of reproach. “I’m Abbott N. Costello. The ‘N’ is for Norman.” He gave a nod at the younger man. “Deputy Dabney Plummer.”

  “Oh.” Judith worked hard at not smiling. She didn’t dare glance at Renie, who seemed engrossed with her shoes. “You’re investigating the Tobias murder, I take it?”

  Abbott N. Costello didn’t reply. He moved ponderously in a small circle, absorbing every detail of the cabin’s interior. His uniform was steel gray; so were his eyes. The sideburns under the hat were dark, with a touch of gray. He was solidly built, but without an ounce of fat. His features were even and ordinary, except for the stern set of his mouth. By contrast, Dabney Plummer was lean, blue-eyed, pink-cheeked, and boyish. The shock of fair hair that jutted over his forehead was almost white. He struck Judith as both anxious and eager.

  Costello concluded his survey. He pointed a sturdy finger at Dabney “Go.”

  Judith expected the younger man to leave, but instead, he took out a ballpoint pen and hoisted a clipboard he’d been holding at his side. It was obvious that he understood Costello’s method of communication. Judith and Renie were both wearing an air of bewilderment.

  “Name?” The word shot out of Costello’s mouth, aimed at Judith.

  “Uh…” Judith reeled a bit, taken aback by the lawman’s abruptness. “Judith Flynn. I actually live in—”

  “Name?” Costello had swung around, now fixing Renie with his frozen stare.

  Renie couldn’t resist. “Smith N. Wesson. The ‘N’ is for Nincompoop.” Unable to control herself for another second, she burst out laughing.

  If Judith was dismayed by Renie’s verbal high jinks, Abbott N. Costello was infuriated. He puffed out his chest, lowered his head, and looked as if he intended to charge at the still-giggling Renie.

  “You think homicide is funny? What’s funny about death? What’s funny about Murder One? What’s funny about me?” His ferocious glare would have terrified any woman who hadn’t been married to the same man for almost thirty years.

  If not intimidated, Renie was at least seemingly chastened. “Yeah, right, murder’s not a lot of laughs, Sheriff. Sorry. We’ve been under a strain.” She attempted her middle-aged ingenue expression.

  It got nowhere with Abbott N. Costello. “That’s better,” he muttered. “And don’t call me ‘Sheriff.’ I’m the undersheriff. The Boss is over on the other side of the county, chasing a serial killer.”

  Having elicited the pertinent information about the cousins’ names, addresses, phone numbers, occupations, and why they were not back in the big city where they belonged, Costello shifted into the investigation at hand.

  “You knew this Tobias?” he demanded, his steel-gray eyes darting back and forth between the cousins.

  Judith briefly thought about asking the lawmen to sit, mainly so she and Renie could, too, but if they remained standing, they might not stay as long. “We’ve known him for over twenty years,” she answered, trying to be accommodating. “He bought that property next to ours from the Kirbys. They were here when my grandparents started building back in the thirties.”

  If Judith thought that the Grover family’s presence for half a century would make a favorable impression, she was dead wrong. Costello scowled under the brim of his hat. “Summer people. A home in the city, a place in the mountains, a beach house, a ski lodge, an island getaway. Yachts, helicopters, limos, private jets—there’s no end to it.” He pulled out a rumpled handkerchief and wiped his nose.

  “Uh…actually, in 1938, these lots went for less than four hundred dollars…”

  “The Leisure Class. The Rich are different.” Costello trampled Judith’s explanation, then turned to Dabney Plummer. “Take that down, it’s a good quote. We can use it somewhere.”

  Judith decided it would be best not to tell the undersheriff that his quote had already been used. Often. She waited for him to continue with his questions.

  “So you went over to party with Tobias this afternoon?” The scowl had been replaced by a mere frown.

  Renie chose to field that one. “We went to get water. From Riley’s well. We always do that. He asked us to have a beer. We did. We left. With our water.”

  Costello was looking skeptical. “How long were you there drinking?”

  Judith and Renie exchanged questioning glances. “Half an hour?” ventured Judith. “We went over around one o’clock. We didn’t want to stay too long because we’d just built a fire in the stove. I know we were back here shortly after one-thirty, because I looked at my watch when I started cleaning out the cupboards.”

  Dabney Plummer was writing assiduously. Costello fingered his blunt chin. “What was his mood?”

  Judith considered. Riley Tobias had seemed much the same as always: gregarious, open, a bit mercurial. Or was there something else? She couldn’t put a finger on it. Maybe she was mistaken. She and Renie hadn’t seen Riley for a long time.

  “Was he drunk when you left?” queried Costello.

  The question made Judith think of Clive Silvanus. She refrained from glancing in the direction of the bedroom. Fortunately, she could no longer hear him snoring. “Drunk?” Judith repeated. “Heavens, no. He had one beer. No, he took a second. We didn’t.”

  The undersheriff waited for his deputy to finish writing. “You went back, though. How come?”

  Judith gave a nod. “Iris—Ms. Takisaki—asked us
to help her look for a prowler over at the neighbor’s on the other side of Riley’s property. Mrs. Lablatt?” Judith raised her even, dark eyebrows in a question.

  “Old lady Lablatt?” Costello spoke in a disrespectfull tone. “Probably a new boyfriend. She’s a corker.”

  Judith ignored the comment. “Mrs. Lablatt’s out of town. Iris thought someone was lurking around the icehouse. But when we got there, whoever it was had disappeared.”

  Costello snorted. “Handy. So the three of you trooped back to the studio and found Tobias zapped, huh?” He didn’t wait for Judith or Renie to respond, but instead smirked at Dabney Plummer and went right on talking. “How about this? You three broads crash into the studio, wrestle this poor guy to the floor, and strangle him.” He glowered at Renie. “I figure you for the one who sat on him while the two bigger dames did him in. Whose idea was it? The Dragon Lady’s?”

  Judith gnashed her teeth. Abbott N. Costello struck her as a character out of an old B-movie. “That’s idiotic,” she declared. “Why on earth would we kill Riley? We hadn’t even seen him—or Iris—in ages!”

  “A likely story,” Costello muttered, unembarrassed by the cliché. “How come you didn’t stick around over there with your Japanese ally?”

  Renie passed a hand over her forehead. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Iris was born right here in the Pacific Northwest! So were her parents, as I recall. In fact, they got stuck in one of those awful internment camps during World War Two. Where were you, Costello? Leading your Boy Scout troop on a raid of the sauerkraut section at the local Safeway?”

  Costello had stiffened. “I was a babe in arms,” he retorted.

  “An armed babe is more like it,” Renie snapped back. “I can see you in the hospital nursery, demanding that the black babies be put in isolettes. Wake up, this is almost the twenty-first century!”

  Instead of roaring at Renie, Costello looked mystified. “What’s an isolette?” he asked of Dabney Plummer. The deputy merely shrugged. Renie retreated to the sofa, shaking her head.