by Mary Daheim
Taking in a deep breath, Judith squared her wide shoulders. “Okay, you’re right. Let’s get our water and go home.”
She lowered the beige enamel bucket with its dark green trim into the well while Renie noted that the clouds were already beginning to lift off Mount Woodchuck. It appeared as if they were going to have a warm, clear day ahead of them.
Judith scanned the horizon, from the emerging crest of the mountain to the cottonwoods behind Riley’s studio. “Hey—there’s a ladder!” She pointed to the north side of the studio. “We might as well help ourselves. Who else is going to use it?”
The ladder was ten feet long and made of very heavy wood. Judith struggled, trying to swing it away from the wall.
“Need any help?” Renie was holding the bucket.
“No, I can get it.” But the ladder slipped from Judith’s grasp, fell back against the studio, and crashed through one of the big windows. Judith jumped out of the way, shielding her face from shards of sailing glass. Renie ducked and let out a squeal.
The cousins finally dared to look at the damage. The ladder had struck the plate glass in such a way that its downward descent had virtually taken out the entire window. Crime-scene tape was tangled in the rungs; the studio lay open like a big wound.
“We’ll have to call somebody,” Judith said, picking glass out of her Rugby shirt.
“Not the sheriff,” Renie exclaimed in horror.
Judith bit her lip. “Yes, the sheriff. Or in this case, the undersheriff. And Iris. She’ll know about the insurance.”
Renie emptied the bucket. “I’m not taking any chances. Glass might have landed in the water. Let’s draw some more, take it home, and then go make our calls.”
This time, Renie lowered the bucket into the well. Judith leaned against the small woodshed by the decorated fence. She was eyeing the studio speculatively.
“As long as we’re here…” She paused, nodding at the broken window. “What do you say, coz?”
Renie rolled her eyes. “Would it matter?”
With great care and diligent effort, the cousins managed to remove the ladder. With it, they also removed much of the crime-scene tape. A chopping block provided the needed height for them to reach the window opening. Tip-toeing around broken glass, Judith and Renie studied the interior.
Except for the damage caused by the ladder, the studio looked much the same as it had less than twenty-four hours earlier. The Nerd’s portrait still reposed on the easel, looking, if possible, even uglier than it had the previous day. If anything was missing, Judith assumed it had been taken away as evidence by the undersheriff and his deputy. The only addition was the crude outline of Riley Tobias’s body on the orange-paint-spattered floor.
“His portrait,” murmured Judith, and winced.
“Ugh.” Renie gave herself a shake. “The spilled paint has dried. I wonder how it got all over the floor.”
Judith spotted a cardboard box just behind the easel. “There are a bunch of tubes and jars. Maybe Riley was using one of them when he was attacked.”
Renie glanced into the box. “Could be. What about all those beer cans Costello mentioned? Gone for finger-printing?”
“Probably.” Judith prodded at the floorboards with her canvas shoe. At least two of them appeared to have been loosened by the impact of the ladder. She bent down, careful not to touch any glass. A slight pressure sprang one of the boards like a seesaw. Judith gaped. Empty liquor bottles lay in a jumble, at least a foot deep. Bourbon. Gin. Vodka. Scotch. Rum. A single beer can.
“I don’t get it,” said Renie, joining Judith by the opening in the floor. “Why didn’t Riley put these in the trash?”
Judith replaced the board. “I don’t know. Lazy? I always thought of Riley as a beer drinker, but there’s only one can in here.”
“I never thought about him as any kind of a serious drinker,” Renie said. “Still, I haven’t seen much of him in recent years.”
Judith steeled herself to take another look at Riley’s outline. “He fell face-forward. See, there are skid marks in the paint. He must have been working at the easel when he was strangled. Interesting.”
“Yes, interesting, gruesome, ghastly. I may soon puke. Let’s go, coz.” Renie was heading for the open window.
But Judith was still browsing. Kneeling on the hearth of the big stone fireplace, she reached into the grate and pulled out a crumpled ball of paper.
“I’ll bet this is what Riley was throwing away when we arrived yesterday. I’m surprised the undersheriff didn’t check it out.”
“I’m not,” Renie replied with a touch of impatience. “What are you expecting? A death threat?”
Judith had smoothed the wrinkled paper, which consisted of a single, typed sheet of plain white stationery and an envelope addressed to Riley Tobias. The return bore the surname of Tobias as well, and the address was a rural route number in Old Bennington, Vermont.
“It’s a letter from somebody named Yancey,” Judith said, ignoring Renie’s remark. “His brother, I bet.” She scanned the first two paragraphs, which included an excuse for not writing sooner, news about a minor car accident presumably involving a teenaged son, and mention of a family outing to St. Catherine Lake. Judith read the third and final paragraph aloud:
“‘Honest to God, Riley, I don’t know what to say about that painting you sent me for my birthday. What are you trying to do these days? You always say you want me to be candid, and usually that’s not hard. Your work—in general—has been brilliant. But this thing looks like you tap-danced on it. With clogs. Go back to your old stuff, kid. I’m putting this one in the garage. Peace—Yancey.’”
Renie’s impatience had flown. “Wow! He took the words right out of my mouth. You think that’s Riley’s brother?”
Judith nodded, stood up, and put the letter in her pocket. “It must be. The name on the envelope is Tobias, and who else but a brother would be so blunt?”
Renie grinned. “A cousin?”
Judith grinned back. “Good point. However, we’ll assume that brotherly love didn’t extend to Riley’s new style.”
“Riley’s a generous guy,” Renie mused. “He sends Yancey a painting for his birthday; he gives one away to you.” Her brown eyes swept around the studio. “What’s here? A dozen canvases? Not a huge inventory. There might be more in the house, though.”
Judith agreed. The cousins also agreed to abandon the ladder, as well as their plans for the gutters. After taking the water back to the cabin, they struck out for the Woodchuck Auto Court. Crossing the highway, Judith and Renie simultaneously saw that the white Mercedes was still parked at the auto court.
“So Dewitt Dixon didn’t leave after all,” Judith remarked as they reached the tarmac.
Kennedy Morton came out of the office, followed by two redheaded children somewhat older than the trio the cousins had seen the previous day. This time, Judith could distinguish between the sexes, mainly because the girl had a huge yellow satin ribbon in her hair and the boy was naked.
“Thor!” Kennedy Morton made a pass at swatting his son’s bare behind. “You get in there and put some clothes on! Just because you got a day off from school don’t mean you can lollygag around here in your birthday suit!”
Thor galloped off toward the house. His sister seemed unmoved by the incident, standing pigeon-toed and staring at the cousins. The children’s father wiped his dirty hands off on a greasy rag.
“Dang these kids—if they ain’t squabblin’, they’re pesterin’ the livestock. Want to buy a chicken? The Little Woman can wring a neck for you in less time than it takes to say cock-a-doodle-doo.”
“No, thanks,” Judith replied, feeling a little dazed. “We came over to use your pay phone. And to call on Mr. Dixon.” Seeing Morton’s blank expression, she gestured at the white Mercedes. “That’s his car. He spent the night here.”
“Oh, him.” Kennedy Morton grimaced. “Fancy fella, puttin’ on airs. Why can’t people be real?” He started
for the second cabin, while his daughter scuffed at the gravel and wandered off. “You go use the phone. I’ll fetch Mr. Dixon,” Morton called to the cousins over his shoulder.
After the initial wrestling with the antiquated telephone, Judith finally reached the sheriff’s office. Her explanation about the ladder and the broken window was taken by a woman with a monotone voice who sounded bored to tears. The second call, to Directory Assistance, yielded Iris Takisaki’s number in the city. Judith dialed, but got no answer.
“Maybe she’s making funeral arrangements,” Renie suggested after Judith had gotten out of the booth.
Kennedy Morton returned alone. He waved the greasy rag at Judith and chuckled in an apologetic manner. “Sorry, I forgot Mr. Dixon was going up the road to have breakfast at the Green Mountain Inn. He walked.”
So did the cousins, covering the distance in just over five minutes. The Green Mountain Inn was of the same vintage as the Woodchuck Auto Court, but it had been built with more imagination and a bigger budget. The faux thatched roof was an Irish green. The second story, which housed the guest rooms, was gabled with dormer windows and shutters that matched the roof. The stucco exterior was whitewashed at least every other year. A quaint sign printed in Olde English style stood at the edge of the road. Half of the first floor was a grocery; the other half, a restaurant.
Judith and Renie had known the original owners quite well. But the business had changed hands twice since the early sixties. The cousins were only nodding acquaintances with Dee and Gary Johanson, who had owned the property since 1989.
Dee was working in the restaurant as both hostess and waitress. A rangy woman in her late thirties, she wore her blond hair in a Dutch bob and disdained cosmetics.
“Two for breakfast? Or lunch?”
It was not quite ten-thirty; the cousins had eaten only a little more than an hour ago. “Coffee,” said Judith.
“With pie,” put in Renie.
Dee led them to a place by the window. Flowered oilskin covered the tables, providing a cheery note. Otherwise, the decor was kept to a minimum—a copper warming pan on one wall, a mounted rainbow trout on another, and a montage of old photographs depicting loggers, miners, and railroad men from the early part of the century. An impressive rack of antlers loomed over the entrance to the bar.
It being midmorning in the off-season, the restaurant was virtually deserted. Except, Judith noted with satisfaction, for the two men who sat at a table across the room: Dewitt Dixon and Clive Silvanus were deep in conversation.
Dee Johanson proffered menus, but Judith held up a hand. “Just coffee for me. Really.”
Renie ordered coffee and blackberry pie with whipped cream. Dee started to move away, then turned back. “You look familiar. Are you up from Glacier Falls?”
Judith and Renie identified themselves. Dee visibly relaxed. She had the common Pacific Northwestern rural suspicion of people who didn’t belong. Judith and Renie did—however tenuously.
Dee’s eyes widened and she lowered her voice. “You knew Riley? Are you the ones who were with Iris when she found the body? Isn’t it awful? Did you want to pass out?” Without waiting for affirmation, she leaned closer, gesturing with the menu pinned under her arm. “See those two men over there? They knew Riley, too. They’ve been sitting at that table for over an hour, talking like a couple of spies.”
Judith also spoke softly. “The one with the mustache is Riley’s agent. The other one bought a painting from Riley.” A sudden thought struck Judith. “Is the Southerner staying here?”
Dee Johanson nodded. “He checked in yesterday around two. He went out, came back, went out again—and didn’t get in until going on midnight. I suppose he was busy with the murder. You know—answering questions and helping the sheriff.”
Neither Judith nor Renie said anything to correct Dee’s assumption. It appeared to Judith that Clive Silvanus hadn’t yet talked to Costello. If the lawman had called on Clive at the Green Mountain Inn, Dee would have mentioned it. But Dewitt Dixon might have stayed on at Riley’s house and been interrogated on the spot. Judith wondered if the two men would notice her and Renie.
“They look like they’re plotting the overthrow of a Third World government,” Renie noted after Dee had gone off to hand in their orders. “Does Clive seem hung over to you?”
It wasn’t easy to be discreet when the objects of Judith’s attention were the only other two people in the dining room. “I can’t tell. At least he doesn’t have an ice bag on his head.”
At that moment the two men sat back in their chairs and began the ritual of Picking Up the Check. Clive seemed to be short of cash; Dewitt claimed the bill. Clive used the stairway near his table, apparently to return to his room. It appeared he hadn’t noticed the cousins.
Dewitt, however, headed straight toward Judith and Renie on his way to the cash register. He seemed mildly surprised, but gave them a debonair smile.
“Good morning, Serena. And…Judith, is it?” He stopped next to Renie, the smile disappearing. “I’m still in shock. Indeed, I feel like a fool for being so callous with Iris. Have you heard anything new about Riley’s murder?”
Renie shook her head. “Nothing of interest. Did you talk to the undersheriff?”
Dewitt Dixon pulled a face. “Yes, much to my sorrow. The man is an incompetent clod. I was still at Riley’s house last night when that Costello and his stooge showed up. I’m quite certain they don’t have a clue—literally.”
Renie suggested that Dewitt pull up a chair and join them. He hesitated, then gave in. Dee appeared with a pot of coffee and a piece of pie topped with a mound of real whipped cream. She asked if Dewitt wanted anything, but he demurred. She coaxed in vain. Judith had the feeling Dee wanted to linger, but the woman was forced to retreat with curiosity stamped all over her plain face.
“Did you get your painting?” Renie asked, doing her best not to decorate her upper lip with whipped cream.
Dewitt’s tanned forehead furrowed. “Not yet. Clive Silvanus—the chap I was just speaking with—says it has to be properly wrapped for transport. That may take a few days. I’d rather carry it back to town myself.”
Judith tipped her head to one side, regarding Dewitt with sympathy. “I can certainly understand that. It must be a stunning work. Had you seen the finished product before yesterday, or was it a commission?”
“I’d seen it, about three weeks ago.” Dewitt’s gaze roamed around the ceiling beams. “My wife is the one who wanted to buy it. She’s starting up her own gallery. That’s why she went to Europe, to scour the Continent for new talent.”
Under the table, Judith gave Renie a nudge. Renie responded to her cue. “Was the one you bought a new work? One of those portraits he’d started lately?”
Dewitt drummed his fingers on the oilskin and gazed up at the beamed ceiling. “A portrait? No, it’s a landscape. It has charm, I suppose. Erica was determined to have it. I’m afraid our tastes sometimes differ. For example, I don’t find the Uffizi at all redundant.”
“On our first two tries, we couldn’t find it at all,” Renie asserted with a gleam in her eye. “Of course, that was over twenty-five years ago and we were young and naive and Judith spent all her time in Florence leering at Michelangelo’s ‘David.’ She said it reminded her of Joe. I can’t think why.” She paused just long enough to acknowledge Judith’s incensed glare. “What did Riley call the painting you bought? It sounded to me as if he’d given his new series some really stupid names. He didn’t do that with his earlier works.”
Dewitt didn’t know, and apparently didn’t care. “It’s a large sum of money, But Erica refuses to change her mind. She wants it for the centerpiece of the gallery. Given the rumors about Riley, perhaps it’s not an entirely frivolous decision.”
“Rumors?” Judith turned in her chair. “About what?”
Dewitt shrugged, then pulled out a package of foreign cigarettes. “Do you mind?” The cousins didn’t. Nor did the Green Mountain Inn have a n
o-smoking policy. And with the number of carousing loggers who frequented the bar on a Saturday night, the owners would have been lucky to enforce a no-combat zone.
“There’s been talk in recent months that Riley’s talent has diminished,” Dewitt explained, lowering his cultivated voice. “His output has slowed, too. Erica points out that’s because he drastically altered his approach. But Riley To-bias was well known as prolific, without sacrificing genius. For years he’s pleased critics as well as admirers. Then, about a year ago, everything changed, including his style. Erica and I were fortunate to discover that he’d painted one last landscape. There have been only three of his new, so-called portraits completed, and the two that have been placed on exhibit were scorned by everyone. Except,” he added with a pained expression, “my wife. It wouldn’t surprise me if she made an offer on one of those blasted nerds now that Riley’s dead.”
“Your wife sounds like a devoted fan,” Judith remarked.
Dewitt scoffed. “Not a fan. A fanatic.” He exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. “But what could you expect? I don’t believe Erica has ever gotten over Riley.” He saw the puzzlement on the cousins’ faces and gave them an ironic look. “Ah—I gather you didn’t know. Years ago, Erica was Riley’s wife.”
“I told you I didn’t know much about the artsy set,” Renie declared as the cousins took the river route from the Green Mountain Inn. “As for Riley, you knew him as well as I did. Better, maybe.”
Judith wore a chagrined expression. “I knew he’d been married briefly. But that was over twenty years ago, before he moved up here from San Francisco. I don’t think I ever heard him mention his ex-wife by name. Oh, well, it’s not as if we’ve acquired another suspect. Erica Tobias Dixon is in Europe.”
Traversing the riverbank, the cousins alternated between sizable boulders and patches of sand. In some places where the river cut close to the shoreline, they had to step warily and cling to vine maples to keep from getting their feet wet. When they reached the Berkman property, the bank began to rise. The cousins disdained the trail that led up to the A-frame and kept walking next to the river.