A Fit of Tempera

by Mary Daheim

  Just beyond the Berkmans’ A-frame, a movement caught Judith’s eye. She stopped, with Renie following suit just behind her.

  “Deer?” Renie whispered, taking Judith’s silent, motionless stance for animal-gazing.

  Judith shook her head. The figure had disappeared behind the Berkman cabin. The cousins waited, with Renie’s expression growing curious. At last Judith sighed and turned to her cousin.

  “I saw a man at the back of the A-frame,” Judith said, keeping her voice low. “He may have headed for the road.”

  “Trent Berkman? A hippie?” Renie sounded dubious.

  “Neither. It wouldn’t have been Trent—the place is all closed up. And,” Judith added with a knowing look, “even well-heeled hippies don’t wear Armani suits.”

  “Lazlo Gamm?” Renie sounded incredulous as the cousins again took up the trail. “But he flew off yesterday.”

  “His helicopter flew off,” Judith replied, but she, too, spoke in a disbelieving voice. “And even if he was in the copter, what’s he doing now, lurking around the Berkman place?”

  Naturally, Renie had no explanation. The cousins trudged on in puzzled silence. They were just below their own cabin when they noticed a figure perched on a big rock downstream. “Iris,” murmured Judith, nodding at the seated woman who seemed totally self-absorbed.

  Here, in front of the Grover and Tobias properties, the bank rose at least twenty feet. Much of it was undermined by floodwaters. The stretch of river that flowed between the Green Mountain Inn and the Big Bend was relatively smooth, yet swift. In early May, the river ran about waist-high. In summer, the channel remained quite wide, but the water barely reached an adult’s knees. The cousins had plenty of room to roam between the river and the bank. They got within fifteen feet of Iris before Judith called out a greeting:

  “Hi, Iris! How are you doing?”

  Iris seemed to move in slow motion. A ghost of a smile played at her lips. She raised an uncertain hand. “What can you expect?” she responded in a feeble voice as the cousins drew closer. “I’m not sure I really believe Riley’s dead.”

  Judith and Renie each chose a big rock and sat down. The river rumbled by, reassuringly constant. “Have you heard from the undersheriff?” Judith asked.

  Iris had her arms wrapped around her knees. She barely breathed as she spoke. “He’s coming by in about an hour. I’ve already answered every conceivable question. What can he want now? Maybe he thinks he should look at that broken window.”

  Judith winced; Renie squirmed. “Did he tell you how that happened?”

  Iris’s nod was indifferent. “Thieves, coming back to loot the place. Why didn’t they take what they wanted when they killed Riley? It must have happened this morning, after I went into Glacier Falls to see the undertaker.” She didn’t notice that both Judith and Renie had started to speak at once. “Riley had insurance. It’ll cover the theft. What’s important is to find his killer.”

  “Ah…” Judith glanced at Renie. The cousins were equally ambivalent. “The theft? Of what, exactly?”

  With a heavy sigh, Iris sat up straight. “I’m not sure. The main thing that’s gone is the painting Dewitt Dixon bought. He doesn’t know it’s disappeared. I should have given it to him last night, but I was too upset. Besides, that’s Clive Silvanus’s business. And I can’t reach him. I called twice from Glacier Falls, but he wasn’t in his office or at home.”

  Judith decided it was time to level with Iris. There was no reason not to, except some little corner of her soul hated to part with Riley Tobias’s gift, especially now that the artist was dead. It was very unlikely that she’d ever own any of his work, no matter how ugly. For the first time, she understood why Erica and Dewitt Dixon would spend seventy thousand dollars on an eyesore: Love it or hate it, any painting by Riley Tobias carried the hallmark of genius.

  At first, Iris reacted listlessly to Judith’s account of Riley’s generosity. Then, when Judith got to the part about the ladder falling through the studio window, Iris showed a hint of excitement.

  “You mean it was you two and not a thief?” She rose quickly from the rock, brushing off her tailored navy slacks. “Let’s go see it. I’ll know if it’s Dewitt’s purchase. I saw the work in progress. This is all very strange.”

  Iris and the cousins climbed the zigzagging trail that led up to the meadow. Heading through the woods, Judith offered to pay for the damage she had caused. Iris brushed the notion aside.

  “As I said, Riley had a lot of insurance. He had to, with all his own works and those he’d collected from other artists. If we can find Dewitt’s painting, the insurance company ought to be grateful that we put in for only a broken window.”

  The fire in the stove had gone out, which was just as well, since the day was growing warm. The aroma of breakfast still lingered on the air. Judith went to the Murphy bed and lifted the plaid curtain.

  “We had to ditch it someplace,” she explained, tugging at the bed. “We’ve tried all sorts of locks, but the jerks who have broken in always figure out a way. And frankly, we’d rather have them come in, see that there isn’t much worth stealing, and leave that wonderful old Dutch door in one piece.” The bed came down, curiously light. Judith snatched at the covering. The painting was gone.

  “Damn!” She stared at Renie, then gave Iris a helpless look. “It must have been Clive,” Judith murmured, shaking both fists.

  “Clive Silvanus?” Iris gaped at Judith. “What are you talking about?”

  It seemed to Judith that there was a lot of explaining to do where Iris was concerned. “Clive was here last night. Drunk. He passed out, we left for a while, and when we came back, he was gone. He must have taken Riley’s painting with him. We found out this morning he’d checked in at the Green Mountain Inn. Dewitt Dixon had breakfast with him. Or something like that,” Judith finished lamely.

  Iris sat down on the Murphy bed. “Good heavens,” she murmured. “So much has happened that I don’t know about. I saw the undersheriff last night, sent Dewitt off with a flea in his ear, and collapsed. The last thing I remember was a bunch of snoopy TV reporters banging on the door. I took a tranquilizer and ignored them.”

  A sudden thought struck Judith. “Iris, what happened to your car? You said it broke down when you stopped at the Green Mountain Inn.” Judith wondered why Iris hadn’t seen Clive if she’d gone back to check on her car.

  Iris gave Judith a vague look. “Oh—Gary Johanson got it started for me this morning. He drove it down here and walked back. It was some silly thing that only men understand. Who else would want to worry about their ignition?”

  Since Judith and Renie were both married to men who didn’t know a combustion engine from a compost heap, they kept quiet.

  “Maybe we’d better drive up to the inn and talk to Clive,” Judith suggested. “You need to see him anyway, don’t you, Iris?”

  But Iris seemed to have lost her spine. “I’m not up to it just now. If Dewitt wants that picture badly enough, he’ll get it out of Clive. Maybe Clive thought you two had stolen it.” She saw the shocked expression on Judith’s face and waved her hands. “I don’t mean that literally—I meant that Clive thought…oh, never mind.” She yanked off the white bandeau which held her hair in place and let the long black waves fall over her face.

  Judith was willing to let Iris’s remarks slide. Renie, however, was not. “I’d like to know why Clive was tearing our furniture apart. How did he know we had that canvas?”

  It was, Judith thought, a good question. But maybe Renie had posed it at a bad time. Iris didn’t seem ready to cope with much more than getting through the day. Perhaps once the funeral was over, she’d rebound as her normal, capable self.

  Iris apparently felt the same way. “Look,” she said, getting to her feet and replacing the bandeau, “I’m utterly worthless right now. If Clive has the painting, he’ll see that Dewitt gets it. It’s too bad you met Clive when he was…under the weather. He’s actually a very astute bus
inessman. Or so Riley always said.”

  Judith couldn’t resist at least one query. “Then Riley has been doing well lately?”

  Iris lifted her chin. Her gaze was level with Judith’s. “Clive has handled Riley very successfully. Have you heard otherwise?”

  “He changed horses,” Renie replied, putting on what Judith called her boardroom face. “In the art world, that can make a difference in perception by the public. And in sales.”

  Iris shrugged her cashmere-clad shoulders. “The artistic community is rife with gossip. There’s so much envy of anyone who is commercially successful. Riley dared to go beyond what had already proved profitable. Naturally, he stirred up a few malicious people.” With a trace of her customary tensile inner strength, Iris moved toward the Dutch door.

  As Judith went to see Iris out, she felt the crumpled letter in her pocket. “What did Yancey Tobias think of his brother’s new style?” Judith met Iris’s curious gaze unflinchingly and lied like a rug. “Riley told us about sending Yancey a recent painting for his birthday.”

  Small creases appeared on Iris’s brow. “That’s odd. I don’t recall Riley sending his brother one of his works. Yancey’s a botanist. He doesn’t know the first thing about art. Though,” she added as an afterthought, “Riley somehow prized his opinion. I suppose that’s because Yancey is the older of the two.”

  Judith was prompted to ask one last question. “Iris, do you know why Lazlo Gamm came to see Riley yesterday? He arrived by helicopter, around one-thirty.”

  Gamm’s visit obviously wasn’t news to Iris. She made an indifferent gesture with her left hand, causing a dozen slim silver bangles to jingle at her wrist. “Mrs. Morton told me about the helicopter. I figured it must be Lazlo. If Riley lived at the beach, Laz would have come by submarine.”

  “You know Laz?” Renie asked.

  Iris examined the bangles, frowning as if in disapproval of their inappropriately merry sound. “Oh, yes. He’s been in and out of Riley’s life for years. He’s always talking about buying a painting, but he never does. If you want to know the truth, I always thought he liked Riley but didn’t like his work.”

  Judith hesitated, then put another query to Iris. “You haven’t seen him this time, though?”

  “No. I gather he left before I arrived.” Iris shoved the bangles higher up on her arm to keep them from jangling. With a thin little smile, she bade the cousins good-bye.

  “Well?” inquired Renie after their visitor was out of hearing range. “Do we call Yancey in Old Bennington, hunt down Lazlo, or go see Clive up at the Green Mountain Inn?”

  “I wouldn’t know what to ask Yancey,” Judith pointed out. “We don’t bother the grieving kin, in any event. Lazlo could be anywhere. As for Green Mountain, we were just there.”

  “But we didn’t see Clive,” Renie countered. “Not to talk to, that is. Besides, it’s lunchtime. I’m so hungry I could eat a mole.”

  “You can’t be hungry,” Judith protested. “You just ate a pound of pie and a pint of whipped cream. I thought we’d make some sandwiches here. There’s ham and hot dogs and—” She broke off, struck by a sudden thought. “On the other hand, if we’re somewhere else, we can’t be here, right?”

  “Huh?” Renie looked mystified.

  Judith was heading for the door. “Remember what Iris said was going to happen pretty quick? The undersheriff is coming, coz. He is to be avoided at all costs. Let’s be gone.”

  The cousins didn’t get very far. Instead of walking this time, they decided to take Judith’s car. But driving out to the road, they saw Ward Kimball’s Volkswagen bus turning into the drive. Judith reversed and pulled the compact to one side. Renie got out and wrestled with the sagging wooden gate that deterred casual intruders from the Grover property. Cautiously, Ward drove onto the rutted dirt drive. Lark was next to him in the van.

  “Hello there,” Ward greeted the cousins, going around to assist his daughter. “Are we keeping you from something?”

  “Nothing vital,” Judith replied, wondering if she spoke the truth. For all she knew, Clive Silvanus could be headed back into the city with a seventy-thousand-dollar painting stashed in his trunk. If, of course, it would fit.

  Lark smiled faintly as she held onto her father’s arm. They walked slowly over the unfamiliar, uneven ground. “I have to apologize for last night,” she said, turning in the direction of the cousins. “I was very distraught. Riley’s death has been a terrible blow.”

  Ward patted his daughter’s hand. “I agree, Lark, absolutely. Shared grief isn’t much comfort, though.” He smiled fondly at her, and though she could not have seen his face clearly, Judith sensed that she heard the warmth in his voice. “Be honest,” Ward urged as they reached the cabin. “You two were on your way out. We mustn’t impose.”

  Judith and Renie insisted that the Kimballs’ arrival was perfectly convenient. Inside the cabin, Ward explained that he and Lark had intended to call on Iris Takisaki, but a sheriff’s car had been pulled up by the house.

  “Now, that was definitely bad timing,” he said, sitting next to Lark on the old sofa. “Iris must be taking this very hard. That bumbler of a Costello came by to see us first thing this morning. We can’t expect much from him, you know. I imagine Iris feels the same way, poor woman.”

  Lark might not have been able to convey much with her eyes, but her face was extremely mobile. At present it registered derision. “Iris! As if she really cared about Riley! The only thing she wanted from him was having fame and success rub off on her. His reputation gave her a certain cachet as an art consultant. I doubt that she’d know Monet from Manet.”

  “Now, Lark, that’s very unkind. Iris has been devoted to Riley for twenty years. You shouldn’t say such things, especially under the circumstances.” Her father’s tone was disapproving.

  “Devoted to Riley’s work,” Lark corrected with a smug expression. “That is not the same as being devoted to Riley.”

  Judith feared that she and Renie were about to be privy to another father-daughter squabble. “Murder is always devastating,” Judith declared, hoping to strike an ameliorating note. “I’m sure Iris will be glad to see you—once the undersheriff is gone.”

  Lark was turned toward Judith. “She might like to see Dad. She won’t be so pleased to see me. She never was.” The smug look intensified.

  “Stop it, Lark!” Ward Kimball spoke sharply, flushed, and apologized to his hostesses. “You must think we wrangle all the time. That’s not so. Riley’s death has unsettled us.”

  “It’s unsettled us, too,” Renie remarked. “After all, there’s a killer somewhere around here.”

  Judith gave Renie a curious look. It was true, of course, yet it dawned on her that neither she nor Renie had lost a wink of sleep over the possibility of being murdered in their beds. Had they grown accustomed to violent death? Or did they know, deep down where it counted, that whoever killed Riley Tobias had no reason to kill them? The insight made things more clear to Judith. The pot-growing hippies evaporated in her mind’s eye.

  “Let me make some coffee,” she suggested, then remembered that the fire had gone out. “Or some pop? A drink? Ice water?” She grimaced slightly at the thought of chipping chunks off the ice block.

  But both Kimballs declined the offer of beverages. Indeed, Ward was on his feet, fingering his beard and gazing out the window. Mount Woodchuck stood watch over the forest, the clouds dispersed along the river valley.

  “I think I’ll head over to see Iris,” Ward said, touching Lark’s shoulder. “The law should be gone by now, and if not, I’d like to hear what they’ve found out. If anything. Lark?”

  His daughter shook her head. “I told you, I’d rather not play out a farce with Iris. She doesn’t like me any more than I like her.”

  Ward Kimball sighed with resignation. “As you will, dear heart. I’ll amble over there. I shouldn’t be long.” He sketched a courtly little bow and was gone.

  “Come on, Lark,” Renie urge
d, “have a beer. A sandwich? A couple of hot dogs?”

  Judith heard the hunger pangs and made a face at Renie. “Don’t force food and drink on people, coz. Not everyone is a Big Pig.”

  But Lark said she would like a glass of wine after all, if the cousins had any. They didn’t. She settled for a beer. Judith and Renie joined her, trying to be companionable.

  “I suppose,” Judith mused as she sat down next to Lark on the sofa, “that Riley never married Iris because his first bout with matrimony was so unhappy.”

  To the cousins’ surprise, Lark laughed. “No, it wasn’t. Riley just didn’t like the idea of the institution. Not when he was young, anyway. It wasn’t part of his philosophy then. He was into Kerouac, and all those British Angry Young Men. But he changed. Riley matured late, but fully.” She held her bottle of beer as if it were a case of jewels.

  Renie cut to the heart of the matter. “Then why didn’t he marry Iris?”

  Lark’s laughter took on a jagged edge. “He didn’t love her.” The beautiful, unworldly face turned from cousin to cousin. For one brief moment, Judith could have sworn that Lark Kimball was not only seeing but studying her hostesses.

  “Did he tell you that?” Renie, as usual, had sacrificed tact.

  “Of course he did. Why should he love her?” Lark sounded defensive. “She’s well connected in the art community; she’s supposedly glib, handsome, and articulate. Useful, in other words. But she’s also a rapacious conniver. It didn’t take him twenty years to figure that out.”

  “Yes, it did,” retorted Renie. “They were still together when he died.”

  “That’s only because he couldn’t figure out how to get rid of her.” Lark’s voice had risen and her face no longer looked so unwordly. Indeed, she was blushing, and her jaw was set in a hard line. “Riley needed some time to tell her how he felt. How we felt.” She flounced a bit on the sofa. “He wasn’t merely my teacher, he was my lover. And we intended to be married. As soon as he told Iris to go to hell.” Lark Kimball sat back on the sofa, now smiling serenely.