by Mary Daheim
Dewitt’s eyebrows lifted. “Really? How extraordinary for a person with so little sight. Ward’s talent must flow strongly in her veins.”
“Actually,” Renie put in, giving up on the prospect of more coffee, “Riley had been giving her lessons.”
“How generous of him!” Erica exclaimed in her high voice. “And how typical. But that was Riley, great of heart, great of temperament. No one has had a greater impact on my life than he did,” she asserted with fervor. “I was hardly more than a child, trying to sell sketches of Alcatraz in North Beach, when he came along and told me I wasn’t an artist. He was right, of course.” She let out a trilling little laugh. “I had an eye, but no talent. He urged me to become a critic, so I started writing articles for underground publications. Amazingly, people in the art world took me seriously. Then I met Dewitt.” She gave her husband an arch smile that might or might not have been affectionate. Judith couldn’t be sure. “He showed me a whole new world, from the collector’s perspective. My family bought only what their decorator recommended. Dewitt educated me about the buyer’s mind. I suppose you could say I’ve covered the gamut of the artistic community.” With a self-satisfied air, she twirled a blond curl at her ear.
The salmon steaks, complete with baked potato and broccoli, arrived along with dessert, which was vanilla ice cream.
“I say,” Dewitt called to the waitress, “if you please, miss, the ice cream will melt before—”
But the waitress had slammed back into the kitchen. Erica Dixon seemed undismayed at the prospect of mushy dessert. “Perhaps you’re right about the gallery name, Dewitt. It would be different if I’d acquired a lot of Riley’s work while we were married.” She paused, glancing at the cousins. “How very rude. Did you know that Riley and I were married years and years ago? I’m not sure I made that clear.”
The cousins acknowledged that they were aware of the brief marital interlude.
“Fourteen months, to be exact,” Erica said, checking her salmon for bones. “Had I not been young and impulsive, I would have had the foresight to make off with all sorts of Riley’s paintings. But at eighteen, all I wanted was out. What a pity. His early efforts were crude but compelling. Think how marvelous it would be to have just one or two—and then the contrast of the last landscape.” She quivered at the mere idea.
“Contrast?” Dewitt curled his lip. “If you ask me, he regressed. ‘Spring River’ is all charm but lacks technical merit. The most I can say for it is that it’s not ugly, like those wretched so-called portraits he was working on when he died.”
“‘Spring River’ is stunning,” Erica declared, her gray eyes flashing angrily. “It’s a departure for Riley. Yes, you might call it a regression, but I consider it a retrospective—it goes back to his earlier days, when everything about him was softer and more vulnerable. The technique is different, but it’s exquisite. Honestly, Dewitt, you refuse to appreciate what’s really there. When we look at that painting together, I’ll show you the values I see.”
Dewitt gave Judith and Renie a wry look. “Pardon us, ladies. My wife and I are engaged in a squalid artistic and domestic debate. We shouldn’t air our differences in front of you. But in our defense, we’ve been apart for several weeks.”
“That’s okay,” Renie said with a wave of her hand. “We’re married, too. The important thing is that you’re communicating. My husband, Bill, says that the trouble with most marriages is lack of intimacy. Now, he’s not talking about physical intimacy, but—”
“Gosh, coz, look at the time!” Judith interrupted in a feigned panic. Fascinating as Bill Jones’s theories might be, Judith didn’t care to hear them secondhand from Renie. “We’d better scoot before they throw us out. I mean, we finished eating a long time ago, and they probably think we’re not going to pay the bill.”
Pay they did, receiving no word of thanks from the grumpy waitress, who accepted their money at the cash register. A moment later, the cousins were out on the sidewalk.
Judith and Renie took advantage of the mild spring evening to walk off their dinner. Glacier Falls was tucked in a valley among the mountains. Logging had built the town, farming had sustained it, and tourism kept it alive. A brief flirtation with gold mining some thirty miles up the highway and sixty years in the past had brought glittering promises that were soon broken. Yet Glacier Falls continued to grow, albeit slowly, as families tired of urban congestion and preferred to commute.
Within two blocks, the cousins were out of the commercial district. The small, aging houses had the look of a company town, no doubt built by the logging firms back in the heyday of tall timber and high prices.
“I smell a sawmill,” Renie said, sniffing at the fresh mountain air. “Is that one about a mile out of town still operating? We got some cedar shakes there years ago.”
“I think so,” Judith replied. Except for an occasional car and the barking of a dog, the night was very quiet. “I wonder if Riley wanted to move away because he intended to marry Lark. Maybe he was going to sell his place and divvy up the profits as a consolation prize for Iris.”
“Why not just give her a couple of paintings? His property isn’t worth more than one-fifty,” Renie pointed out. “Real estate is still relatively cheap up here.”
“True.” Judith stepped into the street. There was no curb, nor had there been a sidewalk for the last block. The forest began beyond the next row of houses. Turning left, the cousins headed toward the small frame Catholic church. “Did you get the impression that Erica thinks Dewitt has Riley’s painting in his possession?”
“It seems to be a given,” Renie allowed. “Maybe he does have it. Maybe Clive has ours, which isn’t theirs after all.”
“Maybe that’s not our problem,” Judith replied. “Maybe I didn’t want a Riley Tobias in the first place. At least not an ugly one.” But a little sigh escaped her lips.
The cousins strolled past the Catholic church, the Methodist church, and the foursquare gospel church. Each stood on a different corner of the same intersection. The local funeral home was situated on the fourth corner lot. Briefly, Judith thought of Riley Tobias, lying inside. She grimaced, then picked up the pace. Past the local Ace Hardware, the Bank of Glacier Falls, the John Deere outlet, and Buzzy’s Burger Barrel went the cousins, making the loop back to Judith’s car. They were about to get in when the Dixons pulled out just ahead of them. Judith could see the outlines of Dewitt’s and Erica’s heads through the rear window of the white Mercedes.
“I don’t think they ate their ice cream,” Judith remarked as she got behind the wheel.
The half-dozen large, handsome older homes of Glacier Falls were located in the last two blocks before the turnoff to the cabin. A local lumber baron had decorated his mansion with the Victorian gingerbread typical of the era. Another had gone in for the log-cabin look, which had weathered beautifully over the years. A third home, also constructed at the turn of the century, had undergone a complete renovation, and looked as if it belonged in a southern California cul-de-sac. Judith smiled to herself at the differences in taste—and in people.
Up ahead, the Dixons kept the pace at about a half mile. “Have they got kids?” Judith inquired, slowing for the bridge that crossed the river just above the falls that gave the town its name.
“I don’t think so,” said Renie. “How could Erica go running around Europe and open up galleries and be so well groomed and self-absorbed? Good grief, her fingernails are all the same length! How could she possibly have children?”
Renie’s reply satisfied Judith. The car climbed the Sand Hill, then dipped down toward the river valley. At the Big Bend, the cousins passed the road that led to Ward Kimball’s house. A half mile later, the Mercedes turned off at Riley’s property. Obviously, Erica Dixon was going to keep her vow to offer condolences.
“Past Wife comforting Present Mistress while Future Bride languishes downriver.” Renie ticked the three women off on her fingers, then swerved in the passenger seat. “He
y, look—Nella’s back. The lights are on.”
Judith hadn’t noticed; she was too busy concentrating on turning into the dirt drive. “We’ll stop by tomorrow,” she said as Renie hopped out of the car to open the gate. “Maybe we can get some ice. Let’s chip some off what’s left and have a nightcap.”
Five minutes later, Renie was hoisting her bourbon while the Coleman lantern cast dancing shadows on the knotty pine walls. “I wonder if Iris told Costello about Riley giving you that canvas. And if she let him know that Clive had been here.”
Judith sipped appreciatively at her scotch. It had been a long day. Indeed, the past forty-eight hours had been tiring, physically and emotionally. “We don’t know—and neither does Iris—if that painting really belonged to the Dixons. Only Erica and Dewitt could be sure of that, if they saw the canvas. Clive might have stolen it simply to add to the inventory. Dewitt might have taken it so he wouldn’t have to pay Riley’s estate.”
But Renie disagreed. “Erica wants ‘Spring River’ as the centerpiece of her new gallery. There’s no way she could show it off without Clive—or Iris—finding out about it. My guess is that Riley didn’t give you ‘Spring River.’ If it’s missing from the studio, then there are two stolen paintings. Sure, Riley could be impulsive, but nobody hands over a painting worth seventy grand on a whim.”
Judith, however, shook her head. “No, coz. That doesn’t wash. Iris seems to know what Riley had in the studio. She definitely said that one canvas was missing. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that Riley gave me ‘Spring River.’ But you’re right about one thing—it doesn’t make sense for him to have done that. So he had to have a reason we can’t fathom. He was even willing to let me take the painting off to the B&B. Why did he do such a crazy thing?”
Renie studied her bourbon glass. “Sheer perversity is the only answer I can come up with. But in stopping the sale, Riley was cutting off his nose to spite his face.” She considered her words and shivered. “As it turned out, he did worse than that. He got himself killed.”
A troubled expression crossed Judith’s face. “Let’s say he told someone what he’d done. Who could he have told? Almost anybody. Iris. Lazlo. Ward. Clive. Dewitt. Even Lark. We only have her word for it that she didn’t see Riley yesterday. Now, who is the most likely person among the above? I choose Clive, for a couple of reasons.” She stopped to catch her breath and take a drink. “Clive was Riley’s agent and he needed to know where that painting was. Don’t you think he came up here to broker the deal with Dewitt? No painting, no deal. And Riley had better explain himself. Also, who shows up here but Clive? What if he wasn’t really drunk?”
Renie’s eyes lighted up just as the single Coleman lantern died down. “You mean he was faking so he could pretend to pass out and stick around? But how could he be sure we’d leave?” She rose from the sofa to pump up the lantern.
“He couldn’t. But he had to gamble that we would—and we did. As for Dewitt, he knew Clive had to be somewhere around here. If not at the Green Mountain Inn or Riley’s, where else? Nella was gone, Dewitt knew he wasn’t over at the auto court, and as far as I know, Clive wasn’t acquainted with anyone else in the area.”
“Except Ward Kimball.” Renie sat down again. The lantern glowed brightly. Outside, a chorus of frogs began their nightly serenade.
“That’s possible,” Judith admitted, “but Dewitt would look here first. He said he didn’t really know Ward and Lark. Besides, they live a half mile away.”
Renie had to admit that Judith’s argument was convincing. “Clive finds out Riley gave you ‘Spring River,’ Clive learns Riley is dead, Clive decides to ensure his commission by getting the canvas back. But he doesn’t give it to Dewitt. Not yet.”
“Maybe he can’t,” Judith said in a faintly distracted voice. “Maybe it’s a legal thing, with Riley dead. The estate, or…” Her words trailed off as she stared at Renie. “Clive lied,” she said abruptly as her thoughts snapped into focus. “He told us he didn’t talk to Riley yesterday. But if he knew about my gift, then Clive actually saw Riley.”
The cousins gazed wonderingly at each other. An uncertain knock sounded at the door, making them both jump. It was after ten o’clock. Visitors seemed unlikely. But so did most of the things that had happened during their stay at the cabin.
Lark Kimball looked tired and distraught. There were scratches on her arms and leaves in her hair. She all but fell into Judith’s arms.
“What happened, Lark?” Judith cried, leading the younger woman to the sofa. “Here, sit down. Yes, you’re okay. Oh, my—what’s going on?”
Lark struggled to catch her breath. “I…I’ve never come down the highway this far by myself. I was all right as long as I stayed on the shoulder—I could follow the gravel just fine. But once I turned off onto your drive, I became confused, like I did yesterday. I got off the trail. Then I ran into your icehouse and I heard voices. I knew I was getting close.”
“But…” Judith began, to no avail. Lark kept right on talking.
“That tape—the one Riley made—it’s gone!” Her face was pale in the lantern light.
Judith’s first reaction was to suggest that she look harder. But Lark’s search would be more thorough than that of a fully sighted person making a cursory perusal. “You’re sure?” was all Judith said.
“Yes!” Lark’s small hands twisted in distress. “I haven’t touched it since you were at the studio earlier this evening.”
Judith signaled for Renie to fetch Lark a beer. “Did your father know you had the tape?” Judith asked.
Lark shook her head. “Riley gave it to me Sunday. Dad hasn’t been in the studio for weeks.”
“Did you hear anybody come by after we left?” Judith inquired as Renie handed Lark a bottle of beer.
Again Lark shook her head. “I went into the house. Dad and I played a Bruckner symphony. He decided to go to bed early. Riley’s death has upset him. I went back to the studio because…” She paused, gripping the beer can tightly and searching for words. “I wanted to hear Riley speak to me again. Alone. That’s when I discovered the tape was gone, so I came down here to see you.” Her face wore a questioning, if not quite accusing, expression.
“We didn’t take it,” Judith declared. “There must have been about a two-hour interval, when someone could have gone in and gotten it. Was the studio locked?”
“No,” Lark admitted. “I knew when you left that I’d go back. I would have locked up then, for the night.”
“Was the tape marked?” Renie asked, sitting down next to Lark on the sofa.
Lark didn’t know. Her poor vision didn’t permit that kind of scrutiny. She doubted it, however. “I’d left it in the recorder, so it was ready to be played again. Why would anyone come to the studio, listen to a tape they didn’t know existed—and then steal it?”
“Was there anything else on that tape?” asked Judith.
Lark frowned. “I don’t think so. I never fast-forwarded it after Riley’s message ended.” She touched her cheek with her hand. “Oh, dear! I suppose there might have been something on it. But what?”
The question baffled Judith as well as Lark. “The point is,” Renie noted, “that someone must have figured the tape was important. Was anything else missing?”
Lark didn’t know that, either. She had been so upset over the loss of the tape that she had fled the studio and headed straight for the road. “If the studio had been ransacked, I would have noticed. It felt the same, it smelled the same.” She flushed suddenly, then turned away. “I’m very aware when things are out of place.” Her voice was defensive, her manner strangely awkward.
Judith nodded, though the change in Lark puzzled her. “Maybe you should report the theft to the sheriff,” she said. “It may not have anything to do with Riley’s death, but it strikes me as odd.”
Lark, however, refused. The tape was too personal. She wouldn’t dream of confiding in a law officer, especially one as callous as Abbo
tt N. Costello. Judith didn’t much blame her, but felt the decision was unwise. She kept that opinion to herself, changing the subject to the arrival of Erica Dixon.
“Erica?” Lark was temporarily distracted from her latest loss. “She and Riley got along quite well, considering that they couldn’t stay married to each other.”
“They were friends?” Judith was surprised.
“Not friends,” Lark explained. “I don’t think they’d met since San Francisco. But last February, right in between snowstorms, Erica and Dewitt came up to see Riley about a painting. I wasn’t at the studio then, but later, I met Erica when she came alone. She asked me about buying one of Dad’s works, but when I told him, he said he wasn’t interested in selling. She didn’t press the issue. Besides, the sum Riley asked for his landscape was so high that even a wealthy collector would have had to think twice about another expenditure. Erica has to spend her money on diversity to get the gallery going.”
Renie interjected a question. “You’ve never met Dewitt, I take it?”
Even before Lark answered, something flickered through Judith’s brain. She leaned closer, anxious for the younger woman’s reply.
“No.” Lark now seemed more at ease. “That is, not officially. He came by the studio—Riley’s studio—one day when I was working, but he didn’t come in. I sensed someone was outside; then Riley told me it was Mr. Dixon.”
The odd thought took form in Judith’s mind: At the Tin Hat Cafe, Dewitt had said he’d never seen Lark, yet he had mentioned her poor sight. Judith supposed he could have heard from Riley or Erica or even Clive that Lark was blind, yet his manner had not rung quite true. A second realization followed the first, but Judith said nothing for the time being. As ever, she had to let logic take its course.
Judith couldn’t judge how much beer was left in Lark’s can, but the offer of a refill was a good excuse for bringing up a touchy topic. “Riley enjoyed his beer, I gather,” she remarked in a conversational tone after Lark had turned down a second can. “We had some with him while we were at the studio yesterday.”