by Mary Daheim
Costello erupted with his nasty chuckle. “Now, what kind of dumbbells do you take us for? ’Course we asked ’em. They claim ignorance, which is probably about right, since they strike me as a pair of idiots. You sound like that Takisaki dame. She seems to think one of them made off with the picture.” He leaned forward, his hat almost touching Judith’s shoulder. “Say there, where’d you get those trout?”
Renie swallowed hard, then leaned back in her chair. “What trout?”
Costello’s eyes narrowed as he looked from Renie to Judith’s plate, where the last of the four fish remained almost intact. “Those trout. You two been fishing?”
Judith suddenly realized why Renie had eaten so fast—and had urged her to do the same. “Us? Fishing?” Judith’s black eyes grew very wide as she stared at the undersheriff. “Where?”
Costello gave her a scornful look. “I can write a citation for that,” he snarled. “A hundred-dollar fine each, plus the possibility of thirty days in jail. How’d you like that?”
Renie burst into sobs. “How cruel! How monstrous! And all because we’re sentimental fools! May Mary Most Holy defend us! And St. Izaak Walton protect us!” She crossed herself rapidly.
“What?” Costello appeared justifiably confused. “What are you talking about?”
Sniffling into her napkin, Renie seemed to be struggling for control. “Judith’s late husband was an ardent angler. His greatest joy was reeling in those frisky rainbows. He died up by the Green Mountain Inn, near that riffle where the willows come forth in the spring. Just the day before yesterday we buried his ashes out there by the vine maples. To commemorate him, we fixed fish for breakfast.” She hung her head. “We bought our little trout at Falstaff’s Market on Heraldsgate Hill. I think it was flown in from Japan.”
Costello wore a dubious expression; Dabney Plummer looked a trifle pale. “You buried some guy in the front yard?” Costello asked in a slightly scandalized voice.
Still wiping at her eyes, Renie stood up. “It’s not illegal. It’s our property. Come on, I’ll show you. We even made a little cross of twigs to mark the spot.”
“Never mind,” Costello said hastily. “We’re outta here.” He practically ran to the front door, Dabney Plummer chugging along behind him.
“Izaak Walton was an Anglican,” Judith said after the lawmen had left.
“I know that.” Renie munched on her fourth piece of toast.
“You could have gotten us in trouble. What if it isn’t legal to bury ashes in the front yard? And Dan was too lazy to walk up to the Green Mountain Inn, let alone go fishing. Costello might have tried to prosecute us. Since when have you told such outrageous tales?”
“Since I had visions of that goon of an undersheriff confiscating our trout,” Renie answered, now a bit cross. “Why should you always be the one with the big fat fibs? I thought I was pretty good.”
Judith sighed, extracting a few bones from the white meat of her trout. “At least they didn’t press us about who was here Tuesday evening. By the way, did you catch Lark’s comment last night about how Dewitt watched her painting in Riley’s studio?”
Renie had. The cousins wondered why Dewitt had lied about knowing Lark. “To be fair,” Renie pointed out, “he said he’d never met her. And he didn’t, not really.”
After polishing off the rest of her breakfast, Judith pushed her chair back. “It also meant he was pulling the wool over somebody’s eyes when he pretended to be surprised to learn that Lark was an artist. Who was he lying to? Us? Or Erica?”
“All of the above,” Renie replied, “but only because we happened to be there. He can’t give a damn about us. So why doesn’t he want his wife to know? This gets goofier and goofier.”
Judith agreed. While cleaning up from breakfast, the cousins debated the wisdom of ransacking Clive’s room at the Green Mountain Inn or breaking into the Dixons’ cabin at the Woodchuck Auto Court. They were convinced they might find the missing canvas in one of those places. But in the end, they vetoed both ideas as too risky. Instead, they decided to call on Nella Lablatt.
Nella was a woman not merely of an uncertain age, but of an unspecified century. She could have been born anywhere between the surrender of Geronimo in 1886 and the passage of woman suffrage in 1920. Nella wasn’t coy about her age—she was absolutely reticent. Nor had she ever acknowledged her place of birth. As far as the cousins were concerned, she had been a fixture on the river for as long as they could remember—and, according to the real old-timers, quite a while before that. Nella was a pioneer, a legend, and, as she was wont to say, “The best damned postmistress Ike ever had until he treated me like Mussolini.”
If she had been around in the so-called Gay Nineties of the last century, she was still there in the same decade of the twentieth. “Gay” had meant something quite different a hundred years ago, but Nella had kept up on all phases of life. She was plugged into a Walkman when Judith and Renie appeared at her door.
“Yo! Sir Mix-a-Lot,” she shouted, pointing to her headphones. “‘Baby Got Back’ is the bees’ knees!”
The cousins smiled, somewhat thinly, and waited for Nella to finish bouncing around her living room. With a final flip of her fingers and hips, she yanked off the headphones and beamed at her guests.
“So what’s happening? I hear you were with Iris when she found the late Riley Tobias. Tough aggies, that.” Nella growled out the words, looking angry. “You live long enough, you see everything. I’ve had a lot of neighbors croak on me, but Riley is the first one to get himself murdered.” Shaking off such gloomy thoughts, she beamed again at the cousins. “How are you two? Talk about a sight for sore eyes! I remember when the both of you were knee-high to a jackrabbit.” She pointed first at Renie. “You were the puny one, built like a bean.” Then she turned to Judith. “And you, Tubby, I used to take you for a beach ball! Talk about round! Why, I could have rolled you all the way into Glacier Falls! What happened? You look better. Older, but better.”
Judith blinked several times, trying to adjust to Nella Lablatt’s rapid-fire delivery. It was said of Nella that the only thing she ever got out faster than the mail was her tongue. It was also said that she put out almost as fast as she got out. Or something like that. With five husbands to her credit, Judith had never doubted it.
“I suppose Iris told you about the prowler,” Judith began.
Nella cut her short. “She sure did. That’s nothing new around here. But murder is. I wish I’d been home Tuesday. I might have seen whoever it was that killed Riley.” Her bright blue eyes studied the window that looked out onto the stand of cottonwood trees separating the Lablatt and Tobias properties. “I hear somebody stole a painting, too. I hope it’s one of Riley’s plug-uglies and not something nice. He really lost it this past year, you know. How about a pick-me-up?”
Judith declined; it was far too early for the cousins to imbibe. Nella had no such compunction. Her small, square figure toddled on tiny feet to a counter which had once served postal customers and was now a wet bar. “Why do you think Riley went sour?” Judith inquired.
“Conceit,” Nella replied. The old post office safe apparently served as a liquor cabinet. “Riley thought he was God Almighty. Guess what, he wasn’t.” She leaned down to hear the combination of the safe click. The living room was a virtual museum in miniature of the past century. Every nook and cranny of the small space was filled with mohair chairs, a tweed sofa with chrome legs, a lamp base shaped like a Maxfield Parrish nude, a Danish-modern coffee table, crocheted antimacassars, knitted doilies, paintings by Riley Tobias and Ward Kimball—as well as prints by Andrew Wyeth, Georgia O’Keefe, and Roy Liechtenstein—Ansel Adams photographs, and a framed picture of Dwight D. Eisenhower with his front teeth blacked out.
“It’s a shame,” Nella continued, placing a champagne bottle and a tulip-shaped glass on the counter. “Riley was very talented. It’s too bad he died, of course, but maybe it was just in time. Some people shouldn’t live so long.” Her ro
und, pink-cheeked face beamed at the cousins, clearly indicating she didn’t deserve to be numbered among the prematurely dead.
“You mean he was self-destructive?” Renie asked, gingerly sitting down in a Pennsylvania Dutch rocker.
Nella was quick of mind, but not always hasty in rendering opinions. She took a moment to consider Renie’s question. “No—not that. But he’d outlived his talent, if you ask me. It happens. Take Madame Schumann-Heink. Remember how she went around giving farewell concerts for about ten years? No, of course you don’t; it was before your time. But you get my meaning.”
“Was Riley drinking a lot?” Judith asked. Pushing aside some magazines, a crossword-puzzle dictionary, and a pile of postcards featuring Venice, she settled farther back on the maroon Victorian love seat.
Nella closed the safe. “No, not him. A few beers, that was it. He was more the kind to drive other people to drink.”
She poured herself a glass of champagne and offered a toast: “To Riley. He’s with the Immortals.”
Judith asked about Dewitt and Erica Dixon. Had Nella met them?
“Pair of snobs,” Nella declared, adjusting the waistband on her magenta sweat suit. “But nice enough, once you get past the phony-baloney. Mrs. Dixon knows her gardening. I showed off my early bulbs when she was here last month.”
A sudden thought struck Judith, but she held her tongue. It was Renie who posed the next question: “What about Clive Silvanus?”
Nella drained her glass. “Shifty. But he’s done well by Riley. He brought me some of his momma’s recipes. Chitlins, okra, grits—all that Southern stuff. Not bad. I canned the okra.”
Nella, the cousins knew, was an infamous canner. Over the years, the shelves in her icehouse had been filled with everything from candied carrots to calf’s brains. Much of it looked revolting, but Nella’s diet was a testimony to longevity.
Judith was reminded of the need for ice. But Nella only laughed, her square little body jiggling inside the sweat suit. “Goodness, I haven’t had ice in there for years, not since Kenmore and I got our first Crosley. Or was it Crosley I bought the first Kenmore with? I forget.”
Thankful that Nella hadn’t numbered an Admiral and a Magic Chef among her husbands, Judith allowed that they would probably get along without more ice. “In this warm weather, it melted faster than we expected,” she explained. “We’ve got beer and eggs and butter and milk and juice, but they should keep.”
Nella brightened. “Juice? Come out and see my rhubarb juice. The color’s something to behold, like pink pearls. Goes good with champagne, too.”
Obediently, the cousins trooped after Nella, through the compact kitchen and the enclosed back porch, then down the stone path. The icehouse was six feet by eight feet, lined with shelves and crammed with cartons. The array of jars was dazzling in itself, but what caught Judith’s eye was a canvas leaning against a stack of paraffin boxes.
“What’s that?” she asked, staring at the painting.
Nella was taking a quart jar from a middle shelf. “What? Oh, that. One of Riley’s pictures. Pretty, huh? But wait till you see this rhubarb juice!”
Judith, however, was transfixed by the canvas. So, it seemed, was Renie, who stood at her elbow. Soft pastels created a flowing river that seemed to move among the boulders. Sunlight dappled the ripples, highlighting the pebbles beneath the surface. On the bank, graceful ferns appeared to sway in a gentle breeze. To Judith’s untutored eye, the painting had a Monet-like quality. A rainbow of colors filled the canvas—muted green, purple, pink, brown, yellow, and blue, melting together as if fresh from Mother Nature’s palette. The style was hauntingly familiar, though Judith couldn’t place it in recent memory. Perhaps she’d seen an early Tobias like it in his living room, or at Ward’s house, or even at Nella’s.
“How did you get that?” Judith finally asked in awe.
Nella was turning the blue-tinged jar in her hands, letting it catch the sunlight streaming through the open door. “You cut up the rhubarb, put it in a flat-bottomed saucepan, and add just enough water to—”
“No, Nella,” Judith interrupted. “I mean the painting. It’s absolutely breathtaking.”
As she glanced at the painting, Nella’s improbably smooth forehead creased a bit. “Yes, yes, it’s very nice, as I said. Riley had his moments. But canning’s an art, too. One of the secrets is to make sure your fruit is underripe—” She broke off, cocking her head. “What’s that? I heard someone call me.”
Nella’s hearing was obviously keener than that of the cousins. Judith thought she heard an unusual noise, but it was more of a loud hum than a voice. Neither she nor Renie heard Nella’s name called out until they were at the door of the icehouse.
“It’s Lark Kimball,” Nella said. “Wait here. I’ll go get her.” She scooted down the path and around the side of the house to the front door.
“Well?” Judith gave Renie a meaningful look.
Renie turned slightly, glancing over her shoulder at the canvas. “‘Spring River’?”
“I’d bet on it,” Judith replied. “Now that’s worth five figures—if anything is that doesn’t have three rooms and a roof.”
A droll smile played at Renie’s mouth. “Well, this is as good a place as any to ditch it. If that’s what somebody did. It’s sure not the painting Riley gave you. Where did this one come from?”
Judith shrugged. “Damned if I know. Another present?”
Renie’s answer was cut off by the appearance of Nella, with Lark Kimball on her arm. “Ward dropped Lark off for a visit on his way up to the Green Mountain Inn. I want to give her a jar of chokecherry jam. Come, Lark. There’s no step.”
The cousins exchanged greetings with Lark; then, on a sudden whim, Judith followed Nella and her latest guest back into the icehouse.
“Lark,” Judith began, realizing that three made a crowd in the little structure, “don’t think this is an idiotic question, but do you know what ‘Spring River’ looked like? I mean, could you see it well enough to recognize it, or did Riley describe it to you?”
Lark’s smile was both patronizing and tolerant. “I know what it looked like. My fingers make up for much of what my eyes miss.”
“Of course.” Judith took Lark’s hand. “Tell me, is this ‘Spring River’?”
Lark bent down, her face almost touching the canvas. She peered at the painting for a long time, then slowly ran her dainty fingers over the surface. Renie leaned forward in the doorway. Nella scanned a bottom shelf, looking for jam. Judith stood directly behind Lark, who traced delicate blue flowers, slim green reeds, subtle soft ridges that evoked the river’s flow.
It dawned on Judith that she hadn’t checked for a signature. Indeed, the canvas might be marked on the back. Perhaps there was no mystery to its identity. She was about to say as much when Lark turned away from the painting, gazing, more or less, at Judith.
Lark surprised all of them by bursting into a merry gale of laughter. Even Nella, with a pint jar clutched in her hands, looked up. “How funny!” Lark said at last, between giggles. “Whyever did you think that was ‘Spring River’? It’s not even one of Riley’s works.” Her laughter subsided, and the long pale lashes dipped on her cheeks. The golden hair lay in soft tendrils around her face. “I did this. It’s mine.”
ELEVEN
“I CALL IT ‘Morning,’” Lark explained to her astonished listeners. “It’s one of a series. I finished ‘Dawn’ last winter. I’m working on ‘Midday’ now.”
Judith’s jaw dropped; Renie gaped; Nella handed the pint jar to Lark. “Here, dear. Try this on whole wheat toast.” Nella gazed benignly at the cousins. “Well, I thought it was Riley’s. He brought it over here last week.” She turned to Lark. “It’s very nice. It certainly reminds me of Riley’s paintings when he was much younger. You could actually see things in them, instead of blobs and daubs. But then, I’m no art expert.”
“Why,” Judith asked as Nella guided Lark out of the icehouse, “did Riley brin
g that canvas to the icehouse in the first place?” A glance at Lark’s clouded face told Judith that the younger woman was wondering the same thing.
“Oh,” Nella answered in less than her usual assured manner, “he said something about the weather getting warmer and that he wanted a cool place to store the picture while it dried. Does that make sense, Lark?”
“No,” Lark responded. “It would dry more quickly where it was warm, of course. Besides, I finished it almost a month ago. Tempera doesn’t take that long to dry under any conditions.”
“Artists are peculiar people,” Nella declared, opening the back door for her guests. “Present company excepted.” She gave Lark’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “Even your father can be odd sometimes. I thought about marrying him once, but that was before I got rid of Delmar and took up with Crosley. Or was it Kenmore? I forget.”
Judith waited for Nella to help Lark sit down on the love seat. Some of the postcards and the crossword-puzzle dictionary fell on the floor. Judith stooped to pick them up. “Haven’t you wondered where your painting was?” she asked Lark.
Lark’s reaction was one of bafflement. “I assumed it was at Riley’s studio. I finished it there, under his tutelage. Why should I think it was gone?”
Briefly, Judith berated herself. She wasn’t used to walking in the shoes of a person with severely impaired sight. Lark’s world was very different. So much could not be taken for granted. “Why do you think Riley put ‘Morning’ in Nella’s icehouse?”
Lark’s frown deepened. “I can’t imagine. I’ve got ‘Midday’ at my father’s studio. He brought it home the day Riley died. I let Riley send ‘Dawn’ to his brother, Yancey.”
Renie, who had been leaning against a Queen Anne breakfront crammed with china and souvenirs, gave a little start. “Was it a birthday present?” she asked.
A wistful smile played at Lark’s lips. “How did you know? Riley, as usual, had forgotten to get his brother a gift. He asked if I’d mind if he sent my painting. I said I’d be pleased—especially if Yancey enjoyed it.”