by Mary Daheim
“Did he?” inquired Renie with a quick glance at Judith.
Lark was looking forlorn, her hands tucked inside the sleeves of a baggy pink cardigan. “I don’t know. Riley hadn’t heard from Yancey for a couple of months. Neither of them were much at writing letters, and you know how Riley hated the phone.”
The glimmer of an idea was forming in Judith’s mind. “When was Yancey’s birthday? March?”
Lark inclined her head, obviously trying to remember. “Yes. March fifteenth. The Ides of March—that’s how I can remember it.”
The conversation turned to more mundane matters. Judith flipped through the postcards from Venice. Renie admired Nella’s fancywork. Lark expressed her delight over the chokecherry jam. Nella showed off her latest tapes, which ran the gamut from rap and reggae to Rodgers and Hart.
“How was your trip?” Judith asked, realizing that she and Renie had neglected to inquire about Nella’s latest visit to her relatives.
At the wet bar, Nella was removing the cork from the champagne bottle. “Fine, lovely, wonderful. Lark—how about a bit of bubbly?”
Lark requested sherry instead. Nella rummaged around in the safe and came up with a bottle from Portugal.
“Your family must be scattered all over,” Judith remarked. “Where did you go this time?”
Nella was looking at her watch. “Now, girls, it’s after ten. Surely you won’t refuse a dollop of sherry. This is good stuff. You wouldn’t want to waste it in a casserole.”
Reluctantly, Judith and Renie gave in. “I remember some of your grandchildren,” Judith continued doggedly, still trying to pin Nella down about her travels. “They used to spend summers up here. Do they live close by?”
“They’re all over the map,” Nella replied blithely. “Great-children, too, and now four great-greats. You name a city, even a country, and I can point to some of my own.” She handed out the sherry glasses. “Tell me about your boy, Judith. He must be almost ready for college.”
Judith winced. “He should have been done with college by now. Kids these days take their time. Mike’s majoring in forestry. With any luck, he’ll graduate this term. And if miracles still happen, he’ll get a job.”
Lark sipped her sherry, then gave a little sniff. “Why do parents always insist that their children get jobs? Dad constantly harps about me going to work. Why can’t mothers and fathers just be satisfied to let their children be? Riley thought that life was a full-time job, and I think he was right.”
Judith raised her eyebrows; Renie bristled. But Lark wasn’t finished:
“It’s fine for somebody like Iris to dash around, making herself important as a color consultant. But for people who really want to get something out of life, a job just gets in the way.”
“Maybe Iris likes to eat,” Renie pointed out with bite in her voice.
The argument cut no ice with Lark. “Iris is a leech. She sponged off Riley, and spent her own money on herself. All those clothes and that condo in town.” Lark looked disdainful.
Nella, who was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, scowled over the rim of her champagne glass. “Lark, don’t be mean-minded. Iris was very fond of Riley. I went to see her after I got home last night and she cried all over me. Have a little heart, honey. What have I been telling you?”
Lark’s fine molded chin jutted. “You don’t listen, Nella. You’re just like Dad. You treat me as if I were a helpless child! My God, I’m thirty-two years old; I’m a woman with real emotions! Why can’t you people understand that being almost blind only means that you can’t see well, not that you can’t feel deeply?”
Judith glanced at Renie, who responded with an almost-imperceptible nod of her head. The cousins tossed off their sherry. “It sounds to me as if you two buddies need to talk privately,” Judith said, hoping to strike an ameliorating note. “We’d better get back to the cabin and clean the downspouts. Say, Nella, have you got a ladder we could borrow?”
Nella did, and the request seemed to break the spell of hostility. Five minutes later, the cousins were coming up their dirt drive, carrying the ladder at each end.
“So what’s your reaction to the birthday present?” Judith asked as they positioned the ladder at the near side of the cabin.
“Mixed,” Renie replied. “Yancey hated it, according to the letter. But he thought Riley had painted it. Now why would Riley pass Lark’s work off as his own?”
“I put that notebook of Clive’s in my purse. I want to check something before I answer that.” Judith stepped on the first rung, testing the ladder’s stability. “You better get a broom. I think there’s an old one under the house.” She waited while Renie crawled around, hit her head, swore, and finally reappeared with a much-abused broom.
“That’s a mess,” Judith declared. “Still, maybe it’ll work.” She started up the ladder, but froze on the third rung from the top. Her gaze was fixed on the window into the loft.
“What is it?” Renie demanded.
Judith dropped the broom and hurriedly climbed back down. “It’s Clive Silvanus. Quick, let’s head him off at the Dutch door.”
“Ah declare,” Clive said, looking flustered but not unduly alarmed, “Ah hope you have seen mah LaGrange College ring, class of 1965?”
“Afraid not,” Judith answered tersely. “How did you get in, Mr. Silvanus?”
“Just call me Clive.” His mustache twitched as he smiled at the cousins. “And then call me Clever.” Reaching into the pocket of his tan polyester pants, he hauled out a big ring loaded with keys. “It’s a wonder Ah don’t walk lopsided. But these do come in handy now and then. You were nowhere to be found, so Ah thought you wouldn’t mind if Ah came in to look for—”
“We do mind, kiddo,” Renie interrupted. “You’re damned lucky we didn’t swat you with that old broom out there. We also mind that you’re lying through your teeth. You wouldn’t be looking for a notebook, would you?”
Clive evinced surprise. “A notebook? Now that you mention it, Ah do believe Ah did misplace mine some-where.” He started to exit the cabin, but Judith and Renie formed a barrier. “Excuse me, ladies, but Ah must be on my way. It is with regret that Ah must consider mah class ring lost. It meant a lot to me.”
The cousins stood firm. “Don’t you want your notebook?” Judith asked, going eyeball-to-eyeball with Clive. “We found it under the bed in the loft. Why don’t you tell us how it got there?”
Clive chewed at his upper lip, threatening to devour his mustache. His eyes darted around the cabin, as if he could find a logical explanation in the knotty pine paneling. “Ah was in a daze? Ah was fleein’ snakes? Ah never met a ladder Ah didn’t climb? Oh, shoot!” He pounded his fist into his palm and shook his head. “What difference does it make? You wouldn’t believe me anyways.”
“Try us,” urged Renie, looking more pugnacious than usual. “Here’s a hint—were you searching for a painting Riley gave my cousin?”
Now Clive’s expression of surprise was even more exaggerated. “Riley gave that picture away? Well, now! And here Ah thought it had been misplaced!”
“So you took it back,” Judith said in a reasonable tone. “Where is it?”
Clive was looking more uncomfortable by the second. His mustache seemed to droop with the rest of him. “That’s hard to say.” He ran a finger inside his shirt collar, while beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead. “Did Riley tell you what that painting was called?”
“No,” Judith replied honestly.
Clive gulped. “Then let’s call it ‘Missing.’” He staggered a bit, then gave Judith a beseeching look. “Ah don’t suppose you’ve got any of that fine bourbon left? Ah could use a drink.”
Grudgingly, Renie poured out the last shot from the pint bottle. “No ice,” she said in a sour voice. “We’re almost out of that, too.”
Clive Silvanus had sat down on the sofa. He loosened his brown striped tie and unbuttoned the top of his beige shirt. “Ah’m flummoxed,” he mumbled, taking
a big pull on the bourbon. Neither Judith nor Renie asked why; instead, they waited for their uninvited guest to explain.
“Riley told me he’d given you that painting for safe-keepin’.” Clive’s eyes were pleading, looking not unlike those of a puppy who expects to get swatted with a rolled-up newspaper. “After the poor man got himself killed, Ah got worried. No offense intended, but Ah didn’t think this was a very good place for keepin’ a painting worth seventy thousand dollars. Ah came over here and pretended to get a bit tiddly, and hoped you two might go out for a spell. You did, and right after that, who should show up but Dewitt? He told me Iris couldn’t come up with the painting he’d bought for his wife’s gallery. So naturally, Ah thought that somehow Riley had given you Dewitt’s picture. It wasn’t hard to find in this little place. Ah felt obligated to hand it over to Dewitt.”
The cousins stared at Clive Silvanus. Outside, birds chirruped and the river rolled. The silence inside the cabin was unsettling. Indeed, Clive seemed more than unsettled: He seemed to be growing despondent.
“Why,” Judith asked, still speaking in a reasonable tone, “do you think Riley gave us a painting that belonged to the Dixons?”
Clive frantically scratched his bald spot. “Ah told you, Riley did odd things. What matters is that the Dixons got their painting.” Despite the assertion, gloom settled in over Clive as he drank the dregs of his bourbon and apparently tasted despair.
In the old pine deck chair, Renie was looking puzzled. “Wait a minute, Clive—what did you mean when you said we should call the painting ‘Missing’?”
“What?” Clive looked as perplexed as Renie. “Ah don’t know—Ah spoke out of turn. These last few days have made a mess of mah nerves.” He stood up, his legs wobbly.
Judith retrieved Clive’s notebook from her purse, but not before she had checked one of the notations. Clive accepted the notebook without enthusiasm. Making commiserating noises, Judith saw their guest to the door. After Clive had made his heavy-footed way back down the road, she turned to Renie.
“Well?”
“Something’s missing, but it’s not the painting Riley gave you,” Renie replied. “Want to bet that Nella has a seventy-thousand-dollar painting in her icehouse, right next to the rhubarb juice?”
Judith sat down on the couch. “Here’s what I think, coz. Riley had lost it. Lark is very talented, and Riley knew it—even if she doesn’t. Let’s assume that Hong Kong collector who bought ‘Autumn Images’ never saw the painting itself—he or she knew only that it was a Tobias, which it no doubt was. But what if A.—for Anonymous?—did see Lark’s work, loved it, and thought Riley had done it? Riley doesn’t let on, sells Lark’s ‘Dawn’ as his ‘Spring Meadow,’ and says he’s given her painting to his brother as a birthday present.”
“Ah!” Renie angled one leg over the arm of the deck chair. “But in reality, he sends his own failure to Yancey, who hates it. Then he gives you his ugly version of ‘Spring River.’ Meanwhile, he hides Lark’s ‘Morning’ canvas in Nella’s icehouse until Dewitt comes to collect it. But Riley got killed before Dewitt showed up.”
“But he didn’t,” Judith protested. “Dewitt did see Riley Tuesday afternoon. Riley said he had to wait for Clive.” She lifted her eyebrow at Renie in a significant gesture.
It took a moment for Judith’s insinuation to dawn on Renie. “Riley might have meant what he said…Clive is the moneyman. But if Dewitt knew what he was buying—and if the painting he saw was in Nella’s icehouse—how would Dewitt know that, though?”
Judith smirked at Renie. “Maybe Riley told him. Dewitt wouldn’t want us to know that he knew. Not if he was the one prowling around Nella’s about the time Riley was killed.”
“So is Clive lying or being duped?” Once again, Renie looked perplexed. “Did Dewitt take Riley’s canvas—your canvas—under false pretenses?”
“That I don’t know,” Judith admitted. “At this point, I’m more interested in opportunity than motive. Clive saw Riley, Dewitt saw Riley, everybody saw Riley. Even Lark could have been there at some point, maybe while Ward was looking for her.”
“You’re right,” Renie said, her brow clearing. “The only person who is definitely out of it is Erica Dixon, because she was en route from Europe.”
Judith was wearing a sly expression. “Was she?”
“Huh?” Renie frowned at her cousin.
Picking up Clive’s empty glass, Judith carried it to the sink. “We could use some more water. Maybe we should call on Iris.” She spoke almost absently.
“Back up,” Renie urged, getting out of the deck chair. “What about Erica?”
“It’s just one of my crazy ideas,” Judith said. “I may be wrong, so let’s skip it for now.” She bent down to get the empty bucket out from under the sink.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Renie gave a mock kick in the vicinity of Judith’s rear end. “You’ve pulled this crap on me before. Give, coz, or you’ll be wearing that bucket on your head instead of carrying it in your hands.”
Judith sighed. “Okay, but don’t you dare laugh. Remember how I was asking Nella about her trip? She evaded me like crazy. I tried to pin her down about where she’d gone, but she managed to divert the conversation. On top of that, I noticed that those postcards from Italy—the ones she had on the love seat—were blank.” Judith waited for Renie to catch on.
“Meaning they weren’t from someone? They’re souvenirs?” Renie made a face. “Are you trying to say that Nella—not Erica—went to Europe? Whoa!”
“What if neither of them went abroad? I can’t think of a motive for Nella, but Erica might have wanted to get her mitts on more of Riley’s paintings. She admitted as much,” Judith reminded Renie. “So maybe Erica coerced Nella into taking her place on the trip to provide an alibi if a theft—or worse—was in the works.”
Renie leaned on one of the stools next to the small counter that divided the kitchen from the living room. “Too weird, coz. What would Erica do? Offer a bribe? Blackmail Nella? Haven’t we got enough suspects without adding Erica and Nella to the list?”
Judith’s lips tightened. “You can’t go by the numbers. The killer could be anybody. Oh, I know, I know. It doesn’t make any sense.” She headed for the door. “But you’ve got to admit it’s a bit queer. Why won’t Nella say where she was? How do we know Erica was out of the country? We only have her word—and Dewitt’s—for it.”
“That,” Renie replied, “can be checked. You’d better call Joe.”
“Not yet,” said Judith. “Besides, I’m supposed to be planning Mountainside Manor.”
“You’ve already got a name for it?” Renie locked the door.
“Shut up,” said Judith.
“I just did,” said Renie.
Judith gazed at the lock on the Dutch door. “Why bother?”
“What about the downspouts?”
Judith shot Renie a rueful look. “With any luck, somebody will steal them.”
“Why?” Renie inquired.
“Why not?” said Judith.
Iris Takisaki was up to her perfectly plucked eyebrows in paperwork when the cousins arrived. “Insurance forms, obituaries, correspondence—if the usual demands of death weren’t enough, Riley let things slide.” She tapped a stack of mail with a silver ballpoint pen. “Some of this goes back to March. He should have hired a secretary instead of relying on me. I’ve got my own career. I used to tell him that, but he’d just give me that big grin and say he didn’t trust anybody else.”
Judith and Renie expressed sympathy for Iris’s burdens. She was sitting at a deal table in the living room, the sunlight filtered by half-closed blue blinds. The cluttered area looked in more disarray than usual, with file boxes stacked in one corner, several cartons in another, and portfolios on every possible surface. It appeared that Iris had even begun to clear out the studio. Several wrapped canvases were lined up against one wall. The box of paints the cousins had seen earlier now reposed next to the hearth.
&nb
sp; “I want to get everything done as quickly as possible,” Iris said, following the cousins’ gaze around the room. “Personal, professional, whatever, it’s all got to be organized and taken care of. I’d like to have this place on the market by June first. I never want to see it again after that.” She slammed a ledger shut for emphasis.
Judith expressed surprise. “I thought you liked it up here on the river, Iris.”
Iris let out a big sigh. “I did. But it’s got too many horrible memories now. I told myself I could change my mind and be sorry if I sold the property right away. But summer is the time to find a buyer, and frankly, I’d like to put all of this behind me.” She waved a hand at the room, but she obviously meant much more than four walls and a picture window.
It was Renie who broached the subject of Riley’s recent sales. Iris evinced interest. “I recall something about autumn,” she responded. “Lots of brown and orange and gold. Riley let me see what he was working on as long as I didn’t make a pest of myself. As far as I know, Mr. Kwan bought it sight unseen, which isn’t so unusual. What’s your point?”
“Was it ugly?” Renie asked point-blank.
Iris looked affronted. “Ugly? No, of course not. But,” she added, her expression turning thoughtful, “it was rather discordant. Much of his last work was, you know.”
“Clive said ‘Spring Meadow’ was sold to an art dealer in mid-March, but he didn’t tell us who,” Judith put in, stretching the truth about their source of information. It wasn’t a lie, she told herself: Clive’s notebook had told her and Renie about the sale. “Do you remember that one?”
“Vaguely.” Iris remained pensive. “I don’t know who bought it—it was a ‘blind’ sale.” She grimaced slightly. “No, I’m not poking fun at Lark—she might think me cruel, but she’s wrong. What I mean is that the buyer wanted to remain anonymous.”
“Would Clive know who it was?” Judith asked, more from curiosity than from a sense of sleuthing.