by Mary Daheim
Her words seemed to sink in. Looking surly, Costello pulled free of Judith’s hold, but he marched off to the studio, where his other deputies apparently were questioning Iris. More TV correspondents, along with print and radio reporters, had arrived, apparently drawn by information on the police band.
Wearily, Judith drew Renie aside. “We’ll probably have to go into the county seat to make our statement and file a complaint. Maybe they’ll give us a ride home.”
“Maybe they’ll give us dinner,” Renie said, but she didn’t sound hopeful.
Judith uttered a lame little laugh. “I couldn’t figure you out in the studio, coz. At first I thought you were being reckless with Iris because you were hungry. Then I realized you saw those TV people arrive before she and I did.”
“I saw them pull in when you turned on the CD player. Iris’s back was turned and she couldn’t hear them over the music. I knew it wouldn’t take long before they made themselves known to you and Iris. Journalists are pushy.”
Judith sighed. “Thank God for that.”
A few feet away, Nella Lablatt and Carrie Mae Morton were engaged in animated conversation. Dewitt and Erica Dixon were being interviewed by a rival TV station. More people had shown up, including the seventy-year-old couple from Oregon who looked pleasurably excited. Their overnight stay at the Woodchuck Auto Court had turned out to be more entertaining than they’d anticipated.
A hush fell over the crowd as Undersheriff Costello emerged from the studio with Iris in handcuffs. Her carriage was proud; her expression, defiant. She didn’t look at the cousins.
Over by the fence, a group of reporters had gathered around Dabney Plummer. At last Plummer was speaking. Judith and Renie stared.
“What’s that all about?” Renie asked of another, passing deputy.
The broad-shouldered man gave Renie a curious look. “What do you mean? It’s a press briefing.” He frowned at Renie. “Dabney Plummer is our official spokesperson.”
Judith and Renie were speechless.
A moment later, Costello hustled Iris into the backseat of his patrol car. The Morton children crowded as close as possible. Costello and the square-shouldered deputy also got in and drove off with a squeal of tires, flashing lights, and the siren’s wail. Judith expected the Morton kiddies to be impressed.
They weren’t. Standing close together, their faces downcast, they began to chant:
“No more Sweet-Stix! No more Sweet-Stix! No more Sweet-Stix now!”
Carrie Mae Morton insisted that the cousins come over for a nice glass of wine. Since the county car in which they’d be traveling couldn’t leave for some time, Judith and Renie reluctantly gave in.
The Morton living room was still in disarray, with piles of laundry all over the floor, a spilled bowl of chili covering an easy chair, and a small pig sitting on top of the TV.
“Dang!” exclaimed Carrie May, searching frantically for a place to put her guests. “Thor! Rafe! Get Omar out of here! The TV’s no place for him—put that pig in the kitchen, where he belongs. Better yet, take him outside.”
Thor and Rafe didn’t budge. They were too busy putting the dog’s fur up in curlers. Omar the Pig toddled down from the TV, waded through the laundry, and climbed up onto the only vacant chair. Carrie Mae snatched him up.
“Come on, I’ll put him out back. We can sit on the patio.”
The patio was five square feet of plywood, adorned with coffee cans containing almost-dead plants. The little area overlooked the small shed that served as a barn and the backyard that sheltered the family livestock. The smell was dreadful. Judith grimaced; Renie squirmed. Carrie Mae carted the pig out through the gate and let out a shriek:
“Oh, no! Look what them kids did now! They glued the goat to their trampoline!”
Trying not to gag, the cousins gingerly approached the sagging wire fence. Sure enough, a weary-looking billy goat stood in the middle of a large piece of canvas that was stretched between four pegs. Setting Omar down, Carrie Mae picked up a trowel from a rusting oil can and started to pry the goat loose.
“Need some help?” Judith offered, hoping to speed up the process and retreat from the odoriferous patio as quickly as possible.
“Naw, I can manage.” Sure enough, Carrie Mae had already freed the goat’s front hooves. With an angry kick, he freed his back legs and raced off toward the shed.
Judith was about to suggest they go back inside the house when she glanced at the makeshift trampoline for the first time. She gasped. Renie stared at her cousin, then followed Judith’s wide, astounded eyes.
“Egad!” cried Renie. “It’s ‘Spring River’!”
“Egad!” echoed Judith in horror. “It’s ruined!”
Renie, however, burst into laughter. “How,” she asked between guffaws, “can you tell?”
SEVENTEEN
“STOP!” JUDITH SHRIEKED. “I can’t stand it! How could you?” She rolled over on the bed, buried her face in the white-and-yellow-flowered counterpane, and covered her ears.
Joe switched off the VCR. “I didn’t mean to record it,” he said, though there was not a touch of repentance in his voice. “I forgot to turn off the Kevin Costner movie I was recording for you, and I taped the news by accident.”
“Like fun,” Judith muttered, raising her head. “And Mother! Wouldn’t you know she’d watch the channel that would have the full, unexpurgated coverage! And for the first time in ten years, Aunt Deb watches the news, too, all because her handyman’s son-in-law was appearing before the city council to protest a bounty on possums!”
Joe made no response, but removed his terry-cloth robe, dumped it on the floor, and turned off the bedside lamp. It was almost 2 A.M. The exhaustion that Judith had fought off in the county sheriff’s office thirty miles north of the city had now been replaced by restlessness. She was wide awake. Too many cups of coffee during the hour it had taken for her and Renie to give their statements, too heavy a meal too late at a coffee shop a block from the sheriff’s headquarters, and too much of a reaction setting in during the escorted drive home had resulted in wakefulness. The final blow had come when Judith had found Joe lazing on their bed, watching a rerun of the eleven o’clock news.
“I liked the part where Renie jumped on that floorboard and knocked Iris flat,” Joe remarked as he got into bed. “The camera angle wasn’t very good and the lighting was fuzzy, but you were great going for the gun. It was better than the movies.”
“Shut up.”
“Your little speech to that Costello fellow was a gem.” Joe chuckled as he arranged the pillow behind his head. “His eyes really bugged out when you got to the part about the Tin Hat and the tin cup. Still, he was right. You had no evidence.”
“Shut up.”
“I suppose that’s why you had to confront Iris with nobody else around. Poor Renie couldn’t understand why you let Clive drive off and you didn’t alert the Kimballs when they came to retrieve Lark’s other paintings. It was damned risky, but I can see why you had to get Iris alone. If you couldn’t force her to either confess or try to put you two away, she would have gotten off scot-free.”
“Shut up.”
“What really put you on Iris’s trail?” Joe propped himself up on one elbow. “That tape was only the clincher. How did Iris get hold of it?”
Resignedly, Judith crawled under the covers. “I’m not sure,” she said in a vexed voice. “I think it was by accident. She may have gone snooping around Ward’s studio, looking for the missing painting. Riley had inscribed the tape, from himself to Lark. Lark probably didn’t realize that because her eyesight is so poor, but Renie and I saw the writing after we listened to it in the car.”
“Was the rest of the tape blank?” Joe inquired, moving one leg just enough so that it touched Judith’s thigh.
“Yes, as far as we could tell. The second time around, Riley actually sounded sort of phony, like an actor reading his lines. It was ironic that Lark was such a poor judge of men—but she was mor
e on the mark with Iris. Lark said she was a rapacious conniver. But she was wrong about Iris not loving Riley enough—Iris loved him too much. She couldn’t bear to lose him to another woman.” Judith’s voice had perked up as she warmed to her tale. And to Joe. “Iris saw that inscription on the cassette and couldn’t resist playing it. She must have had a fit when she heard Riley make what amounted to a marriage proposal to Lark. Her jealously had already driven her to murder. But she didn’t dare let anybody know that she had such a strong motive. That’s why she made up that ridiculous story about Riley being Lark’s father. Iris couldn’t let anyone think she had a reason to kill Riley. So the tape had to disappear. Then there’d only be Lark’s word for Riley’s intentions, and that could be dismissed as the fantasy of an infatuated, impressionable young woman. Iris didn’t know we’d heard the tape, too.”
Joe flung an arm across Judith’s pillow. “You didn’t answer the original question.”
“Oh. You mean about suspecting Iris?” Judith moved closer to Joe. “Well, there were a bunch of little things. When Renie and I first saw Iris, she had her groceries and a big shoulder bag. Then, when she came running over to tell us she heard a prowler, she claimed she was going back to the Green Mountain Inn to get her car. But she didn’t have her shoulder bag. Now think about that. If she’d been telling the truth, she would have had it with her, because she would have expected to pay Gary Johanson if he’d fixed the car. If he hadn’t, she’d need money for the pay phone to call for the tow truck.”
“Good,” Joe said, pulling Judith onto his shoulder. “Very good. But only suggestive.”
Feeling the warmth of Joe’s body, Judith relaxed. “Gary mentioned that the problem with Iris’s car was negligible. The ignition was stuck, and all he had to do was turn the wheels to unlock it. Iris purposely jammed it as an excuse so that she could leave her car at the Green Mountain Inn and it wouldn’t be seen at Riley’s. She took the river route, walking along the trail, and she heard us at the cabin. Our presence might have surprised her, but it didn’t deter her. In fact, it made us her stooges. She went from there to Riley’s, got him drunk, strangled him, and then came over to give us her phony prowler story.”
“And nobody saw her with Riley in the studio?” Joe rested his cheek on Judith’s temple.
“Nobody would, ordinarily. The house is pretty well screened from the road, and there are all those trees between our cabin and Riley’s. Nella wasn’t home.” Judith slipped her arms around Joe’s chest. “But Iris was seen, and that was very unlucky for her.”
Joe’s free hand traced Judith’s jawline, then touched the tip of her nose. “Who saw her? That agent, stumbling around? The art collector? The Hungarian dealer? Ward Kimball?”
Judith nipped at Joe’s roving fingers. “They were all gone by then. Lark, too.” She laughed, and realized her mood had definitely improved. “It was the Morton kiddies, being disobedient and crossing the road to play in Riley’s yard.”
Joe made an incredulous noise. “Now how do you figure that? Or did you ask them?”
“I did, eventually. Just to make sure.” Judith pressed even closer and gave a little sigh before resuming her story. “Those kids kept yapping about Sweet-Stix. It dawned on me that they only did it when Iris was around. In fact, one of them said something about how Erica Dixon wouldn’t give them candy of any kind and that she was mean. Then they tried to bribe me by saying they’d do anything for sweets. I realized that they’d learned that trick from experience. When I found a bag of Sweet-Stix at Riley’s house, I knew for sure. Iris had handed the stuff out to the kids to keep them quiet about seeing her when she wasn’t supposed to be there.”
“Ah! Out of the mouths of babes!”
“In this case, into the mouths of babes.”
“Getting kids to testify isn’t easy,” Joe remarked, brushing Judith’s lips with his.
“That crew will love it.” Judith laughed softly at the memory of the Morton offspring. “I should have figured some of this out sooner, frankly. Renie told me that Riley wasn’t working in tempera—Lark used it, but he didn’t. Maybe Iris purposely spilled the tempera to put suspicion on her rival. Or maybe, in her haste, she simply didn’t think. Either way, I ought to have realized that the paint was there for a reason that had nothing to do with Riley’s work. I’m still kicking myself for not realizing that Riley was dead when we saw him through the studio window.”
Joe sniffed at the scent of soap on Judith’s bare shoulder. “You see what you expect to see. People are like that. And Iris knew it.”
But Judith wouldn’t give herself a break. “Riley was propped up by that huge painting, the heavy easel, and that big box of paints. Still, he just had to look unnatural. But, of course, Renie and I were concentrating on finding a prowler. Looking back, I see that what really set me off was Iris’s so-called revelation that Riley was Lark’s father. When I stopped to figure dates and ages, like when Riley moved from San Francisco and how old Lark is, I realized there was a big discrepancy—at least six years. It just wasn’t logical. And it wasn’t logical for Iris to tell us such a lie unless she had a reason. There was no point in defaming the late Mrs. Kimball or even Riley. Why turn Ward into a cuckold? Why make Lark out to be illegitimate? It could only be a smoke screen to prove Iris wasn’t—couldn’t possibly be—jealous.”
“Ah, men and women,” Joe mused. “The eternal triangle. I sort of like an old-fashioned crime of passion now and then. It breaks the monotony of all those senseless killings where the only motive is dope—and the perps are all dopes, too. And then there are those con artists. I don’t see much of them in my job, more’s the pity. So Dewitt had figured out a way to get money from his tight-fisted wife. He knew she’d be willing to pay seventy grand for a Riley Tobias, but not a Lark Kimball. So what did he do? Connive with Clive?”
“Exactly. Dewitt had seen Lark working on that canvas. I’m guessing he confronted Riley and demanded a free painting. Otherwise, he would blow the whistle on Riley’s deception. Riley had to agree—he’d already passed Lark’s work off as his own once, and Erica had seen the picture in progress. But before he could retrieve Lark’s ‘Morning’ from Nella’s icehouse, he was killed. Clive knew Riley had given me a painting—he assumed it belonged to the Dixons. After he found it behind the Murphy bed, he gave it to Dewitt. But Dewitt discovered it wasn’t the one Erica wanted. I doubt that at this point Clive knew what Riley had been pulling. But Dewitt had to tell him, so they got together the next morning at the Green Mountain Inn and agreed to a pact. Dewitt would ‘buy’ the real Tobias with Erica’s money; then he and Clive would split the proceeds. Later, they’d sell the real ‘Spring River’ abroad and make even more money. But they had a problem—they didn’t know where Lark’s canvas was. Dewitt had nothing to show Erica when she returned from Europe. I suspect Clive and Dewitt practically had a falling-out before they even got started, each accusing the other of making off with Lark’s painting. The Morton kiddies had swiped the Tobias from the Dixons’ motel room, probably while Dewitt was picking Erica up at the airport. It got to be a real jumble.” Judith kissed Joe back, then stiffened and pulled away. “Say! Speaking of con games, what kind of trick were you trying to play on me? Were you serious about another bed-and-breakfast?”
Joe’s dancing green eyes studied Judith’s face. “Were you?”
Mesmerized by his magic gaze, Judith hesitated in answering. “I don’t think so. But I suppose I shouldn’t dismiss the idea out of hand.”
“No rush,” Joe said, his voice very low. “Take one thing at a time. That’s what we’re doing now. At the moment, it’s bed.” He kissed her again, holding her tight. “In the morning, it’s breakfast.”
Judith sighed happily. “It could be more bed.”
Joe buried his face in her hair. “It could be both.”
Gertrude was leaning on her walker, squinting at the restored Riley Tobias painting that rested against the door to the bathroom off the entry hall. She p
ulled a cigarette out of her housecoat pocket and flicked on her lighter.
“What does that lamebrained husband of yours think of this thing?” Gertrude asked in her raspy voice.
Judith paused, then answered truthfully. “He says it looks like sink sludge. He thought it was a waste of money to have it repaired after the goat sat on it.”
Gertrude snorted loudly. “A lot he knows!” A cloud of smoke enveloped her small, wiry frame. “Tell you what—I’ve got room for it in the toolshed. You know, in my sitting room, where you hung my picture of the Sacred Heart. We can move Jesus into the bedroom. He won’t mind, and I’d like to keep an eye on Him there. Get a hammer and a couple of nails and we’ll go hang Riley Whazzisname.”
“He’s already been strangled,” Judith murmured. “Hanging seems a bit much.”
“What? Speak up. You know I’m deaf, you knothead.” Gertrude expelled more smoke. Sweetums circled her ankles, then wove in and out of the walker’s rubber-tipped legs. “Of course I know Riley was strangled,” Gertrude went on heatedly, giving the lie to her hearing deficiency. “Didn’t I have to see it all on television? My daughter, a Grover, and my niece, another Grover, acting as if they were in a wrestling match! It’s a wonder the whole world couldn’t see your underwear!”
“Our…?” Judith was aghast. She was also strangely reluctant to part with Riley Tobias’s last landscape. If that was indeed what it was. Never mind that it was plug-ugly, never mind that Joe hated it, never mind that Sweetums was now swishing his plumelike tail and showing signs of critical disdain. “Spring River,” or so Judith had dubbed the work, since that had been Riley’s title if only by default, was the work of a once-great artist. On the other hand, it had looked like hell on the staircase landing.
“Okay,” Judith agreed. “Let’s put this sucker up.” She struggled with the painting and headed for the kitchen to get a hammer and nails. Gertrude clumped along behind her. Sweetums beat both of them to the back door.