The Tree of Death

by Marcia Muller

  “On Sunday she called.”

  “Anything new?”

  “No.”

  I went to switch my laundry to the dryer. On the way through the rec center I spotted Nick and his “old fogies” conferring in the lounge. There seemed to be some disagreement on how the marathon would be run, because they were all talking loudly at once. Nick waved cheerfully at me, though. I guess they enjoyed shouting.

  Back at the trailer, I found Mama unfolding a couple of lounge chairs on the little spot of lawn. “Come and sit awhile,” she said.

  I sat. For a few minutes we didn’t speak. Then she said, “Are you sure everything’s all right at the museum, Elena?”

  She must really be worried. My job had always had its ups and downs, some more serious than today’s. “Everything’s not all right, but I don’t see why you’re so concerned.”

  “I have a feeling.”

  “Oh, your feelings!” Mama often laid claim to premonitions. When I scoffed at them, she would merely give me a dark look that said, There are things more terrible here than you can imagine. Unfortunately, her premonitions were usually right.

  “So what do you think is going to happen?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.”

  She sounded forlorn, and I tried to reassure her. “Okay, what’s the worst that can happen? I can lose my job. There are other jobs.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Okay, suppose the opening’s a bust. Or the volunteers forget the strawberries for the press preview. Or Maria elopes with Vic.”‘ I decided to joke her out of her mood.“ Or maybe Tony will run off with Isabel. A rich person might will us a whole bunch of arboles de la vida, uglier than what we’ve got now. Or Frank will get even fatter. Or I’ll elope with rotund Robert.” None of it was very funny, however, and Mama wasn’t having any cheering up.

  “I just have got this feeling.”

  “Mama, Mama, you’re depressing me.”

  “I don’t mean to.”

  I patted her work-worn hand. “I know.”

  We sat there in the silence, listening to the crickets and occasional conversations of people passing by. Around ten o’clock Nick reappeared, and I took it as my signal to leave. Collecting my clothes from the dryer, I waved good-bye to the remnants of the group of “old fogies” and went to my car.

  I wasn’t sleepy. In spite of a straight week of lying awake nights, I wasn’t tired at all. I sat in the dark, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, then started the car and drove toward the museum. All was dark, except for the floodlights on the lawn. For a moment I debated going in, checking the collections once more, but decided against it. I was getting obsessive about my work, and I didn’t like that. Finally I drove to the palm-dotted park on Cabrillo Street along the waterfront and sat in my car, watching the lovers on the grass.

  I didn’t have a male friend right now. Jim-the one who was good in bed-had gone out of my life she months ago, and since then the museum had taken all my time. That wasn’t right. I should be getting out, going to parties, meeting people.

  But why? Somehow the old game didn’t interest me anymore. I would much rather sit in my house reading art journals and novels than go out partying. Maybe I was going to be alone all my life. Maybe I would never find anybody to be comfortable with. Mama never said anything, but I knew she worried about grandchildren. What if she’d raised Carlota and me to be too independent?

  Children. Did I want them? I didn’t know. Children were such an unknown quantity when the man who would father them was faceless.

  A husband? Did I really want anyone on a permanent basis? I didn’t know that either.

  Angrily I shook myself. “You’re too damn introspective these days, Elena,” I said aloud. “No wonder you don’t sleep at night.”

  The words echoed in the little car. Then the sound died, and I felt more alone than ever. Mama had a feeling. Her feelings were usually right. But what did it mean?

  I sat there for a long time, until the moon disappeared behind a giant palm tree and the lovers were gone from the grass.

  four

  My outlook, like Jesse’s camaleones, changed the next morning. I felt optimistic, positive. The press preview would be a success, the opening even better. The problems at the museum were not insoluble. Once things quieted down, I would deal with them. And, if they proved more than I could handle, well-there were other jobs, weren’t there?

  I parked in front of the stately adobe and crossed the grass. The alarm, I noted approvingly, was on, although the lock was in the up position, which meant that Frank had left by another door. The fact remained that he had remembered my warning to reset the alarm. It was a good omen.

  I went into the central courtyard and turned on the fountain. The water gurgled and sputtered for a moment, then began tinkling happily. Another good omen.

  The folding tables for the buffet were stored in the corridor outside Frank’s office. I went in there, put away my purse, and started hauling tables to the courtyard. Passing Frank’s door, I looked in and spied his keys hanging on the hook. So he was here early. With luck, he’d be reasonably presentable and in a mood to greet the reporters. Deciding to avoid him for now, I moved the folding tables by myself.

  By the time Isabel and her other volunteers had arrived, I had covered each table with a white cloth and set out napkins and glasses. The volunteers unveiled huge cut glass bowls of spring strawberries, and I helped Isabel fill the smaller silver bowls with sugar. Vic arrived and began to mix the champagne and orange juice punch. Naturally Frank didn’t come out to lend a hand.

  By nine-thirty Tony hadn’t yet put in an appearance. That didn’t bother me; he was often late, and if he didn’t show up at all he wouldn’t be able to say stupid things to the reporters. What did bother me was Maria’s absence. We could have used another pair of hands. And, come to think of it, where was Jesse? He’d promised to be here as a representative of the local artistic community. Maybe the two of them were off having a tryst. Honestly, couldn’t I count on anyone?

  The hands of my watch showed quarter to ten when we finished laying out the buffet and stood back to admire it. I turned to Vic. “Go in and call Maria. Tell her she’s got to hurry. And try Jesse.”

  He nodded and went into the office wing. A moment later he returned. “Guess they’re on the way. No answer at Jesse’s, and the line’s busy at Frank’s.”

  “Probably one of the gordicitos tying up the phone,”‘ I said. “I’m going to check the galleries, and then I’ll get Frank.” I’d been holding off on the galleries, having decided that controlling my obsessive behavior was a good place for the new, optimistic me to start.

  I crossed the courtyard and started through the galleries. They looked good. I flicked at the same imaginary specks of dust as yesterday. Everything shone. Our collections had never looked better. Even that damned arbol de la vida might look okay this morning. I reserved judgment; if it didn’t, the folk art gallery would be off limits to the press.

  I rounded the corner to the gallery, bracing myself for the tree’s spectacular ugliness. Then I stopped. The tree was gone.

  On the platform where it had stood was a gaping emptiness. The tree was gone. The tree was… on the floor Smashed into hundreds of garish fragments. Shattered. And under it…

  I put my hand to my mouth, stifling a scream. It came out a strangled grunt.

  Under the remains of the tree lay Frank. He was on his face, his arms and legs splayed out. There were dark, dried stains on the floor near where a large section of the tree lay on his head. He was not breathing.

  I grasped at the wall for balance. Por Dios! How had this happened?

  I took a faltering step forward, and something crunched under my foot. Looking down, I saw it was one of the shocking pink flowers. I looked back at Frank, surrounded by the gaudy wreckage, and thought of my words of the day before: Someone ought to kill you. Facing the reality of Frank’s death, those words seem
ed reprehensible. No one should speak idly of death. And no one, not even Frank, deserved to die like this.

  And then as I stood there, staring at his inert body, I realized what part of the tree had crushed his skull. It was the center, with the red-eyed, fanged serpent.

  The scream again rose to my throat. Again I forced it back. The press would be arriving about now. I didn’t want them swarming all over here. I didn’t want them staring like vultures at Frank’s broken body.

  What to do?

  I backed from the room, my eyes still on Frank, then turned and ran through the gallery to the courtyard. A couple of reporters had already arrived and were eyeing the buffet. Isabel stood by the door. I grabbed her arm.

  “Have the volunteers give them some punch. Let them eat,” I said.

  She nodded, then took a good look at my face. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Just keep them amused. Load them up with champagne.” I rushed across the courtyard to the office wing.

  Vic was hanging up the phone. He turned to me. “Still busy. I don’t know where the hell Maria is.”

  I didn’t reply. I was shaking all over. I picked up the receiver and dialed. Thank God for the 911 emergency number. I could not have dialed more digits.

  “What are you doing?” Vic asked.

  I shook my head. The operator came on. I gave my name and the address of the museum. I said there had been a fatal accident. I said we had press people all over the place. Could the cops attract as little attention as possible?

  Vic’s eyes widened.

  I put down the phone and turned to him.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “Frank. In the folk art gallery. He must have been fooling with the arbol de la vida. It fell on him. Crushed his head.”

  Vic’s face twisted. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “I didn’t touch him, but you can tell when someone’s not breathing. It’s quiet in there, so quiet…” I began to shake harder.

  Vic put his arm around me. “Hey, don’t do that.”

  “I… can’t… help… it…”

  He forced me into a chair. “Take a deep breath.”

  I complied.

  “Does anyone else know?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I told Isabel to keep the reporters amused.”

  “God. The reporters.”

  “Right.”

  Vic stared at me. Then he asked, “You okay now?”

  “No. Yes. Better anyway.”

  “Let me go get some champagne. We both need it.”

  He left. It was quiet in the offices, too. Much too quiet.

  Vic returned with a bottle of champagne. “The straight stuff,” he said. “We don’t need orange juice.” He rummaged around, found two coffee cups and poured. I took one and gulped, the bubbles stinging my nose. Vic drank his down in one swallow, then poured more. I looked at the cup I held. It was decorated with a heart and said “Daddy.” I shuddered. It was Frank’s; one of his children had given it to him for Father’s Day last year. What it had been doing here, on Maria’s desk, I didn’t know. Frank was so absentminded. He probably didn’t know where he’d left it.

  The door to the office wing opened, and Isabel came in, white-faced. “There are policemen here,” she whispered.

  “Yes.” I stood up. “Send them in here. Try not to let the reporters see.”

  She stood back. Two uniformed patrolmen entered. I set down the mug of champagne and explained what I had found. When I was done, Vic took them off to the gallery.

  I sat down again. Poured more champagne. Drank it. I hadn’t eaten any breakfast that morning, and I felt lightheaded. That was what shock could do to you. Absently I poured more champagne. Lifted the cup to my lips.

  “Give me that!” It was Vic. “You’re going to get drunk. How will that look to the cops at ten-thirty in the morning?”

  I looked up at him and giggled.

  “Jesus!” Vic snatched the cup.

  I giggled again.

  The door opened, and a middle-aged man came in. He was an Anglo, and everything about him was brown-hair, suntanned face, business suit, tie, shoes, even the rims of his sunglasses. He stared at me, and my giggles evaporated.

  “Are you the one who reported it?” he asked.

  “Yes.” I started to get out of my chair, then decided it wouldn’t be wise.

  “This is Elena Oliverez, our curator,” Vic said. “I’m Vic Leary, the business manager.”

  “Lieutenant Dave Kirk. Homicide.” He didn’t offer his hand.

  “Homicide?” I said and then, indelicately, hiccuped.

  “I don’t understand,” Vic said, glaring at me. “Mr. De Palma was killed by accident. The tree of life-”

  “We have to investigate all unusual deaths. Who found him?”

  I was sobering fast. “I did.”

  “Tell me how it happened.”

  I told him.

  Kirk nodded and turned to Vic. “Let’s go to the gallery.”

  Quietly Vic led him from the room.

  Homicide. I reached for the coffee cup, which Vic had set on top of a filing cabinet, then changed my mind. Unusual deaths. I got up and went to the courtyard.

  There were about twenty reporters and cameramen out there, from both the newspapers and local TV. The bowls of strawberries had been reduced by half, and a volunteer was adding to the punch. Isabel stood by the door to the galleries, guarding it. She jumped when I went up and put a hand on her arm.

  “Vic told me,” she whispered. “What are we going to do with them?” She motioned at the crowd.

  “Keep feeding them champagne. Obviously, the tour is off. Someone will have to make a statement sooner or later.”

  “Who?”

  “Me, probably.”‘ It occurred to me that I should call Carlos Bautista, the chairman of our board. I patted Isabel reassuringly and went back to the offices. Then I realized that Carlos was on vacation in Acapulco. Who else to notify? The rest of the board members were fairly ineffectual. Chances were they would panic. It was up to me, I decided.

  The door opened, and Lieutenant Kirk came in. He stopped and surveyed me. His eyes were expressionless, his face bland. “The men from the laboratory are on their way,”‘ he said. “Is there some place they can come in where the reporters won’t notice?”

  I thought. “Through the rear courtyard?”

  “However.”

  I led him through Frank’s office to the walled patio and, digging in my pocket, took out the key to the padlock on the iron gate. “This passageway leads to the parking lot, near the loading dock.” I motioned at the narrow stone walk and the gate. “They can park out there, and no one will notice them coming in.”

  “Good.” He turned to go.

  I followed him back across the courtyard. One of the new azalea bushes, the one closest to the office window, had fallen over. The museum was going to pieces already. I looked for the stake to prop it up, but didn’t see it, and my eyes blurred with tears. I wasn’t crying for Frank; his death didn’t alter the fact that I’d hated him. I was crying for the museum, for what this disaster might do to it. And I was crying for myself, too. I didn’t know if I would be up to the tasks ahead.

  Lieutenant Kirk stopped in the doorway and watched me. I straightened, wiping the tears away. His expression was as blank as before. “You’d better do something about the press people,” he said. “We can’t have them tramping through the galleries.”

  “I’ll make a statement, send them away.” I stepped through the door in front of him and went out to Maria’s typewriter, where I composed a brief statement. While I was doing so, the lab technicians passed through the office with their equipment.

  By the time I got to the courtyard, the buffet had been decimated and the reporters were beginning to get restless.

  “They keep asking when the tour starts,” Isabel said. “What are we going to do?”

  “Cancel it.” I went over to the table and rapped on a
glass for attention. My eyes fixed on the sheet of paper I held, I read my statement: “It is my sad duty to inform you that the director of the Museum of Mexican Arts, Mr. Francisco De Palma, was killed in an accident in one of our galleries this morning. Because of this tragedy, we will be unable to conduct the tour as planned. I’d like to ask you to leave the premises at this time so the police can finish their business here. You will be contacted about a press conference later.”‘

  There were startled exclamations, and then the questions flew. I held up my hand. “I’m sorry. I can’t answer any questions right now. Someone will contact you later.” Then I fled to the offices.

  Vic stood just inside the door. “I finally got through to Frank’s home. Jesse and Maria are there. She called him this morning when they realized Frank hadn’t come home all night.”

  Of course, the clothes he was wearing were the same as yesterday’s. Where, if not with his family, had he been? “They waited until this morning to start worrying?”

  Vic nodded. “Frank… uh… often didn’t come home.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just what I said.” Vic looked uncomfortable.

  I couldn’t believe the notion that was dawning on me. “Don’t tell me he had something going on the side?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Frank?”

  “Yes.”

  “Por Dios, who on earth would-” I stopped. No sense speaking like that to Vic, who had been Frank’s friend. Maybe there were women who liked sloppy, overweight little men. After all, my mother had said Rosa De Palma was once a beauty. If he’d managed to win her, it was conceivable… “Vic, if he often stayed away all night, why did they worry this morning?”

  “He always got back in time to have breakfast with the kids.”

  “But why didn’t they call the museum, to see if he was here?”

  “They did, but got no answer. Then they started calling… elsewhere.” Vic looked extremely uncomfortable now.

  I decided not to pursue it. “How’s the family taking it?”

  “Badly.”

  “Do you want to go over there?”