The Tree of Death

by Marcia Muller

  It would be easy for Frank to find buyers for their wares. He’d operated a gallery for a long time. He knew all the local collectors. He might even be using La Galena as a front, letting the new owner sell the stuff and keep a commission. Who was the new owner, anyway? I dimly recalled that Frank had sold out to a woman newly arrived from Los Angeles. Or had he sold at all?

  It was my business to find out now. No one was going to destroy my museum for his own profit.

  But how did this connect with Frank’s murder? Had one of the thieving bastardos had a falling out with him? If so-Tony? He seemed too stupid to pull it off, but maybe the stupidity, like Susana’s silliness, was only an act. Vic? Hard to believe, but I was learning more about Vic every day. Robert? Even harder; he was Frank’s brother. But, then, brother had been killing brother since the beginning of time.

  And, of course, there was the big question: what to do about these artifacts? If I had thought I had a potentially ruinous situation on my hands an hour ago, it was infinitely worse now.

  I stood up and began repacking the boxes. No one must know I’d found them. Not yet, at any rate. When I was done, I grabbed the flashlight, returned it to where it had been, and went upstairs. In my office I sat down to think, then got up and paced. I clasped my hands together, almost wringing them, and muttered aloud in Spanish, “What can I do? What am I going to do?”

  “Elena?” It was Isabel’s voice, tentative and alarmed. She stood in the doorway, frowning. “Elena, are you all right?”

  “No. No, I am not all right.”

  She came inside, shutting the door. “Can I help in any way?”

  “No one can help.”

  “Is it that lieutenant? You’re afraid he thinks you killed Frank? But you shouldn’t worry. We all know you couldn’t have done it.”

  I stared at her. I had actually forgotten Dave Kirk for a time.

  Isabel’s frown deepened. “Elena, what is it?”

  I took a deep breath. “Sit down. I’ve got something to tell you.”

  She sat. I continued pacing and told her the whole story. As I spoke, her already sallow face went paler.

  “I was afraid of something like that,” she said. “I’ve never trusted Frank. Why do you think I spend so much time here? I’ve watched him so carefully-and yet I didn’t see.”

  “It never even occurred to me to watch him. And now that I’ve found out, no matter what I do, there will be a nasty scandal. People may even think we were all in on it, that the museum is nothing more than a front. The papers will put racial overtones on it.”

  Isabel nodded.

  “But I can’t just let them get away with it.”

  “No.” Her eyes hardened.

  “If I go to Carlos now, he’ll drag it all out into the open.

  And a scandal before the Cinco de Mayo party is sure to ruin the museum. People will demand refunds on their tickets. The others who might show up at the door won’t. We’ll lose all our support.“

  “I don’t think you should tell anyone yet,” Isabel said. “After the opening, that’s different.”

  “It’ll still be a scandal.”

  “Yes, but we will have collected fifty dollars a head from each person attending the Cinco de Mayo party.” Her eyes took on a hawklike fund-raiser’s gleam. “We need that money. Afterward, go to Carlos. Perhaps you can convince him to be discreet.”

  I didn’t like it. I couldn’t see how I could go on until the opening, working beside those people, knowing what I did. But it made sense.

  “It’s not likely they will remove the artifacts from the cellar before the opening,” Isabel went on. “There are too many people around. So you know the evidence will remain safe.”

  “They could do it at night.”‘

  “Did you give keys to the building to any of them?”

  “No. I have both sets.”

  “There, you see?”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right. Somehow we will see this through. The museum will not suffer.”

  Isabel’s face was earnest and drawn. Suddenly I had one of those odd sensations you get, as if you’re looking at a person you’ve never seen before, rather than a familiar friend. I said, “Isabel, what happened when you had your ‘few words’ with Frank the day he was killed?”

  She started. “What words?”

  “You said you were going to talk to him about something.”

  “Oh, that. I only wanted to…to warn him about his appearance at the press preview. Frank could be so sloppy, you know.”

  “And did you?”

  “No. I… I couldn’t find him.”

  “He was in the courtyard, with his plants.”

  “Oh?”

  “I told you he might be.”

  “I guess I didn’t look.”

  I watched her, saying nothing.

  “Elena, what are you implying?”‘ Isabel’s hand went to her throat.

  “I was just curious.”

  Isabel’s eyes widened. “Elena, you don’t think I killed Frank?”

  “Somebody did. And it was probably somebody connected with the museum.”

  “But me?” Her hand remained where it was, clutching at the neck of her tennis dress.

  Suddenly I felt ashamed. “I’m sorry, Isabel. I shouldn’t go around accusing people. But I don’t know what to think anymore. Look at Vic. He was one of my favorite people, and now my faith in him has been totally destroyed. After that, I can truthfully say that anybody could have killed Frank-Vic, you, Robert, Maria, Jesse, Tony, even Susana.”

  “Susana?” Now Isabel looked truly shocked.

  “She was in on the embezzlement, too.”

  “But-Susana?”

  I shrugged.

  “I don’t think you should be speculating like this,” Isabel said.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s dangerous.” She shivered. “Murder. The killer might not stop with one.”

  It sounded so dramatic, coming from the cool, practical Isabel, that I almost laughed.

  She saw the amusement on my face. “It’s not funny, Elena. I, for one, am going to be very careful around here from now on. You should be too.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

  “It’s a serious thing, murder. You should leave it to the police.”

  “I will. Although I think I have more to fear from the police than from the killer. Lieutenant Kirk really does suspect me.”

  “Why, do you think?”

  “Well, you have to admit that quarrel I had with Frank looks bad. I didn’t tell Kirk about it right away because I didn’t think it was important. Frank and I quarreled all the time. And now that Kirk’s caught on to how much we fought, he’s determined to prove I’m the murderer. From the very start, he just wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “About what?”

  “Well, first I suggested Frank’s killer had hidden in the museum all night.”

  “Hidden here?”

  “Sure. There are plenty of places. Then, when I realized someone had left after I did because the alarm lock was set differently when I came back the next morning, Kirk conveniently chose to ignore that. He claims it’s impossible because Frank’s keys were on the hook when I opened up.”

  “Is it impossible?”

  “Yes.”

  Isabel and I stared bleakly at each other. “I wish I’d never bought that arbol de la vida,” she said.

  She looked so woebegone that I patted her hand. “Don’t blame yourself. It wasn’t the tree that got Frank killed.”

  “No.”

  I looked at my watch. “It’s almost three. I have to see Kirk in an hour. Why don’t I send everybody home now so I can set the alarm for the night? There’s no telling how long I’ll be.” I stood up. “And, Isabel, thank you for listening.”

  “De nada. I only wish I could help.”

  “You have.”

  “Good.” She stood up, too. “But, Elena, do be
careful around here. I worry for you.”

  “Don’t. I’m afraid I’m in more danger at the police station than here.”

  The police station was only a few blocks away, on Figueroa Street, near the Spanish-style courthouse. On the way, I stopped at the Chamber of Commerce and checked on the current owner of La Galena. Her name, Gloria Sanchez, had a familiar ring. I decided to stop at the gallery after leaving the police station-providing Kirk didn’t find a reason to hold me. I bought a sandwich at a hole-in-the-wall stand, then walked over to Figueroa Street. The clock on El Mirador-the courthouse bell tower-said five minutes to four. As I approached the police station, the hunted feeling settled over me once more.

  A uniformed officer showed me to Kirk’s cubicle on the second floor. The lieutenant was behind his desk, again dressed in brown. His face was its usual blank.

  “Come in, Miss Oliverez.” He indicated a chair across the desk from him.

  I sat, smoothing my skirt over my knees.

  Kirk consulted his ever-present legal pad, then said, “Are you still planning to go ahead with your opening?”

  “As I told you yesterday afternoon, yes. Except for rearranging the displays in the folk art gallery we’re all set.”

  “Rearranging the displays?” He cocked his head to one side.

  “Yes. We’re replacing the tree of life with some of Jesus Herrera’s camaleones.”

  “Camaleones?”

  “The Spanish word for chameleon. They’re fantasy animals. Jesse claims they change-” Why was I bothering to tell him this? Probably to ward off the inevitable questioning. “Lieutenant, why did you want to see me?”

  “More questions, Miss Oliverez. That’s what police work is-questions. And legwork. No glamour like you see on TV.”

  “Well, before you begin, I’ve discovered a few facts that I think I should pass along to you.”‘ I couldn’t tell him about the embezzlements, but I could give him the other things I’d found out.

  “Very good.” He pushed his swivel chair away from the desk and tipped it back. The action annoyed me; it implied he already felt that anything I could tell him was not worth noting down on that damned pad.

  “Did you know that Frank De Palma was involved with another woman?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. But Vic Leary let it slip. He would probably tell you.”

  “I’ll check on it.”

  “And Jesus Herrera had quarreled with Frank. More seriously than I. He gave Frank a black eye.”

  “When?”

  “A couple of months ago.”

  “What did they quarrel over?”

  “Frank’s niece, Maria De La Cruz.”

  “Oh, yes, the secretary. I’ll check on it.”

  “And then there’s Maria.”

  “What about her?”

  “She was sent to live with the De Palmas because…”I hesitated. It was unfair to Maria to bring up her promiscuity. “Because she wasn’t getting along with her family. Frank was very strict with her. She resented him and seems glad he’s dead.”

  “The way I hear it, there are any number of people who are glad he’s dead.”

  “But his death paves the way for Maria to marry Jesse. She was very defiant this morning.”

  “I’ll check on that, too. Is there anything else?”

  He hadn’t listened to me this time any more than he had before. “No, there isn’t.”

  “All right.”‘ He straightened the chair and picked up a pencil. “I’d like to go over your actions the afternoon Mr. De Palma died again. Start with when you went to his office to ask if he wanted you to set the alarm.”’

  I sighed and began recounting.

  As I spoke, Kirk made notes on his pad and nodded. When I was done, he said, “Now, let’s talk again about your relationship with Mr. De Palma and the others at the museum. Start with the beginning, when you graduated from UCSB. That was when?”

  “Five years ago.”‘ I went on telling him about my job interviews, my appointment to the staff, the early days there. Occasionally Kirk would ask a question.

  “What about the time you went over Mr. De Palma’s head to the board about the Ramirez collection?”

  “What about it?”

  “Why did you feel it necessary to defy his authority?”

  “I wasn’t defying. I was questioning his judgment. We had the opportunity to acquire a very fine collection of Zapotecan funerary urns, but Frank wanted to put the money into new carpeting.”

  “Did the board back you up?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was Mr. De Palma’s reaction?”

  “He was furious.”

  “I see. Go on with what you were telling me.”

  And later: “Did you get on with Mr. Leary?”

  “Very well. He was like a father to me.” The words, in light of my recent discovery, rang false.

  “Oh?”

  “Vic is very good to all the staff and volunteers.”

  “Including Mr. De Palma?”

  “They were friends. Vic was devoted to Frank. He worried about him constantly. All Frank had to do was sneeze and Vic would be running out for vitamin C tablets.”

  “Would you say this was unusual devotion?”

  “Not really. Vic is a lonely man. He needs someone to care for.”

  “And you say he was like a father to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why ‘was’ and not ’is,” Miss Oliverez?“

  But I couldn’t tell him that.

  “What about Mrs. Cunningham, the woman who started the conflict by presenting that tree of life to the museum?”

  “What about her?”

  “How do you get along with her?”

  “Very well. She’s dedicated to the museum. We couldn’t get along without her.”

  “No quarrels of any kind?”

  “Lieutenant Kirk, I am not a quarrelsome person.” But my voice sounded contentious.

  “Did Mrs. Cunningham get along with Frank De Palma?”

  “Nobody got along with Frank. Isabel covered better than most of us, I suppose. She’s from a privileged old family and was raised in the tradition of machismo, and-”

  “Machismo?”

  “She was trained to defer to males. Women who are raised like that put on a nice, obedient show, but underneath, they can hate as much as those who weren’t raised that way.”

  “And, I assume, Miss Oliverez, that you were not raised in the tradition of machismo.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  The questions continued. Kirk took a break and sent out for coffee when a patrolman brought him some forms to initial, then continued. More time passed. Soon it was close to seven o’clock. My head ached, and my throat became hoarse. Was he trying to wear me down the way they did on the police shows? If so, I could see how it worked. I felt drained, incapable even of anger.

  Finally he slapped his pencil down on the desk and stood. “All right, Miss Oliverez. That’s enough for today.”

  “Can I go now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” I stood up and reached for my purse.

  Suddenly I thought of something that had been bothering me all during the questioning. I hesitated. Well, didn’t I have a right to ask a few questions of my own? “Lieutenant, did you do an autopsy on Frank?”

  He looked surprised. “Of course.”

  “What did he die of?”

  A strange expression crossed his face. I could have sworn he was trying not to smile-except that Lieutenant Kirk didn’t know how to smile. “Mr. De Palma died of a cerebral hemorrhage. That means he was hit on the head-”

  “I know what a cerebral hemorrhage is. Did you find the murder weapon yet?”

  “No.”

  “Was there anything else interesting in the gallery?”

  He just looked at me.

  “Lieutenant Kirk, I’m acting director of that museum. I t
hink, even though I’m your prime suspect, that I have a right to know what you’ve found out.”

  He sighed. “All right, Miss Oliverez. There was nothing ‘interesting,” as you put it, at the scene. The only fingerprints belonged to museum staff and volunteers-including yourself. There were ceramic and terra-cotta fragments from the tree itself. Otherwise, we came up with nothing.“

  “I see.”

  “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

  “Well… are you sure the killer couldn’t have hidden in the museum all night? Because I can’t figure out how he left otherwise.”

  “No, Miss Oliverez, that’s not possible. All Mr. De Palma’s family, friends, and associates have been checked very carefully. Their whereabouts that night are accounted for.”

  “It could have been someone you didn’t check.”

  “Believe me, we have checked. And you can be sure that Mr. De Palma was not killed by a stranger.”

  “Why not?”

  “In a crime of this sort, which lacks the element of randomness, the killer is usually someone close to the deceased, a family member-or a co-worker.”

  I didn’t like the implication, or the nasty look on his face. And I didn’t favor him with a reply.

  ten

  La Galeria was in El Paseo, a pedestrian shopping arcade in Old Town, not far from the museum. Designed in the Spanish revival architecture popular in the twenties, the arcade incorporates two nineteenth-century adobes similar to the one we occupied. I hurried through a passageway from Anacapa Street, passing without a second glance shops that offered candles, pottery, and leather goods. It was a warm night, the fog spell temporarily broken, and people sat around tables by the fountain in the courtyard, sipping wine and margaritas. From the interior of the cafe came the sad strains of a Spanish guitar.

  This was a tourist area, and most of the shops stayed open until nine or ten at night to accommodate the visitors. I turned away from the central court and went down a second passageway to the art gallery Frank used to own. Although tourists might browse in La Galeria, most of its serious customers were collectors with both taste and high incomes. Its front windows displayed contemporary Mexican sculpture on Art Deco pedestals, and inside the place had an air of quiet elegance. Tonight, at almost eight, its showroom was deserted.