Why do they come here? I thought angrily. Why don’t they stay on their own side of town if they hate us so much? Because it’s the chic thing these days. Supporting minority art gives them something to do when they’re not sailing or playing tennis.
But maybe it’s not really hatred that prompts such remarks, I thought. Maybe it’s just carelessness. That, and the tendency-a tendency that’s in all of us-to forget that the other person aches and bleeds the same as we do.
This was no time to philosophize, however. Where the devil had Lieutenant Kirk gone? It was already eight o’clock; the band had stepped up its tempo with a boisterous mariachi tune.
Quickly I glanced around the courtyard. Jesse and Maria had been replaced by a couple of volunteers. Vic and Isabel were nowhere in sight, but the buffet table was well stocked. Tony had left Susana alone at the bar, and she was making a mess, pouring margaritas all over everything and everybody. None of my suspects was in sight. The killer might make a move any minute now.
Maybe Kirk was in the office wing. He might have taken a shortcut through the less crowded galleries in order to use the phone. I went over and pushed through the door. Sure enough, there he was, perched on the edge of Maria’s desk, talking. I tossed the cracked plastic glass in the wastebasket and waited.
“Got it.” He slapped down the receiver and stood. “Oh, yes, Miss Oliverez. You wanted to see me.”
“I certainly did. I have a plan…”
“Plan?” he said in a preoccupied way.
“To catch the killer…”
“I’m sure you do, but it will have to wait.” He started for the door.
“But it can’t wait!”
He turned, irritation plain on his face. “There’s been a murder out in Hope Ranch. I have to go up there.”
“But I’ve-”
“Miss Oliverez, I’m a homicide detective. Murders take precedence. You can tell me about your plan when I get back here.”
“When will that be?”
“Later.” He went out the door.
I slumped dejectedly against Maria’s desk. Later. When later? A murder in Hope Ranch, eh? No wonder Kirk had been in a hurry. The prestigious residential area, with its great estates and hunt club, was where many of Santa Barbara’s most influential people lived. Of course it would take precedence over anything at the Museum of Mexican Arts.
You’re getting paranoid, Elena, I told myself. Of course he had to go out there. It was important that he be on hand right away at a murder scene. And, even though I didn’t know Kirk well at all, I suspected he was not at all impressed by wealth or influence-at least not when murder entered the picture.
But what about my plan? I glanced at the desk drawer where I’d locked the cellar key earlier. It was still shut and showed no signs of having been tampered with. Taking out my keys, I went around and unlocked the drawer. The ornate iron key was still inside. The killer hadn’t been there yet. I had expected that; everyone had been out where I could see them until minutes ago.
I went into my office, got out my purse, and freshened my lipstick. Things were slowing down now, at least as far as the staff and volunteers were concerned. They could begin to relax and enjoy the party. All of them, that is, except the murderer.
The sound of the office wing door closing alerted me. I stepped back against the wall, into the shadows where no one could see me. I heard footsteps and then a rattling sound. I inched along toward the door. There was the noise of the desk drawer sliding open. I peeked around the door frame.
Jesse stood there, reaching into the drawer.
Jesse! Por Dios, not him, of all of them…
Holding my breath, I pulled back. He mustn’t see me now. The drawer slid shut again, and then Jesse’s footsteps went away, toward the door to the courtyard.
The courtyard! But he was supposed to go to the cellar…
I hurried out of the office wing after him. He was making his way through the crowd of party-goers toward the main entrance. Why was he leaving the museum“?
I pushed through the crowd, too, nodding and smiling to people as I tried to keep my eyes on Jesse. When I got to the entrance, he was across the street, getting into his old Chevrolet. In a panic, I ran around the building to the parking lot where I’d left my car. I couldn’t lose him now.
Fortunately, my car keys were on the ring in my pocket. I jumped in, ground the starter twice, and finally backed the car from its space. At the parking lot gates, I had to wait for a couple of pedestrians, slow-walking old ladies, to pass. Then I accelerated into the street and to the corner. Jesse had pulled away and was down the block, turning left.
I raced through the stop sign, then slowed down. The old Chevy was easy to spot, and I didn’t want him to recognize me rushing up behind him. I followed, obeying the traffic laws, conscious of the fact that I didn’t have my driver’s license with me.
Jesse drove slowly, too, as if he didn’t know where he was going. He turned left again on State Street and went all the way to where it ended at Cabrillo, the street that ran along the waterfront. There he turned and began driving north, past the beaches and City College and the yacht club. When he reached Shoreline Park, he turned into the nearly deserted parking lot.
I stopped, afraid he’d see me if I turned in, too. The sun was below the horizon, its faint colors still spilling over the blue-gray water. The park itself was wrapped in shadow, its barbecue pits, picnic tables, and play equipment vague shapes under the palm trees. Jesse drove to the front row of parking spaces. His brake lights flashed and then went out. I could see his head silhouetted against the fading light. He seemed to be contemplating the sea.
What was he doing here? If he was the killer, he should be in the cellar, retrieving the milagros.
Finally the door of the Chevy opened, and Jesse got out. He stood beside the car for a moment, then crossed to the grass and started walking through the trees. I drove into the parking lot, left my car, and followed. He wandered aimlessly toward the promontory overlooking the Pacific. He sat down on a picnic table. I waited in the shadows.
Jesse sat for about five minutes. The light faded rapidly, and I could barely make him out. Then he got up and went over to a nearby barbecue pit. Seconds later I saw a match flare, and then something flamed up quickly.
What was he burning? Evidence? I came out of the shadows and ran across the grass.
Jesse whirled when he heard me coming. He dropped the flaming object onto the grill. I tried to grab it, but the fire seared my fingers, and I pulled them back.
“What’s going on?” I demanded. “What are you doing here?”
Jesse stared at me, flames highlighting the taut lines of his face. I stared back, breathing hard. Then all at once the tension went out of him, and his eyes became blank with defeat.
He said, “I guess we’d better talk.”
sixteen
“Why did you kill him?” I asked.
Jesse looked blankly at me. “You mean Frank? I didn’t kill him. I’m not that kind.” He sat down on the picnic table again, his shoulders hunching forward.
I sat down next to him, feeling a peculiar mixture of relief and disappointment. Maybe Jesse wasn’t the killer. But then what had he been doing in Maria’s desk? And what had he burned?
We sat side by side, not looking at each other. Finally Jesse said, “You saw me go into Maria’s desk, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I was in my office.”
Again he was silent. Then, “Maria asked me to get something from there. She gave me her extra key.”
Of course she would have one. “What did she want?”
“Letters.” He reached into his jacket pocket and dropped a bundle of them on my lap. “She’d had them locked up there for safekeeping, but now that you’d taken a key to the desk she felt uneasy. She asked me to get them and destroy them.”
“Letters.” I looked down at them. They were in plain envelopes without any stamp or address. “Who are they from?”
I turned my head and stared at him in amazement.
The corner of Jesse’s mouth twitched, and he looked away. “Yeah. From Frank. Love letters.”
First Gloria Sanchez, now Maria. I never would have guessed. So that was why Frank had opposed Jesse’s interest in Maria-not because he wanted her for Robert, but because he wanted her for himself. “Have you known about this all along?”
“Not until tonight.”‘ His voice had an edge to it, and I knew he was holding back tears.
“How long had it been going on with Frank?”
“It hadn’t, not really. Soon after she came to live with his family he began slipping these torrid notes under her bedroom door. She encouraged him, but wouldn’t let him touch her. She wanted the letters to continue, you see.”
“Why?”
Jesse was silent for a long time.
“Why, Jesse?”
“She was-‘’ His voice broke, and it was a while before he could get it under control. ”She was planning to blackmail him. She wanted to get her own apartment, her own car. She figured if she collected enough letters and then threatened to show them to Rosa, he would help her out.“
I was silent, feeling sick again.
“You can read the letters,” Jesse added. “Read them and see for yourself.”
“No.” I shook my head and handed them back. “Go ahead and burn them.”
He got up and went to the barbecue pit. “That’s what she told me to do. They’re no good to her anymore. She was going to confront him with them the night he was killed. She seems irritated that she missed her opportunity.”
The night he was killed. Maria could have… “Jesse, do you think she might have killed him?”
“I don’t know what she’d do. I don’t know anymore.”
“Why would she tell you about this? Why would she admit what she was up to?”
“She doesn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with it. She thinks she was clever.” Jesse lit one envelope and held it as the flame grew.
“Elena,” he said after a moment, “I don’t know what to do. How can I marry her now, knowing what she is?”
“I don’t know. I don’t suppose you can.”
His face, in the light of the flames, was weary. He dropped the envelope on the grate and lit another.“ The devil of it is, I love her in spite of it.”
“How long would that love last?”
He shrugged and added the rest of the letters to the fire.
“Jesse, if you marry her, this knowledge will eat at you your whole life.”
“I know.”
“Think of your work.”
“I know.”
“Think of the camaleones. How can you create something when your soul is dying?” Unconsciously I had slipped into Spanish; it was not a phrase you could use in English without feeling foolish. Jesse looked at me, nodding.
It was useless to talk, of course. The problem was one only Jesse could work through. I sat there, watching the letters burn, feeling numb.
“Jesse,” I said, “when you went into Maria’s desk, the key to the cellar was still there.”
“Yes.”
“Did you relock the desk?”
“Yes.”
And the killer would have had plenty of time to act by now. It was almost eleven. While I had been watching Jesse burn some sleazy love letters, the killer had probably sprung the trap unobserved. Dismayed, I got up and headed for the parking lot.
“Elena,” Jesse called, “do you know why I came here, to this place?”
I stopped. “No.”
“Because this was where we came on our first date. Maria and me. Funny, isn’t it?” I turned, unable to speak, and ran for my car.
The party was winding down when I got back to the museum. Guests were wandering down the walk to their cars, carrying streamers and balloons as souvenirs of the occasion. Inside, a few amiable drunks stood guard over the almost empty margarita pitchers, arguing about the Los Angeles Dodgers. In the middle of the courtyard, I ran into Carlos Bautista. He was handsome in his tuxedo and ruffled shirt, looking as fresh as if the party had just started.
“A splendid evening, Elena,” he said, taking my hands in his. “You did a wonderful job.”
“I had a lot of help.”
Carlos kept holding my hands. Was he going to make the long-expected pass now, of all times? I tried to pull my hands away.
“What’s wrong?” He frowned at my abstracted manner.
“I’m just tired.”
“Well, tomorrow you can sleep in. The museum will be closed, although I’d like you to attend a board meeting at two.”
“Board meeting?”
“Yes. I plan to make your appointment as director official. Perhaps you and I can have a celebratory drink afterwards.”
“That would be nice.” I freed my hands and began edging away.
“Elena, is everything all right?” An attractive and wealthy man like Carlos probably didn’t often have his attentions received in such a lukewarm manner.
“I’m fine, really.”
“Good. Also, at the board meeting, I will propose the… removals we spoke of earlier.”
That would be the time to bring the embezzlements out in the open. “I’ll be there.”
“Good.” He patted my shoulder and started toward the door.
Nodding to the volunteers who were beginning to clear up, I hurried through the door of the office wing. There I found Vic, his face flushed with drink. “Elena, there you are.”
“Here I am.”
“I’ve got a phone message for you. That lieutenant. He says he’ll be back and wants you to wait for him.”
“Probably wants to arrest me.”
“Oh, come on.”
I shrugged and sat down in Maria’s chair.
“Are you all right?”
“Just tired.” It was becoming my standard answer.
“Can I do anything?”
Leave me alone. “No, Vic. Why don’t you go home?”
“Yeah, I think I will. Too many margaritas. They sure were strong.”
I nodded. With a final concerned glance, Vic went out.
Reaching into my pocket, I took out the desk key and went to unlock the drawer, but I stopped when I saw, as I’d feared, that someone had been here before me. The drawer was open about an inch, and when I pulled it out I saw that the cellar key was gone. The killer could have been here at any time since Jesse had removed the letters. I got up and hurried through the offices to the cellar door. It was locked, and the key wasn’t there.
That didn’t mean much. The killer could have gone down there and searched for the milagros, then relocked the door, intending to replace the key in the desk. The trouble was, now I couldn’t get down there to check. I had really blown it as far as this trap was concerned. Wait till Dave Kirk heard what I’d done. But then, why tell him? It probably would add fuel to his suspicions of me.
I went through the galleries, checking to see if the volunteers had picked up stray plates and glasses, then went to the courtyard and told them to go. The rest of the cleanup could wait until the morning. I locked up, poured a margarita from the dregs in a pitcher and went back to the offices. I crossed to Frank’s and stood in the doorway, drinking and surveying what would soon be mine.
If I wasn’t in jail. Could the lieutenant really arrest me on such circumstantial evidence? Should I right now be calling a lawyer? Somehow, I didn’t really care.
I went into the office and sat in the padded chair. I drank my margarita and swiveled the chair around slowly, contemplating my new domain. The director’s job didn’t seem to matter either.
I looked at the telltale crack in the windowpane, then at the empty hook on the wall, and finally at the dirt smudge right above it.
They told the story of Frank’s murder, but only part of it. They still didn’t tell me who the killer was.
I swiveled the chair back and forth. W
indowpane to hook and dirt smudge… hook and dirt smudge to windowpane.
Or did they tell me who the killer was?
I got up, set my glass on the desk, and began to pace. I would work very carefully this time, making the necessary connections.
I stopped in front of the window, staring out at the sagging azalea plant. I turned, staring at the hook. And then I knew, beyond a doubt, who the killer was. It was so clear, so obvious that I didn’t understand why I hadn’t seen it before.
In a way, it was a relief. But it left me feeling hollow inside.
I reached for the telephone, to try calling Lieutenant Kirk. I had just dialed the first digit when I heard the noise.
It was not a footstep, as when Jesse had come in. Nor was it the kind of sound Dave Kirk would be likely to make when he came looking for me. This was more of a whisper of motion. Someone was crossing the offices toward the cellar door.
I stood, barely breathing in the darkness. Then I slipped out and tiptoed to the corridor that led to the cellar. Ahead of me, the door to the steps was closing. The key was back in the latch.
So the killer hadn’t sprung the trap yet. This was exactly as I’d planned it, except that I’d expected to have Lieutenant Kirk with me. Still, I could wait here and apprehend the person who’d gone down there. Or could I? It wasn’t apparent to the killer that anyone was still inside the museum; my appearance would have shock value. Still, I could be overpowered. And then I’d have no real proof. Kirk wouldn’t take my word, not against the murderer’s.
Damn the lieutenant and his busy schedule!
I stood there in the dark corridor, listening. The walls of the adobe were so thick that voices, even in the next room, were always muted. The floors, however, were merely wood resting on joists. From below I began to hear sounds. The killer, certain everyone else had left, was taking few precautions against noise.
Maybe I could slip down there and watch, then follow to see what the killer did with the milagros. I was reasonably graceful and, in my bare feet, wouldn’t make any sounds that would be noticed by a person who wasn’t listening for them.
The Tree of Death Page 14