A Fit of Tempera (17 page)

Nella's hearing was obviously keener than that of the cousins. Judith thought she heard an unusual noise, but it was more of a loud hum than a voice. Neither she nor Renie heard Nella's name called out until they were at the door of the icehouse.

“It's Lark Kimball,” Nella said. “Wait here. I'll go get her.” She scooted down the path and around the side of the house to the front door.

“Well?” Judith gave Renie a meaningful look.

Renie turned slightly, glancing over her shoulder at the canvas. “‘Spring River'?”

“I'd bet on it,” Judith replied. “Now
that's
worth five figures—if anything is that doesn't have three rooms and a roof.”

A droll smile played at Renie's mouth. “Well, this is as good a place as any to ditch it. If that's what somebody did. It's sure not the painting Riley gave you. Where did this one come from?”

Judith shrugged. “Damned if I know. Another present?”

Renie's answer was cut off by the appearance of Nella, with Lark Kimball on her arm. “Ward dropped Lark off for a visit on his way up to the Green Mountain Inn. I want to give her a jar of chokecherry jam. Come, Lark. There's no step.”

The cousins exchanged greetings with Lark; then, on a sudden whim, Judith followed Nella and her latest guest back into the icehouse.

“Lark,” Judith began, realizing that three made a crowd in the little structure, “don't think this is an idiotic question, but do you know what ‘Spring River' looked like? I mean, could you see it well enough to recognize it, or did Riley describe it to you?”

Lark's smile was both patronizing and tolerant. “I know what it looked like. My fingers make up for much of what my eyes miss.”

“Of course.” Judith took Lark's hand. “Tell me, is this ‘Spring River'?”

Lark bent down, her face almost touching the canvas. She peered at the painting for a long time, then slowly ran her dainty fingers over the surface. Renie leaned forward in the doorway. Nella scanned a bottom shelf, looking for jam. Judith stood directly behind Lark, who traced delicate blue flowers, slim green reeds, subtle soft ridges that evoked the river's flow.

It dawned on Judith that she hadn't checked for a signature. Indeed, the canvas might be marked on the back. Perhaps there was no mystery to its identity. She was about to
say as much when Lark turned away from the painting, gazing, more or less, at Judith.

Lark surprised all of them by bursting into a merry gale of laughter. Even Nella, with a pint jar clutched in her hands, looked up. “How funny!” Lark said at last, between giggles. “Whyever did you think that was ‘Spring River'? It's not even one of Riley's works.” Her laughter subsided, and the long pale lashes dipped on her cheeks. The golden hair lay in soft tendrils around her face. “I did this. It's mine.”

“I
CALL IT
‘Morning,'” Lark explained to her astonished listeners. “It's one of a series. I finished ‘Dawn' last winter. I'm working on ‘Midday' now.”

Judith's jaw dropped; Renie gaped; Nella handed the pint jar to Lark. “Here, dear. Try this on whole wheat toast.” Nella gazed benignly at the cousins. “Well, I
thought
it was Riley's. He brought it over here last week.” She turned to Lark. “It's very nice. It certainly reminds me of Riley's paintings when he was much younger. You could actually see things in them, instead of blobs and daubs. But then, I'm no art expert.”

“Why,” Judith asked as Nella guided Lark out of the icehouse, “did Riley bring that canvas to the icehouse in the first place?” A glance at Lark's clouded face told Judith that the younger woman was wondering the same thing.

“Oh,” Nella answered in less than her usual assured manner, “he said something about the weather getting warmer and that he wanted a cool place to store the picture while it dried. Does that make sense, Lark?”

“No,” Lark responded. “It would dry more quickly where it was warm, of course. Besides, I finished it al
most a month ago. Tempera doesn't take that long to dry under any conditions.”

“Artists are peculiar people,” Nella declared, opening the back door for her guests. “Present company excepted.” She gave Lark's arm an affectionate squeeze. “Even your father can be odd sometimes. I thought about marrying him once, but that was before I got rid of Delmar and took up with Crosley. Or was it Kenmore? I forget.”

Judith waited for Nella to help Lark sit down on the love seat. Some of the postcards and the crossword-puzzle dictionary fell on the floor. Judith stooped to pick them up. “Haven't you wondered where your painting was?” she asked Lark.

Lark's reaction was one of bafflement. “I assumed it was at Riley's studio. I finished it there, under his tutelage. Why should I think it was gone?”

Briefly, Judith berated herself. She wasn't used to walking in the shoes of a person with severely impaired sight. Lark's world was very different. So much could not be taken for granted. “Why do you think Riley put ‘Morning' in Nella's icehouse?”

Lark's frown deepened. “I can't imagine. I've got ‘Midday' at my father's studio. He brought it home the day Riley died. I let Riley send ‘Dawn' to his brother, Yancey.”

Renie, who had been leaning against a Queen Anne breakfront crammed with china and souvenirs, gave a little start. “Was it a birthday present?” she asked.

A wistful smile played at Lark's lips. “How did you know? Riley, as usual, had forgotten to get his brother a gift. He asked if I'd mind if he sent my painting. I said I'd be pleased—especially if Yancey enjoyed it.”

“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 ac
cepted 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.”