A Fit of Tempera (21 page)

“Communing with Art or Nature doesn't strike me as Clive's style,” Judith noted. “You don't suppose he plans on trying to get Hansel Gruber as a client, do you?”

“He'll have some problems,” Renie replied. “Gruber's been dead for at least five years.”

A simple sign made of cedar with the words “Our Lady of the Stumps” burned into it pointed the way to the carving. The remnant of the once-great tree stood some twenty feet off the main trail, in a grottolike setting among the new growth. The old-timers told how the cedar had been struck by lightning on the eve of the loggers' first foray into the forest at Jimmy-Jump-Off Creek. The gods were angry, they liked to say, and sent the storm as a warning.
Undaunted, the sawmill owner clear-cut the rest of the stand, but left the charred giant in peace. Years later, Hansel Gruber created his own memorial to the forest in the jagged, twenty-foot snag.

Our Lady was larger than life, shown from the hip with the Babe at her breast, and one arm thrust over her head. Her facial features were crude yet poignant. The veil seemed to float around her, as if caught on a gentle wind. As ever, the cousins were awed.

Renie was the first to break the silence. “You know how you remember most things as bigger than they really were. That's not true with this carving. It's even more overpowering now than it was when we were kids.”

Judith agreed. They wandered around the stump, taking in the wood sculpture from different angles. Judith also cast her glance among the trees. She could see no sign of Clive Silvanus.

“We couldn't have missed him,” she said, trying in vain to make out fresh footprints in the ground by the cedar stump.

“He must have changed his mind,” Renie said. “Maybe he walked up to the ranger station. It's not that far.”

“True.” After a final perusal and a silent prayer, the cousins started back to the main trail.

“Gruber did the columns in the lobby of the First Northwest Bank Building downtown,” Renie noted. “They're sort of like a totem pole, but less rigid artistically.”

“I know. I've been there.” Judith pulled a face. “They were the ones who foreclosed on our first house. It's too bad Gruber didn't carve a picture of Dan putting the mortgage money on a ninety-to-one long shot at the track.”

“There's a Buddha about halfway up the one column,” Renie remarked. “He looks a lot like Dan when he sat around in his underwear, eating Ding-Dongs and watching the demolition derby.”

“What underwear?” Judith replied, then stopped at the fork in the road. Across the meadow by the sprawling shack, she could see three people; one of them resembled Clive Silvanus.

Renie followed her cousin's gaze. “Well. Do you suppose one of the hippies is an artist in residence?”

The cousins pulled back just enough to avoid the trio's direct line of sight. They waited in silence for several minutes before Clive started across the meadow. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Judith peered more closely at the grasses, which she recalled as once being crisscrossed by deer runs. Only a single trail remained, yet the meadow was curiously flat in the middle. Judith frowned as the hippies went back inside the house. Clive was whistling when he hit the road. He jumped when the cousins popped out from behind a stand of sword ferns.

“My! You startled me! The woods are alive with the sound of city dwellers!” Clive had his beige sport coat slung over his shoulder. “You out enjoyin' the fine spring weather?”

Judith smiled thinly. “Yes, we are. And you?” She nodded at the hippie establishment. “I take it you're getting reacquainted with the counterculture of the past?”

Briefly, Clive looked unsettled. Then he beamed at the cousins. “Ah once considered becomin' a hippie mahself. But mah daddy wouldn't hear of such a thing, so Ah decided on bein' a preacher instead. But that didn't work out, so Ah got a job fetchin' and haulin' for the local art museum. One thing led to another, as they say, and here Ah am.” He looked very pleased with himself.

The diversion in conversational tactics cut no ice with Judith. “So what did the hippies tell you? That they didn't take ‘Spring River'?”

Something flashed in Clive's eyes even as his round face fell. “That's what they say. What do you think?”

Judith shrugged. “They may be right. Iris seems to think the Dixons have it.”

Clive began to walk down the road. The cousins fell in step beside him. “Iris is wrong. She's a smart lady, mind you, but this time Ah do believe grief has unsettled her brain. If Dewitt had that painting, his Little Woman wouldn't be actin' like a bear in a buzz saw.”

“She would if she didn't know he had it,” Judith pointed out, just for the sake of argument.

Clive's laugh was nervous. “Now, now, what are you tryin' to say?”

“You said yourself that you gave Dewitt the painting that Riley had given to me,” Judith commented innocently, “So what's the problem?”

“Ah didn't exactly say that.” Clive's soft mouth closed like a sponge.

Renie gazed up at Clive, almost tripping over a root in the process. “Level with us, Clive. The painting Erica wants is the one that's missing, right?”

Halting in mid-step, Clive wagged a finger at Renie. “You are puttin' words in mah mouth, little lady.” He cast a sympathetic look at Judith. “Ah understand why you might be upset because your Tobias went the way of all flesh. But it would behoove you to keep out of this sticky business. Maybe Iris will make it up to you. Ah'm just moseyin' along, a simple Southern boy in the slow lane of life.”

They were almost to the highway. The sound of the creek grew louder as it reached its passage under the bridge to the river. Judith decided to play her trump card:

“Erica plans to sue you.”

Clive stopped dead in his tracks. His pale face turned absolutely ashen. “
Sue me?
Whyever for?”

“It's simple. Erica has paid out good money for a painting she doesn't have.” Judith's tone was noncommittal.

Clive bristled and resumed walking. “That's between her and Dewitt. Ah don't believe in gettin' mixed up in married folks' hassles. And mark mah words,” he went on as they reached the main road, “if Erica sues, she's the one who'll end up behind bars. Or worse.” His gaze roamed to the thick green clumps of thistles, devil's club, and nettles that grew along the edge of Jimmy-Jump-Off Creek. Judith knew the lushness of the scene could fool the uninitiated. Clive's voice turned ominous. “Oh, my—Erica is a foolish woman! Doesn't she know there's a killer on the loose?”

J
UDITH WAS DEBATING
the efficacy of Truth. Fortunately, for Renie's sake, she was keeping the argument to herself. By the time they reached the cabin, Judith still hadn't come to a conclusion. She said as much to Renie:

“If we confessed that we knew where Lark's ‘Morning' was, what would happen?”

Renie paused with her foot on the bottom porch step. “Erica and Dewitt would insist on taking possession.”

Judith clung to the staircase railing. “What would happen to the canvas Riley gave me?”

Renie considered. “It'd disappear. As it's already done, it seems. At least as far as Erica is concerned. Then, eventually, some private collector in Europe or Asia or somewhere else out of the country would pay big bucks and hang it in his billiard room.”

“And?” prompted Judith.

Renie grinned. “Clive and Dewitt would split the profit. With Riley dead, they might get fifty grand apiece, maybe more.”

“Do you think they've already made thirty-five each?”

Renie's grin widened. “Erica's seventy grand, which
hasn't gone into the estate? Sure, why not? It's a neat scam.”

“It sure is. And it's
logical
.” Judith was silent for a long moment. Then she sprang away from the porch. “Come on, let's go prove that Honesty Is The Best Policy.” Judith walked briskly to her car. She was opening the door when Lazlo Gamm appeared from around the curve in the dirt road.

“I bring you greetings,” he said in his melancholy voice. “We met before, under happier circumstances.”

Nonplussed, Judith gathered her composure and closed the car door. “That's right. And the next time we saw you, you ignored us. Tell me, Mr. Gamm, is it harder to land your copter up at the hippies' meadow than at the one over at Riley's?”

The question seemed to surprise Renie more than Lazlo. “Not really,” he responded, hands deep in the pockets of yet another beautifully cut Armani suit. “If anything, the meadow up the road is wider.”

Judith leaned against the car, arms folded across her breast. Renie had come around from the passenger side to stand by the trunk. She was still looking flabbergasted.

“I don't get it,” Judith said pleasantly. “What do you do with that copter, Mr. Gamm? Hop from one natural landing site to another around here? Where do you sleep?”

Lazlo Gamm's big brown eyes grew even more mournful. “Why do you ask? What does it matter? Who cares what happens to poor Lazlo?”

“But we do,” Judith asserted. “That's why we ask.”

Apparently appeased, Lazlo Gamm removed his hands from his pockets and gestured in a lugubrious manner. “I sleep up at the campground, by the ranger station. I have a very fine tent and an excellent sleeping bag. Four walls hem me in, reminding me of my extreme youth under the Communist regime. My father was a Freedom Fighter. We fled my homeland on a moonless night. So now I steer my copter where my whimsy takes me. I am like the down of the thistle, floating, flying, landing, resting. Whither poor
Lazlo? Wherever his heart must take him.” He looked as if he could cry.

Renie had finally regained her aplomb. “Your heart seems to have brought you to an unlucky spot this time. Have you been around here for the past three days?”

His big brown eyes looked very innocent. “Of course. I could hardly leave, under the circumstances. I might be wanted.”

“Yes, you might,” Judith agreed. “By the sheriff, for instance. Has Abbott N. Costello talked to you?”

Lazlo Gamm looked aghast. “The sheriff? No, of course not! Why would he?”

For once, Judith was at a loss. She had no idea how to proceed with Lazlo Gamm. Certainly, it appeared that he had left Riley's meadow at least two hours before the artist was killed. But there was no reason he couldn't have taken off and landed at a different site nearby. On the other hand, Judith had no motive for Lazlo.

“Look, Mr. Gamm,” she said in her most down-to-earth manner, “you seem to be the wild card in this crazy deck of characters. Do you mind if we ask why you came to see Riley in the first place?”

Not only did Lazlo seem not to mind, he seemed elated that someone should care. His wide smile changed his long face for the better. “Naturally you should ask! I have intruded upon your property. You have a right to know if I mean you harm. Why did I come to see Riley?” The smile was fraying around the edges. “I didn't.” The smile began to wither. “I came to see a young lady.” The smile disappeared.

The image of Lazlo Gamm as Judith had first seen him skulked across her mind's eye: the Armani suit, the leather briefcase—and the big bouquet. “You brought those flowers for her, not for Riley,” Judith said in mild amazement. “Did you give them to her?”

Sadly, Lazlo shook his head. “Riley didn't want me to. Oh, he pretended otherwise, but I could tell he was an
noyed. I was crushed. Still, he promised to see that she got them.”

“She did,” Judith assured him, ignoring Renie's impatient, querying look. “I'm sure she's been enjoying them very much. Why don't you call on her?”

His big brown eyes scanned the web of vine maples that formed an arch over the dirt road. “It's been difficult. Riley gave me the wrong directions. He said she lived a few houses upriver. But it turns out to be
downr
iver. I went there today, but she was busy.”

Enlightenment was dawning on Renie. “Lark Kimball?” She glanced at Judith for confirmation. “So that's why you were hanging around the Berkmans' place. You were searching for Lark!”

It was Lazlo's turn to look baffled. Judith intervened. “The Berkmans have the A-frame next to us on the upriver side. We saw you there yesterday. So what did you do, land up at the meadow off the Jimmy-Jump-Off Creek Road, then take the copter down to…” Judith's memory raced along the highway. “…that empty field at the Higby farm next to the Kimballs?”

“Higby?” Lazlo still seemed bewildered. “That is possible. They are older people, kind and receptive to the hundred dollars I gave them for use of the field. Are you sure Lark got the bouquet? I didn't have the nerve to ask her father.”

“Quite sure,” Judith replied in a warm tone. “You must give her some time, Mr. Gamm. Her grief is very fresh.”

Lazlo had become mournful. “That's why I stayed on. To comfort her, you see. I will certainly remain for the funeral. Perhaps then she will turn to me and seek consolation.” Despite his words, Lazlo Gamm looked pessimistic.

“That's very kind,” Judith assured him. “Is there something we can do for you?” She was still mystified about his unexpected appearance at the cabin.

But Lazlo merely gave that slow, agonized shake of his head. “No one can help poor Lazlo. I wandered in here
simply to explore. I must do something to use up the time until Saturday.”

Given Lazlo Gamm's melancholy mien, his explanation seemed adequate. Moments later, he was meandering aimlessly along the riverbank. Judith and Renie got into the car and headed out.

“Okay, Sherlock,” said Renie, “how did you figure that one out?”

“The bouquet,” Judith replied simply. “I've been bothered all along about seeing those chrysanthemum petals on Nella's walkway. Mums don't bloom until late summer or early fall. In fact, there weren't even any chrysanthemum shoots coming up in that bed. So that meant that somebody with out-of-season flowers had been over there. If it wasn't Lazlo himself, it had to be Lark, trying to find her way to our place. Don't you remember the scent of flowers in her studio?”

Renie did, vaguely. “So Riley did in fact pass the bouquet on to Lark?”

“Right. Which means,” Judith continued with a hint of dismay in her voice, “that Lark did indeed see Riley the afternoon he was killed.”

Renie was craning her neck to get a look at the Higby farm. “The copter's not there now,” she remarked. “I wonder where he's parked it this time.”

“Probably across from the campground in back of the ranger station,” Judith answered, slowing to make the turn into Ward Kimball's place. “They've got an actual landing pad, as I recall.”

“Lazlo seems innocent,” Renie remarked.

“He sure does.” Judith eased the car into the parking spot next to the Volkswagen bus. She turned and raised her eyebrows at Renie. “He also has a motive.”

Renie stared at Judith. “Lark?”

“Right.” Taking the keys out of the ignition, Judith unfastened her seat belt. “Lazlo's reputation as a Romeo may or may not be deserved. But it sounds to me as if he is
genuinely smitten with Lark. Want to bet who bought ‘Dawn'?”

Renie stared some more. “But that would mean Lazlo knew Lark was a talented painter in her own right.”

“That's right,” Judith said, giving Renie half a beat to let the concept sink in. “Get out, coz. We still have some sleuthing to do.”

Ward Kimball was outside, planting geraniums in big terra-cotta containers. He smiled and waved when the cousins got out of the compact.

“Are you on your way back to town?” he asked as Judith and Renie sidestepped geranium pots, fertilizer, and a couple of spare garden tools.

“In an hour or so,” Judith replied. “We plan to eat dinner on the way home.” She gave Ward an uncertain smile. “Since we're heading back soon, we thought we ought to make a confession. Where's Lark?”

Ward gestured toward the studio. In the spring sunshine, he looked healthier and happier. Judith wondered if the demise of Riley Tobias, along with the warmer weather, hadn't contributed to Ward Kimball's well-being.

“I can't pry her loose from there,” he said with a little shake of his head. “I tired to talk her into signing a teaching contract for next year in Glacier Falls, but since Riley died, she's more determined than ever to paint. Maybe she feels she has to keep up the tradition.”

Ward started toward the studio, but Judith put a hand on his arm. “The family tradition?” she asked quietly.

Ward blinked. “Yes, I suppose. I certainly haven't done much the last few years. But Lark never took her work seriously until she began studying with Riley. I suppose I owe him something, really. I've been pretty hard on the poor fellow, I'm afraid.” He gave Judith a sheepish look. “Maybe I was jealous.”

“Jealous?” Judith kept her voice very soft. “Of what, Ward?”

Ward frowned into the blue sky, his face weather-beaten but his color good. “You know, it's odd that you ask that.
I'm not entirely sure. Riley was a superb artist, but so was I.” He spoke unaffectedly. “Maybe I felt that Lark took my talent for granted. Children often do, you know, and I think that's good. They shouldn't have the burden of going around saying, ‘There's my father, the famous artist,' or ‘Meet my mother, the world-renowned nuclear physicist.' Parents should just be parents, and in Lark's case, her lack of sight has been enough of a burden.” He gave Judith a self-deprecating smile.

Judith, however, was suffering from mixed emotions. “So you were jealous of her admiration of Riley?”

“I think so.” Ward gestured sharply with one hand. “Oh, I was very angry with him about his intentions. He led her on, and it wasn't fair. I wouldn't be surprised if he talked about marriage. But Riley wasn't the marrying kind. Look at poor Iris. Look at Erica, for that matter. No, Riley would have broken Lark's heart. I couldn't allow that.” Suddenly his face sagged, and all the previous buoyancy drained away. “I couldn't stop it, either. But somebody did.”

“Yes,” Judith replied in a flat voice. “Somebody did indeed.” She stepped back, waiting for Ward to summon Lark.

Renie watched him cross the lawn to the studio. “Zilch,” she murmured. “Is he into thirty years of denial?”

“It's possible,” Judith whispered. “Maybe he never believed his wife was unfaithful.”

“Nella didn't believe it, either,” Renie noted. “Could it be that Iris is the one doing the denial bit? Has she woven herself a fantasy?”

But Judith could only shake her head in a doubtful manner. Lark was coming out of the studio, holding Ward's arm. She greeted the cousins without enthusiasm. Ward led them all inside the house, where he offered a lengthy list of beverages.

But Judith declined, wanting to come to the point quickly. As succinctly as possible, she recounted the story of Riley's gift, the strange behavior of Clive and Dewitt at
the cabin, Erica's pique over paying seventy grand for nothing, and finally, the discovery of Lark's painting in Nella's icehouse.

“You didn't tell me about that,” Ward said to Lark in rebuke.

Lark made an impatient gesture. “Why should I? It seemed unimportant. Riley must have had his reasons for taking the canvas to Nella. I told her she could have it.”

“But she can't,” Judith declared, leaning as far forward as possible on the soft leather sofa. “Don't you understand? That painting
is
‘Spring River.' At least as far as Erica Dixon is concerned. I'm willing to bet that your ‘Dawn' is hanging in some collector's house at this very minute. Riley did a terrible thing, Lark. He passed off your wonderful works as his own.” Judith stopped just short of accusing Riley Tobias of using Lark Kimball for his own selfish ends.

But the point was not lost on Lark. She reacted by jumping out of her chair and screaming, “No! That's terrible! How could you! Riley was the most honest man I ever met!”

Ward stood up and went to Lark, but she rebuffed him with a swing of her elbows. “Go away! You don't want to believe anything good about Riley! You hate him because I loved him! And because he usurped you as the dean of Northwest artists! Now he's gone, and there's no one to take his place!”

The expression on Ward Kimball's face was one of weariness, confusion, and hurt. Judith felt something wrench inside her; then she spoke quietly but firmly.