1 Portrait of a Gossip (5 page)

“The real world, huh?”

“More real than the one I was in.” Juliet turned away. “I’ll
see you in a few minutes.”

She collected her easel and canvas on the way down. She was
relieved that no suicidal insect had stuck itself in the wet paint.

The kitchen offered few embellishments for a tuna sandwich,
so she contented herself with the knowledge that at least the bread was fresh.
She put out a small dish for Marley, hoping he would be content to remain at
her bungalow for the afternoon.

Her legs were protesting heavily as she toiled up the hill
for what she decided would be the final trip of the day.

She and Garret ate outside because he was still dusting for
prints. Not that finding a neighbor’s prints would be conclusive. Any one of
them might have been in the bungalow while welcoming a new resident, or
protesting Harvey’s drunkenness, or telling the sot to go to hell. Certainly,
Robbie Sykes’ prints would be inside.

“The computer is missing. We know he had one because there’s
a printer and scanner on the dining table,” Garret said. Her mouth full, Juliet
nodded. “Have you ever been inside the bungalow?”

Juliet swallowed.

“No. Do you want me to look around anyway?”

“Actually…. Yes. I want to know if anything strikes you.”

“Okay.” She wiped her hands on her paint rag. “I won’t touch
anything.”

Garret rose, bringing his sandwich with him.

Several things struck Juliet. The first was that Harvey had
no books.

“Have you found an e-reader, like a Kindle or an
iPad
?” she asked.

“No, nothing like that.”

“It’s just odd that a writer would have no books. I know a
few and they are all avid readers. That makes me think that this writing gig is
a one-off tell-all kind of thing and not a change in careers.”

Garret nodded as he finished his sandwich. Juliet had the
feeling that this wasn’t what he was hoping she noticed.

His towels, bathrobe, and barware were monogrammed with the
names of upscale hotels. So he was also sticky-fingered though he could have
afforded to buy anything. This added to Juliet’s distaste.

Obeying an impulse, she looked under the sink and then
frowned at the piles of mouse droppings. Either Marley was a rotten mouser, or
the rodents were especially pushy higher up the mountain. Harvey Allen was
barely cold but they had already moved in.

Unless they had already been there.

Juliet looked at the painted boards under the pipes. They
were all shriveled, but the one in the middle had a suspiciously perfect
knothole in the center where the paint had been rubbed away from the smoothed
edge.

“Have you got a pocket knife?” she asked Garret who knelt
beside her. There was no way she was sticking her finger into that black hole.

“Yes, but let me.”

Juliet shifted to give him room. He pried the board up
carefully and sure enough there was a hollow spot between the joists. It was
currently vacant, but it had obviously been used as a nest for many years and
was lined with chewed-up money.

Garret smiled grimly.

“I wish I thought this was Harvey Allen’s stash, but it’s
too old.”

“And none of it is salvageable,” she agreed regretfully,
thinking that she had better check on her own stash of cash and documents. “I
wonder whom it belonged to.”

“Someone who lived here in the sixties,” Garret said,
peering at the smelly fragments.

Juliet stood, knees popping a bit, and moved on to the south
wall where there was a desk and several framed checks hung at random, creating
a kind of glass crazy-quilt pattern. The desk of burled wood looked like it had
been scarred by small pox. Since wood didn’t usually catch human diseases,
Juliet diagnosed cigarette burns as the likely culprit. It was missing a
computer, confirming her suspicion of a computer pogrom. She was betting that
his phone had also been euthanized.

“No phone?”

“No.” The sheriff mulled for a moment then added, “It seems
from what everyone has said that this guy had about one brain cell, and
everyone knew what he was. So how could anyone be dumb enough to fall into his
clutches?”

Juliet knelt down and looked under the desk, making sure
nothing had been taped to the bottom of the shallow drawer.

“Bacteria are single-celled creatures, but people lose to
them all the time too.
Sometimes because they are innocent.
Sometimes because they are distracted and careless in dealing
with them.”
She got to her feet. “And once Harvey has bored into you…. If
you are angry and have money, you use an attorney to get even. If you are poor
enough—and angry enough—you use a gun.”

“You did work in prediction, right?”

She nodded, not entirely happy that the sheriff knew this
much about her.

“But before you get too excited about having a secret
weapon, you need to know that there is a big difference between calculating the
statistics of mass human behavior and guessing what a single person will do.
Anyway, the homicidal mind was never what I studied. I hunted for theoretical
traitors and spies, people putting out disinformation—a sort of forensic
accountant really. Not a criminal psychologist.”

“But still.”

Juliet shook her head.

The wall was more interesting than the abused desk. Instead
of awards for journalism, Harvey had framed Xeroxes of large checks from some
of the world’s most disreputable magazines. Apparently these were his medals
and honors.

“He’d work for anyone, wouldn’t he?” she murmured. “I mean
why limit yourself to tabloids when you can do political smear jobs? Some of
these groups are notorious for their campaigns of disinformation.”

Her eyes skimmed names and titles on the checks. All the payments
were drawn on commercial banks except one. The one on the far right in a red
frame was a personal check from someone named Charity Jones made out in
November of 2010. It was for ten thousand dollars.

“What do you think?” Garret asked.

“It’s a break in the pattern. The name is familiar too—why?”

“Suicide.
Last year.”

“That’s right! She was the actress who turned out to be a
cross-dresser.” Juliet frowned at the check. “You think this was hush money
paid to Harvey? It would be like him to frame blood money in red.”

“If it was hush money, it didn’t work. Harvey Allen is the
one who
outed
her—him. She had just landed a big role
in some film—”

“And got fired after her true gender was
made public.
My God! He was a nasty piece of work.”

“We are checking to see if Charity has any family in the
area. I know it’s a long shot since the killer almost certainly had to be in
the compound, but we need to check on it anyway.”

Juliet nodded.

*
 
*
 
*

Her ears were burning by the time she made it home and she
knew the neighbors were probably talking. Feeling like the oracle at Delphi—or
perhaps the whore in church—Juliet set up her easel on the first terrace, not
far from the community room, and got out her tray of watercolors which she
rarely used.

She didn’t have long to wait until the first of her fellow
citizens came to ask questions about what she had seen at Harvey’s. The first
to arrive at her easel was the usually tactful and incurious Darby O’Hara.

“Rumor has it that the sheriff is smitten with you.” Darby
sat on a nearby bench. The first terrace had three of them. Everyone up the
mountain had to make do with rocks.

“More like smitten with my tuna
sandwiches.
He hadn’t reckoned on being here so long and didn’t bring a
lunch.” Juliet dabbed at her canvas. So far her herb garden was amorphous. “I
think he was also looking for an interpreter.”

Darby blinked.

“An interpreter?”

“Yes, someone who can explain what all the histrionics over
a man no one liked or wanted is all about.”

Darby chuckled.

“Carrie Simmons? Or has he been to see Rose?”

“By now, probably both—and not necessarily
because he felt the need to interview them yet.”
Juliet dabbed some
more. “I shouldn’t joke. It’s an upsetting business.”

“Yes, of course,” Darby agreed mechanically.
“Only … not as upsetting as it would have been if someone besides
Harvey had been killed.”

“True. But can we be sure that the killings will stop with
Harvey?” Juliet spoke without thinking.

Darby’s lips parted but no sound came out. She looked like
someone had, as Juliet’s grandma used to say, slapped her in the face with a
fish.

“Precisely.
We assume that someone
killed Harvey because he was nosy and annoying and maybe even trying a spot of
blackmail—but we don’t know that this is true. In fact, outside of Asher and
Raphael, no one has much money, so it may not be a motive at all. We shouldn’t
assume anything.” Juliet changed the subject. “I need to ask Robbie to put in
an order for cat food. It’s getting expensive feeding Marley nothing but tuna.
And it probably isn’t good for him.”

“Marley—oh, the cat.
You’re going
to take care of him?”

“I don’t have a choice. He’s just moved in.”

Darby chuckled again. She was comfortable talking about the
cat.

“Cats are that way. Do you want me to take a look at him?
Make sure he’s healthy?”

“It would be great if you could. I expect he’ll be along
presently. He seems to be a bit lost today and inclined to follow me around.”

“Poor puss.”
Her voice was warm
with sympathy that hadn’t been there for the cat’s owner.

“You were wise not to try making it to the gallery last
night. I got the car stuck in the mud and had to have it towed. It will have to
be cleaned before I use it again.”

“I heard. That will be expensive, though Brenner will do a
good job.”

“It has to be done regardless of price. Honestly, it smells
like a sewer. I wonder if the septic fields flooded.”

Darby shook her head, nose wrinkling.

“I was just happy to spend the night indoors with the
electricity on. Usually we lose it during bad rains. Harrison Peters popped in
just as it started to come down and we had a cup of coffee and a visit.” Darby
blushed. It showed clearly on her pale skin. “I hope he didn’t get too wet
walking home later.”

“He should have been fine if he left before five. After that
he was headed for muddy shoes.”

“I think it was a little later than that.” Her blush
deepened. Juliet was glad that she couldn’t really suspect Darby of killing
Harvey Allen and that she gave the young and reclusive composer a partial
alibi.

“How is the opera coming?” Juliet remembered to pretend to
paint.

“Very well.
He is feeling the
pressure of the deadline. I don’t know that six months is reasonable for
writing a full opera score.”

“I have no idea either,” Juliet admitted. “It doesn’t sound
very long.”

“Still he was lucky to get the commission. We are all lucky
to find work in this economy.” She meant creative work.
“And
speaking of luck.
Here comes your new friend.”

Juliet looked for Garret and then dropped her eyes nearer to
the ground.

“
Meeooow
.”

Darby reached down to pick the cat up. She did this easily.
Her feet were clubbed but she had worked for many years in a veterinary
practice that treated large animals as well as domestic pets.

She looked the cat over, checking his teeth and gums and
then peering in his fur.

“No sign of fleas. Harvey must have been responsible enough
to use flea control,” she said grudgingly. “Actually, Marley looks to be in tip-top
shape.”

When she set the cat down her lap was covered in fur.

“You might want to brush him while he’s shedding. You don’t
want him to get fur balls.”

“Okay,” Juliet agreed a bit doubtfully, deciding not to ask
about fur balls since she figured that was another name for hair mats. And if
it wasn’t, she didn’t want to know. “Do I need a special kind of brush?”

“Yes. I’ll loan you one,” Darby said, standing. She didn’t
bother trying to smooth the fur away. “And a litter box. You can use shredded
newspaper or dirt for now, but you will want to get some cat litter. The
biodegradable stuff is best.”

“Thanks. You know, I have a feeling that owning a cat may
turn out to be expensive.”

Darby grinned at her.

“I think I’ll let it all dawn on you gradually,” she said
and then shuffled away.

Juliet finished her rather mediocre illustration and decided
that it would do. Though there was still daylight to be had, Juliet chose to
close up shop and fix an early dinner. She felt the need of a shower and there
was a fair chance of getting at least better than tepid water if she bathed
early.

“Come on,
Marley,
let’s see if I
have anything besides tuna in the cupboard. I better have some fruit or veggies
today or I’ll get rickets and scurvy.”

Juliet had never had a cat, but she assumed that they, like the
dogs she also never had, would enjoying having their own bed in preference to
sleeping with her. Of course, because Juliet had never owned a dog either she didn’t
realize that she had made two erroneous assumptions about where the species
prefer to sleep.

She discovered the first soon enough when Marley ignored the
pile of towels she had put out for him and settled on her pillow instead.

“Look. You may not have fleas, but that is my pillow. This
is your bed,” she said reasonably, picking up the cat and setting him down on
the chair where she had put the towels. “See, this is nicer, cat-sized.”