1 Portrait of a Gossip (7 page)

About half the tenants, Juliet reckoned.

White Oaks
was
a town that had,
like Blanche Dubois, always relied on the kindness of strangers—usually
tourists looking for art and a weekend away from the Bay Area or Los Angeles smog.
It was therefore deliberately very charming and unintentionally offbeat, a toy
village of human-size doll houses. The charm wasn’t a complete facade since a
lot of very decent, happy and bohemian people lived there, but like a pretty
woman slowly growing old and gaunt, she was ready to make the most of her remaining
assets and was not above using cosmetic aids and trying to look younger than
she was.

The one auto dealership (also used car lot and repair shop)
was at the edge of town and shared an office wall and a Judas tree with the sheriff’s
station next door. The original town had been made mostly of brick because of
fear of fire, but earthquakes had done so much damage that when the west three
acres were purchased in the 50s for a theme park—a sort of year-round Christmas
village—it was rebuilt in wood with the construction being an odd mix of the
crude and rather masculine frontier forts on the east side and the steep-roofed
Swiss chalets in the west, an architectural version of yin and yang.

The dealership was at the west end and the lot was fenced on
three sides with an upright log fence that might have been lifted from Fort
Apache. The front was white pickets covered in a rambling rose. Several of the
exotic chickens that roamed town were scratching in the dirt around the fence.

Behind it
rose
the mountains, dark
green and shadowy.

That is what they
meant by mountain majesty
, Juliet thought, feeling suddenly very glad to be
away from the dull pavement, monotonous freeways, and the government housing
complex where she had lived for the last two decades. The place had been
functional but ugly, without vegetation or personality. The buildings looked
less like apartments than gray blisters rising out of scabby asphalt flesh. She
preferred her skyline crowned with trees to smoggy horizons blocked by ugly
buildings. She even liked the odd town with its pastel walls and shingle roofs
where doves nested.

Taking a last breath of clean air, Juliet turned from the
mountain and went to retrieve her car.

“Hello, Mr. Brenner. What’s the bad news?” Juliet asked as
she stepped into the log cabin that was barely larger than a child’s playhouse.
The owner was not her favorite person. He had a less than appealing personality
that delighted in the misfortunes of others. This somehow matched the peering
eyes, sloping shoulders, and potbelly. In his black shirt he looked like a
spider that was missing some legs. That was how she would paint him, a spider
hiding in his hole.

“Hello, Miss Juliet.
Heard you’ve had some
trouble up at the Wood.”

“Yes, a sad business,” she said repressively.

“I guess it’s no surprise that someone punched Harvey
Allen’s ticket. I’ve never met such a snoop. It was criminal the way he’d
gossip.” Mark Brenner peered at her over his smudged bifocals and waited for
her to answer.

Juliet didn’t say anything childish like how it takes one to
know one, but the thought did more than fleet through her mind. The difference
was Mr. Brenner had kept his amateur status.

“Criminal,” Juliet agreed because it was absolutely true.
“And speaking of crimes—what will it cost me to get my car back?”

“Well, let’s just see…. Clark just found a little more mud
in the trunk and had to get out the power washer. He’ll have it out in about
ten minutes. Add that on to the total and.…”

Three hundred dollars to get her car cleaned. Juliet sighed
and stuffed the receipt in her purse. It was a good thing she had a pension and
other investments because three hundred dollars was a lot of t-shirts and
greeting cards.

Staying under the awning, she walked up the street toward
the post office, admiring the window boxes and clay pots bursting with flowers that
stood outside almost every business. Many shops also had colorful wares that
spilled out to the walkway in crates and racks now that the warm weather had
arrived.

A Great Dane hung his head over a low hedge, watching the
pedestrians with bright eyes. He looked friendly from his black grin to the brown
wag, but Juliet decided not to introduce herself without references. Marley had
showed her that there was a lot she didn’t know about animals. Maybe she would
speak to him on the way back if she had a treat to offer.

Creamy white yarrow grew outside the sheriff’s office and
made that part of the sidewalk smell of honey and gave her a nice excuse for
her to pause and admire. Through the window Juliet could see Mickey talking to
Sheriff Garret. Both men looked at ease but focused so she decided not to
intrude. Instead she sauntered up the wooden walk to the new gallery whose
opening had been rained out. It was not so creatively named White Oaks
Emporium.

No one had mentioned to the new owner that traditional chalets
with shutters almost never had bay windows with stained glass and somehow it
had slipped by the planning department when the drawings were submitted. Or
perhaps they simply felt that there was no atrocity greater than the old red
toy shop that looked like an elongated cuckoo clock, so why balk at colorful bay
windows? After all, the name had
changed,
the décor
was only as different as a coat of paint could make it.

The interior was dark after the bright of full sun, but it
was not difficult to spot Raphael James’ paintings, especially not with the great
man himself sitting before them, haloed with light. He might have been in a
wheelchair but he gave the impression of being at least eight feet tall.

“Miss Juliet,” Raphael said, turning his chair to face her.
His hands were strong.

“Raphael.” She made herself smile at the man whose friends
and
enemies alike agreed was
brilliant but rather
unfriendly. Most thought that was because he was a genius. Juliet wasn’t so
sure. She didn’t think it had anything to do with his accident either. He
neither expected nor wanted pity. “I felt bad about missing the opening and
wanted to come see your paintings before they are snapped up.”

He nodded, accepting this as his due, and waved a hand at
the wall behind him. But something else caught Juliet’s eye and she turned swiftly
to face a display out of a nightmare. On the opposite side of the room were
half- to full-size marionettes hanging from the ceiling by rusted chains. These
were puppets, but string puppets as she had never seen them. Most
Dia
de los
Muertos
marionettes
were crude papier-mâché, but these looked.…

“He carves them out of goat and sheep bone,” Raphael said.
“The teeth are from an ass. Disconcerting, aren’t they?”

Juliet stepped closer. As disturbing as the naked skeletons
were, the ones dressed up in Victorian grave goods were worse. Especially
horrible—or wonderful—was the baby in a christening gown sitting up in an old
wicker baby carriage.

“I don’t know if I’m appalled or fascinated. Both, I think,”
Juliet whispered.

“
Gracias
,” said a
soft, flat voice. The man who stepped out of the back room had weathered skin
and eyes like a blast
furnace,
and looking at him made
Juliet think of the unforgiving summers in Death Valley where her family had
sometimes vacationed. “Art should provoke a strong reaction.”

“This is our new neighbor, Esteban Rodriguez,” Raphael went
on politely. For him, this was downright talkative and Juliet wondered why he
was condescending to speak to the peons. “Esteban, this is Juliet Henry who
does lovely botanical illustrations.”

Juliet thought it very nice of Raphael to throw in an
adjective to describe her work and leave out mention of t-shirts. She might
have expressed gratitude for the compliment but she was more interested in the
fact that they were getting a new resident.

“How do you do?” she asked conventionally, making an effort
to meet his gaze. It was more difficult than she anticipated. This man had the
cold eyes of some of the professionals at the NSA, and by professionals she did
not mean the men who worked in the think tank.

“A pleasure.”
The voice was low but
rough and Juliet wasn’t sure the tone matched the expressed sentiment. He did
not offer to shake hands, which was something of a relief because she didn’t
want to touch him.

“This is a pleasant surprise. Which bungalow will you be in?
Surely not Harvey Allen’s?” she added, glancing over at Raphael.

“The man wasn’t liked but that would be indecently hasty.”
Raphael’s voice was flat.

“And I don’t think the police are done with it yet,” Juliet
added practically.

“I am next door to the dead man. Repairs are yet to be made
on that cottage. I shall not join you for another week.”

That was what Robbie Sykes had been talking about.

“But you’ve been up to visit the compound?” she asked,
wondering why Robbie hadn’t said anything about getting a new resident. It was
also odd that there was no gossip in the wind. In such a small community
everyone tended to know everyone else’s business. A new artist coming into the
midst was news.

“Only briefly.
My arrangements to
stay were made with the owner.” Just as Harvey’s had been. Juliet began to feel
curious about Mr.
Biggers
and his choice of tenants. “I
dropped in to see the accommodations one afternoon but the caretaker was out.
The weather was quite bad and I did not linger once I saw the condition of the
road.”

“I saw the light,” Juliet said.
“On the
hill.
It’s just above my cottage. I should have realized someone was
there when I saw more than one porch light that afternoon.”

Juliet became aware of Raphael’s scrutiny.

“I think, Miss
Juliet, that
your
real gift lies in observation.”

Actually, it was observation coupled with the ability to
recognize patterns. A tenacious memory also helped.

“Force of habit,” she said lightly, wondering if she had
been insulted, or complimented.

“Yet you do not gossip with your neighbors.”

“That is also force of habit. Our world is a small one and
what goes around comes around.”

“I have never been fond of gossips either,” Raphael said. “Rumor
sticks to its victims worse than gum on a cat.
Even when it
isn’t true.”

“Especially if it isn’t true, since those are usually the
most egregious stories,” Juliet said softly. “And it can hurt worse than tar
and feathers. I am careful about what I say.”

Though a part of her subscribed to the
idea that one should name the devil and shame him when evil had been done.

“Give a dog a bad name and hang him. That is the saying,
yes?” Esteban said. The two men were like scary bookends, alike in their
disapproval.

“Yes,” Juliet agreed shortly, having had enough of
conversation and great art and artists for one afternoon.

“So you found Harvey Allen an abomination?” Raphael asked.
It was a question that felt like a demand for an answer.

“I didn’t before, since I barely knew him, but I rather do
now.” Juliet turned away. “I need to be going. I’m here to pick up my car. It
was a casualty of the last storm. You were wise to get out while you could, Mr.
Rodriguez. The road was impassable by five.”

She also wanted to drop in on the sheriff and mention that
there had been a stranger in the compound the day of the murder. Juliet had to
remind herself that this wasn’t gossip, but rather aiding a murder
investigation. She wouldn’t say anything about the two men making her jumpy.
After all there had been a killing. The nervous system of their little
community was bound to be twitchy.

*
 
*
 
*

Lured by the smell of fresh bread when she stepped out of
the post office, Juliet stopped in at the bakery for some rolls, joining the
confusion of students there on their lunch hour. It was only a dozen bodies,
but twelve teens could feel like a hundred when they were hungry and willing to
skirmish for cupcakes.

For a few minutes, the murder slipped her mind.

Armed with wheat rolls and the last lemon cupcake, Juliet pushed
her way back outside. The pale blue walls of the bakery were held up by
honeysuckle not yet in bloom. A skinny young man stood to the left of the door,
impersonating a stork and swallowing pastries seemingly without chewing.

Juliet decided she would eat her cupcake in private. She
crossed to the shady side of the square where the pet boutique was located.
Most of the town’s buildings were clustered around a large, ill-kempt parking
lot which had surrendered several unneeded spaces to café tables with
umbrellas. The most incongruous resident on the plaza was the church—actually
several churches since they shared the space—which had used to be a stable for
Santa’s reindeer. The name plaques had been removed from above the eight
unusually wide half-doors and the building painted white, but the general shape
and low ceiling betrayed its origins. Juliet had yet to attend services there
but thought she might one day just to see the interior. The other impressive
building had been Santa’s workshop but was now a small theater. Painted in some
kind of iridescent white paint, it was often rented out for weddings.

Mickey came into the pet boutique just as Juliet was paying
for her purchases.

“Miss Juliet?” he asked in surprise.

“Hello, Mickey. Mr. Brenner called and said the car was
ready. I saw you were still talking with the sheriff and decided I would
come
look at toys for Marley. Do you know Lucy Pollack?”