The Tree of Death Read online

  The Tree of Death

  Marcia Muller

  Hot-tempered curator Elena Oliverez threatens to kill her boss, Frank DePalma, when he orders her to put a particularly hideous piece of sculpture-donated by a wealthy patron of the new Museum of Mexican Arts-on display for the museum opening. So when someone kills Frank with the sculpture, Elena must conduct her own investigation to clear her name-or die trying.

  Marcia Muller

  The Tree of Death

  The first book in the Elena Oliverez series, 1983

  one

  I stared in disbelief at the ticket under the wiper of my VW Rabbit, then snatched it up. Code 27368. What the devil was 27368? I turned the ticket over and scanned the list of things deemed offensive to the city of Santa Barbara. Failure to register vehicle.

  “Maldito!” I hurried around the back of the little yellow car and looked at the license plate. Sure enough, the sticker showed re-registration had been due in April. Today was May second.

  I glared at the plate, then tore the ticket into two pieces and dropped them on the ground. Normally I’m a very law-abiding person, but this was too much.

  “They could give you a few days’ grace,” I muttered as I walked toward the museum. It was, of course, because of the museum that I’d forgotten to send in my registration fee. The form was sitting on my desk at home, but what with moving and unpacking the exhibits, the upcoming press preview and the opening, I hadn’t been home long enough to write the check.

  Still, it was worth it, I thought, feeling a rush of pride as I approached the nineteenth-century adobe that now housed the Museum of Mexican Arts. A month ago we’d been in a storefront in the seediest part of the city; now we were ensconced in a historic building in Pueblo Viejo, Santa Barbara’s Old Town. The museum was young as museums went-five years old-and much too poor to afford such elegant quarters, but the adobe had been an unexpected bequest from a deceased board member.

  I stopped in the archway leading to the central courtyard and admired the blue-tiled fountain. It had been plugged up when we moved in, but I’d found a plumber who was willing to donate his services, and now the water flowed merrily, the late morning sun sparkling on it. The courtyards and little gardens that surrounded the building were full of flowers-hydrangeas, azaleas, poinsettias-by virtue of our director’s knowledge of horticulture.

  One of his few virtues, I reminded myself as I turned and spotted him standing inside the entrance to the galleries. Frank De Palma was a fat, curly-headed man who, in spite of his custom-tailored suits, always managed to look as if he had just been shopping at the Salvation Army. He stood admiring the colonial gallery in much the same way I’d admired the fountain, hands clasped behind him. There the resemblance stopped, fortunately. Frank’s tie was askew, his shirt bulged over his enormous stomach, and one of its buttons was undone, exposing a roll of hairy flab. I shuddered and looked away.

  It wasn’t Frank’s sloppiness that bothered me, though. That I could forgive in anyone, provided he was a competent administrator. But Frank was lackadaisical at best, and since our move he’d been too excited to do a lick of work. We couldn’t even get him to sit down at his desk; he spent most of his time wandering as he was now or regaling his entourage-a group of men I privately referred to as the Mexican Mafia-with tales of his fund-raising prowess. Well, Frank was good at getting people to cough up money, which was why our board of directors put up with him.

  When I turned around again, he was gone. I crossed to the door and let myself into the colonial gallery. The centuries-old religious figures from the era when Mexico was ruled by Spain looked especially serene in their new display cases, protected at last from curious hands and the elements. My arrangement of three crucifixes really worked, in defiance of Frank’s contention that it was just too much gore in one place, and overruled him on that one-after all, I was curator here-and I was glad I had. Nodding familiarly at a Virgin Mary, I went on through the galleries, making a final check on placement before I returned to my desk.

  In the folk art gallery on the far side of the courtyard, I came upon a stocky young man with an unruly mop of black hair. Jesus Herrera, a local artist and creator of fantastical papier-mache animals. He stood almost in an attitude of prayer, gazing up at one of his brilliantly colored dragons, which hung from the ceiling.

  “Hi, Jesse.” I addressed him with the nickname he preferred to the biblical appellation.

  Jesse turned, his shoe-button eyes shining. “Elena Oliverez! It’s wonderful how you’ve arranged them.” He gestured at the dragon and then at the iguana with butterfly wings. “My little camaleones have never looked better.”

  Camaleon-chameleon-was Jesse’s name for his colorful creations. He claimed the exotic animals changed according to their setting, the angle at which they were viewed, and, of course, the eye of the beholder. I had to agree with him.

  “I’m glad it pleases you. The camaleones should get plenty of attention from the press if the preview comes off as planned.”

  “Why shouldn’t it?”

  I shrugged. “It should. The exhibits are in place. The food’s been ordered. The volunteers have been lined up to serve. The press kits are assembled.”

  “So what could go wrong?”‘

  “I don’t know, but if something can, it will.”

  Jesse grinned wickedly. “Nonsense. The only thing you have to worry about is getting old Frank here on time, without egg all over his tie.”

  “Don’t worry about Don Francisco; worry about me. I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep. My head aches. I went to the drugstore for aspirin a few minutes ago and found a ticket on my car. There’s a sinkful of dirty dishes at home. If I don’t do my laundry tonight, I won’t have anything to wear to the preview.”

  “Poor Elena. You work too hard.”

  “Tell that to the boss.”

  “No, thanks. The only member of that family I’m interested in talking to is Maria.”

  Maria was Frank’s twenty-year-old niece and the museum secretary. “You’re still hung up on her, eh?”

  “Hung up?” Jesse assumed a dignified pose. “We are in love.”

  “I thought Frank told you you couldn’t be.”

  “Not exactly. He said that if we were I’d better forget about exhibiting here.”

  “That must have been a heated exchange.”

  “Sure was.” Jesse’s shoe-button eyes became hard and flat-looking. “I offered to break his fat neck.”

  His cold anger made me uneasy. Jesse, like so many of us, was an emotional person, subject to instantaneous mood shifts. Such shifts could be dangerous.

  Apparently he saw the concern on my face because he smiled reassuringly. “Oh, don’t worry, Elena. Tio Taco doesn’t bother me. But it is so sad-Maria De La Cruz, the fairest girl ever to travel north from Mazatlan, in bondage to that fat slug.” Quickly he had slipped into the cadence of his native tongue, rhythms I heard in my own speech, in the speech of all of us who had grown up in Spanish-speaking homes.

  I smiled too. “I don’t think Frank exactly keeps her chained up.”

  “Ah, they are chains you cannot see. During the day she is handcuffed to that typewriter, for a peon’s wages, which she must return to him for room and board. And on the weekends he forces her to clean the office. But the evenings are worst of all because then she must look after his five gordicitos.”

  I laughed. “Little fatties” did indeed describe the De Palma children. Maria’s lot in life was not easy. “And then there’s Robert.”

  Jesse clapped a hand to his forehead. “You had to mention him. Roberto De Palma. Fat, forty-five, and dull of intellect. Personally, I think he’s genetically unsound. Does Tio Taco really think he can marry Maria off to his
brother?”

  “Well, he’s not a relation. Mana’s Frank’s niece on his wife’s side.”

  “But-Robert?”

  “Well, you do have a point.”

  We fell silent. The camaleon above our heads stirred faintly in the breeze from the ventilation system.

  “Are you here to see Maria?” I asked.

  Jesse shook his head. “We decided to cool it. Tio Taco’s always lurking in corners these days.”

  As if on cue, Frank entered the gallery with Antonio Ibarra in tow. Tony was one of the entourage, a scrawny, pale-skinned man who had recently emigrated from Bogota, Colombia, with his teenaged bride. Officially his position at the museum was education director-a farce, since he was not too bright and had at best an indifferent command of the English language.

  Tony’s real function was as Frank’s whipping boy. Our director ordered him around, sent him on unimportant errands, and referred to him in his hearing as “my stupid Colombian.”‘ Tony, on the other hand, acted as if he thought Frank’s abusive behavior merely amusing and had adopted toward the rest of us an attitude of hauteur that bordered on the ridiculous. Fortunately, one of the volunteers had handled the educational materials before Tony’s arrival and had merely continued to do so after he was hired.

  Frank nodded distantly to me, glared at Jesse, and continued through the gallery. Tony smirked at us both and followed with his peculiar, slouching gait. I waited until they were out of hearing, then said, “Why does the term ‘lounge lizard’ come to mind?”

  “Tony, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because he looks like a lizard and he’s always lounging around.”

  “Trust you to explain it.” I glanced after the two men. “I’d better get back to my desk, see what disaster has befallen us in my absence.”

  “Sure. Say hi to Maria for me.” Jesse turned back to the camaleon, once again assuming a supplicant’s stance.

  Actually, we didn’t need a disaster to befall us; my desk was one. The in-box was piled perilously high. Orange press kits were stacked in one corner, and some had toppled over onto the Peruvian rug. Lists were taped to every surface of the lamp. The phone was missing. I frowned, looking for it, then remembered I’d put it into the bottom drawer in a rage two hours before. I pulled it out so I could begin returning the calls that had come in during my half-hour absence.

  The office was hot. I went to the barred window that overlooked the lawn and pushed up the old-fashioned latch, but before I could open the window, the loose latch fell back into place, pinching my fingers. I swore softly and moved the latch again, this time holding it until I swung the heavy panes outward. The move and, now, our opening festivities were making me short-tempered and somewhat accident-prone. When things were quiet again, I’d have to try to take it easier.

  There was no point in becoming a nervous wreck over my job.

  When my phone calls were done, I picked up my list of things to check with Frank and went out to Maria’s desk. A delicate girl with straight black hair that fell to her waist, she was hunched over the typewriter, one hand pressed to her forehead.

  “Maria? Do you have a headache too?”

  She looked up, eyes full of tears. “No.” Her lower lip pushed out in a pout.

  “What’s wrong?” Maria’s life was a continual series of crises-perhaps because she was so intensely self-centered. She was a good enough secretary, but there were times when I found her humorless self-absorption very tiring.

  “My uncle-he is making me go to the Cinco de Mayo party with Robert.”

  El Cinco de Mayo-May fifth-marks the day in 1862 when the Mexican army defeated the invading French forces at the town of Puebla, near Veracruz. The victory was accomplished against incredibly high odds, and the would-be conquerors were driven back to Vera Cruz and the sea. The holiday has taken on special significance for Mexican-Americans, becoming a symbol of their growing cultural awareness and pride, and for that reason we had scheduled our opening gala for the night of May fifth, only three days from now.

  I said, “Well, Maria, Robert’s nothing to cry over. Didn’t you say he usually drinks too much and falls asleep when you and Frank and your aunt double-date?”

  She nodded.

  “Maybe he’ll do that at the party-too much tequila. Then you can dance with Jesse.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Robert will fall asleep, yes. But my uncle, he never sleeps.”

  It was true. I could think of no additional words of comfort. “Where is your uncle, by the way?”

  She gestured disgustedly toward Frank’s office. “Outside in the garden. The nursery, they delivered some more bushes. He is planting them.”

  I went into the office and looked out through the window. Beyond its heavy wrought-iron bars was a small courtyard enclosed by an eight-foot-high whitewashed wall. A flagstone path led from the courtyard down the side of the building to the parking lot, where it ended at an ornate gate that matched the style of the window bars. Frank squatted in the center of the courtyard, laboring over a large azalea plant. He was wiring it to a shiny green stake. The plants-I could count seven of them-must have cost a fortune. Even the stakes looked expensive, painted rather than the usual rough wood variety. I wondered if our board of directors had approved the purchase.

  Maria came in and stood beside me. She watched Frank a moment, then let out her breath in an angry hiss.

  “I don’t think I’ll bother him right now,” I said. “He seems… contented.”

  “He is the only one.” Maria turned and started out.

  At the door we came face to face with Vic Leary, the museum’s business manager. A big, ugly, sad-faced man, he was the only member of Frank’s Mafia that I liked. Perhaps it was his air of indefinable sorrow, or perhaps his fiftyish, fatherly concern toward the female staff members and volunteers-whatever, I felt curiously drawn to him. Vic looked from me to Maria and back again.

  “Where’s Frank?” he asked.

  I motioned toward the window.

  Vic went up and peered out. “He’ll give himself sunstroke, working out there at midday.”‘ Vic had been with Frank in his various ventures for more than twenty years, and he was as protective of him as he was of the museum’s women. “We’d better tell him to get in here.”

  “Oh, come on, Vic. He’s happy out there. And it keeps him from.getting underfoot,” I said.

  Vic grinned, his homely face twisting. “He’s been underfoot a lot lately, hasn’t he?”

  “Like a little kid with a brand-new house to play in.”

  “Well, we’re going to have to disturb him. And you, too.”

  “Why?”

  “Go out to the parking lot. You’ll see. There’s a surprise.” Vic didn’t look too happy about it.

  “Pleasant or unpleasant?”

  He hesitated. “Depends on your point of view. You’ll see. Go ahead. I’ll get Frank.”

  I hurried out to the parking lot, Maria following. There by the loading dock stood a flatbed truck. A ten-foot-high wooden crate was braced in its bed, and a scruffy-looking man, presumably the driver, was prying the crate open. I went around to the other side of the truck where Jesse and Tony Ibarra stood. Isabel Cunningham, a member of our board of directors and our most active volunteer, was up in the flatbed, directing the uncrating.

  “Qui pasa?” I asked Jesse.

  He shrugged. “Isabel has a surprise for you.”

  I glanced up at the board member. Isabel was a descendant of one of the old Spanish land-grant families who had controlled a huge rancho east of Santa Barbara in the nineteenth century. She had married into one of the town’s wealthiest Anglo families, thus adding to her own considerable fortune. In the immaculate white tennis dress that was her standard daytime garb, her gray hair perfectly coiffed, she presented a strange contrast to the driver. Isabel was not a woman you expected to find in the bed of a truck.

  Frank and Vic came up and joined us. “,Qui pasa?” Frank asked.

/>   “What’s happening?” Vic echoed.

  This time Jesse, Tony, Maria, and I all shrugged.

  There was a sound of wood splintering. The driver dropped his crowbar and eased the front of the crate down. Isabel turned triumphantly to us.

  Inside was an arbol de la vida-a tree of life. It was at least eight feet tall and over four feet wide. The tree has been, since ancient Mexico, a symbol of life, death, and rebirth. Most of the older ones are subtly beautiful representations of these eternal verities-but they were created before the advent of acrylic paints.

  This particular tree was pink, purple, and green; orange, turquoise, and yellow; red and blue with gilt accents. Its ceramic branches contained the Father, the Son, the Virgin Mary and, for all I knew, the Holy Ghost. Adam and Eve were there, clutching bright green fig leaves. There were angels with banjos, horns, harps, and swords. A sun and moon on either side wore sappy grins. There were horses, camels, goats, pigs, rabbits, and a lion with a gilt crown. There were deer, antelopes, panthers, unicorns, and upside-down doves. In the center, between Adam and Eve, the head of a serpent emerged from the foliage, munching on a blue and yellow apple. It was also a flowering tree, and from each garish blossom red berries stuck out on long stems, like springs.

  Yes, indeed, this tree symbolized it all and more. For all I knew, it glowed in the dark.

  “Who on earth did this to us?” I asked in an awed whisper.

  Jesse put a hand on my arm. “Hush.”

  “No, I want to know.”

  He pointed at Isabel.

  I should have known. Isabel was well bred and possessed exquisite taste, except for one idiosyncracy. She loved the modern-day Tree of Life and supported several potters in the town of Metepec, where the trees are primarily made. I suspected, since she was so clearly proud of it, that this one had been perpetrated by one of her proteges. Why, I wondered, did our museum’s most generous benefactor have to have this strange streak?