The Tree of Death Page 10

  I stepped inside and looked around. The walls were hung with abstract art. There were a couple of wonderful watercolors depicting Mexican village life by an artist I had met in Oaxaca; startling primitive-style oils by a local painter; woodcuts portraying revolutionary scenes from a Yucatan craftsman; photographs of migrant workers by one of our more outstanding photographers; and, in one corner, two of Jesse’s camaleones. The camaleones pleased me; Jesse had been having trouble getting La Galeria to display them. But there they hung, one a cross between a pig and a camel, the other a startling giraffe with a cat’s face and bird’s claws.

  I went over and stared up at them, fascinated-in spite of this afternoon’s anger with Jesse-as ever. What was it about the camaleones? Their ability to surprise, often to shock? The fact that, in spite of their grotesqueness, they were appealing? I wanted to take the poor, misbegotten giraffe-or was it a cat?-home and love it. I had the feeling that if it only had a little tender, loving care, it would be all right. Well, wasn’t that the way with us all?

  A door opened at the rear of the showroom, and a small, slender woman came in. She was in her late thirties, with sleek gray-streaked hair. Her simple black dress and pearls complemented the understated effect of the showroom.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I was just admiring the…”I paused, not wanting to. sound too knowledgeable. I didn’t know this woman; she did not travel in the usual art circles, and I was certain she didn’t know me.

  “Camaleon.” She supplied the word with a smile. “By one of our most talented local artists.”

  “What are they supposed to mean?” I made the question sound naive.

  She shrugged. “Whatever you wish them to.”

  I looked up at the camaleon once more. “You say he’s a local artist. Is that mainly who you represent-Chicanos?”

  “No, we try to offer a wide spectrum of Mexican and South American art as well.”

  “And you buy directly from foreign artists?”

  “We have a wide network of buyers, yes.” Did I imagine a wariness creeping into her eyes?

  “The reason I ask is that I’m interested in ancient art, and I know it’s difficult to get one’s hands on, given the restrictions a lot of countries have placed on their national treasures.”

  The woman looked around. Satisfied there was no one else in the gallery, she said, “Is it difficult, yes. What did you have in mind?”

  I thought back to the boxes I had found in the cellar. “I have a small collection of Aztec figurines. They’re inherited, museum quality. I don’t doubt I could sell them for a fortune, but there’s sentimental value attached.”

  “I see.”

  “In order to complete the collection, however, I need the earth goddess Coatlicue. But with these silly restrictions…” I spread my hands wide.

  “They are a problem to the serious collector.” Her eyes were calculating. “I could check for you, Miss…?”

  “Could you? I’d be so grateful. I’m staying at the Biltmore, but I’m in and out so much… Do you have a card?”

  She nodded and went to a small desk. The card she handed me confirmed she was the gallery owner, Gloria Sanchez.

  “Ms. Sanchez,” I said, “you could be the solution to all my problems. I’ve been looking-”

  “Gloria,”‘ a familiar voice called from the rear of the showroom.

  Gloria Sanchez turned, a frown of annoyance creasing her brow.

  “Gloria,” the voice said, “is this all of Frank’s stuff?”

  The door at the rear opened, and Robert De Palma entered, carrying a red plaid bathrobe. His mouth dropped when he saw me, and he made a frantic effort to stuff the robe underneath the jacket of his tight black suit. He got about a quarter of it hidden, and there the rest of it hung, looking silly.

  “Hi, Robert,” I said. “Tying up loose ends?”

  His eyes bugged out even more.

  Gloria Sanchez looked from one of us to the other. “You are acquainted?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Not well, but we know each other. Roberto and I met in a bar the other night. What was it called- the Bus Stop?” I smiled maliciously.

  Robert reddened. The Bus Stop was the worst pickup joint in town.

  Gloria Sanchez grinned slyly. “Why, Roberto!”

  I crossed the room and took a firm hold on Robert’s arm. “As a matter of fact, I owe Roberto a drink. I’ll send him back in a while.” I steered him out of the gallery.

  Robert didn’t speak until we were several stores away. Then he said indignantly, “What are you doing here? And why did you tell her that-about the Bus Stop?”

  “Don’t act so self-righteous. And take Frank’s bathrobe out from under your coat. It looks ridiculous.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “As I said, I’m buying you a drink.”

  Somewhat mollified, Robert took the bathrobe and stuffed it into the first trash can we passed. I steered him to a table in the courtyard and ordered us both wine.

  “So Frank and Gloria had a thing going?”‘ I asked when our drinks had come.

  Robert gulped at his wine. “Listen, Elena, Frank’s dead. You don’t want to ruin his reputation.”

  “On the other hand, since he’s dead, he has nothing to lose.”

  “But Rosa, and the kids-‘’

  “Relax, Robert. Unless Gloria killed him, it’ll never have to come out.”

  He choked in mid-swallow.

  “What was it with Gloria and Frank?” I asked.

  Robert looked at me as if I had gone mad. “What do you mean?”

  “What did they have going?”

  “Elena, you’ve seen her. She’s a pretty lady.”

  “So’s Rosa.”

  He dismissed Rosa with a wave of his hand. “Rosa was Frank’s wife. Besides, she’s gotten kind of lumpy.”

  Madre de Dios! Was it only my culture that was plagued by men like Robert? Or were they everywhere? A statement like that was enough to make me swear off the creatures for life. “How long had Frank been seeing Gloria?”

  “Ever since she bought the gallery. Five years, I guess.”

  “How often?”

  “Two nights a week.”

  “Did Rosa know?”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “She knew. But that’s the way it is. That’s a wife’s lot. Rosa had her kids; she never wanted for anything-Frank saw to that.”

  Hadn’t she? I remembered the hard, defiant look in her eyes that morning as she praised her hypocritical husband. She had her kids; she had her pride. But what else?

  “Besides,” Robert said defensively, “what were you doing snooping around the gallery?”

  “Just that, snooping.”

  “Why?”

  “Somebody killed Frank. He had a mistress. Don’t the police always tell you to look for the woman?”

  “Gloria wouldn’t kill him!”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, she wouldn’t. She couldn’t.”

  “Why couldn’t she?”

  Robert reddened.

  “Why not, Robert?”

  “Because I was… I was with her that night.”‘ A boastful expression fought with his embarrassment.

  “All night?”

  Boastfulness won out. “Yes, all night.”

  I didn’t know whether to believe him or not. It could be their way of giving each other an alibi. Besides-rotund Robert? Sleek, attractive Gloria? One never knows, does one? At any rate, I couldn’t prove it either way.

  “You and Frank made a fine pair,” I said sourly.

  Robert finished his wine and stood up. “I suppose you gave her some story to hide why you really were there.”

  Belatedly, I realized that the tale I had told Gloria about wanting to buy an Aztec figurine might tip her or Robert off to my knowing about the embezzlements. “No, actually it was the truth.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes. I’m a
dding to my personal collection, and I thought she could help me out. But it was a convenient excuse to talk to her.”

  Robert wasn’t too bright, but surely Gloria would see through my story when he told her who I was. Unless she didn’t know about the figurine in the museum cellar. How much did she know about the artifacts her lover and his cohorts had brought into the country?

  I had the feeling things were veering out of my control. I only hoped I could hold them together until tomorrow night, after the opening.

  Robert seemed satisfied for now with what I’d said. Mumbling grudging thanks for the wine, he ambled away from the table and back along the passageway toward La Galeria. I wondered if he would rescue Frank’s bathrobe from the garbage can.

  The waitress came by, and I ordered another glass of wine. I was in no hurry to go home to my empty house. Usually I enjoyed the solitude, but tonight it would only be depressing or, worse, frightening. I sat at the table, sipping Chablis and listening to conversations eddy around me. Most of the people were tourists, talking of Mission Santa Barbara, winery tours, and bargains in art goods.

  Art goods. I stared moodily at a gallery across the courtyard. It was closed, but its windows shone through the night. This gallery was more touristy than Gloria Sanchez’s, and its spotlights beamed down on ceramic trees of life, more tasteful than Isabel’s gift, but still brightly colored.

  My mind began replaying my interview with Lieutenant Kirk: cerebral hemorrhage... fingerprints… including yourself… ceramic and terra-cotta.

  I sipped wine, willing the echoes to go away. I was sick of Kirk, sick of thinking about Frank’s murder, sick of thinking about embezzlement and finding out my friends and colleagues were not what I had thought they were. Most of all, I was sick of trying to figure out how the killer left the museum and reset that alarm. I wanted to forget for a while…

  Ceramic and terra-cotta.…

  I jumped, almost upsetting the wineglass. Now I knew what had struck me as odd in the folk art gallery the morning I’d found Frank’s body. The little terra-cotta tree of death had been gone.

  The tree of death. Arbol de la muerte. An apt name for what could possibly have been the murder weapon.

  Where else could those terra-cotta fragments have come from? Not from the tree of life; it had been ceramic. The smaller terra-cotta tree must have been shattered too, or at least badly damaged, when it crushed Frank’s skull. It was heavy, but not so heavy that a strong person couldn’t pick it up, raise it, and… I shuddered at the image.

  So where was the tree of death now? The killer must have taken it away. But what if he hadn’t taken it far? It would have been cumbersome to carry. Where could he have hidden it?

  The museum cellar, with all the other artifacts?

  I got up from the table, leaving my wine unfinished, and put a five-dollar bill under the ashtray. Then I rushed down the passageway to where my car was parked on Anacapa Street. I drove the few blocks to the museum and was about to leave the Rabbit at the curb when I realized it would indicate I was inside. Slowly I drove around the rear of the building to the parking lot and pulled up in the shadow of the loading dock.

  The most unobtrusive way to enter was through the courtyard off Frank’s office. I opened the padlock on the iron gate, then stepped through and snapped it shut again. Quickly I slipped down the path and across the courtyard, skirting the expensive bushes Frank had lovingly planted, and fumbled with the alarm key.

  All was dark, quiet. Briefly I thought of Isabel’s warning to be careful around here. Nonsense. I had set the alarm at three-fifteen when I sent everybody home and left for my appointment with Kirk. The alarm was still set; I would be safe inside.

  Turning on only what lights were necessary to find my way, I hurried through the office wing to the cellar. The flash was where I had left it. I moved through the maze of boxes toward the front. A logical place for the killer to hide his weapon would be among the jumble there, where the artifacts purchased with the embezzled funds were piled.

  Except that the artifacts weren’t there.

  I stopped, disbelieving, shining the flashlight on the empty floor space. The stacks of boxes I’d pawed through that afternoon were gone. Faint marks in the dust showed where they had been.

  There was a rustling sound behind me.

  I stood very still, listening. Silence. Imagination, I thought, kneeling to examine the outlines in the dust.

  The rustling began again, closer. It sounded like bare feet moving over the concrete floor.

  Quickly I straightened and shone the flashlight back the way I’d come. Nothing. I held my breath. There were almost imperceptible sounds, as if someone else was doing the same. I started around the nearest stack of cartons, to confront whoever was hiding there.

  A dark figure rushed at me, knocking the flashlight from my hand. Its upraised arm descended toward my head…

  eleven

  The first thing I felt was a pain in my rib cage. I was lying on my side, my head on my outstretched arm. I flopped over onto my back, and the pain dulled a little.

  Pain. Now I was aware of my head throbbing, too. I opened my eyes and stared up at a dark, cloudless sky studded with stars.

  Stars? I tried to sit up, but the pain was too much. With one hand I groped around and felt a sharp rock and clods of earth. The rock must have been what had hurt my ribs.

  I closed my eyes again and breathed in deeply. The air was night-cool and sweet. I breathed once more and identified the scent of young onions. Funny how they smelled so much sweeter growing in the field than they did in the stores…

  In the field! Now it all came flooding back-the museum, the cellar, the missing boxes, the dark figure. Whoever it was had hit me with something heavy. No wonder my head ached so. But where was I now?

  I opened my eyes and struggled up on my elbows, the pain in my head making me feel nauseated. On three sides of me were onion plants. On the other was a steep slope that looked as if it might rise up to a road. All logic to the contrary, it seemed that I was lying in an onion patch.

  After a moment I sat up all the way and put one hand to my head. It hurt toward the front, above my forehead. Did I have a concussion? Wasn’t one of the symptoms nausea? I certainly felt that.

  Besides being in an onion patch where was I? There were farms north of town, but quite a way north, above Goleta and UCSB. How had I gotten here?

  After a couple of minutes my stomach settled down. The pain in my side was not nearly as severe as when I’d come to. Probably nothing wrong there but a crimp from lying on the rock. I looked at the luminous hands of my watch and saw it was after midnight. I could have been lying here a long time.

  Gradually I hauled myself to my feet. A momentary wave of dizziness passed over me, but then I was okay. I looked at the embankment, a seemingly insurmountable mound of dirt, and then began climbing it on my hands and knees. It led to the road, all right. And there, not twenty yards away on the opposite shoulder, sat my VW Rabbit.

  What was it doing here?

  I stood a minute, catching my breath, then crossed the highway to the car. My purse lay on the passenger seat and the keys were in the ignition. At least I had a way to get back to town. I opened the door and got in.

  From here on the shoulder I could pinpoint where I was. Farmland curved off to the west and in the distance I could see a faint silvery strip of sea. To the east were the softly rounded hills. I had to be a least twenty miles north of town, on the coast highway.

  I pushed in the clutch and turned the key. The car spluttered and died. I tried again. No luck. Then I looked at the gas gauge. It was on empty.

  Damn! I hated to go to gas stations, always put off filling the tank. Well, finally I’d been caught by that habit-I, and the person who’d driven me here. The question now was how to get back to town. I was in no shape to walk it, but it was almost one in the morning and no cars were in sight. Maybe, though, if I started walking, some late traveler would come along and gi
ve me a lift. I picked up my purse, removed the keys from the ignition, and started south down the opposite shoulder.

  My head still ached, but not as much as before. The air was cool and fresh, and the sweet onion scent rose up from the fields. In any other circumstances I would have enjoyed it. At least the fog spell we’d been having had broken. The mere thought of being stranded out here in thick fog made me shiver.

  As I tottered along, I tried to piece together what might have happened. Someone had gotten into the museum and begun moving the boxes of artifacts, but I’d returned to look for the tree of death before he could complete the job. Who? And how had he gotten in? Well, he’d gotten out and left the alarm system intact before. Given that, I supposed he could get in, too.

  I reviewed the events of the night before: I return to the museum before the killer can get off the premises with the stuff. He sees me go to the cellar, suspects I’ve caught on to the embezzlements. Why else would I be pawing around down there at night? He follows, finds me looking for the boxes he’s already moved. Now he knows for sure I’ve discovered them. He creeps up, hits me on the head, knocks me out.

  Then what? He puts me in my own car, drives me north, and runs out of gas. For some reason, he drags me from the car and dumps me in the onion patch. Then he hitches back to town.

  Why did he bring me here? Because he didn’t want another crime bringing the cops back onto museum premises? Or maybe he thought he’d killed me. I have a slow heartbeat. If the killer was someone who had trouble finding a person’s pulse, he might have thought I was dead and decided to get rid of my body. But why? I would have been discovered quickly, lying there beside the road. All I could figure was he’d been headed to a better place, maybe to fake an accident with the car, and had panicked when the car ran out of gas.

  After about fifteen minutes, I was beginning to tire. I stopped on the shoulder, looking for a place to sit down and rest. Then I heard the low rumble of a truck in the distance. It was coming from the north and seemed to keep coming for a long time. Then its lights flooded the road as it came around a bend; they washed over me as I waved my hands over my head.