1 Portrait of a Gossip (14 page)

“Yes, it’s great for tubers.” At her blank look, Rose added,
“Irises and such.”

“Oh. Well, you choose what’s best and I’ll hold my nose and
use it. Probably Marley will like it. He seems drawn to stinky stuff.”

“You know, I hadn’t thought. Maybe you better not get any
fish emulsion until you know if it’s safe.”

“Tell you what, I’ll leave it for now and ask Darby if it’s
safe for cats.”

“Okay. Let’s get some seaweed emulsion for now. You need to
give the plants a couple of days to get over transplant shock anyway.”

Plants got shock? Juliet shook her head. The tomatoes were
doomed.

As they left the shop, Juliet spotted a woman in a large green
hat and sunglasses at a table outside the diner.

“Is that Jillian?” she asked Rose, gesturing across the
parking lot.

“I believe it is. Who’s that man with her? He looks
familiar.”

“Yes,” Juliet said, and added as he turned his head and she
saw his face full on, “Oh, he’s a writer. He does those spider books. I heard
he was in Santa Cruz for a book signing.”

“That’s right! He lost his illustrator a few months ago—a
car accident, I think it was.”

“Yes, down in San Diego.”

Rose and Juliet looked at each other, but neither said what
they were thinking. If Jillian was looking to pick up some extra work—or even
switch partners—neither one of them would blame her. Nor would they mention it
to anyone, especially not Jake or Carrie.

*
 
*
 
*

“I think you should model for me,” Esteban said and Juliet
slipped into her blue shawl. Usually that shade of ultramarine was reserved for
paintings of Mary, mother of God, but she supposed it was okay for saints to
wear as well. The dais where she sat was the only bit of opulence in the studio
which was bare to the point of monasticism. The hangings behind the ottoman
were a deep crimson trimmed in gold.

“Not in this or any other lifetime. I can leave you my body
in my will though, if you want, and you can play with my bones.”

Esteban laughed and Raphael’s lips twitched.

“Found the murderer yet?” Juliet asked conversationally.

“No, but I am pretty sure I know who didn’t do it, so it’s a
start.”

Juliet nodded. She felt oddly at ease with these two.

“I think by now everyone has figured out that I’m snooping
and probably talking to the sheriff.”

“Does that bother you?” Raphael asked. He didn’t look up
from mixing his paint.

She thought it over.

“No. Everyone should be trying to figure this out. Probably
they are, in their own ways.”

“Even if they are delighted Harvey Allen is dead?” Esteban
asked.

“Even if,” she said firmly. “It’s best to know the players
that share your stage. I just hope the murderer is the public-spirited hero
everyone thinks and not just someone inclined to do away with annoying neighbors.”

Esteban nodded, but Raphael was waiting for something more.

“Some part of me wants to advocate for the killer because,
though society didn’t create him, we colluded to reward him for his horrible
habits, but…. We can’t go around killing people because they know our warts and
sins and may someday shame us by telling the world about them. It might feel
like self-defense, but it’s not. It’s evading responsibility. And if we go
around thinking that it’s okay for people to kill for this reason, then we must
all share in the collective guilt for that too.”

“I agree with you, but don’t know if the others feel that
way,” Raphael answered. “I think almost everyone would let this just slide on
by.”

“Until someone else died,” Juliet said grimly. “I don’t want
that burden on my shoulders.”

Once had been enough.

“Well, I’m off, unless you were going to undress.” Esteban
lifted a brow. Juliet still marveled how human he seemed now that he had
decided she was alright.

“Certainly not.
You just want to
see if I have a gun hidden somewhere unusual. Besides, I don’t like it when
people point and giggle.”

“As if anyone would.
Not every man
is drawn to fourteen-year-old stick insects, you know. You should convince her,
Raphael.”

“I know my limitations, you ghoul. Now go.”

“I will. I’m helping Robbie Sykes finish plastering. Then I
can get moved in. Life will be simpler when I am here full time. The studio has
great space and light.”

“And the maids at the motel are a little bit disturbed by
the collection of bones in your room,” Raphael murmured.

Esteban grinned. It took ten years off his face and made him
worlds more approachable.

“That too.
Especially since I wired
up the donkey skeleton and hung it in the closet. By the way, I saw a raven
flying upside down. It means something bad is coming.”

Juliet was still shaking her head when he left the room.

“Tell me he did the bone thing on a dare. Someone suggested
a contest to see who could come up with the most shocking new kind of art and
he went for it.”

“That is almost correct. It was an open art contest,”
Raphael conceded. “But his bone puppets turned out to be popular among certain
collectors who like the macabre
memento
mori
.”

“
Remember,
Man, that
you
are dust and unto dust you shall return
?” she asked, personally repulsed by the idea of
handling old bones, but recognizing that this kind of art had been around for
millennium.

“Exactly.
Now,
lift your chin a little. Try to look like you’re seeing God.”

“Okay, but if I did see God I think I’d be more surprised
and frightened than anyone I ever saw in a painting.”

Juliet relaxed and tried not to be self-conscious about her
hands. The paint had cleaned off, but the potting soil had stained her nails
and she feared some of the smell of the fertilizer was clinging to her clothes.

“You have tomatoes?” Raphael asked
,
making her suspect the smell around her was stronger than her numbed nose
realized.

“Yes, God help them. I sure hope Marley remembers to water
them because I may not.”

“You’ll remember. I don’t think that there is very much that
you’ve ever forgotten,” he said calmly.

“Well, not unless I really wanted to, and I have to confess
that I’m not sure gardening is for me. Don’t get me wrong—I like plants. No one
could be more admiring of the red rose or the majestic redwood than I—and
painting wildflowers is the joy of my spring.”

“But?”
Raphael’s head was turned
away so she couldn’t see if he was smiling, but his voice held amusement.

“But I think they should be relatively self-sufficient.
Plants that require people to go to the ocean and gather seaweed, or to trek into
mountain caves to scrape up bat dung for them are weak sisters and maybe should
be left to perish to the millions of pests that appear to fly and creep and crawl
out of the ground to attack if you don’t wash and dust them constantly.” She
paused.
“Except asparagus, of course.”

“Is the asparagus high maintenance? I thought it was some
kind of grass.”

“I have no idea, but given what it costs at the store, my
guess would be yes.
And basil.
That’s expensive too. There
must be billions of things trying to eat it. But do you know what
is the most expensive herb of all
?”

“No.”

“Catnip.
Six
dollars for a lanky little pot of stems that look like anemic parsley.
Marley better love it to death.”

Raphael finally laughed.

“I can understand your indignation, but you have to let go
of it now.”

“A Divine visitation doesn’t cause indignation?” she
guessed.

“Not in the classical style.”

Juliet looked up at the window and began to think about her
lemon cupcake which she was going to eat for dinner.

“Very good,” Raphael said and began to paint.

“Did Esteban say that he’d seen ravens flying upside down?”
she asked after a moment of gluttonous thought was interrupted by a stomach
rumble.

“Yes.”

“Hm.”

“Do you believe that they are an ill omen?” Raphael asked.

“N-no.
But they were there when
Harvey died. And in legend,
Hugin
and
Munin
were the god Odin’s ears and eyes.
O’er the Earth each day
Hugin
and
Munin
set forth to fly
….” She thought. “The
Arabs called them the Father of Omens, and in Ireland they are believed to have
the second sight and to be able to predict death and disaster. The Bible talks
about them too, flying over battlefields where they were supposed to be able to
foretell who would win and who would be defeated because the scent of death
clung to the losers even before battle began.”

Raphael stared at her thoughtfully, though what was on his
mind was more than Juliet could guess.

“You are interested in ancient lore?” he finally asked.

“No. It’s just the curse of a mind that doesn’t forget
anything.
Except to water tomatoes.”
After a moment
she spoke again. “Raphael, do you have any idea who killed Harvey? Any gut
feelings? Or are you also just hoping the killer slides by?”

“No, I don’t know who did it. But I have wondered if it was
a woman.” He didn’t say anything about letting the killer slide.

“A gun isn’t usually a woman’s first choice of weapons,” she
pointed out, not arguing the call but simply thinking aloud.

“It’s practical when your opponent is stronger than you are.
And anyway, I thought that idea was buried with Queen Victoria and we were all
equal-opportunity criminals these days. But that isn’t why I have wondered
about the women. I think the females here—with a few exceptions—have the
ability to hate so much more deeply than the men, and they are far more
inclined to get on with things.”

She thought of Rose, of Carrie, of Jillian and Darby—and
even Elizabeth. Could they go out and buy a black market weapon with the idea
of killing their nosy neighbor? Or—and this was an inversion of thought—had the
gun been Harvey’s? An unregistered handgun was more his style. What if the
killing had been self-defense, a struggle over a handgun that went awry and
ended up with Harvey being killed?

“And don’t forget that it might not be that hard to find
some man willing to pull the trigger for her,” Raphael added. “Some men, even
in this day and age, have a gallant streak.”

He was right; Jake could have done it for Jillian or for
Carrie, and Elizabeth had Asher. Would Harrison Peters kill for Darby? Would
someone feel protective enough of Rose to act as her knight if she pleaded for
help? Would Hans or Mickey or even Robbie kill for a friend or a lover?
And what of Esteban?
There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that
he was more than capable of killing if he had a good reason.

“Do you think that I could have killed Harvey?” she asked
curiously.

“I don’t think you did kill him.”

“But you think that I could have, if I wanted to? You think
I am capable of it?”

“Meaning that you wouldn’t need a man to do it for you?
Of course.
You would have been better organized though. Come
hell or high water or dark of night, Harvey Allen would have disappeared
without a trace.”

“Thank you.” She felt oddly pleased.

“Think nothing of it. Or anything else except a visit from
the Almighty. Not that this has been a bad conversational backdrop, I suppose.
It is an Old Testament painting and what it depicts is the Lord’s will, cloaked
in the body of a human woman who was chosen to do his bidding.”

“My boss used to call me Nemesis,” she said softly. “It
wasn’t an insult. Originally she was
the distributor of fortune, neither good nor bad, simply a fate
proportioned to each person according to what was deserved by their deeds.
But
my work never applied directly to people. It was data and information—and
distance. Being this close to a death and the reasons for it is very
different.”

“Unless you’re a sociopath, murder gets real personal, real
fast,” Raphael agreed with the faintest touch of sympathy, and Juliet wished
that she could ask him what work he had done for the government.

But she couldn’t cross that line without an invitation, so Juliet
went back to dreaming of cupcakes while Raphael painted in silence.

A few minutes later Marley’s face appeared in the window. He
was waiting to escort her home.
To the food.

The wind which blew up the draw in the morning and down
again at night finally settled and the trees quit clawing at the side of the
bungalow. The night was silent.

After Juliet and the cupcake had become one flesh, and
Marley had enjoyed himself digging up the catnip—and then watching while Juliet
repotted it, no doubt wondering how many times they could play that game—Juliet
decided that it was time to get working on her t-shirts.

Printing out decals and ironing them on shirts would be
faster than silk-screening, but one couldn’t ask anywhere from thirty-nine to
fifty-nine dollars for a decal on a cheap shirt. Her shirts were limited-run
reproductions of actual paintings, done in high-quality cotton and linen.

Step one was to set up the drying tables in the studio and
then to create the stencils. There was one stencil or screen for each color to
be used on the garment. These would be loaded one at a time in to a rotary
garment screen which she had bought at auction from a shop that printed bowling
jerseys. Sometimes she flat-screened by hand with a squeegee but the machine,
with its rubber blanket that the shirt was “glued” to, allowed for better
alignment of the stencil layers which was needed if the design was intricate.