Death Come Quickly (22 page)

I turned to look at her, but her gaze was fixed on the painting, and a small smile curved the corner of her mouth. I wondered if she had actually heard those five words as they fell like shards of splintered glass into the fragile silence around us.
And now it is mine.

And now it is mine.

• • •

O
UTSIDE,
on the street, Ruby and I stood beside our cars, in the shade of a massive live oak tree.

“Are you okay, Ruby?” I asked, concerned. “What did you mean when you said that you weren't seeing what I was seeing? What was that about? What were you seeing?”

Ruby's face was pale and her hand, when she put it out to me, was trembling. “Nothing,” she said, in a half-choked voice. “I was seeing just . . . nothing.”

I frowned. “You mean, you were seeing nothing out of the ordinary?” I prodded. “Just the painting?”

“No,” Ruby said faintly. She closed her eyes. “I was seeing
nothing
, China. There was nothing in that frame. It was empty.” She opened her eyes wide. “Totally empty.”

I stared at her. Ruby is a highly intuitive person, sensitive to things that other people miss. I have known her to see strange things, hear strange noises, feel strange breezes, smell strange smells. I have been with her when she's seen ghosts, and when she's seen dead bodies. But I have never known her to see . . . nothing, especially when there is clearly
something
there. And there was something. I saw it myself.

“Uh-oh,” I said. “You're sure? You didn't just . . . you know, space out?”

“No.” Ruby sounded irritated. “I did not ‘space out.' I turned to look at that painting, just as you did. But all I could see was the empty frame, and behind it, the blank wall.”

“Well,” I said and stopped. Ruby amazes me sometimes, and when she does, I know it's with good reason. She understands something I'm missing. I need to pay attention. I tried again.

“Well, why?” I managed. “Why do you think you saw . . . nothing? I mean, I was seeing a painting of a woman holding a blossom of Herb Robert—death come quickly—with blood dripping out of the petals and leaves. It's the same painting that's in the video Kitt and Gretchen shot.”

“I don't know why I couldn't see the painting.” Ruby sounded very tired. “I just have no clue.” Her voice rose. “But it means
something
, China
.
Something serious. And I have the feeling it has to do with Sharyn.”

“With Sharyn? In what way?”

“I don't know. There's something about her that's just . . . not right.” Ruby shook her head, perplexed.

I shivered as I thought again of Sharyn's hands, and the sound of her voice when she said
And now it is mine.
Then I remembered the Sotheby's catalog. I reached into my purse, pulled it out, and opened it to the page that Karen had marked with the yellow sticky note.

“I found this in Karen's briefcase,” I said. “It's a photograph of the painting we're talking about, or of something very similar. Can you see
this
one?”

Ruby blinked. “Sure,” she said, looking down at the photograph. “It's a woman, holding a pink flower.” She peered more closely. “The flower is bleeding on her. She's sad—no, she's anguished.” She put her finger on the painting's title. “
Muerte llega pronto.
That fits, doesn't it? Death Come Quickly.”

“Yes, it does,” I said. “It fits.”

Ruby took the catalog from me and looked at the cover. “Sotheby's,” she said. “They auction paintings and stuff, don't they?” She flipped back to the marked page. “And they're auctioning
this
one? The one that everybody but me can see? The same painting? How does that work?”

“They've already auctioned it,” I said, pointing to the date on the cover. “Last November. They expected to get $110,000 to $125,000 for it. But I'm not sure it's the very same painting. Maybe it's a similar painting, by the same title.”

“Something very weird is going on here,” Ruby muttered.

“Two weird somethings,” I said. “Number one, the painting you can't see, even when it's hanging, big as life, a foot in front of your nose. Number two, the painting that Sotheby's auctioned off, with the same title.” I paused, wrinkling my forehead. “No, make that three somethings. The fact that Karen had this auction catalog in her briefcase. Which means that she must have spotted the lookalikes, as well.”

Ruby looked perplexed. “You don't suppose this had anything to do with . . . you know. With the mugging.”

“I don't know. I've been concentrating on trying to figure out whether there's a connection between Karen's mugging and Christine Morris' murder. But this is something different. I'll have to think about it.” I frowned. “Any idea why you couldn't see the painting on the wall, Ruby?”

She was studying the photograph in the catalog. “Because it isn't really there?” she hazarded.

“But it
is
there,” I protested. “I saw it; Sharyn saw it. This isn't the emperor's new clothes, Ruby. We were
not
pretending to not notice that it's gone.”

“I know,” Ruby said slowly. “But maybe . . . maybe—” She closed the catalog and held it up. “Is it okay if I take this home with me? I want to do some research.”

“Sure.” I leaned over and opened her car door for her. “What are you going to do with it? Show it to your Ouija board?” I smothered a snicker. “Ask the I Ching to give you a clue? Consult your rune stones?”

“Don't be tacky, China.” She stuck her lower lip out, scowling. “This is serious stuff.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, penitent. “You're right. Sometimes my tacky self just can't resist showing off. I know there's a reason you couldn't see that painting—a
serious
reason. I hope you can figure it out. Please use any means you can think of, including the Ouija board.”

Ruby folded her long legs into her car. “Actually,” she said, “I was thinking of trying something else. Something different.” She closed the door, put the key in the ignition, and rolled down her window.

“What's that?” I asked curiously, through the open window. What could be more
different
than Ruby's Ouija board, rune stones, and I Ching?

“Google,” she said.

I rolled my eyes. Google. Why hadn't I thought of that?

“I thought I'd check out Sotheby's website,” she added. “They might have posted the results of that auction—the price, maybe. I don't know what that would tell us—probably nothing. But it's worth a shot, don't you think? And I could surf around and look for some of Izquierdo's other paintings—get some information about her and her background.”

“It certainly is worth a shot,” I said. “When you've got everything doped out, Ruby, call me and tell me about it. Okay?”

“Sure thing.” She waggled her fingers at me, put her car in gear, and drove off.

In Devonshire, England, it is considered unlucky to plant lilies of the valley, for these tiny white bells are said to ring forth the death of the one who plants them.

China Bayles
“Herbs of Good and Ill Omen”
Pecan Springs Enterprise

As I got into my car, I looked at my watch. Perfect timing—it was just after three o'clock. Paul and Irene Cameron lived only about six blocks away. I could stop in and see Paul, who should be up from his nap and ready for a chat.

I
was ready, definitely. Now that I had seen the collection for myself, I had some questions I wanted to ask him about the Morris Museum and the functioning of the museum board. What was Sharyn Tillotson's role in the management of the collection? Did the board keep on top of what was going on, or did they let Sharyn run things, more or less? What could he tell me about the paintings that were on exhibit, those that had been purchased, and those that had been sold? But Kitt had said that Paul was unfocused and had a tendency to wander off the subject. I hoped he was feeling up to giving me some answers.

The Camerons' house was a large, very nice two-story frame home, surrounded by pecan and live oak trees, not far from the river. I was on my way up the walk when Irene came out on the stoop to greet me, closing the door behind her. She was wearing a painter's smock and there was a streak of paint on one bare arm.

“I'm so sorry, China,” she said regretfully. “But it turns out that this isn't a good afternoon for Paul after all. He's tired and awfully grumpy.” She sighed and made a little face. “I'm afraid he's not making a lot of sense, either. You wouldn't enjoy your visit. And he'd be terribly frustrated—embarrassed, too. He knows when he's not in full control, but he just can't stop himself.”

I was a little surprised that she was telling me this, since we didn't know one another that well. But I knew that she must be relieved to see a friendly face—and embarrassed herself, on behalf of her husband.

“That's too bad,” I said, feeling a surge of sympathy for her, as well as for Paul. Someone had told me that she had been his graduate student when they married. She must be twenty years younger than he, and very pretty, with a delicate diamond-shaped face, clear gray eyes, and brown hair that she wore plaited in a thick braid down her back. When he was on the CTSU art faculty, her life had been full of all the usual faculty doings—exhibits, lectures, parties, concerts. It must be a very different life now, and very lonely, if he continued to go downhill. How would she deal with the challenge of his care? I thought again of the rumor that Paul's erratic financial investments had jeopardized their house and wondered how she was managing, financially. It must be a difficult struggle.

“It is the way it is,” she said in a practical tone and brushed her flyaway brown hair out of her eyes with the back of a paint-smeared hand. “I'm afraid it won't be long before we'll have to make . . . other arrangements for him.”

“I'm so sorry to hear that, Irene,” I said. “He's always been such an active, energetic guy.”

“Oh, he still has a lot of physical energy,” she said ruefully. “And he's bigger and stronger than I am, which makes it difficult to manage him, especially when he's being . . . you know, contrary. He can be a handful at times. But I try to save time to do what I enjoy doing, as much as I can. He always encouraged me to do that.” She looked down at her splattered smock and managed a tremulous smile. “As you can see, I'm painting. At least, I'm trying to, although I'm a little out of practice. But I would love to sell more of my work, to help out with expenses. I actually have a show coming up in a couple of months, if I can manage to get enough done. One of our friends has promised to set it up for me at his gallery in San Antonio.”

“That's wonderful, Irene,” I said, with genuine enthusiasm. I could hear the strain in her voice, a little tremble, some hesitancy. Perhaps her art would help to relieve some of the stress of being a full-time caregiver for her husband. “I saw some of your work—the flower paintings—at the Morris Museum earlier this afternoon. They are really quite lovely.”

A pleased smile broke across her face. “Oh, thank you! I'm glad you liked them.”

“They gave me an idea, actually,” I said. “I wondered if you might like to hang a few of your floral pieces in my herb shop. The marigolds are especially wonderful. They would have to be priced quite a lot lower, though, maybe in the forty-to-sixty-dollar range. At that price, I think I could sell several.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “Well, perhaps. Actually, I have several paintings of lilies of the valley—they're smaller, and I think I could let them go at that price. As I said, I really need to help out with expenses. Let me think about it and I'll get back to you.”

“Of course,” I said. “Oh, by the way, when I was at the Morris, Sharyn mentioned that you're returning to the board, to fill Karen Prior's place.”

“Yes.” Irene gave an awkward little shrug. “I enjoyed my work with the collection and I'm glad to be going back, although I wish it could be under . . . different circumstances.” She shook her head bleakly. “That was just terrible about Karen Prior.” Her voice broke. “A mugging! I could hardly believe that something like that could happen to her.”

“I know,” I said. “It was a terrible shock.” I paused, then added, “I saw a painting at the museum today that I understand was Karen's favorite. I found it quite striking. I wonder if you could tell me something about the artist.
Muerte llega pronto
, it's called. Death Come Quickly.”

Irene shifted uncomfortably. “I don't think I recognize it,” she said, after a moment. “It must not have been in the collection when I was on the board. Who painted it?”

“María Izquierdo,” I replied. I found it curious that she didn't know the painting, especially since she had written her thesis on Mexican women artists. “I didn't get a chance to ask Sharyn about it,” I added. “I'd like to find out more about the painter. She was apparently quite well-known.”

Another uneasy hesitation, then she stepped back and put her hand on the doorknob. “I've read about Izquierdo, but I don't know anything about her work.” She cocked her head, listening. “Oh, dear, Paul is calling. I'd better go and see what he's up to.” She gave a resigned sigh. “It's not a good idea to leave him alone too long, when he's in this mood.”

I nodded. “I'll phone you in a day or two. Maybe he'll be feeling better.”

“Maybe he will,” she said with a sad little smile. “I hope so, anyway. Do call—I'm sure he'd like to see you if he could. And that will give me time to think about those pieces for your shop.”

“The lilies of the valley would be especially nice,” I reminded her.

She nodded and closed the door. I heard the latch click firmly.

I got in the car, flicked on the air conditioner, and sat for a moment, thinking about how easily a health problem—mental health as well as physical—can derail even a happy marriage. Irene had every right to look forward to a long life with her husband. And now she was having to deal with the financial fallout of his erratic financial behavior and figure out how she could pay for whatever care he was going to require, which wouldn't come cheaply, I was sure. It was good that she was painting again, of course, but very sad that she had to do it in order to pay the bills.

I turned on the ignition and drove off. Thinking about Paul and Irene—and Felicity and her grandmother—made me sad. Illness and death changed everyone's lives. I suddenly felt very grateful that I could go home to my contented marriage and our more or less financially secure house, where McQuaid and I and the kids, along with Gretchen and Jake, would be sitting down to supper in a couple of hours. We would laugh, tell jokes, mind our manners, tease each other a little, and love each other a lot. We would be a
family.

At home, in the kitchen, I scrubbed a batch of Yukon Gold potatoes from the spring crop in our garden—we never get many, but they are very good, especially for potato salad. When they were on the stove and the water was coming to a boil, I picked up my phone and dialed Justine Wyzinski. She wasn't there, so I left a message on her answering machine.

I had some questions for her. About Roberto Soto.

• • •

I
had work to do after supper, so while the kitchen cleanup crew got busy, I went upstairs to our bedroom, stripped and showered, and pulled on the oversize T-shirt I sleep in. Then I flopped on the bed under the ceiling fan with the transcript of Richard Bowen's trial. I read the best parts (Johnnie's cross-examinations and the defense section of the trial) with some attention and skimmed the rest quickly. I also looked for the court record of the closed hearing at which Johnnie had offered up his alternative suspect, which should have been with the transcript but wasn't. Maybe it would be in the case file in Aaron's office.

The transcript made it clear that the case had presented so many challenges for the prosecution that poor old Henry Bell simply didn't stand a chance, even though he was ably aided and abetted from the bench by the Honorable Roy Lee Sparks. His Honor did his friend Ring-a-Ding the favor of allowing in the evidence seized during Barry Rogers' warrantless search, probably because if he hadn't, Bell would have had to drop the charges. The tainted evidence against Bowen was the
only
evidence there was. There wasn't a word about the Morris Foundation, of course, and not much about Christine Morris' art collection, except that there was one and that it was valuable enough to prompt her to install an alarm and a fence. There wasn't much about
her
, either, and her ex-husband's name barely entered into it. The trial was all about Dick Bowen.

From the transcript, I could see that the prosecutor was building his case almost entirely on motive and opportunity. He called three witnesses to testify to Bowen's hatred of the victim, who had accused him at several city council meetings of abusing his power on the zoning committee. Other witnesses testified that he hated her dogs, her chain-link fence, and her annoying security lights. Ring-a-Ding used these to build his simple theory of the crime. According to him, Bowen had come to the end of his rope one dark night, pulled on his gardening shoes, grabbed a club out of his golf bag, then dashed next door to beat the lady to death. Unfortunately, however, the Pecan Springs police had committed so many errors that the case against Bowen—which was based only on the golf club, the gardening shoes, and next-door proximity—was compromised from the get-go.

Johnnie's cross of the lead investigator, Barry Rogers, was a masterpiece of contained and biting sarcasm. He began by eliciting the information that Rogers had entered this case with a recent history of poorly managed investigations, one of them so full of errors that the judge had thrown it out. Johnnie got Rogers to admit that if he didn't bring in a solid case on this one, he was in serious trouble. And then, over the course of one painful morning's testimony, it emerged that Rogers had not properly secured the crime scene; that he had conducted a warrantless search of Bowen's premises, based on the patently bogus assertion of “hot pursuit”; that he had not ordered the victim's hands bagged to preserve any possible evidence; that the crime scene photographs taken by a junior police officer were so flawed as to be essentially worthless for forensic purposes; and that there was (or appeared to be, in the best of the photographs) a print of a different shoe in the pool of blood around the victim's body. The second shoeprint was never investigated.

Regarding the defendant, Rogers conceded that Bowen's garage was widely known to be unlocked and that the main garage door was regularly left open so that the contents were visible from the street. Further, he admitted that he had not ordered a police canvass of the neighborhood in order to determine whether anyone had seen a person entering the unlocked garage (presumably to borrow Bowen's gardening shoes and his golf club) or had noticed any suspicious activity at the Morris house on the night of the murder.

Finally, it emerged that the medical examination of the corpse (performed in Bexar County, since Adams County had no ME at the time) had not determined whether Christine Morris had had recent sexual intercourse. Somehow or other, that essential part of the autopsy had either been overlooked or its results had not been recorded, nobody seemed to know which. I could just imagine Johnnie's incredulous tone as he asked the artfully phrased question, “You mean to tell this court that no one determined whether the murdered woman had had sexual intercourse before she died?”

And the subdued reply: “No, sir.”

At which Johnnie must have rolled his eyes, for he requested that the question be read back to the witness, who (by now thoroughly confused) had answered, “Yes, I guess,” and then dejectedly, “Oh, hell, I don't know.”