1 Portrait of a Gossip (9 page)

She decided that white canvas had
been a mistake. She would get some new ones in navy next time she was in town.

Juliet smelled the pipe before she
made out the barely seen outlines of Asher Temple, sitting on his porch. His
porch light wasn’t on but when the pipe glowed brightest, it lit up his face
like a demon. The effect was unpleasant but he was at least recognizable.

“Hello, Asher,” she gasped,
stepping onto the shelter of his porch.

“Miss Juliet.”

Juliet wondered, as she folded up
her umbrella, why it was everyone insisted on putting “Miss” in front of her
name. It didn’t sound mocking—when others said it—but it made her feel old and
fussy. Did they see her that way?

“I was in town today and the bakery
had lemon cupcakes. I brought one for your mother.”

There was a second of silence and
she knew that she had surprised Asher.

“I don’t want to disturb her if
she’s asleep.” That didn’t seem likely but she was willing to give him an out
if he didn’t want to ask her in. She didn’t really need to speak to Elizabeth
anyway. It was Asher who interested her.

“No, Mother is still awake. Come
in,” he said, rising. “I think she is making tea.”

The Temples’ bungalow was very
homelike in spite of Asher’s cubist paintings hanging on the wall.

“Mother, we have company. Miss
Juliet has stopped in and comes bearing gifts.”

“Gift, singular.
Good evening, Elizabeth,” Juliet said, allowing Asher to help her out of her
coat and to stand her umbrella outside the door. “I hope the cupcake isn’t too
battered. That trail is dreadful in the rain. Pigs on roller skates would have
managed it more gracefully.”

“Good heavens, my dear. What a
night to be out in! But it is wonderful to have some company to break up the
peace and quiet. I
don’t hardly
know what to do with
myself on these rainy nights when even Carrie won’t come for a visit, and poor
Jillian is hiding under her bed.”

She reached out veined and
calloused hands to take the offered bag.
The fingers
tremored
slightly as she opened the small sack.

“Well, personally I’d say prayers
of thanks for the deliverance,” Juliet muttered without thinking and got a
crack of laughter from Asher and a slight smile from Elizabeth. “But why is
Jillian hiding under her bed?”

“She is terrified of lightning.” Elizabeth
removed the pink box and opened the lid.
“Lemon—my favorite.
Thank you!”

“I had to wrestle the high school
quarterback to get it too,” Juliet said, taking the chair that Asher dragged
forward.

She had never been this close to
Elizabeth before and she usually wore a large brimmed hat when outdoors which
obscured most of her face. Juliet found herself studying her. She had been
pretty once, a feminine version of her son. Age had done its work, of course, but
Juliet thought her the
more
attractive of the pair
because of her sweetness of expression which was so much more appealing than
Asher’s perpetual sardonic sneer.

“There goes the kettle. I’ll get
the tea, Mother,” Asher said and headed for the small alcove that functioned as
the kitchen.

Elizabeth looked for a place to set
her cupcake and finally settled for laying it over some strips of rosewood she
had obviously been sanding. Once her hands were empty she returned them to her
lap and let them clasp one another.

“You do such beautiful work,”
Juliet said sincerely. “If I could afford it I’d have you make frames for all
my work. It would elevate it all the way to art.”

“It is kind of you to say so. Do
you do other kinds of painting?” Elizabeth asked. Her son’s angry red blots
made a strange backdrop for the very old-fashioned lady who resembled nothing
so much as Whistler’s mother.

“You mean pure art rather than for
commerce?” Juliet asked and then shook her head.
“Rarely.
I have come into the game rather late and need to take projects that will pay
before I build my name. Assuming I have the courage. As yet my skin is rather
thin. The fame will probably have to come after I am retired or dead. Or
perhaps I shall be one of those whose name is writ on water and never have fame
at all.”

“Are you fond of Keats?” Asher
asked, showing he caught the reference. He was carrying a tray with a teapot
and three cups over to his guest. He hesitated when he reached them, also
thwarted by the lack of available surfaces.

“Let me,” Juliet said and fetched
an empty work stool. “Keats isn’t my favorite poet, but his story does move me
to pity.
So many of the poets lived in cruel centuries.
It is amazing they survived long enough to leave us anything at all.”

Asher’s smile was almost warm.

“Well, this is very cozy,”
Elizabeth Temple said as Asher poured out the tea. He offered both milk and
lemon but Juliet opted for plain. “Now, dear, not to hurry you because I am
glad of the company, but if you felt like it, you could tell us why you really
came.”

That was direct. Juliet sipped her
tea and then decided on a half-truth.

“It’s about Harvey Allen. I wished
to discuss something—but thought I would try it with rational people first.”

“We’re honored to be chosen,” Asher
said ironically.

“You’re closest and it’s raining,”
Juliet answered in a tone that matched his own and got another laugh.

“Go on, please.”

“I’m in a bit of a social quandary.
One of us has died—been murdered, in fact—and in any other circumstance I would
expect someone to hold some kind of memorial gathering.”

“Because it’s what civilized people
do,” Asher murmured.

“But in this circumstance?”
Elizabeth prompted after frowning at her son.

“I can’t find anyone who didn’t
despise and loathe him. At least, did you despise and loathe him?” she asked
mildly, looking between her host and hostess.

“Thoroughly,” Asher agreed.

“Sadly, I, too, did not care for
him,” Elizabeth added.
“Such an unpleasant man, always
looking for hurtful things to say.
It makes it hard to respect him even
when he’s dead.”

“
Nothing so became his life as the leaving of it
,” Asher murmured,
mangling Dickens.

“Well, that makes it nearly
unanimous. I haven’t spoken to Jake and Jillian yet, but I suppose it is too
much to hope that they liked him.”

“Way too much,” Asher agreed. “We
made the mistake of having them to tea. Jake actually had to be restrained from
punching him once. I don’t know what the detestable idiot said to Jillian but
it made her cry.”

Juliet nodded. This meant she would
need to have a visit with the
Holmeses
and soon.

“Poor thing.
She has seemed so unwell lately. And that horrid man had the knack for
provoking either tears or violence from his victims.” Elizabeth sipped her
milky tea.

Juliet found it interesting that
she used the word
victim
.

“Well, I suppose it would be in bad
taste to throw a thank-God-he’s-dead party. Especially since someone would blab
and it would end up on Facebook or YouTube or something, so maybe we shouldn’t
get together after all. I can just send flowers for the funeral.
If there is one.
I haven’t heard anything about
arrangements. Was there any family?” Juliet finished her tea. There was nowhere
to put her cup so she let it rest in her lap.

“Not that I’ve heard of,” Asher
said. “That is possibly a good thing. One hates to think of too many Harvey
Allens
roaming the earth.”

“Yes, and I fear that Carrie
wouldn’t be able to resist talking about that kind of party. She adores
publicity,” Elizabeth agreed. “It is also difficult because one of us killed
him.”

“It certainly looks that way.”
Tired of holding her cup, Juliet set it on the floor. “I suppose it wasn’t
either of you.”

“Quite certain.”
Asher was amused rather than offended. “We were together that afternoon and
evening, so someone else will have to be nominated for the public service award.”

“And I am afraid my homicidal days
are over,” Elizabeth added lightly.

That was true, but her
son’s
were not, at least in theory, and he seemed plenty
vitriolic. It would hardly be the first time that a mother had
lied
to protect her child.

“Well, there goes that idea too. Have
you met the newest tenant yet?” Juliet asked, changing the subject since there
was no chance of either of the Temples saying anything incriminating.

“A new tenant?”
Elizabeth asked, glancing toward Asher.

“Yes, Esteban Rodriguez. He carves
life-size marionettes out of goat bones.”

“Good heavens!”

“They’re good,” she admitted
grudgingly.
“Disturbing and morbid.
But then so is
he.”

“You’ve met him then?” Asher said.

“Yes, at the new gallery. Raphael
introduced me. He is moving into the cottage next to Harvey’s once the repairs
are finished. He’s another of Mr.
Biggers
’ artistic acquaintances.
He didn’t say anything about knowing Harvey though.”

Not directly.

“Is he personable in other ways?”
Elizabeth asked.

“He might be Raphael’s twin,”
Juliet answered with more truth than tact and then thought about what she had
said. There really was a scary level of resemblance between the two men. She
hadn’t thought about it before because Raphael was in a wheelchair and Esteban
had been standing, but the two men were probably of the same height and their
shoulders had the same build and their coloring was nearly identical. The only
difference was in the texture of the skin. Esteban had seen some long, hard
miles in the great outdoors and Raphael was understandably pale.

Elizabeth sighed.

“That’s … well, I guess it’s to be
expected. Great artists aren’t always socially inclined. We must make
allowances.”

Juliet wondered if that was how she
excused her son’s own standoffishness.

“True. But I won’t hear a word said
against Raphael,” Juliet said lightly. “He said I paint beautiful botanical illustrations.”

“You do,” Asher said in a voice so
flat that it almost removed all feel of it being a compliment.

“Thank you. They are my bread, if
not my butter.” Juliet refused to feel either elated or humbled by his comments.

“If you really wanted to have a
gathering, I suppose we could have one to welcome this new artist,” Elizabeth
said. “I imagine it’s been hard adjusting to this life, especially if you did a
lot of entertaining back east.”

Juliet hadn’t done any entertaining
outside of a meeting room on the third floor of her office building, and there
they had served only coffee and adrenaline, but she found that she liked the
idea of having a party with finger food and silly drinks or snobby wines. And
there was a note of wistfulness in Elizabeth’s voice. Juliet thought that
probably she missed going to openings, dressing up and seeing other artists in
a social situation.

They both glanced at Asher who said,
“Don’t look at me. You ladies must do what you want. By all means have a party
if that’s what you wish, just don’t involve me in the planning.”

“Let’s think about it,” Juliet
answered, getting to her feet. “You should both meet him first. He didn’t
strike me as a party kind of person. In fact, I’m not sure he’s housebroken. It
will be interesting to see how well he’d get on at a show. The gallery might
have to keep him locked in the back room. At least until the public acquires a
taste for his art. He’s damn-your-eyes handsome but truly—well, he makes
Raphael look like a social butterfly.”

A few of the cottages had gone dark and eyeless while Juliet
visited with Asher and Elizabeth. The rain was heavier, too, and the lightning
had begun to dance and flicker off to the north. In the distance was the
unhappy tremolo of a hound. Perhaps it was Erik. It was better to think it was
the Great Dane than to imagine wolves in the woods. Such thoughts were a
frightening reminder that she was a frail animal in a place that could kill her
if she ever lost the safety of her walls and the warmth of her fire.

Climbing back to her cottage would be difficult and wet even
with the aid of her feeble flashlight and the questionable protection of her
umbrella.

But, starting up the trail, she could see that one cottage
was not dark. Standing outside her own bungalow and closing up her useless
umbrella, she could see the light through the rift in the trees behind her
studio. Harvey Allen’s cottage was showing a soft glow in one window. The
eeriness touched her, colder than the wind.

“No,” she said, having an instant of supernatural dread
which she strangled immediately.

She looked again, thinking that the light might be coming
from the cottage next door. Perhaps Robbie Sykes was working late on repairs.

But no, the dim light dredging through the gloom was
definitely coming from Harvey’s bungalow.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” she whispered, then almost
screamed as Marley rubbed against her legs. The cat had heard her and come out
to welcome her home.

“Dumb cat!” she gasped, but stooped to pet him. “What are
you doing out in the rain?”

“Meow.”

“Yes, I see it. And I don’t believe in ghosts,” she
repeated.

But she did believe in murderers. A cautious person would
risk going down the trail and finding a bungalow with a light on and asking for
help before investigating.
Or calling someone for help on the
phone.

But in the time it would take Sheriff Garret to arrive—and
to be guided up the mountain in the rain—whoever was in the cottage could get
away. Going herself to see who was there might be the best and fastest way to
discover the killer.