The Tree of Death

fifteen

El Cinco de Mayo. The day of the victory over the French at Puebla. Back then in 1862, my forebears had triumphed against overwhelming odds. With luck, I would do the same tonight.

I stood near the arch to the central courtyard, surveying the scene. It was only seven o’clock, but the museum was already jammed. At fifty dollars a head, this crowd would fill our coffers. Funny-a week ago the thought would have excited me. I would have been scheming how to keep Frank’s hands off the money long enough for me to acquire some really good landscape paintings, build up our reform period collection. But now, my plan for tonight was much more vital, my freedom probably dependent on its result.

Which one of my friends and colleagues was the killer? Which one of these people-whom, by and large, I liked-was I going to trap and deliver into the hands of the police? I felt nervous, excited, and a little ill. I wished it was all over.

I glanced at the door, where Maria and Jesse sat at a table, accepting tickets and handing out corpinos, red carnations with red, green, and white ribbons. Maria wore her hair swept up on her head, and her lips and fingernails were as bright as the flowers. In between arrivals she would turn to Jesse and whisper behind one hand, her dark eyes flashing. He grew merry, then serious, then merry in turn, and he whispered back. The diamond ring glittered on Maria’s finger.

Life had altered radically for Maria and Jesse. No more Tio Taco, no more rotund Robert, no more threats of not exhibiting the camaleones. Maria and Jesse stood to have a happy life together-if one of them hadn’t killed Frank. I watched them, eyes narrowed, for a moment, then went into the courtyard.

The buffet table had been set up along the left side. Already it was surrounded by gaily dressed people reaching for quesadillas and taquitos, jicama and guacamole. As I approached, Vic emerged from the kitchen, carrying a platter of flour tortillas. Isabel followed, giving instructions on where to set it. She looked haggard, and there was a blossom of orange soda pop on her ruffled peasant blouse; the opening had taken its toll on her.

The spicy smell of the food was turning my already nervous stomach. I changed course and headed for the bar. A drink, a small one, would help.

The bar was even more crowded than the buffet. Behind it stood Tony and his giggly Susana, dispensing margaritas, Dos Equis beer, and Mexican soda pop. Tony wore a tuxedo, a ruffled shirt, and his lounge-lizard smirk. As the line inched forward, I heard him tell one of our patrons,“ The margaritas are oh-so-very strong. They will make it easier to bear looking at the arts.”

I stopped moving, and the woman behind me bumped into me. I apologized to her through gritted teeth, my hands aching to seize the Colombian by his scrawny neck and strangle him. Who was he to knock “the arts”? What the devil did he know? Education director, indeed!

I held out my plastic glass, regarding Tony thoughtfully. He looked up, saw it was me, and lowered his eyes. His smirk fell away, and his hand shook as he poured from the margarita pitcher. Some of the sticky substance slopped over onto my fingers.

Tony had never considered me a powerful influence at the museum. Under Frank, I hadn’t been. Naturally Tony had never dreamed I would be named acting director, much less discover their embezzling scheme. Following Frank’s death he had expected he would be named director and go on collecting an even more comfortable salary, plus be spared the hated trips to South America. And, more important, he would be free of Frank’s ridicule and verbal abuse.

I wiped my fingers on a napkin, glared at Susana when she emitted a particularly shrill giggle, and crossed the courtyard to where I’d been standing before. As I sipped the drink, I watched the crowd.

There were men dressed in tuxedos and women in flowing floor-length gowns. Others wore traditional. Mexican garb. They ate and drank and chattered, the din rising to obscure the soft Latin rhythms played by the band on the platform in one corner. That would be remedied soon, however; the musicians had instructions to burst into mariachi at eight.

I continued to scan the crowd until I spotted my mother and Nick by the buffet table. She was wearing a bright red peasant dress, and he had on a charro outfit, complete to the broad-brimmed hat. They saw me and waved, but my mother’s eyes were full of concern, reminding me of the dull ache in my head. I was glad when Nick distracted her with a taquito.

Everyone was here; everyone was having a good time. Everyone, that is, except me. I felt nervous, my palms clammy. Time was passing, and I still hadn’t spotted the one person I wanted to see…

I looked around once more, and suddenly there he was. Lieutenant Dave Kirk stood by the bandstand, dressed in his brown business suit, his one concession to gaiety the corsage in his lapel-and that, I suspected, only because Maria had insisted on it when he came through the door. Kirk’s eyes met mine, and he raised his can of soda pop in a toast, a cynical, questioning look on his face. So he had gotten my messages. I raised my glass in return, relieved.

I took my eyes off the lieutenant and looked around for a place to set the glass. Tony was right about one thing: the margaritas were strong, too strong for the work ahead. One of the volunteers passed, collecting discards on a tray, and I plunked the glass down among the others.

Quickly I reviewed my plan and what I would say to Dave Kirk. It had to sound well thought out or he wouldn’t listen. He’d ridiculed my “tidbits of information,” as he called them, all down the line. He had been right about the murderer not hiding in the museum all night, but he’d done nothing that I knew of about the other facts I’d brought him. So far as I was aware, he hadn’t even tried to find the tree of death, the murder weapon. Still, he’d have to see the logic of my plan and go along with it.

Marshaling my arguments, I started toward the lieutenant. Before I reached him, however, he disappeared into the galleries. I pushed my way through the crowd after him.

The galleries were not nearly as crowded as the courtyard. Trust our patrons not to stray too far from the food and drink. In the colonial gallery, there was no sign of Kirk, but there was a half-empty plastic glass sitting on top of one of the new display cases. Irritated, I picked it up, wrinkling my nose at the cigarette butt floating among the dregs of the margarita. I supposed I should be thankful that the smoker hadn’t put it out on the rug. Carrying the offending glass, I went into the reform period gallery. There, a couple of youngish matrons were discussing the Velasco landscape.

“It doesn’t look anything like the Mexico I remember.”

“What did you ever see of Mexico except the bar in your hotel in Acapulco?”‘

The first woman laughed. “The ceiling of the bedroom in our suite, my dear.”

They started guiltily when they saw me. I smiled and continued my search for Kirk.

He wasn’t in the contemporary gallery either. If he was looking at the collections, it had to be the fastest tour on record. I hurried into the folk art gallery. There a crowd had gathered around the display of camaleones that had replaced the tree of life.

“… camaleones?”

“… incredibly grotesque.”

“… like the morning after.”

“Not nearly as grotesque as what happened in this very room the other night.”

“This was where-?”‘

“Right there on the floor, darlings.”

“What a way to die.”

“Felled by two tons of Day-Glo pottery.”

“Well, the fat spic never did do anything the usual way.”

They all laughed, while I stiffened. The term “spic,” even applied to Frank, was ugly.

“Excuse me,” I said, pushing past them through the door to the courtyard.

An embarrassed silence fell behind me. Then I could hear the murmur of voices resume, gradually becoming punctuated by defensive laughter. I picked up the plastic glass so hard it cracked.

Why do they come here? I thought angrily. Why don’t they stay on their own side of town if they hate us so much? Because it’s the chic thing these days. Supporting minority art gives them something to do when they’re not sailing or playing tennis.

But maybe it’s not really hatred that prompts such remarks, I thought. Maybe it’s just carelessness. That, and the tendency-a tendency that’s in all of us-to forget that the other person aches and bleeds the same as we do.

This was no time to philosophize, however. Where the devil had Lieutenant Kirk gone? It was already eight o’clock; the band had stepped up its tempo with a boisterous mariachi tune.

Quickly I glanced around the courtyard. Jesse and Maria had been replaced by a couple of volunteers. Vic and Isabel were nowhere in sight, but the buffet table was well stocked. Tony had left Susana alone at the bar, and she was making a mess, pouring margaritas all over everything and everybody. None of my suspects was in sight. The killer might make a move any minute now.

Maybe Kirk was in the office wing. He might have taken a shortcut through the less crowded galleries in order to use the phone. I went over and pushed through the door. Sure enough, there he was, perched on the edge of Maria’s desk, talking. I tossed the cracked plastic glass in the wastebasket and waited.

“Got it.” He slapped down the receiver and stood. “Oh, yes, Miss Oliverez. You wanted to see me.”

“I certainly did. I have a plan…”

“Plan?” he said in a preoccupied way.

“To catch the killer…”

“I’m sure you do, but it will have to wait.” He started for the door.

“But it can’t wait!”

He turned, irritation plain on his face. “There’s been a murder out in Hope Ranch. I have to go up there.”

“But I’ve-”

“Miss Oliverez, I’m a homicide detective. Murders take precedence. You can tell me about your plan when I get back here.”

“When will that be?”

“Later.” He went out the door.

I slumped dejectedly against Maria’s desk. Later. When later? A murder in Hope Ranch, eh? No wonder Kirk had been in a hurry. The prestigious residential area, with its great estates and hunt club, was where many of Santa Barbara’s most influential people lived. Of course it would take precedence over anything at the Museum of Mexican Arts.

You’re getting paranoid, Elena, I told myself. Of course he had to go out there. It was important that he be on hand right away at a murder scene. And, even though I didn’t know Kirk well at all, I suspected he was not at all impressed by wealth or influence-at least not when murder entered the picture.

But what about my plan? I glanced at the desk drawer where I’d locked the cellar key earlier. It was still shut and showed no signs of having been tampered with. Taking out my keys, I went around and unlocked the drawer. The ornate iron key was still inside. The killer hadn’t been there yet. I had expected that; everyone had been out where I could see them until minutes ago.

I went into my office, got out my purse, and freshened my lipstick. Things were slowing down now, at least as far as the staff and volunteers were concerned. They could begin to relax and enjoy the party. All of them, that is, except the murderer.

The sound of the office wing door closing alerted me. I stepped back against the wall, into the shadows where no one could see me. I heard footsteps and then a rattling sound. I inched along toward the door. There was the noise of the desk drawer sliding open. I peeked around the door frame.

Jesse stood there, reaching into the drawer.

Jesse! Por Dios, not him, of all of them…

Holding my breath, I pulled back. He mustn’t see me now. The drawer slid shut again, and then Jesse’s footsteps went away, toward the door to the courtyard.

The courtyard! But he was supposed to go to the cellar…

I hurried out of the office wing after him. He was making his way through the crowd of party-goers toward the main entrance. Why was he leaving the museum“?

I pushed through the crowd, too, nodding and smiling to people as I tried to keep my eyes on Jesse. When I got to the entrance, he was across the street, getting into his old Chevrolet. In a panic, I ran around the building to the parking lot where I’d left my car. I couldn’t lose him now.

Fortunately, my car keys were on the ring in my pocket. I jumped in, ground the starter twice, and finally backed the car from its space. At the parking lot gates, I had to wait for a couple of pedestrians, slow-walking old ladies, to pass. Then I accelerated into the street and to the corner. Jesse had pulled away and was down the block, turning left.

I raced through the stop sign, then slowed down. The old Chevy was easy to spot, and I didn’t want him to recognize me rushing up behind him. I followed, obeying the traffic laws, conscious of the fact that I didn’t have my driver’s license with me.

Jesse drove slowly, too, as if he didn’t know where he was going. He turned left again on State Street and went all the way to where it ended at Cabrillo, the street that ran along the waterfront. There he turned and began driving north, past the beaches and City College and the yacht club. When he reached Shoreline Park, he turned into the nearly deserted parking lot.

I stopped, afraid he’d see me if I turned in, too. The sun was below the horizon, its faint colors still spilling over the blue-gray water. The park itself was wrapped in shadow, its barbecue pits, picnic tables, and play equipment vague shapes under the palm trees. Jesse drove to the front row of parking spaces. His brake lights flashed and then went out. I could see his head silhouetted against the fading light. He seemed to be contemplating the sea.

What was he doing here? If he was the killer, he should be in the cellar, retrieving the milagros.

Finally the door of the Chevy opened, and Jesse got out. He stood beside the car for a moment, then crossed to the grass and started walking through the trees. I drove into the parking lot, left my car, and followed. He wandered aimlessly toward the promontory overlooking the Pacific. He sat down on a picnic table. I waited in the shadows.

Jesse sat for about five minutes. The light faded rapidly, and I could barely make him out. Then he got up and went over to a nearby barbecue pit. Seconds later I saw a match flare, and then something flamed up quickly.

What was he burning? Evidence? I came out of the shadows and ran across the grass.

Jesse whirled when he heard me coming. He dropped the flaming object onto the grill. I tried to grab it, but the fire seared my fingers, and I pulled them back.

“What’s going on?” I demanded. “What are you doing here?”

Jesse stared at me, flames highlighting the taut lines of his face. I stared back, breathing hard. Then all at once the tension went out of him, and his eyes became blank with defeat.

He said, “I guess we’d better talk.”