The Tree of Death

sixteen

“Why did you kill him?” I asked.

Jesse looked blankly at me. “You mean Frank? I didn’t kill him. I’m not that kind.” He sat down on the picnic table again, his shoulders hunching forward.

I sat down next to him, feeling a peculiar mixture of relief and disappointment. Maybe Jesse wasn’t the killer. But then what had he been doing in Maria’s desk? And what had he burned?

We sat side by side, not looking at each other. Finally Jesse said, “You saw me go into Maria’s desk, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I was in my office.”

Again he was silent. Then, “Maria asked me to get something from there. She gave me her extra key.”

Of course she would have one. “What did she want?”

“Letters.” He reached into his jacket pocket and dropped a bundle of them on my lap. “She’d had them locked up there for safekeeping, but now that you’d taken a key to the desk she felt uneasy. She asked me to get them and destroy them.”

“Letters.” I looked down at them. They were in plain envelopes without any stamp or address. “Who are they from?”

“Frank.”

I turned my head and stared at him in amazement.

The corner of Jesse’s mouth twitched, and he looked away. “Yeah. From Frank. Love letters.”

First Gloria Sanchez, now Maria. I never would have guessed. So that was why Frank had opposed Jesse’s interest in Maria-not because he wanted her for Robert, but because he wanted her for himself. “Have you known about this all along?”

“Not until tonight.”‘ His voice had an edge to it, and I knew he was holding back tears.

“How long had it been going on with Frank?”

“It hadn’t, not really. Soon after she came to live with his family he began slipping these torrid notes under her bedroom door. She encouraged him, but wouldn’t let him touch her. She wanted the letters to continue, you see.”

“Why?”

Jesse was silent for a long time.

“Why, Jesse?”

“She was-‘’ His voice broke, and it was a while before he could get it under control. ”She was planning to blackmail him. She wanted to get her own apartment, her own car. She figured if she collected enough letters and then threatened to show them to Rosa, he would help her out.“

I was silent, feeling sick again.

“You can read the letters,” Jesse added. “Read them and see for yourself.”

“No.” I shook my head and handed them back. “Go ahead and burn them.”

He got up and went to the barbecue pit. “That’s what she told me to do. They’re no good to her anymore. She was going to confront him with them the night he was killed. She seems irritated that she missed her opportunity.”

The night he was killed. Maria could have… “Jesse, do you think she might have killed him?”

“I don’t know what she’d do. I don’t know anymore.”

“Why would she tell you about this? Why would she admit what she was up to?”

“She doesn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with it. She thinks she was clever.” Jesse lit one envelope and held it as the flame grew.

“Elena,” he said after a moment, “I don’t know what to do. How can I marry her now, knowing what she is?”

“I don’t know. I don’t suppose you can.”

His face, in the light of the flames, was weary. He dropped the envelope on the grate and lit another.“ The devil of it is, I love her in spite of it.”

“How long would that love last?”

He shrugged and added the rest of the letters to the fire.

“Jesse, if you marry her, this knowledge will eat at you your whole life.”

“I know.”

“Think of your work.”

“I know.”

“Think of the camaleones. How can you create something when your soul is dying?” Unconsciously I had slipped into Spanish; it was not a phrase you could use in English without feeling foolish. Jesse looked at me, nodding.

It was useless to talk, of course. The problem was one only Jesse could work through. I sat there, watching the letters burn, feeling numb.

“Jesse,” I said, “when you went into Maria’s desk, the key to the cellar was still there.”

“Yes.”

“Did you relock the desk?”

“Yes.”

And the killer would have had plenty of time to act by now. It was almost eleven. While I had been watching Jesse burn some sleazy love letters, the killer had probably sprung the trap unobserved. Dismayed, I got up and headed for the parking lot.

“Elena,” Jesse called, “do you know why I came here, to this place?”

I stopped. “No.”

“Because this was where we came on our first date. Maria and me. Funny, isn’t it?” I turned, unable to speak, and ran for my car.

The party was winding down when I got back to the museum. Guests were wandering down the walk to their cars, carrying streamers and balloons as souvenirs of the occasion. Inside, a few amiable drunks stood guard over the almost empty margarita pitchers, arguing about the Los Angeles Dodgers. In the middle of the courtyard, I ran into Carlos Bautista. He was handsome in his tuxedo and ruffled shirt, looking as fresh as if the party had just started.

“A splendid evening, Elena,” he said, taking my hands in his. “You did a wonderful job.”

“I had a lot of help.”

Carlos kept holding my hands. Was he going to make the long-expected pass now, of all times? I tried to pull my hands away.

“What’s wrong?” He frowned at my abstracted manner.

“I’m just tired.”

“Well, tomorrow you can sleep in. The museum will be closed, although I’d like you to attend a board meeting at two.”

“Board meeting?”

“Yes. I plan to make your appointment as director official. Perhaps you and I can have a celebratory drink afterwards.”

“That would be nice.” I freed my hands and began edging away.

“Elena, is everything all right?” An attractive and wealthy man like Carlos probably didn’t often have his attentions received in such a lukewarm manner.

“I’m fine, really.”

“Good. Also, at the board meeting, I will propose the… removals we spoke of earlier.”

That would be the time to bring the embezzlements out in the open. “I’ll be there.”

“Good.” He patted my shoulder and started toward the door.

Nodding to the volunteers who were beginning to clear up, I hurried through the door of the office wing. There I found Vic, his face flushed with drink. “Elena, there you are.”

“Here I am.”

“I’ve got a phone message for you. That lieutenant. He says he’ll be back and wants you to wait for him.”

“Probably wants to arrest me.”

“Oh, come on.”

I shrugged and sat down in Maria’s chair.

“Are you all right?”

“Just tired.” It was becoming my standard answer.

“Can I do anything?”

Leave me alone. “No, Vic. Why don’t you go home?”

“Yeah, I think I will. Too many margaritas. They sure were strong.”

I nodded. With a final concerned glance, Vic went out.

Reaching into my pocket, I took out the desk key and went to unlock the drawer, but I stopped when I saw, as I’d feared, that someone had been here before me. The drawer was open about an inch, and when I pulled it out I saw that the cellar key was gone. The killer could have been here at any time since Jesse had removed the letters. I got up and hurried through the offices to the cellar door. It was locked, and the key wasn’t there.

That didn’t mean much. The killer could have gone down there and searched for the milagros, then relocked the door, intending to replace the key in the desk. The trouble was, now I couldn’t get down there to check. I had really blown it as far as this trap was concerned. Wait till Dave Kirk heard what I’d done. But then, why tell him? It probably would add fuel to his suspicions of me.

I went through the galleries, checking to see if the volunteers had picked up stray plates and glasses, then went to the courtyard and told them to go. The rest of the cleanup could wait until the morning. I locked up, poured a margarita from the dregs in a pitcher and went back to the offices. I crossed to Frank’s and stood in the doorway, drinking and surveying what would soon be mine.

If I wasn’t in jail. Could the lieutenant really arrest me on such circumstantial evidence? Should I right now be calling a lawyer? Somehow, I didn’t really care.

I went into the office and sat in the padded chair. I drank my margarita and swiveled the chair around slowly, contemplating my new domain. The director’s job didn’t seem to matter either.

I looked at the telltale crack in the windowpane, then at the empty hook on the wall, and finally at the dirt smudge right above it.

They told the story of Frank’s murder, but only part of it. They still didn’t tell me who the killer was.

I swiveled the chair back and forth. Windowpane to hook and dirt smudge… hook and dirt smudge to windowpane.

Or did they tell me who the killer was?

I got up, set my glass on the desk, and began to pace. I would work very carefully this time, making the necessary connections.

I stopped in front of the window, staring out at the sagging azalea plant. I turned, staring at the hook. And then I knew, beyond a doubt, who the killer was. It was so clear, so obvious that I didn’t understand why I hadn’t seen it before.

In a way, it was a relief. But it left me feeling hollow inside.

I reached for the telephone, to try calling Lieutenant Kirk. I had just dialed the first digit when I heard the noise.

It was not a footstep, as when Jesse had come in. Nor was it the kind of sound Dave Kirk would be likely to make when he came looking for me. This was more of a whisper of motion. Someone was crossing the offices toward the cellar door.

I stood, barely breathing in the darkness. Then I slipped out and tiptoed to the corridor that led to the cellar. Ahead of me, the door to the steps was closing. The key was back in the latch.

So the killer hadn’t sprung the trap yet. This was exactly as I’d planned it, except that I’d expected to have Lieutenant Kirk with me. Still, I could wait here and apprehend the person who’d gone down there. Or could I? It wasn’t apparent to the killer that anyone was still inside the museum; my appearance would have shock value. Still, I could be overpowered. And then I’d have no real proof. Kirk wouldn’t take my word, not against the murderer’s.

Damn the lieutenant and his busy schedule!

I stood there in the dark corridor, listening. The walls of the adobe were so thick that voices, even in the next room, were always muted. The floors, however, were merely wood resting on joists. From below I began to hear sounds. The killer, certain everyone else had left, was taking few precautions against noise.

Maybe I could slip down there and watch, then follow to see what the killer did with the milagros. I was reasonably graceful and, in my bare feet, wouldn’t make any sounds that would be noticed by a person who wasn’t listening for them.

Dangerous. Alone, this was very dangerous.

I left my sandals on the floor by the archway and tiptoed to the cellar door. The stone steps were cold on the soles of my feet. I put a hand out to touch the clammy wall, then felt for the edge of each step with my toes. As I descended, I saw that it was dark at the bottom of the stairs, but the front of the cellar was illuminated by flashlight.

At the foot of the steps I paused. Boxes and crates blocked my way, and all I could see was the light shining around them. Noises, as if someone was rummaging around, came from up there. I inched forward, the cold of the earthen floor numbing my bare feet. The space between the packing cases was narrow, and I had to avoid bumping into them.

The killer had the flashlight, I reminded myself. If I got closer to that light, it would help me confirm my suspicions. But it also could be dangerous if turned on me. I began to feel the boxes around me, noting spaces into which I could duck.

Ahead of me, the rummaging stopped. Quickly I moved behind a packing case. There was a heavy sigh. Then the rummaging resumed. I moved along, one case closer, two cases, three.

“Maldito!” The curse was whispered, the voice unrecognizable. Still, I knew who had uttered it.

I inched along. Another box. Another.

How soon before the murderer found the milagros? Turned? Showed me the face I expected?

I reached the last box. The glow of the flash fully illuminated this end of the cellar, but all I could see were the floor joists and the little high window. I would have to step around the box, into the open, to see the killer.

The rummaging stopped again. There was a deep groan of despair. I moved out into the aisle.

And came face to face with Isabel.

Her long hair straggled from its combs. The peasant blouse hung off one shoulder. The upward beam of the flashlight caught and accentuated the lines of strain on her sallow face.

Unfortunately, the beam also illuminated me.

“Madre de Dios!” She drew out the words in a hiss, her eyes widening.

I stepped back.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. Trust Isabel, when cornered, to try to put her captor on the defensive.

I held my ground. “What’s the matter, Isabel? Can’t you find the milagros?”

“You bitch! You made it all up. There aren’t any here.”

Yes, there are. I reached up to the back of the shelf. “You would have found them if you hadn’t been so impatient.” I opened the box and showed her one, the stylized woman’s head.

She stared at it. “That’s… that’s not one of the milagros Frank imported. I recognize it. It’s yours. I remember the day you bought it from the artist.”

“Yes, it’s mine.”

“Then why is it down here?”

“I planted it. So there would be proof.”

“Proof!” She laughed harshly. “Proof of what?”

“That you were the one who attacked me down here last night and removed the other artworks. That you drove me up north in my car and dumped me in the field when you ran out of gas. That you murdered Frank.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Is it? Then what are you doing down here, looking for this?” I shoved the milagro under her nose.

She slapped my hand away. “I’m trying to save this museum, you fool. You don’t care about that. You would go to the police about Frank’s indiscretions. You would bring it all out in the open. You’d drag our name through the mud. All I’m doing is trying to save-”

“You’re trying to save yourself.”

Isabel’s lips drew back in a snarl. She moved forward and slapped my hand again, knocking the milagro to the floor. Then she grabbed me by the shoulders and began shaking me. Her fury unleashed a terrible strength.

I wrenched away from her, stumbling back against an empty packing case. It collapsed and I fell to the floor. I struggled to sit up.

Isabel was upon me immediately, grabbing me by the throat. I tried to push her away, but her arms were long enough that I couldn’t reach her. I kicked out at her legs; that did me no good either. I tried to pry her fingers loose, but they were locked tight.

Isabel dragged me to my feet. Her hands tightened on my throat. It hurt, and I had trouble getting my breath. I rolled my eyes, looking frantically for a weapon.

Racks of paintings… the shattered remains of the arbol de la vida… a figurine of Quetzalcoatl… a bronze and silver Hispanic sword…

My terror brought a sudden burst of strength. I managed to break Isabel’s hold on my neck and lunged for the sword. My fingers grabbed its hilt, slipped off. Isabel pulled me back by the shoulder.

I turned, smacking her across the face. She screamed and let go. I grabbed the sword.

As I spun around, its tip nearly caught her in the eye. She stared at it, frozen, then backed off and scurried down the aisle between the boxes, out of the flashlight’s beam. Her sandals slapped toward the stairway. I followed, dragging the heavy sword.

Isabel ran up the steps and threw open the door. Welcome light poured into the cellar. For a second she stood silhouetted there.

“Help!” she screamed. “She’s trying to kill me!” Then • she started to run down the hall.

There was a pounding of feet on the floorboards above. They were heavily shod, not sandaled like Isabel’s. I bounded up the stairs.

Dave Kirk stood in the middle of the hall. Isabel was midway between him and the cellar door.

“Stop her!” I shouted. “She’s the murderer!”

Isabel looked back at me, then flung herself at Kirk. “Please help me! She killed Frank and now she wants to kill me!” She sagged against him, panting.

I stopped. “She’s lying. She’s the one…”

Kirk put his arms around Isabel. His bland brown eyes met mine, shifted to the sword in my hands.

Whom was he going to believe? Isabel, because of her social status and respectability? Or me, because I was telling the truth?

Isabel clung to Kirk, not looking at me. “She wants me dead. Just like she wanted Frank dead…” The words trailed off into a low cry.

Kirk put his hand over Isabel’s mouth and, with his other hand, pinned her arms behind her back. She struggled, but he held her firmly.

Relief coursed through me. Kirk had seen through Isabel’s dramatics; he’d recognized the truth. Then, looking up at the ceiling light, I realized he’d known even before Isabel had burst into the hall. He must have been here, listening to what was going on in the cellar, because the light had been off when I’d gone down there but had been on when Isabel reached the top of the stairs.

I looked back at him. His eyes, still incredibly bland, again moved from my face to the Hispanic sword.

“So,” he said, “who are you supposed to be-Zorro?”