Marcia Muller - The Tree of Death

“They may be just papers, but they have to be kept in a fireproof place.” He returned to the desk and sat, the melancholy look even more pronounced.

“You’ll miss him, won’t you?” I asked.

“Yes. I will. We were together a long time, almost twenty years. Frank was the closest thing to a friend I had.” He must have caught my skeptical expression. “I know, you don’t think Frank was capable of friendship. Well, in a lot of ways he wasn’t. But we had good times. Some damned good times.”

“How’d you meet him?”

“At the Hernandez Foundation.” He named an organization that gave grants to Spanish-American cultural projects. “Frank was director there. It was a good job for a kid barely out of college. He hired me as his accountant. We’d travel all over the state, checking out projects we were thinking of funding. I had this old Lincoln Continental. God, could we make time in that car! San Diego to Bakersfield to San Francisco in one day. Those were some times.” His eyes sobered. “Of course I needed something to keep my mind off my daughter.”

It was the first time he’d ever mentioned family to me. “Why?”

“She was sick. A rare kidney disease. She…”He passed a hand over his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

That probably meant the girl had died. “When Frank left the Hernandez Foundation, you went with him?”

“Yes. Then he opened the art gallery in Old Town. He knew his art, you know. And he was good at finding sources for it. We’d bring it up from South America, Mexico. He knew who to buy from, and he could strike a hard bargain. That was before all this business about national treasures.”

In recent years the governments south of the border had come to realize their art treasures are not in unlimited supply and placed restrictions on their export. In Mexico, for instance, items above five thousand dollars in value cannot be removed from the country without permission of the government. Although these restrictions originally took the form of gentlemen’s agreements between countries, more and more of them are now being written into law. It was a move of which I approved, even if it did make acquisitions more difficult. “Was La Galena very successful?” I asked. I remembered it as being small but chic.

Vic nodded.

“Why’d Frank give it up, then?”

“To found this museum, of course.”

That wasn’t exactly how it had happened. Carlos Bautista and several of his wealthy cronies had come up with the idea and hired Frank to implement it. He, in turn, had hired me. “I always pictured Frank as very fond of money, and we all know he wasn’t making that much here. I’m surprised he would give up a lucrative business.”

Vic waved one hand. “That was one of the stipulations that went with the job, so there wouldn’t be a conflict of interest. And there was the prestige of the directorship. Frank never could resist a chance to better his standing in the community.”

Was there a touch of bitterness in Vic’s voice?

“Also,” he added, “he’d invested his profits from La Galena wisely. He really didn’t need a big salary.”

I supposed it made sense. If anyone would be privy to the workings of Frank’s mind, it would be Vic.

“This morning,” I said, “you mentioned that Frank was involved with a woman other than Rosa.”

Vic shook his head. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Who is she?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t say.”

“Vic, it might be important.”

He looked surprised. “To what?”

“To finding out who killed him.”

“Oh, no. I don’t think so.”

“Won’t you tell me?”

“Elena, there are some things I can’t talk about.”

I was silent for a moment. “They suspect me, you know.”

“That’s silly. You wouldn’t kill anyone.”

“But you told them what I said to Frank, that someone ought to kill him. Why did you do that, Vic?”

“Elena, I’m sorry. But I thought it would be better not to cover it up. I mean, someone would have told, and they might not have put it in so favorable a light.”

I didn’t consider his mention of it especially favorable, but I held my tongue. “Now that I’ve been named acting director, it looks even worse to the police.”

“Nonsense. You were the logical choice for the job. And don’t worry about the police; they’ll find the real killer, and then we can get on with our business. What do you bet they offer you the director’s job?”

I shrugged. Right now, it didn’t really matter.

“Don’t look down your nose at it. It’s a plum for someone your age.”

“Maybe.” I was thinking about my new duties and all the things I had to do before the opening. I would need to rely heavily on Vic in the next few days. Perhaps he should have Frank’s keys to the museum. But something kept me from mentioning it. For now, I’d keep both sets.

I stood up, yawning. “I’d better be getting home. And you should, too. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

Vic stood up. He got his jacket and followed me out. The mist was still sheeting across the lawn. I set the alarm, and Vic and I walked through the fog to our cars.

I didn’t go home, of course. Instead I drove across town to the district near Santa Barbara City College, where Tony lived. It wasn’t exactly a rundown area, but it was filled with fast-food stands, health food stores, and other businesses catering to students. Even at this hour and in this fog, young people wandered along the sidewalks and congregated on street corners. It hadn’t been so many years since I’d been a student myself, but now I felt out of place among so many fresh faces. I wondered why Tony had chosen to live here, then remembered Susana was in her first year at the college. Tony’s street was all apartments, complex after complex, all of them with floodlit facades and pretentious names. Tony’s was called the Lanai, a stucco building with a Hawaiian motif, built around a central court with a swimming pool. A chandelier shaped liked the head of a tiki god hung on a chain in the arched entryway. In the courtyard the imitation Hawaiian torchlights were dimmed by the mist. I stood by the pool, studying the second tier of apartments where Tony lived. They were all dark except the middle one. I moved closer and spotted the number-207. It was Tony’s.

Half-past midnight was not a good time to go calling. But, then, Tony had been unavailable all day. I could say I needed to talk to him about the situation at the museum. And the lateness of the hour might catch him off guard. I started for the wrought iron stairway, then paused when I heard car doors slam and footsteps coming from the street.

Tony’s voice said in Spanish, “Home at last.”‘ I ducked under the stairs, into the foliage of a large fuschia bush.

Tony and Susana came through the archway and crossed the courtyard. He carried a suitcase, and his thin shoulders slumped as if he were exhausted. Susana walked along in her usual bouncy gait, snapping her gum. They climbed the stairs, and moments later I heard the apartment door slam.

I remained under the stairs, fuschia blossoms tickling my cheek. Where on earth had Tony been? And for how long? When had I seen him last?

I thought back to the afternoon before. Yes, he’d been there when we’d set the tree of life in place around five o’clock. That would have given him less than thirty-two hours to go-where?

And what should I do? I could rush up there and demand to know where he’d been. Probably, though, he wouldn’t let me in at this time of night. And if he did, he wasn’t likely to tell me what was going on, since he’d gone to some length to hide it already. If it had something to do with Frank’s murder, the situation could turn ugly, even dangerous.