Marcia Muller - The Tree of Death

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.