Marcia Muller - The Tree of Death

What to do?

I backed from the room, my eyes still on Frank, then turned and ran through the gallery to the courtyard. A couple of reporters had already arrived and were eyeing the buffet. Isabel stood by the door. I grabbed her arm.

“Have the volunteers give them some punch. Let them eat,” I said.

She nodded, then took a good look at my face. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Just keep them amused. Load them up with champagne.” I rushed across the courtyard to the office wing.

Vic was hanging up the phone. He turned to me. “Still busy. I don’t know where the hell Maria is.”

I didn’t reply. I was shaking all over. I picked up the receiver and dialed. Thank God for the 911 emergency number. I could not have dialed more digits.

“What are you doing?” Vic asked.

I shook my head. The operator came on. I gave my name and the address of the museum. I said there had been a fatal accident. I said we had press people all over the place. Could the cops attract as little attention as possible?

Vic’s eyes widened.

I put down the phone and turned to him.

“Who?” he asked.

“Frank. In the folk art gallery. He must have been fooling with the arbol de la vida. It fell on him. Crushed his head.”

Vic’s face twisted. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

“I didn’t touch him, but you can tell when someone’s not breathing. It’s quiet in there, so quiet…” I began to shake harder.

Vic put his arm around me. “Hey, don’t do that.”

“I… can’t… help… it…”

He forced me into a chair. “Take a deep breath.”

I complied.

“Does anyone else know?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I told Isabel to keep the reporters amused.”

“God. The reporters.”

“Right.”

Vic stared at me. Then he asked, “You okay now?”

“No. Yes. Better anyway.”

“Let me go get some champagne. We both need it.”

He left. It was quiet in the offices, too. Much too quiet.

Vic returned with a bottle of champagne. “The straight stuff,” he said. “We don’t need orange juice.” He rummaged around, found two coffee cups and poured. I took one and gulped, the bubbles stinging my nose. Vic drank his down in one swallow, then poured more. I looked at the cup I held. It was decorated with a heart and said “Daddy.” I shuddered. It was Frank’s; one of his children had given it to him for Father’s Day last year. What it had been doing here, on Maria’s desk, I didn’t know. Frank was so absentminded. He probably didn’t know where he’d left it.

The door to the office wing opened, and Isabel came in, white-faced. “There are policemen here,” she whispered.

“Yes.” I stood up. “Send them in here. Try not to let the reporters see.”

She stood back. Two uniformed patrolmen entered. I set down the mug of champagne and explained what I had found. When I was done, Vic took them off to the gallery.

I sat down again. Poured more champagne. Drank it. I hadn’t eaten any breakfast that morning, and I felt lightheaded. That was what shock could do to you. Absently I poured more champagne. Lifted the cup to my lips.

“Give me that!” It was Vic. “You’re going to get drunk. How will that look to the cops at ten-thirty in the morning?”

I looked up at him and giggled.

“Jesus!” Vic snatched the cup.

I giggled again.

The door opened, and a middle-aged man came in. He was an Anglo, and everything about him was brown-hair, suntanned face, business suit, tie, shoes, even the rims of his sunglasses. He stared at me, and my giggles evaporated.

“Are you the one who reported it?” he asked.

“Yes.” I started to get out of my chair, then decided it wouldn’t be wise.

“This is Elena Oliverez, our curator,” Vic said. “I’m Vic Leary, the business manager.”

“Lieutenant Dave Kirk. Homicide.” He didn’t offer his hand.

“Homicide?” I said and then, indelicately, hiccuped.

“I don’t understand,” Vic said, glaring at me. “Mr. De Palma was killed by accident. The tree of life-”

“We have to investigate all unusual deaths. Who found him?”

I was sobering fast. “I did.”

“Tell me how it happened.”

I told him.

Kirk nodded and turned to Vic. “Let’s go to the gallery.”

Quietly Vic led him from the room.

Homicide. I reached for the coffee cup, which Vic had set on top of a filing cabinet, then changed my mind. Unusual deaths. I got up and went to the courtyard.

There were about twenty reporters and cameramen out there, from both the newspapers and local TV. The bowls of strawberries had been reduced by half, and a volunteer was adding to the punch. Isabel stood by the door to the galleries, guarding it. She jumped when I went up and put a hand on her arm.

“Vic told me,” she whispered. “What are we going to do with them?” She motioned at the crowd.

“Keep feeding them champagne. Obviously, the tour is off. Someone will have to make a statement sooner or later.”

“Who?”

“Me, probably.”‘ It occurred to me that I should call Carlos Bautista, the chairman of our board. I patted Isabel reassuringly and went back to the offices. Then I realized that Carlos was on vacation in Acapulco. Who else to notify? The rest of the board members were fairly ineffectual. Chances were they would panic. It was up to me, I decided.

The door opened, and Lieutenant Kirk came in. He stopped and surveyed me. His eyes were expressionless, his face bland. “The men from the laboratory are on their way,”‘ he said. “Is there some place they can come in where the reporters won’t notice?”

I thought. “Through the rear courtyard?”

“However.”

I led him through Frank’s office to the walled patio and, digging in my pocket, took out the key to the padlock on the iron gate. “This passageway leads to the parking lot, near the loading dock.” I motioned at the narrow stone walk and the gate. “They can park out there, and no one will notice them coming in.”

“Good.” He turned to go.

I followed him back across the courtyard. One of the new azalea bushes, the one closest to the office window, had fallen over. The museum was going to pieces already. I looked for the stake to prop it up, but didn’t see it, and my eyes blurred with tears. I wasn’t crying for Frank; his death didn’t alter the fact that I’d hated him. I was crying for the museum, for what this disaster might do to it. And I was crying for myself, too. I didn’t know if I would be up to the tasks ahead.

Lieutenant Kirk stopped in the doorway and watched me. I straightened, wiping the tears away. His expression was as blank as before. “You’d better do something about the press people,” he said. “We can’t have them tramping through the galleries.”

“I’ll make a statement, send them away.” I stepped through the door in front of him and went out to Maria’s typewriter, where I composed a brief statement. While I was doing so, the lab technicians passed through the office with their equipment.

By the time I got to the courtyard, the buffet had been decimated and the reporters were beginning to get restless.

“They keep asking when the tour starts,” Isabel said. “What are we going to do?”

“Cancel it.” I went over to the table and rapped on a glass for attention. My eyes fixed on the sheet of paper I held, I read my statement: “It is my sad duty to inform you that the director of the Museum of Mexican Arts, Mr. Francisco De Palma, was killed in an accident in one of our galleries this morning. Because of this tragedy, we will be unable to conduct the tour as planned. I’d like to ask you to leave the premises at this time so the police can finish their business here. You will be contacted about a press conference later.”‘