The Tree of Death

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.”‘

There were startled exclamations, and then the questions flew. I held up my hand. “I’m sorry. I can’t answer any questions right now. Someone will contact you later.” Then I fled to the offices.

Vic stood just inside the door. “I finally got through to Frank’s home. Jesse and Maria are there. She called him this morning when they realized Frank hadn’t come home all night.”

Of course, the clothes he was wearing were the same as yesterday’s. Where, if not with his family, had he been? “They waited until this morning to start worrying?”

Vic nodded. “Frank… uh… often didn’t come home.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just what I said.” Vic looked uncomfortable.

I couldn’t believe the notion that was dawning on me. “Don’t tell me he had something going on the side?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Frank?”

“Yes.”

“Por Dios, who on earth would-” I stopped. No sense speaking like that to Vic, who had been Frank’s friend. Maybe there were women who liked sloppy, overweight little men. After all, my mother had said Rosa De Palma was once a beauty. If he’d managed to win her, it was conceivable… “Vic, if he often stayed away all night, why did they worry this morning?”

“He always got back in time to have breakfast with the kids.”

“But why didn’t they call the museum, to see if he was here?”

“They did, but got no answer. Then they started calling… elsewhere.” Vic looked extremely uncomfortable now.

I decided not to pursue it. “How’s the family taking it?”

“Badly.”

“Do you want to go over there?”

“The cops said not to leave.”

“Well, once they’re done, we’ll close for the day. I’ll have to call a meeting of the board, decide about the press conference. Do you know where Carlos Bautista is staying in Acapulco?”

“The number should be somewhere on Frank’s desk.”

“Good. We need to notify him. We need to…”

Lieutenant Kirk came in. He looked a shade grimmer than before. “May I speak with you, Miss Oliverez?”

“Certainly.”

“We’ll be removing the body shortly. Have you cleared the museum of reporters?”‘

“They should be gone by now.”

“Good. As soon as we’re through in there”-he motioned toward the galleries with his thumb-“I want to meet with each employee individually.”

“Why?”

“I want to reconstruct when they last saw the deceased.”

“Why should that matter?”

He ignored the question. “Please instruct them-and the volunteers-not to leave the premises for any reason.”

“But why?”

Again he ignored me. “Since you found the body, I’ll begin with you.”

“I don’t understand all this.”

He looked at me, his face unreadable. “This is not merely a routine investigation, Miss Oliverez.”

“Why!”

“Because Frank De Palma wasn’t killed by accident. He was murdered.”

five

I couldn’t believe it. Even after I had talked to Lieutenant Kirk-giving him a detailed statement on everything that had happened from the time I got to work the day before to the time I picked up the phone and called the police-I still couldn’t believe it.

Frank, the lieutenant told me, had been hit on the head with a heavy object. The police hadn’t yet found out what it was. The tree of life had then been pushed over onto his body in a clumsy attempt to cover up the crime.

I had turned over my office to Lieutenant Kirk, so he could talk to each of us in private. As I left, Vic entered, giving me a comforting glance that somehow didn’t come off. I wandered out of the office wing. In the folk art gallery, the lab technicians were finishing up. Frank’s body had been removed, but there were chalk marks on the floor and the arbol de la vida and nearby display cases were covered with what I assumed was fingerprint powder. Mechanically I looked around the gallery to see if anything other than the tree had been damaged. The other displays looked all right, but I sensed something wrong. What? I couldn’t put my finger on it. What…?

Isabel came up behind me. “Elena?”

“Yes?”

“The phones are ringing constantly. Reporters. I don’t know what to tell them.”

“Just what I did-that we’ll call a press conference later. I have to talk to Carlos, and I’d better do that now.” We left the gallery and went back across the courtyard. “You take care of the phones,” I told Isabel and went into Frank’s office.

It was exactly as it had been the afternoon before. Sunlight slanted through the window, throwing the shadow of the iron bars across the clean desk. A tidy desk, in Frank’s case, had been no virtue. It was always like that and, more often than not, the padded leather chair was unoccupied.

I sat down and opened the center drawer of the desk. Nothing there but pens and pencils. The pencils were all pointed and sharp. In a side drawer I found the budget sheets Frank had said he was going to work on last night. I doubted that story; Vic prepared the budget, and Frank took his advice. He’d merely said that so I would think he