The Tree of Death

eight

The next morning the paper was full of news about Frank’s murder. The coverage was factual, but there was an undertone of questions. Why had this happened practically on the eve of the museum’s opening? What had the director been doing alone in the galleries after the museum had closed its doors for the day? Was one of the other employees a possible suspect? Could the director somehow have brought this on himself?

I wondered if the questions would have been so thinly veiled had we not been a minority museum. And I also wondered what more publicity of this type would do to us.

As official representative of the museum, I had to pay a condolence call on the De Palmas. I puttered around the house until nearly eleven, then got into the car and drove north through town. Frank’s family lived in a sprawling single-story ranch house on one of the streets that wound high on a bluff above Santa Barbara Point. It wasn’t Montecito, where Isabel lived in lonely splendor in her Spanish-style mansion, but it was not bad for a boy who had come out of the barrio. Twenty years ago, real estate agents would have steered anyone with a surname like De Palma away from this district. Times had changed, however, and Frank’s neighbors were glad to have a citizen of the chic art world right across the fence. I doubted they invited the De Palmas to their parties, though.

Frank’s brother Robert answered the door. His face was dour and jowly, and his hair hung down in greasy- looking strands. His dark suit fit him like a sausage casing. Still, I looked at him with new interest. This was not merely rotund Robert; it was the man who had illicit dealings with his brother, Vic, and Tony. Robert looked back blearily and motioned me into the living room.

It was a large room filled with overstuffed furniture. On the walls were abstract paintings by several of our better-known contemporary painters. I looked at them, as I had at Robert, with renewed interest. Granted, Frank had owned a gallery and had known how to strike bargains, but the paintings could not have been cheap in any case.

Rosa De Palma and Maria were seated on the sectional sofa, both dressed in black. Rosa’s plump but still handsome face was puffed from crying. Maria waved at me, almost gaily, and I caught Robert frowning at her. Rosa made a moaning sound and stood. She rushed across the room and threw her arms around me, sobbing. I patted her on the back and whispered ineffectual expressions of sympathy. It reminded me of the emotional funerals of my childhood, where relatives had howled out their grief-and then come back to our house to stuff themselves at my mother’s buffet two hours later.

Maria made an impatient noise and came over to us. She extricated me from Rosa’s embrace and led her aunt back to the couch. As Rosa sat, Jesse entered through an archway at the rear of the room. He carried a tray with a coffee pot and cups. I stared at him.

Jesse grinned sheepishly and set the tray on the coffee table. “Yeah, they’re domesticating me.”

Rosa blew her nose. “Maria should have done that.”

“Maria does too much.”

“Work is good for the girl.”

Jesse shrugged and began pouring coffee. I sat down on a hassock and accepted a cup. Robert remained over by the fireplace, one elbow on the mantel. When Jesse offered him coffee, he declined by shaking his head.

“So, Elena,” Rosa said, “you are taking over for Frank.”

“I am acting director, yes.”

“It is good of you. The museum must go on. It was my husband’s dream, his inspiracion.”

Por Dios, could the woman really believe that? She was painting her hypocritical little husband as some sort of visionary. I glanced at Jesse, who was studiously staring into his coffee cup. From Maria came the faintest of snorts. Even Robert shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. When I looked back at Rosa, her eyes met mine. They were hard, daring me or anyone else to contradict her.

She knows, I thought. She knows what he was, but she’ll never admit it. Rosa De Palma was made of the stuff that kept Chicano families together, that maintained pride and dignity against all odds. I had to admire-and pity- her.

I turned to Jesse. “I hate to talk business at a time like this, but we’ll need you at the museum today. We want you to set up an additional display of camaleones.”

“Ah, of course.” I’d been afraid he would ask where and, for obvious reasons, I didn’t want to bring up the folk art gallery. But the arbol de la vida had been destroyed, and something had to take its place before the opening. I had decided we might as well promote Jesse and his colorful animals.

“Can you get to it today?” I asked.

He nodded. “I have a few camaleones at my studio that will complement those that are already on display. Perhaps I should get started right away?” He looked relieved to have an excuse to leave the De Palma house.

“Yes, if you would. In case there are any problems, you know.”

Jesse stood. He took Rosa’s hand. She squeezed his and thanked him effusively for all he’d done. Maria got up and accompanied him to the door. As they passed Robert, he nodded curtly at Jesse. The couple went outside and half-closed the door behind them.

Robert left his post at the fireplace and went to sit beside Rosa. His eyes were narrowed. “About time the young punk left,” he muttered.

Rosa patted his hand. “It’s all right, Roberto. She’ll get over him. It is only an infatuacion.”

He grunted.

I said, “I take it you’re not too fond of Jesse.”

Rosa shook her head. “He’s a nice enough boy, but he is not right for Maria. A flighty girl like that needs someone older, more stable.” Again she patted Robert’s hand.

Robert glared at her. “How can you say he’s nice enough, after what he did to my brother?”

“Hush.”

Jesse had done something to Frank? “What happened?”

They exchanged looks. “Ah, well, that’s in the past,” Rosa said.

“Past,”‘ Robert said, “but not forgotten. The punk got in a fight with him. Knocked him around pretty bad. Gave him a black eye. That’s not something you forget so easy.”

“Dios mio! When was this?”

“A couple of months ago. Right before Frank’s vacation. He took off early so he didn’t have to go to work and explain it.”

I remembered Frank calling in sick the Friday before his vacation was due to start. At the time I’d thought it a ploy so the family could leave early for Baja California. This shed new light on his absence and, unfortunately, on Jesse’s relations with our director. Jesse had admitted to quarrels-but a fist fight? Again I thought of the artist’s quick temper. How many quarrels would it have taken to push him over the edge?

Maria entered and slammed the door. She came halfway across the room and stopped, her eyes flashing. “I heard what you were saying about Jesse.”

Rosa sighed. “Maria, Roberto was only telling what happened.”

“He had no right! Why does she”-she gestured at me- “have to know?”

“What does it matter?”

“It makes my fiance look bad.”

Robert sucked in his breath and began to cough.

“Since when,” Rosa said, “is he your fiance?”

“Since yesterday. My uncle is gone. He cannot stop me from marrying now.”

Rosa’s face reddened. “Have you no respect? Don’t you honor the memory of your uncle?”

“Why should I? Did he have respect for me, for my love for Jesse?”

Robert half rose, but Rosa pulled him back down. “Maria,” she said evenly, “the children need you.”

“The children! They always need something.”