The Tree of Death

“Maria, go see how they are.”

“I am sick and tired of-”

“Go!” The anger in Rosa’s eyes would have sent me running from the room. Maria, however, merely glared at her and ambled insolently through the archway toward the rear of the house. A door slammed back there, and Rosa burst into tears.

Now it was Robert’s turn to pat Rosa’s hand. I shifted uncomfortably on the hassock, glancing at my watch and thinking of an excuse to go. Maria’s display of defiance surprised me; while Frank was alive, she had been sulky and resentful, but had confined her rebellion to snippy asides and glares when he wasn’t looking. His death had unleashed a pent-up fury.

Or had the unleashing of that fury, for whatever reason, caused his death?

“She is ungrateful,” Robert said to Rosa.

Rosa sighed. “Perhaps we have been too hard on her.”

“That kind of girl you have to be hard on. You took her in, didn’t you? You gave her a chance to make up for her mistakes. And now look how she rewards you.”

Her mistakes? I remained silent. “

“Perhaps if she’d stayed in Mazatlan,” Rosa said. “If she’d married the boy, had her baby…”

“The boy didn’t want to marry her. He claimed anyone could have been the father-and Maria admitted that.”

“But to go off and have an abortion!” Rosa crossed herself. “When my sister found out, it almost killed her.”

Suddenly Robert glanced at me; they had been talking as if, for the moment, they’d forgotten I was there. “That’s over and done,” he said firmly. “She came to you and did well in her secretarial course. She has a good job. When she gets over this Jesse nonsense she’ll be fine. In the meantime, she’s probably just upset over Frank’s death, like the rest of us.” His eyes were on me the whole time he spoke.

I said, “Yes, Rosa. You have to realize Maria is very young. We all make mistakes at her age. Why, I remember…”I stopped. I couldn’t think of anything I had done that was major-or that I wanted to air in the De Palma living room.

I stood up, embraced Rosa and went to the door. “Don’t worry about the museum, Rosa. The opening will come off exactly as Frank would have wanted. And when you know about the funeral arrangements, please have someone call us.”

Rosa nodded absently. Robert stood and followed me out. On the front walk, he stopped me, his hand on my shoulder. “You won’t repeat what you heard here, Elena?”

“Of course not.” Not unless it became important in the murder investigation. I slipped out of Robert’s grasp and hurried to my car.

Maria was no angel, I reflected as I drove to the museum. But just because a good Catholic girl messes around with every boy in town and then has an abortion, it doesn’t mean she’s capable of murdering her uncle. Not necessarily, anyway. At any rate, the morning had been enlightening.

When I arrived at the museum Isabel was sitting at Maria’s desk, reading an art dealer’s catalog. She looked up as I came in, her eyes ringed with dark circles. In spite of her obvious fatigue, her hair and white tennis dress were as tidy as ever.

“That Lieutenant Kirk called you, Elena.”

“Oh? What does he want?”

“To see you. He said he would be out for a few hours, but that you’re to come to his office at four this afternoon.”

“Demanding, isn’t he?” I tried to make light of it, but a hunted feeling settled over me. My tone didn’t fool Isabel either. She gave me a sympathetic nod and returned to her catalog.

I looked around the outer office. Through the open door of his cubicle I spotted Tony, sitting with his feet on his desk, his head haloed by clouds of cigarette smoke. This was what wanted to become director of the museum! Well, that certainly wouldn’t happen-not after I found out the purpose of his secret trips to South America. I reached for the Rolodex on Maria’s desk and turned it until I found the card for the travel agency the museum used. I pulled it off the wheel and took it to my office, shutting the door behind me.

The person who answered the phone at the travel agency passed my call along to a Mrs. DeLano, the representative we dealt with. I explained that I was trying to find out which of Mr. Ibarra’s tickets to South America had been paid for and which were outstanding. Mrs. DeLano went to get her file.

“Your statement is up to date, Miss Oliverez. Seven first-class tickets to various South American destinations. We certainly appreciate the business.”

First class! “Mrs. DeLano, can you give me the number of the museum checks the last two tickets were paid for with?”

“Yes. Just a minute.” She rustled through some papers and then read off two sets of digits to me.

“Do you recall if those were both signed by Mr. Leary?”

“I believe so. They usually are.” She paused. “Is there some problem?”

“Nothing that should concern you. Our files are a bit disordered, what with moving and all.”

“Of course. By the way, we were very sorry to hear about Mr. De Palma. Will you still be holding your opening?”

“Yes, we will.” I thanked her for her help and hung up, feeling sad. So they’d all been in on it, whatever it was- Frank, Tony, Robert, and Vic. It was Vic’s involvement that I didn’t want to believe. Vic, the gentle, unhappy man who had treated me like a daughter. I remembered our talk last night and my-at the time-strange reluctance to trust him with the other set of museum keys. That reluctance proved to have been well founded.

What was I going to do about this? I wondered. I could go to the police. But first I should go to Carlos Bautista. Carlos had a bad temper, though, and this was sure to set it off. By the time he was through, the mess would be spread all over the papers. And a scandal so soon after Frank’s murder would ruin us.

What was I going to do?

Ordinarily I would have thought my colleagues stupid for using the museum’s travel agent and checks to finance whatever they were doing in South America. But since they’d all been in on it-possibly even Maria-they’d been reasonably safe in doing so. The board examined the accounts once a year. I never looked at them, didn’t understand them. And the ledgers were kept in the safe, away from prying eyes; I’d seen Vic lock them up only last night. Probably he’d been working late doctoring the books; he knew they’d come under scrutiny now that Frank was dead.

If Frank hadn’t been murdered while Tony was off in Peru, I probably would never have caught on to anything. And neither would the board, because Vic would have fixed all discrepancies.

My mind returned to the matter of the extra keys. Until everything was cleared up, they should be kept in a safe place. I went to Frank’s office. The keys were still there, on their hook. I took them down, brushing at a dirt smudge on the wall with my other hand. We’d been in this building less than a month, and already it was going to seed. Was it merely a reflection of the pettiness and dishonesty of the building’s occupants? I wondered.

Enough of this brooding, Elena, I thought sternly. It was time to see how Jesse was doing in the folk art gallery.

He was stringing wire from which to hang a camaleon. And Vic, the last person I wanted to see, was with him. When they turned, I avoided Vic’s eyes; then, feeling his on me, I looked back at him. His face was more haggard than Isabel’s, his clothes rumpled, and his cardigan sweater buttoned wrong. Like the building, the staff was going to pieces.

Vic apparently didn’t want to see me either. He quickly excused himself, mumbling something about paying some bills. I turned to Jesse.

He lifted a brightly colored camaleon and fastened it to the wire. This one was a sort of Pegasus. Its wings caught the breeze from the ventilation system, and it began to turn as soon as Jesse stepped back. As usual, his eyes held reverence, and suddenly it sickened me. Did he think he was that great an artist? The camaleones were beautiful, but they didn’t make him a Picasso.

Jesse saw my expression, which must have been quite sour. “What’s wrong?”

I shrugged. Why not get it over with? “I heard some nasty talk at the De Palmas’ after you left.”

“Oh, yeah?”