The Tree of Death

underneath, they can hate as much as those who weren’t raised that way.”

“And, I assume, Miss Oliverez, that you were not raised in the tradition of machismo.”

“Hardly.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

The questions continued. Kirk took a break and sent out for coffee when a patrolman brought him some forms to initial, then continued. More time passed. Soon it was close to seven o’clock. My head ached, and my throat became hoarse. Was he trying to wear me down the way they did on the police shows? If so, I could see how it worked. I felt drained, incapable even of anger.

Finally he slapped his pencil down on the desk and stood. “All right, Miss Oliverez. That’s enough for today.”

“Can I go now?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” I stood up and reached for my purse.

Suddenly I thought of something that had been bothering me all during the questioning. I hesitated. Well, didn’t I have a right to ask a few questions of my own? “Lieutenant, did you do an autopsy on Frank?”

He looked surprised. “Of course.”

“What did he die of?”

A strange expression crossed his face. I could have sworn he was trying not to smile-except that Lieutenant Kirk didn’t know how to smile. “Mr. De Palma died of a cerebral hemorrhage. That means he was hit on the head-”

“I know what a cerebral hemorrhage is. Did you find the murder weapon yet?”

“No.”

“Was there anything else interesting in the gallery?”

He just looked at me.

“Lieutenant Kirk, I’m acting director of that museum. I think, even though I’m your prime suspect, that I have a right to know what you’ve found out.”

He sighed. “All right, Miss Oliverez. There was nothing ‘interesting,” as you put it, at the scene. The only fingerprints belonged to museum staff and volunteers-including yourself. There were ceramic and terra-cotta fragments from the tree itself. Otherwise, we came up with nothing.“

“I see.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

“Well… are you sure the killer couldn’t have hidden in the museum all night? Because I can’t figure out how he left otherwise.”

“No, Miss Oliverez, that’s not possible. All Mr. De Palma’s family, friends, and associates have been checked very carefully. Their whereabouts that night are accounted for.”

“It could have been someone you didn’t check.”

“Believe me, we have checked. And you can be sure that Mr. De Palma was not killed by a stranger.”

“Why not?”

“In a crime of this sort, which lacks the element of randomness, the killer is usually someone close to the deceased, a family member-or a co-worker.”

I didn’t like the implication, or the nasty look on his face. And I didn’t favor him with a reply.

ten

La Galeria was in El Paseo, a pedestrian shopping arcade in Old Town, not far from the museum. Designed in the Spanish revival architecture popular in the twenties, the arcade incorporates two nineteenth-century adobes similar to the one we occupied. I hurried through a passageway from Anacapa Street, passing without a second glance shops that offered candles, pottery, and leather goods. It was a warm night, the fog spell temporarily broken, and people sat around tables by the fountain in the courtyard, sipping wine and margaritas. From the interior of the cafe came the sad strains of a Spanish guitar.

This was a tourist area, and most of the shops stayed open until nine or ten at night to accommodate the visitors. I turned away from the central court and went down a second passageway to the art gallery Frank used to own. Although tourists might browse in La Galeria, most of its serious customers were collectors with both taste and high incomes. Its front windows displayed contemporary Mexican sculpture on Art Deco pedestals, and inside the place had an air of quiet elegance. Tonight, at almost eight, its showroom was deserted.

I stepped inside and looked around. The walls were hung with abstract art. There were a couple of wonderful watercolors depicting Mexican village life by an artist I had met in Oaxaca; startling primitive-style oils by a local painter; woodcuts portraying revolutionary scenes from a Yucatan craftsman; photographs of migrant workers by one of our more outstanding photographers; and, in one corner, two of Jesse’s camaleones. The camaleones pleased me; Jesse had been having trouble getting La Galeria to display them. But there they hung, one a cross between a pig and a camel, the other a startling giraffe with a cat’s face and bird’s claws.

I went over and stared up at them, fascinated-in spite of this afternoon’s anger with Jesse-as ever. What was it about the camaleones? Their ability to surprise, often to shock? The fact that, in spite of their grotesqueness, they were appealing? I wanted to take the poor, misbegotten giraffe-or was it a cat?-home and love it. I had the feeling that if it only had a little tender, loving care, it would be all right. Well, wasn’t that the way with us all?

A door opened at the rear of the showroom, and a small, slender woman came in. She was in her late thirties, with sleek gray-streaked hair. Her simple black dress and pearls complemented the understated effect of the showroom.

“Can I help you?”

“I was just admiring the…”I paused, not wanting to. sound too knowledgeable. I didn’t know this woman; she did not travel in the usual art circles, and I was certain she didn’t know me.

“Camaleon.” She supplied the word with a smile. “By one of our most talented local artists.”

“What are they supposed to mean?” I made the question sound naive.

She shrugged. “Whatever you wish them to.”

I looked up at the camaleon once more. “You say he’s a local artist. Is that mainly who you represent-Chicanos?”

“No, we try to offer a wide spectrum of Mexican and South American art as well.”

“And you buy directly from foreign artists?”

“We have a wide network of buyers, yes.” Did I imagine a wariness creeping into her eyes?

“The reason I ask is that I’m interested in ancient art, and I know it’s difficult to get one’s hands on, given the restrictions a lot of countries have placed on their national treasures.”

The woman looked around. Satisfied there was no one else in the gallery, she said, “Is it difficult, yes. What did you have in mind?”

I thought back to the boxes I had found in the cellar. “I have a small collection of Aztec figurines. They’re inherited, museum quality. I don’t doubt I could sell them for a fortune, but there’s sentimental value attached.”

“I see.”

“In order to complete the collection, however, I need the earth goddess Coatlicue. But with these silly restrictions…” I spread my hands wide.

“They are a problem to the serious collector.” Her eyes were calculating. “I could check for you, Miss…?”

“Could you? I’d be so grateful. I’m staying at the Biltmore, but I’m in and out so much… Do you have a card?”

She nodded and went to a small desk. The card she handed me confirmed she was the gallery owner, Gloria