The Tree of Death

dregs of the margarita. I supposed I should be thankful that the smoker hadn’t put it out on the rug. Carrying the offending glass, I went into the reform period gallery. There, a couple of youngish matrons were discussing the Velasco landscape.

“It doesn’t look anything like the Mexico I remember.”

“What did you ever see of Mexico except the bar in your hotel in Acapulco?”‘

The first woman laughed. “The ceiling of the bedroom in our suite, my dear.”

They started guiltily when they saw me. I smiled and continued my search for Kirk.

He wasn’t in the contemporary gallery either. If he was looking at the collections, it had to be the fastest tour on record. I hurried into the folk art gallery. There a crowd had gathered around the display of camaleones that had replaced the tree of life.

“… camaleones?”

“… incredibly grotesque.”

“… like the morning after.”

“Not nearly as grotesque as what happened in this very room the other night.”

“This was where-?”‘

“Right there on the floor, darlings.”

“What a way to die.”

“Felled by two tons of Day-Glo pottery.”

“Well, the fat spic never did do anything the usual way.”

They all laughed, while I stiffened. The term “spic,” even applied to Frank, was ugly.

“Excuse me,” I said, pushing past them through the door to the courtyard.

An embarrassed silence fell behind me. Then I could hear the murmur of voices resume, gradually becoming punctuated by defensive laughter. I picked up the plastic glass so hard it cracked.

Why do they come here? I thought angrily. Why don’t they stay on their own side of town if they hate us so much? Because it’s the chic thing these days. Supporting minority art gives them something to do when they’re not sailing or playing tennis.

But maybe it’s not really hatred that prompts such remarks, I thought. Maybe it’s just carelessness. That, and the tendency-a tendency that’s in all of us-to forget that the other person aches and bleeds the same as we do.

This was no time to philosophize, however. Where the devil had Lieutenant Kirk gone? It was already eight o’clock; the band had stepped up its tempo with a boisterous mariachi tune.

Quickly I glanced around the courtyard. Jesse and Maria had been replaced by a couple of volunteers. Vic and Isabel were nowhere in sight, but the buffet table was well stocked. Tony had left Susana alone at the bar, and she was making a mess, pouring margaritas all over everything and everybody. None of my suspects was in sight. The killer might make a move any minute now.

Maybe Kirk was in the office wing. He might have taken a shortcut through the less crowded galleries in order to use the phone. I went over and pushed through the door. Sure enough, there he was, perched on the edge of Maria’s desk, talking. I tossed the cracked plastic glass in the wastebasket and waited.

“Got it.” He slapped down the receiver and stood. “Oh, yes, Miss Oliverez. You wanted to see me.”

“I certainly did. I have a plan…”

“Plan?” he said in a preoccupied way.

“To catch the killer…”

“I’m sure you do, but it will have to wait.” He started for the door.

“But it can’t wait!”

He turned, irritation plain on his face. “There’s been a murder out in Hope Ranch. I have to go up there.”

“But I’ve-”

“Miss Oliverez, I’m a homicide detective. Murders take precedence. You can tell me about your plan when I get back here.”

“When will that be?”

“Later.” He went out the door.

I slumped dejectedly against Maria’s desk. Later. When later? A murder in Hope Ranch, eh? No wonder Kirk had been in a hurry. The prestigious residential area, with its great estates and hunt club, was where many of Santa Barbara’s most influential people lived. Of course it would take precedence over anything at the Museum of Mexican Arts.

You’re getting paranoid, Elena, I told myself. Of course he had to go out there. It was important that he be on hand right away at a murder scene. And, even though I didn’t know Kirk well at all, I suspected he was not at all impressed by wealth or influence-at least not when murder entered the picture.

But what about my plan? I glanced at the desk drawer where I’d locked the cellar key earlier. It was still shut and showed no signs of having been tampered with. Taking out my keys, I went around and unlocked the drawer. The ornate iron key was still inside. The killer hadn’t been there yet. I had expected that; everyone had been out where I could see them until minutes ago.

I went into my office, got out my purse, and freshened my lipstick. Things were slowing down now, at least as far as the staff and volunteers were concerned. They could begin to relax and enjoy the party. All of them, that is, except the murderer.

The sound of the office wing door closing alerted me. I stepped back against the wall, into the shadows where no one could see me. I heard footsteps and then a rattling sound. I inched along toward the door. There was the noise of the desk drawer sliding open. I peeked around the door frame.

Jesse stood there, reaching into the drawer.

Jesse! Por Dios, not him, of all of them…

Holding my breath, I pulled back. He mustn’t see me now. The drawer slid shut again, and then Jesse’s footsteps went away, toward the door to the courtyard.

The courtyard! But he was supposed to go to the cellar…

I hurried out of the office wing after him. He was making his way through the crowd of party-goers toward the main entrance. Why was he leaving the museum“?

I pushed through the crowd, too, nodding and smiling to people as I tried to keep my eyes on Jesse. When I got to the entrance, he was across the street, getting into his old Chevrolet. In a panic, I ran around the building to the parking lot where I’d left my car. I couldn’t lose him now.

Fortunately, my car keys were on the ring in my pocket. I jumped in, ground the starter twice, and finally backed the car from its space. At the parking lot gates, I had to wait for a couple of pedestrians, slow-walking old ladies, to pass. Then I accelerated into the street and to the corner. Jesse had pulled away and was down the block, turning left.

I raced through the stop sign, then slowed down. The old Chevy was easy to spot, and I didn’t want him to recognize me rushing up behind him. I followed, obeying the traffic laws, conscious of the fact that I didn’t have my driver’s license with me.

Jesse drove slowly, too, as if he didn’t know where he was going. He turned left again on State Street and went all the way to where it ended at Cabrillo, the street that ran along the waterfront. There he turned and began driving north, past the beaches and City College and the yacht club. When he reached Shoreline Park, he turned into the nearly deserted parking lot.

I stopped, afraid he’d see me if I turned in, too. The sun was below the horizon, its faint colors still spilling over the blue-gray water. The park itself was wrapped in shadow, its barbecue pits, picnic tables, and play equipment vague shapes under the palm trees. Jesse drove to the front row of parking spaces. His brake lights flashed and then went out. I could see his head silhouetted against the fading light. He seemed to be contemplating the sea.

What was he doing here? If he was the killer, he should be in the cellar, retrieving the milagros.

Finally the door of the Chevy opened, and Jesse got out. He stood beside the car for a moment, then crossed to the grass and started walking through the trees. I drove into the parking lot, left my car, and followed. He wandered aimlessly toward the promontory overlooking the Pacific. He sat down on a picnic table. I waited in the shadows.