The Tree of Death

Jesse sat for about five minutes. The light faded rapidly, and I could barely make him out. Then he got up and went over to a nearby barbecue pit. Seconds later I saw a match flare, and then something flamed up quickly.

What was he burning? Evidence? I came out of the shadows and ran across the grass.

Jesse whirled when he heard me coming. He dropped the flaming object onto the grill. I tried to grab it, but the fire seared my fingers, and I pulled them back.

“What’s going on?” I demanded. “What are you doing here?”

Jesse stared at me, flames highlighting the taut lines of his face. I stared back, breathing hard. Then all at once the tension went out of him, and his eyes became blank with defeat.

He said, “I guess we’d better talk.”

sixteen

“Why did you kill him?” I asked.

Jesse looked blankly at me. “You mean Frank? I didn’t kill him. I’m not that kind.” He sat down on the picnic table again, his shoulders hunching forward.

I sat down next to him, feeling a peculiar mixture of relief and disappointment. Maybe Jesse wasn’t the killer. But then what had he been doing in Maria’s desk? And what had he burned?

We sat side by side, not looking at each other. Finally Jesse said, “You saw me go into Maria’s desk, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I was in my office.”

Again he was silent. Then, “Maria asked me to get something from there. She gave me her extra key.”

Of course she would have one. “What did she want?”

“Letters.” He reached into his jacket pocket and dropped a bundle of them on my lap. “She’d had them locked up there for safekeeping, but now that you’d taken a key to the desk she felt uneasy. She asked me to get them and destroy them.”

“Letters.” I looked down at them. They were in plain envelopes without any stamp or address. “Who are they from?”

“Frank.”

I turned my head and stared at him in amazement.

The corner of Jesse’s mouth twitched, and he looked away. “Yeah. From Frank. Love letters.”

First Gloria Sanchez, now Maria. I never would have guessed. So that was why Frank had opposed Jesse’s interest in Maria-not because he wanted her for Robert, but because he wanted her for himself. “Have you known about this all along?”

“Not until tonight.”‘ His voice had an edge to it, and I knew he was holding back tears.

“How long had it been going on with Frank?”

“It hadn’t, not really. Soon after she came to live with his family he began slipping these torrid notes under her bedroom door. She encouraged him, but wouldn’t let him touch her. She wanted the letters to continue, you see.”

“Why?”

Jesse was silent for a long time.

“Why, Jesse?”

“She was-‘’ His voice broke, and it was a while before he could get it under control. ”She was planning to blackmail him. She wanted to get her own apartment, her own car. She figured if she collected enough letters and then threatened to show them to Rosa, he would help her out.“

I was silent, feeling sick again.

“You can read the letters,” Jesse added. “Read them and see for yourself.”

“No.” I shook my head and handed them back. “Go ahead and burn them.”

He got up and went to the barbecue pit. “That’s what she told me to do. They’re no good to her anymore. She was going to confront him with them the night he was killed. She seems irritated that she missed her opportunity.”

The night he was killed. Maria could have… “Jesse, do you think she might have killed him?”

“I don’t know what she’d do. I don’t know anymore.”

“Why would she tell you about this? Why would she admit what she was up to?”

“She doesn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with it. She thinks she was clever.” Jesse lit one envelope and held it as the flame grew.

“Elena,” he said after a moment, “I don’t know what to do. How can I marry her now, knowing what she is?”

“I don’t know. I don’t suppose you can.”

His face, in the light of the flames, was weary. He dropped the envelope on the grate and lit another.“ The devil of it is, I love her in spite of it.”

“How long would that love last?”

He shrugged and added the rest of the letters to the fire.

“Jesse, if you marry her, this knowledge will eat at you your whole life.”

“I know.”

“Think of your work.”

“I know.”

“Think of the camaleones. How can you create something when your soul is dying?” Unconsciously I had slipped into Spanish; it was not a phrase you could use in English without feeling foolish. Jesse looked at me, nodding.

It was useless to talk, of course. The problem was one only Jesse could work through. I sat there, watching the letters burn, feeling numb.

“Jesse,” I said, “when you went into Maria’s desk, the key to the cellar was still there.”

“Yes.”

“Did you relock the desk?”

“Yes.”

And the killer would have had plenty of time to act by now. It was almost eleven. While I had been watching Jesse burn some sleazy love letters, the killer had probably sprung the trap unobserved. Dismayed, I got up and headed for the parking lot.

“Elena,” Jesse called, “do you know why I came here, to this place?”

I stopped. “No.”

“Because this was where we came on our first date. Maria and me. Funny, isn’t it?” I turned, unable to speak, and ran for my car.

The party was winding down when I got back to the museum. Guests were wandering down the walk to their cars, carrying streamers and balloons as souvenirs of the occasion. Inside, a few amiable drunks stood guard over the almost empty margarita pitchers, arguing about the Los Angeles Dodgers. In the middle of the courtyard, I ran into Carlos Bautista. He was handsome in his tuxedo and ruffled shirt, looking as fresh as if the party had just started.

“A splendid evening, Elena,” he said, taking my hands in his. “You did a wonderful job.”

“I had a lot of help.”

Carlos kept holding my hands. Was he going to make the long-expected pass now, of all times? I tried to pull my hands away.

“What’s wrong?” He frowned at my abstracted manner.

“I’m just tired.”

“Well, tomorrow you can sleep in. The museum will be closed, although I’d like you to attend a board meeting at two.”

“Board meeting?”