They were silent a moment as Manoogin digested the information she had reluctantly thrown at him. When he spoke, it seemed to be on another subject.

  “Garret says you have a tidy mind. He admires that about you.”

  “And here I always thought it was my sparkling sapphire eyes and tuna fish sandwiches.”

  “Well, maybe if your eyes were actually blue.…” Manoogin suggested.

  “And what else does Garret say? I gather he mentioned my old line of work?”

  “Briefly. And he says that if you have some ideas about the situation that I could do worse than to listen to you since you have a one hundred percent clearance rate on your cases.”

  “I’m retired. I don’t have cases. What I have is rotten luck when it comes to finding bodies.”

  “Maybe you do at that. I gather this isn’t your first homicide?”

  “No.”

  “Second?”

  “No.”

  He digested this too.

  “So did Mr. Kingman want Raphael James on this project because he was a friend of yours and it would make you happier if he was here?”

  “No, keeping me happy wasn’t a real concern. I am only the lowliest of the low. Dolph wanted Raphael on the project because he is famous and would bring in publicity and money.”

  “Are the other artists also famous?”

  “Not that famous. They are all respected in their fields, up and comers, but it’s the difference between the Elect and the Damned. Put another way, a large mural from Raphael would have tacked another hundred thousand on the value of the castle.”

  Manoogin’s brows drew down and Juliet was sure it wasn’t because of the overwhelming pink marble and ceramic poodle on clamshell sculptures in the bathroom. Venus Rising, with dogs. Juliet shuddered, though she made note of the shower enclosure made of mismatched French doors.

  “The air feels damp,” she said.

  “Yes. The shower was used.”

  “This room was done by Stephanie Gillard. She also did the last bedroom. She works mainly in ceramics and in the Southwest, though she has recently located to California. She is one of the few women on the job who liked Dolph.”

  “Is my lack of knowledge about art going to hinder me in this investigation?”

  “It needn’t. Raphael, Esteban, and I are all more than willing to be consulted when you have questions. And we will happily share our opinions, so long as they never end up in print, since some of those opinions are probably actionable.”

  Manoogin suppressed a smile.

  “Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind. Was Mr. Kingman an artist as well?”

  “Not that I know of. Certainly not a commercial one, though he may have had hidden yearnings,” she added grudgingly. “His gift was investment and knowing what to buy and when to sell. I’m prejudiced, but I doubt he could have painted a decent picture even if it came with numbers and an instruction booklet.”

  Manoogin nodded his head.

  “Is it just me, or is this place … hideous?”

  Juliet chuckled.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing since I am somewhat biased. I see lots of imagination but not much taste—at least not as I understand it. Though we have escaped an homage to the NHL or Winnie-the-Pooh, so let’s be thankful. And I now have a pretty good idea about what I don’t want to do in my own room.”

  “What will you do? It seems to me that that isn’t the best space for decorating.”

  “Well, because the room is so dark I am going to use angled mirrors in the archers’ slits to bring in more natural light. I plan to line the shelf—which will hide those horrid angel faces—with apothecary jars filled with colored water and oils, and light them from the back with battery-operated lamps—there’s no electricity in the tower so I’m going with batteries and flameless candles rather than real ones. The effect will be a little like stained glass. I hope. Last, to deaden the acoustics which are extremely unpleasant, I’ve painted some canvases with illuminated texts from the Upanishads—a Hindu holy book. The fabric paintings are kind of a cultural mash-up but they will look pretty to the western eye. And hopefully no one will ever guess that decorating the room was a grudging afterthought, offered to an unknown artist who specializes in custom t-shirts.”

  “T-shirts?” He sounded surprised and pleased.

  “Yes. Very nice, one hundred percent cotton t-shirts, sweatshirts, baseball caps, and aprons. I also do awesome trick-or-treat bags if you are ever in the market.”

  “I knew there was a reason I liked you. T-shirts sound wonderfully normal. Frankly, everything about this is a bit.…” He paused, deciding how frank he actually could be.

  “I understand. Really. It is my duty as a civic-minded citizen to warn you that the art really does reflect the personalities of those involved, so obviously some of the artists are a bit inclined to view the world in different ways. As in reality is a lovely place but they don’t want to live there full-time.” Manoogin snorted again. She was getting used to the sound. “As a collective entity my colleagues are a bit much to take in one sitting. Some, individually, are what Raphael would call three-act dramas. But most are nice enough when you get beyond the theatrics. Just shy and poor communicators since they deal in a visual rather than a verbal world. If you stick to asking what they saw and not what they heard or thought, you will do better. In fact, whenever possible, ask them to draw you a picture.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. You know, I think I’ve seen enough for today. Thank you for your time and translation. It will help me with understanding the parties involved. I hope.”

  “No trouble.” Juliet had seen enough too.

  “So you, Esteban Rodriguez, and Raphael James all live in the same community?”

  “Yes, though not in the same building. Bartholomew’s Woods is an artists’ compound out near the coast. Garret can direct you once you get to town. There aren’t any signs for the place and we are a little backwoods.”

  He glanced at her and she shrugged. It didn’t take a clairvoyant to know that he would probably want some face time with the friend who had gotten him involved in a double homicide before he talked to them again.

  “If it would be more convenient for Mr. James, I could come out this evening and take statements from you there. It would save him—and Mr. Rodriguez—a trip to the station.”

  “That’s kind. It’s been a long day.”

  “Would seven be convenient?” Manoogin asked.

  “It should be. I can call you if Esteban or Raphael can’t make it.”

  Chapter 5

  After a day exploring the castle, Juliet discovered her real love for her tiny bungalow, complete with purring cat and no stairs. The room was stuffy after being closed up for the day, and her small bed harder than any at the castle, but she would sleep peacefully in her own, humble sanctuary.

  Though weary, she called Esteban and Raphael at once to warn them to prepare statements—they were, all of them, entirely too familiar with the process—and to convene a council of war before Lieutenant Manoogin arrived at seven.

  They already knew a few things about the murder. Sandra Kane didn’t have an alibi—she was welding in the courtyard, which no one else saw and Juliet and Raphael couldn’t hear from the tower room. The other artists and work crews had gone to lunch right at noon, they claimed. One group of four designers had eaten together and were therefore off the immediately suspected list, but the other decorators and artists had gone to various diners and restaurants alone. It would take laborious police work to verify their movements. And that didn’t include the artists and designers who weren’t officially assigned to be at the castle that day, or all the other people in Dolph Kingman’s busy life. Given how many contractors were coming and going from the site, a stranger of any gender could have walked in and gone anywhere without being questioned once past the security gate, especially since the guard was decoyed away.

  Juliet’s stomach was grumpy after hours of emptiness. The cupcakes she had picked up at the bakery for their evening of war planning looked great but Juliet decided to prove her maturity by splitting a can of tuna with Marley.

  Juliet arrived at Raphael’s just after Esteban. She had cupcakes. Raphael supplied some excellent scotch which they sipped while comparing notes and waiting for the kettle to boil.

  There was an embarrassment of reasons that someone might want to kill Dolph Kingman. Women were high on Dolph’s list of temptations, but so was notoriety, especially in the art world where he was trying to establish a name as a financial player. This charity makeover was his big move into new territory. It was unfortunate that he had made himself obnoxious in both worlds and supplied so many people with reasons to dislike him. The ground was absolutely littered with potential suspects.

  Seven had just passed when there was a knock on Raphael’s door. Garret had done his work. Manoogin looked a bit resigned and perhaps a tiny bit amused when he took a seat and found tea and pumpkin cupcakes waiting along with his witnesses. He also allowed himself a moment to admire Raphael’s work in progress. It was a large canvas of Saint Paul on the road to Damascus. Like his namesake’s, Raphael’s paintings glowed with inner fire that made lesser artists feel humble.

  Manoogin was also polite about their prepared statements. He hadn’t expected Raphael to have seen anything from up in the tower, but there had been some slim hope that Esteban might have spotted a car rushing out of the lot or something.

  Having discussed the matter in advance, they were agreed that they would volunteer their thoughts on anything Manoogin asked, but not overwhelm him with theories which were only speculations at this point. Juliet was chosen as point man for the operation. Raphael had known Dolph longer but Juliet had spent more time with him in the last week.

  “The cars in the lot belonged to Kingman, Sandra Kane, and the security guard?” Juliet asked when Manoogin put the question of suspicious vehicles to Esteban, who replied in the negative.

  “Yes. We had a look for signs that a car had been parked in the shrubbery along the road where a pedestrian might bypass the security booth, but we didn’t see anything obvious, and of course things are rather torn up because of the bulldozers and other equipment.”

  “There is a service road that runs along the back of the property,” Juliet said, passing the plate of cupcakes. There were pumpkin and lemon. She was pleased when Manoogin chose pumpkin. “The fence back there is also simple hurricane, six feet tall and easily jumped.”

  “There used to be a brick wall with barbed wire on top but part of it came down in the Loma Prieta earthquake. Since the building was no longer in use, it seemed an unnecessary expense to repair the wall,” Esteban supplied. He had been doing some research for Juliet’s ghost and had Barclay’s history down cold. “The dirt road has some major weeds growing in. It may be possible to check if they’ve been beaten down. After the long spell of dry weather it will be difficult to get any tire tracks though.”

  Manoogin made a note.

  “Lieutenant, I was a bit shaken this afternoon, but it seemed to me that I didn’t see Dolph’s watch on his wrist.” Raphael had noticed this because of having a lower view of the body, but they decided the question might come better from Juliet.

  “No watch,” he confirmed. “It was expensive?”

  “Yes, a Piaget.”

  This clearly meant nothing. An honest cop on a salary would probably not have had a reason to price luxury watches. Juliet certainly never had.

  “It seems unlikely that anyone would commit murder for a watch. Or does it?”

  “Not for its intrinsic value perhaps, though it was worth about twenty thousand, but maybe the watch was a gift. Engraving is an old-fashioned habit, but not entirely unheard of. Mind you, I have no reason to believe that the watch is a clue, but unless it turns up in a bathroom or a coat pocket or something….”

  “None was found on the body or during the search, but the first walk through the castle was cursory. We’ll look again in the morning.”

  “You may also be able to trace who bought it. The watches usually have serial numbers and the company knows which shops have sold which watches. And there aren’t that many places that sell them,” Raphael added.

  Manoogin nodded and Juliet took another turn.

  “Also, I forgot to mention it, but there is supposedly a hidden panel in the kitchen that disguises a staircase down to what is now a wine cellar. I don’t know if there is an exit from downstairs. Esteban tells me that there was at one time and it was supposedly sealed after a tunnel collapsed. But maybe it wasn’t.” Manoogin sighed. “I know it would be easier if we were dealing with a closed ecology, but we have to consider the idea that there could have been an outsider involved.”

  Manoogin looked at Esteban. Juliet explained: “I asked him to go into the history of the building for me. I was having trouble figuring out what my tower room was used for.” And why the hell she was so freaked out by the space and hearing noises.

  Manoogin’s gaze moved on.

  “Mr. James, you knew the deceased socially?”

  “Yes, slightly.”

  “Can you tell me anything about him that might be of help to the investigation?”

  Juliet was certain that the police had both too little and too much forensic evidence for it to be of much use or they wouldn’t be asking this question. At least not yet.

  “Not a great deal. If rumor is true, Dolph was about to marry again.”

  “Again? Where is the previous Mrs. Kingman?” Manoogin asked Raphael. He seemed happier at the prospect of a spousal suspect.

  “In Sedona with a future Mr. Ex-second-husband. I’m sorry but I don’t know the name. He’s in oil. Her maiden name was Georgette Weston.”

  “Miss Henry, you are looking a bit disgusted but not surprised,” Manoogin said.

  “I’m not surprised.” Juliet knew her voice was dry. “Most men like being married. After all, prostitutes can’t go on business trips and to the opera, and housekeepers demand days off. The only one who will work twenty-four-seven and love, honor, and obey in silence—at least for a while—is a young wife. I’m feeling disgusted because this one is very young. In fact, young enough to be his daughter. And because though he is newly engaged, he has been chasing after women at the castle.”

  “Her name is Brittany Saxon and she is a student at Santa Cruz University,” Raphael said.

  Manoogin scribbled some more.

  “May I put a straight question to you, Miss Henry?”

  “Juliet, please. And of course.”

  “Are you planning on investigating this murder?”

  “The straight answer, Lieutenant, is yes. Not intentionally perhaps, if you object.” That would be for Esteban and Raphael to do. “But I have work to do there at the castle, assuming that the project will go on as planned, and I cannot stop being aware that there may be a killer among us. My brain looks for patterns all the time, whether I give it permission or not.”

  Juliet picked up Raphael’s teapot.

  “More tea, anyone?”

  Things wrapped up shortly thereafter. Once outside, Manoogin was apparently struck by how dark it was away from the streetlights and under a canopy of trees.

  “You live up the hill?” he asked Juliet.

  “Yes, I’m on the third tier.”

  “I’ll walk you back to your bungalow.”

  “Why, thank you.” She didn’t think Manoogin was doing this entirely out of gentlemanly instinct. “I have a flashlight, but with the full moon we shouldn’t need it if the clouds hold off a bit longer.”

  They discussed the weather on the way up the path, but since there was little of it happening at the moment, the topic petered out quickly.

  “At least Mr. James doesn’t seem any the worse for wear after his afternoon in the tower.”

  It was rather amusing the Manoogin still thought of Raphael as a fragile flower. She wondered if that was Garret’s doing.

  “He wouldn’t let on if it was otherwise. Raphael would be polite on his way to be hanged. If I asked him how he felt about the afternoon he would assure me that his pleasure at seeing a skeleton while waiting hours in a stuffy, dark, and very hot room was a foregone conclusion if he was of any help to me.”

  “So he can lie?” Manoogin asked. He sounded amused. Juliet liked him, but he was making the mistake that many people did in seeing Raphael as harmless.

  “Only in the best of causes. And never about anything important.”

  “And you? Do you lie?”

  “Like a rug. But only when it’s important. It takes up too much energy to fabricate stories now that I’m retired.”

  “Your job was to lie?” He sounded bemused.

  “To find lies and, if necessary, make up better ones to replace them.”

  Marley was waiting up for her, planted in front of the door. He studied Juliet’s guest for a moment and then retired to the bed where he began shoving the covers into a desirable nest.

  Since the lieutenant hadn’t found a way to introduce whatever was on his mind, Juliet suggested that he might like to see the tapestries she had painted for the castle.

  She turned on the overhead lights in her studio. They weren’t subtle, but there weren’t all that many of them so things were still a bit shadowy. Juliet used task lighting when she worked at night.

  “This looks like embroidery on parchment. Or velvet,” he said, leaning closer, obviously fascinated with the wall hangings. “It also kind of reminds me of those holy Irish books.”

  “Illuminated manuscripts. But it isn’t embroidery. It’s fuzz from scrap velvet that I’ve run through a document shredder,” Juliet confessed. “I embedded it in the wet paint. This method was the only practical one since applique would have taken months and I am not that much of a seamstress. I also used some gold leaf to burnish parts of the lettering.”

 

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