"Was he nervous?"

"I guess you'd say that. He was a loner, anyway. I never knew him to give a party, or even invite friends into his house. As far as I knew, he had no friends. He kept himself locked up in that house with his wife and a man called Rico, who cooked for them. And he worked. As far as I know, all he did was work. Sometimes he'd be up painting all night and I'd see the lights still burning in his house when I cruised by on the early-morning shift." Mackendrick lifted his eyes, which had been emptied of the present and now became filled and perplexed by it again. "Are you sure that Mr. Chantry was a homo? I never knew one of them who liked hard work."

I didn't mention Leonardo for fear of confusing the issue. "I'm fairly certain. You could ask around."

Mackendrick shook his head abruptly. "Not in this town I couldn't. He's Santa Teresa's claim to fame-gone for twenty-five years, and still our leading citizen. And _you_ be careful what you say about him."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a warning. I'm doing you a favor giving it. Mrs. Chantry could sue you, and don't think she wouldn't. She's got the local paper so bulldozed that they let her read it ahead of time whenever they mention her husband. Especially when they mention his disappearance, it has to be handled with kid gloves."

"What do you think happened to him, Captain? I've told you what I know."

"And I appreciate it. If he was a homo, as you say he was, then there's your answer right there. He stayed with his wife for seven years and couldn't stick it any longer. It's one thing I've often noticed about homos. Their lives run in cycles; they can't stay the course. And they have a tougher course to run than most of us."

Mackendrick had succeeded in surprising me. There was a vein of tolerance in his granite after all.

I said, "Is that the official theory, Captain? That Chantry simply took off of his own accord. No murder? No suicide? No blackmailing pressure?"

Mackendrick took in a deep whistling breath through his nose, and blew it out through his lips. "I wouldn't attempt to tell you how many times I've been asked that question. It's just about my favorite question by now," he said with irony. "And I always give the same answer. We never came up with any evidence at all that Chantry had been killed, or forced to leave. As far as we were able to establish the facts, Chantry left here because he wanted to start a new life. And what you tell me about his sexual background only confirms it."

"I assume his farewell letter was checked out in every way."

"Every way possible. Handwriting, fingerprints, source of stationery-everything. The writing and the prints and the stationery were all Chantry's. There was no evidence that the letter was written under duress, either. And no new evidence has come up in the twenty-five years since then. I've had a special interest in the case from the beginning, because I knew Chantry, and you can take my word for all this. For some reason, he got sick and tired of his life here in Santa Teresa, and he dropped out."

"He may have dropped in again, Captain. Fred Johnson seems to think that the stolen picture is a Chantry, and a fairly recent one."

Mackendrick made an impatient flinging gesture with his left hand. "I'd want a better opinion than Fred Johnson's. And I don't buy his story that the picture was stolen from the museum. I think he's got it stashed someplace. If it is a genuine Chantry, it's worth real money. And in case you don't know it, Fred Johnson's family is on the rocks financially. His father's a hopeless drunk who hasn't worked for years; his mother lost her job at the hospital under suspicion of stealing drugs. And no matter whether he lost it or sold it or gave it away, Fred is criminally responsible for the loss of that picture."

"Not until he's proved responsible."

"Don't give me that, Archer. Are you a lawyer?"

"No."

"Then stop trying to act the part of one. Fred is where he belongs. You're not. And I have an appointment with the deputy coroner."

I thanked Mackendrick for his patience, without irony. He had told me a number of things I needed to know.

Leaving the police station, I passed my friend Purvis coming in. The young deputy coroner had the bright glazed look of a dedicated public servant on his way to get his picture in the paper. He didn't even break stride as he went by.

I waited beside his official station wagon. Squad cars came and went. A flock of starlings flew over in a twittering cloud, and the first early shadow of evening followed them across the sky. I was worried about what might happen to Fred in jail, and regretful that I hadn't been able to spring him.

Purvis came out of the station eventually, walking more slowly, with a certain weight of confidence.

I said, "What's the word?"

"Remember the cadaver I showed you the night before last in the morgue?"

"I'm not likely to forget him. Jacob Whitmore, the painter."

Purvis nodded. "He wasn't drowned in the ocean after all.

We completed a very careful autopsy this afternoon. Whitmore was drowned in fresh water."

"Does that mean he was murdered?"

"Probably. Mackendrick seems to think so. Drowned in somebody's bathtub and chucked into the ocean afterwards."

XXVII

I drove out to Sycamore Point and knocked on the door of Jacob Whitmore's cottage. It was opened by the girl he had left behind. The low sun touched her face with a rosy glow and made her narrow her eyes. She didn't appear to recognize me.

I had to remind her who I was. "I was here the night before last. I bought some of Jake's pictures from you."

She shaded her eyes and studied my face. Hers was pale and unfocused. Her blond hair was uncombed, and it was lifted by the sundown wind pouring down the draw.

She said, "Are the pictures okay?"

"They're okay."

"I have some more if you want them."

"We'll talk about it."

She let me into her front room. Nothing in it had changed essentially, but it had lapsed into more extreme disorder. A chair was lying on its back. There were bottles on the floor, fragments of enchilada on the table.

She sat at the table. I picked up the fallen chair and sat facing her. "Have you heard from the coroner this afternoon?"

She shook her head. "I haven't heard from anybody; not that I remember, anyway. Excuse the condition of the room, will you, please? I drank too much wine last night and I must have had a tantrum. It seemed-it seems so unfair that Jake had to drown." She was silent for a time, and then said, "They asked my permission to do an autopsy yesterday."

"They did it today. Jake drowned in fresh water."

She shook her bleached head again. "No, he didn't. He drowned in the ocean."

"His body was found in the ocean, but the water that killed him was fresh water. You can take the coroner's word for it."

She looked at me dimly through her half-closed eyes. "I don't understand. Does that mean he drowned in a creek and his body was washed down into the sea?"

"That isn't likely. The creeks are low in the summer. It probably means that he was drowned in a bathtub or a swimming pool, and whoever did it dumped his body here in the ocean."

"I don't believe it." She looked around the room as if the murderer might be lurking behind the furniture. "Who would do that to Jake?"

"You tell me, Mrs. Whitmore."

She shook her head. "We weren't married. My name is Jessie Gable." The sound of her name brought tears to her eyes. She blinked and the tears ran down her cheeks. "You're telling me that Jake was murdered, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"I don't understand. He never hurt a living soul. Except me. But I forgave him."

"Murder victims don't usually deserve it."