Free A Fit of Tempera by Mary Daheim Page A

station to call home. Third, to Xanadu, or any place where I wouldn’t expect to ever see Abbott N. Costello.” In her agitation, she dropped her keys, stooped to retrieve them, and looked up to see the perplexed expression on Renie’s face. “Oh, right—and fourth, to keep out of this murder case. I wouldn’t get involved with that bozo for a million bucks!”
    Â 
    â€œSo,” Renie inquired as they headed down the road in Judith’s Japanese compact, “why are we going to see Ward Kimball and his daughter if you don’t intend to play sleuth?”
    Judith turned just enough to give Renie a baleful look.“To offer our condolences. I don’t care what that drunken case of Southern Discomfort said about Ward and Riley quarreling—they’ve been close for years. Ward wasn’t just a mentor to Riley; he was a father, too. Riley’s death must have devastated Ward, especially if he’s in poor health.”
    Judith slowed to take the curve in the road that followed the bend in the river. Putting on her turn signal, she slowed a bit more to make a left off the highway and onto Ward Kimball’s private road.
    There was no gate. Ward Kimball was of a generation and a disposition that trusted other people. His home, as well as his studio, was farther off the highway than the Grover cabin. Judith drove slowly along the winding road until she came to a clearing. She pulled up to a big log, next to an aging but well-cared-for Volkswagen bus. Ward had owned the bus for almost as long as Judith could remember. He had never become wealthy, but he had made money from his art. Yet it hadn’t gone for material possessions. Briefly, Judith speculated on what Ward Kimball had done with his earnings. Travel, perhaps. He had certainly roamed the globe. Art, certainly. His private collection was small but magnificent. And Lark, of course. Ward Kimball had spared no expense where his daughter was concerned.
    The house was modest yet handsome. It had been built just after World War II, when Ward had gotten out of the Army. Then he and his wife had remodeled it in the early sixties, after Lark had been born. Her handicap had dictated certain changes, but Ward had wanted to emulate the architectural style of Native Americans in the western part of the county. Interestingly, many of the coastal tribes’ traditional houses had an uncanny resemblance to beach homes in southern California: High ceilings, big windows, shake exteriors, shingled roofs, and huge stone fireplaces were prominently featured. Judith had always wondered if the white man’s builders hadn’t stolen more than just the land from the Indians.
    In a typical Pacific Northwest display of skittish weather,the moon was now obscured by clouds. The outlines of the studio and the other outbuildings could be seen across the open area in front of the house. Oddly enough, Ward Kimball had not built right on the river. Perhaps he was afraid of floods; the Grovers had suffered for their temerity, having had to move the cabin twice in the past forty years. Of course, Kimball owned a great deal more property. Judith figured he had at least a full acre.
    It appeared that only one room was lighted inside. Kimball had electricity, running water, and a telephone. Real plumbing, too, Judith reflected, vaguely recalling that she’d heard he’d had a hot tub installed a few years back.
    The single swing of the brass knocker with Kimball’s name engraved on it brought no immediate response. The cousins waited at least two minutes before Renie reached out to rap again. Before she could, the door swung away from her hand. Ward Kimball’s shadowy figure stood before them.
    â€œWard?” Judith peered into the semidarkness. “It’s us, Judith and Serena Grover. From up the road…”
    â€œCome in.” Kimball gestured urgently, as if he thought the cousins might have a posse at their heels.