A Fit of Tempera by Mary Daheim

Think about it—why shouldn’t they all be gone? Dewitt came to get his painting. Iris probably went back to her condo to mourn. Clive Silvanus must have to wind up Riley’s business affairs in town. Lazlo Gamm flew away. And the Kimballs don’t live here.”
    Taking in a deep breath, Judith squared her wide shoulders. “Okay, you’re right. Let’s get our water and go home.”
    She lowered the beige enamel bucket with its dark green trim into the well while Renie noted that the clouds were already beginning to lift off Mount Woodchuck. It appeared as if they were going to have a warm, clear day ahead of them.
    Judith scanned the horizon, from the emerging crest of the mountain to the cottonwoods behind Riley’s studio. “Hey—there’s a ladder!” She pointed to the north side of the studio. “We might as well help ourselves. Who else is going to use it?”
    The ladder was ten feet long and made of very heavy wood. Judith struggled, trying to swing it away from the wall.
    â€œNeed any help?” Renie was holding the bucket.
    â€œNo, I can get it.” But the ladder slipped from Judith’s grasp, fell back against the studio, and crashed through one of the big windows. Judith jumped out of the way, shielding her face from shards of sailing glass. Renie ducked and let out a squeal.
    The cousins finally dared to look at the damage. The ladder had struck the plate glass in such a way that its downward descent had virtually taken out the entire window. Crime-scene tape was tangled in the rungs; the studio lay open like a big wound.
    â€œWe’ll have to call somebody,” Judith said, picking glass out of her Rugby shirt.
    â€œNot the sheriff,” Renie exclaimed in horror.
    Judith bit her lip. “Yes, the sheriff. Or in this case, the undersheriff. And Iris. She’ll know about the insurance.”
    Renie emptied the bucket. “I’m not taking any chances. Glass might have landed in the water. Let’s draw some more, take it home, and then go make our calls.”
    This time, Renie lowered the bucket into the well. Judith leaned against the small woodshed by the decorated fence. She was eyeing the studio speculatively.
    â€œAs long as we’re here…” She paused, nodding at the broken window. “What do you say, coz?”
    Renie rolled her eyes. “Would it matter?”
    With great care and diligent effort, the cousins managed to remove the ladder. With it, they also removed much of the crime-scene tape. A chopping block provided the needed height for them to reach the window opening. Tip-toeing around broken glass, Judith and Renie studied the interior.
    Except for the damage caused by the ladder, the studio looked much the same as it had less than twenty-four hours earlier. The Nerd’s portrait still reposed on the easel, looking, if possible, even uglier than it had the previous day. If anything was missing, Judith assumed it had been taken away as evidence by the undersheriff and his deputy. The only addition was the crude outline of Riley Tobias’s body on the orange-paint-spattered floor.
    â€œ His portrait,” murmured Judith, and winced.
    â€œUgh.” Renie gave herself a shake. “The spilled paint has dried. I wonder how it got all over the floor.”
    Judith spotted a cardboard box just behind the easel. “There are a bunch of tubes and jars. Maybe Riley was using one of them when he was attacked.”
    Renie glanced into the box. “Could be. What about allthose beer cans Costello mentioned? Gone for finger-printing?”
    â€œProbably.” Judith prodded at the floorboards with her canvas shoe. At least two of them appeared to have been loosened by the impact of the ladder. She bent down, careful not to touch any glass. A slight pressure sprang one of the boards like a seesaw. Judith gaped. Empty liquor bottles lay in a jumble, at least a foot deep. Bourbon. Gin.