Poisoned Palette

by Jill Paterson

  That evening, Fitzjohn stepped out onto the back porch and sighed as he tried to come to terms with the abrupt change of direction his life had taken. While he did so, he cast his eyes across the garden, a tranquil oasis with its long, flowing lines of flower beds encasing blooms that drew the eye, all sheltered by the surrounding trees. The greenhouse, at the bottom of the garden, completed the picture. Set into the foliage as if part of nature and inside, his precious orchids, he began to feel a sense of equilibrium return. Stepping off the porch, he strolled along the winding garden path before opening the greenhouse door and stepping inside to be met by row upon row of orchids, all basking in the warm humid atmosphere. Immersed in tending to each plant as he walked slowly along the rows, he did not notice fresh air coming in through the open doorway until he heard his name called and turned to see Sophie.

  ‘Hi, Uncle Alistair,’ she said, flicking her dark shoulder length hair back from her face as she stepped inside. ‘I didn’t expect you home until much later tonight and with it being such a warm day, I came to look in on the orchids and water the garden.’

  ‘What would I do without you, Sophie?’ said Fitzjohn with a smile as he took off his gardening gloves and gave her a peck on the cheek.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed being here in the evenings and I’ll miss it,’ replied Sophie. ‘It’s so peaceful that I’ve been studying here rather than at home. My apartment’s like a revolving door with the students I share with.’

  ‘Well, as it turns out, I have to go back to Springwood in the morning because I’ve become inadvertently involved in a case up there, so if you want to carry on looking after everything and enjoying the peace it might work out for both of us.’

  ‘Oh, I do and I will,’ replied Sophie as they stepped outside and Fitzjohn closed the greenhouse door behind them.

  ‘But you must promise to tell me if it gets too much because I know exam time is not far away.’

  ‘I promise, but it’ll be fine,’ replied Sophie as they made their way along the garden path. ‘How long do you think you’ll be away?’

  Fitzjohn hesitated as he tried to decide whether to tell Sophie about the unexpected shift his career had taken. Still finding it difficult to accept the situation himself, he decided against the idea, at least for the time being. ‘That depends on how long my investigation takes,’ he replied. ‘Of course, if it goes on too long and your situation changes, I’ll employ a professional gardener to come in each day,’ he continued as they reached the back porch. ‘I take it you haven’t spoken to Betts today, otherwise you’d have known about the investigation.’ When Sophie did not reply, Fitzjohn turned and looked into his niece's deep blue eyes.

  ‘Sophie? What is it?’

  ‘I thought Martin might have told you that we’re no longer seeing each other.’

  ‘He hasn’t said a word,’ replied Fitzjohn, taken aback by the news. ‘I don’t like to pry, but what happened? Did Betts upset you in some way?’

  ‘No,’ replied Sophie, haltingly. ‘It’s the other way around. You see, there’s someone else. Someone I knew in Melbourne before I moved to Sydney.’

  Lost for words, Fitzjohn hesitated at this unexpected turn of events and at the same time, thought of Betts and his seemingly unconcerned attitude about returning to the city. ‘So, who is this new man in your life?’ he asked at last.

  ‘His name is David Thornton. We dated at one time. He’s just moved to Sydney and is in one of my tutorial groups. It’s been so great catching up. I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed my friends.’ Sophie paused. ‘How is Martin, Uncle Alistair?’

  ‘He’s been rather quiet while we’ve been away. I daresay this is why. He’s very fond of you, Sophie, so no doubt, it’ll take time for him to move on but he will, I’m sure.’

  Early the following morning, Fitzjohn brewed a fresh pot of coffee, poured himself a cup and stepped outside into the garden where he sat down in one of the chairs. As he took a sip he heard the latch on the side gate click and turned to see Betts.

  ‘You’re bright and early,’ he said. ‘Can I interest you in a cup of coffee before we get started?’

  ‘I’ve just had one, sir. I stopped in at the Charlotte Café for breakfast. The garden looks to be thriving,’ he continued, looking around. ‘You’d never know you’d been away.’

  ‘I owe it all to Sophie. She’s done a great job and what’s more, she’s offered to continue. For the time being, anyway.’

  Betts did not respond to this piece of information regarding Sophie but instead looked over the murraya hedge into Rhonda Butler’s garden. ‘I see Mrs Butler’s had a complete new roof and an extension added to the back of her house since the fire.’

  Fitzjohn followed Betts’s gaze as a positive thought about his move to the Blue Mountains came to mind. He would no longer have to contend with Rhonda who managed to wreak havoc in his life at varying times. ‘She extends after every disaster, the only place to go next is upwards.’ Mindful that his young sergeant did not appear to want to talk about Sophie, Fitzjohn got to his feet and, followed by Betts, went inside.

  ‘How did your meeting with Chief Superintendent Grieg go, sir?’

  ‘Not good,’ replied Fitzjohn, shaking his head. ‘It’s something I want to talk to you about.’ Fitzjohn washed his cup, put it into the dish drainer and turned to Betts. ‘I’m to be moved to the Blue Mountains, permanently.’ Betts stared at Fitzjohn in disbelief.

  ‘I didn’t realise you’d applied for a transfer, sir.’

  ‘I hadn’t,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘You mean the Department has transferred you with no consultation?’

  ‘I don’t think the Department had anything to do with it. I believe it’s been instigated by Chief Superintendent Grieg.’

  ‘But he can’t do that, can he?’

  ‘He’d have found it practically impossible under normal circumstances, but with my involvement in the investigation into Florence Fontaine’s death, it seems all the cards have fallen in his favour and he’s taking advantage of it,’ replied Fitzjohn as he shrugged into his suit coat. ‘I’ve never spoken to you about it before, Betts, but I’m sure you realise I’m not Chief Superintendent Grieg’s favourite cop.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that, sir, but the thing is, what can you do about it?’

  ‘I don’t see there’s anything I can do bar leave the force.’ Fitzjohn picked up his briefcase and small suitcase from the kitchen table and headed for the front door.

  ‘It just seems so unfair,’ said Betts as he followed Fitzjohn outside.

  ‘The Chief doesn’t play fair, Betts.’

  ‘You could go to a higher authority.’

  ‘I could, and I might, but first I’d like to think on it because I have a suspicion there’s more going on here than meets the eye and to find out what that is, I need time. Let’s get back to Springwood and start investigating this case. Also, we’ll have to find somewhere else to stay,’ he said as they climbed into their car.

  ‘I‘m quite happy where we are at the Fairmont Resort, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ replied Fitzjohn with a chuckle, ‘but our budget doesn’t extend beyond three days in a luxury hotel with an eighteen hole golf course on the doorstep. I thought we’d try a bed and breakfast establishment somewhere in Leura since it’s fairly central to our inquiries.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Early the following morning, still numbed by the loss of Florence, Claire went to the gallery to await Patrick Fontaine’s arrival. She turned the key in the lock as she did each morning, but on this occasion Florence’s shrill voice did not ring out with her usual greeting. Instead, there was empty silence. She hesitated on the threshold, the enormity of what had happened to Florence inconceivable and yet true. Tentatively, she stepped inside and closed the door against the noise of traffic and passers-by. As she did so, a shaft of morning sunlight broke through the clouds and cast light upon Florence’s favourite landscape, emphasising the detail of each brushstr
oke. Transfixed, Claire felt an inexplicable sense of calm as her thoughts went back to their first meeting at the Tate Gallery in London. Captured by Florence’s seemingly boundless energy and enthusiasm for her work, she had found new confidence to accept the position as Florence’s business manager and ultimately to return to Australia to face her demons.

  As the sun’s ray disappeared once again behind the clouds, Claire was brought back from her thoughts by the jingling of the bell on the gallery door. She turned to see a tall slightly built man in his mid-fifties, his aquiline features and long sharp nose leaving no doubt that he was Florence’s brother, Patrick Fontaine. He carried a briefcase in one hand and a small suitcase in the other.

  ‘Mr Fontaine?’

  ‘Patrick, please,’ he said, putting the suitcase down and extending his hand. ‘And you must be Claire. I’m pleased to meet you at last.’ He gave a quick smile, his face showing the strain he was under. ‘I’m only sorry we have to meet under such sad and difficult circumstances. I was here a little over a year ago,’ he continued, looking around. ‘I didn’t realise the next time I’d be here would be to bury my sister.’

  Claire led the way to a nestle of chairs in the corner near the window. ‘Did you manage to speak to the police?’ she asked as they sat down.

  ‘No. The officer you mentioned wasn’t available when I called and after that, I had to catch my flight. I’ll try again. Surely they have news by now.’

  While Patrick made the call, Claire went to the kitchen, made coffee and reappeared a few minutes later with two steaming mugs. ‘Any luck?’ she asked on her return as she placed the mugs on the small round table in front of him.

  ‘No. I’ve left my number. Hopefully, he’ll call soon.’ Patrick picked up the mug of coffee. ‘Thanks for this. I didn’t sleep on the plane so I need something to perk me up.’ He took a sip and set it down before slumping back in his chair.

  ‘Do you need help with accommodation?’ asked Claire, endeavouring to fill the awkward silence that followed.

  ‘No, I’m fine. I made a booking at the Hydro Majestic Hotel before I left Perth. I don’t think I could stay at the lodge under the circumstances, even if it were possible, which I doubt.’ Another silence ensued before Patrick said, ‘Sorry about hanging up on you yesterday.’

  ‘You don’t need to apologise. It was terrible news to receive, especially over the telephone,’ replied Claire.

  ‘It was, and I admit I’m having difficulties dealing with it but, nevertheless, I realise you must have concerns about the business as well as your position here.’

  ‘There are a couple of issues that need attention,’ said Claire. ‘Florence has two exhibitions due to start in London and New York next week. She had planned to open both so I’ll contact the people concerned and have them make alternative arrangements. My other concern is something your stepsister, Carolyn, told me yesterday.’

  ‘Carolyn? She’s not here is she?’

  ‘Yes. She and her husband attended the auction.’

  A deep frown came to Patrick’s face. ‘I can’t believe that Florence would have invited her. She wasn’t in the habit of including Carolyn in any of her activities, especially concerning her business.’

  ‘From what Florence said, she didn’t invite her. In fact, she was quite annoyed to see her there,’ replied Claire.

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ Patrick looked into Claire’s face. ‘So, what exactly did Carolyn say to you?’

  ‘Basically that she’s taking over the business, which is all well and good except I doubt she realises the complexity of what she’d be taking on; initially, anyway. I think she’d need help because as I’m sure you’re aware, Florence’s business doesn’t just exist within these walls.’ Claire paused. ‘Perhaps you could explain it to her?’

  ‘I doubt she’d take any notice of anything I had to say.’ Patrick thought for a long moment. ‘Look, under the circumstances, I think it’s best I tell you a bit about our family situation; dysfunctional, I think the modern term is.’

  ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me, Patrick,’ replied Claire. ‘I probably shouldn’t have brought it up.’

  ‘I’m glad you did because I don’t want you to get the idea that Florence was being unkind to Carolyn. Not after all she’s had to endure from the woman. I did advise her to seek legal advice but being somewhat of a celebrity, she was loathed to do so fearing the media attention it might bring. Besides that, she really didn’t want to have to go to such lengths. Oh, I know Florence could be difficult and temperamental at times but in my mind, at least at heart, she had a kind and generous nature that balanced those negative traits. But having said that, her patience had worn thin as far as Carolyn was concerned.’

  ‘We all have a point where it’s time to draw the line,’ said Claire.

  ‘That’s true and Florence had reached that point. Carolyn, of course, was the daughter of our father’s second wife. We were teenagers when they married. Carolyn was a few years younger. Eleven, I think. Over the years, Dad’s business went from strength to strength and it became a great success. He died not long after our stepmother, and left me, Florence and Carolyn equal shares in his estate. Florence and I didn’t hear from Carolyn for a decade after that. Not until, through her own foolishness, she’d spent every penny she’d been left and decided to look to us to fund her lifestyle. I wouldn’t have a bar of it but Florence did for a time until, her demands got too great and she broke off all contact with Carolyn.’

  ‘I take it that didn’t improve matters,’ said Claire.

  ‘No. In fact, Florence spoke to me just the other day about Carolyn because apparently, she’d been harassing her over the telephone. She’d told Florence that if she didn’t make her an equal partner in her business, she’d make sure her reputation was ruined. I don’t know how she planned to go about doing that, but knowing Carolyn, I’m sure she’d find a way.’ Patrick fell silent. ‘I do hope my sister’s death was from natural causes because if not…’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Claire.

  ‘I’m saying that Carolyn could be responsible.’ Patrick shook his head. ‘You don’t know her, Claire. It sounds terrible, but she’s devious and if I find out that Florence was murdered, I’ll have no qualms about telling the police what I’ve just told you. Stepsister or not.’

  That evening, Claire sat curled up on the sofa, watching the flames dance above the red hot embers in the fireplace while her mind went back to that morning at the gallery. Patrick Fontaine’s disclosure that if indeed Florence had been murdered, he would tell the police about Carolyn’s threatening behaviour, had rattled her. After all, to find oneself in a position where you felt you had to inform on a relative could only be described as horrendous. But then again, his dearest sister was dead, the man was shattered, and if her death was by someone’s hand, his grief would become unspeakable. With all this in mind, Claire tried to recall where Carolyn had been standing when they had all followed Florence into the marquee for the toast. She remembered seeing her elbowing her way through the crowd in what seemed like a desperate effort to get to Florence’s side, but her attention had been taken by the grey-haired man with those dark penetrating eyes. A chill went through her and at that same moment, the sound of the doorbell rang out. Claire looked at the clock on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, about to chime the half hour after ten and she grimaced. Who would be calling at this hour? she thought. Getting to her feet, she left the warmth of the living room and emerged into the chill of the hallway. At the front door, she hesitated and called out, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Aiden Farrell, Claire.’

  Tentatively, she opened the door to see Farrell’s short thick-set shape in the shadows of the front porch.

  ‘I was just passing and thought I’d drop by to offer my assistance if the need arises,’ he said stepping forward, ‘concerning Florence’s business interests, that is.’

  Claire smelt liquor on his breath and tensed. ‘Than
ks for your concern, Mr Farrell, but there’s no need to worry yourself. I’m sure Florence’s family will know what’s to be done.’

  ‘They may or they may not. It can get tricky when a business owner dies.’ Claire winced.

  ‘I’m sure the family will manage’ Claire went to close the door.

  ‘About Lyrebird Lodge,’ he continued. ‘I imagine the Fontaine’s will want a quick sale so the estate can be wound up without a lot of fuss. Am I right?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘But you being Florence’s business manager, I thought you’d be managing such things.’

  ‘That’s not the case,’ replied Claire with growing annoyance. ‘I’ll merely be following the executor’s instructions.’

  ‘Oh, I see. And who might the executor be? Her sister, I suppose. That woman who was at the auction.’ Claire did not reply. ‘Well, whoever it is, I want you to make it known that I’m interested in purchasing the property immediately.’