Painter Palaver

by Curtis Bausse

  Sophie mumbled her thanks and filled a cup with coffee. ‘Eggs and bacon too if you want the full English.’ Isadora proudly opened a chafing dish, emitted a throaty chortle, and whooshed back to the kitchen.

  Forgoing the bacon in favour of bread and jam, Sophie sat down. She didn’t know much about English aristocrats, but she thought Isadora might be one, exuding the sort of jollity that came from generations of blithely ruling an empire, signing off her declarations with the emphasis of a foghorn. ‘I recommend the quince and cinnamon. Haw! Haw!’

  Out on the terrace, for those so inclined, you could sit in a group round the table; if you preferred less company, there were tables for two inside. Sophie hesitated: the only other guest was Maya Ferrucci, strangely small beneath the luxuriant pergola. Deciding she ought to make an effort to be sociable, Sophie waved and took a step towards her. Maya neither returned the greeting, nor even acknowledged her, and Sophie, muttering, ‘Fair enough,’ turned back and sat down inside.

  A few minutes later, as she was reading a message from Luc – All good, on our way soon xxx – Lyle walked in and placed a hand on the opposite chair. ‘May I?’

  Sophie slid the phone aside. ‘Of course,’ she said, though by that time she’d decided that Maya had done her a favour; at least until she was fully awake, she’d be quite happy not making the effort. Lyle had no such trouble: apart from copious amounts of sweat trickling down his scalp, he seemed to be in fine, sociable shape, launching straightaway into a commentary on the evening’s entertainment that veered – surprise, surprise – into a speech about proper writer’s machismo, as practiced by Hemingway and Mailer. ‘Martin in comparison? Diddly-squat. As for Eddy, god knows what it was. An attack of verbal acne.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll be able to keep it up all week?’

  ‘The offensiveness? Quite some feat if he does.’

  ‘You know what my theory is? It wasn’t aimed at Gareth at all but Maya. Did you notice? The more she giggled, tried to make light of it, the thicker he piled it on.’

  ‘Maybe. I was a bit too far gone myself to notice.’

  ‘You seem to have recovered very well.’

  ‘Couple of paracetamol before bed. Generally does the trick. Not that I make a habit of it, I hasten to add.’ He took a soggy bite of croissant dunked in coffee, barely pausing to munch before going on, ‘Alcohol and writing. It’s a common misconception they go together, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. Look at Scott Fitzgerald. Great writer but only three books in him. Of course, you could argue...’

  Nodding at what she hoped were appropriate moments, letting his pleasant, mellow voice wash over her, Sophie drifted into a drowsy form of awareness, little whirls of activity impinging from a distance: Adeline and Isadora flitting in and out; the hatch opening and shutting; a head or a pair of hands popping through. Gareth reappeared in the kitchen where the fractious atmosphere continued to hiss and spit. Must be the heat. As if the day wasn’t hot enough already, to be at a stove must -

  ‘Wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Something to do with stream of consciousness. Or had he moved on to Henry James? ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Absolutely.’

  Lyle shot her a puzzled glance. Then studied his croissant as if surprised to see it still there and took another large bite.

  ‘Good morning.’ Claire arrived, smile as summery as the pale floral dress swishing about her calves. They returned the greeting, she made a circular movement with her hand, and her entrance in this way expedited, helped herself from the buffet and withdrew to a corner of the room.

  ‘Both of them were, in fact,’ said Lyle, flakes spilling from his lips. Then, ‘This heat, goddammit,’ he muttered, as two symmetrical beads of sweat emerged in front of his ears. ‘Makes the morning workout a real challenge.’

  ‘Quite.’ Both of who? Oh God, wake up, you twit! Can’t ask now – change the subject. ‘Is Isadora the cook here? The dinner was delicious.’

  He nodded. ‘The “renowned local chef” dropped out at the last minute.’

  ‘Ah.’ Hardly surprising the Forsters were on edge – they were in over their necks. ‘But she writes too, she said.’

  ‘Yeah. She’s had a few stories published. Davina Crest, she calls herself.’ He wiped his mouth. ‘Erotica.’

  ‘Really?’ Sophie’s interest was piqued. She’d assumed something erudite – historical fiction, maybe – but in fact it fitted perfectly. The chirpy features and lustiness, the hair cut in an old-fashioned bob that made her look like a flapper from the 1920s, the generous bellow of her laugh... Bet she romps in a sumptuous oasis.

  Then Eddy Ferrucci appeared in the doorway, and Sophie muttered, ‘Uh-oh. Looks like he’s still got the acne.’

  Lyle turned to look, offering a cheeky ‘Morning, Monsieur Ferrucci! Did you have a good night?’

  Ignoring him, Eddy collared Adeline, who was at the buffet, passing instructions to Isadora through the hatch. ‘Our shower head. It needs fixing.’

  She turned to him, forcing a smile. ‘Gareth said he saw to it yesterday.’

  ‘Well, I hope his writing’s better than his plumbing. It sprays all over the place.’

  ‘Right. Well, as soon as he has a moment, he’ll see to it.’ The smile didn’t waver, only a twitch of her eyes betraying annoyance. Eddy went outside to join his wife.

  ‘Makes you wonder why he’s even here,’ said Sophie. ‘Both of them in fact. What are they hoping to get out of it?’

  ‘The Dreadful Duo,’ Lyle concurred. ‘Poor Forsters. Tough.’

  Isadora came in with Gareth, whose mood had improved enough to wish everyone good morning, bowing somewhat obsequiously as he did so, a performance abruptly brought to an end when Adeline whispered to him, indicating Eddy. Gareth glowered and grimaced; his hands made as if to strangle the poxy creep; then he stomped away, looking more inclined to destroy the shower than fix it.

  The Ferruccis came back inside, having found a new complaint. ‘Someone’s burning leaves,’ Maya declared. ‘Don’t they know it’s forbidden?’

  ‘Oh, the neighbour,’ said Adeline. ‘He does that sometimes. I’ll have a word.’

  Claire looked up with a sympathetic smile, though it wasn’t obvious quite where her sympathies lay. With the displeased Ferruccis? Or the Forsters subjected to such torment? Possibly, even, with whoever was causing the smoke. Claire, you felt, had sympathy in abundance.

  But no one else reacted, and Maya, deciding she’d finished her breakfast anyway, murmured something in her husband’s ear and flounced away. Isadora followed her, and from where she was sitting, Sophie saw them pursue a testy exchange at the foot of the stairs.

  Eddy helped himself to breakfast and sat down. He took out his phone, in which he was soon absorbed, switching between his bread and jam and his messages. It didn’t take long to finish both, and he left the room in something of a hurry.

  Sophie watched him join the discussion by the stairs, and then Gareth came down making appeasing gestures, apparently with a positive report on the shower. The group split up, Eddy and Maya returning to their room, the other two to the kitchen.

  ‘According to Isadora, Ferrucci’s not a writer at all, he’s a businessman.’ Lyle curled his lip as if it was a dirty word. ‘Consultancy work, whatever that means. In Africa, what’s more. That has to be dodgy, surely. Advising dictators is my bet.’ This led him to a consideration of narrative technique in Heart of Darkness, which to Sophie’s relief was interrupted by Claire stopping at their table on her way out. ‘See you in the workshop,’ she said to Sophie. ‘Adeline says we’re going to do flowers. If we want, that is, but I think I do. A change from my normal stuff. Have you seen her work on the stairs? I’m so envious!’ She rippled her fingers and slid away, pretty as a flower herself.

  ‘Promises to be interesting, anyway,’ said Sophie. ‘Though I don’t think I’ll have much time for flowers. My family’s coming soon. Invading, should I say,’ she added, thinking of T
atty Fur.

  ‘Meanwhile I shall be doing my best with the Bests. At least he’s entertaining.’

  ‘Mmm. Up to a point, I suppose.’ She glanced round. ‘Conspicuously absent this morning.’

  ‘Recovering from last night, I guess.’

  ‘I think they both are. I met Penelope on the stairs. She looked as if she was about to throw up.’

  At that point, Isadora came in and, seeing no one else in the dining room, approached their table, wringing her hands as if she’d just stepped out of a Greek tragedy. ‘It’s terrible!’ she cried. ‘There are people dying all over the place!’

  ‘Um...’ Sophie blinked, wondering what to do with the sad but inevitable truth that every minute of every day, somewhere in the world, people died. ‘You mean...?’

  ‘The heatwave. We’ve just heard on the news. They’re dying by the hundreds. All the elderly. It’s awful!’ Isadora stood there miserably, so shocked, it seemed, that Sophie thought she must have relatives among the dead. ‘What can we do?’

  Sophie didn’t know. She thought of her grandfather in Lille, her grandmother in Bourges, both alone and vulnerable, and realised she hadn’t been in touch for ages. Had the neighbours checked to see if everything was all right? Luc’s grandmother too, still sprightly at 88, but now increasingly forgetful. And poor, frail Dorian, surely at risk as well – had Luc been keeping him hydrated? It struck her again how self-indulgent it was to be cosseted in this ivory tower, lamenting the dreadful hardship of painting a rose. Finding no answer to Isadora’s question, she merely shook her head.

  At that moment Martin Best approached from the terrace, the bulk of his silhouette framed in the sliding door. Hair plastered to his forehead, shirt flaps dangling, dark map of sweat covering his chest. He opened his mouth but no sound came. When he finally spoke, his voice was a horrified croak. ‘Henri Seibel – the neighbour – he’s dead!’

  ‘What?’ Isadora’s hands went up. ‘Him too?’

  ‘Too?’ Martin stared at her, bewildered.

  ‘The heatwave... All over the place, people dropping like flies.’

  ‘What? No...’ He shook his head. ‘He’s been murdered.’

  Chapter 7 Restorer of Qi

  Could it be that Luc was actually right? Like a dog without a home, murder followed her about? What did it want, this feral, half-famished creature skulking along in the shadows? To be shown some love and say it was sorry? Or to make her another victim?

  Was it her destiny to have corpses put in her way? She’d always thought of that word as melodramatic and false, conjuring up some occult force to explain events which need no explanation. After all, it wasn’t as if she tripped over them whenever she went out, having to avert Chloé’s head when she dropped her off at school, or bumping into them with her caddy in Carrefour. All the same, she hadn’t yet been a full day here, and already there was one next door screaming for attention more urgently than anyone could when alive. You couldn’t ignore a dead body as you could an obnoxious neighbour. Especially one that didn’t drop dead from the heat but from a human hand. And now was demanding that someone discover who that hand belonged to.

  Not that the someone would be Sophie. This was a criminal case, to be dealt with by the appropriate authorities, of which she wasn’t one. Nonetheless, if there was evidence scattered around and she happened to come across it...

  This is our destiny – we are soulmates. Abruptly, Cyril Eveno popped into her mind. That’s what he’d said the last time a corpse came her way, meaning not just that the occult force had set her up to solve crimes, but to solve them specifically with him. Rubbish of course – Cyril saw things that didn’t exist, read meanings where there were none, spiked the dullness of days with jabs of Fate. But no need this time to bother about Cyril. The last she’d heard, he was busy with his own destiny, whizzing up the rungs of his career. For once, perhaps, she’d be free to snoop about – just a little bit – without him.

  She couldn’t say that to Luc of course. He’d soon be here, expecting to see her in full artistic flow, cuddly mojo purring at her side. To learn of a corpse so close would plunge him into a chasm of despair. She’d have to at least pretend to be unconcerned. It’s next door, darling, nothing to worry about, honestly. Her hopes that this would allay his fears were slim.

  After the initial shock of Martin’s announcement, everyone had more or less shrugged it off. They weren’t acquainted with the victim, and distressing as it must be for the people next door, it was no reason for their own schedule not to proceed as normal. But this assumption was wrong: the Forsters, it seemed, were ‘dreadfully upset’, and hoped that everyone would understand if the morning’s workshop was cancelled. This message was relayed by Isadora – the Forsters themselves were nowhere to be seen. Claire simpered her agreement, Lyle burbled his, both eclipsed by the grumbling of Eddy and Maya, making it clear that they hadn’t signed up to be left to their own devices. This merely earned them a malevolent glare from Isadora, who seemed about to reply but then thought better of it and flounced out of the room.

  Apart from the Bests, also absent, everyone sat in the well-named leisure room: comfy armchairs, shelves stacked with books, coffee table strewn with magazines. Facing north with a perfect view of the Sainte Victoire, it was also one of the coolest rooms in the house, and in the harsh Provençal winter, the large fireplace must be much appreciated. But now it was filled – a nod to Van Gogh? – with a bouquet of dried sunflowers.

  The group could have tried to mend the damaged dynamic with Trivial Pursuit or Pictionary, but instead they engaged somewhat glumly in idle speculation about murder. Eddy asserted that the Seibels, father and son, were at each other’s throats more often than not, and he wouldn’t like to be in Thibault’s shoes right now. The wife, Jackie, could be discounted though, said Lyle – she was in Amsterdam. Claire said nothing, except that the gendarmes would sort it out, and to demonstrate her lack of interest in the topic, she ostentatiously leafed through a magazine. To anyone watching, though – which Sophie was – the frequent darts of her eyes to whoever was speaking demonstrated the opposite. But hey, why not? A murder next door – who wouldn’t take an interest? Then Isadora reappeared to inform Sophie that her aunt had just arrived.

  ‘Oh, my poor girl! You look exhausted. Has it been that bad? Never mind, I’m here now, here to cheer you up.’ Tatty, bless her, saw herself as Sophie’s guardian angel, uniquely placed to extract her from the doldrums and lead her back to the warm wind of happiness.

  ‘I’m fine, Tatty,’ said Sophie. ‘Just the heat, I think.’

  ‘Nonsense, dear, I know quite well what you’re going through.’

  Since Tatty had resolutely avoided having children herself, this was hard to believe, but Sophie didn’t mind; she fell into Tatty’s arms, blinking back tears as she allowed herself to be rocked, a teenager once again, bathing in the love and consolation of the woman who’d taken her in when her parents died.

  ‘And when I say cheer you up,’ said Tatty, ‘what I mean is energise you. Unblock your qi. Simply holding you, I can it feel it’s all clogged up. The right diet and exercise, a few sessions with me, and we’ll have it restored in no time.’

  Sophie wasn’t aware that Tatty had any training as a qi restorer, but perhaps she’d missed an episode in her ever-eventful existence. She was all for restoring her qi, but the offer might have been more attractive if Tatty’s own qi didn’t gush and spew in all sorts of directions which Sophie wasn’t especially keen to follow. ‘Thank you, Tatty,’ she murmured. ‘A little rest and I’ll be fit as a fiddle.’

  ‘Anyway, I’m here whenever you need me. And now I’m the budding artist reporting for duty. I rather fancy myself as the next Tracey Emin. Where do we go?’

  ‘For the workshop? This morning’s has been cancelled. There’s been a bit of an incident next door. The Forsters are rather upset.’

  Tatty took this with equanimity. ‘Well, any talent I might have had should have been nurtured y
ears ago, so I don’t suppose the world will be robbed of much. What incident is that?’

  Sophie would have preferred to keep it quiet – Tatty’s inherent sense of drama was extravagant enough without adding real drama to it. But she’d find out in any case as soon as she met the others so she said in an offhand manner, ‘The neighbour was killed. But it’s nothing that concerns us. Let’s go –’

  ‘Killed? By what?’

  ‘By whom, you mean. But the gendarmes have been informed. I dare say they’re already sorting it out.’

  ‘Murdered? You must go and help them, now that you’re qualified. What a wonderful opportunity! It’ll take your mind off everything else. And I’d much rather be doing that myself than pretending I can paint. I promise to be obedient. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tatty, but you’re not getting involved in this. For the simple reason that I’m not either. It’s none of our business.’

  ‘Nonsense. Of course it is. Remember what happened last time. You beat them all to it. They’ll be delighted to have you. How is the adorable Lieutenant, by the way?’

  ‘Fine, as far as I know. Captain now, and married.’

  ‘Yes, you mentioned that. To the beautiful girl from Cameroun. Perhaps I’ll give him a call. We got on so well together, I’m sure the three of us could –’

  ‘You will do no such thing! Unless you want my qi to go berserk.’ But of course, the best way to keep Tatty under a semblance of control was – to a certain extent – to go along with her. Just far enough to satisfy her ego, not so far as to let her fancy take over. ‘One thing you can do, you know’ – Sophie lowered her voice – ‘if ever we do investigate, I mean – is not tell anyone I’m a PI. It’ll make our job easier if no one knows what we’re up to. Can you manage that?’