Painter Palaver

by Curtis Bausse

  ‘Ah, DNA,’ said Lyle. ‘Each of our lives written into it. You say murderers get away with it, but DNA changed everything.’

  ‘You’d be surprised. Do you know how many crimes are solved thanks to DNA? Guess.’

  ‘No idea. Seventy percent?’

  ‘Five. Amazing, isn’t it? So there’s plenty of room for Poirot, after all.’ Or in our case, Plodder Praud. ‘Maybe Captain Snooty has already got it figured out.’

  ‘The denouement over dinner, huh? Something to look forward to.’ He stood up, tossing his towel over his shoulder. ‘Time for me to get back. I promised your daughter I’d get my revenge at Snap.’

  ‘Ha! Good luck with that. She has no scruples in bending the rules. Making them up if she needs to.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ He put on his flip-flops and went back down the path, the painful, gripping truth swinging back and forth in his hand as he walked.

  ‘Thank you so much for helping with Dorian. He adores you.’

  ‘My pleasure. He’s the adorable one. A real charmer, even at his age. He’ll have all the girls eating out of his hand.’ Maya Ferrucci, the last to be interviewed, was sweetness itself as she sat with Sophie in the dining room while the others gathered on the terrace. She took a sip of lemon juice and said, ‘Magali’s very lucky.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Having the grandchildren so close. Heaven knows if I’ll ever have any. I’ve got two grown up children but neither seems inclined to settle down so... If you don’t watch out, I’ll be taking him home with me.’

  ‘No problem.’ Sophie grinned. She’d warmed considerably to Maya since this morning. ‘Can I tempt you with Chloé as well? Two for the price of one.’

  ‘Perfect. She’s very smart. She’s been showing me her treasure box, explaining everything in it.’

  ‘We might have to work on Eddy, though. He’s not quite as enamoured, unless I’m mistaken.’

  ‘No, no. They’re not his thing at all. He’s got one from his previous marriage and he swore never again.’ Seeing Sophie puzzled, she added, ‘Mine are from a previous marriage too. Oh, he was as good with them as could be expected. Especially when we moved to Cameroun. They found it hard at the beginning.’

  ‘Do you miss Cameroun at all?’

  ‘I do, actually. But when the children left the nest I missed them too. And we’d spent twelve years there. Time to call it a day.’

  ‘But Eddy still goes back?’

  ‘Business trips.’ She cast a sideways glance. ‘You were asking about that at lunchtime.’

  ‘Africa kind of fascinates me. The sculptures. I’m looking for a new direction. Maybe that’s it.’

  ‘Well, you could do worse, for sure. I never even thought of painting till I went there.’

  ‘I’d love to see your work. Adeline was telling me you had an exhibition at the restaurant that burnt down. That must have been tough, all that work going up in smoke.’

  ‘One gets over it.’ A slight frown wrinkled her forehead. ‘And Eddy took the precaution of insuring them way past their market value. But that’s Eddy for you. Doesn’t know the first thing about it but he’s convinced my work is priceless. So at least there’s a silver lining. Or would be if the money ever comes through.’

  ‘It might not?’

  ‘Don’t be disingenuous, Sophie.’ For all the friendliness, Maya was quick to summon an icy smile. ‘You know there was talk of it being deliberate. It was on the national news.’

  ‘The fire, yes. But not that Eddy was –’

  ‘No, that was in La Provence. Insinuated, anyway. Our dear Lieutenant Bondy led the enquiry.’ She waved an airy hand. ‘As far as I know, it came to nothing. If you want all the juicy details, you can ask Eddy. He doesn’t make any secret of it. Personally, it doesn’t interest me. If the money comes, it comes. If not...’ The sentence ended with the nonchalant shrug of someone above such matters. ‘Ephemeral art. Isn’t that a thing these days?’

  ‘Admirable.’ Sophie dipped her head. ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t be so philosophical.’

  ‘Realistic. OK, I’ve sold a few at a decent price but to afford the lifestyle we have? That’s all down to Eddy.’

  ‘Who’s now going to write a bestseller.’

  She laughed. ‘That’ll be the day. Especially if he keeps on listening to Martin.’

  ‘He seems more inclined to listen to Martin than to Gareth. Why the animosity?’

  ‘Oh, pay no attention to that. It’s my fault. I took the initiative of signing us up and he didn’t even know till I picked him up from the airport on Saturday. So he kicked up a fuss about that, and then hit the roof when I told him how much it cost. He did some research into Gareth and he reckons all this’ – she indicated Venturi View with a circular movement of her hand – ‘doesn’t come from the sale of his books. Apparently, he’s a former hedge fund manager. So Eddy’s convinced the course is a rip-off. Well, at least Gareth’s written a couple of books so I’m sure he could learn something. But he’s just trying to rub it in that I’ve been taken for a ride.’

  ‘I see.’ Sophie hadn’t actually asked Luc how much it cost – she preferred not to know. ‘And your own feeling? About Adeline?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll get anything out of it, but it wasn’t for me I signed up. There’s nothing wrong with what she does but that stuff on the stairs? Georgia O’Keeffe was doing it much better ninety years ago.’

  ‘What brought you to exhibit in L’Ophrys in the first place? If you don’t mind my asking. Wouldn’t a proper gallery be better?’

  The way Maya squinted, it seemed that she did mind. After a while, she answered, ‘The other captain, Eveno, drove off just now like a bat out of hell. Will he be coming back?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why?’

  ‘He’s been asking me about Eddy. If he does come back, see if he got in touch with Viviane. He’ll know what you mean.’

  ‘And who is Viviane?’

  ‘Ask him. You seem to be on good terms. Or the other two.’

  Sophie had no chance to pursue the topic because at that moment, an anguished sob came from the lobby: she turned to see Penelope scuttle past like a mouse along the skirting board, climbing the stairs as rapidly as dignity would allow. The repeat of this morning’s incident was almost eerie, Penelope’s fists clamped to her mouth as she fled up to her room.

  ‘Good lord, what was that all about?’ said Maya.

  ‘I think she came out of the utility room. They must have had her in for further questioning.’

  ‘Well, I suppose we’ll get the answer soon enough.’

  They went out to the terrace, where Penelope’s display had passed unnoticed. Everyone but the Bests was there, the Forsters gaily serving aperitifs, Isadora seeking takers for what remained of her sangria. ‘It’s all got to go, haw, haw!’ Sophie chatted for a while with Claire, who studiously kept the topic to matters artistic: still life, the shine on an apple, Matisse. The aversion to any reference to murder was manifest. Was it squeamishness? Sensitivity? Hard to tell. With Maya you got what you saw, but whatever painful truth inhabited Claire, it was barricaded inside. Ambiguity. Claire Bourane had enough of it for a whole PhD.

  They were about to sit down to dinner when Martin came out. He stood a little way off with his hands in his pockets, watching them till they felt his presence and realised something was wrong. Nobody spoke, the rattle of cicadas the only sound, expanding into the silence. Martin moved forward. ‘It’s time I came clean.’ Still nobody spoke. Martin came to stand by the table. ‘There never was a necklace this morning. My wife woke up early, went for a walk. She came across Henri Seibel, they started chatting. He insulted her, pushed her around, she was... They had a bit of a tussle. Penelope was distressed. I was for calling the police but she didn’t want to cause any fuss. I decided I’d go and talk to Seibel myself.’

  Though it wasn’t yet time for the concert to end, even the cicadas stopped. The only sound to be heard was the faint
swish of a garden sprinkler next door. Nobody moved; the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for the rest of Martin’s confession. Heavily, he sat down, placing his hands on the table in front of him. He stared at them for a while as if they didn’t belong to him at all. Then he looked up. ‘The fact is I had it in mind to give him a bollocking. But when I got there, he was dead. I’ve just come clean to Praud and Bondy but I can see they don’t believe me. They haven’t accused me but they think I killed him.’

  Chapter 22 The Missing Marks

  Martin withdrew. Dinner proceeded. Wine was poured, avocado salad placed on the table, mosquito coils lit. ‘You know those things cause cancer,’ Maya said. Smoke, of whatever sort, seemed to bother her. Sophie wondered if Eddy’s cigars did the same.

  Ignoring her, Adeline said, ‘I saw what you did today, Claire. It’s coming on nicely.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Claire, who as if for protection had chosen to sit next to Sophie, managed to look delighted whilst simultaneously writhing with embarrassment. ‘Will there be a workshop tomorrow?’ A pleading smile, as if she was asking for the moon. This morning she wanted to leave, the atmosphere having soured; perhaps she thought that the murder was solved and all could return to normal.

  ‘Well, I can’t see why not.’ Adeline looked relieved as well – the restoration of bliss. ‘We thought, since we’ve lost a day, we’ll add another on Saturday to make up for it.’

  Perhaps they were right – how could you not be suspicious? The Bests hadn’t been down to breakfast at all. The first she’d seen of Martin was when he came in, shirt all askew, to say that Henri was dead. To Praud and Bondy, it must be clear as day: he’d gone to teach the old man a lesson and ended up killing him. Men have tempers, after all, and as they’d seen the night before, Martin was quick to lose his. Choleric. Liars too, the pair of them. Penelope lost her necklace. With hindsight, it was feeble. That awkward encounter on the stairs, the poor woman rushing up, all in a fluster, scared – it made sense now. You wouldn’t get into such a state if you’d lost the most priceless of diamonds. But no one being willing to scrutinise his statement aloud, they spoke of other things. New records broken – 44 degrees in Orange – the death toll mounting ever higher. And if – heaven forbid – that monstrosity in the White House won a second term, it could only get worse.

  Was it really solved, though? Martin didn’t seem ready to confess. It wasn’t me, I swear! Like a child surrounded by broken crockery. But that was often the case – the truth only comes out bit by bit.

  ‘I haven’t been a very good detective, I’m afraid. Too friendly with the target. We’re getting on wonderfully – she’s a hoot!’

  Keen to report her findings on Isadora, Tatty had bagged the place to Sophie’s right. ‘Very intrigued by the sacral chakra – that’s the genital one. We did an experiment to see if she could have an orgasm just by focusing her energy there. She almost did!’

  ‘Shh, not so loud, Tatty!’ Sophie glanced around, but everyone else’s energy was busy lambasting Trump. ‘Did you find out how she knows the Forsters?’

  ‘Oh yes, it was Gareth first, at a writer’s conference in Bristol, eight years ago, I think. Adeline a bit later. She went to Kingston Art School – Adeline, I mean. Gareth sponsored some exhibition or other and fell head over heels in love as soon as he saw her. But you know,’ she added darkly, this time lowering her voice to a whisper, ‘There’s something going on.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know what but I can feel it in the Zenhouse. The vibes aren’t all positive, far from it. I’m getting a sense of premonition.’

  Another shiver ran through Sophie’s body just as in Seibel’s cabin. What was happening? Surely not Tatty spooking her? ‘Premonition of what?’

  ‘I wish I knew, dear. But these things never announce themselves clearly. It’s a feeling.’ Making some association which Sophie couldn’t perceive, she went on, ‘Cyril went off in a dreadful hurry. I do hope he’s all right. I haven’t had a chance to speak to him.’

  ‘Just a little upset, I think. I wouldn’t bother him. He’s got a lot on his mind.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to bother him. But I do so want to hear about his African charm. Tikar. It sounds fascinating.’

  ‘Tikar? How do you even know about that?’

  ‘Luc told me at lunchtime. Very scathing of course, but then he’s not open to that sort of thing. I’m sure Cyril would be more than happy to tell me all about it. When I trained with that shaman in Vilcabamba – did I tell you?’

  ‘Mmm. Several times.’

  ‘They used a fetish too. Different cultures, same technique. Cyril and I are both very receptive.’

  ‘I dare say you are, but it’s not the best –’

  ‘Mummy, look.’ Chloé appeared at her shoulder with the nature box. ‘It’s Leila’s house.’

  ‘Why, you’ve glued the leaves on. It’s beautiful! Who’s Leila, darling?’

  Chloé put the box on the table and removed the lid. ‘There,’ she said proudly, pointing to the latest addition, a perfectly preserved dead lizard. ‘And that’s what I got with Papa and I took out the bits that aren’t nature and, and that’s Leila’s bed and, and she’s asleep but her eyes are open.’

  ‘It’s a lovely house, Chloé, I’m sure Leila’s very happy to live there. Speaking of bed, it’s way past your normal time. Five more minutes, all right? Then we’ll go up and read a story.’

  Inevitably, five turned into twenty, Chloé careful not to attract attention as strands of conversation, criss-crossing over the table, came to Sophie like fragments caught when you twiddle the knob on a transistor.

  ‘...seeing. He wasn’t teaching his students to paint, he was teaching them to see...’

  ‘...I’m wondering, though. Write or paint? Where can you make the most? That’s the question...’

  ‘...such a weird system. Two for each state, irrespective of population...’

  ‘...stuck at it, despite the rejection, the incomprehension. And Zola didn’t get him at all, they’d been friends since school here in Aix but after that it was over, they never...’

  ‘...that pile of bricks in the Tate, remember? If that’s what they call art...’

  ‘...more a matter of contour, I’d say. What do you think, Sophie? Shapes – that’s your department.’

  ‘What?’ Adeline’s expectant smile, floating across the table. ‘Shapes, uh, yes, I’m quite... Very important, yes...’ She ran a hand across her forehead, felt it hot and moist. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit out of it this evening.’

  ‘I mean,’ Eddy went on, ‘I’ve got a load of rubble at home – why aren’t I making a fortune? There must be a trick I’m missing.’

  ‘Knowing the right people,’ Gareth said. ‘And shouting out loud enough that you’re an artist.’

  ‘Well, if shouting’s all it takes,’ said Maya, ‘he’d be a millionaire.’

  Everyone laughed – and then abruptly stopped. Because at that moment, Martin appeared again, this time holding hands with Penelope. Another change of clothes: a sleeveless blue dress now, with a cardigan over her shoulders. No necklace. A hush settled on the table. Penelope addressed a sheepish smile to all before sitting down, then making eye contact exclusively with her plate. Martin, on the other hand, true to himself, had opted for ebullience. Rubbing his hands in glee, he said, ‘Right. What have we here? Avocado and prawns. Excellent.’ He poured himself a glass of wine and downed it in one go. ‘Gotta catch up. You bastards have had a head start.’ For a moment he busied himself scoffing; then, as the silence persisted, he looked up with a grin. ‘Please – don’t let me interrupt your conversation. I’m sure it was fascinating. What was it about? Let me guess. Ah, that’s right – the man who killed Henri Seibel. Well, sorry to disappoint you, but it’s as I said before.’ He put his arm round Penelope’s shoulder. ‘Seibel molested her, I went up to speak to him, he was dead. So let me repeat what Adeline suggested at lunchtime – we talk of other
things.’

  Molested. A different word now – it was ‘pushed around’ before. Sophie watched as Penelope put her hands to her chin, revealing two bluish-red marks on her forearm. Hidden at lunchtime, now displayed like evidence in a courtroom. Quite some tussle. Sophie frowned, the memory of Penelope on the stairs that morning telling her something was wrong. She replayed the scene in her mind: Penelope’s flushed face, and a hand raised to remove a lock of hair from her forehead. The marks hadn’t been there.

  Chapter 23 Martin Best

  June 4th 2019

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘Oh, the usual. Got to up our game, market share dropping, Pearson beating us in the upper-intermediates. And the train ride back a nightmare. Bomb scare at Paddington, stuck for an hour on the platform.’ He tossed his briefcase onto the sofa, the day’s tension coming out in a grumpy sigh, and crossed to the drinks cabinet to pour a scotch. He took a gulp before pecking her on the cheek. ‘And you? A good day? Safe and serene in the pastures.’

  ‘Productive, mmm. Two more chapters done. Lunch with Julia. A bit of gardening. Oh, and I signed us up for that course I mentioned.’

  ‘The one in Provence? Are you sure it’s good? I said I’d check up on that man’s credentials. Never did. What was his name again?’

  ‘Gareth Forster. Best-selling author, but anyone says that these days. Written a couple of thrillers. Oh, he’s not James Patterson but I’m not that bothered. It’ll be good just to bat around some ideas.’

  ‘Couldn’t you do that with Julia?’

  ‘She’s not that keen to see me branch into adults. Not as long as she thinks there’s mileage in Lucy.’

  Julia was her agent. She knew when she was onto a good thing. ‘And is there?’

  ‘Lucy could go on forever. But I fancy a change.’ Like Joanne, you know, after she’d finished with Potter. That’s what she’d said when she first spoke of the course. Joanne. Not Jo – not yet a member of the inner circle – but on intimate terms with the most successful novelist in history. Except that as far as he knew, she’d met ‘Joanne’ once, half a dozen years ago, at a conference about fantasy worlds. Never mind – in Penelope’s world, it was ‘Joanne.’ Oh, yes, Penelope knew a lot about fantasy worlds.