Painter Palaver

by Curtis Bausse

  Will any of that happen if Pico turns him down in favour of Praud?

  He should have taken the day off. He could be with her now, helping her lug that suitcase, seeing her off at the airport. Instead he’s floundering in a wilderness of uncertainty.

  Another dispute this morning. He couldn’t help it. Just seeing Praud brings out the worst in him. What’s more, Bondy was there, Magali Rousseau too. He mustn’t let them see him like that. What if they report it to Pico, corroborate the slander already put about by Ronan Praud? It was bad enough letting Sophie see – she didn’t say it, but yesterday she was shocked. Not that she’ll go squealing to Pico, he can be confident of that, but he must be careful all the same. Reputations are easily hurt and rumours easily spread. He reaches into his pocket, takes out his epaulette, and unfolds it on his thigh. For a minute or two, he strokes it with his fingers. Then he puts it back and returns to his sandwich.

  After the spat with Praud, he went for a drive through the blackened landscape of the fire, then got out and walked. It was like a different planet, uninhabitable, the few remaining trees seared and dead, their branches clutching the sky like skeletal fingers. He came to the charred shell of L’Ophrys, reduced to an eerie scar in the midst of devastation. He walked back to his car in the midday sun, noticing tufts of wiry grass poking up through the soot. He took some comfort in that. No matter how bad it gets, one day similar timid shoots always sprout through the ruins of your soul.

  After the walk he got back in his car and drove to the swanky villa outside Moudiret where Gino Escarola lives. It was easy enough to gain access. The death of a friend, express condolences, talk about this and that. But Escarola has dealt with enough gendarmes to read their intentions well. Seibel’s death had come as a bombshell, he said, it was devastating, they practically grew up together. Getting into scrapes. Valentin’s phrase came back to him and Cyril asked what sort of scrapes, but got no proper answer. Teenage stuff, said Escarola, you know how it is. Cyril didn’t. He never got into scrapes himself except the ones imagined by his father. Or not imagined most of the time – his father didn’t need excuses to get out the belt. And the third Musketeer, said Cyril that would be Eddy Ferrucci perhaps? Escarola scoffed, asked him where he got that from. ‘Young Bondy?’ he said, then laughed. ‘What are you listening to him for?’

  Smooth as a slithering snake, and just as crooked. Oh, the talk was pleasant, even friendly, but Cyril came away with nothing. Escarola talked like a politician. Hearty, affable, eloquent, every word taking you anywhere except where you want to go. Anecdotes, jokes, irrelevance, digressions, bombast – Escarola knew every trick in the book.

  ‘Sniffing for something, are you?’ he said when Cyril moved onto the topic of Cameroun. ‘I wish I could oblige.’

  Cyril doesn’t know precisely what he is sniffing for. Anything that will get him back into Pico’s good books. After leaving Escarola, he sent a message to Pico saying it might be time to interrogate Ferrucci directly. Pico replied he’d come to Venturi this afternoon to discuss it.

  With a grimace, Cyril finishes the sandwich and takes a swig of beer to get rid of the taste. He pays at the counter and goes outside to his car. The beer and the heat make him feel woozy, and for a moment he sits at the wheel, gripping it tight.

  ‘Do it!’ he shouts. Then he puts the car into gear and drives away.

  Chapter 31 Toothbrush Trouble

  ‘Gareth, dear,’ said Isadora. ‘Might I suggest we stick to what you planned and not let any of this distract us?’

  Everyone looked at Gareth expectantly. There was an awkward silence while he appeared to be lost for words, in a different place altogether. Then he nodded. ‘Quite. I promised a workshop so a workshop it is. Agreed?’

  Lyle murmured assent, Eddy spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture, and Penelope, who’d missed the reason for their being distracted in the first place, exclaimed, ‘That’s a wonderful idea!’ Blithe as one of the Famous Five setting off for a picnic on the beach.

  ‘Good.’ Gareth took out an envelope from his folder. ‘Now it’s important for me to know what you want. But it’s also important for you. Is it just something to pass the time, show to your friends, or do you want to write the next Harry Potter? So we’ll start with a simple question. What are your ambitions as a writer? I want you to find a quiet spot somewhere, think it over, and write down your answer. I’ll take it in and we’ll discuss them tomorrow. For today’s exercise I’m giving you each a prompt with the name of an object.’ He tipped some slips of paper out of the envelope. ‘Without naming the object itself, write a paragraph about it that’s going to intrigue the reader, make them want to know what’s going on. Mystery, suspense, drama, emotion – anything that will have them curious to know more. As a further challenge, I’m setting a maximum of a hundred words. You’ll find it easier to count your words if you use your laptops. Then you can print it out in the lobby. We’ll come together for constructive mutual criticism in, what shall we say, forty minutes?’

  Sophie opened her paper and rolled her eyes. You’re kidding! But no matter – she wasn’t here to write about the mystery of a toothbrush. She had enough mystery with the marks on Penelope’s arm.

  Everyone went inside, dispersing to different rooms with their laptops. Penelope chose the television room and was about to shut the door when Sophie popped her head through. ‘Do you mind if I have a quick word?’

  Somewhat warily, Penelope let her in, and they sat on the edge of the sofa facing each other. Sophie wasn’t sure how to start. There seemed no easy way to have a meaningful conversation with Penelope, who lacked the sort of qualities that would make it natural. Lyle’s readiness, Adeline’s spontaneity, Isadora’s warmth – none of that was apparent in Penelope. She talked, yes, but from a distance, as if the words weren’t really hers but borrowed, sentences brought out from the cupboard like a tea set.

  ‘I’ve been speaking to Lieutenant Bondy.’ She decided the only way was direct confrontation. Rattle her until she had no option. ‘He said Henri Seibel molested you. That wasn’t the word Martin used when he first admitted. “Pushed you around a bit,” he said. I wondered if Bondy was exaggerating.’

  Penelope’s face remained impassive, blank as a plaster statue. Then she said, ‘There’s a rumour going round you’re a private detective.’

  ‘Newly qualified.’ No point denying it – surprising in fact that it hadn’t come out sooner. ‘But I’m not officially involved. It’s a criminal case – the gendarmes deal with it. I’m simply trying to reach my own understanding of what happened. If you’d rather not tell me, I’ll understand.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to hide. Molest – the word’s quite clear, isn’t it?’

  ‘Words mean different things to different people. It might mean, for example, that he dug his fingers into your arm and left those marks. But when I saw you on the stairs yesterday, they weren’t there. So who did the molesting? Seibel or Martin?’

  Penelope left a long silence, her lips pressed in a prim smile through which there appeared a curious hint of triumph. ‘When I was young, my parents were told I was autistic. For several years we believed it – my communication skills are not what you might consider normal. In fact there’s no name for what I have, or rather different psychologists called it different things. Personally, I think of it as Lucy Locket syndrome.’ She paused, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘The suitcase.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The prompt Gareth gave me. I’m not going to write it. If I start, a hundred words would become a thousand, ten thousand, more. What I have, you see, is a different reality from you. A different way of seeing the world, a different set of clothes in the suitcase. Call it a gift or call it a curse – I’ve stopped wondering which. Both at the same time. With it I don’t live, without it I don’t write. Simple as that.’

  ‘I see.’ A mess. Martin’s words ran deeper than she’d imagined. And yet it seemed that on the surface at least, Penelope had t
he mess well under control, letting out only so much as the circumstances required. ‘Thank you for the explanation. But to return to my question, what happened? Between you and Martin, I mean now. He said he went up to comfort you – he clearly did more than that. I don’t want to pry into your marriage, but Martin’s in there now being interviewed, possibly facing a murder charge.’

  ‘If you’re asking, did he tell me he killed Seibel, no he didn’t. I have no idea whether he did or not. That’s up to them to find out. As for the marks, he wanted to know what Seibel had done.’

  ‘And that was his way of asking? What did you say?’

  ‘You’re quite right – different things to different people. What a man might see as pushing around, a woman might call assault.’ The prim little smile became a smirk. ‘Between the two is molesting.’

  Having tipped Chloé’s treasure into a plastic crate, Adeline was painting flowers on the box with such exquisite care that Chloé had left her to it and turned instead to making a cardboard house with Magali. Tatty, meanwhile, had abandoned all pretensions to art and disappeared into the Zenhouse with her new best friend Isadora. The only two who appeared to be following Gareth’s instructions with any sort of commitment were Lyle, typing away on his laptop in the dining room, and – much to her surprise – Eddy, alone in the leisure room, brow furrowed in concentration as he applied pen to paper. Deciding that out of courtesy she ought at least to write something, Sophie went up to the bedroom, where Luc was with his laptop on the bed while Dorian slept.

  ‘Working?’ she asked as she booted up her own.

  ‘Not at all.’ He chuckled. ‘Getting a hard-on.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think your aunt is right, you know. “Davina Crest is the author of seven acclaimed novels. In her spare time she cooks, knits and plays the harp to her two Burmese cats, Vita and Ginny.” That’s the bio. And here’s the blurb from her latest. “When intrepid archaeologist Clover Leroy finds a sacred bone in the jungle of Borneo, little does she suspect that it’s a potent aphrodisiac. Soon her deepest desires are awakened, and much to the delight of her young assistant Felicity, the pair embark on a steamy voyage of discovery.” It’s called The Tip Of My Tongue. The first chapter’s here.’ He swivelled the screen towards her. ‘Now where’s my bank card? I’ve just got to get the rest.’

  Steamy indeed – Davina lost no time in getting to the point, and by the end of page three, the power of the sacred bone had already wriggled its way to Felicity’s throbbing clit. Sophie passed the laptop back to her husband. ‘I wonder if I could do that with a toothbrush.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. Just my writing prompt.’ Then a more unsavoury thought occurred. ‘I hope you’re not... It’s only temporary, you know.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘My libido thing.’

  ‘Oh. Sure. No worries.’ He waved a hand, grinning. ‘In the meantime, I’ll just get on with this.’ He read a bit more before looking up. ‘Do you think Gareth knows?’

  ‘Presumably. Since it’s there for the world to see. Aha!’ She pointed a finger. ‘Researching Davina Crest, wondering about Gareth. Next you’ll be scouring the garden for the missing glove. Maybe we should recruit you.’

  ‘Rubbish. Curiosity, that’s all. Unlike you – supposed to be looking for your mojo and there you are sniffing around with those two Captains.’

  ‘Never mind my mojo, Tatty says I need to find myself.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know if I’m tormented enough to be an artist. Maybe I should cut off my ear or drown myself in absinthe. I mean, look at everyone here. At least a PI doesn’t have that sort of pressure.’

  ‘Oh, no, just gets almost killed every time. Well, if you get into trouble, don’t count on me to rescue you. The only fight I ever got into was at primary school. They beat the shit out of me. Been a wimp ever since. I couldn’t even beat Willy.’

  Sophie laughed. Willy, five years old, was the bully at Chloé’s school. ‘Don’t worry, dear, I won’t get into trouble, I promise. And if I do, I’ll just call Willy instead.’

  She went back downstairs. The door of the television room was closed, but from inside came the sound of Martin’s voice as he spoke with Penelope. Telling her what? It was over? He’d confessed? Sophie listened for a moment but couldn’t make out the words, and she walked out to the terrace, where the others were discussing the beastliness of the task. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t come up with anything,’ Sophie said as she took a seat. ‘A toothbrush? That was horrible!’

  Gareth chortled. ‘Never mind. What counts is the attempt. The process.’

  ‘Mine was a broom,’ said Isadora. ‘I had an idea – witch on a broomstick – but then I got side-tracked.’

  Gareth nodded and after a moment’s hesitation, drew a deep breath. ‘Eddy?’

  ‘Light bulb.’ He flicked a hand. ‘Didn’t bother with that. The first question was better. Ambitions as a writer. A couple of light bulb moments there. First off, it’s a product. The question is –’

  ‘Missed all the fun again, have I?’ Martin strode out with a broad grin on his face. ‘You could at least have waited till they’d finished torturing me. Never mind, Penelope told me all about it. My ambition? Write a good mystery, that’s what. It shouldn’t be too difficult with all you lot to draw on. I’ve got the title already. Corpse in the Copse. Not strictly accurate, but close enough. What do you think?’

  So much for a confession. Where did that leave Praud? Praying no doubt for some decent DNA on the gardening fork or the glove.

  No one replied to Martin’s intervention, and having made his point, he sat down and reached for a sheet of paper in front of him. ‘But I’ve interrupted. Very sorry. Let’s see what you’ve been up to.’ He turned the paper over. ‘Hmm. A hundred words I was told, so this is disqualified for a start.’ He read it through to himself, then looked up, astonished. ‘Well, well! Disqualified perhaps, but excellent. Why, Gareth, congratulations! Would you mind if I read it aloud? You say he’s useless, Eddy, but a murder confession like this? I love it!’

  Chapter 32 Fruit Gum Hunt

  Zen and the Art of Mosquito Murder

  The neighbour was burning leaves again. Driving us crazy. ‘What’s the point of having a garden,’ I said, ‘if we can’t sit out in it?’

  ‘If he does it again, I’m calling the police.’ When it comes to the neighbour, Adeline’s fury runs even deeper than mine. The smoke, she says, penetrates the sheets on the washing line. At times it’s so thick we can hardly see our beautiful Aleppo pine.

  Izzie, an old friend come to visit, smiled and nodded in that soft, placid way of hers. She’s a Buddhist, and she moves in harmony with everything around her. I watched her watch as Adeline massacred mosquitoes – she didn’t say anything, but it troubled her.

  I found that intriguing. ‘Yes, I know all life is precious,’ I said, ‘but a mozzie? You just let it bite you? And turn the other cheek, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘If it was really annoying, I’d kill it. In a Buddhist way, that is.’

  ‘So there’s a Buddhist way of killing? Meditate for an hour first? You’d be covered in bites by then.’

  Izzie thought about the problem. ‘No, quite the opposite, really. One big slap and think no more about it.’

  That was a couple of days ago. Now we’re sitting in the garden again, and a glorious light envelops the pine in a golden glow. The mozzies are out in force, though, and Adeline’s getting nervous. ‘Still,’ she says. ‘At least there’s no smoke this evening. That’s a blessing.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think we’ll be bothered by smoke again,’ I say. ‘That problem’s settled now.’

  ‘Really? You called the police? That’s good!’

  ‘The police? Good heavens, no.’ I smile placidly. ‘That’s not very Buddhist.’

  ‘I don’t know where this came from.’ The way Gareth held the paper, it might have been rotting flesh. For a moment he seemed on the point of t
earing it into shreds, but instead he screwed it into a ball and tossed it back on the table. ‘No need to critique it, anyway,’ he added with a watery smile. ‘Whoever wrote it did a good job – achieved the effect they wanted.’ He gave an irritated sigh. ‘I was hoping we’d actually have a useful workshop. A shame there are some who use it to play their own games.’ Casting a curious sideways glance at Isadora, he stomped into the house.

  The workshop over before it had even begun, the others drifted away, leaving Sophie to straighten out the paper and read it again. The Crow? The other two texts were in French, and short enough for anyone to have written them, except perhaps Penelope. The Ferruccis’ English was good, but not good enough for this, and Claire’s certainly wasn’t. Which left two possibilities: the Crow could be either be two different people or a native English speaker who’d written them all.

  When she knocked on the door of the interview room, it was opened by Bondy just enough to stick his head through the gap. ‘Yes?’

  ‘May I have a word?’

  ‘We’re busy right now.’

  ‘It might be important.’ She showed him the text. ‘It seems like a confession, ostensibly written by Gareth Forster. But he obviously wouldn’t write it himself, so it could be a second crow.’

  ‘We didn’t get this one under the door.’ Captain Praud studied the text thoroughly before setting the paper aside. ‘We’ll see whose prints are found.’

  ‘Everyone’s, more or less. It went round the whole table before Gareth crumpled it up.’

  He gave a little shrug. ‘In that case it’s not much use to us.’

  ‘And the accusations themselves? Claire, Eddy, now Gareth. Is there any basis to any of them?’