Painter Palaver

by Curtis Bausse

  To call him a friend was perhaps an exaggeration – after a while the speechifying would drive you crazy – but of all the guests at Venturi, he was the one she’d felt closest to. On the other hand, she couldn’t deny that he’d duped her; if Martin’s games were grotesque, Lyle’s were even worse. And now he’d gone and got himself killed, taking the truth with him.

  The odd man out... Odder than anyone had realised:

  I’m Ashley Banks, Lyle Carmichael’s sister. I’m getting in touch with people he knew in France and elsewhere to tell them he died three weeks ago. He was shot by police on Irvington Avenue, Tulsa, where he was reported for making a disturbance. They said he was armed and resisting arrest. Since it wasn’t filmed, we don’t know the truth of that. I don’t think we ever will. I’m sorry to write with this news. Lyle was always a good man to us. We’ll miss him.

  The following day, Sophie composed a careful message of condolence. She gave a brief account of her acquaintance with Lyle, stressing his gentleness and the contribution that the breadth of his culture brought to the whole group. She gave no hint that she knew anything of his past, nor of his expressed desire to get into the mind of a killer. Some things are best left unsaid.

  And what of the others? An email from Claire shed no light on her link to Henri Seibel, but proudly announced that her ‘Edward Munch phase’ was over. As proof of this, she sent some pictures to Sophie, who wrote back to compliment her (though in her view they still looked like screams, just a bit more floral).

  On Penelope Best’s website, the release of another in the Lucy Locket series was promised for the following March; for the moment at least there was no mention of books for adults – no Parched Oasis or Shrivelled Palms, thank heaven. The oasis, in any case, wasn’t parched any more: much to Luc’s delight, the postnatal haze had lifted, and in a double boost to his happiness, Sophie had recovered not just her libido but her mojo, joyfully making shapes in the studio without a corpse in sight.

  Pre-intermediate EFL learners, she saw, had a new title to enjoy: The Hidden Path (‘copse’ must be too abstruse a word for his readership) was a ‘mystery story in the classic tradition of Agatha Christie’. Sophie ordered it straightaway and read it in less than an hour. An elderly woman killed next door, a visitor wrongfully accused, the true culprit discovered thanks to a shoe left behind. Congratulations, smart alec. You got your whodunit after all.

  More surprising was Maya Ferrucci’s website. Not the paintings, but the claim that ‘she lives in Provence with her husband, a bestselling author.’ She must have married someone new, thought Sophie, but no: Laissé Pour Mort, by Eddy Ferrucci, was a thriller about the ‘secret war’ conducted by France during the 1950s in Cameroun. Sophie read that one as well. To call it ‘bestselling’ was wishful thinking for a book that hadn’t even been finished, but it was posted on Wattpad, where it had a lot of likes and followers. She added a ‘like’ herself – the book was surprisingly good. Decidedly, Venturi View had been an inspiration after all. What intrigued her most, though, was a fleeting reference to ‘a vicious mercenary’ by the name of Auguste Eveno. Where on earth had Eddy got that from? For a moment she was tempted to investigate, but then thought better of it. Cyril, Auguste, Tikar – whatever occult jinks that particular trinity got up to were best left alone.

  Cyril himself wrote to her once from Cameroun, where the second wedding ceremony had been ‘stupendous’; he was enthralled by his reception into Gabrielle’s extended family. He hadn’t been promoted as he’d hoped, but no one else had either. The decision had been postponed, and in the meantime he was on loan, occupying the post but not officially. In the circumstances, it was the best he could hope for. Reading between the lines, Sophie understood that if he put a foot wrong, he’d be sent back, possibly to the purgatory of a small town like Bordumont. With such a threat hanging over him, she had no doubt his behaviour would be exemplary.

  Venturi View itself was up for sale, with an asking price of 3.2 million euros. ‘We’re very interested,’ said Sophie when she phoned to enquire. ‘If you could just knock off three million.’ Not very amused, the estate agent replied that the deal was practically settled with a local property dealer. ‘Would that be Gino Escarola?’ she asked, and the answer came back: Yes, it would.

  From a phone call to Thibault Seibel, she learnt that Gareth was on his own next door preparing the sale of the property. No news of Adeline. Was she in Ireland, Sophie wondered, with Bumble, Ginny and Vita? The perfect arrangement: Clover Leroy elaborating on what she herself put into practice with Dilly.

  Sophie ardently hoped it wouldn’t turn out to be Isadora either. That bounteous body, that wonderful laugh – not to mention the collaboration with Tatty (provisional title: A Bed’s Eye View of Bliss). Even the klepto habit – the stately homes she stole from might not agree, but wasn’t it rather endearing? No, it couldn’t be Bumble, surely. And in fact there was nothing to incriminate her, apart from a few lines penned by a notoriously unreliable narrator. In court, that would be a non-starter.

  It was no one. A conclusion as comforting, really, as the Christmas lights outside, and the cup of hot chocolate in her hand. But what she actually said to the General was, ‘Hmm. Case unsolved. Agatha wouldn’t have liked that.’

  ‘I dare say,’ he acknowledged. ‘But in the real world, proving beyond reasonable doubt is hard at the best of times.’

  Would it turn out to be like the Grégory affair? Several suspects, a Crow, and a mystery still unsolved thirty-five years later. Every so often in the real world, you have to resign yourself to such an eventuality.

  As they walked along the Cours Mirabeau, she wondered why he’d asked her if they could meet. Strange that a man so busy should devote half an hour to a conversation that for all its pleasantness was hardly of great significance. She’d been excited: this, she’d thought, must be to propose a mission in some far-flung corner of the planet. Perhaps he was saving it till last. But they drew ever closer to the car park and still nothing came. He commented on the Christmas lights, noted the weather was mild for the season, enquired after her children. She said they were fine, thank you, Dorian was sitting up on his own and Chloé was getting excited already about Santa Claus. Then he said, ‘We look after Nolan a lot. Our grandson. He’s three, very cute, very smart. His father does what he can of course but...’

  Sophie waited for more. ‘His father...?’

  He walked on, silent for a moment before saying in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘Our daughter died giving birth.’

  ‘Oh... I’m so sorry, that’s...’ She didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t asking for sympathy but he needed a better response than that. ‘It must be rare these days.’

  ‘Exceedingly. They thought there might be complications so they’d opted for a Caesarean. Which would have been fine but unfortunately the anaesthetist was drunk. Inserted the oxygen tube in Roxanne’s oesophagus instead of the windpipe. She entered a coma, died four days later. Never saw Nolan, I’m afraid.’

  They said goodbye at the Rotonde. As he shook her hand with a wistful smile, expressing the hope that they’d meet again, it struck her that there’d been no other purpose to his request. Half an hour with someone different, that’s all. Someone, perhaps, who gave him a glimpse of the motherhood he’d never see.

  She entered the lift and descended underground. Had his talk of a mission abroad been as much a fantasy for him as it was for her? How much of his ‘high regard’ for her was a ploy to maintain the illusion that he still had a daughter? Perhaps that was harsh, but she got the impression there’d never be any investigation of cybercriminals in Moscow or trafficking gangs in Manila. Never mind. Life had a habit of dealing surprises all the same, both good and bad. Sooner or later another would come along, and in the meantime, she had an important mission from Luc to fulfil: stop off at the supermarket to stock up on nappies for Dorian.

  Author’s Note

  As with my other books, I have used artistic licence when writin
g Painter Palaver. The village of Saint Abel is fictional, as are the properties of Venturi View and Venturi Gardens. The fire which ravaged part of the Sainte Victoire took place in 1989, not 2019, and the heatwave which killed so many people took place in 2003. The record temperatures noted are, however, those of 2019.

  I have used the French spelling for Marseille and Lyon rather than the English, where they have a final -s. No special reason, except that after living so long in France, I find it hard to adopt a spelling which I now see as strange. Likewise for Cameroun, rather than Cameroon.

  Santon Strife, the fourth (and final) book in the Sophie Kiesser series, will be released in December 2021. Subscribers to my newsletter are kept informed of this and other releases, and offered a special discount at the time of launch. For this novel, they also had the chance to participate in a draw where the prize was to have a character named after them. It was won by Jackie Tansky, who lends her name in the book to Thibault’s wife Jackie Seibel.

  Many thanks for reading Painter Palaver. Would you like to write a review for it? It’s possible to bring potential readers to a sales page, but reviews then play a huge part in influencing purchase decisions. Your review will therefore be invaluable in helping the book to reach a wider audience; I’m sure I speak for all authors when I say that we rely on people who are willing to take the time to share their opinion with potential readers who wish to know more before making a decision. You will certainly make this author very happy if you do so – thank you!

  Aix en Provence, June 2021

  More books by Curtis Bausse

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  ‘You need one-third almonds, one-third fruit confits, one-third sugar – and a quarter savoir faire.’ So said the Provençal writer Marcel Pagnol. Here you’ll also find a dose of greed, a splash of revenge, and a pinch of thwarted love. Mix all that together and what do you get? A perfect calamity.

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  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Malcolm for producing the cover of Painter Palaver, to Jean-Christophe for the detailed tour of his nursery and to the Granet Museum in Aix en Provence for providing me with valuable information about the Ecole Provençale of painting. My sincere thanks to Teresa, who gave very helpful comments on a previous draft of the book. Any remaining errors are entirely my own.

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