Paint a Murder

by Lily Ashton

  “What am I going to do, Patches?” She rubbed the pony’s face. “Joe is furious with me and I need to make it right.”

  The pony pulled at her jeans pocket with his lips.

  “There’s no point looking there.” She lifted the pony’s head. “I’ve given you my last Polo. But seriously, Patches. You know how much I like Joe but he wants me to move in and … well, I’m not sure I can do it. Not yet anyway. At the same time, I don’t want to lose him – that is, in a definitely maybe kind of way.”

  Patches muzzled her arm, then caught her bag strap with his teeth and jerked it towards him.

  “Hey, stop!” She laughed, and with a lighter tread she retraced her footsteps, back along the river and over Daisy Dawn’s gangway. She opened the hatch door and stepped down the companionway into the saloon, still heavy with the smell of a smouldering Joe.

  With dinner safely stored in the fridge, Alice moved through Daisy’s sparsely furnished open plan living space, opening the windows to catch any breeze that might break the humid air. Each of the barge’s large windows framed a view of the river – a constantly changing exhibition – and she looked out, thinking of the long, fretful day a year ago that she spent viewing rental properties. Stopping for a drink at The Coffee Pot, she had seen a postcard advertising Daisy Dawn on Livvie’s notice board. A phone call later and she was standing in the same spot in the saloon, taking in the stylish modern furniture, the elegant oatmeal walls and carpets. She had already decided to take the barge.

  It ranked as one of the best decisions she’d ever made.

  In the cabin, she closed the pale wood wardrobe door and picked a pillow from the floor, brushing off the cover and returning it to the bed.

  Alice changed into a pair of casual shorts and as she threw her jeans onto a wicker chair, the envelope with JM’s note fluttered out of the pocket. She read it again, but she was still thinking of Joe. She put the note back in the envelope and shoved it in a drawer under a pile of underwear.

  She settled down on the bamboo sofa facing the windows that looked over the river. With her laptop on her knees, she typed Joe’s email address.

  ‘Hi Joe,’ she wrote. Then she stared at the screen.

  Unable to come up with anything else, she sent an email to her local Member of Parliament about releasing his painting from the clutches of Westminster instead. She received a picture of a smiley MP in response, with a promise to answer her question within five working days.

  An email asking Monica Streatham for an appointment to view the council’s art collection drew a similar response, but without the customer-friendly smile. Alice dialled Monica’s number. There was no reply, so she left a message asking her to call back.

  She leant over to the wooden coffee table, removed the lid of a half-filled glass jar and foraged through the sweets inside. She singled out a pear drop and popped it in her mouth. Back to Joe’s email, she wrote a few lines, read them over and made changes. She wrote another paragraph, signing off with an extra ‘x’. A reading from beginning to end resulted in a punch to the sofa and she deleted the whole thing.

  She picked up her phone and hit Joe’s name. As it rang, she leant back against the sofa and gulped for breath. She was unprepared for his voicemail, and muttered a quick, “Hey it’s me, I’ll call you later,” and hung up. Not what she had planned.

  About to open the fridge for an evening glass of wine, she remembered Roddy Rafferty’s earlier offer and headed back through the hatch door for a glass of red with her neighbour.

  Chapter 5

  “Come on over, Alice Haydon, Senior Curator, come on over!” Roddy boomed from the bottom of the gangway.

  Alice crossed the creaking plank and fell into his embrace, the older man’s scraggy beard tickling her cheek as he crushed her in a bear hug.

  “Dear girl, I’m delighted about your new job. I think a little drink is required to celebrate.”

  He rolled across the deck to a rusting, metal table, where he poured wine into two large glasses. “I thought we’d start with a little Rioja … I’ve tested it already and it’s very good. Here’s to your well-deserved promotion to the exalted heights of senior curating. Salut!” Roddy raised his glass above his head before taking a hearty gulp.

  Alice settled into a faded deckchair and sipped her wine.

  “Now, tell me more about this centenary show of yours.” Roddy took the director’s chair. “It strikes me that asking Great Wheaton’s esteemed residents to pick out artworks is the recipe for a jumble sale, not a professional art exhibition.”

  “My thoughts too, at least at first, but there’s one exception.” Alice told him about Beach and her encounter with Vivien Taylor. “But the odd thing is, somebody wants to meet me later tonight, to talk about Beach. The very same painting.”

  “Who wants to meet you?”

  “I’ve no idea, they just sent a note to my office this morning, asking me to meet them on the bridge.”

  “Dearie me, sounds like a silly prank. You’re not going to go are you?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. But they obviously know something about Beach and, hopefully, where I can find it, so I’m tempted to go.”

  “Well, if you want to waste your time, that’s up to you.” Roddy slapped a mosquito against his thigh.

  “Anyway, I still have to organise a good show. Duncan thinks that involving local people will drive up the gallery’s flagging visitor numbers.”

  “No doubt he’s right. But doesn’t that make the curator’s role redundant?”

  “I thought I would visit some of the lenders in their homes and have a nose around, see if I can find something better. Then I would be picking the work. But there are eighty pieces in the exhibition and I can’t get around that many houses.”

  “Isn’t there someone at the gallery who can help you?”

  “Not really, everyone is stretched enough already. I can’t ask them to take on something that’s not strictly required.” Alice beamed. “Hey, what about you? You know more about art than anyone I know. If there’s a masterpiece to be sniffed out in this town, you’re just the person to do it.”

  “Dear girl, you’re flattering me. Though I do have a good eye, if I say so myself!”

  Alice jumped out of the deckchair, rushed over to Roddy and went down on one knee. “Will you be my exhibition partner, Roddy? Please?”

  He put a hand on his chin and raised an eyebrow. “Hmm … let me see.”

  “It’ll be fun working together. You’ll be paid, of course.”

  Where the money would come from, she had no idea. Duncan wouldn’t approve the expenditure, especially after knocking back her leaflet suggestion. He probably wouldn’t like Roddy working for him either. But he did say he wanted a high-quality exhibition, and Roddy’s experience would be invaluable.

  “Ah well,” said Roddy, “now you’ve mentioned money, I don’t see how I can refuse!”

  “You already know some of the lenders, so if their original choice is not up to par, you can persuade them to swap it for something else. They’d be thrilled to have a famous artist pick out one of their artworks for an exhibition.”

  “Getting paid to visit my friends, that’s my kind of job.”

  Alice picked up her glass from the deck.

  “Then there’s the catalogue. I want to do something different for a change. A bit about each lender and how they acquired their painting, with some good photos too. But it should be fun and entertaining.”

  “So, you want a gossip and picture book. A hardback version of Hello!?”

  “Roddy, you read my mind!” Alice giggled. “Though, we’ll have to take some of the pieces whether we like them or not – Vivien Taylor’s for starters. She won’t tell me which painting she’s lending. She’s being a bit cloak and dagger. This sudden unveiling and then there’s her mad security instructions.�
��

  “Oh?” Roddy kicked off his flip-flops.

  “She doesn’t want anyone to know when the painting is being delivered to the gallery. She’ll send Duncan some cryptic text message telling him it’s on its way. Poor Tommy will have to be on call at all times, so he can take immediate delivery.”

  “Dearie, me, the woman is a shameless exhibitionist.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, I think she’s trying to be helpful. The unveiling event will be good publicity for the gallery.”

  “Vivien will always try to be helpful. The point is, who is she trying to help?”

  Roddy topped up their glasses.

  “You should come with me to Vivien’s, after all you’re going to help me with the exhibition and it’ll be the perfect time to get some gossip from lenders.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “And then there’s the Beach situation. Though, I’m sure that’s just a misunderstanding.”

  Roddy stroked his beard. “I’m sure it’s not. Where Vivien goes, confusion generally follows.”

  “Oh, surely not. You know how often the council makes mistakes, it’s taken you forever to sort out your council tax.” Alice crossed the deck, leaning against the side. “By the way Roddy, I’m pleased you’re painting again. A landscape too, something completely different. What made you decide to do that?”

  “These days, I find abstracts too emotionally draining, which is probably why I’ve made such a hash of them since Elisabeth died. Landscapes are the antidote to all that, they’re civilised and harmonious and they make me feel peaceful. And I don’t even mind that they’re not cool.”

  “A landscape of yours would be amazingly cool. Please, carry on. I can’t wait to see it finished.”

  “As you’re flattering me so sweetly, I will dab a little more and see how it turns out.” A shadow crossed his eyes despite the words of optimism.

  “Promise?”

  “I promise, on one condition. Whilst I think that your occasional impulsive outbursts are charming, not everyone is as good-natured as me. So perhaps you should limit your spontaneity to one dose a day. You don’t have to become all tick boxy, just don’t do anything silly.”

  “Outbursts? Me? Don’t know where that came from but okay.” Alice looked across the river. A pair of ducks clambered out of the water and waddled up the bank, settling in the grass for the night.

  “I saw Joe this morning.” Alice heard behind her. “What did he have to say about your new role? He must be delighted for you.”

  “Yeah. He is.”

  “He was off to his uncle’s birthday do, he was saying. Weren’t you supposed to go too?”

  Alice spun around and was met with a Roddy Rafferty poker face special.

  “I wanted to go, but I didn’t have any holiday left.”

  Roddy’s usually animated face and body stiffened. Alice fiddled with her shorts pocket, her gaze darting away from his face, then back.

  “Has he asked you to move in with him again?”

  “It sort of came up recently.”

  “You know it would make life simpler if you both lived at the same place.”

  “I don’t want to live with Joe. Besides, I love Daisy and living here on the river.”

  “Of course you do and you could still keep Daisy, use her as an office or something.”

  “I like my independence and I’m not ready to give it up.”

  “Independence is overrated, Alice. I’ve lived with it a long time and it’s not good company.”

  Alice rubbed sweaty palms against her shorts. Taking a sip of wine, she rolled the rich fruity liquid around her mouth, before gulping it down.

  “Do you think about Elisabeth often?”

  “It’s been twenty-four years, but there still isn’t a day I don’t think of her.” He contemplated the deck before fixing Alice with a doe-eyed frown. “After she went, life became so complicated. There was nothing I could have done to stop the idiot driver who took her away from me; but you can stop Joe walking away from you.”

  Alice sighed away a tear before it formed. “I couldn’t go to Galway today, Roddy. I’m sure Joe understands.”

  “I know you’re thinking of your father, but not every man is like him. Joe cares for you, he’s a good man and sometimes he needs all of your attention.”

  The sun ended its slow fall into the fields, flaming the willow branches on the opposite bank. Alice shivered and rubbed her bare arms.

  “I think I can do without the fortune cookie philosophy tonight, so I’ll call it a day.”

  “I’m just giving you some friendly advice …”

  But Alice was already halfway across the gangway and the rest of Roddy’s advice stayed on the barge’s deck.

  There was nobody on the bridge when she arrived, so with five minutes to spare, Alice ambled to the central hump and stood beneath a lamppost.

  From the waterside terrace of Jerry’s Bar, music played for the few remaining customers. Alice rested her forearms on the bridge’s parapet and gazed into the inky pool beneath. Reflections from a string of coloured lights played on the surface, and traces of steak dinners permeated the air.

  Despite searching her contacts list for anyone who could conceivably sign off ‘JM’, the identity of the note’s sender was still a mystery to Alice. At first, she had worried about meeting a stranger alone and late at night. But she figured that this part of town was well lit and Jerry’s was close by. Besides, she was dying to know what JM had to say about Beach.

  The musicians began to pack up and Alice watched the last punters leave the bar, just as St Edmunds’s clock struck eleven. A stubby man approached the bridge, short bandy legs driving him towards her until they were level. His bowed head obscured his features, though tufts of amber curls rimming his peaked cap glimmered under the lamplight. Alice’s knees weakened and her shoulders hunched as she leant against the lamppost’s reassuring bulk.

  The man passed without a glance and once he had disappeared into the darkness, Alice breathed again.

  She scanned the surrounding roads and paths. There were the odd few people on their way home from the pub and a couple of dog walkers, but nobody was coming in her direction. JM was already half an hour late.

  One last glance over her shoulder, then she strode off the bridge and home.

  Alice lay on the sofa in Daisy’s saloon. Visions of dead bodies, upset boyfriends, missing paintings and empty bridges swirled around her mind. She felt exhausted. But she would never get to sleep with her mind in such a spin. There was only one thing for it.

  She jumped up, closed the curtains tight and pushed the coffee table to the wall. She opened a drawer in the sideboard and took out a CD she kept specially for these occasions. She put the disc into the player, skipped to track five and turned the volume up. Alice was ready when Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl began. She punched the air and danced until her feet ached.

  Chapter 6

  The next morning Alice walked into Great Wheaton’s heart, past thin buildings – pink, yellow and more – lining narrow streets. At the corner of Bull’s Passage she ducked by a triangular window protruding from the side of The Bull Hotel. Crossing the road, she felt spherical stones beneath her Vans, the same stones trod by medieval merchants with leather shoes and turned up toes.

  She swung her bag by her side as she weaved between the stalls on Market Square, where sultry air was trapped beneath striped awnings. A musty, piquant aroma drew her to the cheese stall, but it was too hot to have smelly cheese in her bag. It was always a sweet day, though.

  “Hey Marilyn! Anything new?” Alice tripped light fingers along the edge of Marilyn’s stall.

  “It just so happens I do have something today. Try this.” Marilyn held out a saucer of jade blobs. “See if you can guess what it is.”

  A
lice placed one on her tongue. “Wow, oh, wow.” She giggled, wiping a tear from her cheek. “That’s seriously sharp lime fizz! There’s something else too, though I can’t quite place it.”

  “Would you think lavender?”

  “No way? There’s a definite floral hint, but I would never have guessed it was lavender. I’ll have to have some.” Alice placed the sweets in her pocket and wandered on.

  Crimson, peacock, peach and banana shades burst from Tilda’s flower stall as Alice passed, pondering her next meeting. Nicholas Waites had no reputation for collecting art, so his contribution to the centenary exhibition was unlikely to be noteworthy, but Jenna had promised to collect his contribution personally. A nuisance, but she resolved to grab the painting and go.

  A Grecian-style fountain tinkled through the market-day buzz. Alice walked by St Edmund’s, its towering clock tower alone in the sapphire sky, as she threaded her way through the crowd to Rowley Way, and Nicholas Waites’ townhouse.

  A rotund Nicholas Waites led Alice into a small room choked with furniture and smothered with knick-knacks. “Have a seat in here, Alice, and I’ll get you a cup of tea. Or maybe you’d like a cold drink?”

  He swept cushions aside, clearing a space on a sagging sofa.

  “No, thanks. I’ll just take the painting and get going if you don’t mind.”

  Nicholas’s crestfallen face brought a little heat to her cheeks. “Well, perhaps I could squeeze in a quick drink. Something cold please, but only if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble at all. I won’t be a minute.” Nicholas shuffled off to the kitchen.

  She tried to guess what sort of painting he would lend. Something similar to the pair of hackneyed landscapes fighting with the rose-patterned wallpaper probably. Her heart sank at a rectangular-shaped patch of brighter roses where she assumed a similar landscape had hung. Judging from the neatly wrapped package resting on the table, it was waiting for her. She glared at the package as she ambled over to a glass-fronted display case against the far wall.