A few minutes later, a stricken-looking couple entered the hall. The man approached the organizer and whispered hoarsely, “Have you seen Miss Pryce?”
The organizer shook his head. “I assume she’s been held up for some reason. We were just about to call her again.”
“My wife and I just drove past on the lower road,” the man said. “Her house is burning furiously.”
“What?”
“It’s in flames. We called the fire department. The pumpers were just getting out of the station when we arrived here.”
The organizer went pale. “Oh, my.”
“She’s going to be very upset, isn’t she?”
As it turned out, Luella was not in the least upset. Luella was as dead as a doornail. The door hung thick with clothes, which Tibor had assumed was simply an overflowing closet, was, in fact, the door of Luella’s ensuite bathroom. Luella had drawn herself a nice bath with her favourite almond bubble bath and settled in with a bottle of sherry. Lulled by the hot water she had fallen asleep after the second glass. By the time the smoke alarm roused her from her groggy state it was too late. Her charred remains were discovered fused over the side of her antique cast-iron tub.
The old wooden house had gone up rather quickly. Everything, including Luella, was destroyed beyond recognition. The art community was crushed by the loss of so many great works. Most people in the community were appalled that such a thing could happen. The taxi driver was taken to task, but he pointed out that Luella was in the habit of calling a cab, and if it didn’t arrive as quickly as she thought it should, calling another. The cabbie kept his job. The housekeeper who was scheduled to come in the next day opined that the place couldn’t possibly be any more of a mess than usual.
As it turned out, no one had really liked Luella that much. She was extravagant with herself when she wanted to be and generous to her wealthier friends or favoured protégées, but inconsiderate and miserly with those of a lower station. The cab drivers and housekeeper were of a lower station. The fire department declared the whole affair an unfortunate accident by an older woman who had a habit of being careless with matches and cigarettes. This was not entirely a false assumption.
Leonard was stricken. Those who encountered him in the days after the incident thought him inconsolable. Poor Leonard, he and Luella had been the closest of friends for years, they said, emphasizing the word closest. They also understood the anguish he felt over the loss of the art collection, most of which he had been instrumental in acquiring for Luella.
Luella left various bequests to her favourite institutions, generally those who would name a room after her or put up some sort of plaque or monument. She had no blood heirs. She left the housekeeper nothing. She left Leonard nothing. Apparently, Luella believed no one needed her money apart from the local topiary park, the library, and the art gallery — which of course got nothing. She also left a hefty sum for the study and preservation of an obscure tree frog. One wag noted that Luella had never shown the slightest use for the natural world and employed various poisons to keep it at bay and suggested she had made this bequest to show her contempt for those who thought they were more deserving of her money.
Leonard was relieved that Tibor had done his work discreetly and hadn’t deviated from the plan. He was even prepared to believe that Tibor didn’t know Luella was in the house. This left him, Leonard, free of suspicion. Of course, Leonard knew he would have to deal with Tibor one way or another for the rest of his life. But the rest of whose life, he would think at times and smile. He knew he didn’t have it in him to do anything nefarious, but entertaining the possibility soothed his soul.
Trevor Rudley finally gave in to Margaret’s petitions to give the young man at the feed store a trial, just in case Rudley might agree to take him on as a live-in. Rudley dutifully picked up the young man, whose name was Lloyd, in town and brought him out to fix a door. The damn thing, as he told Margaret, insisted upon scraping the floor in spite of his best efforts.
“Margaret” — Rudley appeared at the front desk, shaking his head — “do you think he ever bathes?”
“Oh, I’m sure he does.”
“Well, I’m not,” he said emphatically. “I don’t know if we can have such a slovenly person around the inn.”
“He’s not slovenly, Rudley. His appearance is generally neat. He just doesn’t bathe as often as you would like.”
“He doesn’t bathe as often as a billy goat would like.”
“If he’s good enough at fixing things, I will make sure he’s properly turned out,” said Margaret.
Rudley leaned over the desk. “It’s not just that, Margaret. He gives me the willies. I have a feeling he just might snap and murder us in our sleep.”
“Oh, I’m sure he won’t, Rudley. He hasn’t killed anyone that we know of, has he?”
“Not that I know of,” Rudley admitted.
Lloyd appeared behind Rudley, causing him to shriek.
“You could have let me know you were behind me,” he said.
“Like say yoo hoo?” Lloyd grinned.
“Yoo hoo would be fine. Stay here,” Rudley directed. “I want to check your work.”
“I’m sorry Mr. Rudley is so cranky today,” said Margaret.
“Been cranky ever time I saw him,” said Lloyd.
“Don’t let it bother you, dear.”
“Nope.”
Rudley came back down the hall. “Good job,” he barked. “You’ll have to tell me how you did that so quickly and so well.”
“Just have to know what you’re doing,” said Lloyd.
Rudley crossed his eyes.
“Rudley,” Margaret intervened, “why don’t you take Lloyd out to the boathouse and show him that part of the roof that needs fixing?”
Rudley sighed. “Come with me.”
He took off down the steps, Lloyd travelling in his wake.
“You want me to fix that?”
Rudley skidded to a stop. “Fix what?”
Lloyd pointed to the urn. “That big cement planter.”
“I fixed that some time ago. It’ll be solid for decades.”
“Looks like the mortar’s getting thin.” Lloyd grinned. “The whole thing could come crashing down. Just like Humpty Dumpty.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Rudley. “I fixed it myself. It’s as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar.”
Chapter Three
Leonard had always loved the Caribbean. Although he enjoyed April in England and autumn on the French Riviera with sojourns in Paris, St. Napoli was home. His parents had travelled widely, and, although they were born in Canada and carried Canadian passports, called no place home. His mother had cousins in British Columbia, although he had never met them. His father had spent his teenage years in Ottawa where his father was a civil servant. As a child and a young man, Leonard had often spent summers on an island in the Rideau system where his parents’ friend Hiram had a cottage, usually in the company of servants. He had seldom had the opportunity to delve deeply into his parents’ relationship to Hiram or engage them about their childhood or any other stage of their lives for that matter. They were always busy. He took their absences for granted.
He had enjoyed the cottage as a young person. Since he was Canadian himself, going to the cottage felt like going home. It was a nice place, one of the old white clapboard types with an upper veranda, not as opulent as many in the area but a good deal more charming. He liked Hiram, although he seemed rather secretive and strange. Hiram had advised him that the cottage was available to him whenever he wished to visit.
In the seven years following Luella’s unfortunate death, Leonard travelled less. He spent one April in the Lake District and found it rainier than he remembered. Nor did St. Tropez charm him as it had in previous years; he found it drabber, the society less lively, louder, generally more annoying. So he spen
t most of his time on St. Napoli, mostly in his house, attending fewer social events. People were kind to him, believing he continued to grieve for Luella — which suited him, confirming that no one harboured suspicions about her death, even allowing him to imagine he was blameless. More and more, he came to mourn the destruction of his Cartwright reproductions, believing them to have been even better than the originals.
Days when the “children” were safely away, he would lock himself in his studio, remove the Cartwrights from the vault and attempt to recreate the grandeur of his wonderful copies, the ones that had burned with the unfortunate Luella and which now existed, he imagined, only in fragments of ash scattered wherever the winds could take them. Each time he came away disappointed — his fingers were showing signs of arthritis, the index fingers in particular, gnarled as old tree limbs. He would scrub his work out and consign the ruined canvases to the dustbin. But one summer day, he examined his newly finished work and felt the glow of triumph. He had done it. He stared at the copies juxtaposed against the originals. More beautiful, perhaps more beautiful than his original forgeries.
He removed his bifocals, hooked one wing into the corner of his mouth, let his gaze drift to the far wall. Everything was a blur. He guessed he had accomplished his feat in the nick of time. He replaced his glasses and took a closer look at the copies set on easels beside the originals. Only one thing was missing — a signature. He smiled, picked up a fine brush, dipped it into the black paint and added: C.A. Cartwright.
He put the brush down and did a little jig, then stopped as he felt some discomfort in his chest — a touch of angina for which he took the occasional GTN. Part of the diabetic profile, he supposed with chagrin. His doctor had recently diagnosed him as diabetic and had prescribed an oral medication. He took a deep breath. The angina eased. He went over to his sofa, lay down, and fell into a deep sleep.
He woke to find he was not alone in the room. Cerise was standing at the easel, her back to him, examining the works he had left uncovered to let the signature dry. He sat up with a start, his glasses falling to the floor.
She turned at the noise. “Sorry, Leonard, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
He gasped, put a hand to his chest, feeling his heart racing.
“Do you need a nitro?” She glanced at his suit jacket hanging over the back of the chair.
“They’re not there. They’re in my coat in the hallway.” He called her back as she started for the door. “No, I don’t need one. You surprised me, that’s all. How did you get in?”
She came to the sofa, gave him a kiss. “I picked the lock.”
“Why didn’t you just knock?”
“Well, I didn’t know you were in here,” she said. “You always keep the door locked. How would I know you were in here? You should put a sign up.”
He shook his head. “You broke into my study and you’re chiding me for not putting up a The Artist Is In sign?”
“Well, you should,” she said. “Instead of making people feel bad about waking you up and almost giving you a heart attack.” She wriggled into his lap. “Didn’t you think about how I would feel if I had given you a heart attack?”
“I’m sure I would have felt worse.”
“You would have been dead,” she said.
He gave her a long look. “Do you know how much like your mother you are?”
She made a face.
“Your mother was one of the greatest con artists I’ve ever met,” he said.
She smiled. “I kind of like that.” She sat back to look at him. “How was she a con artist?”
He shrugged. He wasn’t prepared to tell her that her mother could initiate a passionate kiss, then scold him for smearing her lipstick, leaving him feeling so guilty he would buy her a nice piece of jewellery. “She had you with another man, ran off with yet another man, and conned me into taking you,” he said.
She smiled. “You wanted to take me.”
“If you say so.”
“I’m the sunshine of your life,” she said. “If you want to think of our relationship in such a corny way.”
“You are the bane of my existence. And,” he added, “where did you develop your lock-picking expertise?”
She gave him an innocent look.
“Did Tibor teach you?”
She shook her head.
“Frankes?”
“No,” she said, annoyed.
“Luther?” He mentioned the name of his cook-housekeeper.
“Tibor is an idiot, Frankes is a jerk, and Luther is a eunuch.”
“Luther had an unfortunate childhood.”
“As if I didn’t,” she said. When he failed to take the bait, she added, “I taught myself. I got a book from the library.”
“I didn’t know anyone had written such a book.”
“It was a book about locks. I wanted to know the basic principles.”
“So you could pick locks willy-nilly.”
She frowned. “No, but when it was necessary.”
He raised his brows. “And it was necessary to get into my studio.”
“Well, what if you had locked yourself in — as you always do — and then had a heart attack?”
He sighed. “You are a rotten child.”
She snuggled against him. “I am hardly a child.”
He stirred uncomfortably. “You are still a child.”
“Guido doesn’t think so.”
He pushed himself back and looked at her. “Is he still writing those love poems to you?”
“He’s smitten with me. He’s begging me to move back to Italy.”
“And?” he asked, forcing himself to sound light and neutral.
“Too close to my mother,” she said, “although he won’t be in Italy much longer. He’s moving to Montreal. Something about his father’s business.”
“The construction business, I imagine,” he said dryly.
“So his father’s a bit shady. He’s a businessman. All businessmen are shady.”
“If you say so.”
“What about those paintings?” she asked unexpectedly.
He feigned surprise. “What about them?”
She stared across the room at the easel. “Well, you have four paintings. Two identical sets. One set looks older. Probably the original.”
He shrugged, tried to appear casual. “Just some minor works I had around. I did the copies for my own interest.” He wiggled his fingers. “Just to see if these still work.”
She smiled. “Come on, Leonard, you taught me better than that.”
“About what?” he asked innocently.
“The art business.” She ran a finger over his lips. “The dark side.”
And that, he thought, was a big mistake. “How would you like to go shopping?” he asked.
Her silence cost him a very expensive piece of jewellery. As he fastened the chain around her neck she said: “I think I’d like a parrot.”
He sighed. “Happy birthday, sweetie.”
At the Pleasant: Present Day
“Gregoire, this grocery list is getting out of hand.” Rudley turned the list toward Gregoire, stabbed a finger at one of the items.
Gregoire pulled himself up to his full five feet three inches. “You cannot expect me to create fine food out of inferior ingredients.”
Rudley nodded toward the dining room where Mr. and Mrs. Sawchuck were wolfing down a meal of fish and chips. “Most of our guests wouldn’t know fine food from reheated squirrel’s tail.”
“That is all the more reason to educate their pedestrian palates.”
Rudley crossed his eyes, reviewed the list. “You can have the real vanilla, but the saffron is out.”
“I want the saffron, but the vanilla can go.” Gregoire paused. “You will miss the superior flavour, of course, when I come to mak
e your favourite chocolate fudge.”
Rudley contemplated the taste of the impossibly rich, delicious fudge Gregoire had prepared the previous Christmas. “All right,” he conceded. “But we’ll have to scrimp on the quality of the cheese.”
Gregoire’s eyes flashed. “I need those cheeses to do honour to my sauces.”
“Do them honour with an ode and Velveeta.”
“I must have the proper cheeses.” Gregoire removed his cap. “Otherwise I will take my culinary genius to a more reputable establishment.”
“You won’t find one of those in this neck of the woods!” Rudley let his head drop into his hands. Why him? There was nothing worse than losing a chef in the middle of the busiest season. One of the guests might be a food critic. The Pleasant could get a bad review; the Pleasant could lose its five-star rating. He considered this, twisting strands of hair between his hands. What if he got a good plain cook? Someone who was willing to take instruction without a thousand quibbles every time the inventory had to be reviewed. Someone who considered food preparation to be a job and not a higher calling like the priesthood or innkeeper. Then visions of Gregoire’s creations tumbled through his head.
“You can have the cheeses,” he said through laced fingers.
“Thank you.” Gregoire turned and whisked back to the kitchen.
“I’m glad you gave in.”
Rudley looked up to see Tim the waiter standing by the desk.
“Otherwise, I would have had to listen to his complaints for days on end,” Tim finished and waltzed into the dining room, whistling.
Rudley shook his head. An impossible chef, an impudent waiter — he glanced out the window to where Lloyd was spreading unpasteurized sheep manure on the flower beds — and a handyman who smelled of sheep manure or vice versa. He noticed Tiffany the housekeeper trundling the laundry cart down the path, a book of poetry in her hand. A flower child who had developed the habit of finding dead bodies all over the place. He longed for the days when the only help was Melba Millotte, that scrawny old bat who generally followed his wishes, albeit with a strong touch of sarcasm, and the incompetent handymen hired on a contract basis who wrecked the place but were only around for short stays.
A Most Unpleasant Picture Page 3