Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

  “Beautiful plants,” Bev said. “I feel as if I shouldn’t come in here because I can kill plants with just one look.”

  “We don’t have green fingers either,” Tim said, “but these survive. If they’re dead by morning though, we’ll know who to blame.”

  “I noticed the paintings in the dining room,” Dylan said. “They’re good. Are they by anyone I might know?”

  “Sadly not.” Tim laughed. “The struggling artist in question is my nephew. He had an exhibition a couple of years ago to raise money for charity and we felt obliged to buy a couple.”

  “Ah. I just wondered. Well, with any luck, his paintings will be worth a fortune one day. Like Jack McIntyre’s.”

  Bev had known he’d have to drag the conversation round to Prue. She’d tried to tell him that talking about dead sisters wasn’t the done thing at dinner parties, but Dylan had always been a law unto himself.

  “I wish,” Tim said.

  “I really can’t believe you didn’t know about Prue’s relationship with Jack McIntyre,” Dylan said, addressing them both.

  “Not a clue,” Maddie said. “I can’t believe it either. I mean, what the devil would a talent like McIntyre see in someone like her? The idea’s ridiculous.”

  According to Dylan, who admittedly had only met her briefly twenty years ago, Prue was a pretty, likeable girl with a lot of friends. Bev hated the way Maddie dismissed her sister.

  “We didn’t see a lot of her though,” Tim said. “Our lives were so different, you see. She probably had a lot of boyfriends we never knew about.”

  Dylan nodded at that and Bev could see his mind working overtime.

  “You saw her once when she lived in France, didn’t you?” he said. “If I recall, you stayed with her for a weekend.”

  “That’s right,” Maddie said, “but she never mentioned any men in her life, did she, Tim?”

  “Not to me.”

  “That night she got drunk and you sat up talking,” she said. “She didn’t mention anything then?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Someone must have known about it,” Dylan said. “Someone must have known he was painting again too.”

  “Painting again? What makes you think that?” Tim asked. “I thought it was a well-known fact that he’d put down his brushes for good.”

  “Oh, he was definitely painting. And those paintings will be worth a fortune.”

  “Ah yes, you spoke to his housekeeper.” Tim was dismissive. “She’s probably mistaken. We can’t be sure he was painting. Only McIntyre knew what he was doing and he’s dead.”

  “Missing, presumed dead,” Dylan corrected him.

  Maddie’s head flew up. “What do you mean? He’s dead. Everyone knows that.”

  “Not necessarily.” Dylan ran his finger across a plant’s glossy leaf. “His body was never found, so he could still be alive.”

  Maddie laughed at that. “Of course no body was found. Good grief, lots of people are drowned and their bodies get eaten by whatever lives in the sea. He’s dead, Dylan.”

  Eddie and Shaz wandered in. Shaz was laughing loudly at something Eddie had said. Her arm was hooked through his in a proprietorial manner.

  “Who’s dead?” Eddie asked.

  “Jack McIntyre,” Tim said. “We were just talking about Prue’s relationship with the artist and Dylan was saying it’s possible he’s still alive. I suppose it is.”

  “Who knows?” Eddie didn’t say “Who cares?” but it hung in the air between them.

  “Of course he’s dead,” Maddie said.

  “It would be interesting if he was alive though,” Dylan said.

  “Dylan.” Maddie slipped her arm through his and, despite the smile, her voice was cool. “I’m paying you to look into Prue’s death, not some drowning accident. Much more of this, and I’ll have to put a stop to it all.”

  “I am concentrating on Prue,” Dylan said, “but it’s possible there’s a connection.”

  “You’re getting nowhere though,” Maddie said.

  Bev bristled on Dylan’s behalf. She also bristled because Maddie had her hand planted firmly on Dylan’s arm. “Dylan’s never yet had a case he hasn’t solved, Maddie. He will find out what happened to your sister. Trust me on that one.”

  Maddie smiled sweetly at Bev, those eyes like chips of ice. “We’ll see.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Eddie said. “Maddie, we’re running out of wine in there.” He nodded toward the lounge.

  Maddie let go of Dylan—reluctantly, Bev noticed—and went off to be the perfect hostess.

  Talk turned to easier things, but still Bev was pleased when they were being driven home in the taxi.

  “Maddie’s still got the hots for you,” she said.

  Dylan smiled. “I know. She clearly doesn’t know that I’m a—what am I?”

  “Chauvinist? Misogynist? Pain in the butt?”

  “Yeah. That’ll be it.”

  “She’s a strange one, isn’t she?” Bev said. “I can’t understand why she’s bothering to employ you to look into Prue’s death when she doesn’t seem to care less about her. Unless it’s just an excuse to get you in her bed, of course.”

  “That would be one expensive shag.” He gave her a sideways glance. “Am I worth that much?”

  “Never in a million years.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Dylan was meeting Jack McIntyre this evening—assuming the chap hadn’t gone into hiding again—but first, he wanted a chat with Prue’s parents. He’d spoken to them at Prue’s funeral, and it had been clear they’d been at a loss to understand their daughter’s death, but he wanted another meeting. He didn’t want to intrude on their grief, but he did want to know all he could about their daughters.

  He’d phoned last night, and Andrew Murphy had said they’d look forward to seeing him this morning.

  Their home was beautiful. It was the family home— “too big for us now, really”—and had a cosy, welcoming feel to it. It was also worth a fortune. Presumably Maddie alone stood to inherit when the time came.

  “It’s good to see you again, Dylan,” Ruth said. “Come into the kitchen, where it’s warm. You don’t mind dogs, do you?”

  “I love dogs.” He was greeted by an ageing dog of indeterminate breed who, before the grey had taken over, had been black.

  “This is Sam,” Andrew said. “He’s fifteen now so he doesn’t like to move too far from his bed.”

  “A bit like me,” Ruth said with a smile.

  Having welcomed Dylan, Sam retired to his basket in front of the warm Aga.

  Without asking, Ruth made tea—using a teapot rather than teabags—and poured for the four of them. Yes, four. The dog had its own pottery mug bearing its name.

  “We know this isn’t a social visit,” Andrew said. “What is it you have to tell us, Dylan?”

  “I wish I had something to tell you, but unfortunately, I’m not much further forward.”

  “But you don’t agree with the police theory that Prue disturbed a burglar?”

  “No, I don’t. The painting, you see—” A brief frown crossed Ruth’s face. “Maddie did tell you about the painting by Jack McIntyre, didn’t she?”

  “In passing,” Ruth said.

  In passing?

  Needless to say, he didn’t have to explain who Jack McIntyre was. Dylan really was the only bloke on the planet who’d never heard of the artist. “It seems that Prue knew McIntyre.”

  “Really? Well, it’s possible, I suppose,” Ruth said. “After all, she lived in France for a few years. He lived there too, didn’t he? I think he died there. Wasn’t there some sort of accident?”

  “Yes. He and his agent were drowned,” Dylan said.

  “That’s it,” Ruth said. “And you think Prue knew him?”

  “Yes. She didn’t mention anything?”

  “Nothing,” Andrew said. “We’d remember something like that.”

  “Ah, well, it was just a long shot,” Dylan
said. “I thought I’d ask if she’d mentioned him or the painting at all.”

  Despite the welcoming home and the old family dog, the atmosphere in the room felt anything but relaxed. Ruth looked lost and desperately sad, but Andrew was so tense that Dylan expected him to snap in two at any moment. Maybe the strain of coping with his own grief as well as being strong for Ruth was proving too much for him.

  The information Dylan really wanted was the sort that came out during a relaxed conversation. It didn’t come from interrogation.

  “Have you had Sam since he was a puppy?” He gave the dog a stroke and it promptly curled up and went to sleep with its head on his foot.

  “Yes.” Ruth smiled fondly at the dog. “When Maddie and then, later, Prue moved out, the house felt far too big. We’d always wanted a dog but Maddie was never keen. Prue longed for a dog and Maddie hated the very thought of it. Arguments raged so we did nothing. But when they both moved out, we moved Sam in. He’s been such a good friend to us, hasn’t he, Andy?”

  “The best. He’s a real character.”

  “He’s obviously landed on his feet here. I don’t know too many dogs who have tea with the family,” Dylan said.

  “He’s spoiled,” Andrew said, “but it does him no harm at his age. Prue was the worst. She’d bring him all sorts of things. It was nothing for her to turn up with a cake for him, and she always had a bag of treats in her pocket when she visited us.”

  “Really? Did she visit often?”

  “Oh, yes,” Ruth said.

  “It’s funny because Maddie said she didn’t see much of her sister,” Dylan said.

  There was only a brief hesitation before Andrew spoke. “They weren’t close because the age gap was too much. Maddie was five years older so it was difficult. When Prue was born, Maddie was starting school. When Prue was starting school, Maddie was off to the grammar school. When Prue was going there, Maddie was getting interested in boys. It’s a big gap.”

  Dylan supposed it was. That gap was nothing compared to the one between Luke and Freya, but Luke already adored his sister. He happily played baby games with her and loved to make her laugh.

  “Later, when they were grown-ups,” Ruth said, “Maddie was always busy. A model’s life is very demanding. And Maddie’s had problems of her own. Well, you’ll know that she suffers from depression. It’s hard for everyone.”

  “Depression is a terrible thing,” Dylan said.

  “It is,” Ruth said. “Everyone feels so helpless. It’s terrible to watch your own daughter sink so low. She’s seen good doctors, of course, and I suppose they do their best.”

  “I suppose that’s another reason the sisters weren’t close,” Dylan said. “It must have been hard for Maddie to see Prue always looking so happy-go-lucky and carefree.”

  Ruth left the kitchen for a few moments and came back with a pack of photographs. “Have a look at these, Dylan. These were taken in much happier times.”

  Usually, Dylan would rather have his testicles removed without anaesthetic than look at pictures of other people’s children, but these were fascinating. In every photo, Prue was smiling for the camera yet Maddie, who made her living in front of a camera, wasn’t. Her expression was forced and any attempt at a smile failed miserably. In one picture, Prue was cuddling a cat and Maddie was looking at her sister as if she wanted to kill her.

  As if she wanted to kill her—

  “That was Smoke,” Ruth said with a sigh. “Maddie had nagged and nagged for a cat so, one day, we bought her a kitten. Within a few hours, the kitten had fallen in love with Prue. No matter what Prue did, it wouldn’t leave her side. It slept on her bed—really, it wouldn’t leave her. Poor Maddie was so upset. We wanted to get her another kitten, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She lost all interest in pets.”

  “The kitten died a few months later,” Andrew said, “and that caused problems between them. Prue blamed Maddie because it happened when Prue was at school and—oh, let’s just say that life was easier when we were pet-free.”

  “Mind you,” Ruth said, a wistful expression on her face, “I’d give anything to hear the two of them fighting again. I miss Prue so much. Every time the phone rings, I expect it to be her. It’s hard, Dylan.”

  Andrew gave his wife’s hand a reassuring squeeze and Dylan wished he had words of comfort to offer.

  “Maddie will still fight people every inch of the way,” Ruth said, “but I’m determined to get through to her. I think she’s lonely.”

  “She has Tim,” Andrew said, still holding her hand. “He’s a good man. Prue liked him, didn’t she?”

  Ruth smiled. “She believed he deserved a medal for putting up with Maddie.” She was only half-joking.

  “Did you visit Prue when she lived in France?” Dylan asked.

  “Quite often,” Ruth said. “We worried she wasn’t earning enough to feed herself properly so we liked to check up on her.”

  “She was fine,” Andrew said. “She had a lot of friends. We had no need to worry about her.”

  “And she didn’t mention any artistic friend or—?”

  “No.” Ruth was certain of that. “We met several of her friends, but they were neighbours or colleagues. None were artists.”

  The doorbell rang and Andrew jumped to his feet and strode out of the room.

  “It was the postman.” He returned with two brown envelopes and a package that was too big for the letterbox. “More junk for the recycling bin and Sam’s arthritis tablets. The vet sends his tablets out, Dylan. Can you believe that? This dog has better medical care than any of us.”

  Dylan smiled, as was expected, but Andrew’s hearty, forced tone was as unnerving as his earlier edginess.

  “More tea?” Andrew asked.

  “No, thanks. It’s time I was off.”

  Knowing he wasn’t going to learn anything here, Dylan left them to their grief. It was time to head north and meet up with the celebrated artist.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Dylan almost didn’t recognise Jack McIntyre. The world-famous artist was wearing a long waterproof coat with the high collar around his neck, and a wide-brimmed hat in the same green waxed material. As it had rained for days, his outfit didn’t look out of place.

  He was pleasantly surprised to see him waiting outside the church where they’d arranged to meet. It had been McIntyre’s suggestion to meet in Dawson’s Clough, one that had struck Dylan as odd, but he was pleased the artist hadn’t done a runner.

  “They’ve promised more April showers,” McIntyre said, “so I suggest we find somewhere warm.”

  Dylan didn’t need reminding that March had meandered into April. It would be four weeks tomorrow since Prue had been laid to rest in that cold, wet cemetery.

  “I can recommend the Dog and Fox,” he said.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  They walked quickly until the smell of fish and chips slowed McIntyre. “I’m starving,” he said. “Do you want any?”

  “No, I’ve eaten.”

  Dylan waited in the cold while McIntyre went inside and bought a huge piece of cod and enough chips to feed the entire town. He soaked the lot in salt and vinegar, then emerged from the shop eating them from the paper.

  “You can’t beat fish and chips, can you?” McIntyre sounded wistful.

  “No.” The smell was making Dylan’s mouth water and he wished now that he’d bought himself a small portion.

  “So what’s new?” McIntyre asked as they walked on to the Dog and Fox. “Have you discovered anything of interest?”

  Dylan hated to admit it but— “No, not really. You?”

  “I don’t know.” McIntyre concentrated on his fish and chips and was rolling the empty wrapping into a ball as they arrived at the front door to the Dog and Fox. He looked around for a litter bin, spotted one and tossed the paper in from three yards away. It landed inside and he smiled his satisfaction. “Right, let’s get that drink.”

  Once they were inside and making the m
ost of the pub’s warmth, McIntyre removed his hat. His beard was as long and straggly as ever so it was unlikely anyone would recognise him.

  They’d just sat with their drinks when a group of four people who’d been gathered round the log fire picked up their coats and left. Dylan and McIntyre leapt into those seats before anyone else could take them.

  Before either of them could speak, Dylan’s phone trilled out. Frank was calling and Dylan hoped it was good news.

  “Sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you, Dylan, but it’s finally sorted. You can see CCTV at the art gallery tomorrow morning. Any good to you?”

  “Perfect. Thanks, Frank. You coming along?”

  “Count me in.”

  “I’ll pick you up around eight-thirty then.”

  Dylan ended the call and hoped that, finally, he’d get a lead. It was a long shot, but he might get some clue as to what Prue had done on the final day of her life.

  “So,” Dylan said, turning his attention to McIntyre, “you sound as if you’ve heard something?”

  McIntyre rubbed his beard. “I know a couple of dodgy dealers. They don’t trust me and I don’t trust them. They don’t know who I am, of course. They believe I’m just some drunk who thinks he knows all there is to know about art. I was talking to them and asking them if they knew anything about what McIntyre was working on when he died. One reminded me that McIntyre had stopped painting. The other, older, wiser and far more shady, said someone else had been asking that same question, shortly after I—McIntyre lost his life. The chap in question was apparently quite sure he’d heard I was working on something new.”

  “Who was that? Could they give you a description? Anything?”

  “No. They thought he was a dealer though and they described him as upmarket.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “I’m afraid so. It does make you wonder if someone knew I was painting again though.”

  “Think hard. Who did know?” Dylan asked.

  McIntyre shrugged. “Only Coletta and Elliott Tolman, and I’d trust them with my life. And Prue, of course.”