Stroke of Death

by Agatha Frost

  “Good afternoon, Liz,” Catherine called from the corridor leading to the main gallery and Katelyn’s office. “How can I help you?”

  Catherine tottered towards her, peering over the top of her glasses. Liz picked up on an imploring look in the woman’s eyes that she suspected was a covert request not to bring up the murder. Deciding she would play along, Liz pushed forward her brightest smile.

  “How are things?”

  “Oh, you know,” Catherine said with a wave of her hand. “What can I help you with?”

  The repeated question let Liz know Catherine would rather she was not in the gallery. Remembering she had information to find out, Liz bit her tongue.

  “Is Nancy here?” she asked, hoping to see her friend emerge at any moment. “I haven’t seen her in a while.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Catherine replied vacantly. “I heard she had come down with that nasty bug that’s going around. I hope she gets better soon, but I can’t have her in here infecting everyone. Not that we’ve been particularly busy since – well, you know. Anyway, it’s probably for the best that we’re quiet for a while. It’s not easy being the receptionist and manager on my own.”

  Catherine gave Liz her signature unsettling smile that never quite reached her eyes. It reminded Liz of a wax figurine in a museum, and they had always scared her as a child.

  “So, you’re running this place on your own?”

  “Is there anything else that you needed?” she replied, ignoring the question, her fake smile not faltering for a second. “We are rather busy.”

  “But you said –”

  Before Catherine could think up a response, a jingling headed their way. Catherine looked over Liz’s shoulder and puffed out a breath through flared nostrils. Liz turned to see Debbie hurrying towards them, an excited smile on her face. She was bundled up in what looked like at least four different patterned scarves, with a woolly hat on her head. She had a stack of canvasses stuffed under her arm.

  “Liz!” Debbie said as she attempted to flatten down her wild hair sticking out of her hat with her free hand. “What a nice surprise to see you here.”

  Liz smiled back, her eyes fixed on the canvasses under her arm. Liz wanted to warn Debbie that now was not the right time to approach Catherine. Before she could speak, Debbie flounced past, her scarves and skirt billowing behind.

  “Catherine,” Debbie called as the new manager set off back down the corridor, her tiny heels clicking on the polished tiled floor. “I need to talk to you about my artwork. It will only take a minute.”

  “Can’t you see that I’m busy?” she cried, waving her hands over her head. “I don’t know how Katelyn put up with this.”

  Undeterred by Catherine’s cutting tone, Debbie followed her all the way to the main gallery. Liz followed with a groan, knowing how fireworks could fly when the women did not see eye to eye. Considering Catherine’s current mood, Debbie would be the one walking away burned.

  “If you could look at them,” she said, hopefully holding the paintings out. “I think you’ll be surprised. I’ve been trying a different style, and I think they’d work.”

  Catherine’s face contorted into something halfway between a smirk and a look of disgust as she glanced at the art.

  “It’s not what we’re looking for,” she replied. “It’s never going to be what we’re looking for.”

  “But I thought –”

  “You thought what?” Catherine cried, her eyes bulging over her glasses like an angered owl. “You thought that because Katelyn was dead that I would take down a classic piece to put up your efforts. You seem to forget that I’ve been sitting next to you at Liz’s art club for weeks. I know what you’re capable of, Debbie. I’m in charge now, so there’s no point beating around the bush. I’m sticking to Katelyn’s modus operandi whether you like it or not.”

  Debbie’s jaw flapped for a moment, tears collecting along her lash line. Liz wanted to reach out and pull the woman into a hug, something she rarely felt the desire to do. Debbie looked like she needed it. The only thing that stopped her was Debbie offering the paintings one more time.

  “I thought you’d be different,” Debbie said, her voice low and desperate. “I thought you’d be fairer.”

  “Why?” Catherine snapped, her voice echoing around the empty gallery. “Hmm? Fair isn’t giving everyone a shot. Fair is letting average artists know when they’re not good enough to be displayed in a prestigious gallery. You shoot a horse when it’s lame, you don’t let it wander around on a broken leg. You had your brief moment of glory, if only for an hour. Go home, Debbie, and don’t bring your work here again.”

  Liz stepped forward, ready to give Catherine a piece of her mind, but she shot her such a stern look that it transported Liz back to being in trouble in the headmistress’ office.

  “You’re just like her,” Debbie whispered, her tone darker than Liz had ever heard it. “You don’t deserve this job. You got it by default. Playing it safe isn’t art, Catherine. I hope you go to sleep at night knowing your ‘art’ is as mundane as it comes.”

  Catherine’s head recoiled into her neck, making her sharp features look even more bird-like. Liz prepared her ears for another barrage of insults, but Catherine marched through the both of them towards the office. Katelyn's nameplate had already been replaced with Catherine’s.

  “I thought it would be different,” Debbie mumbled as she looked down at her work. “I thought it would change things.”

  Debbie hurried out of the gallery, her footsteps quickening the closer she got to the front door. Liz sighed and looked around the gallery, a small canvas painted in a familiar style catching her eye. She only had to squint to see that it was one of Catherine’s delicate watercolours tucked away in the corner of the gallery. It was there, but not commanding any attention. Liz was sure it had not been there on the day of the exhibit.

  Deciding nothing more could be gained from hanging around, Liz headed for the front door. Her heart sank when she saw Debbie sitting on the steps and sobbing into her ringed fingers. Her canvasses were at her feet, discarded in a puddle as the light rain continued to fall.

  Liz hurried down the steps and scooped up the canvasses, not wanting to see any work destroyed in such a way. She placed them at Debbie’s feet before sitting next to her.

  “I wouldn’t bother,” Debbie sniffled through her tears. “It’s rubbish. You heard her.”

  Liz picked one of the smaller canvasses up and held it at arm’s length, tilting her head. She was not sure what she was looking at apart from an explosion of coloured acrylics.

  “I like it,” Liz reassured her. “It’s stylistic.”

  “That’s a nice way to say it’s crap,” Debbie scoffed. “Good, but never quite good enough.”

  “No,” Liz said, wrapping her arm around Debbie’s shoulders. “It’s unique to you. That’s what’s so brilliant about art. It would be boring if all art looked the same.”

  “She’s a perfect clone of Katelyn,” Debbie stated as she started to sniffle again. “Just as cold and mean. She should change her name.”

  There was nothing Liz could say because she did not disagree. She had not even disagreed when Debbie had called Catherine’s art mundane. Liz wondered if the power had gone to Catherine’s head that quickly, or if she was as cold and icy as she had always come across. Liz had expected her to open up over the course of their art meetings, but she had yet to see any warmth behind the trouser suits.

  “You can’t let it discourage you,” Liz said. “Galleries aren’t important. Aside from our vanity exhibition, I’ve never been in a gallery either. Katelyn rejected me too, and Catherine would do the same in a heartbeat. People told me all my life that I couldn’t make a career out of art, and you know what, they were right, but it never stopped me. Paint because you enjoy it, not because you want to get validation from it.”

  “I only want it to be appreciated,” Debbie said, shaking her head, before covering her face with her ha
nds. “I’m the worst at the art club. I’ll never be as good as Lance, or you. Even Trevor is better than me, and Polly! Oh, Polly! The hairdresser who has never painted can paint better than me. You all make it look so easy.”

  “That’s not true,” Liz said with a wink. “There’s always Nancy.”

  Debbie met Liz’s eyes, and they shared a laugh for a moment, the tears vanishing in an instant. Liz gave her shoulder a reassuring rub, knowing it would take more than supportive words and a cuddle to change her mindset. Liz had been there too in her younger years. Debbie was a similar age, but she could not imagine what it would feel like to have so much self-doubt in her forties. The police force had ironed that out of her. When it came to hard facts and evidence, there was no room for self-doubt.

  “Did you know Katelyn wouldn’t even put Lance’s work in the gallery?” Debbie said as she wiped the tears away. “And they used to be an item. I never stood a chance. Lance is good enough to go pro, not that he cares about money.”

  “Katelyn and Lance were an item?” Liz asked, her curiosity piqued. “When?”

  “Oh, yes,” Debbie responded, stifling her sniffles. “It was quite the grand love affair. It was a while ago now, but if you’ve lived around here long enough, you never really forget anything. It’s ancient history by now. I can’t quite remember when they split up, but I know it was messy.”

  “They’re an odd match.”

  “Not when you know the full story,” Debbie started, her voice lowering as she prepared to share the gossip. “Lance stood to inherit a large family fortune. We’re talking millions. More than her own family is worth. His parents got rich selling fur coats before attitudes changed for the better. They made some bad investments around the same time, and they threw good money after bad. Lance never cared. He’s been vegan for as long as I can remember, so he was probably over the moon when the business went bust. Katelyn, on the other hand, wasn’t. She ended things soon after the well ran dry.”

  “How long after?” Liz probed.

  “A matter of days,” Debbie whispered after a dramatic pause. “He was heartbroken. I think he still is, but he hides it well. He’s travelled so much to get over her, or at least to get away from her. He hated her guts, but he loved her more. I saw him yesterday in the Fish and Anchor. He was worse for wear. He’s never been much of a drinker that I know of, but he was ordering triple vodkas. Shirley had to get some of the lads to take him home because he couldn’t walk.”

  “Poor Lance.”

  Debbie nodded in agreement as she wiped away the last of her tears. Liz looked up at the bruised sky as the dark clouds stained the afternoon. She was unable to imagine Lance, who seemed such a free spirit, with a woman as unbending and dull as Katelyn Monroe.

  “I should thank you,” Debbie said after a moment of silence, a meek smile breaking through her sadness. “I can’t remember the last time anyone listened to me. You’re a good friend.”

  “Anytime,” Liz said, giving her one last squeeze. “I mean that. You know where my shop is.”

  Debbie nodded her understanding as she stood up. She brushed down her maxi skirt, her bangles clattering in their usual way.

  “Don’t forget your work,” Liz said, standing up and passing them back to Debbie. “Put them on your walls and forget this place even exists.”

  Debbie accepted her art before heading down the street, leaving Liz to digest what she had heard. She tried to think about how Lance had spoken of Katelyn, but it had never been favourable. She thought about what Debbie had said about him hating her, but loving her more. Had his hate taken over long enough for him to kill her?

  After making a note on her phone to look into the relationship more, she walked across the town in the drizzle. By the time she reached the colourful row of Victorian terraced houses, the rain had soaked Liz’s hair to the scalp. She could hardly wait for the ball of frizz it was going to turn into when it dried. After brushing it out of her face, she knocked on the bright orange door. It was not long before she heard shuffling from the other side.

  “Oh,” Nancy sniffed, her nose bright red and her voice faint in her clogged-up throat. “Hi, Liz. What are you doing here?”

  Liz felt guilty for even doubting Nancy’s illness. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her nostrils looked like she had done nothing but wipe them with tissues all week. Her skin lacked its usual peachiness, and her voluminous hair was limp and lifeless. Even though she had a blanket wrapped over thick pyjamas, she was shivering.

  “Do you want to come in?” Nancy asked before running her sleeve along her nose. “I don’t want to infect you.”

  “I’ve always had a strong immune system,” Liz said, stepping inside before Nancy could change her mind. “It’ll take more than a cold to knock me down.”

  “Believe it or not, I’m actually over the worst of it,” Nancy said as she shuffled down the hallway in her fluffy slippers. “The vomiting has stopped at least, but I still can’t taste a thing.”

  Nancy lumbered into the front room, making walking look difficult. She plopped herself onto her sofa where Liz could tell she had been sleeping. She flopped into the corner, half-lying, half-sitting.

  Aside from the scattered tissues on the floor, her house was still impeccably clean. Like on Liz’s previous visits to her friend’s house, not one thing was out of place. She might have had scatter-brained, but she was particular about her retro-style house. Every room looked like it had been ripped out of a furniture catalogue from the Swinging Sixties. A re-run of an old soap was playing on the television, and it took their attention for a few moments.

  Liz squirmed in her seat, unsure of how to approach Nancy's dismissal. She was not officially investigating, even if information did keep falling into her lap. If she were investigating, she knew honesty was the best tactic.

  “Simon told me about Katelyn firing you,” Liz said, making sure to assess her friend’s reaction.

  Nancy’s eyes darted from Liz to the box of tissues on the table. She plucked out a fresh one before loudly blowing her nose.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Liz asked when Nancy did not say a word. “That’s the sort of thing you tell your best friend.”

  “I’ve been ill,” Nancy replied with a stuffy and exhausted laugh. “And besides, Catherine doesn’t know. I called in sick when the gallery reopened. She didn’t say anything other than ‘come back when you’re feeling better’. It’s not a big deal.”

  “A woman died.”

  “A devil woman,” Nancy said after blowing her nose again. “I can’t say I’ve shed a tear for her. Her final act on this planet was to fire me for daring to put on an exhibit for my friends. If she had stayed in Australia until she said she would, none of this would have happened.”

  “You mean she wouldn’t have died?”

  “Well, probably not.”

  Liz wondered if Nancy could hear herself speak. She was trying to edge her into showing her innocence, but everything she said pushed her closer to guilt. Liz tried to imagine Nancy pulling a curtain tie around Katelyn’s neck. To her surprise, it was not so difficult to conjure up.

  “Did you see anything the day of the exhibit?” Liz asked, deciding to keep trying. “Anything weird?”

  “Is this what you came here for?” Nancy asked, narrowing her eyes. “You’re supposed to bring grapes and flowers to sick people, not a police interrogation.”

  “I wanted to check up on you,” Liz said. “I thought you were avoiding me.”

  “What if I was?” Nancy replied with a snap to her voice that Liz had never heard before. “I haven’t left the house. My Jack is on holiday with his dad in The Lakes, and now my best friend thinks I killed a woman for firing me.”

  “Nancy, I –”

  “I wasn’t the only person there that day,” Nancy said, rubbing her nose hard. “The whole town was there.”

  “So, you didn’t see anything suspicious?”

  “Talk to Lance,” Nancy said bluntly. “He ran
past me covered in paint about ten minutes before I heard that Australian woman screaming.”

  Liz nodded that she would speak to Lance, even though she wanted to keep talking to Nancy. She wanted to mend the rift between them, but she had a habit of digging deeper holes when she had suspicions. Nancy had been the second person, after her landlord, that Liz had met when she had arrived in Scarlet Cove. Since then, they had been firm friends. Their relationship had been fun, but there was now something sour between them; Liz did not like it.

  “You should go,” Nancy said, her eyes on the television as one of the soap characters slapped another. “I need a nap. I’m exhausted.”

  Without even waiting for Liz to get off the couch, Nancy dragged the blanket from under her and pulled it up to her neck. Liz stood up, not wanting to leave, but also not wanting to make things more awkward.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” Liz said as she headed for the door. “Get well soon.”

  Liz waited by the door for a reply, but she got the cranking up of the television’s volume instead.

  Liz set off across town, her feet taking her to the front door of her flat. When she had the key in the lock, she remembered she was staying at the farmhouse. Wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed without any questions, she almost headed up to the flat anyway. She stopped herself. She would leave stinking of smoke, which would cause questions when she did decide to return to the farm.

  On her way back to the farm, she saw Christopher and Lizzie on a bench under the shelter of a chestnut tree. Neither was paying attention to the other. Christopher was checking his watch while Lizzie examined her manicured nails. They did not look like the loved-up couple they appeared to be whenever Liz was around.

  “What are you doing, Christopher?” Liz whispered to herself as she set off up the winding lane to the farm. “I hope you’re not trying to prove a point.”

  7

  “That’s perfect,” Liz said, smiling from behind the easel she had set up in the middle of the farmhouse sitting room. “Try to stay as still as you can.”