Stroke of Death

by Agatha Frost

“I’ve never seen red roses at a funeral before,” Liz whispered into Simon’s ear as they took their seats at the back. “Bit unusual.”

  Simon nodded his agreement as he looked over the order of service, which was short considering the numbers in the church.

  Constance and Philip were seated at the front, and neither of them showed a hint of emotion during the entire service. At one point, Liz thought Philip was crying, but he was holding in a sneeze, which he let out in the middle of the Lord’s Prayer. Even Christopher, who was not frivolous with his emotions, looked melancholy. Lizzie, who looked around the church more than once to glare at Liz, looked bored. The funeral seemed nothing more than an inconvenience to her.

  When it came to the rest of the town, there were a couple of sniffles, but everyone seemed to be attending out of habit rather than caring about Katelyn. Lance, who had lingered at the back for the whole service without sitting, did not look like he knew where he was.

  After the curtains closed around Katelyn’s coffin, her parents led the way out of the church, followed by Christopher and Lizzie. A short walk took them across the town to the gallery, where the wake was being held.

  “It’s a little eerie having the wake at the scene of her murder,” Simon whispered to Liz as they walked into the gallery. “Even if it was where she worked.”

  “The thought has crossed my mind,” Liz admitted.

  After the gallery filled, which was even busier than the day of the exhibition, Simon left Liz to oversee the buffet. Liz looked across the room, catching Nancy’s eyes. The two of them would usually have been glued to each other’s side by now, but Nancy turned and joined in a conversation between Polly and Sylvia.

  “Very mature,” Liz whispered to herself, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

  Nothing of note happened until after the buffet was opened. All heads turned to the corner of the room when Lance almost knocked over a bust sculpture from its stand. Catherine shrieked as she hurried over, catching it against her chest before it teetered off the edge. Without apology, he stumbled off, sloshing white wine over the edge of his tilted glass.

  Liz looked around the room, but no one seemed like they were about to intercept the drunken man. She wondered how many people had joined the dots between his recent drunken behaviour and his past with Katelyn. Unable to stand by and watch, Liz approached him, caution in her step when she remembered their last drunken interaction at his cottage.

  “Perhaps you’ve had enough,” Liz said with a smile as she steadied Lance. “I don’t think the wine is helping, do you?”

  “You again,” Lance mumbled, spit running down his chin as he struggled to maintain eye contact through his flowing hair. “Why can’t you leave me alone? Why can’t you all leave me alone?”

  Lance pushed Liz away before staggering out of the room, leaving a trail of white wine behind him. A couple of people shook their heads, but most seemed amused as they picked food from their buffet plates.

  “Cheese nibble?” Simon offered, flashing a metal plate in front of Liz’s face. “Don’t take offence to Lance. He was like this when she dumped him, but he came out of it. He’s a good guy underneath, but he can’t handle his drink.”

  “I’m fine,” she replied as she plucked an appetiser from the tray. “I’ve heard that excuse more times than I care to remember. Alcohol shouldn’t be an excuse to act like a fool, and yet it usually is.”

  “What about grief?” Simon replied with a soft smile. “That sounds like a pretty good reason to me. Keep out of his way if you see him again, okay? There’s nothing you can do to help him if he doesn’t want to help himself.”

  Simon kissed her on the cheek before heading into the crowd with his cheese tray.

  Seconds later, Katelyn’s three little Pomeranians darted into the room, weaving in and out of people’s legs.

  “I locked them in the disabled bathroom,” Christopher shouted as he tried to chase after them. “Who unlocked the door?”

  “This is why you shouldn’t have pets!” Constance cried as the black Pomeranian ran through her legs. “Horrible little creatures!”

  Liz tossed back the champagne in the bottom of the flute, wondering how long it would be until she could slip out. Spending the rest of the afternoon putting together a jigsaw with Ellie was more appealing than the wake.

  With the two golden Pomeranians tucked under his arms, Christopher hurried out of the room. Liz managed to grab the black one, which seemed to recognise her from the dinner party because it did not put up a fight. She followed Christopher to the spacious disabled bathroom.

  “Thank you,” he said as he locked the door. “I didn’t know what to do with them. I couldn’t leave them at home.”

  “How are you feeling?” Liz asked. “I know I keep asking that, but you aren’t being –”

  “Christopher!” a shrill voice called down the corridor. “I need you.”

  Christopher gave Liz an apologetic look before hurrying off to Lizzie. She was standing in the doorway of the main gallery with her hands on her hips, and her eyes trained on Liz.

  Liz was about to walk back to the main gallery to grab another glass of champagne when she heard raised voices coming from the office. She walked over to the door, the ‘Catherine Ford – Gallery Manager’ sign looking oddly out of place. She pushed open the already ajar door, surprised to see the back of Trevor’s head; he had been noticeably missing from the funeral.

  “This is not a gallery matter,” Catherine seethed, trying to keep her voice low. “I’ve already told you there is nothing I can do, Trevor. You can snoop around in here all you want, but you’re not going to find anything!”

  “I want my money back,” Trevor replied, stepping towards Catherine with an outstretched finger. “Katelyn ran this place, and she sold me fake art. If that isn’t a gallery matter, I don’t know what is.”

  “If it was a gallery transaction then maybe I could have done something about it,” Catherine replied, not shrinking away from Trevor. “But, like I’ve told you several times, I’ve checked the accounts, and it wasn’t!”

  Liz edged closer, not wanting to miss a single word.

  “You need to sort this,” Trevor snapped, raising his voice and pushing his finger closer towards Catherine’s face. “I know a lot of people who could make your life very difficult.”

  “Is that a threat?” she cried, recoiling from him. “Why don’t I tell that to the police? I’m sure they’d love to hear all about this. Katelyn might have sold you fake paintings, but you bought them thinking they were stolen. Last time I checked, Trevor Swan, that is also illegal. Now, why don’t you get that finger out of my face and get out of my office before I call them.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Trevor whispered darkly.

  “Try me.”

  Liz stepped back from the door and hurried in the direction of the bathroom, slipping inside when she heard Trevor slamming the office door. As she washed her hands, she stared at herself in the mirror, adrenaline reddening her cheeks.

  “You still have a knack for eavesdropping, Liz Jones,” she whispered to herself with a chuckle.

  After drying her hands on blue paper towels, Liz made her way back along the corridor, stopping once again at the office door. This time, it was wide open, the sound of rustling coming from under the desk. Liz stood on tiptoes, expecting to see Catherine, so she was shocked at what she did see.

  “What are you doing?” Liz asked, startling Nancy.

  Nancy immediately stopped digging through one of the drawers, a fistful of paper in her hand.

  “Nothing,” Nancy said as she stuffed the paper back. “It’s none of your business.”

  “You’re making a lot of noise doing nothing,” Liz said with an arched brow. “Why don’t we drop this? We’re supposed to be friends, aren’t we?”

  “We were friends before you thought I murdered my boss.”

  “You’re hardly helping your case, are you?” Liz nodded to the drawe
r as she crossed her arms. “I’ll ask you again, and this time I want the truth, Nancy Turtle.”

  Nancy sighed as she straightened up. She fiddled with her glasses, unable to look Liz in the eyes.

  “I was looking to see if Katelyn made a note of my termination,” Nancy said, her expression softening. “She was particular about paperwork, so I thought she might have done it before – well, you know. Before she was killed and turned into a living art installation. Please, don’t say anything.”

  They both looked at each other, and Liz felt a twinge of guilt about the way she had suspected Nancy. Despite that, her suspicion did not vanish. A quick reminder to look at the facts flashed through her mind.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Liz said. “But you need to leave this office now, and don’t come back here.”

  Nancy opened her mouth to speak, but Liz was distracted when she heard a loud metal clatter. She ran out of the room and back into the main gallery, where Simon was lying on the floor. His tray and cheese were all around him, while the three Pomeranians hoovered up the mess they had caused. Liz helped Simon to his feet as his cheeks flushed with his obvious embarrassment.

  “I’m fine,” Simon said, forcing a laugh as he brushed the crumbs from his clothes. “I should have looked where I was going.”

  “Who opened that door again?” Christopher cried as he scooped up two of the dogs.

  Much to her obvious disdain, he passed one to Lizzie, who held it at arm’s length like it was a mouldy piece of fruit. Despite being obvious troublemakers, Liz thought they were quite adorable, not that she could imagine having three of them.

  “What a waste of good cheese,” Simon said, rubbing his backside as he picked up the empty tray. “Where have you been, anyway? I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Unintentionally investigating,” Liz said as she scooped a champagne flute off a passing waiter’s tray. “Who knew funerals could be so eventful?”

  Before Simon could ask anything else, Constance marched over to the buffet table and straight for the cheese section.

  “Who hired these awful caterers?” Constance cried with revulsion after picking up a cheese nibble from one of the trays. “Dear Lord! They’re dreadful!”

  “Constance!” Philip started.

  “Don’t you ‘Constance’ me, you little man!” she snapped back before hitting her hand against her forehead. “I’ve had it up to here with your comments.”

  Simon blushed deeply at Constance’s insult, but thankfully for Liz, he did not take the bait. Constance looked Simon and Liz up and down before marching out of the gallery once more.

  Despite his wife’s remarks, Phillip snatched up a cheese nibble. He tossed it into his mouth, and he seemed pleasantly surprised.

  “Very good indeed,” he said with a wag of his finger. “Pay my wife no mind.”

  With that, he hurried off after his wife, his lumbering, jaunty walk almost comical. He looked as though both legs were wooden and he was made of stuffing from neck to waist.

  “Almost feel sorry for the fella,” Simon said as he nodded to Christopher. “Imagine growing up with them. I better go to the back and see if there’s any cheese left since I’m now a tray down.”

  After looking around the gallery for a familiar face, Liz was surprised when she did not spot anyone from her art club. She walked out into the hallway, relieved when she saw Debbie walking out of the bathroom wiping her hands on her black skirt. Debbie glanced at Lance at the same time Liz did. He was slumped against the door, his fists screwed up tightly. For a brief moment, Liz thought he was taking a standing nap before his fists pounded on the door.

  “This was her office,” he cried. “Not Catherine’s. Would she jump in her grave as fast?”

  Liz and Debbie both stepped towards the intoxicated man, but they kept a safe distance. Lance wrapped his hand around the handle, twisting it open. The door opened inwards, but he stumbled backwards, unable to sustain himself with the safety blanket of the door. Debbie caught him and rested him against the wall, which he slid down with little fuss.

  Liz turned to close the door, but she noticed a pair of black heeled shoes on the floor next to the desk. What she saw next turned her blood to ice. On the office desk were two shoeless feet, solid and unmoving. Liz pushed open the door further. The feet belonged to Catherine, who like Katelyn, was laid on the desk, her arms flayed carelessly over the surface. Her face had been painted in the same fashion, but instead of a curtain tie, she had a letter opener sticking out of her neck.

  “Call the police,” she whispered over her shoulder to Debbie, whose ringed-hand was clamped over her mouth. “It’s happened again.”

  11

  Liz wrapped her fingers around the blue and white crime scene tape as the flashing lights from the parked police cars blinded her. She stood on tiptoes, attempting to look into the gallery as the white-clad forensic team made their way inside.

  “We should go,” Simon said, pulling on Liz’s arm. “You can’t do anything.”

  “I should be in there,” Liz said, on tiptoes again. “I could help.”

  “Retired,” Simon reminded her. “Remember? You left that all behind.”

  Liz huffed and shook her head, but it was difficult to banish the feeling that she was right back on the job. She stepped back, merging with the spectators. She looked into the sea of hungry faces as the sun set behind them. She scanned the faces, but only spotted Polly and Sylvia from her art club.

  “Where are they all?” Liz whispered. “Which one of them did it?”

  “Let’s go,” Simon begged, grabbing her arm again. “You’ve given your statement. There’s nothing you can gain from hanging around here.”

  “I just need to look around the crime scene,” Liz muttered, almost to herself. “Why didn’t I take my chance before the police got here?”

  “Because you know better than to contaminate a crime scene. Please, Liz. We promised we’d babysit Ellie. Remember?”

  The mention of Simon’s little sister was what Liz needed to bring her out of her detective haze. She looked around the scene, catching the eyes of the leading detective. He looked like he could not see his toes, never mind see clues to solve a double homicide.

  “You’re right,” Liz said to Simon with a smile. “Let’s go.”

  Liz wrapped her hand around Simon’s. She let him lead her away from the crime scene, even if her mind was still there. She no longer had a shred of doubt that someone in her art club was behind the murders.

  “There’s someone in that bush,” Simon whispered, stopping them both as they passed the Fish and Anchor. “Is that Lance?”

  Liz shone her phone screen in the direction of the bush. It was Lance, and he appeared to be fast asleep.

  “We can’t leave him here,” Liz said as she tucked her phone back into her pocket. “Help me get him up.”

  With an arm each, they pulled Lance out of the shrubbery. He let out a mighty groan as his lids flickered, the stench of gin strong on his breath. They propped him up on his feet and wrapped his arms around their shoulders to keep him upright.

  “Let’s take him home,” Simon suggested, nodding to the path that led up to the farm. “He’s wasted.”

  “He’s also a suspect,” Liz confirmed, looking back at the gallery. “We need to take him to the police.”

  “Look at him!” Simon cried with a forced laugh. “He’s in no fit state to answer any questions. You know as well as I do that they’ll throw him in a cell until he’s sobered up. At least if he’s at home, he can throw up in his own toilet. If they want to question him, they’ll find him tomorrow.”

  Liz’s jaw tightened, but she decided Simon was right. For a moment, she thought how wrong it was for a detective to allow a suspect to escape a crime scene until she remembered she was only a shop owner. If anything, she was surprised she was not the prime suspect owing to the fact she had been there when both bodies had been discovered.

  “Okay,” Liz said, pulling Lan
ce’s arm tighter around her neck. “But we check on him as soon as the sun rises and if the police haven’t talked to him already, we drive him to the station.”

  “Deal.”

  Lance attempted to move his feet as they dragged him up the steep lane to the farm, but it barely made a difference. Despite being a slender man, he was pure muscle. When they dumped him on his couch after digging his keys out of his pocket, Liz let out a sigh of relief as she massaged her shoulder.

  “I’m taking these,” Simon said as he gathered up the half-full bottles of gin around the cottage. “He doesn’t need any more of this stuff.”

  Liz looked over at Lance as Simon poured the bottles down the drain. In his semi-conscious state, with strands of hair over his handsome face, he looked innocent. She glanced at the door where he had smashed the gin bottle; there was still glass on the carpet.

  “He’s going to have a banging head tomorrow,” Simon said as he wiped his gin-soaked fingers on his suit trousers. “Will he be alright?”

  “He’s a big boy,” Liz replied as she stared at the demonic portrait of Katelyn on the easel. “No one forced him to get into this state.”

  After locking the door and posting the keys back through the letterbox, they walked back to the farmhouse. Sandra and John were already waiting on the doorstep, both of them dressed up to the nines. Sandra had opted for a simple blue blouse and black trouser combination, her usually wild hair neat and pretty. John was wearing a pale pink shirt with the tweed jacket Simon had borrowed for the dinner party; Liz had never seen either of them so dressed up.

  “Told you they’d be here!” John announced with a nod as he hooked his thumbs into his belt holes. “You don’t half panic, Sandra.”

  “You know what I’m like,” she said with a wave of her hands as she pulled her cardigan tighter across her chest. “I thought we said half six?”

  Liz looked at her watch, shocked to see that it was almost quarter past seven.

  “There’s been another murder,” Simon explained, his hand tightening around Liz’s. “Liz found the body.”