Blackthorn Winter (15 page)

Duncan slowly reached for my hand. His hand was big, and totally covered mine, and I liked the feeling. His clasp was warm and strong, and banished that sense of loss I knew we'd both felt.

We walked on through the dark evening to the Emporium. Bright pools of light spilled out of the building to illumine the puddled darkness of Castle Street. There was no sign of Oliver anywhere, but the shop was bustling with housewives snapping up late-afternoon dinner possibilities. We were surprised to see Veronica Pimms there in all her purple-haired glory, presiding over the "Quality Meats and Cheeses" counter. She had tied a dark green Emporium apron over her tight, faded jeans. A thick ring of keys dangled importantly off her belt loop. She tossed her hair when she saw us.

"What happened to your job at the Ship?" asked Duncan.

"I've still got it," she said smugly. "
And
got this, too. Ollie gave me my job back, didn't he? I asked him at the funeral. He knew I never should've been sacked in the first place. We get along fine, me and old Ollie, and now that
she's
gone, I can work here in the daytime and down at the Ship in the evenings. I'm saving up for a car, you see, and it won't take long at this rate. Ollie said I can fix my own hours here, to make it work at the Ship, too."

"Great," Duncan told her. "That's brilliant, Ronnie."

"So—how can I serve you, kind sir? Cheddar's on special." With a glance at me she added, "What do California girls like in the way of cheese?"

"Cheddar," I told her. "But we haven't really come to get cheese..."

"We're looking for Oliver, actually," said Duncan.

Veronica laughed, and her many earrings danced along her cheek. "He's over at his wife's gallery. His
dead
wife's gallery. Dismantling it, I hope. I was there this morning, pulling everything out of the storage cupboards before he got there, to make it easy for him to decide what to keep and what to throw. I'd throw all of it myself, if it were up to me."

"So Oliver's given you his keys, eh?" asked Duncan with a little smile, glancing pointedly down at the ring dangling from her belt loop. "You look very much in charge, Ronnie, and it suits you."

"I can tell you it's a relief not to have her breathing down my neck all the time, checking up on me. But as for the keys, I've had 'em for ages. Liza's keys, they are! I copied 'em, didn't I, over at the ironmonger's, first time she left them out on her desk. Silly cow."

Her voice was so venomous, I stared at her. How much had Veronica hated Liza Pethering? I was realizing that although Veronica had not been at Quent's party that night, she might have been able to leave the Old Ship on a break. She might have run into Liza stumbling drunkenly along the footpath, and maybe Liza would have insulted her again ... and Veronica could have knocked her down and then dragged her to lie facedown in the Shreenwater. Veronica was thin but looked wiry and strong. And Liza had not been very big.

I felt a prickle of unease between my shoulder blades.

"So you work at the Old Ship every night?" I asked casually, but moving the conversation deliberately around to where I wanted it.

"I'm at the Ship Mondays through Saturdays," Veronica said airily. "They need me at the bar
and
in the kitchens. Haven't missed a night yet."

"Were you working on the night Liza died?" I pressed.

"Every night means every night," said Veronica. She took a wet cloth and started polishing the glass countertop.

"Did you see Simon Jukes come in that night—the night Liza died?"

"Oh, yeah, I saw him," she said, tossing the cloth down and wiping her hands on her apron. "For my sins. The Ship is too high quality to attract the lager lout crowd, but Simon and Henry can't be bothered to go to Lower Dillingham where their sort usually hang out at the Bib and Tucker. And now Henry's been coming in alone, poor thick bloke."

She leaned toward us over the counter. "I heard Simon talking that night," she confided in a low voice. "The night of the murder, I mean. He was going on something fierce about how he hated Liza." Her eyes widened—possibly in admiration. "I heard him talking about getting even someday ... and then he left. When the police came round asking later, that's what I told them."

"How did you find out Liza was dead?" Duncan asked. "Did someone ring you?"

"No—I saw her."

"You saw Liza!" My voice squeaked. "You saw her—dead?"

Veronica rolled her eyes at me. "I was walking home
from the Ship, wasn't I?" she said to Duncan. "Could hardly miss seeing all the coppers and the emergency van and everything, there by the Shreen. The body was covered, though. With a plastic sheet sort of thing. I didn't know who was under there, not till later."

"You were walking home alone?" I asked.

She raised a thin, disdainful eyebrow. "Blackthorn's not like America."

Still, a woman we knew had been murdered
here.
But I didn't say anything. Duncan waved good-bye and we moved away from the cheese counter.

Out in the street, I grabbed Duncan's arm. "I'm starting to wonder if maybe it was
Veronica.
She hated Liza, you know. You can hear it in her voice. She
says
she was at the Old Ship the night of the murder, working the whole time, and came upon the scene later, but that could be a lie."

"You suspect
Ronnie
of killing Liza?" Duncan's voice was incredulous.

"Well, she did say 'someone ought to kill that bitch,' remember?"

"Yes, but she was just talking. She didn't really mean anything by it, I'm sure."

"It would be stupid, I suppose, to say something like that right out and then go do it," I admitted. "But I think we should check if she really did stay at work that night. Let's stop in at the Old Ship and ask before we go to the gallery. If they say she was there the whole time, then we can cross her off the list."

"List?"

"Of suspects," I said.

"You really have a list of suspects?"

"Well, not a real list. I just keep thinking—if it wasn't Simon, who was it?"

He stood staring at me for a long moment. "What I think is that you've been watching too many cops-and-robbers shows on the telly."

"I have not!" I sputtered.

"Or maybe it's because you live so close to Hollywood..." He frowned at me.

"I do not!" I protested hotly.

He shrugged. "All right, but now we'd better hurry. Your mum said to be back in time for your supper."

We started walking again. I used the automated bank machine on the corner while Duncan went into the Old Ship. It seemed so strange that I could push my bank card from my own bank in California into the slot, tell the machine I'd like to withdraw fifty dollars in cash, and then have the money slide out—converted into British pounds. I peered at the unfamiliar, brightly colored bills under the glare of a streetlamp before stashing the money in my wallet. Duncan came out and told me that the owner of the Old Ship corroborated Veronica's account of the night Liza had died. The owner would have noticed if she'd taken time off from her duties, he'd said. And why did Duncan want to know? Was there some problem?

"What did you tell him?" I asked. "Did you say we're investigating a murder?"

"I just said there wasn't a problem, and thanked him. But I hope he doesn't tell Veronica we were checking up on her story. She'll be upset with me."

I was a little upset to realize he cared what Veronica thought.

We set off for the gallery on Castle Hill Lane. The narrow stone building had been a house once, I imagined. But now it had a wooden sign on the door: pethering portraits. A large bow window at the front displayed some flower arrangements and two portraits on easels. One was of Oliver pethering, looking quite a lot more handsome in oils than he did in real life, and one was Liza herself, with her fluff of black hair and her wide smile. I winced; the picture was so lifelike.

A bell tinkled as I pushed open the door and we walked inside. I looked around with interest. There was no sign of Oliver, so we wandered around two downstairs rooms, studying the paintings and sketches. I recognized a few people I had seen at the party, as well as the lady who worked behind the counter at the newsagent's. I saw a few more that I might have passed in the Emporium. Many sketches were of children, and quite a few were of people's pets. There was even one of a much younger Veronica Pimms without purple hair. A special wall exhibit showed the process Liza must have gone through when painting: First a photograph of her subject. Then pencil or charcoal sketches. Then a rough painting, mostly just blocks of color. Then a much larger painting, this time detailed and shaded and textured.

Liza
was
good,
I thought, surprised.
Really good.

"Look, Juliana," Duncan said behind me. "Here's my mum."

I whirled around to find him standing next to the fireplace, where a painting of a very beautiful woman was hung. The ornate oval golden frame complemented the delicate red gold of her hair and the shape of her oval face. Her smiling mouth was generous and tender. In her arms she
held a sleeping baby wrapped in a blue blanket. A tuft of reddish hair peeked out from the blue. Her eyes, instead of looking out at the portrait painter, were cast downward, as if she were studying her baby. Her expression was radiant.

"That baby must be you," I whispered.

"I know," he said softly. "I've never seen this picture!"

"I'm surprised you don't
own
it. It's fantastic. Don't you want it?"

"Yes," he said. "Or my grandparents would want it. Let's ask how much it costs."

"Maybe Oliver's upstairs," I suggested, noticing for the first time a narrow stairway in the back corner of the gallery. The steps were stacked with boxes.

We headed over and started up. But after we'd taken only two or three steps, Oliver himself came hurrying down. "Oh! Heavens!" said Oliver. "I suddenly heard footsteps! You gave me a fright!"

"Sorry," Duncan said. "We were just looking around."

"Liza had said I should see her portraits," I explained. Why did Oliver look so nervous?

"Take your time, take your time," he said genially, shooting a worried glance up the stairs. "She was a genius, was my Liza. She could paint anybody. Made you look the way you saw yourself. She had a knack, she did. Talent." He shooed us in front of him, back down the stairs to the gallery.

"Oh, she had the knack, all right. The knack of stabbing you in the back," boomed Celia Glendenning's voice. And then Mrs. Glendenning herself started down the stairs. She frowned at us. "What are you children doing here? Is school out already? Goodness, it is! I must be dashing home to make Kate her tea."

Her cheeks were pink and her hair was uncombed. She sidled around Oliver pethering and headed for the door. "Oh! It's so mild out, I nearly forgot my jacket! Oliver, would you...?"

Oliver went back upstairs and came down with her coat over his arm. He helped her into it in true gentlemanly fashion. "There you go," he said heartily. "Thanks for stopping in."

"Yes, indeed," she said gaily. "I'll see you again sometime. Cheerio!" And she was gone, with Oliver staring after her. Was the expression on his face
longing?
I narrowed my eyes, wondering.

Duncan looked at me and raised his eyebrows expressively. Then he turned back to Oliver pethering. "I was wondering how much that portrait of my mum costs." He pointed to the fireplace.

Oliver tried to drag his attention away from the door through which Celia Glendenning had exited. "Lovely one, isn't it, lad?" he said jovially. "Your mum was a beauty, yes she was for a fact. I'd have to find Liza's books and look that one up before I could tell you a price. She wrote down how much each one was to sell for, she did. But I can check. Let you know soon."

"Thanks," said Duncan. He started heading for the door, but I put out my arm to stop him.

"Umm, Mr. Pethering," I began, and again Oliver had to drag his attention away from the door. "We were wondering if we could see the portrait Liza did of Mrs. Glendenning. The one she's told everyone she hates so much?"

Oliver Pethering blinked at us. Then he started chattering in his staccato manner. "What? Oh—oh, no, sorry. Sorry! Don't have that one on display. Celia absolutely refused. Said it was ghastly. Unflattering. And indeed it is! Doesn't do her justice in the least. Certainly wasn't up to Liza's usual standards. No, not at all. Didn't capture Celia's energy. Or charm! In fact—in fact,
that's
why she was here just now, Celia. If you were wondering, I mean. Returning the painting and getting her money back." His gaze sharpened. "Now, is there anything else I can do for you young people?"

He seemed eager to have us gone, but I had to try again. I spoke in a sincere and admiring voice: "Everything Liza did is
so
good! I guess you were her muse! It's hard to imagine she could paint anything that wasn't beautiful. I just can't imagine that she could paint a terrible portrait. Please won't you let us see the one Mrs. Glendenning doesn't like?"

He hesitated. "It's in the back room."

"Oh, please?" I wheedled. "It wouldn't take long to bring out, would it?"

He frowned at me, then shrugged. "All right, just a quick peek, then."

We waited while he went to get it. Duncan winked at me. I wasn't sure why I needed to see the portrait. But when Oliver returned and pulled the cloth covering off the canvas, I could see what might have driven Celia to murder.

The other portraits ranged around the gallery were of various villagers, each presented in a flattering light, as if they'd been sitting in their garden on a sunny afternoon. Each face was painted with bright, clean colors, a friendly smile, and a sense of happiness and goodness shining forth from the eyes. The portraits presented people you'd want to meet, and you just knew you'd like them. But this portrait of Celia Glendenning was different.

The background was a gloomy purply brown, as if rather than a garden, Celia had been sitting in a closet. Her face had been painted in muddy oranges, blotchy grays, and sickly greenish browns. The eyes were puffy, the expression unpleasantly sly. The mouth was tight and ungenerous. The overall expression on Celia's painted face was one of arrogance, but also stupidity. I thought again that Liza Pethering had been a greater painter than I'd expected.