Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (14 page)

“The day—” Coletta took a deep breath. “The day of the accident.”

“The day McIntyre died?”

“Yes.”

Jesus. Dylan hoped McIntyre hadn’t taken out his boat and said, “Goodbye, cruel world.”

“Jack had been so happy,” Coletta said. “Prue was good for him. She taught him to love life and she got him painting again, but she—”

“Wait a minute,” Dylan said. “You say she got him painting again?”

“Yes.”

“But no one was supposed to know,” Tolman said. “Until he was ready to face the world—or the press at least—he was keeping quiet about it. Not that it matters now, I suppose.”

“Who knew he was painting?” Frank asked.

“Prue, obviously, because she was modelling for him. Other than that, just us two,” Coletta said. “I had to know because I cleaned for him and he worked all hours of the day and night. As far as I know, no one else knew.”

Dylan had come to France on a whim. He’d harboured some vague hope that someone might recognise Prue and confirm that she’d been friendly enough with McIntyre for him to give her a miniature. The last thing he’d expected to hear was that Prue and the artist had been having an affair.

Dylan had been thinking life was over at forty yet McIntyre, at sixty-two, had been living a dream life with a thirty-four-year-old. Where the hell was Dylan going wrong?

“If they were so happy, why did Prue leave?” he asked.

“She didn’t like being involved with a married man,” Coletta said. “Who would? Also—” She gave Tolman a quick glance before continuing. “Also, Jack had something of a reputation as a ladies’ man. Prue couldn’t believe that he was serious about her. So she told him she was leaving. He tried to change her mind, but she was having none of it and, in the end, he booked her flight back to England. He wasn’t too worried. He was confident she’d be back, you see.”

Heavy rain lashed the windows and she paused to watch it for a moment.

“Jack wanted to drive her to the airport but she said she didn’t like goodbyes. Also, Jack had Mr. Collins due to visit him the day she left. He was a friend of Jack’s but he was also the man who looked after his paintings. Sold them, put them in exhibitions, that sort of thing. So she set off with just her clothes to walk to the village and that’s when I saw her.” Coletta chewed on her lip. “I was coming to clean and prepare food for Jack and his visitor, you see, and Prue was setting off for the village. She was upset but she was too proud to let anyone see. I could tell though. We hugged, we said goodbye, and I watched her walk up to the lane.” She nodded in the direction of the track where Dylan had parked. “She met someone, a man. I think he must have been lost because she was pointing in the direction of the village and it looked like she was giving him directions. In the end, she walked with him. I assume they were both walking back to the village. He said something to make her laugh and I was pleased to hear that.” She sighed. “That was the last time I ever saw her.”

Dylan had a dozen questions but he was too surprised to ask any. Frank had no such problems.

“This man she met? What was he like? Can you describe him?”

Coletta looked at him as if he were crazy. “He was young—perhaps thirty or forty. Maybe even fifty. He was wearing a black padded jacket and a hat. It was a lovely November day—cold, so he needed that hat, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, I remember. And he had a backpack.”

“Wasn’t it odd to see a stranger so far from the village?” Frank asked.

“No. Not at all. In the summer, we get many people coming here. They like to walk. Sometimes they have picnics on the beach.”

“And this was the same day that Mr. McIntyre drowned?” Dylan asked.

“Yes.” Coletta sniffed. “After lunch, I put dinner ready for Jack and his friend. It was only a salad. A few cold meats. I told Jack I’d be here for breakfast and he told me not to worry about being early as he and his friend would probably take the boat out and enjoy a couple of glasses of wine. I told you, it was a lovely sunny day,” she said again.

Tolman seemed calmer and less suspicious now and, still standing, he gave his wife’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “No one knows what happened. The weather was fine, the sea calm. No one can give me a satisfactory explanation as to why the accident happened.”

“Too much wine perhaps?” Frank asked.

“It could be, I suppose.” Tolman clearly wasn’t happy with that idea. “Jack had taken that boat out dozens of times before though and he’d never drunk so much he was incapable of bringing her home.”

“It was a horrid time,” Coletta said. “I didn’t have an address for Prue so I couldn’t let her know. She would have found out soon enough because the news spread quickly, of course, but that’s not a nice way to hear, is it? It was terrible.”

“Who raised the alarm?” Dylan asked.

“Me.” Tolman perched on the edge of the windowsill. “Coletta came here to prepare their breakfast but there was no sign of them. Jack used to moor his boat in the village, there’s a small marina there, so Coletta sent me to check that it was there. It was nowhere to be seen so we called the police.”

“The boat was moored in the village?” Dylan said. “I assumed it was kept here, in the boathouse.”

“Don’t be daft.” Tolman rolled his eyes. “We’re not talking about a rowing boat. Jack’s was a powerful cruiser. With the accommodation on offer, they could have stayed on it quite comfortably, but I knew Jack wouldn’t do that without letting us know. So the police put out a search party and found the boat, very badly damaged, the following day. The same evening they found—what was his name? Jeremy? They found Jeremy’s body. If it hadn’t been for a brief storm we had that day, they reckoned his body would never have been found.”

“Jack was such a strong swimmer too,” Coletta said.

There were many strong swimmers in the world but few who could drink a lot of wine and swim several miles to shore in the cold and the darkness.

“The painting we found,” Dylan said, “was a miniature. Presumably Jack gave it to her? Would you know about that?”

“Who else would have given it to her?” Coletta looked at Dylan as if he were an idiot.

“What happened to his other work?” Dylan asked. “You said he was painting Prue. Who has those paintings now?”

Tolman looked at his wife and shrugged.

“Jack took them somewhere for safekeeping when he knew his agent was visiting,” Coletta said. “He didn’t say where they were and I didn’t ask. I’ve always assumed that the lawyers winding up his estate have them. Or perhaps they’ve already been handed over to Davina. I couldn’t say where they are.”

“What were they like?” Dylan asked. “Large? Small? All portraits?”

“They were large,” Coletta said. “I think there were about half a dozen, all of Prue. They weren’t finished.”

They talked for another hour but the Tolmans had little to say other than what wonderful people their employer and his lover had been.

At least the sun was shining when they walked back to the Morgan.

“There’s a law against that, you know,” Dylan said.

“Against what?”

“Impersonating a police officer.”

Frank snorted with laughter. “Once a police officer, always a police officer. There has to be some perk to retirement and I reckoned Tolman was the type to respect authority. So what do we do now?”

“We celebrate our good fortune by going on a pub crawl.”

“Okay, the first pint of the gnat’s piss they call beer in these parts is on you.” Frank rubbed his hands together.

“Or perhaps we’ll stick to brandy. The French are better with brandy than they are with beer.”

“True, but they only serve it in thimble-sized glasses...”

Chapter Twenty

Ruth took a deep breath, prodded the doorbell and listened to the chimes ring out inside the house. Nerves made her heart race and that was ridiculous.

The door opened and Maddie frowned at her. “What are you doing here?”

“May I come in?”

“Of course.” Maddie strode off in the direction of the dining room, leaving Ruth to close the door behind her.

“If you’ve come to collect your scarf,” Maddie said, “you’re too late. I put it in the mail. And yes, I do know how precious it is to you, so I made sure it was recorded and registered.”

“Thank you, but that’s not why I’m here.”

“So why are you here?”

“I’ve come to help you sort out Prue’s things.” Somewhere, buried deep in a dark place that Ruth refused to visit, was the memory of the moment their relationship had broken down. That was years ago though. Maddie had been a child then. They should be able to move on. “I know you want to do everything yourself, Maddie, but it will be easier with two of us.”

Ruth wasn’t taking no for an answer. She’d lost Prue but she refused to lose Maddie as well.

Maddie’s cold exterior told her it was already too late, that all hope had been lost when Maddie, just ten years old, had run to Ruth. Ruth had slapped her. Shaken her. She hadn’t known what else to do.

“It’s here.” Maddie nodded at a tall pile of clothes on the dining table. “Most of it’s stuff no one would be caught dead in.”

Ruth flinched at both the expression and the hard tone of voice. “Don’t fight me, Maddie. Let’s do this together.”

Maddie shrugged. “Would you like a coffee?”

“I’d love one, darling. Thank you.”

Maddie’s shoes tapped on the wooden floor in the hall as she walked to the kitchen.

Ruth lifted a coat from the pile of clothing. She held it to her face, but could find no trace of Prue. It was in good condition so she checked the pockets, all empty, and put it aside to go to the charity shop. She picked up another coat, one in a soft pink that she’d seen Prue wearing. Again, it was in good condition. Ruth checked the pockets and pulled out a crumpled receipt and a penny coin.
See a penny, pick it up, and all that day you’ll have good luck.
She unfolded the receipt. It was for a cappuccino bought from Manchester Art Gallery, and it was dated the same day that Prue died. Ruth put the receipt on the table and the coat on the pile for the charity shop.

The next item was a sweater that looked to be at least twenty years old. Threads dangled from the cuffs and elbows and it was dotted with white paint. She could imagine Prue decorating her home in it, could see her curled up in front of the TV in it on cold winter nights. She was tempted to take it home and keep it forever. She resisted and started a new pile for clothes to be thrown out.

She felt her heart start to race and had to take several slow, deep breaths. The void that Prue had left behind would never be filled, she knew that, but one day she hoped the raw, raw pain would subside just a little. It would have to, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to cope. And cope she must, for all their sakes.

Maddie carried two coffees into the room and put them on the table, but before either of them could speak, the doorbell rang.

“Now what?” Maddie muttered before striding along that wooden floor to answer it.

“Hello, Eddie,” Ruth heard her say. “Tim’s not here.”

“I know. I’ve been in Birmingham and, as I was more or less passing your door, I thought I’d call in and see how you’re doing.” There was a brief pause before he added, “We’re worried about you, Maddie. You’ve got a lot on your plate right now.”

“I’m fine,” she said, “but thanks. Do you want a coffee? I’ve just made one. My mother’s here.”

“I’d love one. The traffic’s been stop-start for hours and I thought I’d never get here.”

Ruth had pinned a smile to her face before Eddie reached the dining room. Smiling, and looking as uncomfortable as most people do when dealing with the bereaved, he came forward and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Hello, Ruth. How are you coping?”

“I’m okay, Eddie. Thanks. How are you? Did I hear you say you’d been in Birmingham?”

“Yes.” He looked relieved to be on easier territory. “A conference. Exhausting but hopefully worthwhile.”

Maddie went to the kitchen, leaving them to chat awkwardly about the weather until she returned. Given that Maddie suffered with her nerves, Ruth had expected her daughter to cut down the amount of caffeine and alcohol she drank. Maddie was far too thin and she was constantly fidgeting. Ruth hoped she wasn’t sinking into one of her depressions.

“Thanks.” Eddie took his coffee from her. “So how are you, Maddie?”

“I’m okay. Have a seat.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather stand. I’ve been sitting in that car for hours.” He leaned back against the table. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, just say the word. I know what you’re going through. People don’t realise how much needs to be done at a time like this, do they? I remember having to sort out everything when my aunt died. It took months.”

Maddie nodded. “That’s exactly it, people
don’t
realise. What with the funeral, putting notices in the paper, sorting out the house and contents, getting stuff together for the solicitor—it’s a damn pain.”

Ruth felt a bubble of anger rise. Why had Maddie insisted on doing everything? So she could play the martyr? Ruth didn’t like the unkind thought but she could think of no other explanation.

“It’s much worse in this case, isn’t it?” Eddie said. “With the police involved, I mean.”

“Yes.”

He looked at her for long moments. “We’ve been so worried about you, but I have to say that, despite everything, you’re looking as lovely as ever.”

“Thank you. And who’s ‘we’?”

“Me. Tim.”

She rolled her eyes at that. “Oh yes, I’ve noticed that Tim’s really worried.”

“Aw, come on, Maddie. Of course he’s worried. We’re just run off our feet at the moment, that’s all.”

Maybe Maddie was feeling neglected by Tim.

“I don’t suppose the police have found out anything new?” he asked.

“I haven’t heard a word from them,” Maddie said. “Not a word since I spoke to them at Prue’s funeral. They don’t seem to care. I suppose they’d claim that they’re busy too.”

“I’m sure they’re doing all they can.” He took a sip of coffee. “What about your private investigator? Has he learned anything?”

“I don’t know. He’s calling here later today. He’s been in France.”

“France? What, on holiday you mean?”

“No. Didn’t Tim tell you about the painting?”

“What painting?”

Maddie gave Ruth a sharp glance, almost as if she’d forgotten she was there. “I found a painting in Prue’s house,” she said. “Only a very tiny one—a miniature, you know? It turns out it’s one of Jack McIntyre’s.”

“What?” Ruth had heard a painting mentioned but she’d had no idea it was a McIntyre.

“Who did you say it was painted by?” Eddie asked.

“Jack McIntyre. Haven’t you heard of him?”

“No.”

“He’s famous. Except he’s dead now. He was drowned, I think. But he lived in France, you see, so Dylan’s been there to see if he can find out how one of his paintings came to be in Prue’s house. Prue lived in France, remember? Dylan thinks there might be a connection.”

“Wow.”

“It’s not worth that much,” Maddie said, giving Ruth another quick, almost sly, glance, “but it’s quite a surprise.”

Ruth didn’t care how much the painting was worth, but the fact that Maddie didn’t want her to know about it hurt. All Ruth wanted was her daughter back, and no amount of money could ease the pain or the deep, hollow sense of loss.

Eddie finished his coffee and put the empty cup on the table. “It’s time I was off. We have that appointment with the bank at two.”

He spoke as if Maddie was supposed to know what he was talking about, but she clearly didn’t. “What appointment?”

“We’re trying to extend a loan. Tim told you about it yesterday when he phoned you.”

She shook her head. “He hasn’t mentioned it. He didn’t phone me yesterday.”

“He did, Maddie. I heard him. I was in his office.”

“Nope. It wasn’t me.”

“Oh. My mistake then,” Eddie said. “It’s nothing to worry about, not really. We need a loan extension, that’s all. Tim’s been working on updating our business plan for ages. I’m sure the bank will play ball.”

Ruth wondered who Tim
had
told about the meeting with the bank. Not Maddie, because he’d know she had no interest in finance or business plans, but perhaps he had someone else to talk to, someone who cared...

“Don’t forget,” Eddie said as he was leaving, “if there’s anything I can do, anything at all, just give me a shout. Okay?”

Maddie gave him a quick hug. “Thanks.”

“Good to see you again, Eddie,” Ruth said.

“You, too, Ruth. Take good care of yourself, won’t you?” Smiling, he gave her a peck on the cheek before he took his car keys from his pocket and left them alone.

“Eddie’s not too bad, you know,” Maddie said. “I never used to like him, but he’s been quite thoughtful lately. Tim’s too wrapped up in the business to care, and my agent’s only worried about the next shoot, so it’s been good to see that at least someone cares about me.”

“We all care about you, Maddie. You know that.”

“Yeah. Right. Let’s get on with this stuff then. This skirt isn’t too bad, I suppose.”

The skirt was put on the charity shop pile and Maddie grabbed a leather handbag and emptied the contents onto the table.

“Look at this,” Maddie said, surprise evident. “It’s practically empty. Name me a woman who doesn’t carry makeup, spare stockings, hairbrush, mirror, water bottle and a hundred other things. Prue’s is almost empty.”

Prue’s bag held a wallet containing loyalty cards for two supermarkets and her debit card, a mini umbrella, a pair of gloves and a small pack of tissues. And that was it. Even Ruth had to admit it looked sad and forlorn.

Maddie decided the handbag was good enough for the charity shop and threw the contents in the rubbish bag.

“I almost forgot.” Ruth handed over the receipt she’d found in Prue’s coat pocket. “Prue was in Manchester on the day she died.” She preferred to say “died” rather than “was killed” or “was murdered.” “Died” was less brutal.

“So?”

“I thought your detective, Dylan Scott, might be interested,” Ruth said.

“Oh, yes.” Maddie’s sudden smile seemed genuine. “He’s calling in later so I’ll give it to him.”

Next was a box that contained assorted rubbish. Ruth could give someone a similar box if she emptied the top drawer in her kitchen. Prue’s box contained cigarette lighters (Prue had never smoked), two tape measures, an old camera that didn’t work, a box of matches, a menu from her local Chinese takeaway, buttons—

Maddie gasped. She turned one of the buttons over in her hand then held it tight in her closed fist.

“What’s wrong?” Ruth asked, sensing a dramatic change in her daughter’s mood.

“This button. This bloody button!”

Maddie threw down the button and strode off. Ruth heard her take the stairs two at a time. Doors upstairs were slammed. A couple of minutes later, she returned clutching a blue blazer.

“See?”

Ruth saw a navy double-breasted blazer, presumably Tim’s. It had eight brass-coloured buttons on the front and three smaller buttons, identical to the one Maddie was holding, on the cuff of each sleeve. At least, it should have had three on each sleeve. The left sleeve only had two. The missing one, Ruth assumed, was in Maddie’s hand.

“A couple of months ago, Tim returned from a trip to Portugal annoyed that he’d lost a button.” Maddie was breathless from her angry dash up the stairs. “I promised to find a replacement but I couldn’t, and Tim hasn’t worn this blazer since.”

“So he must have lost it at Prue’s.”

“Tim and Eddie went to Portugal for three days,” Maddie said. “I met them from the airport. That evening, Tim unpacked and noticed he’d lost the button.”

Maddie strode out of the room and came back with a lit cigarette in her hand. She took a long, deep pull.

“So either,” she said, “my dear sister went to Portugal with Tim—”

“Or he lost it when you visited Prue and hadn’t noticed until he went to Portugal. Darling, you’re letting your imagination run away with you. Of course Prue didn’t go to Portugal with Tim.” Ruth was appalled by the way her daughter’s mind worked.

“I should have guessed. When we went to France for that weekend, Tim sat up all night with her. At least, they both claimed they sat up all night—just talking.”

“If that’s what—”

“Bastard!” Maddie threw the jacket on the table. The button was clenched tight in her fist. “Total bastard!”