ONCE UPON A LIE (A Fitzjohn Mystery) (13 page)

‘And
what about Prentice?’ asked Fitzjohn removing his glasses, and placing them carefully on to his desk.’

‘Well,
if Prentice did get word that Michael Rossi planned to buy him out of the business, not only did he have the motive to kill Rossi, but I daresay the opportunity as well as the means, sir.’

‘
True,’ replied Fitzjohn, putting his glasses back on, and looking around at the whiteboard. ‘What about Robert Nesbit?  Any joy from the staff at the hospital?’

Betts
turned the page of his notebook.  ‘I spoke to the nurse who was on duty on Friday night.  She remembered Richard Edwards having two visitors.  The first, a man answering the victim’s description.  He arrived around 3:20pm just as she started her shift, and left about 40 minutes later.  A second man, identifying himself as Robert Nesbit, arrived about 8:30pm.’

‘
Did she notice what time Nesbit left?’

‘No, sir.’

Fitzjohn leaned back in his chair.  ‘So, Nesbit could have left the hospital at anytime during that evening.  Gone back to Rushcutters Bay, killed the victim and returned to the hospital.  Have another word with the staff on duty that night, Betts.  See if anyone noticed Robert Nesbit coming or going.’

Fitzjohn
got to his feet and commenced pacing the length of the Incident Room.  ‘Let’s turn our attention to our victim, Michael Rossi.  You say he left the hospital just after 4pm.  Yet he didn’t arrive at Esme Timmons’s home until six that evening.  So, where was he in those intervening two hours?’

‘Presumably trying, and not finding whatever he was looking for, later, in his sister’s study, sir
,’ answered Betts.  ‘Speaking of which.  Charlotte Rossi called in to the station today to report that Miss Timmons has found something missing from the study, after all.’  Betts looked down at his notebook again.  ‘It’s described as a Limoges, porcelain footed perfume bottle.  Hand painted in violets on a cream background.  Oh, and there’s a small nick in one of its feet.  The makers mark is D & Co France.’  Betts looked up.  ‘Shouldn’t be too difficult to identify if it turns up.’

‘Did Ms
Rossi know it’s value?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘No, sir.  She just said it has a great deal of sentimental
value for Miss Timmons.  It’s a family heirloom.’  Betts leaned back in his chair.  ‘It could mean that the break-in had nothing to do with Michael Rossi’s death, sir.  Or, the perfume bottle was taken to make us think that.  Especially in light of the forensic report I’ve just received concerning Claudia Rossi’s diary.’  Betts handed the report to Fitzjohn and the continued.  ‘The report concludes that the slip of paper found in the victim’s hand, did come from Claudia Rossi’s diary.’

‘Did forens
ics find anything written on that piece of paper,’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘No, sir.
’

Fitzjohn looked thoughtful
.  ‘Well, even though Michael Rossi took the diary with him when he left Esme Timmons’s home on Friday evening, it doesn’t mean to say it was a significant factor in his death.  But having said that, I want a list of everyone mentioned in that diary.’

‘It’s done, sir.’  Betts grinned, handing Fitzjohn the list. 
‘Among them are Claudia Rossi’s friend, Phillipa Braithwaite, and two men.  Aiden Maxwell and a Douglas Porteous.  Maxwell’s an art dealer.  He has three commercial galleries.  Two here in Sydney, in Paddington and Mosman, and a third in Carlton in Melbourne.  As it happens, Phillipa Braithwaite manages the Mosman gallery as well as the one in Melbourne.’

‘We met Phillipa Braithwaite when we first spoke to Charlotte Rossi, didn’t we?
  A friend of Claudia’s since school days, I seem to remember Miss Timmons saying.’

‘Yes
, sir.’

‘And Douglas Porteous?
  Who is he, exactly?’

‘
I have Williams working on that, sir.’

‘
Then let’s start with Phillipa Braithwaite. Being an old school friend, she might be able to help us piece together Claudia Rossi’s movements in the time leading up to her death.  Where can we find her, Betts?’

‘
At the Mosman gallery, sir.’

After crossing the Harbour Bridge to the North Shore, Betts tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as they continued, at a snails pace, along Military Road.

‘Where exactly is this gallery
?’ asked Fitzjohn.

‘Cowles Road, sir.  At this next set of lights.’  Betts
did a quick right turn in to a tree-lined street, awash with cafes and boutiques.  He pulled over to the curb in front of a gallery nestled amongst them.  ‘This is it, sir.’

‘The ArtSpace
Gallery,’ said Fitzjohn, peering out of the passenger window.  ‘Looks impressive, but I think we may have come at a bad time.’  Betts followed Fitzjohn’s gaze to see a short, dark haired man carrying two large bouquets of white carnations.  Muttering to himself, he headed for a white van.  Behind him came a tall, shapely woman wearing a colourful, blousy, top over a pair of slim line slacks.

‘That’s her, isn’t it, Betts?’ asked Fitzjohn.
  ‘Phillipa Braithwaite?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Fitzjohn and Betts left their car.

‘You do understand,
don’t you, Mr Mason?  I did specifically order red roses.’  With her claims ignored, Phillipa threw her hands in the air and turned back.  As she did so, she caught site of Fitzjohn and Betts at the curb.

‘
Looks like we’ve caught you at a bad time, Ms Braithwaite,’ said Fitzjohn.

With a puzzled look
Phillipa stared at Fitzjohn before a smile came to her face.  ‘It’s Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, isn’t it?  You brought the awful news to Charlotte about Michael Rossi last Saturday morning.’

‘Yes.  And this is Detective Sergeant Betts.’

‘Of course.’  Phillipa pushed her long wavy brown hair back from her face, her dark eyes flashing.  ‘You’ll have to excuse all the fuss.  We’re in the throes of preparing for an exhibition this afternoon,’ She glanced disapprovingly at the florist’s van, pulling away from the curb. ‘Not everything is going to plan.’  Phillipa hesitated.  ‘Is there something I can do for you, Chief Inspector?’

‘We
wondered whether you could answer a few questions, Ms Braithwaite; concerning Claudia Rossi.’

‘Claudia?’
  Phillipa Braithwaite’s brow furrowed.  ‘Well, yes, of course.  Come inside, won’t you.’

Fitzjohn and Betts followed Phillipa
in to the gallery.

‘I see you showcase a wide variety of work,
’ said Fitzjohn, looking around.

‘We do
,’ replied Phillipa, appearing pleased at Fitzjohn’s interest.  ‘And it’s been a huge success.  At different times you can find not only paintings in various mediums, but sculpture, photography and ceramics.  But as you can see, at the moment, it’s all a bit of a mess.  I think we’ll talk in my office.’  Fitzjohn and Betts followed Phillipa through the maze of people and paintings to a windowless room at the back of the gallery.  ‘It’s not ideal, but I guarantee it will be quiet,’ she said closing the door.  ‘Won’t you sit down.’  Fitzjohn and Betts settled themselves, Betts fumbling for his notebook.  Phillipa sat in a large swivel chair, clasping her hands together on the desk.  ‘Now, you said you wanted to ask me about Claudia.’

‘
Yes,’ replied Fitzjohn.  ‘We understand you two were friends.’

‘
We were.’  Phillipa smiled to herself.  ‘We became friends on our first day at boarding school, here in Sydney.  We were both twelve at the time.  Claudia’s parents had decided it was to her benefit to be educated in the city, and mine… well, mine were in the midst of a rather nasty divorce.’  Phillipa paused.  ‘What exactly do you want to know, Chief Inspector?’

‘We’re trying to piece together Claudia’s movements just prior to her death.’

‘Oh.’  Phillipa gave Fitzjohn a quizzical look.  ‘Well, it was quite some time ago.’

‘
So we understand,’ said Fitzjohn.  ‘The week of July 11th, 2010, to be exact.’

‘
So it was.  Well, Claudia and I had planned to have dinner together on the Thursday evening of that week, but she cancelled at the last minute.  She said her brother, Michael, had asked her to make up numbers at his dinner party.  So as it turned out, I didn’t see her at all before she became ill.  We only spoke on the telephone.  And that was when she rang to cancel our dinner engagement.’

‘Did she speak about anything else
when she rang, Ms Braithwaite?’ asked Fitzjohn.

Phillipa thought for a moment.  ‘She did
, as a matter of fact.  You know, after all that’s happened, I’d almost forgotten about it.  She told me she’d just had another row with Richard.  He was her partner.  They’d separated earlier in 2010, and had just got back together again.  She was upset because she suspected that Richard was straying again.  She said she thought she’d made a
mistake to take him back.  It was the last conversation we had.’  Phillipa fell silent as if reflecting on that conversation.

‘We understand
she died from liver failure caused by ingesting a particular lethal type of mushroom,’ continued Fitzjohn, taking the conversation on to a different path.  ‘A mushroom that isn’t found here in New South Wales.  It is, however, found in Canberra, and we understand that Claudia spent some time there before she died.  Do you know if Claudia was in a habit of picking wild mushrooms, Ms Braithwaite?’

‘
She did if she came across them when she was out walking in the mornings.  I know because she'd done so when we'd walked together.  But as you say, the variety that killed her doesn’t grow here in New South Wales.  At the inquest it was thought she’d picked them while she’d been in Canberra during that week.  But you probably know that already.’  Phillipa paused.  ‘Can I ask why you’re enquiring about Claudia, Chief Inspector?  I thought you were investigating Michael’s death?’

‘We are, Ms
Braithwaite, but in so doing, questions about his sister’ death have been raised.’

‘Well,
all that I can tell you is that Claudia and Michael were very close.  He was devastated when she died.  They were twins, of course, so perhaps the tie is greater.  I don’t know.’  Phillipa sighed.

‘When was the last time you saw Michael
Rossi, Ms Braithwaite?’

‘
Oh.  I can’t remember exactly.  And the only place we ever did meet up was if he happened to drop in to see Charlotte when I was there.’

‘
So presumably, not someone you knew well.’

‘No.’

‘Very well.  I think that will be all then,’ said Fitzjohn, getting to his feet.  ‘Oh.  There is something else.  I understand you manage this gallery for a man by the name of Aiden Maxwell.’

‘Yes.  I have
done since it opened in 2008.’

‘Right.  It’s just that Claudia had Mr Maxwell’s name penciled
in to her diary.  Can you tell us what connection she had with him?’

‘
It was restoration work.  Aiden used Claudia’s expertise in that area on many occasions.  And she’s sadly missed, I might add.’

Fitzjohn and Betts made their way, once again, through the commotion in the gallery, and out to their car. ‘Well, Betts.  We didn’t learn much more about Claudia Rossi other than she cancelled having dinner with Phillipa Braithwaite two days before she died.’  Fitzjohn sighed and pulled his seat belt on.  ‘I want you to pay a call to the New South Wales Art Gallery next, where Claudia used to work.  You never know, Michael Rossi might have called in there on Friday if he was making enquiries about his sister.  Oh, and have a word to Charlotte Rossi about her mother too.  While you’re doing that, I’ll speak to that art dealer, Aiden Maxwell.’

Fitzjohn arrived at the Paddington gallery amidst an exhibition.  Undaunted, if not pleased, he made his way unobtrusively inside, welcoming the opportunity to view each painting he passed.  ‘Welcome to our exhibition, sir,’ said a voice all too soon.  Fitzjohn turned to see a young fair-haired man with a wide smile.  ‘This is our program,’ he continued, handing Fitzjohn a colourful brochure.  ‘If there’s anything I can help you with, please don’t hesitate to ask.’

‘There is as a mat
ter of fact,’ said Fitzjohn, taking the brochure.  ‘I’m here to see Aiden Maxwell.’  The young man smiled.

‘
Ah.  Our exalted leader.  Now, where did I see him last,’ he said, looking around the crowded space.  ‘Yes, there he is on the mezzanine level, sir.  The fellow in the dark blue suit and red bow tie.’  As he spoke, the man with the bow tie looked down over the railing.  ‘This gentleman would like to speak to you Aiden.’

Fitzjohn made his way through
the gathering to the foot of a spiral staircase to be met by Maxwell as he descended.  A slim man with fine sharp features, Fitzjohn detected an air of smoothness about him.  ‘Is there a particular piece you’re interested in, Mr...?’

‘It’s Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn.  I’m
from the New South Wales Police.’  Fitzjohn noted Maxwell’s disapproving air.  ‘I realise this isn’t the most appropriate time…’

‘You
’re right, it isn’t.’  Maxwell’s eyes narrowed.

‘Nevertheless
,’ said Fitzjohn, undaunted.  ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

Maxwell
pursed his lips.  ‘Follow me,
Chief
Inspector.’

Fitzjohn fell
in to step with Maxwell.  ‘It’s a fine exhibition.  I regret my visit doesn’t allow me the time to enjoy it.’  Maxwell passed Fitzjohn a churlish look as he opened the door to his office.  Lavish beyond his expectations, Fitzjohn took in the exquisite detail on the Chippendale desk with its inlay and marquetry of flowers and birds.  A piece of art in itself, he thought.   The paintings on the walls and tufted leather chairs added to the richness of the room.

‘
Have a seat, Chief Inspector.’  Maxwell settled himself behind his desk, sitting back and eyeing Fitzjohn with an air of arrogance.  ‘Now, what can I do for you?’

Fitzjohn sank
in to one of the leather chairs in front of the desk, delighting in its comfort and, at the same time, aware of Maxwell’s distain.  ‘I’m investigating the death of a man by the name of Michael Rossi, Mr Maxwell, and my inquiries have led me to you.’  Fitzjohn met Maxwell’s intense gaze.  ‘Primarily because I understand you knew the victim’s sister, Claudia Rossi.’

‘Claudia?
Yes, I did know her. She did restoration work for me.  She died some time ago.’

‘
Speaking of which.  When did you last see Claudia Rossi, Mr Maxwell’

‘Oh.’  Maxwell’s brow wrinkled.  ‘I’m not
exactly sure of the date, but I know it was shortly before she died.  That was in July 2010.’

‘July
17th, 2010, to be exact.  A Saturday,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘You
’re well informed, Chief Inspector.  And that makes it easy for me because I know Claudia came to see me the Sunday before she died.  So, the last time I saw her would have been July 11th.  As I remember, she wanted to ask about the provenance of a piece of art that the New South Wales Gallery had purchased.  She worked for the Gallery.  But I suppose you know that too.’

Ignoring Maxwell’s last remark Fitzjohn continued.
‘The matter must have been urgent for you to open the gallery specifically for her.’

‘
Well, at the time, Claudia seemed to think so, but as it turned out, it was a minor misunderstanding in that she had contacted the wrong person about the provenance.’

‘How long did your meeting last
?’

‘About forty-five minutes
as I remember.  What exactly are you trying to find out, Chief Inspector?’

‘Who killed her, Mr Maxwell.’

Maxwell’s chair brought him forward with a jolt, his face contorted.  ‘I don’t understand.  I thought Claudia died of liver failure.’

Fitzjohn returned to Kings Cross Police Station somewhat annoyed, Maxwell’s pompous demeanor having exhausted his patience.  He found Betts in the Incident Room sitting back with his legs on his desk.  ‘I’m glad you have time to relax, Detective Sergeant,’ he said as he walked into the room. Betts’s feet hit the floor with a thud.

‘How did you get on with
Charlotte Rossi?’

‘I didn’t, sir. 
That is.  According to her shop assistant, she’s away until Thursday.  She and Esme Timmons have gone to the winery.  I had a bit more luck at the New South Wales Art Gallery though.  Someone remembered Michael Rossi asking to speak to Marian Davies.  Apparently, she and Claudia used to work together.’

‘And…
?’

‘It’s a ‘but’, sir.  Ms Davies is
attending a funeral in rural New South Wales.  She’s expected back in Sydney tomorrow.’

Fitzjohn sighed.
  ‘Right.  Then I want to see her as soon as she gets back.  Let’s hope Michael Rossi did seek her out.  I also want to ask her if she knows anything about Claudia Rossi’s dealings with Aiden Maxwell.’

‘How did it go with
Aiden Maxwell?’ asked Betts.

‘
He confirmed that Claudia did restoration work for him, and that he had a meeting with her a week before she died. Apparently, it was to do with a painting that the New South Wales Art Gallery had purchased.  Marian Davies will probably know about it seeing that she and Claudia Rossi were colleagues.’

CHAPTER
14

The unique smell peculiar to old bookshops and libraries permeated the air as
Charlotte opened the door on Monday morning.  She had hoped for a few minutes to herself before her assistant, Irene Forbes, arrived, but it was not to be. Irene, her thick frame balanced precariously on a stepladder, was already busy flicking a red duster along the spines of the books on one of the top shelves, while humming to herself.  When the little gold bell on the back of the bookshop door sounded, she turned suddenly.  A diligent and trustworthy assistant, yes; Charlotte knew she was lucky to have Irene, but today she suspected that Irene’s incessant gushiness would grate on her nerves.

‘
Charlotte.  You poor thing,’ she said climbing down, her feet hitting the floor with a clump.  ‘I heard about your Uncle Michael over the weekend, and I’m
so
sorry.’ Irene scurried across the room.  ‘I didn’t expect you to come in today.  Are you sure you’re feeling up to it?’

‘Actually, I won’t be here for
long,’ said Charlotte, moving passed Irene to the desk at the back corner of the bookshop.  ‘I’m driving up to Five Oaks and taking Esme with me.  This whole affair has been difficult for her.’  Charlotte sat down not wanting to elaborate.  Instead, she watched the red duster move along the edge of the desk, and waited for Irene’s inquisitive nature to move in to gear.

‘
I’m sure it has.  Esme must be devastated.  I suppose it’s too early for the police to know who did it.’

Charlotte met Irene’s look of
anticipation.  ‘Yes, it’s far too early to know anything.’  Charlotte sifted through the mail on the desk, hoping to dissuade her assistant from asking any further questions. She tossed the usual advertising material aside until she came to a long narrow envelope and a smaller one, both from ‘Spencer, Anderson & Sumner, Solicitors.’  Irene’s duster came to an abrupt halt.

‘
Those two envelopes were delivered by courier just after I arrived this morning,’ she offered.  ‘The long one is the type used for wills.  I know because I once worked in a solicitor’s office.  Did I ever tell you about that?’

‘No,
you didn’t.’ Charlotte put the envelopes aside and got to her feet, aware her annoyance was beginning to show. ‘I think I’ll make a cup of coffee.  Would you like one, Irene?’

Irene’s gaze shifted from the
envelopes to Charlotte.  ‘Yes, in fact, why don’t I make it?  You carry on here.’

Charlotte
waited until Irene disappeared in to the small kitchen at the rear of the bookshop before she picked up the smaller of the two envelopes, tore it open and read its contents.

“
Dear Ms Rossi,

This is to advise
that you have been named in Michael Rossi’s Last Will and Testament as the beneficiary of his fifty percent share in Five Oaks Winery.  A copy of Mr Rossi’s will has been sent under separate cover for your perusal.

Please contact my office at your earliest convenience for
further details in this matter.

Yours sincerely

David W. Spencer

Principal,

Spencer Anderson Sumner, Solicitors”

Charlotte
sat back feeling a mixture of relief as well as sadness.  Relief because Michael had left his shares in the winery to her, and sadness in the way she had come by them.  As these thoughts ran through her mind, Irene reappeared with two steaming mugs of coffee.

‘I hope
it wasn’t bad news,’ she said, putting the two mugs on the desk before pulling up the nearest chair.