Brush with Death Page 6

  “Here they are,” she said, gesturing to a wall covered in brightly painted canvases. I blinked, surprised. The work looked amateurish, nothing at all like the finely rendered, almost translucent paintings I’d come to expect from Gwen.

  “This is my best one,” she said, pointing to one that featured a childish-looking boat against a too-blue sky.

  “They’re quite a departure from your earlier work,” I said awkwardly. She was right; they weren’t as good as her normal work. I felt a wave of frustration toward the gallery owner who was pushing her into a direction she clearly wasn’t comfortable going.

  “I knew you wouldn’t like them,” she said, her beautiful face crumpling into tears. “They’re awful.”

  “They’re not awful,” I said, trying to sound convincing. “They’re just not what I’m used to.” On the opposite wall were a few of her watercolors. They looked like they had been done by a different person. “I like your original work better … you’ve worked on your technique for years, and I think they’re absolutely stunning.”

  “Really?” She looked at me with swollen eyes.

  “Really. Fernand wouldn’t have taken you on if he didn’t agree with me. Can you use these for the show? Just while you’re figuring out the other medium?”

  “Munger told me they’re too small,” she said. “They won’t sell.”

  “I don’t think so at all,” I said. “And what does he know? Did you see the pants he had on last night?” I asked, playing my trump card.

  “True,” she said, sulkily.

  “Besides, who cares how big they are? Art comes in all sizes. And if he really wants big paintings, why can’t you just try a few larger watercolors?”

  “That’s what Fernand suggested, but when Munger wanted oils …” She sighed.

  “Let’s go talk to Fernand,” I said. “He knows what he’s doing.”

  She sighed. “Okay.”

  Fernand’s house was painted the same yellow as the studio, and was tucked into the trees next door. We tromped up the steps, shaking the snow off our boots. When Gwen knocked, the door swung open; it was ajar. “He mentioned you had to jiggle the handle to get the door to latch,” Gwen said. “He must not have closed it properly last night.”

  We stepped inside. There was a light dusting of blown snow on the wood floor of the front hall.

  “Fernand?” Gwen called, still standing at the doorway.

  When there was no answer, we entered cautiously. The open door had chilled the house, and I kept my coat zipped up as we walked through the small, sparsely furnished rooms. Unlike the gallery next door, the downstairs was as neat as you would expect from a tidy man, with framed original art in every room. “He hasn’t made coffee this morning,” Gwen observed as we walked into the kitchen.

  “How do you know?”

  “Usually he keeps a carafe of it on the counter, but it’s still on the shelf.”

  I was starting to get a bad feeling. Maybe he’d had too much to drink last night, I told myself. Still …

  “Stay here,” I said. “I’m going to check upstairs.”

  “But …”

  Without waiting for her to answer, I climbed the steps. They creaked ominously, and despite the sunshine pouring in through the windows, the house felt suddenly very wrong.

  There were three doors on the second floor, but I didn’t have to try any of them to know where Fernand was.

  A long finger of blood oozed from the nearest door, which was half-open. Lying on the floor, a knife in his hand, eyes staring sightless at the ceiling, was my niece’s art teacher.

  I took a step back and covered my mouth with my hand.

  He lay in a pool of his own blood, his wrists slashed open.

  SEVEN

  IT WAS A SHOCKING scene. Fernand was still wearing the same red sweater— only parts of it had been stained dark with blood. My mind refused to process what I was seeing. How could Fernand—Fernand, who had mentored my niece for years, who had shared so many dinners at my kitchen table, who was such a huge part of this—how could he be gone? I’d never see those blue eyes glint behind their wire-rimmed glasses again, I realized, feeling sick.

  I tore my eyes from the body, searching for a note—for some explanation of why he had taken his own life. It was incomprehensible that he could have done such a thing to himself—to Gwen, to all of us—without some explanation.

  There was nothing, though, but a half-finished glass of a cloudy amber liquid. A quick sniff of the glass confirmed my guess: it was Scotch, Fernand’s favorite tipple. Had he been drinking it to fuel his courage—or had it been the depressive effects of the alcohol that spurred him to his death? Either possibility was too awful to consider. My heart felt leaden in my chest as I realized I would likely never know. Fernand, who was such a vital part of our little island community, was gone forever.

  I stepped away, unable to look at my friend for another moment, and wiped at the tears that had welled my eyes. I dreaded telling Gwen, but knew I had to.

  “What’s wrong?” Gwen asked me when I came down the stairs, feeling the muffin I’d eaten earlier churn in my stomach.

  “Honey, I’m so sorry,” I said, touching her shoulder. “Fernand’s gone.”

  She stared at me blankly. “Gone?”

  “I’m afraid …” I swallowed, hating to say the words. “It looks like he killed himself.”

  Her face drained of color, and she let out a long, moaning wail.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” I said, and folded her into my arms as she sobbed. We stood there for a long time before she pulled away. I looked at my niece’s tearstained face and tried to get my mind in gear. It would be hard to stay in the house—not with Fernand so close—but we needed to be here until the police arrived. I had to call the police, I realized, my mind working slowly, still processing the shock. But I didn’t want to do that where Gwen could hear me.

  “Why don’t we get you to the gallery?” I said, and put an arm around Gwen, walking her over to the larger building. I settled her into a chair and stroked her hair, telling her I’d be right back, then hurried back to the house.

  I dialed the mainland police—a number that I had unfortunately memorized—feeling numb as I told them what had happened. They took the details, told me not to touch anything or leave the premises, and promised someone would be there within an hour. I was missing John, I realized as I hung up the phone—and not just because I craved the comfort of his strong arms around me right now. I hadn’t realized until now how much I relied on his ability to take charge when tragedy struck. Which had happened all too often these past few years.

  I tried to reach Adam, but could only leave a message; he was likely miles offshore, and even if I had a radio with which to contact him, it would likely be at least an hour before he could be back on the island.

  After hanging up the phone, I stood in the too-quiet kitchen, feeling a sharp pang of loss. The empty blue coffee carafe, the mugs lined up in a neat row on the shelf by the window, waiting to be filled—Fernand would never use any of them again. He liked his coffee black, I knew—he’d often teased me about my milky “lattes”—and had a weakness for my cinnamon rolls. I sometimes sent a few for him with Gwen when she headed out to the studio. Just last night he was joking about gaining ten pounds, but today he was gone. He’d never eat another cinnamon roll again. He’d seemed happy last night, at the party. Was it all an act?

  Or had something happened at the party last night—or after it? What could be so catastrophic that it would drive Fernand to take his own life?

  My heart ached for my lost friend as I walked down the hallway to the front door. The cold, sharp air felt refreshing after the heavy atmosphere inside the white and blue house.

  I found Gwen in a corner of the gallery, hugging knees to her chest and rocking back and forth. She looked up at me with eyes swollen from crying.

  “How did he do it?” she asked.

  “A knife,” I said, sitting down
next to her and putting an arm around her bony shoulders. “He slit his wrists.” As I spoke the words, the image blossomed in my mind. Fernand’s limbs flung out like a doll’s, wrists gashed open, the Exacto knife lying in his open palm. And the blood. It was everywhere, soaking into the floorboards, spattering the white dust ruffle of the four-poster bed. I shook myself involuntarily, as if I could shed the memory.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head wildly. “He wouldn’t have done something like that. He wasn’t depressed. He had been dating someone for months and it was going well; I think they were planning a trip to Italy in the spring. The show was just around the corner, he had plans to expand the retreat center … it doesn’t make sense.” She ran her hands through her hair, making the tangled curls look as if they were standing on end. “Was there a note?”

  “I didn’t see one,” I said. “But they don’t always leave a note.” I sighed. “I just don’t know, honey.” It didn’t make sense to me either, but I knew what I’d just seen. “Nobody ever knows, really. Maybe having Nina Torrone here set him off.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Maybe because of her success,” I said. “I don’t know. Maybe because he was in love with her, and she was with another man.”

  Despite her tears, she snorted. “He was gay, Aunt Nat.”

  Scratch that, then. I had wondered, but never confirmed it. “Okay, maybe he broke up with someone,” I said. “Or someone broke up with him.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “He would have told me if something like that had happened. I’m telling you, Aunt Nat, it doesn’t make sense. Everything was going well. His sales were increasing, he was going to expand the summer art school …”

  “He wasn’t bothered by the new art retreat?” I asked. “Apparently Zelda made him some kind of an offer. She was asking him about it last night.”

  “I didn’t hear anything about an offer.” Her eyes were swollen and red, and her voice was rough from weeping. “And of course he was bothered by the new retreat, but why would he kill himself over that now? He’s known about it for months.”

  “He did seem pretty happy last night,” I concurred, remembering his smile when he greeted me. “You were here longer than I was; did something happen after I left? Did you notice a change in mood?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. He was in good spirits.”

  I thought of the open front door From the snow that had drifted into the front hall, it must have been open for several hours. “I guess it’s possible someone might have killed him,” I said, “but what’s the motive? What would he have that would be worth killing for?”

  “I don’t know, but I know that’s what happened,” she said, tears streaking down her cheeks. “He wouldn’t have killed himself.”

  If only John were here, I thought for the hundredth time since Gwen and I had arrived at the gallery. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves here. Let’s see what the police have to say,” I said.

  “The police?” Gwen asked, pulling me out of my reverie. “You mean that idiot Grimes? He thought Polly killed herself, too,” she said, echoing my own thoughts. She drew up her knees and hugged them more tightly. “I wish John were here.”

  “Me too,” I said, thinking I needed to call him as soon as possible. John would want to know about Fernand, although I knew it would be a blow. They’d become good friends these last few months. And, I thought with a sick feeling in my stomach, I needed to tell him about the mortgage fiasco. Why did it always have to be bad news? I wondered.

  We sat together, not speaking, listening to the wind moaning through the eaves, for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only forty-five minutes. Then there was a bustle of voices, and a knock on the door that dispelled the feeling of emptiness. The police had arrived, and the loneliness was eclipsed as Detective Penney, a briskly efficient woman who gave the impression of having everything under control, questioned both of us while her team cordoned off the house.

  The only good thing about it was that Detective Grimes wasn’t with them.

  _____

  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” John said. I could hear the sadness over the phone, and ached to give him a hug.

  “I know,” I said. “It just doesn’t seem possible that he was so vibrant last night, and now …”

  “What did Grimes say?” he asked.

  “It wasn’t Grimes,” I said, cradling the phone to my shoulder as I shredded the leftover pork roast for green chile stew. I always craved hearty, comforting fare after a death, and the succulent pork stew, along with a basket of cornbread, would fit the bill perfectly. Adam had arrived shortly after we returned to the inn, and he and Gwen had been in the parlor by the fire ever since. I hoped preparing one of Gwen’s favorites would tempt her to eat.

  “Not Grimes?” John asked. “Who was it, then?”

  “A woman named Penney. She seemed very efficient, and didn’t start looking at us as potential murderers. It was rather refreshing.”

  “I don’t know her. Did she say anything about how she was classifying the death?”

  “Not a word. She asked who had been at the party last night,” I said, putting the last of the pork into a stockpot and reaching for a can of green chiles, “and what we found—and touched—when we got there.” I took a deep breath. “Gwen doesn’t believe it was suicide. He didn’t seem suicidal last night, but I guess something might have happened after I left the party.”

  “It doesn’t seem right to me, either,” John said. “But sometimes people can surprise you.”

  “One strange thing is that the front door was open when we got there.”

  “In this weather?”

  “I know.” I turned on the water to rinse my hands; the engagement ring was itching again, and had turned my skin a greenish black. I scrubbed at it with soap, then dried my hands. The black was gone, but the skin was red and slightly inflamed.

  “Did you tell the detectives about the door?” John asked, recalling me to the conversation.

  “Of course,” I said, giving the ring a twist.

  He was quiet for a moment. “Where did you find him?”

  “Upstairs, on the bedroom floor.” I looked down at the potatoes on the cutting board and the sharp edge of the French chef’s knife, and was reminded of the gleaming blade in Fernand’s hand. “It was awful—blood everywhere. I don’t know if I’ll ever forget seeing it.”

  “Not the bathtub?”

  “No, he was on the bedroom floor,” I said, confused by the question. “Why the bathtub?”

  “People who are serious often use water to make sure they bleed out.”

  “Ugh.” I looked at the pork in the pot and shuddered. “Sounds like pig butchering.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be graphic. I’m sure they’ll check his computer and see if he was researching suicide. Although I just can’t imagine it.”

  “Me neither,” I said. “Maybe Gwen’s right, and it wasn’t. Remember Polly Sarkes?”

  “Of course I remember her,” John said. My former cleaning helper had turned up dead with a gun in her hand, and although the police thought it was suicide, it had turned out to be murder. “We need to wait until we have all the information before we jump to conclusions, though. Maybe the new relationship didn’t work out … there’s likely to be an e-mail about it on his computer if that’s the case.”

  “I know, I know. It’s just …” I sighed as I poured the green chiles over the shredded pork.

  “We can’t do anything now, Nat. Let’s let the detectives do their work. I’m sure they’ll follow up and do due diligence.”

  “Speaking of due diligence, how’s class?” I asked, glad to change the subject.

  “Interesting,” he said. “Some of the time, anyway. Not a whole lot of drug trade on Cranberry Island, so I’m not sure how relevant this particular course is.”

  “I hope not at all,” I said.

  “It’s a nice change of pace, and it’s
interesting subject matter, but I’m looking forward to being home.” He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, the professionalism had faded, and I could hear the pain in his voice. “It’s going to be hard with Fernand gone, though. I still can’t believe it.”

  I felt my heart contract—both at the thought of Fernand, and at the mention of home. With the shock of Fernand’s death, I had temporarily forgotten about the foreclosure notice I’d gotten in the mail yesterday. Not to mention Gertrude’s questions last night. I checked my watch; there was still time to make some phone calls. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell John about the mortgage problem, but something held me back.

  “Will you still be home tomorrow?” I asked. When John came home, I could show him the letter in person. Heck, with my luck, he’d be able to read it in the local paper. Although last night’s tragic events would likely bump news of the inn to the back page.

  “Absolutely,” he said. “I can’t wait to give you a hug. And Gwen. Tell her to hang in there for me.”

  “I will. Adam’s with her now.”

  “Good.” He hesitated, then added, “I hate to bring this up right now, but I talked with my mother today.”

  “Oh, really?” I asked, feeling my hackles rise. We had visited her home in Boston over Thanksgiving, and I’d gotten the distinct impression that I was not the bride she’d envisioned for her handsome son.

  “She’s announced she’s coming to visit,” he said.

  I stifled a groan. The last thing I needed was Catherine, whose eating regimen made the Pritikin diet look epicurean, hovering and critiquing everything I said—not to mention everything I cooked. Still, she was my future mother-in-law. The thought made me shiver. “When?”

  “Within the week,” he said. “I figure we’ll put her up in the carriage house.”