Poisoned Palette

by Jill Paterson

  ‘I see,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘We understand you were holidaying with your stepsister at the time of the auction.’

  ‘More or less. We’d spent a couple of weeks up on the Gold Coast and we decided to take a detour and drop in to see Florence on our way home.’

  ‘So you went to Leura before returning to your home in Sydney,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  Fitzjohn and Betts emerged from the Winters’ hotel room and made their way back down to the lobby.

  ‘I don’t know whether to believe her or not,’ said Betts as they emerged from the elevator. ‘She appears to be genuinely saddened by what’s happened to her stepsister and yet how can that be the case if what Patrick Fontaine says is true, not to mention Claire Reynolds.’

  ‘It might be no more than a brilliant performance for our benefit,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘After all, we both know only too well that it’s possible but if it is, does it mean she’s also capable of murder? Of course, we might find the answer to that question if we knew more about her as well as her husband. See what you can find out, Betts.’

  Betts nodded. ‘Where to next, sir?

  ‘I’d like to speak to that café owner, Aiden Farrell, to find out why he left Lyrebird Lodge after the victim collapsed. But before we do that, I think we should find ourselves accommodation before it gets too late in the day.’

  ‘We could stay here, sir,’ replied Betts, looking around the lobby’s plush surroundings. ‘I’m partial to comfort.’

  ‘So am I, Betts, but as with the Fairmont, the Hydro Majestic is a tad over our budget. We’ll try what I suggested earlier, a bed and breakfast establishment. There’s one advertised in this morning’s newspaper that looks to be just what we’re after.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Fitzjohn looked out of the passenger car window as Betts pulled over to the curb in front of the century-old building, its walls covered in clematis vines, their colourful blooms framing each pane glass window. ‘Ah, this is the place, Betts, and with any luck, we’ll be able to get a couple of rooms.’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. The sign says no vacancy.’

  Fitzjohn’s gaze went to the bed and breakfast sign beside the front gate and the words ‘No Vacancy’ pushed into a slot at the bottom. ‘Ah, that’s disappointing,’ he said, slumping back in his seat. ‘Never mind, let’s call in anyway. We can ask where else we might try.’

  The two men made their way through the gate and along the path to the front door. As they did so, the door opened and a tall, austere looking woman in her mid-fifties appeared.’

  ‘Good morning, madam,’ said Fitzjohn with a smile. ‘My partner and I are looking for accommodation. I realise your establishment is fully booked but I thought you might be able to recommend something else close by.’

  The woman narrowed her eyes sceptically at Fitzjohn and looked Betts up and down. ‘One room overnight is it?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Two rooms for at least a couple of weeks, possibly longer,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘Two rooms,’ she repeated, looking somewhat confused. ‘And for two weeks?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, it just so happens I came out to remove the ‘No Vacancy’ sign. My last guests left early this morning so you’re both more than welcome to stay here, although the rooms won’t be ready until two o’clock this afternoon.’

  ‘That’s not a problem,’ said Fitzjohn, ‘we have plenty to keep us occupied. We’ll drop our bags in if we may and return this evening, Mrs…’

  ‘Gifford. Winifred Gifford. And you are?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn and Detective Sergeant Betts.’

  ‘Ah, you’re police partners. I thought… Well, never mind.’

  Betts rolled his eyes and went to retrieve the bags from the car while Winifred ushered Fitzjohn inside. He was welcomed by an atmosphere steeped in age; the low ceilings and crackle of the open fire in the living room lending a sense of warmth. ‘You have a very nice place, Mrs Gifford. I’m sure we’ll be more than comfortable here.’ As he spoke, Betts appeared with the bags, his ginger hair brushing the door’s lintel as he stepped inside.

  ‘With your height, that’s something you’ll have to watch, Sergeant,’ said Winifred, looking up at Betts. ‘With this being such an old house, the doorways tend to be low. Your rooms are upstairs at the front but you can leave your bags here in the hall for now. I’ll take them up later when I’ve finished cleaning. Now, just so you know, you have use of the living room – as you can see, it’s very comfortable,’ she said, gesturing inside where a sofa and two armchairs hugged the fireplace. There’s also a study at the end of the hall on the right with a desktop computer and internet access. Of course, the cost for internet is extra and will be added to your account. Do you have any questions?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘I think you’ve covered everything admirably, thank you. We’ll see you sometime this evening, Mrs Gifford.’

  ‘On a case, are you?’ asked Winifred as Fitzjohn went to follow Betts out to the car.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Fitzjohn, turning back.

  ‘It wouldn’t be about Florence Fontaine, would it? There’s talk in the village that she might have been murdered.’

  ‘It’s true we’re making inquiries into her death but other than that, I’m afraid I can’t comment,’ said Fitzjohn with a sense of surprise at how quickly information about the victim’s death seemed to have travelled.

  ‘So, it is suspicious. I thought it might be,’ said Winifred.

  Fitzjohn ignored Mrs Gifford’s comment. Instead, he asked, ‘Did you know Florence personally?’

  ‘You can’t help but know people in a village of this size. One tends to meet and pass the time of day with everyone at one time or another.’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘Was she well liked?’

  ‘Generally speaking, I think she was. Especially by the business community because, let’s face it, she put Leura on the map when she came to live here. It’s made a tremendous difference for so many, including me. My bookings have tripled. People come from around the world specifically to meet Florence. At least they did.’ Winifred paused. ‘Of course, there are some who didn’t like her but that’s to be expected, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh? Do you know why,’ asked Fitzjohn, his interest piqued.

  ‘Jealousy, I suspect.’

  ‘In relation to what?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Her celebrity status. At least that’s what I think. I might be wrong, of course, but it seems to me with her being so famous and with such a vibrant and charismatic personality, not to mention being single, she drew attention to herself, particularly from older male members of our community.’ Winifred’s eyebrows arched and she gave a wry smile. ‘Consequently, she wasn’t too popular with some of the wives.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘Mmm. There is, but I hesitate to gossip about such things. Then again, you are the police and even though you’re unwilling to admit it, I think you are investigating Florence’s murder so, I suppose under those circumstances, I don’t think it can be seen as gossiping. Wouldn’t you agree, Chief Inspector?’ Thinking the question was rhetorical, Fitzjohn did not reply. ‘The name of the person in question is Audrey Green. She has a shop in the village called The Tea Shop. You might have seen it. It’s a couple of doors along from Florence’s gallery. Of course, that close proximity might have added to the problem. You see, Audrey is married to Jack Green. He’s always had a roving eye has Jack, so when Florence appeared on the scene it wasn’t surprising he took a particular interest. By all accounts, he developed a sudden appreciation in art and spent much of his time at the gallery. I suppose Audrey got to the point where she’d had enough because lately she’s been spreading malicious gossip about Florence. All of it untrue, I’m sure.’

  Fitzjohn settled himself into the passenger seat. ‘I’ve just had a word with Mrs Gifford an
d as it turns out, she’s an amazing source of information about the locals,’ he said. ‘It seems that, despite her advanced years, Florence Fontaine turned a few heads that weren’t welcomed by a number of wives in the village, particularly a woman by the name of Audrey Green.’

  ‘I spoke to Mrs Green at the crime scene,sir.’

  ‘I thought you might have. How did she seem to you?’

  ‘Remarkably composed for someone who’d just witnessed a death. I thought she must have been in shock.’

  ‘Did she say whereabouts she was standing at the time the victim collapsed?’

  ‘Yes. She said she’d been one of the last to enter the marquee so she was just inside the entrance, close to the victim.’

  ‘Well, in light of what Winifred Gifford has just told me, I think it would be prudent of us to have another word with her, Betts, but not before we’ve spoken to Aiden Farrell.’

  Fitzjohn and Betts made their way into Leura’s main thoroughfare with its cherry tree-lined medium strip hosting shops and cafés on either side. ‘There’s The Dandelion cafe,’ said Betts pulling over to the curb. Fitzjohn peered at the café’s front window displaying a large painted flower, its petals the same shade of yellow as the cloths on the outside tables.

  ‘Looks to be a thriving business,’ said Fitzjohn amid the din as they weaved their way between the tables to the counter.

  ‘What will it be?’ asked the girl who stood behind the coffee machine.

  ‘We don’t wish to order, Miss,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘We’re here to see Mr Farrell.’

  ‘He’s over there.’ She pointed to a thick-set man sitting in a booth at the back of the café, his attention taken by the papers in front of him. ‘Dad, these men want to talk to you,’ she called out. Farrell got to his feet as Fitzjohn and Betts approached.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Farrell,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘I’m DCI Fitzjohn and this is DS Betts. We’re from the Blue Mountains Local Area Command and we’d like to have a word if we may.’

  With a questioning look, Farrell gestured to the booth and sat down again. ‘If this is about my outside tables, I do have permission from the council for the four extra ones out there.’

  ‘It’s not about the tables, Mr Farrell,’ said Fitzjohn, sitting down. ‘We’re investigating the death of a woman by the name of Florence Fontaine at Lyrebird Lodge early yesterday morning and as we understand, you were there at the time. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if we may.’

  ‘So, the rumour’s true. Florence was murdered.’

  ‘We’re conducting an inquiry into her death, but beyond that, I’m afraid I’m unable to comment further,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘I see your café is only a few doors away from the Fontaine Gallery & Art Shop. Did you know her well?’

  ‘Yes, of course, we’re neighbours. At least we were. I own the land on either side of Lyrebird Lodge.’

  ‘And have an interest in art I take it, being that you attended the auction?’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Were you interested in purchasing a particular piece of work?’

  ‘What? No. That is, I didn’t attend as a potential bidder.’

  ‘Oh. I beg your pardon,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘I just assumed… So you were there merely as an observer?’

  ‘Not that either.’ Farrell’s eyes darted between Fitzjohn and Betts. ‘I was there because I wanted to discuss something with Florence. I hadn’t realised until I arrived that there was to be an auction.’

  ‘I see. In that case, can you tell us what you wanted to talk to her about?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘It was about Lyrebird Lodge. I wanted to ask Florence whether she’d be interested in selling it to me. As I said earlier, I own the properties on either side.’

  ‘And was she interested?’

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to ask her. She was so preoccupied with preparations for the auction and in a fiery mood it seemed. She tore strips off one woman who approached her. Someone said it was her stepsister, but I wouldn’t know. I’d never seen her before.’

  ‘But you stayed on until the end, in fact until Florence collapsed although you weren’t there with the other participants when we arrived. Why was that?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘I left because I was under the impression she’d had a heart attack and as far as I could see, everything was being taken care of by her business manager so to be quite honest, I thought the fewer people the better.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘I went home.’ Farrell met Fitzjohn’s gaze. ‘All right, to be honest, I had to leave. I found it upsetting if you must know.’ Farrell swallowed hard.

  As Fitzjohn and Betts got up to leave Farrell asked,’If it wasn’t her heart, Chief Inspector, what did happen to Florence?’

  ‘She was poisoned, Mr Farrell.’ Aiden Farrell glowered at Fitzjohn.

  ‘I can’t see how Mr Farrell couldn’t have known about the auction, sir,’ said Betts as the two officers left the café. ‘After all, it was widely advertised in the Sydney newspapers as well as in all the local papers here.’

  ‘Mmm. That’s what made me hesitate to believe anything else he had to say in there because it’s not the only inconsistency,’ replied Fitzjohn as they strolled in the direction of Audrey Green’s tea shop. ‘According to Claire Reynolds, Farrell pestered the victim about his wish to buy the lodge on a number of occasions. And there’s also the fact that he left the scene. His reasoning sounds plausible and it might be as he said, but I think he’s someone we should watch closely for now.’

  ‘But what motive would he have to kill Florence Fontaine, sir? I’d have thought he’d have had more opportunity to buy the lodge with her alive.’

  ‘It depends on how the man thinks, Betts. If it got to the point where he thought Florence would never agree to sell, which sounds to be the case to me, he might have thought he’d have more success when her estate was sold off. Anyway, whatever it is, we’ll find out. It’s only a matter of time. There is one thing he did say, however, that I tend to believe and that is that Florence argued with her stepsister which confirms what Patrick Fontaine and Claire Reynolds told us, so I think we can conclude that Carolyn Winter was lying when she said she and Florence had a close relationship.’

  ‘What about his reason for leaving the scene, sir?’ asked Betts as they reached the tea shop.

  ‘It sounds plausible. He might have found the situation unsettling. On the other hand, it might have been because he was the killer and had an urge to get away from his crime,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  Fitzjohn pushed the front door open and the two officers stepped into the tea shop where they were met with an aromatic fragrance of the countless blends of tea that sat on the many shelves in the small space. At the far end of the shop, a woman in her mid-fifties stood behind an old wooden counter attending to a customer. Behind her, more shelves displayed an array of tea pots of differing shapes and sizes.

  ‘I take it that’s Audrey Green,’ said Fitzjohn. As he spoke, the customer left and Audrey emerged from behind the counter and walked towards them, the old floorboards creaking under her tread.

  ‘Can I guide you through our many blends of tea?’ she asked with a tight smile.

  ‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,’ replied Fitzjohn, showing his warrant card.

  ‘Oh, you’re from the police. I thought you looked familiar. You were at Lyrebird Lodge yesterday when Florence died, weren’t you? I heard there was to be a post mortem. Did it find she’d been murdered?’

  ‘It has been found that the way in which Ms Fontaine died is suspicious, Mrs Green, which necessitates that we speak again to everyone who was there at the time. We understand you attended the auction with your husband.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And were you successful in purchasing one of Florence’s paintings?’

  ‘No, because I didn’t bid on anything.’

  ‘Ah, so your being there was purely as moral support for Florence, I take it,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘After all, with you both being in
business in the village, I imagine you had a lot in common.’

  ‘Art doesn’t have much in common with tea, Chief Inspector,’ replied Audrey pursing her lips.

  ‘In that case, can I ask why you attended?’

  ‘My husband, Jack, wanted to go so I tagged along.’

  ‘So your husband is the art enthusiast,’ said Fitzjohn.

  ‘In manner of speaking.’ Audrey sniffed and rolled her eyes.

  ‘At the time, you told DS Betts that you were one of the last people to enter the marquee. Can you tell us whereabouts you were standing?’

  ‘I was just inside the entrance.’

  ‘So you were near the refreshments table.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Do you remember who was around you?’

  ‘Not really although I think Aiden Farrell may have been next to me. He owns one of the cafés in the village. Other than that I don’t know because I was trying to see where my husband was.’ Audrey paused. ‘We’d become separated, you see.’

  Fitzjohn settled himself into an armchair in front of the fire and smiled as he took the glass of whisky that Winifred Gifford offered. ‘Thank you, Mrs Gifford. This is an unexpected surprise.’

  ‘My husband, Leonard, always enjoyed a glass of whisky in front of the fire on a winter evening.’ Winifred caught Fitzjohn’s questioning look. ‘He died in two thousand.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘I know how difficult it can be to lose someone dear. I lost my wife, Edith, a few years ago.’

  ‘Then you know the feeling of loss,’ said Winifred, sliding down onto the other end of the sofa.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Fitzjohn, flicking a piece of lint from his trouser leg while trying to avoid eye contact with Winifred.

  ‘That’s one of the reasons I decided to open a bed & breakfast establishment,’ said Winifred, endeavouring to continue the conversation in the same vane. ‘A coping mechanism. I find it provides me with not only an income but also company because as I’m sure you’re aware, it can get lonely living alone.’ When Fitzjohn did not respond she went on, ‘How did you cope, Chief Inspector?’