PAINTER PALAVER
Sophie Kiesser Mystery Series n° 3
Curtis Bausse
Painter Palaver
Copyright © Curtis Bausse 2021
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. No part of the contents relate to any real person or persons, living or dead.
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Sophie Kiesser and Magali Rousseau work together, each featuring in the books of the other series. In One Green Bottle, first in the Magali Rousseau series, you’ll find an account of Magali’s initial steps as a private detective. A joke – or so they think at first. They soon find out it is anything but.
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One Green Bottle
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1 Behind the Bamboo
Chapter 2 A Sweet Old Man
Chapter 3 Broken Ice
Chapter 4 On a Roll
Chapter 5 Maya Ferrucci
Chapter 6 Dropping Like Flies
Chapter 7 Restorer of Qi
Chapter 8 House Arrest
Chapter 9 Adeline Forster
Chapter 10 The Tikar Team
Chapter 11 Adjudication
Chapter 12 The Secret Sketchbook
Chapter 13 One Of Us
Chapter 14 Lyle Carmichael
Chapter 15 Topic Avoided
Chapter 16 A Matter Of Minutes
Chapter 17 Bull-headed Bastard
Chapter 18 Every Detail
Chapter 19 Wild Glove Chase
Chapter 20 Do It!
Chapter 21 Coming Clean
Chapter 22 The Missing Marks
Chapter 23 Martin Best
Chapter 24 Parricide
Chapter 25 A Shitty Life
Chapter 26 We Have A Crow
Chapter 27 Claire Bourane
Chapter 28 Grasping For Granet
Chapter 29 Workshop Woe
Chapter 30 Every Trick In The Book
Chapter 31 Toothbrush Trouble
Chapter 32 Fruit Gum Hunt
Chapter 33 Fiendish Frames
Chapter 34 Mami Wata
Chapter 35 Loot In The Linen
Chapter 36 Isadora Waverley
Chapter 37 Anything For Adeline
Chapter 38 The Nature Box
Chapter 39 The Ultimate Test
Chapter 40 The Ventilation Shaft
Chapter 41 Aramis Admits
Chapter 42 A Masterly Performance
Chapter 43 A Curious Bunch
Chapter 44 Scratching The Itch
Chapter 45 Agatha Wouldn’t Like It
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Writers’ and artists’ retreat in a corner of paradise.
A unique experience in the heart of Provence combining painting, crafts, and writing workshops with first-class accommodation, and outstanding cuisine prepared by a renowned local chef. Join best-selling author Gareth Forster and accomplished artist Adeline in Venturi View, their beautiful house at the foot of the Sainte Victoire Mountain, a short distance from the charming village of Saint Abel. Fine food, superb hospitality, and expert tuition all within walking distance of Cézanne’s iconic inspiration.
Prologue
Monday August 3rd 2019, 8 a.m.
The dog came from over the hill, trotting along a well-worn path to wherever it was going. In cooler weather, there might be walkers jauntily setting out, but although still early, the day was hot, too hot, and the night had brought little relief. The dog’s tongue drooped from the side of its mouth, long and pink; its breath came in rapid, shallow gasps.
It reached a driveway, stood still, looked around. Further down there were movements: something big, and the shouts of men. The dog took the opposite direction. It passed by a house and into a garden, where the smells changed from the dust and dryness of the stony path to the cooler fragrance of grass and flowers. Then came the smell of water, and the dog quickened its pace. Reaching the pond, it paused: a pale, blotchy creature moved beneath the surface, slow and unaware; when the dog approached, it darted with a sudden twist, vanishing into murkiness. The dog drank greedily, jaws chomping at the water as if it was meat. Then it raised its head, jowls dripping, muzzle testing the air; now there came the smell of smoke, but mixed within it, as the faintest of breezes stirred, was a different smell, one both familiar and new. The glistening nostrils twitched.
The pale blob in the water reappeared, and when the dog looked down, the creature’s eye was a pool within the pool, deep and black. For a moment they stared in mutual appraisal and suspicion; then the dog drank again and the creature moved lazily away.
The dog knew about smoke, knew the dangers it brought, but this was not so thick or oppressive that it was deterred from exploring. That other smell, the one that was oddly familiar, called for investigation. The dog set off briskly.
At the top of the garden, it halted. The smoke spewed from a single spot, a swirling funnel of whiteness drilling the sky; then it dissolved and drifted, settling further away. The dog approached cautiously.
Near the source of the smoke lay an immobile form, and now the smell was stronger, a human smell of sweatiness, and again within it that hint of something else, a freshness that awoke a curious lust. The dog went closer, padding softly across the grass till it reached the human. And now its whole body quivered, tense with the thrill of something fierce and ancient: the hunt, the struggle, the kill. The feast that is the reward.
But the dog was neither hungry nor savage, and this wasn’t food it was used to. At most it was intrigued enough to lick the human’s neck, taste the rawness of the gash: the lump that landed with a squelch in its bowl everyday was infinitely better. The dog nudged the human’s arm with its snout, put a tentative paw to the human’s head, and obtaining no reaction, trotted away.
A few yards on, it came to the scent of another human, then another; the dog followed, but the path was blocked by a gate and here the smoke, though not so visible, was a nastiness in the air. Skirting round the top of the wood, the dog went on its way.
Chapter 1 Behind the Bamboo
A couple of miles beyond St Abel, Sophie Kiesser turned up a bumpy drive to Venturi View, where on stepping out of the car, she was greeted by Gareth and Adeline Forster.
‘I’m so sorry. All in a sweat. Been shredding the garden cuttings.’ Gareth was indeed sweating profusely; rivulets of it flowed from his ginger hair and ran down his cheeks before vanishing into a spruce little beard like a stream into a mangrove swamp. ‘I wanted to get it finished before you arrived, but with everything else to see to...’
‘A drink? A rest?’ Adeline extended a hand towards the front door. ‘So hot!’
Zealous as a couple of scuttling ants, the Forsters escorted her inside.
‘Let me take your case. This way.’ Gareth bounded up the stairs, then reappeared to apologise, but he’d better get on with his shredding.
The house was a gob-smacking statement of size and grandeur, faded in parts, newly restored in others. Why, their own would fit in the lobby alone! This, she thought as she followed the slight figure of Adeline Forster upstairs, is the very definition of a country pile.
‘I’ve put you in here – Muguet.’ Adeline produced a large wooden slab of a key ring with a lily of the valley painted on it. ‘The view is to the north so you won’t get too much sun. But it’s best to keep the shutters closed to keep out the heat. Though you know that already, of course... Oh, dear.’ The sigh was almost a whimper, a brief, forlorn intimation of disaster. ‘There’
s no air con, I’m afraid. We weren’t expecting it to be so hot. Oh, dear,’ she said again. ‘So much we haven’t got round to.’
Sophie made sympathetic noises, sharing Adeline’s worry as if the Forsters’ peace of mind was a precondition of her own. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.’
Adeline flashed a grateful smile. ‘Perhaps we can just... A couple of minutes, to see...’ She flung back the shutters. ‘There. The mountain.’
Venturi – the Provençal name for the Sainte Victoire. So different here from the views you got in Aix. There it was a slanting wedge, unassumingly slotted into the landscape; in front of her now lay a massive wall of rock. You didn’t see this in the paintings. Cézanne never trekked all the way out here.
They gazed for a moment, taking it in. The sun was fierce, making it white and brilliant. ‘Such mystique, don’t you think? As if his very soul was somewhere inside.’ From the rapture in Adeline’s face, she might have been Bernadette gazing at the Virgin Mary. ‘It’s not the same side, but we feel a bit like Picasso, you know, when he bought his château in Vauvenargues? He said to his agent, “I’ve bought Cézanne’s Sainte Victoire.” His agent thought he meant a painting but he meant the mountain itself. It’s such a privilege living here. Have you ever climbed it?’
‘Oh, yes, several times. From the north, though.’ Sophie waved a hand, flipping them over the ridge to the other side. ‘Much easier.’
‘We still haven’t done it. But it’s only our second year here. And the first time we’ve run the course. Anyway.’ Adeline pressed her palms together. ‘I’ll let you settle in. Feel free to wander round. The studio’s all set up, so you can use it anytime – lots of material in there. I’ve been gathering bits and bobs, maybe we can work on them together.’
They’d spoken on the phone, so she knew where Sophie was at. A loss, basically, Sophie had said, and Adeline had promised to help her find her way. Decidedly, she thought, this course was to be a major exploration: Luc, her husband, had booked it for her birthday, a chance for her to ‘rediscover her mojo’, while on learning that she was ‘under the weather’ (Sophie’s phrase for the state of listless gloom in which she’d been floundering since the birth of her son), her aunt Tatty Fur had said she needed to ‘find herself’. Between herself, her way and her mojo, she had a lot of finding to do.
‘That would be nice. The bits are OK but I’ve never known what to do with the bobs.’
Adeline laughed a little more than was called for. Reassured by Sophie’s pleasantness, she brought her anxiety down a notch or two, but this didn’t stop her pacing about, checking that everything was shipshape as she spoke. ‘At the top of the garden you’ll see what I’ve been doing. Nothing wonderful – bundles, I call them – just experimenting really. Three dimensions is all a bit new to me. But have a look by all means. It’s quite a wilderness up there but we like it that way.’ She smoothed a wrinkle from the bedspread. ‘You’ll come across the others perhaps. There’s Claire, she’s from Lyon – a little shy, but her paintings are so powerful – and Lyle Carmichael, he’s American, and Bumble who’s helping us out – Isadora really, but I call her Bumble, busy as a bee, always bustling about. So now we’re waiting for the Bests, Martin and Penelope, their plane landed on time so they shouldn’t be long, and the Ferruccis of course, but they’re local. And your aunt’s arriving tomorrow, she said. A shame she couldn’t join us this evening, she’ll miss the ice-breaking bit.’
‘Some do she’s going to in Paris, I think. But she’ll be fine, she doesn’t need help breaking ice. If she’d been on the Titanic, the damage would have been to the iceberg.’ Adeline laughed uncertainly, looking a little alarmed. As well she might if she knew Tatty Fur as Sophie did. ‘I’m afraid we’re quite a contingent, all in all. My husband, my children, my mother-in-law – it’s a full-scale invasion tomorrow. But don’t worry, the rest of the family’s normal.’
‘I see. Well, that’s... good to know.’ She went into the bathroom, where she touched a towel and turned the soap dispenser to face the front. ‘There’ll be a mix of languages, of course, but I think we’ll manage. Penelope Best described her French as school level and Claire says her English is awful, but I’m sure they’re both being modest. And from what I gather, everyone else is proficient. Eddy and Maya Ferrucci picked up a lot of English in Cameroun and Isadora’s been coming to France for years. Oh, and Lyle’s actually doing his PhD here.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say my English is great. But I spent a year in New Zealand, and my sister lives in California, so... shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘Wonderful!’ Adeline beamed. ‘And your mother-in-law is Magali Rousseau. A private detective, no less.’ Now more artist than detective, Magali had kept the agency all the same, and due to a couple of high profile cases, was still something of a minor local celebrity. ‘In fact you both are?’
‘Barely qualified myself.’ Sophie didn’t know where Adeline had got it from but preferred to play it down, committed to making as much as she could of her birthday present. ‘It was just a whim. I’ll let it drop if I get back into art. Which is what I’m here for.’
‘Of course. As we all are. Wonderful!’ Adeline bustled a bit more – drinks in the minibar, lavender sprig on the bedside table – but found nothing else to make perfect. ‘Now, what else is there? Oh yes, the pool. Use it whenever you want, you might find Gareth’s put the robot in to clean it, but it’s perfectly safe. If there’s anything you need, just ask. The Wi-Fi in the rooms is a little dodgy but downstairs it’s fine. There’s a printer in the alcove behind the staircase, with dedicated software – Scrivener, Photoshop and so on. Gareth’s the one to ask if you have any problems with that. And in the leisure room there are books and magazines, English and French, and board games. No television, there’s a separate room for that. And a relaxation room – the Zenhouse, we call it – where we meditate and do yoga. Bumble’s a Buddhist, sort of, so she’s the one to go to for that.’ She took a deep breath, accompanying it with her arms. ‘Draw up inspiration from the earth.’
‘Inspiration. Good. Just what I’m looking for.’
‘Right. Well, I’ll leave you to make yourself at home. I’ll be downstairs if you need. Or Isadora, she knows the ropes as well. At six-thirty we’ll all meet up at the pool for drinks. Get to know each other before the workshops tomorrow.’
When she’d gone, Sophie took another look at the mountain, then closed the shutters, leaving enough of a gap for a slice of light to slip through. She stepped into the bathroom: it was bright and spacious, and she took a shower straightaway, then wrapped herself in a towel and texted Luc. Beautiful present! Forsters are charming. How’s D?
Temperature falling came the immediate reply. See u tomorrow. Make the most of your freedom! xxx
She took off the towel and studied herself in the mirror. Enormous boobs, swollen ankles and a belly distended like some poor child in a Freedom From Hunger ad. Fuck. Do I even dare put on a bikini?
She didn’t. Not yet. Maybe later in the week. Instead she slipped into a tank top and skirt and made her way downstairs.
She’d seen the paintings on the way up, but not closely: Adeline’s, a dozen or more, all the way up the staircase. Bright, blooming plants, almost bursting out of the frames, as if their roots were feeding on something scary. You felt as if, when they weren’t being watched, they might grow bigger till eventually they bulged onto the frame, and a year from now they’d be crawling over the walls. Bold, to say the least. And surprising; from her first impression of Adeline, Sophie would have expected something gentler, more subdued. On the other hand, she did seem to have excess energy to burn; perhaps in front of a canvas she tapped into some boiling underground magma. Whatever inspiration Adeline drew from the earth, it didn’t come across as very Zen.
Passing through the dining room, she drew back a heavy curtain and stepped out onto the terrace, furnished with a couple of benches, a set of garden chairs round a long table, and a sparkling array of
potted petunias in each corner. A large wooden pergola, clothed in vines and Virginia creepers, kept it shady, and beyond it the garden rose gently towards the swimming pool. A chorus of cicadas strummed and scraped in an unflagging concert that seemed to intensify the heat.
Gareth Forster, best-selling author. If his books had paid for all this, the writing group were onto a good thing. For the moment, though, he was toiling away in the garden; as she walked up the path, she spotted him beneath a majestic Aleppo pine at the far end, feeding a mountain of foliage into the shredder.
Arriving at the pool, she saw a young woman on a lounger, one arm hanging by her side, the other draped over her eyes, looking for all the world as if she’d swooned. For a moment Sophie grew concerned, but the woman, becoming aware of her presence, looked up, smiled, and swung her legs from the chair. ‘My! I don’t think I’ve ever been so hot in my life!’
Sophie agreed, introduced herself and shook the moist, limp hand of Claire Bourane, casting an envious glance at the slim, willowy figure, clad in a gold bikini, that told her she’d been right not to wear her own.
‘Have you met the others?’ asked Sophie. ‘I’ve only spoken to Adeline. She seems very nice.’
‘Lovely, yes. Gareth too, though he’s more reserved. Well, he’s English.’ A quick glance to check if her meaning was understood; then the eyes flitted away. The bony, angular features of her face lent her a sharpness you might take for severity, but this was belied by the large, skittish eyes that darted this way and that, wanting to look anywhere but at the person she was speaking to. With her fair hair, creamy skin and smattering of freckles, she seemed as fragile as a porcelain figurine. ‘Then there’s Isadora Waverley.’ She let out a ripple of laughter. ‘Isn’t that a glorious name? I’ve hardly spoken to her but she seems quite... imposing. But great fun with it, full of pep. Walks around with a parasol and sun sleeves, you know, like they do in Japan. And Lyle Carmichael. Very nice too, but intense. We’d hardly been introduced when he quoted Rimbaud at me.’ Though she made conversation easily, she spoke so softly it was almost a whisper, the words spilling out in a breathless, gushing cascade, as if she was disowning them, wanting them to be gone as soon as possible. ‘Have you been round the garden?’ She pulled on a skimpy blue dress. ‘There’s a walk through the wood at the top.’
Painter Palaver Page 1
