Painter Palaver

by Curtis Bausse

  Banishing her worries about her own work, she asked, ‘Have you figured out what you’ll be doing with Eddy?’

  ‘Not yet. I haven’t a clue what he wants, so I’ll see when he arrives. Maybe nothing. Maybe it’s just to relax.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ She cast him an encouraging glance. Poor Gareth. He’d do all he could to make it a success, she could count on him for that.

  But now that her anxiety was released, she couldn’t help thinking of disaster. ‘Do you think Henri could be a problem?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Any way he can think of. I’ve been pretending it’s no big deal for us but he’s not taken in, I’m sure. It’s a big week and he knows it.’

  ‘He’s been sensible lately. Let’s hope it stays that way.’

  That was another reason he’d said they shouldn’t come. What if Henri Seibel’s awkwardness (putting it mildly) was in fact some petty revenge concocted by Escarola? According to Thibault, the two were thick as thieves. But Adeline put her foot down: they weren’t to be intimidated like that. ‘We’ve done nothing wrong, Gareth. It’s time you got that into your head. We’re the victims, not Seibel.’

  The case of the murky water. Even now they had no clear proof that it was him, but when they confronted him, the sly, self-satisfied smirk spoke louder than his denial. Five times the previous summer, the water in the swimming pool had turned a faint dirty green. Gareth was new to pH levels and filter systems, and assumed at first he was doing something wrong. He added more chlorine, the problem went away, but then, with no warning, it reappeared overnight. Eventually he took a sample to be analysed. It wasn’t algae that caused the discoloration but a few gallons of liquid fertiliser. They spoke to Thibault Seibel, who denied all knowledge of it. They had no reason to disbelieve him. They were regular customers of Thibault and Jackie, deferred to their wisdom in all matters horticultural, and were careful to remain on friendly terms. ‘And your father,’ they asked, ‘could he by any chance...?’

  Not very firmly, Thibault dismissed the idea, but he seemed more upset that it might be true than fully convinced it wasn’t. Later that day Jackie came round on her own and shed further light. Henri Seibel was stubborn, bloody-minded, and yes, he bore the Forsters a grudge for buying the house. To be perfectly honest, said Jackie, it would have been better for them all if Escarola’s offer had gone through: he’d pledged to set aside a little flat that Henri could rent for next to nothing, recognition of their friendship. As it was, Henri lived in their house – independently, sure, with his own kitchen and bathroom – but still too close for comfort. Thibault and Henri were constantly at loggerheads over the business – anything new, the slightest innovation, Henri consistently opposed. In the end they’d reached an uneasy arrangement, Henri tending to the upper patch while they dealt with the sales end, the greenhouses and shrubbery. These days, Jackie and Henri barely spoke to each other.

  Un vrai Provençal, that’s what she called him, as if it explained everything. Proud, mistrustful, malicious, more than a little racist. He wasn’t just Provençal in fact but un vrai marseillais: he and Escarola had grown up there, running wild as far as she could tell, their early years spent getting up to no good. For the true marseillais no other city came close. No hope for Gareth then, being a rosbif, but Adeline was no better, a parigo – not that she’d actually lived in Paris for long, but in his view she belonged to the hated set of decision-makers and technocrats fixing the rules for everyone else to abide by. In fact her father was a diplomat, and if she wasn’t familiar with Paris, it was only because she knew the wide world better. Santiago, Ankara, Delhi, Vienna – why, the old bigot didn’t know the half of it! Worse, she was a bobo, – bourgeois bohémien – a contemptible mix of money and art and snobbery. Adeline knew all this and now that she’d learnt from Jackie what her father-in-law was like, the identity of the swimming pool saboteur was in no doubt.

  Naturally, when confronted, he denied it, but the surreptitious smirk at the corner of his lips said it all. Nothing further occurred till late September, when the filter pump broke. The repairman said it was due to some loose metal clippings for which he had no explanation. Gareth had an explanation but again there was no proof. He put a padlock on the pump house door, just in case. No showdown, though, no scene – another quick sweep beneath the carpet.

  Over the winter Henri burnt leaves and branches. He sent over smoke as if gassing them in the trenches, but they said nothing, thinking it would stop with the warmer weather. When it didn’t, they spoke to Thibault and Jackie, who said they’d deal with it. For a while it stopped, but in April he did it again, and Adeline phoned the gendarmerie in Moudiret. The man she spoke to, Lieutenant Bondy, said he’d ‘have a word’, to which she retorted that he needed more than a word, he needed a whopping great fine. Whether he got one or not, she didn’t know, but since then – touch wood – there’d been nothing. Almost two months. Had the old bastard finally come to his senses?

  ‘If he does it during the course, I’ll...’ But she couldn’t think of anything appropriate, and ended with a puff of air, defeated.

  ‘Murder him?’ Gareth provided, grinning. ‘Don’t worry, I think he’ll behave.’

  Gareth was an optimist. Whatever life threw at him, his response was grin and bear it. Eventually, it would be over and everyone would behave, see reason, as if reason was as obvious as the sun. But it didn’t work like that, not when the sun won’t shine, and at times like this, his pretence that the darkness was over revolted her. At times like this she knew she could never forgive.

  Lily. She knew road sense, they’d drilled it into her. The opposite of France: look right, look left, look right again. The first day she was in London, Adeline almost died – looked the wrong way and stepped off the pavement. Squeal of brakes, thud and tinkle of collision, first irate driver yelling at her, second irate driver yelling at him.

  But that couldn’t happen to Lily, she’d grown up there. Look right, look left, look right again – for Lily, it was a reflex.

  They’d gone for a picnic on Clapham Common, but Lily was upset. She’d wanted Tommy, the floppy doll with the bell on his hat, to join in the picnic too, but when the time came, she couldn’t find him. Adeline said he must have just gone for a walk, but Lily sulked and moaned, and when they got there refused to eat, till finally Adeline cheered her up by swinging her round in her arms. At the end, while Lily practised cartwheels, Adeline watching, applauding, Gareth went ahead with the picnic basket. ‘Found him!’ They looked up to see Gareth over the road, waving Tommy above the roof of the car, and Lily forgot her road sense. They shouted, both of them. Again the squeal of brakes, again the thud and tinkle, but no irate drivers this time – just the horror as they stepped out of their cars and stared at Lily, prone and inert, limbs jutting at peculiar angles like a marionette.

  There were days when Adeline almost did forgive, tell herself that it wasn’t really his fault, but nothing would ever fully stamp out the resentment, drifting over her soul whenever, as now, the wind was in that direction.

  ‘He wouldn’t dare,’ said Gareth. ‘Not in the height of summer. He knows damn well it’s forbidden.’

  Adeline nodded. He was right, surely. Not even Seibel would send over smoke in August. And the course would be a success because Gareth would do all he could to make sure of it. He fixed things: squeaking doors, loose pipes, the unruliness of emotions. Screwed them back into place like the perfect rosbif he was. Gareth was oh, so good at making things right for her.

  Adeline smiled and raised her glass. ‘To Venturi View.’

  But Bumble would go one better than making them right. Bumble would save her.

  Chapter 10 The Tikar Team

  What is surprise? How long does it last? Longer no doubt than the couple of seconds it took for Sophie to say to herself that in fact it wasn’t a surprise. Destiny. Soulmates. Twaddle of course, she didn’t believe a word of it, but all the same... First a corpse, now Cyril. What
other explanation could there be? Perhaps it was just that she didn’t want to believe it. But she had no doubt that Cyril would make it his mission to overcome her reticence. Sophie, don’t you see? It’s Auguste!

  For the moment though, apart from a flickering glance, he barely acknowledged her presence. That might have been due to the cry from Tatty Fur: ‘Lieutenant Eveno! What a surprise!’, as she moved forward, arms outstretched, prompting a startled Cyril to recoil, palm held up to halt her. ‘Captain,’ he said tersely, visibly vexed that she’d spoilt his entrance, while Luc looked on in slack-jawed amazement before turning to Sophie and mouthing, ‘What the fuck?’

  His composure recovered, Cyril spent some time repeating more verbosely what Lieutenant Bondy had said: until further notice, crime scene procedure applied to the garden at Venturi View, in other words no one was to venture further than the terrace without authorisation, to be obtained only from him. As he left the room he made a discreet sign for Sophie to follow, and after assuring Luc that Cyril’s presence had nothing to do with her, she slipped out of the room.

  Cyril and Bondy were conferring in the hall. When he spotted her, Cyril whispered something to Bondy, who withdrew, and led her into the Zenhouse.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘How come you’re here?’

  He shut the door softly, putting his ear to it as if to check that no one was outside listening to their conspiracy. ‘A mission for General Pico. I’ll tell you later. But first things first – you and I are going to solve this murder.’

  ‘What? Cyril, I’m not here to –’

  ‘Problem is, there’s been a mix up. Ronan Praud thinks he’s in charge. But he’s not.’

  ‘Who’s Ronan Praud? And what’s it got –’

  ‘Pico’s on his way now. He’ll sort it out.’

  ‘Sort what out, Cyril?’ But then the more worrying question pushed to the fore. ‘Did you actually know I was here? Is that why you came?’

  As it turned out, the explanation wasn’t as creepy as she’d feared. He’d arrived in Moudiret, where he had an appointment with Bondy for a different reason altogether, only to find that Bondy had gone to investigate a murder at Venturi Gardens. Naturally, Cyril had followed, and as was only right given their respective ranks, had taken charge. Forty minutes later, when Cyril had already made a substantial start, Captain Praud arrived, saying he’d been dispatched by the Prosecutor in Aix, and Cyril had no business to be there at all. ‘He’s next door now giving orders to everyone. I’ve informed Pico. As the first man on the scene, the case is mine. I have no doubt he’ll adjudicate in my favour.’

  ‘Good. All settled then. But when you say we’re going to solve it, that’s –’

  ‘Yes, I did know you were here. Bondy sent me a list of the guests and I saw your name.’ He left a beat. ‘I’ve told Pico. It’s another reason he’ll give the case to me. He thinks very highly of you, Sophie. He told me. You put people at ease, get them to talk, while I take care of the technical side, the evidence.’

  ‘I know that’s how you think of it, Cyril, but I honestly –’

  ‘It’s the way we operate. Our partnership. You know as well as I do.’

  Sophie sighed. ‘Perhaps we’d better just leave it till Pico arrives, OK? If he wants me on the case, I’ll think about it. Maybe there’s not much to solve in any case. From what I hear, Seibel had an ongoing feud with his son. Could be as simple as that. And besides, I’m here with my family. And to attend Adeline’s workshop. Those are my priorities right now.’

  ‘Of course. It’s your choice. Pico might be surprised if you say no, but it’s up to you.’

  ‘Speaking of family,’ she said, ‘how’s married life? I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come to the wedding.’

  ‘No problem. I understand. And thank you for the gift. It was lovely.’

  ‘Not very wedding-like, I’m afraid. But I thought it would make a change from the usual. Pots and pans and coffee sets and so on.’

  ‘Original, I must say. When you asked for a scan of my photo of Auguste, I had no idea what you were up to.’

  Sophie hadn’t been too pleased with the result herself. Auguste was fine – proud and imposing, Croix de Guerre bright on his uniform – but Cyril had a bit of a goofy expression. ‘What did Gabrielle think? She might have preferred something more practical.’

  ‘She thought it was charming. And don’t worry, we’re doing all right for crockery.’ He left a pause. ‘Speaking of statues, I hope Tikar’s been good to you.’

  It took her a moment to remember. ‘Ah. The good luck charm.’

  ‘You’ve still got her of course?’ he said a little nervously.

  ‘Oh, yes. At home in a drawer.’ She didn’t say what drawer. He’d be horrified to learn that his precious gift was in a plastic drawer in the cellar, one of many unwanted items Luc, with her approval, had set aside for the next car boot sale. She’d had a moment’s hesitation – not that she was superstitious, but it felt disrespectful to treat an African mask with supernatural powers like any other tacky souvenir. ‘Supernatural?’ Luc had scoffed. ‘It’s a weird object from a weird gendarme who has a weird fixation on you.’

  ‘He said it came from a forest in Cameroun. Can’t remember the name but it sounded very authentic. The spirit of the forest protects me.’

  Luc had rolled his eyes. ‘They probably sell those things by the dozen in the local market. Like Eiffel Tower key rings.’ In Luc’s view of the world, there were useful objects, decorative objects and clutter, and he had no doubt which category Tikar belonged to.

  ‘A shame you don’t have her with you,’ said Cyril. ‘She offers better protection that way. I’ve got mine in my pocket.’

  ‘Yours? I didn’t know you had one.’

  He dug it out of his pocket, displaying it in the palm of his hand. ‘A bit different from yours but they go together. Male and female.’

  The implications of that, she thought, were disturbing, but she didn’t enquire further into the nature of the relationship. ‘You always carry it with you?’

  ‘Not always. But when I saw your name on the list I brought him along in case I bumped into you. I had no idea there’d been a murder but it all fits together now.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Tikar is...’ He gazed at her earnestly, searching for a way to put it. ‘We’re a team, Sophie – you, me and Auguste. I know you can’t speak to Auguste directly, but it’s through Tikar that his spirit – I mean his influence – works. Tikar’s his instrument if you like, and when the two are together, it works better. Of course,’ he added hastily, ‘you mustn’t tell Pico that. It’s strictly between you and me. All that counts for him is that we solve it. He doesn’t need to know how.’

  ‘Right. OK, um... Cyril, can I stop you there? If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not pursue this topic.’

  Cyril’s relationship with Auguste made her uneasy. A fundamental part of her brain refused to accept it as normal. Communing with the dead, hearing voices... She saw it in fact as a sign of madness, but he (encouraged, apparently, by Gabrielle) believed it wasn’t just sane but a gift. Fair enough. Animism, voodoo, whatever. Whether harmless foible, gift from the gods or swarm of bats in the belfry, she had no idea, but what he got up to with his dead ancestor was his own business – just as long as it didn’t intrude on hers.

  Briefly, Cyril’s disappointment showed, but he made no comment. He’d understood by now that he wasn’t likely to convert her, and to his credit he didn’t try. ‘Well, I’ll let you get on,’ he said. ‘I’d better see if forensics have come up with anything.’

  But when they stepped into the lobby, they came across Lieutenant Bondy accompanied by another gendarme who, marching up to Cyril with a confrontational air, rasped, ‘The Lieutenant is under my command. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interfere.’

  Cyril took a step forward till the two were chest to chest, eyes locked in a fierce glare which neither looked about to relinquis
h. ‘General Pico will be here shortly.’ Physically, Cyril had the advantage. Taller, younger, slimmer, he exuded an authority that seemed to have come from nowhere, as if the sight of the other man – Captain Praud, presumably – had triggered an instant change in his personality. ‘I suggest until then that you don’t interfere. Lieutenant Bondy takes his orders from me.’

  Short, bald apart from a ring of wispy hair linking his ears, left eye slanting into a droop, Praud might not measure up physically but he was in no way impressed. ‘May I remind you that the commune of Saint Abel, where we are now, is part of the jurisdiction of Aix, not of Aubagne? On being told of the murder, Lieutenant Bondy quite rightly informed the Prosecutor in Aix, who then sent me to investigate.’

  ‘Which you have no business to do since I informed Aix that as the first officer on the scene, I would handle it myself.’

  ‘Information I never received, and even if I –’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said General Pico as he strode into the lobby, ‘surely you’re not going to fight a duel over this?’

  Chapter 11 Adjudication

  ‘Ah, Madame Kiesser. Pleasure to see you again.’ He shook her hand warmly. ‘I just need to confer with my colleagues here, but then I’d like a word with you, if I may. What shall we say? Twenty minutes?’

  The last time they met was the previous September, when Sophie, with the zealous assistance of Cyril (and somewhere, hovering invisible, Auguste), investigated the murder of two divers. The appreciation was mutual, though it remained largely unspoken. Sophie didn’t need to say it, evident as it was from her attitude, solemn and respectful – not just due to his age and rank, but behind an almost regal gravitas, she glimpsed a warmth that exerted a strong attraction. They were very different, but if her father had lived, he would have impressed those around him in much the same way as Pico. As for his opinion of her, it was relayed with pride and eagerness by Cyril; she might have thought he was exaggerating, even making it up, but for the fact that Pico had said he’d bear her in mind, if she so wished, for any future mission in which he thought her qualities might be useful. No such mission had been proposed and they hadn’t spoken since, but for weeks after that, the memory of the words alone were enough to thrill her. And now he wants to have a word with me. She crossed the lobby almost floating on air.