Painter Palaver

by Curtis Bausse

  ‘If you want to leave, Monsieur Ferrucci,’ said Gareth coldly, ‘believe me, I won’t stop you. As soon as Captain Praud allows, feel free.’ Though he showed no anger, his patience seemed to have come to an end. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘that goes for the whole lot of you. Leave tomorrow, full reimbursement.’ His eyes moved around the room, glaring like a teacher close to breaking point. ‘Anyone?’

  Isadora and Adeline exchanged worried glances; this had clearly not been part of the script. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Claire, wriggling uncomfortably, said, ‘No reflection on you, but it has soured the atmosphere a lot.’

  ‘Fine.’ Gareth now seemed to relish the prospect of getting rid of them all as soon as possible. ‘Anyone else?’ No answer came. He turned to Martin. ‘And Penelope?’

  ‘She’s resting. A little upset. She’ll be down for lunch. You can ask her then.’

  ‘Good.’ Gareth rubbed his hands. ‘Well, they should finish in the garden soon, so hopefully the pool will be accessible after lunch. Or else...’ He waved a hand as if he couldn’t give a damn. ‘Play Cluedo or whatever.’ And with that he gave a tight-lipped nod and strode out of the room. Masking her distress behind a brave smile, Adeline followed, with Isadora trooping out behind.

  For several seconds nobody spoke, the atmosphere not just sour but charged with palpable tension, ready to explode at the slightest spark. As indeed it might have, were it not that Dorian chose that moment to let rip an almighty fart, and the only explosion was of laughter.

  ‘An excellent summing up,’ said Lyle, then turning to Martin, ‘Are we in deep shit, or what? This Captain Praud – what’s he like?’

  ‘Oh, very polite. Asked me to tell him what happened and that was it. Thanked me and let me go.’ He brought his hands together, beaming. ‘But I see you’re all desperate for the details, grisly bunch that you are. Everyone sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.’

  He’d been out looking for Penelope’s necklace, which she’d lost, she thought, somewhere in the wood at the top of the garden, where she’d gone for a walk before breakfast. On reaching the pool, he’d been intrigued by a cloud of smoke drifting over, and fearing it might be the start of a fire, he’d gone to investigate the cause. Beyond the gate which led to the nursery, next to a pile of foliage, was an incinerator, and next to that, a man lying on the ground. It was only when he drew near that he saw the man was dead. ‘Monday morning, hangover – all you want is a strong black coffee, instead it’s a butchered neighbour. What’s the deal? This is a writing course. We’re here to imagine it, not be shown it for real. Mind you, I don’t think I’d have come up with a garden fork for the weapon. Anyway, I won’t describe what happens when someone sticks one in your throat but... Well, it’s not a pretty sight, believe me. Not that I hung around, mind. I was out of there like a shot. Didn’t have my phone with me so I ran down to the house to look for the son. Broke the news to him. We went back up. He called the cops. End of story.’

  Hmph. More like the beginning. Sophie glanced over at Magali and saw she was thinking the same. ‘How did Thibault react?’ she asked.

  ‘He was quiet, actually. Didn’t howl, didn’t break down. But yeah... ashen-faced, I’d say. He was down on the drive when I found him. Dealing with some tree surgeons. Sounds to me like a pretty solid alibi. So’ – Martin tilted his head, lips curled into a sardonic smile – ‘I think we can say we have some good munition for the course. If Gareth wants material for his workshop, he’s got it right at hand. Maybe there’s an Inglethorp among us.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘The perp in Christie’s first novel.’ Predictably, Lyle was the only one to pick up on it. ‘The Mysterious Affair at Styles.’

  ‘Suspected perp,’ Martin corrected him. A typical Agatha red herring.’

  ‘Yeah, right. I remember now. A closed circle mystery, right? Isolated country house, no getting in or out, limited number of suspects.’

  ‘Oh, it goes one better than closed circle,’ said Martin. ‘It’s a locked room mystery. The victim dead on the floor, the doors locked from the inside. So how did the murderer get in?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Claire stood up, her whole body straining with anger. ‘Do you think anyone’s interested in your pathetic nonsense?’

  ‘Something bugging you, Claire?’ Sprawled in his armchair, Eddy cocked his head, eyes narrow. ‘You’re taking it very personally. What are we to make of that?’

  ‘Eddy!’ Maya thumped the cushion again. ‘For fuck’s sake, leave her alone!’

  Claire stomped out of the room, shutting the door none too gently behind her, and Eddy shook his head with a weary sigh. ‘I’m trying to learn something here, darling,’ he said patiently. ‘That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it? She thinks it pathetic – well, I find it fascinating. The reason we’re here,’ he explained to them all, ‘is that my wife wants me to write a bestseller.’

  ‘No, you want to write a bestseller. You’ve been saying so for ages. The reason we’re here’ – she turned to the assembly – ‘is that my husband keeps talking about writing a book but he never does anything about it. So I signed him up for the course. And now that he’s faced with the challenge, he’s getting cold feet. That’s the reason we’re here.’

  ‘Cold feet? Huh! She sprung it on me as a gift. So-called. As if I’m supposed to drop everything and bang out a book. But now that we’re here, I might as well get something out of it. Not expecting anything from Forster, but I like what I hear from Best.’ He pointed at Martin. ‘Carry on, I want to hear more. This formula you mentioned – how does it work?’

  ‘Eddy, my old chum,’ said Martin with a chuckle, ‘you don’t want to listen to what I have to say. You know what I write? EFL books. Don’t even write them – adapt. Great Expectations for pre-intermediate students, reduced to twenty pages using only the two thousand most frequent words in English. That’s all I’m good for. Never written a novel in my life.’

  ‘You mean you’ve been pulling my leg? There’s no formula?’

  ‘Oh, sure, there’s a formula. Dreamt up by a pair of academics who had nothing better to do. But it’s only about Agatha Christie. Don’t go thinking it’ll help you write a bestseller.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that. I want to hear it.’

  ‘All right.’ Martin took up position at the fireplace. ‘They wanted to know if there was a pattern to the mysteries, something that would enable the reader to find the culprit before her detective, whether Poirot or Miss Marple. For example, if the victim was strangled, the killer’s more likely to be male. And if the setting’s a country house’ – he opened his arms to Venturi View – ‘it’s very likely they’re female. Mode of transport too – mostly car or train, female; by sea or by air, male. Then various other stuff like the number of mentions the killer gets, chapter of introduction, relationship to the victim.’ He turned to Eddy. ‘Like I say, you won’t get a bestseller out of that. Unless’ – here he held up a finger, baring his teeth in a ghoulish grin – ‘you draw your inspiration from us. Eight guests, country house – the perfect closed circle mystery. You’d have to update it of course. Throw in a bit of gore perhaps – up to you how you treat it.’

  Eddy nodded, mulling it over. ‘Not what I had in mind. But it’s an idea.’

  ‘And stabbing?’ asked Lyle.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Seibel was stabbed through the neck, you said. Male or female?’

  ‘Ah! Getting the hang of it, I see. Good!’ He gave a shrug. ‘I don’t think there was any firm conclusion on that. Especially with a garden fork.’

  ‘You’re forgetting something though,’ said Eddy. ‘Even supposing they rule out Thibault Seibel, someone could have come from the other side. Or up the drive. It’s not a closed circle at all.’

  ‘The tree surgeons were on the drive. They’d have seen anyone come up. And there aren’t any neighbours on the other side, just the nature reserve. An early morning walker? Maybe. But unl
ikely.’ He thrust his hands into his pockets, and with a sorry shake of his head concluded, ‘Whoever it was must have gone through the gate at the top of the garden. Which means they came from this house.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to do here,’ Maya said stiffly. ‘Alarm us? Make us suspicious of each other? What?’

  ‘Just saying’ – he affected an innocent grin – ‘we’d better all have a decent alibi.’

  She emitted a puff of annoyance. ‘Claire’s right – this is ridiculous! We were all having breakfast.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Martin struck a pensive pose, pudgy fingers stroking his chin. ‘How long would it take? Five minutes? Not even that. Have you seen there’s a path that runs up the side? Behind the garden shed? Quicker than going up the middle. And less visible. Was everyone in the breakfast room for the full half hour? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, you certainly weren’t. Nor your wife.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Martin pointed a congratulatory finger. ‘Maya Ferrucci, the Queen of Crime. Ridiculous? You’ve gone one better than me already. Designated the culprit.’

  ‘Not at all. I’m just saying. You were the one who started all this.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s right, Maya,’ Lyle said quietly.

  ‘You see? Our resident academic agrees with me. Why, we could even be heading for a copycat crime. Bumped off one by one.’ Walking over to the bookcase, Martin took out a paperback and held it up for all to see. ‘Belonged to Gareth’s mother, apparently. Bestselling crime novel of all time, over a hundred million copies. You’ll have a hard job beating that, Eddy.’ He flipped it open. ‘Fontana edition, 1963. Hence the title. I always thought it a shame they changed it, but one has to keep up with the times, I suppose. No offence,’ he added, turning to Lyle.

  ‘None taken.’ The pained smile suggested the opposite. ‘It never had that title in the US. And they still haven’t got round to changing it in France. Dix Petits Nègres. Still, on the whole they have a better brand of racism here than at home.’ He sighed. ‘Ridiculous he may be, winding us all up. But Captain Praud has no doubt reached the same conclusion. If it wasn’t Thibault Seibel, it’s one of us.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of this.’ Maya stood up to leave, but on reaching the door she turned. ‘One of us, Mr. Carmichael? Speak for yourself.’

  To which Lyle, his features sad and gentle, answered softly, ‘Oh, don’t worry, Madame Ferrucci. I do.’

  Chapter 14 Lyle Carmichael

  April 30th 2019

  Of course I’ll be there, kiddo. No one else to walk you down the aisle, right? I wouldn’t miss it for the world. You thought I might not? I get that. But hey, I’ve missed too much already, missed you, missed the kids growing up – when did they become such beautiful girls? You can be proud of them, Ashley, you couldn’t find two better Maids of Honor.

  As for Jayden, maybe it’ll pass. I don’t need to tell you it’s a difficult age. I’ll speak to him, sure, if you think it’ll help – but hell, if he doesn’t listen to you and Todd, what chance do I have? I get where you’re coming from though – the wayward kid made good, right? The same at his age, rejecting, always rejecting, and now I’m the Prodigal Son, lol. You give me too much credit, girl, I’m as lost today as I ever was. If you’re hoping a word from me will turn him into a scholar, you might be disillusioned. But it’s worth a try. You never know – A Lesson in Life from One who Never Learned It. Might just do the trick.

  But hey, you know damn well that if anyone learned anything, it’s you. Or maybe you never needed to learn, you had it in you from the start. Belief, determination and (you’ll tell me most important of all) faith. Perhaps you’re right in that as well. If only I’d found that faith, I wouldn’t be lost. But I never did, never believed, never trusted a God who could do what He did that day. A weakness, I guess, something inside that never grew as it should have, or Mom just couldn’t find how to nurture it as she did with you.

  I’m booking a flight for mid-August. I can’t arrive before then – I’ve signed up for a writing course in Provence. Don’t ask me why – I don’t even know myself. Maybe just to relax, get away from this goddamn PhD that’s driving me nuts. Write a story – who knows? Could be what I’ve been trying to do all my life, get to some sort of truth, without ever realizing that all I had to do was believe in yours.

  Lyle drank the last of his coffee, read what he’d written, and wondered if there was anything left to say. Probably not. He had to get to work anyway. Besides, if he started, he’d go on forever, explaining, justifying, saying how sorry he was for not being the brother she’d wanted. Six years now he’d been in France and in all that time he’d seen her once, the distance between them greater than ever that day, as they stood side by side watching their mother’s coffin lowered into the earth. Afterwards, he’d slipped away without saying goodbye.

  He added Looking forward to seeing you, kiddo, signed off, and sent it. A few minutes later, he was walking to catch the Number 16 to the Chazy Distribution warehouse on Léon Blum Avenue.

  Surprising, in fact, that she’d invited him, surprising she’d even informed him. But that was Ashley, always forgiving, reaching out, strong in her love of others, firm in her love of God. Who must have been much pleased, because He rewarded her well. Todd was everything her first husband wasn’t – lawyer, believer, campaigner, blessed with genuine love for children that weren’t even his. Todd was the gift that kept on giving, the undeniable proof that Black Lives Matter.

  All the same, Lyle suspected a trick. Believe, and you will receive. God couldn’t be so simple in His ways.

  An objection to which Ashley’s answer itself was simple: how can you know unless you do believe? But there lay the trick, perfect as any magician’s. Persuade your audience to believe the illusion and it’s not an illusion any more. This was a leap of faith that Lyle couldn’t make; what held him back was not the width of the chasm but doubt in his own desire to reach the other side. Lyle remained forever on the side of the lost and the damned.

  Lost in life and lost in a PhD. ‘Narrow it down,’ his supervisor had said, cutting him off as he rambled on about ‘characters’. ‘Fair enough if that’s what you want to study, but you need a specific angle.’ Eventually it got whittled down to ‘ambiguous characters’, but even that, he realised now, was too vast. Insincerity, hidden agendas, people not saying what they mean – where the hell does ambiguity start? Where does it end? He read, made notes, organised folders and files, watched the topic expanding like the universe. No shape or structure, unfathomable. Ashley was so proud of him – back home she told everyone that her once lost brother had made good, he was going to be a Faculty Professor in France. His supervisor knew better. They hadn’t spoken since last November, and now she surely had him down as yet another who starts and never finishes. In his mind, the question had changed. It wasn’t about characters anymore, not even about books. The question now was, ‘Why am I even doing this?’

  When he moved to France, he’d lived at first in Valence, for no other reason than he met a fellow American who’d spent a year there and said it was cool. Lyle enrolled in the first year of English. He struggled with the grammar – never had he suspected that what came so naturally to him was in fact diabolically complex – but in four years he had his Bachelors, then moved to Grenoble for his Masters. A nice place too. Hell, the whole of France was nice, or at least what he’d seen of it, which admittedly wasn’t much. There were shitholes too, he was well aware of that, the suburbs of Paris and Lyon where the kids had no future. Even in Grenoble there were shitholes. But when he considered where he might be now if he hadn’t come to France, he thanked – what? The Lord? The way Ashley did, clapping and chanting with Todd in the Church of God in Christ? As he got off the bus and made his way to the warehouse, Lyle shook his head sadly. Nothing to do with the Lord, kiddo. We have no one to thank – or to blame – but ourselves.

  ‘Bonjour, Leel, tu vas bien?’

  ‘Ça va, merci.
Et toi?’

  He’d given up telling the other workers how to pronounce his name. They were friendly for the most part, even the ones he knew to be racist, and there were plenty of those. But they reserved their sneers for the maghrébins, the lawless, thieving bougnouls from North Africa. Lyle, to them, was an oddity – not your average black who’s just climbed down from the trees but a clever, cultured American who knew about books. ‘Bonjour, tu vas bien, Monsieur le Professeur?’

  There wasn’t much time for talking in any case. Compared to the Amazon warehouse in Montélimar, where he’d worked during his Bachelors, Chazy Distribution was relaxed, but you still had to keep up the pace. Toys, utensils, linen, gadgets, whole containers of crap from China, arriving by the hour to be sorted, unpacked, put into smaller boxes and arranged on shelves. On arriving in Grenoble, Lyle had applied for sales jobs, but after being told a dozen times his French wasn’t good enough, he understood. No one cared in a warehouse – he was out of sight – but face-to-face with a potential customer? French not good enough. Sure. When he finally resigned himself to reality, his Amazon credentials stood him in good stead. Boxes? Oui, monsieur, I know all about boxes. He got the job on the spot – a stellar career lay ahead.

  Career. The very word was odd, reserved for people who follow the signposts, people who don’t get lost. When he started his Masters, he had to choose: high school teacher or research? Most of the other students went into teaching – there wasn’t much else you could do with an English degree. But studying, for Lyle, had never been about a career, simply a way to keep moving, reading, living and breathing books. After the Bachelors, a Masters; after the Masters, a doctorate. Une fuite en avant: keep on climbing those steps, blindly forging on, a dogged, pointless trek to God knows where. Shelves that stretched forever, packed with ambiguous characters. Keep on trekking into the future and you don’t have to dwell in the past.