‘Walter Carrington, what a lovely surprise.’
Walter stopped walking, his dog stumbling to a halt beside him. Up close Oliver could see the man was in his early sixties, with pale skin and a thin face. The man instinctively put a hand out, then hesitated and withdrew it slightly, confusion registering on his features.
Amanda took it in her stride, letting her hand drop. ‘I’m sorry, I should have known you wouldn’t recognise me. After all, I think I was only ten the last time we met. I guess I’ve changed since then.’ She gestured to herself.
‘You have me at a loss, I’m afraid,’ Walter replied in a deep voice.
Amanda bent down and offered her hand for the German Shepherd to sniff. The dog seemed as cautious as its owner, but obviously decided she was non-threatening as he yawned and lay down.
‘My apologies. I’m Erika Murphy, and this is my friend Oscar.’
Oliver shook hands, remembering at the last moment that he was supposed to be flirting with the man, and held on just a fraction longer than normal.
‘Murphy,’ rumbled Walter. ‘As in Patricia Murphy?’
Amanda gave him a radiant smile. ‘My mother, yes.’
Walter absently rubbed his cheek. ‘I haven’t seen Patricia for almost twenty years.’
‘Yes, I know. Mum is always saying she needs to get back to New Zealand, but she’s just too settled in her life.’
‘I suppose Argentina is quite an alluring place.’
‘Brazil. Yes it is.’
The man nodded at the correction. ‘Brazil, of course. I expect the local rum is an attractive proposition.’
‘Now Walter, I’m sure you remember that Mum has health issues, and can’t drink.’
The man switched sides and stroked the other cheek. ‘The last I heard you were working in a restaurant in Australia.’
She laughed. ‘I keep telling Mum she should update her Facebook. I’ve had a change in career since then. I’m back at university, if you can believe it – art history. Right now I’m doing my thesis on post-war New Zealand painters.’
Walter’s eyes lit up. ‘Anyone in particular?’
‘That’s why I’m here. Oscar did his thesis on the subject – what was it? Ten years ago?’
Oliver cleared his throat. ‘Thirteen, only it feels like longer.’ He winked at Walter.
What are you doing?
I don’t know – I’ve never flirted with a man before. And the last time I flirted with a woman was when dating Jennifer.
Don’t try so hard. You want him to think you’re flirting, not deformed in the face.
‘I originally planned to cover a broad range of artists, but Oscar focussed on a single artist and he’s convinced me to do the same,’ Amanda continued.
‘Who was the subject of your thesis?’ Walter enquired.
Oliver hesitated. Without guidance from Amanda he had no idea what she wanted him to say. But one name seemed natural so he went with it.
‘I wanted to do one of the lesser known painters, so I focussed on a man named John Strong. Have you heard of him?’
Walter’s face lit up in delight. ‘John Strong? I’m extremely familiar with his work. Such a fascinating man. Which of his paintings did you study?’
Oliver hesitated once more, but he knew what Violet was going to suggest.
‘His early work, in particular the nudes. I just love the way they captured the beauty and vitality of their subject.’
Oliver took a casual step closer to the man. It was like on television where the main character has an earpiece and someone was telling him what to say and do. Only the earpiece was inside his head and was always on. ‘Do you know he used to paint prostitutes in return for sexual favours?’
Walter’s eyebrows raised, but it was the surprise on Amanda’s face that Oliver savoured.
‘That’s not a widely known fact. You must have done your research,’ Walter said.
‘I managed to come across an old account by one of the women. Mind you she was stark raving mad by the time she wrote it – too many drugs, poor girl.’
He could almost feel Violet mentally kicking him.
‘Do you know something? Up until now I have yet to find anyone with the same appreciation of John’s work as myself.’ Walter closed the gap entirely and lowered his voice. ‘I suppose you know about his other work.’
‘I’ve heard about it, but never seen any, not in person.’ Oliver leaned back to try and create space between them. ‘Have you?’
Walter glanced across at Amanda, then focussed attention back on Oliver. ‘Unfortunately, neither have I.’
Oliver nodded in sympathy.
Dead end.
‘Of course I came close recently. I was due to authenticate a painting that had been brought into an antique shop.’
‘What happened?’ Amanda asked. If he hadn’t known better, Oliver would have said she was genuinely oblivious.
‘The antique dealer was murdered and the painting went missing,’ Walter said regretfully.
I wonder which he’s more upset about.
‘That’s terrible!’ Amanda gasped.
‘Yes. I only knew the man in passing, but when he called and told me about the painting…well, it was all I could do not to rush straight over. Instead I had to settle for an appointment the next day, except it was cancelled.’
‘Because the dealer died,’ Oliver stated.
‘No. A few hours after he made the appointment, his assistant rang to cancel it. She said the seller had changed their mind and picked up the painting.’
Oliver and Amanda exchanged glances, which luckily Walter missed, as his dog lumbered to its feet and let out a whine.
‘I’m sorry, I should continue our walk or Casper will stiffen up.’ He dug into a pocket and handed Oliver a business card. ‘I would love to continue our conversation about John Strong – perhaps over drinks.’
Oliver took the offered card and hoped his smile wasn’t too strained. ‘I’ll give you a call.’
Walter nodded to Amanda. ‘Nice to see you my dear. Say hello to your mother for me.’ He made an encouraging sound to his dog who shuffled forward in a manner that cast doubt on its ability to finish the walk alive.
‘Congratulations Oliver, I think you just got a date,’ Amanda grinned.
‘Next time can you give me some warning on what the plan is?’
‘I like that you think there’ll be a next time. And relax, you did well.’
‘How did you know all that stuff about Erika Murphy?’
‘Like I told you, Oliver, Facebook is a great source of information.’
They started walking back to the car. ‘Surely it was a big risk.’
She shrugged. ‘A minor risk. And if he hadn’t bought the story, I always have a back-up plan.’
‘Do I want to know what it was?’
‘Probably not.’
‘But why go through the charade of pretending to be an acquaintance if you just wanted me to flirt with him?’
‘Oh Oliver, I have so much to teach you about conning people.’ She slipped her arm into his again. ‘The casual acquaintance was a conversation opener – a way in. He was a bit more cautious than I expected, but once he relaxed slightly you were able to work your magic. If we’d just walked up and you started flirting with him he would have immediately been suspicious.’
He could see the logic in her argument, but was still a bit annoyed about the whole thing.
‘You surprised me with your knowledge on John Strong – especially about how he used to paint prostitutes. How did you find that out?’ Her tone was light, but there was a strong sense of underlying curiosity.
‘Homework,’ he replied with an air of satisfaction. She just laughed and unlocked the car.
As they slid into their seats Oliver asked the natural question. ‘So assuming you didn’t change your mind and cancel the sale, who did?’
With a grim expression Amanda started the engine. ‘Now that’s a good questio
n.’
TWENTY FOUR
Oliver watched the world stop and start outside his window. ‘I hate to point out the obvious, but we’re running out of time to find the painting before I’m supposed to hand it over to Victor.’
Amanda nodded. ‘I know.’
‘And while we’re on the subject, I’m not entirely comfortable handing over something that is potentially a piece of evidence in a murder investigation.’
Too late for that.
‘It’s a bit late to grow a conscience now Oliver. We’re committed to this course of action.’
Oliver clenched his fists in frustration. He was way out of his comfort zone and area of expertise. ‘Okay, so what’s your plan B if things go pear-shaped?’
‘I’m still working on it,’ Amanda admitted.
Work faster.
‘What will Victor do if I don’t deliver?’ Oliver asked. His heart fluttered as he waited for the answer.
‘Like I told you, Victor isn’t violent – he actually dislikes violence. And even though he employs people who would be quite happy to take you into a dark alley, it’s always the last resort.’
Oliver released the breath he’d been holding.
‘No, Victor prefers other forms of incentive and punishment.’
What can be worse than getting beaten?
‘Like?’ Oliver asked in a cracked voice.
‘Let’s worry about that closer to the time.’
‘I’m worrying about it now,’ he shot back.
‘And would knowing the consequences of failure help or hinder the next 24 hours? You need to focus on today Oliver. We’ll handle Victor tomorrow.’
She’s pretty confident for someone who seems scared of this guy.
My thoughts exactly, he agreed. Out loud he asked, ‘So where to now?’
‘We need to find out more about Peter Yarrow, so we’re going to find someone who loves to talk.’
‘Who’s that?’
Amanda grinned. ‘We’ll know them when we see them.’
She’s enjoying this way too much.
Oliver watched her fingers tapping in time with the radio, and listened to her softly humming along. Violet was right – she seemed way too excited, given the situation. It made him suspicious.
The car wove its way up the hill towards the antique shop. They didn’t talk again until they stood on the footpath opposite the shop. There was a sign on the door they couldn’t read but the interior was dark so it appeared the place was locked up.
‘What now?’
‘If you drink coffee every day and owned a shop opposite a café, would you make your own or cross the road to get a decent one?’
Oliver turned to the café entrance behind them. ‘How do you know he drank coffee every day?’
Amanda just looked at him and he held up a hand. ‘Right – I know, you do your homework.’
She laughed. ‘Actually, when I was in the shop with the painting I saw he had several takeaway cups in the rubbish bin behind the counter.’
She led the way into the café, a tiny rabbit warren of a place housed in an old wooden building. Small tables were dotted haphazardly around the floor, half of them filled with people in various stages of brunch. The hissing sound of a coffee machine punctured through murmured conversation. Amanda stood just inside the door surveying the scene. Finally she moved towards the counter, where a man wearing a bright-green apron was busy making drinks.
Oliver let her go; someone else had caught his eye. An older woman sat alone at a table by the window and from her position she had a clear view of the antique store opposite. Her table had a single half-empty cup, and a plate with crumbs on it. The rest of the table was clear, which was one of the things that attracted Oliver. There was no book, newspaper, or electronic device, to divert her attention away from the world passing by on the other side of the glass.
‘Excuse me. I was wondering if I could ask you some questions?’ Oliver asked politely.
His question was met with a stern face. ‘I don’t know you,’ she said primly.
Oliver drooped slightly under her stare, but quickly recovered. ‘No ma’am. My name is Oliver Atkinson, and I’m a writer.’
‘A writer or an author?’ she interrupted.
‘Umm…’
She snorted impatiently. ‘Anyone can scrawl words on a piece of paper and call themselves a writer. An author is published. Are you published?’
‘Not yet,’ Oliver admitted.
She reminds me of the women Mum used to sew for. All prim and proper, and nosy.
Oliver gritted his teeth at the interruption, then forced a smile.
‘What do I get for helping you?’
‘I’m not sure I follow,’ he replied.
‘That’s the trouble with society today – everyone wants something for nothing.’
‘Ah,’ Oliver replied, thinking furiously. ‘How about I name a character after you in my book?’
The old lady thought about the offer. ‘What sort of book is it?’
‘A crime novel.’
‘I don’t want to be a corpse.’
Oliver, who had been thinking that was exactly what she was going to be, agreed. ‘Of course not.’
She indicated the chair opposite and he pulled it out and sat down.
‘My name is Freda Carstairs. Spelt like it sounds. Do you want to write it down?’ she viewed him suspiciously.
‘No, I’ve got it; Freda Carstairs. C.a.r.s.t.a.i.r.s.’
Freda nodded in satisfaction. ‘What is it you want to know?’
‘Do you come here often?’
‘I hope that’s not a chat-up line, Mr Atkinson?’ she accused, but her lips twitched in amusement and he knew she was playing with him.
‘No, ma’am.’
‘I come here every day except for Saturdays. That’s Scrabble day. And before you ask, yes I always sit in the window.’
‘How did…,’ Oliver started.
Freda gestured to the café with a manicured and gem-heavy hand. ‘All the people in this place and you chose my table, you’re writing a crime novel, and there’s a murder scene across the road. Only a fool would fail to see the connection. Do you think I’m a fool, Mr Atkinson?’
‘Not in the slightest, ma’am.’ Oliver rapidly readjusted his opinion of Freda Carstairs.
‘Don’t call me ma’am. I appreciate the manners, but Freda will do. So you want to know if I know anything about Peter Yarrow’s death?’
Oliver nodded.
Freda thought for a moment, lips pursed. ‘I didn’t see the actual event of course, but I’d seen the man quite often. He came into the café for his coffee every morning at the same time. A large trim flat white.’
‘You’re very observant.’
She flapped a hand impatiently. ‘Don’t interrupt.’
Oliver hoped his downcast expression was penance enough.
After collecting her thoughts, Freda continued. ‘Most of the time he appeared to be a happy man. He always smiled and chatted away to Stephen.’ She gestured to the man behind the counter. ‘And recently he seemed happier than ever – there was an extra bounce in his step and he laughed more than normal. I think he was having an affair.’
Oohh, this is getting juicy.
‘What makes you think that?’
Freda fixed him with a knowing look. ‘Mr Atkinson, there are only two things that can make a man that happy – sex or money.’
‘What makes you think it wasn’t money?’
‘The goofy smile.’
Oliver smothered his own smile. ‘How long had he been extra happy?’
The old lady considered the question. ‘About two weeks. The day he died he was ecstatically happy. It was sickening. Although that had more to do with money. His eyes were glazed over, like he’d just won Lotto.’
‘Any idea what that was about?’
‘I would think you and your friend would be more aware of that than I Mr Atkinson. Since Peter Yarrow only start
ed acting that way after you were both in his shop.’
Oliver glanced to where Amanda was still talking to the barista.
She’s got us.
‘There was a painting, and it was worth a lot of money. Only now it’s gone and he’s dead,’ Oliver told her.
Freda sat back in her chair and scratched the side of her nose. ‘And which are you more interested in Mr Atkinson? The money or the corpse?’
Any suggestions?
Don’t lie.
‘Freda, I’m just a writer trying to be an author. Somehow I’m caught up in this, and some people think I have the painting, which I don’t. I’d rather let the police solve Peter Yarrow’s murder.’
‘You may not have a choice of course,’ she mused. ‘To find the painting you might need to find the murderer.’
He nodded. ‘That thought had occurred to me.’
‘Perhaps you should start with the woman he was having an affair with.’
‘Do you know who it is?’ Oliver asked eagerly.
‘Was, Mr Atkinson. The man is dead so he cannot still be having an affair. Was, not is.’
Violet thought that was hilarious.
Freda added, ‘I hope you’re a better writer than public speaker.’
‘The benefit of writing is the ability to edit, Freda, something you cannot do orally.’
‘Your brain is your editor Oliver,’ she replied, warming to her task.
‘Touché,’ he conceded.
She seemed vaguely disappointed that he’d given in so easily.
Feeling he’d regained the lost ground, Oliver asked, ‘Do you know who he was having an affair with?’
‘Of course not. I barely saw the man apart from when he got coffee.’ She frowned. ‘Although there was a girl. I saw her come out of the shop several times.’
‘Perhaps she was a customer?’ he offered.
Her expression was full of scorn. ‘She never carried anything in or out. Except, sometimes when she came out she seemed to be counting some money. It was a bit hard to tell from over here, but I think that’s what it was.’
‘You’re very observant,’ Oliver repeated.
This time she accepted the compliment with a slight incline of her head.
‘Could you describe the girl?’
Murder in Paint (Hitchhiker Book 1) Page 15
