The First Cut

by Sisters in Crime Australia

  'There's something very odd in here,' said Alice and she took me into her mother's bedroom. The room, unlike any other in the house, was completely bare of art. However, there were distinctive marks on the wall that showed where paintings had been.

  'There were 25,' said Alice. 'All of Beatrix. She said she'd never part with them. I know they were here before I left for South America.'

  'Do you think they've been stolen?' I asked.

  'No,' said Alice and showed me a book her Mother kept of who bought her paintings and where they were. Under 'Beatrix x 25', it simply said, 'Lent Out. Safe Place.' It was clearly Mrs Wilcox's handwriting.

  Other works were listed as in the state and national Art Galleries and with individuals. The Remingtons, of course, had the most substantial collection.

  The Remingtons, Honey Remington specifically, had been Mrs Wilcox's patron. She'd recognised Mrs Wilcox's genius right from the beginning and it had been a mutually beneficial relationship. Mrs Wilcox's work was the instigation for the now famous Remington Gallery. The Remingtons' money had allowed Mrs Wilcox to flourish and not have to worry about teaching to make ends meet.

  It hadn't been without its pressures, though. When Honey Remington decided to mount an exhibition, she'd be here on a daily basis making sure that Mrs Wilcox was applying herself and meeting her deadlines.

  'Given that whatever happened is most likely related to your mother's work, our first investigative port of call should be Mrs Remington.'

  But when Alice looked in her diary, she couldn't find a spot for us to meet with Mrs Remington until the middle of next week. Not only did Alice have her usual busy schedule, but she was on call to observe special activities in the South American ant colony. Just then, as if to prove how busy she was, her emergency beeper went off.

  'You go, dear. I'll let you know what I find out,' I said.

  Next morning, not early - I was acquainted with Mrs Remington's habits from years ago - I headed for the best street in town and knocked on her door.

  I would have recognised Mrs Remington anywhere, although I hadn't seen her for more years than I cared to count. She was a tall woman, still very upright, and she cut a striking figure with her blonde hair (although that would be dyed these days) and piercing, blue eyes. She still favoured beautifully cut beige suits, understated jewellery and the glow that comes from being exceedingly pampered.

  She didn't recognise me, which wasn't surprising. However, the length of time she took to register who I was reminded me how rude she was if she thought you not worth bothering with.

  At first, walking past matching luggage in the hallway, I had a flash of amateur detective glory, thinking I'd come to the right place at the right time. I imagined apprehending a guilty Mrs Remington as she tried to escape the country.

  She sat me down, ordered me tea and explained she'd just come back from a three-month cruise (so much for my citizen's arrest), then shed a few tears about Mrs Wilcox.

  I asked her if she thought Mrs Wilcox had committed suicide?

  'Anita would never take her own life! Her work may have taken a dive in popularity over the last two decades and prices dropped, but she was still working, healthy, positive! No!'

  I ventured to suggest that if it hadn't been suicide, then foul play must have been involved. Mrs Remington was so horrified she all but pushed me out the door. On the way I did glean that she no longer had anything to do with the Remington Gallery. Her son Stewart had the reins. I also detected hostility. Stewart was always a difficult child, neglected, despite being surrounded by wealth. He'd performed oddly spiteful acts which Mrs Remington never believed him capable of.

  On the doorstep, I asked about Miss Duke. She hesitated, then said, 'Beatrix is well looked after. She's at "The Laurels".'

  Then she closed the door.

  There was only one 'The Laurels' in the phone book. I rang, said who I was, that I was the neighbour of the recently deceased Mrs Wilcox, 'Anita', and asked did they have a Miss Beatrix Duke? I was informed that I wasn't on any of their inhabitants' visitor lists. Visits weren't encouraged as disruptions to routine caused distress. I asked, did The Laurels specialise in dementia? Although there was no absolute 'yes' reply, there was enough hesitation to convince me that this was indeed the case.

  That night as I was having my sandwiches, Alice called and said, 'Switch on the TV news.' When I did, there was Stewart Remington, grin barely concealed, standing outside the Remington Gallery, being interviewed alongside another man who looked just like him. Stewart said that even though only a few days had passed since her death, Anita's work was enjoying a massive upturn in demand and Remington Gallery was mounting an exhibition in response.

  I was particularly alerted when he said that there was a glaring hole in his collection. The 'Beatrix' series, paintings Anita made of her muse, were missing. He made a plea that anyone holding them came forward, for they were essential for the retrospective and would command a high price.

  Minutes later, Alice was on my doorstep in a flap. There was something she hadn't told me.

  'Actually, until that news broadcast, I hadn't put it together,' Alice wouldn't sit but paced, hands clasping and unclasping. 'Did you notice the man standing next to Stewart?'

  'Yes,' I replied. 'I noticed how alike they are.'

  'That's Marcus. Marcus appeared at my gym.'

  It was so difficult to imagine Alice at the gym, I must have made a face.

  'I have to go because I get back pain. Hunching over at the lab, computer,' she justified.

  'That's marvellous, Alice. Everyone recommends it.'

  'Marcus said he'd been an aerobics instructor and wanted to help me. He thought the gym was lax with people who weren't sporty. He asked me out, took me shopping, to his hairdresser. Recommended contact lenses. He's 20 years younger and I was waiting for the catch. After a couple of months I abandoned caution and I asked him, begged, practically, to come to bed.

  'Immediately afterwards, he started in about Mother. "Where were the Beatrix paintings?" I knew, or rather assumed, they were in Mother's bedroom, but said I didn't know. Next day he came to the gym and barged into the ladies' change-rooms. "Where are the paintings?" he shouted. I was naked, frightened. I said, "I don't know!" Suddenly he seemed to believe me. "You really don't, do you! You disgusting, old..."

  'There was more. I left for South America that night. If only I'd told Mother!'

  That evening Alice accepted tea and some of my home-baked biscuits before going next door to stay.

  Early next morning Alice called, distressed. When I offered to come over she said no, she'd come to me, for my house had always been a haven.

  Apparently Alice, wearing only her mother's nightie, had been going through some papers when Stewart rapped on the glass doors. Alice got quite a shock and she had the feeling that this was just the effect he'd wanted. He barged his way in and wanted to know where were the missing 25 paintings?

  She got rid of him, but she was very shaky.

  Alice and I discussed everything we'd found out so far and decided to call the police. But when Alice recounted our story to the detective, that Mrs Wilcox had telephoned Alice in South America and called in on me, of Marcus's aggression, and of both his and Stewart's obsession with the missing paintings and, of course, the clean milk saucepan, I could tell she wasn't making much of an impression

  Alice was very down when she got off the telephone.

  I wanted to cheer her up and decided to show her my painting. I didn't say it was me and, given her reaction, I'm glad I didn't.

  'Another person totally besotted by Anita,' she said.

  'I beg your pardon?' I was thrown.

  'Leaning forward, look of intense longing, parted lips, parted legs,' Alice spoke as if ticking items off on a list.

  'You're reading too much into it,' I defended.

  'Erect nipples?'

  'She was cold.'

  'There's a huge fire burning behind her.'

  No
t able to bear any more, I put the painting away.

  After Alice left, a memory of sitting for the painting appeared, unsummoned. As if it were yesterday, I felt the touch of Mrs Wilcox's cool fingers as she adjusted my hair, the ripples of desire that flooded through me.

  I first became aware of Mrs Wilcox's varied love life was when Mrs Honey Remington, having commissioned an exhibition, was panicking about Mrs Wilcox not meeting her deadlines. She insisted I use my spare key to let her in next door.

  There'd been a party at the Wilcox's for days, but the noise had died down overnight and I thought they'd all left for one of their mad camping trips.

  Much against my better judgement I unlocked the studio and Mrs Remington barged past me. Bottles, glasses, full ashtrays were strewn everywhere and there, in beautiful morning light streaming down from the skylight, were Mrs Wilcox and Mrs Duke naked on the rug (doing exactly what, I've never been able to fathom). Mrs Remington gave forth a stream of profanities and left. It took Mrs Wilcox weeks to forgive me and she never gave me the spare key again.

  It was much later that night, when the memories began to fade and our present fix loomed large that I, unable to sleep, came up with my plan.

  Strictly speaking, Remington's Gallery wasn't open while the huge exhibition of Mrs Wilcox's work was being mounted. The treacherous Marcus let me in when I told him I had one of the paintings they talked about on the television.

  I was shown upstairs to Stewart's swanky office with its view of the park. Behind his desk in a neat kitchen, galley style, I think they call it, was Stewart, sporting rubber gloves, scrubbing away at a stainless steel percolator.

  'How lovely to see a young man take such pride in his domestic duties,' I offered, my thoughts running to Mrs Wilcox's milk saucepan. I twittered on, old lady style, reminiscing about my knowing Stewart as a sweet boy (I had to make this up, obviously).

  I tell them nobody knows of my painting's existence! Labour the point of how I live alone, how deaf I am. That, since Mrs Wilcox's death, I've hung the painting in my front upstairs bedroom. They're practically salivating by the time I leave.

  My trap laid, all I had to do was wait.

  I prepared for bed, then called Alice. As I'd thought, she was at the laboratory with the ants, who'd made an exciting break-away and were forming a new colony. She was up for the night.

  So far, all was to plan. The lab was 12 minutes from my house at the most. Less, with no traffic.

  'Just checking your number works, dear.' I said and settled down to watch from my bedroom window.

  It wasn't in my plan to fall asleep! I thought I was far too nervous. I wake to noises. They're already in the house! The clock glows 4 am. I remember that was Mrs Wilcox's time of death.

  I hear them moving around downstairs. I've lost precious minutes.

  I find I'm absolutely frozen and they're getting closer. Finally, I manage to press 'redial' to Alice. But before I'm able to say anything, they're in the room. A torch blinds me. I try old lady asleep but the phone in my hand gives me away. It's grabbed, the cord ripped out of the wall. The torch flashes until it settles on my picture. I hear grunts of satisfaction. I swing my feet down to the floor but am pushed onto the bed, a big arm pins my chest.

  A pillow is over my face, my arms trapped. I struggle, get a kick to one of them. One throws his full body weight on me now.

  Then there's blackness. Silence.

  Alice is pressing a lavender-scented flannel to my forehead when I come to.

  A policewoman grins to see me awake.

  'You are one truly amazing woman,' smiles Alice. 'Anita would be so proud of you.'

  I was so grateful she didn't tell me off, call me a silly old lady.

  'Did they…?' I whisper, barely able to get the words out.

  'Both caught; with the picture.'

  'How did you…?' I strain.

  'Your number came up on my mobile. I knew something was up. The police were here within 10 minutes. Luckily.' Her eyes filled with tears. Mine, too, I confess; I'm not ready to go.

  I squeeze her hand. She grabs mine, puts it up to her mouth and kisses it with such affection I'm quite taken aback.

  'If you can bear any more excitement, I've found out where the missing pictures are,' she says.

  I try to sit up.

  'Tomorrow. Shhhh.'

  'The Laurels', where Miss Beatrix Dukes is ending her days, is quite the nicest nursing home I'd ever seen. Her rooms are an art gallery. As well as the 25 beautiful portraits of Beatrix in her youth, there is one of Anita and Beatrix together, naked on the rug underneath the skylight, entwined around each other. It's entitled, 'Self-Portrait With Lover'.

  The nurse said that although none of them can make any sense out of Beatrix on a daily basis, she seems quite lucid when talking to that painting.

  The autopsy showed Mrs Wilcox had bruises 'commensurate with a struggle' and a well-hidden needle-mark puncture. Stewart Remington is being charged with murdering Mrs Wilcox with an overdose of morphine, with Marcus as his accessory.

  After the forensics had their field day with the milk saucepan (there was no residue of sleeping pills, just aged milk and hot chocolate), Alice presented it to me mounted on a plinth, inscribed 'Mrs T. Domestic Goddess'.

  I've put it on the hall table underneath my painting. That way no one can avoid noticing either trophy.

  EVERYTHING $2 ON THIS RACK

  Cate Kennedy

  Why is it that in the first scene of private eye films the gumshoe gets visited by a breathless, ditzy blonde woman worried about her disappeared husband? Nobody like that ever came into my office. My stock in trade was more like the specimen in front of me now - male, mid-forties, thinning, paunching and practically wilting with tedium. He may as well have had 'middle- management public servant' tattooed across his head. He sipped prissily at weak, white tea, sweetened with his own saccharine that he kept specially in his pocket.

  I could feel a headache coming on.

  'My wife's left me,' he said, 'and I want you to find her and find out why.'

  I can tell you why now and save you the money, I felt like saying, but stayed quiet. I needed the work.

  'Please go on, Mr Michaels.'

  'I think she may have joined some weird cult.' His pale eyes blinked, his tone was solemn.

  I needed a Disprin badly. 'With respect Mr Michaels, that seems a little far-fetched.'

  'You don't know Carol. She was always reading books about astrology and past lives. She had these ideas about the anti-aging process. We had to drink grass juice!'

  The thought of wanting to prolong your time with this guy was a depressing one. He sat looking at me accusingly, as the coach-bolt was being tightened across my head.

  'That doesn't really qualify as cult behaviour. Was there…anyone she was seeing?'

  Always a delicate question this one, when dealing with the rejected spouse; because nine times out of ten there was.

  'You mean an affair?'

  'Well someone she may have wanted to…' The words 'escape with' hovered dangerously close, I changed them in the nick of time to 'leave with'.

  I was expecting a stinging retort to the contrary, but instead he slumped his round shoulders and looked defeated.

  'There could have been,' he said helplessly. 'I hardly knew what was going on in Carol's head most of the time. If it wasn't belly dancing it was chant and be happy. She was talking about going to Nepal a few days before she left.'

  It struck me that, even if a little eccentric, Carol Michaels was a good deal more interesting than her husband.

  'I tried,' he was saying. 'She was dead keen on aquarobics all this spring, and she wanted to cash in some of my super to build a heated pool, so we started that. She had an appointment with the fellow to look over some pavers, trying to decide what colour we should landscape with around the pool area, then she up and left.'

  I was beginning to like Carol Michaels more and more. I took a few notes, trying to sh
ield my headache from the early summer glare outside.

  'Did she take her passport?'

  'I have no idea. I certainly can't find it anywhere. Mostly of her clothes are gone, and her make-up and what have you. She's got a sister in North Queensland she's thick as thieves with. Shirley's into this yoga and beansprouts business as well. Came down last year and they both went off to hear Shirley MacLaine talking about dolphin energy or something.'

  'I'm actually more interested in the boyfriend angle,' I said, writing CD - my code for Complete Dill - in my notebook next to his name. 'Did she work with anyone likely, or was there a neighbour or friend?' I could imagine his wife, any woman, pulling the pin on this guy and shooting through; but with whom? Her aquarobics instructor? Was she at this moment reaching enlightenment in a Nepalese monastery with the guy from the health food shop?

  'If it was anyone, it'd be the bloke from the nursery up the road,' said Bryan Michaels firmly, surprising me.

  'Why do you feel that?' I pressed patiently, underlining the CD and putting a star next to it.

  'She had him around all the time. They're always gossiping over catalogues and aromatherapy and what have you,' he sighed gustily. 'She's been consulting him about the meadow of native grasses she wants to turn the front lawn into.'

  Suddenly, as I rooted in the desk drawer for a soluble aspirin, I felt a flash of pity for him. He couldn't help being a dullish um - I consulted his details (oh my god, spare me) - pharmaceuticals salesman. Okay, so peddling new brands of casting plaster to dentists and trying to get enthused about thermometers could turn someone dull. Perhaps Carol Michaels was a flighty, fad-obsessed woman who'd just got it into her head to take off with the chap from the nursery. Maybe her husband was the long-suffering one.