Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery)

by Wells, Shirley

  “Or perhaps we’ll stick to brandy. The French are better with brandy than they are with beer.”

  “True, but they only serve it in thimble-sized glasses...”

  Chapter Twenty

  Ruth took a deep breath, prodded the doorbell and listened to the chimes ring out inside the house. Nerves made her heart race and that was ridiculous.

  The door opened and Maddie frowned at her. “What are you doing here?”

  “May I come in?”

  “Of course.” Maddie strode off in the direction of the dining room, leaving Ruth to close the door behind her.

  “If you’ve come to collect your scarf,” Maddie said, “you’re too late. I put it in the mail. And yes, I do know how precious it is to you, so I made sure it was recorded and registered.”

  “Thank you, but that’s not why I’m here.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “I’ve come to help you sort out Prue’s things.” Somewhere, buried deep in a dark place that Ruth refused to visit, was the memory of the moment their relationship had broken down. That was years ago though. Maddie had been a child then. They should be able to move on. “I know you want to do everything yourself, Maddie, but it will be easier with two of us.”

  Ruth wasn’t taking no for an answer. She’d lost Prue but she refused to lose Maddie as well.

  Maddie’s cold exterior told her it was already too late, that all hope had been lost when Maddie, just ten years old, had run to Ruth. Ruth had slapped her. Shaken her. She hadn’t known what else to do.

  “It’s here.” Maddie nodded at a tall pile of clothes on the dining table. “Most of it’s stuff no one would be caught dead in.”

  Ruth flinched at both the expression and the hard tone of voice. “Don’t fight me, Maddie. Let’s do this together.”

  Maddie shrugged. “Would you like a coffee?”

  “I’d love one, darling. Thank you.”

  Maddie’s shoes tapped on the wooden floor in the hall as she walked to the kitchen.

  Ruth lifted a coat from the pile of clothing. She held it to her face, but could find no trace of Prue. It was in good condition so she checked the pockets, all empty, and put it aside to go to the charity shop. She picked up another coat, one in a soft pink that she’d seen Prue wearing. Again, it was in good condition. Ruth checked the pockets and pulled out a crumpled receipt and a penny coin. See a penny, pick it up, and all that day you’ll have good luck. She unfolded the receipt. It was for a cappuccino bought from Manchester Art Gallery, and it was dated the same day that Prue died. Ruth put the receipt on the table and the coat on the pile for the charity shop.

  The next item was a sweater that looked to be at least twenty years old. Threads dangled from the cuffs and elbows and it was dotted with white paint. She could imagine Prue decorating her home in it, could see her curled up in front of the TV in it on cold winter nights. She was tempted to take it home and keep it forever. She resisted and started a new pile for clothes to be thrown out.

  She felt her heart start to race and had to take several slow, deep breaths. The void that Prue had left behind would never be filled, she knew that, but one day she hoped the raw, raw pain would subside just a little. It would have to, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to cope. And cope she must, for all their sakes.

  Maddie carried two coffees into the room and put them on the table, but before either of them could speak, the doorbell rang.

  “Now what?” Maddie muttered before striding along that wooden floor to answer it.

  “Hello, Eddie,” Ruth heard her say. “Tim’s not here.”

  “I know. I’ve been in Birmingham and, as I was more or less passing your door, I thought I’d call in and see how you’re doing.” There was a brief pause before he added, “We’re worried about you, Maddie. You’ve got a lot on your plate right now.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, “but thanks. Do you want a coffee? I’ve just made one. My mother’s here.”

  “I’d love one. The traffic’s been stop-start for hours and I thought I’d never get here.”

  Ruth had pinned a smile to her face before Eddie reached the dining room. Smiling, and looking as uncomfortable as most people do when dealing with the bereaved, he came forward and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Hello, Ruth. How are you coping?”

  “I’m okay, Eddie. Thanks. How are you? Did I hear you say you’d been in Birmingham?”

  “Yes.” He looked relieved to be on easier territory. “A conference. Exhausting but hopefully worthwhile.”

  Maddie went to the kitchen, leaving them to chat awkwardly about the weather until she returned. Given that Maddie suffered with her nerves, Ruth had expected her daughter to cut down the amount of caffeine and alcohol she drank. Maddie was far too thin and she was constantly fidgeting. Ruth hoped she wasn’t sinking into one of her depressions.

  “Thanks.” Eddie took his coffee from her. “So how are you, Maddie?”

  “I’m okay. Have a seat.”

  “Thanks, but I’d rather stand. I’ve been sitting in that car for hours.” He leaned back against the table. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, just say the word. I know what you’re going through. People don’t realise how much needs to be done at a time like this, do they? I remember having to sort out everything when my aunt died. It took months.”

  Maddie nodded. “That’s exactly it, people don’t realise. What with the funeral, putting notices in the paper, sorting out the house and contents, getting stuff together for the solicitor—it’s a damn pain.”

  Ruth felt a bubble of anger rise. Why had Maddie insisted on doing everything? So she could play the martyr? Ruth didn’t like the unkind thought but she could think of no other explanation.

  “It’s much worse in this case, isn’t it?” Eddie said. “With the police involved, I mean.”

  “Yes.”

  He looked at her for long moments. “We’ve been so worried about you, but I have to say that, despite everything, you’re looking as lovely as ever.”

  “Thank you. And who’s ‘we’?”

  “Me. Tim.”

  She rolled her eyes at that. “Oh yes, I’ve noticed that Tim’s really worried.”

  “Aw, come on, Maddie. Of course he’s worried. We’re just run off our feet at the moment, that’s all.”

  Maybe Maddie was feeling neglected by Tim.

  “I don’t suppose the police have found out anything new?” he asked.

  “I haven’t heard a word from them,” Maddie said. “Not a word since I spoke to them at Prue’s funeral. They don’t seem to care. I suppose they’d claim that they’re busy too.”

  “I’m sure they’re doing all they can.” He took a sip of coffee. “What about your private investigator? Has he learned anything?”

  “I don’t know. He’s calling here later today. He’s been in France.”

  “France? What, on holiday you mean?”

  “No. Didn’t Tim tell you about the painting?”

  “What painting?”

  Maddie gave Ruth a sharp glance, almost as if she’d forgotten she was there. “I found a painting in Prue’s house,” she said. “Only a very tiny one—a miniature, you know? It turns out it’s one of Jack McIntyre’s.”

  “What?” Ruth had heard a painting mentioned but she’d had no idea it was a McIntyre.

  “Who did you say it was painted by?” Eddie asked.

  “Jack McIntyre. Haven’t you heard of him?”

  “No.”

  “He’s famous. Except he’s dead now. He was drowned, I think. But he lived in France, you see, so Dylan’s been there to see if he can find out how one of his paintings came to be in Prue’s house. Prue lived in France, remember? Dylan thinks there might be a connection.”

  “Wow.”

  “It’s not worth that much,” Maddie said, giving Ruth another quick, almost sly, glance, “but it’s quite a surprise.”

  Ruth did
n’t care how much the painting was worth, but the fact that Maddie didn’t want her to know about it hurt. All Ruth wanted was her daughter back, and no amount of money could ease the pain or the deep, hollow sense of loss.

  Eddie finished his coffee and put the empty cup on the table. “It’s time I was off. We have that appointment with the bank at two.”

  He spoke as if Maddie was supposed to know what he was talking about, but she clearly didn’t. “What appointment?”

  “We’re trying to extend a loan. Tim told you about it yesterday when he phoned you.”

  She shook her head. “He hasn’t mentioned it. He didn’t phone me yesterday.”

  “He did, Maddie. I heard him. I was in his office.”

  “Nope. It wasn’t me.”

  “Oh. My mistake then,” Eddie said. “It’s nothing to worry about, not really. We need a loan extension, that’s all. Tim’s been working on updating our business plan for ages. I’m sure the bank will play ball.”

  Ruth wondered who Tim had told about the meeting with the bank. Not Maddie, because he’d know she had no interest in finance or business plans, but perhaps he had someone else to talk to, someone who cared...

  “Don’t forget,” Eddie said as he was leaving, “if there’s anything I can do, anything at all, just give me a shout. Okay?”

  Maddie gave him a quick hug. “Thanks.”

  “Good to see you again, Eddie,” Ruth said.

  “You, too, Ruth. Take good care of yourself, won’t you?” Smiling, he gave her a peck on the cheek before he took his car keys from his pocket and left them alone.

  “Eddie’s not too bad, you know,” Maddie said. “I never used to like him, but he’s been quite thoughtful lately. Tim’s too wrapped up in the business to care, and my agent’s only worried about the next shoot, so it’s been good to see that at least someone cares about me.”

  “We all care about you, Maddie. You know that.”

  “Yeah. Right. Let’s get on with this stuff then. This skirt isn’t too bad, I suppose.”

  The skirt was put on the charity shop pile and Maddie grabbed a leather handbag and emptied the contents onto the table.

  “Look at this,” Maddie said, surprise evident. “It’s practically empty. Name me a woman who doesn’t carry makeup, spare stockings, hairbrush, mirror, water bottle and a hundred other things. Prue’s is almost empty.”

  Prue’s bag held a wallet containing loyalty cards for two supermarkets and her debit card, a mini umbrella, a pair of gloves and a small pack of tissues. And that was it. Even Ruth had to admit it looked sad and forlorn.

  Maddie decided the handbag was good enough for the charity shop and threw the contents in the rubbish bag.

  “I almost forgot.” Ruth handed over the receipt she’d found in Prue’s coat pocket. “Prue was in Manchester on the day she died.” She preferred to say “died” rather than “was killed” or “was murdered.” “Died” was less brutal.

  “So?”

  “I thought your detective, Dylan Scott, might be interested,” Ruth said.

  “Oh, yes.” Maddie’s sudden smile seemed genuine. “He’s calling in later so I’ll give it to him.”

  Next was a box that contained assorted rubbish. Ruth could give someone a similar box if she emptied the top drawer in her kitchen. Prue’s box contained cigarette lighters (Prue had never smoked), two tape measures, an old camera that didn’t work, a box of matches, a menu from her local Chinese takeaway, buttons—

  Maddie gasped. She turned one of the buttons over in her hand then held it tight in her closed fist.

  “What’s wrong?” Ruth asked, sensing a dramatic change in her daughter’s mood.

  “This button. This bloody button!”

  Maddie threw down the button and strode off. Ruth heard her take the stairs two at a time. Doors upstairs were slammed. A couple of minutes later, she returned clutching a blue blazer.

  “See?”

  Ruth saw a navy double-breasted blazer, presumably Tim’s. It had eight brass-coloured buttons on the front and three smaller buttons, identical to the one Maddie was holding, on the cuff of each sleeve. At least, it should have had three on each sleeve. The left sleeve only had two. The missing one, Ruth assumed, was in Maddie’s hand.

  “A couple of months ago, Tim returned from a trip to Portugal annoyed that he’d lost a button.” Maddie was breathless from her angry dash up the stairs. “I promised to find a replacement but I couldn’t, and Tim hasn’t worn this blazer since.”

  “So he must have lost it at Prue’s.”

  “Tim and Eddie went to Portugal for three days,” Maddie said. “I met them from the airport. That evening, Tim unpacked and noticed he’d lost the button.”

  Maddie strode out of the room and came back with a lit cigarette in her hand. She took a long, deep pull.

  “So either,” she said, “my dear sister went to Portugal with Tim—”

  “Or he lost it when you visited Prue and hadn’t noticed until he went to Portugal. Darling, you’re letting your imagination run away with you. Of course Prue didn’t go to Portugal with Tim.” Ruth was appalled by the way her daughter’s mind worked.

  “I should have guessed. When we went to France for that weekend, Tim sat up all night with her. At least, they both claimed they sat up all night—just talking.”

  “If that’s what—”

  “Bastard!” Maddie threw the jacket on the table. The button was clenched tight in her fist. “Total bastard!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Torrential rain had the Morgan’s windscreen wipers struggling to cope. Dylan had been driving round Manchester for the past half hour looking for somewhere to park, and the only option seemed to be the ridiculously expensive multi-storey which would earn him a soaking.

  He’d had two golfing umbrellas in the car until Bev’s impromptu cleaning session. Why she insisted on cleaning his car, he had no idea, but he wished she wouldn’t. She didn’t wash it, but she often took it upon herself to clean the inside and she always, without fail, removed things he needed. He’d bet his umbrellas were sitting in the garage where they were neither use nor sodding ornament.

  Still, at least he had a purpose, which was more than he’d had when he called at Maddie’s yesterday. He’d been able to tell her that Prue and McIntyre had been lovers, but he hadn’t a clue what to do next. Being given the receipt from the art gallery was a godsend. He’d thought he might talk to Martin Collins again, but Collins would only repeat what he’d already told him. Dylan had also toyed with the idea of having another chat with Davina McIntyre, but she would simply insist that she’d loved McIntyre and had never heard of Prue. Both options would be a waste of time. He’d tried to speak to the lawyer dealing with McIntyre’s estate, but he was on holiday.

  On seeing that receipt, Dylan had been able to pack his bags, get a good night’s sleep, jump in the Morgan and make for Manchester.

  “There’s an exhibition of McIntyre’s paintings there,” Maddie had said as she’d handed over the receipt. “I checked on the internet.”

  “Really? That’s interesting.”

  Maddie had shrugged at that and he’d had the feeling she was angry about something. She wasn’t angry with him, but something hadn’t been right in her world.

  Dylan had always considered himself a good judge of character. He could read people. He could tell from a gesture whether they were lying, nervous, confident, shy, worried or whatever. Yet Maddie was a mystery to him. He couldn’t fathom her at all. Given that they’d once been so close, that surprised him. He supposed they’d been a hell of a lot closer physically than mentally but, even so, he should be able to read her more easily.

  “Are you sure she didn’t say anything about a man in her life?” he’d asked her. “She’d been living with McIntyre. She must have said something to you.”

  “Nothing. And I find it hard to believe, Dylan. What would a man like McIntyre see in my sister? I mean, come on. It’s laughable.”


  “Not really. Prue was young, pretty and knowledgeable about art. McIntyre was sixty-two and I should imagine he was flattered by Prue.”

  “Huh.”

  Dylan had come to realise that Maddie and Prue really hadn’t known each other at all. They’d been born and raised in the same house to the same parents, and yet they’d lived their adult lives like strangers.

  “I’ll go up there and check it out,” Dylan said.

  “Fine. But first,” she said, her smile sunny again, “let’s have a glass of wine and you can tell me what my little sister got up to in France.”

  She was already taking a bottle of red from the rack. “Do you remember how red wine used to give you a headache?”

  “It still does.” He was surprised she remembered. “The first bottle’s okay, and the second isn’t too bad, but the third—you can bet your life I’ll have a headache.”

  Laughing, she poured wine into large glasses and handed him one. “Do you remember that camera I had—the Polaroid?”

  “No.”

  “You must. I took lots of pictures of you—some in Regent’s Park and some—” she licked her lips, “—some in bed.”

  Frowning, he shook his head. “I don’t remember that.”

  “Dylan, you must. You took some of me in various states of undress. Don’t you remember?”

  “No.” All he could remember was that confounded bedroom. In those days, though, like most red-blooded males, his dick had ruled his life.

  “Do you remember—?” Whatever she’d been about to say was left unsaid because Chandler arrived.

  After going through the social niceties, Dylan had left. He’d spent the night at home, trying not to think of Polaroid images, and travelled to Manchester this morning.

  Sod it. He indicated and turned onto the ramp for the multi-storey car park.

  By the time he’d driven a spiral to the sixth floor and taken the lift back to ground level, the rain had eased a little. It was good to know someone was smiling down on him.

  He went straight to the gallery and the McIntyre display. Six paintings had been given one wall in a vast room displaying paintings by several other artists. McIntyre’s were no better and no worse than the others. They certainly weren’t worth the stupid money people were prepared to pay for them.