by Agatha Frost
Stroke of Death
Agatha Frost
Evelyn Amber
Published by Pink Tree Publishing Limited in 2017
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Pink Tree Publishing Limited.
The moral right of the author(s) has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For questions and comments about this book, please contact [email protected]
www.pinktreepublishing.com
www.agathafrost.com
www.evelynamber.com
Edited by Keri Lierman and Karen Sellers
Contents
About This Book
Newsletter Signup
Also by Agatha Frost and Evelyn Amber
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Thank You!
Also by Agatha Frost and Evelyn Amber
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About This Book
Released: January 31st 2018
Words: 52,000
Series: Book 3 - Scarlet Cove Seaside Cozy Mystery Series
Standalone: Yes
Cliff-hanger: No
Liz Jones moved to Scarlet Cove six months ago for a fresh start away from her detective life in the city. In that time, she has opened an arts and crafts shop, adopted a dog, made friends, and even found a farmer boyfriend. When she takes on her latest project of forming an art group, she does not expect it to land her back in the middle of another murder investigation, but that is precisely what happens.
With the gallery's tyrannical owner, Katelyn Monroe, on holiday, Liz's best friend, Nancy Turtle, suggests they host an exhibition of their work in her absence. When Katelyn returns from her holiday early and shuts down the exhibit, it immediately results in her murder. With all of Liz's newly formed group, including Nancy, in the frame, she feels obligated to uncover the truth behind the killing. Between fake paintings, secret love affairs, and bitter rivalries, it seems every one of Liz's art students has a motive for killing Katelyn, but can the retired detective put her retirement on hold long enough to uncover the truth before a second slaying?
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Also by Agatha Frost and Evelyn Amber
The Scarlet Cove Seaside Series (Agatha and Evelyn)
Dead in the Water (Book 1) - OUT NOW
Castle on the Hill (Book 2) - OUT NOW
Stroke of Death (Book 3) - OUT NOW
The Peridale Cafe Series (Agatha Frost)
Pancakes and Corpses (Book 1) - OUT NOW
Lemonade and Lies (Book 2) - OUT NOW
Doughnuts and Deception (Book 3) - OUT NOW
Chocolate Cake and Chaos (Book 4) - OUT NOW
Shortbread and Sorrow (Book 5) - OUT NOW!
Espresso and Evil (Book 6) - OUT NOW
Macarons and Mayhem (Book 7) - OUT NOW
Fruit Cake and Fear (Book 8) - OUT NOW
Birthday Cake and Bodies (Book 9) - OUT NOW
Gingerbread and Ghosts (Book 10) - OUT NOW
Cupcakes and Casualties (Book 11) - COMING SOON
1
Liz Jones looked down at the oddly shaped cookie dough on the baking tray. She had been aiming for perfect circles, but they looked more like beige chicken nuggets.
“I followed the instructions on the box,” she said to her best friend, Nancy Turtle, as they both stared at the mess. “I knew I should have bought some from the corner shop. I can’t bake.”
“They’re abstract,” Nancy said with a firm nod, her head tilting. “I bet they’ll taste nice. Isn’t that the whole point of buying the ingredients in a box? You can’t go wrong with it.”
“And yet here we are,” Liz said as she crammed the tray into the pre-heated oven. “Let’s cross our fingers.”
Liz scratched at her frizzy red hair as she read the baking instructions on the side of the box. Had she even set the right temperature? The previous tenant had scrubbed off the markings around the dial, leaving her clueless.
It had been six months since she had moved to Scarlet Cove to make a fresh start. She had craved a slower pace of life after fifteen years in the police force, and that was what she had found. She painted more than ever, had made real friends, and had even adopted a dog, giving her a daily excuse to walk around the picturesque fishing town.
Liz had hoped the slower pace of life would have instilled some of the homemaking skills in her that she had always lacked; it had not. She could solve a murder case like nobody else, and yet she could not bake a simple tray of biscuits.
“I’m going to leave the baking to the professionals,” Liz said, tossing the box into the bin, where her microwave meal boxes also lay. “Let’s go down to the shop. I heard some more people arrive.”
Leaving the cookies in the oven, they headed to the front door, Liz’s adopted beagle, Paddy, hot on their heels. Leaving the warmth of her flat, they walked next door to Liz’s shop, ‘Blank Canvas’. Most of her recently formed art group had already arrived for their evening session.
“Great turnout,” Nancy said as she pushed open the door. “I must say this was one of my better ideas.”
Liz had to agree. She had moved to the coast to revel in the stunning views and paint them at her leisure. Nancy, who was a receptionist at the local art gallery, had suggested they set up a club for other people to join her. It had surprised Liz that she had not come up with the idea herself because of the natural fit. According to Nancy, people often inquired at the gallery about art classes. The gallery’s suffocating manager, Katelyn Monroe, thought classes were ‘common’.
“I’ve told you before, Picasso is wildly overrated,” announced Catherine Ford, the oldest member of the group, at sixty-one. “There’s so much mysticism behind his art, but you know he only died in 1973. Hardly one of the great classics.”
“How can you say that?” exclaimed Debbie Wood, the thick and plentiful bangles on each wrist jingling as she tossed her hands up. “He was a genius with colour and shape! His art is transcendent!”
“I never did care for all that abstract nonsense myself,” added Trevor Swan, the wealthy, stocky owner of the Scarlet Cove Manor Hotel. “I much prefer a nice landscape.”
“Anyone can paint a landscape,” Debbie said, visibly exhausted by the reluctance of her fellow members. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing!”
“Isn’t that the beauty of art?” Liz called out, her smile wide, eager to defuse the tension before it grew out of hand. “There are no rules to follow, so we break them every time we pick up a brush. Everyone can have an opinion,
but it doesn’t mean they’re right, does it?”
The trio considered Liz’s words for a moment, glancing at each other out of the corner of their eyes.
“I still don’t like Picasso,” Catherine announced as she stared at Debbie over her glasses. “It gives me a headache trying to understand it.”
“But that’s what makes great art!” Debbie cried with a disbelieving laugh. “Art to make you think.”
Liz concealed a smile as the trio disbanded; they were never going to come to a solid conclusion. Since starting her group, she had grown to like Debbie, who was as unconventional as people came. She always wore floor-length skirts with off-the-shoulder tunics, both usually paint-splattered. She had bangles stacked from wrists to forearms, and chunky rings on every finger. There was always a gold pendant wrapped around her bushy hair to rest on her forehead.
It did not take Liz’s detective skills to see why Catherine and Debbie rarely saw eye to eye when it came to art. Whereas Debbie used every crayon in the box when it came to her wardrobe, Catherine only used one; grey. Her neatly trimmed hair was always blow-dried off her sharp, bird-like face. She always wore a plain and professional grey or black trouser suit and had her glasses chained around her neck for convenience. She reminded Liz of a librarian without any of the warmth and charm.
Debbie had an abstract style, whereas Catherine painted delicate watercolours of the seaside. Liz appreciated both of their styles, but she could not imagine them hanging on a wall next to each other.
While the group set up their easels, Liz arranged fruit in a copper bowl she had found in one of the town’s many charity shops. She had always thought fruit was a good test of an artist’s interpretation skills. It was such a basic and simple set-up, and yet with the right eye, it could transform into something magical.
“Sorry I’m late!” announced Lance Bennett as he burst through the door, his easel strung over his back. “I had to walk. Couldn’t get my car past a herd of sheep on the top road.”
Lance dumped his things in his usual spot in front of the window. He was the most skilled artist, and judging by his worldly appearance, the most travelled of the group. Whatever the assignment, he rose to it and demonstrated his mastery of many styles. Liz would have sworn a dozen different people had painted his collection of work.
After assembling his stool, he pulled the tie out of his sun-kissed hair, letting it fall over his face. He ran his fingers through it before securing it on top of his head in a messy bun. Not only was he a skilled artist, he was also handsome, especially for a man nearing his forties, not that he was Liz’s type. She was happy with her farmer boyfriend, Simon Greene, but she could appreciate Lance’s beauty. She often noticed the women of the group glancing at him when he was in his painter’s world.
Polly Spragg, the ditzy hairdresser, and her grandmother, Sylvia Spragg, completed the circle. Liz flicked on the radio for background noise before setting up her own space in the group. She selected her acrylic paints from her collection before sketching out her composition.
Liz had set up the group as a class of sorts, but she rarely taught anything. She offered opinions on style and concept when asked, but that was as far as it went. When she caught Nancy’s eyes, she remembered that her friend was an exception to that rule.
“It doesn’t look right,” Nancy whispered to Liz when she wandered over to see what she had done so far. “It looks childish.”
Nancy, by her own admission, was not a skilled artist, despite being a great admirer of art. She had joined the group to absorb the surrounding talent, but she had yet to improve. Liz looked at the literal drawing of the fruit, wondering how to kindly frame her criticism.
“Composition is key,” Liz said as she glanced at Lance’s graffiti interpretation. “You’re looking and seeing a bunch of bananas, apples, and oranges, but you should see shapes and colours. Zoom in and see beyond what is in front of you. Think about how the light hits the shapes, and go from there.”
Nancy wiggled her glasses, scrunching up her nose as she stared deeper at the fruit. After a moment of observation, she decided a stalk on the apple was the missing element. Liz gave Nancy’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, but she knew it was going to take more than that to teach her the basics.
“I think I understand what you’re talking about,” Nancy said as she tapped her pencil on her chin. “I’ll be fine.”
Nancy gulped hard before grabbing the brightest shade of yellow in the box. Liz almost advised her to work up to that colour, but Nancy squirted it onto her palette with gusto. Liz decided to let her discover her artistic eye in her own time.
Leaving Nancy to her canary yellow paint, Liz strolled around the circle. Lance had cut the fruit into geometric shapes, which he was painting in garish colours. Polly, who had surprised Liz with her raw talent, had chosen to paint the fruit in different shades of purple. Sylvia was more used to making trinkets than painting, so she was copying Polly. Trevor had painted his canvas black and was building up the colour to create depth. Catherine was painting a literal fruit bowl in watercolours and had even added in her own tablecloth along with a kitchen backdrop. Debbie had taken a similar approach to Lance and was using curious colours. Her banana was blue, and her apple was pink. Her bangles rattled from her cumbersome strokes, which appeared clumsy and unrefined.
Liz returned to her stool and continued with her own work. She rarely second-guessed her art. She never cared if people understood, or even liked what she created. She enjoyed the process of painting. Before the police, Liz had studied fine art at university. She had switched paths when she realised her passion would not pay the bills. Now that she was a forty-two-year-old woman with her own shop, she did not have to worry about her art earning her money. Instead, it was a way to relax, and it was much cheaper than therapy.
The shop's artificial lighting replaced the sun after it set. When Trevor left the shop to answer a call, Liz knew the group was coming to its natural end. She always set a starting time, but never a finishing one. Sometimes they painted for an hour on the coast, and sometimes they worked for three or more hours in the shop. On one occasion, they had painted until midnight, none of them having realised how the time had flown.
“A blue banana,” Catherine said with one of her usual forced smiles, which never seemed to go above her nose. “How unusual, Debbie.”
“An ode to Picasso’s blue period,” Debbie replied as she stifled a yawn. “Not that you would appreciate it. Another pretty watercolour, I see. You do know how to stay in your little box, Catherine.”
Before Catherine retaliated, Trevor burst into the shop, his phone clasped to his chest. He looked as though he had received the worst news of his life, which caused Liz to rise from her stool. She stretched out, her brows tightening as Trevor staggered back to his spot.
“Will Katelyn still be in the gallery?” Trevor asked Catherine, who also worked at the gallery with Nancy. “I need to speak to her – now.”
“She’s in Australia,” Catherine replied as she packed up her watercolours, which looked immaculate thanks to her soft style. “She’s visiting her parents for the month. If you need to ask something about the gallery, she’s left me in charge until she gets back.”
“That witch!” cried Trevor before punching a hole through his painting. “I’m going to kill her when I get my hands on her!”
Lance, who had been the only one still painting by this point, looked up, blinking his way out of his art trance. Trevor stumbled away from his ruined piece, stopping when he fell into a display of knitting wool. Half a dozen bundles fell off the shelf, scattering at his feet. Nancy caught Liz’s eye, one of her brows arched above her glasses.
“What’s happened?” Debbie walked over to Trevor, her bangles clanging as she rested her hands on his shoulders. “Breathe, Trevor. Think about your blood pressure. You’re going to have a heart attack if you keep this up. It’s the biggest killer of men in their fifties.”
The threat of a he
art attack snapped Trevor out of whatever rage he had entered. He blinked around the group, remembering where he was and what he had done. He stared down at his ruined piece, and then down at the paint on his knuckles, regret in his gaze. He ran his hands over his bald scalp, his shirt pulling out of his waistband to reveal the bottom of his potbelly.
“Have you ever heard of Murphy Jones?” Trevor asked, looking at the group as he steadied his breathing. “The artist?”
“Murphy Jones?” Lance replied, his attention on Trevor. “Of course I’ve heard of Murphy Jones! One of the greatest landscape artists of the last century, if not of all of time. His work fetches millions at auction. It’s so rare because he didn’t paint in volume, but what he did paint was technical perfection.”
“Jones?” Nancy echoed, looking at Liz. “Any relation, Liz?”
“Do I look like a woman drowning in millions?” Liz replied with an awkward laugh. “It’s a common surname.”
“Well, Murphy Jones was no common man,” Catherine said, her tone different from the one she had spoken about Picasso with. “He was a genius.”
“And so is Katelyn,” Trevor mumbled, his gaze distant as he stared at the bowl of fruit in the middle of the room. “She’s sold me a couple of fakes.”
“Fakes?” Lance stood up, his hands disappearing up into his messy bun. “Oh, man! You’re in trouble. How did she get her hands on those?”
