Stroke of Death

by Agatha Frost

  “I don’t know,” Trevor whispered. “She came to me with them, and I thought they were stolen. She needed them off her hands, so she gave me a good deal.”

  “You bought stolen art?” Debbie cried, stepping back from Trevor as her ringed fingers drifted up to her mouth. “That’s blasphemous, and not to mention highly illegal!”

  “I’m a collector,” Trevor snapped, regarding Debbie as though she had said something unusual. “How do you think valuable art moves around the world? It doesn’t come up for sale like a pair of old shoes, Debbie. And as it turns out, I haven’t bought any stolen art. I bought two exceptional fakes from a very skilled saleswoman.”

  “How do you know they’re fake?” Catherine asked through pursed lips as she stared over her glasses at Trevor. “Katelyn isn’t the nicest woman, but she’s not a criminal.”

  “Isn’t she?” Debbie scoffed. “I went to art college with her. She’s a despicable creature!”

  “There’s a guest at the hotel claiming to be an antique expert,” Trevor said as he gathered up his things. “I need to speak to him right now. What if he’s wrong? He must be. No one can fake a Murphy Jones.”

  “How much did you pay for them?” Nancy asked as though she was getting the latest juicy gossip on something trivial.

  “Half a million,” Trevor said, his cheeks burning bright red. “Each.”

  A gasp shuddered around the room, only broken up by Lance, who seemed to be finding the whole thing amusing. He shook his head as he chuckled to himself, his muscular arms tight around his chest.

  Trevor ran to the door without saying goodbye. He jumped into his expensive sports car, its wheels skidding on the road before taking off.

  “Any man that has a million to spend on fake paintings has too much money,” Lance announced. “Capitalism is the root of all evil, and Katelyn Monroe is as evil as they come.”

  “Evil?” Catherine scoffed as she pulled her coat on. “I’m sure it’s a mix-up. She’s an honest woman. I work with her every day.”

  “As do I,” Nancy mumbled, her tone less favourable.

  “She’s a snake!” Debbie cried, her voice cracking at its height. “I wouldn’t put anything past her!”

  Liz kept her opinions on Katelyn Monroe to herself. When she had first moved to the town, Nancy had encouraged her to take her art to the gallery to have some of it displayed. Liz had not been very optimistic about her chances, and she had been right not to be. Katelyn had cut her down in seconds, making her feel like she should never dare pick up a paintbrush again. It had affected her for a single afternoon, but she was not going to let the opinions of an uptight manager get to her.

  “Would this be a bad time to suggest we put on an exhibition of our group’s work at the gallery while Katelyn is away?” Nancy suggested with a sheepish smile as she stared through the hole of Trevor’s ruined work. “It would be fun.”

  “Sounds like the perfect protest to me,” Lance agreed as he assessed his own work. “It might be our only chance to have anything displayed in that gallery. Katelyn is a heartless dictator.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Catherine said in a firm tone that Liz knew meant ‘it’s a no, but I don’t want to say no yet’. “It doesn’t quite work like that.”

  “Surely it’s a simple case of taking some pictures off the walls to put some more up?” Debbie muttered with a roll of her eyes before staring up at the ceiling. “Can anyone smell smoke?”

  “It’s the burnt rubber from Trevor’s tyres,” Catherine said confidently. “He set off at some speed. Do you know if The Sea Platter is still open? I’m starving.”

  Liz looked at Nancy, who seemed to click onto what Liz was thinking. They shared a look of pure panic as their joint gaze flicked upwards, and then to the door. Setting off as fast as Trevor’s car, Liz skidded into the street. Paddy followed, her sudden movement waking him from his nap behind the counter. She looked up at her flat window where small curls of dark smoke were forcing their way through the cracks.

  “The biscuits!” Liz and Nancy cried at the same time.

  Liz opened her front door, without stopping to check if the handle was hot. She darted up the stairs, her breath leaving her body when she saw orange flames spitting out of the oven. They had engulfed the kitchen faster than seemed possible.

  “What do we do?” Nancy cried, her sleeve covering her mouth. “Oh, Liz! Didn’t you set a timer?”

  Liz remembered the fire extinguisher behind the counter downstairs. She jumped down the entire staircase before bursting out into the street again. Debbie held Paddy back by his collar while Catherine rang for the fire service on her mobile phone. Liz snatched up the red extinguisher from behind the counter and sprinted back up the stairs. She pushed past Nancy, not thinking about her own safety as she ran towards the flaming oven.

  Liz wrenched on the safety tag, pointed the hose at the blaze, and sent thick foam onto the flames. For a moment, it did not seem to do anything, so she moved closer, the temperature crackling against her face. It was only when the canister of foam had almost emptied that the blaze died down. Liz dropped the extinguisher to the floor as she cleared her lungs. The burnt husks of the cookies taunted her through the smashed window of the oven.

  “I told you I can’t bake,” Liz said to Nancy with a sheepish smile.

  2

  Hurrying down one of Scarlet Cove’s winding backstreets, Liz sniffed at her coat’s collar. It had a strong scent of smoke like everything else in her flat. She made a mental note to find out from Nancy if Scarlet Cove had a launderette tucked away somewhere. Despite having lived there for six months, the town kept revealing itself to her like a magic eye picture.

  “Liz!” Nancy called, waving from the steps of the gallery. “Excited about your debut?”

  “I think so,” Liz replied. “I’m quite nervous, to tell you the truth.”

  Liz could barely believe she was about to see one of her paintings on a gallery wall, and she was even more surprised that it was at Scarlet Cove’s gallery. Nancy’s suggestion to exhibit their groups’ work had rapidly come to life, despite Catherine’s protests that Katelyn would blow a fuse if she found out.

  In the week since Liz’s kitchen fire, Nancy had pulled the opening together at lightning speed. She had proven that she paid attention from behind her reception desk. Liz had offered to help to take her mind off the damage she had caused with her misjudged baking, but Nancy had everything under control. All Liz had had to do was select a piece for the exhibit, and turn up on time.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Liz apologised as she gave her sleeve a cautionary sniff. “I was trying to drown this coat in perfume.”

  “You smell like a barbequed gardenia,” Nancy replied with a wriggle of her nose. “I quite like it.”

  “Well, that’s something.”

  “I can’t believe you’re insisting on staying in that flat,” Nancy said as they headed for the gallery. “My sofa is comfortable and vacant.”

  “My bedroom is fine,” Liz said. “It’s just a little smoky.”

  Arm in arm, they walked into the gallery. There was an unusual buzz in the air as chatter and music drifted down from the main exhibition room. Liz avoided the gallery as often as possible, but she was sure the small group milling about in the reception area alone was the busiest she had seen it.

  “You’re never going to believe the turnout,” Nancy whispered to Liz as she nodded to the door of the main gallery. “Everyone has turned up.”

  Liz gulped hard, the thought of her fellow townsfolk seeing her work a daunting prospect. She wondered if it was too late to pull her painting to replace it with something safer and less revealing.

  “It’s a bit of fun,” Liz said with a self-assured smile, brushing her red curls away from her face. “It’s not a real exhibit, is it? Not really. We didn’t earn those spots on the wall. We’re only doing it because Katelyn isn’t here.”

  “Well, for not a ‘real’ exhibit, it’s the most atten
ded since I’ve worked here,” Nancy said with a shrug. “If I were in charge of this place, I’d put your piece on the wall in a heartbeat.”

  “You would?”

  “You’re a brilliant artist, Elizabeth Jones,” Nancy said with a wink. “And I’m not saying that because you’re my best friend. I’ve been telling Katelyn for years that she should include more local artists on the walls, but she doesn’t listen. She’s so stuck in her ways. She reminds me five times a week that she’s the one with the fine art degree, and I’m the receptionist.”

  “You could rule the world,” Liz said, knowing it was her time to be the reassuring friend. “If that gallery is as full as you say it is, it’s only because you’ve worked your backside off organising this whole thing.”

  Nancy fiddled with her glasses, a proud smile on her face as her cheeks flushed bright pink. They set off down the corridor towards the gallery, the chatter growing louder with every step. When Nancy pulled open the door, Liz’s heart skipped several beats. Nancy had not been exaggerating about the turnout.

  It seemed the majority of Scarlet Cove had turned up to see the local art. It only occupied one of the long walls in the gallery but was the only one demanding any attention. Liz nervously scanned the faces, relieved when she spotted some of her art group in the middle of the room taking turns answering questions. Despite wanting to observe from the edges, Liz found herself walking over when Debbie beckoned her with a jangle of her bangles.

  “Isn’t this amazing?” Debbie squealed as she clasped her ringed fingers around Liz’s arm. “I’ve waited for this moment my whole life.”

  “Enjoy your time in the sun,” Catherine said with a strained smile as she peered over her glasses. “Katelyn will return and put things right.”

  “And until that horrid moment, I’m going to soak up every ounce of glory,” Debbie said, her mood too high for Catherine’s pessimism to bring it down. “People seem to be loving my piece.”

  Still clutching Liz’s arm, Debbie nodded to her giant canvas, which was in the middle of the wall. She had chosen a psychedelic painting of a rose, which she had painted in textured acrylic. Liz spotted a couple of people tilting their heads at the painting before shaking them and walking off. She was glad when Debbie did not seem to notice, and if she did, she was not showing that she cared.

  “I bet this is the first time this gallery has had any real art on the walls,” Trevor scoffed after a deep glug of champagne. “I’d bet my fortune that the rest of those classics that Katelyn Monroe adores are fake too.”

  “No luck with the Murphy Jones pictures?” Lance asked, trying to hide his amused smile.

  “Fakes!” Trevor exclaimed with a small burp from the bubbly. “Both of them are completely worthless! I couldn’t sell them for scrap money, even though they’re great fakes. The only chance I have is to dupe someone the way Katelyn duped me.”

  “You should destroy them,” Debbie said with a heavy shake of her head. “The forger stole a talented man’s ideas. You need to do the right thing.”

  “And what about my money?” Trevor cried, sloshing his champagne over Catherine’s grey blazer, turning it dark charcoal. “I’m down a million. It will take me months to recover.”

  “Months?” Lance mocked. “You poor thing. Why don’t we get a collection plate going ‘round while everyone is here? I’m sure we could help you recoup your losses if you keep that pathetic look on your face.”

  Trevor did not take Lance’s bait, instead choosing to follow a young woman holding a tray of appetisers. Chuckling to himself, Lance headed off in the opposite direction. Catherine also darted off when she noticed a boy reaching up to touch one of the classics on one of the other walls. Debbie joined another group of women when she heard them discussing her painting. Realising she had not even seen her own work on the wall yet, Liz pushed her way through the crowd with a polite smile, Nancy right behind her.

  When they broke through, they joined a little old woman who was staring up at Liz’s painting through thick glasses. She lifted a finger up and wagged it at the painting.

  “This is my favourite,” she exclaimed with confident certainty. “It would look lovely in my dining room. Are they for sale, Nancy?”

  “Not this time, Doris,” Nancy said with a badly concealed grin. “But I’m sure I can put you in touch with the artist. She’d love to paint a commission for you.”

  Doris said that she would like that very much before shuffling along to the next painting, which was Nancy’s fruit bowl from the last group meeting. Doris shook her head before immediately moving on. Liz and Nancy stepped back and stared at Liz’s painting in silence for a moment. Liz had painted it almost three years ago, and it was the piece she was most proud of, even if it did expose her soul.

  “I didn’t get it at first,” Nancy said as she looked at the tag under the picture. “‘Lovers Lost’. It’s Lewis, isn’t it?”

  Liz nodded as she stared at the fragmented face of her late husband through layers of white fabric fluttering in a non-existent wind. She had painted the picture after waking up in the middle of the night after dreaming about him days after his funeral. The dream had been so vivid; the paintbrushes had done the work for her. In the dream, Lewis had been right in front of her, looking back with a smile, but she had not been able to wade her way through the fabric to get to him. When she had awoken in the morning, she had thought the painting had been part of her dream until she had seen it staring at her from the bottom of the bed. It made no logical sense, and yet it perfectly spoke for itself. Whatever her style was, this was not it, but it was the piece she cherished the most.

  “It’s beautiful,” Nancy whispered as she wrapped her hand around Liz’s. “It’s my favourite too.”

  Liz squeezed back, suddenly feeling tears coming from deep within. She forced them down, not wanting to reveal even more of herself to the spectators.

  “Cheese nibble?” a familiar and comforting voice breathed into her ear as a silver tray appeared in front of her. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Liz spun around, never happier to see Simon’s dimpled smile in front of her. He kissed her on the cheek, sending the tears back to where they had come from. In his white shirt and tie, and his apron wrapped around his waist, he looked as handsome as ever. Liz gladly tossed one of the nibbles into her mouth.

  “You scrub up well for a farmer,” Nancy said with a wink as she grabbed a nibble. “I should go and check that everything is ticking over.”

  Liz had got used to Nancy disappearing every time Liz and Simon were in the same room together. Almost-kisses and awkward conversations had tainted the first three months of their relationship. Yet, the past three months had been some of the happiest Liz had experienced, and that was because of Simon. She had moved to Scarlet Cove with the intention of leaving her pain behind in the city for the sake of having a future. Falling in love with a handsome thirty-four-year-old cheese farmer had not been in her plan.

  “These are delicious,” Liz said as she picked up another nibble, realising how hungry she was after skipping breakfast thanks to her useless kitchen. “You have a talent for cheese.”

  “Brie with cranberry sauce on a small rye cracker,” Simon said with a pleased and proud smile. “I thought I’d go a little fancier with my cheese talent to compliment your amazing painting talent.”

  Simon looked at the painting, a squint in his eyes as he tried to figure it out. Liz blushed as she reached for another brie and cranberry rye cracker. Nancy had managed to extract Liz’s past from her, but Simon did not know a thing. Despite him often asking about her pre-Scarlet Cove life, she avoided concrete answers. She hated the thought of Simon feeling second-best to a ghost. She still had love in her heart for Lewis, but it did not make her love for Simon any less real. Would he understand that after she had kept the secret for six solid months?

  “Who’s the dude?” Simon asked, nodding at the picture.

  “A man I saw in a dream,” she answered
quickly. “I still haven’t wrapped my head around this whole thing.”

  “I saw a woman taking a picture of it on her phone earlier saying it had inspired her to take up painting again,” Simon said, his grin as proud as when Liz had complimented his cheese nibbles. “You really are phenomenal, Liz Jones. Is that a new perfume? You smell different.”

  “Eau De Smoke,” Liz joked in a mock French accent. “I’m still living in the ashes of my cookie catastrophe.”

  “What?” Simon cried, his eyes bulging. “I thought you said Bob Slinger was fitting a new kitchen this week?”

  The mention of her landlord sent the hairs sticking up on Liz’s neck. Bob Slinger was a short man with a bulbous nose who reminded Liz of a beardless Santa Claus in looks and personality. When she had called to let him know what she had done, he had found the whole thing rather amusing and seemed to only care for her wellbeing. In his own words, ‘kitchens are replaceable’, not that he seemed to be in any rush to replace hers. Anyone else would grow tired of her daily calls, but Bob Slinger answered heartily with ‘any day now’ when she asked for an update on the arrival of the new kitchen.

  “I’m sure it’ll be sorted soon,” Liz said, giving her sleeve another sniff; the excessive perfume was wearing off, and she could definitely smell smoke. “I’ll be fine.”

  “The offer still stands for you to stay at the farmhouse,” Simon said. “In fact, my parents are insisting.”

  “I’m not a damsel in distress,” Liz replied with a smile. “But I appreciate the offer.”

  “That’s what I told them,” Simon replied with a wink. “You’re a tough cookie, Liz Jones, but there’s no shame in accepting help. We have a spare bedroom made up for guests, and even if it’s only for a couple of days, you’ll be out of the way for when the new kitchen needs fitting.”

  Liz was about to decline the offer again when a woman walked past, her nostrils twitching in the direction of her smoky coat.

  “Do you have a washing machine?” Liz asked, her cheeks blushing when the woman gave her a disapproving look before disappearing into the crowd.