by Agatha Frost
Lizzie mulled over Constance’s words for a moment. She let out a long huff before turning around without saying a word. On her way, the Australian made sure to brush her shoulder hard against Liz’s back.
Liz turned and looked over to Christopher, who was still on his own. She was unable to believe what she had heard, and her heart broke for him.
“What have you got yourself into?” she whispered.
“Huh?” grunted Shirley, the weathered landlady. “Same again, Liz?”
“Yes, please,” she said with an awkward smile after turning back to the bar. “Make it a double this time.”
With a large glass of wine in her hands, Liz made her way across the bar towards Christopher. She did not know how she was going to break the news she had just heard, but she knew she had to do it, and now.
“Christopher,” Liz said in a hushed tone. “I need to talk to you. It’s about –”
“It’s time for us to go, Christopher,” an Australian accent called from behind Liz, pushing past her to slide her arm through Christopher’s. “Come on.”
“But, Christopher, –” Liz implored.
“Now!” Lizzie shrieked, pulling him with her. “I hate it in this pub. It’s so tacky.”
Liz tried to chase after them, but Lizzie shot her such a look that it stopped her in her tracks. She knew as long as Christopher’s little sidekick was stuck to his arm, she would not be able to get a word in. She was about to head back to Simon when she spotted Nancy again. Liz looked down into her wine before heading back to the bar to order another.
Now with two glasses of wine, she walked over to Nancy, hoping the drink would be a starting point to heal the rift between them now that Trevor was behind bars.
“Hi,” Liz said sheepishly, handing Nancy one of the glasses. “I got you a drink.”
Polly looked at them both with a happy smile before scurrying off, much like Nancy did whenever Liz and Simon were alone.
“Thanks for the drink,” Nancy said. “I’ll pay you back for it. Did you hear about Trevor? The gossipers are going wild. They’re all saying they knew it was him.”
Liz thought about her reservations regarding Nancy, and she found it strange that Trevor’s arrest was the first thing she decided to mention.
“I heard,” Liz said. “I was there when it happened.”
“I always thought it was him,” Nancy said, a little too eagerly for Liz’s liking. “There’s something strange about him.”
“You never said anything before.”
“He’s shifty!” Nancy said dramatically. “He gives me goosebumps. Don’t you think he’s weird?”
Liz did not know what to say. She had to agree that Trevor had been acting differently lately, but she thought it was more to do with the stress of the paintings than anything else. The police had arrested him, but she could not shake the feeling that there was more to the story.
“So, you think it was Trevor?” Liz asked, looking right into Nancy’s eyes. “That killed Katelyn and Catherine?”
Nancy did not even blink before saying, “Well, who else could it be?”
“He wasn’t the only one at the gallery both times,” Liz said. “Was he?”
Nancy looked down at the wine, and then up at Liz. She fiddled with her glasses before placing the wine glass on top of the fruit machine next to them.
“You know, I thought that was a peace offering,” Nancy said with a sad smile. “Turns out you still think it was me.”
Nancy walked off before Liz could say anything else. She looked up at the wine, feeling foolish for thinking it could suddenly change things. It did not change the fact that Liz still suspected Nancy, even if Trevor was behind bars.
“We should go,” Simon said, reappearing behind her to Liz’s relief. “Mum texted to say dinner will be ready soon. It’s her special casserole, and trust me when I say you don’t want to miss it.”
They walked out of the pub arm in arm, the bitter early evening air hitting them. Simon turned his collar up as they set off towards the lane leading up to the farm.
“I saw you and Nancy talking,” he said. “From the way she walked off, I guess things aren’t fixed?”
“I think I made things worse.”
Liz wanted to air her doubts to Simon, even though she knew how he would react. It had felt like Nancy was trying to push her negative opinion of Trevor onto Liz as a way to prove her innocence. It only screamed of her possible guilt. She hated thinking of her friend in that way, but it was a classic manipulation tactic she had seen time and time again in interviews.
When they reached the bottom of the lane, they both stopped in their tracks, fear freezing them in place as a car hurtled towards them. Simon pushed Liz away, sending her tumbling over a low bush. She caught her balance in time to see Simon dive out of the way himself before the car veered past them.
The reckless car zoomed out of the lane and into the market square. With a crunch of metal, it crashed right into one of the stalls, the bonnet bending in on itself. After the bang stopped echoing around the square, Liz’s ears began to ring.
“Are you okay?” Simon said as he helped her up.
“I am,” Liz said as she dusted the leaves from her coat. “But I don’t think they are.”
They ran over to the car as smoke curled from under the bonnet. Liz stared through the window; Lance was behind the wheel. Blood trickled from a cut in his eyebrow, but he seemed to be alive. Even through the smoke, the smell of alcohol hit Liz in the face, almost causing her to gag.
“Does this guy have a death wish?” Simon cried, wafting the smoke from his face as he pulled his phone out to call for an ambulance. “Bloody hell, Lance! What do you think you’re playing at?”
With Simon on the phone, Liz yanked on the door, and to her surprise, it swung back. She resisted the temptation to pull Lance out of the car, knowing that he should be left where he was until the ambulance arrived. She was glad he was wearing his seatbelt and that the airbag had activated. Liz had lost count of the number of times she had stared at his unconscious face recently.
“Can you hear me, Lance?” Liz called into the car. “You’ve been in an accident. An ambulance is on its way.”
Lance opened his eyes long enough to stare up at Liz like a child looking up at its mother.
“Katelyn?” he whispered before his eyes fluttered closed. “I – I’m sorry.”
As sirens blared in the distance, she stared at Lance, her heart aching for him. She could not help but think his increased reckless behaviour thanks to the drinking was a symptom of something much darker than a broken heart.
“What were you thinking?” she whispered to him as paramedics rushed towards him for the second time that week.
14
Liz placed a vase in the centre of her shop before arranging various bouquets she had bought from the corner shop at the last minute. She had completely forgotten about the art club and was only reminded when Sylvia came by for some craft supplies earlier that afternoon. As she had finished arranging the colourful assortment of flowers in a way she liked, Bob hobbled into the shop in his usual yellow parka.
“I have some brilliant news for you,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Your kitchen has finally arrived! I’ve got some men coming ‘round to fit it this evening.”
Liz was surprised that she felt a little down about the news. She had been looking forward to things getting back to normal, but she had enjoyed living at the farm. Seeing Simon every morning, if only at breakfast, had brightened her days.
“Thank you,” Liz said, trying to smile. “That’s great news.”
“Loving it up at the farm?” Bob asked with a raised brow. “Simon better not steal my favourite tenant from me.”
“Aren’t I your only tenant?”
“Oh, yes,” he said with a tap on his chin. “Well, you’d be my favourite even if you weren’t. Next time, try and be a little more careful when you bake.”
“Trust me when I s
ay there won’t be a next time.”
Bob wished her luck with her painting class before tottering back out of the door. Polly and Sylvia quickly hurried in soon after Bob left, filling up the room.
“I love flowers,” Polly exclaimed as she peeled off her bright pink coat and took her usual seat next to her grandmother. “Great choice, Liz.”
Polly and Sylvia took their usual spots, but Liz was not sure if they should wait for anyone else. After Catherine’s murder, Trevor’s arrest, Lance’s crash, and Nancy's behaviour, Liz was not surprised she had forgotten their meeting.
“Oh, dear,” Polly whispered as she looked over at the door.
Lance pushed on the door, stitches in his eyebrow and his left arm in a sling. He limped in and dumped his bag on the ground before setting up without saying a word. Liz had visited him once at the hospital, but he had been completely out of it. Despite his injured exterior, Lance appeared sober, and he looked as though he had benefited from a decent night’s sleep.
“Hi,” Liz said, unsure of what else to say as she watched him set up his easel and paintbrushes. “Need some help?”
“I’m fine,” he replied with a sheepish smile.
By the time Lance had finished setting up his easel, Debbie and Nancy had arrived together, both of them appearing to be in their own worlds. They sat down and set up without any fuss.
They all started to paint, the usual enthusiasm and excitement a thing of the past. Liz wondered why any of them had bothered to show up at all, but she could not help think that they were trying to prove something. She watched Lance and Nancy closely as they worked, hoping to see an admission of guilt in their eyes. As though they could both sense her watching, neither of them looked up.
“How’s everyone getting on?” Liz asked, breaking the tense silence; only Polly and Sylvia bothered to reply.
Liz looked past the flowers and stared out of the window as the sun began to set. When she spotted Trevor walking past, his collar high over his face, she jumped up, knocking her stool back. Without a second thought, she ran out of her shop.
“Trevor?” Liz called after him.
He shot her a look over his shoulder before continuing. Liz jogged to catch up with him, so Trevor did the same. They almost reached the shore before he finally stopped and turned around.
“Why can’t you leave me alone?” he cried. “Haven’t you done enough already?”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“I know it was you who called the police!”
“Why would I do that?”
“You must have told them about me being in Katelyn – I mean – Catherine’s office,” Trevor cried, his eyes bulging. “They found my fingerprints all over the safe. I was only looking for my money. I didn’t kill anyone!”
“Why did the police have your fingerprints on file?”
Trevor pursed his lips for a moment before casting his eyes over his shoulder to the sea. When he looked back at Liz, his look had softened slightly.
“I stole some cars when I was a kid,” he admitted. “I didn’t think they kept them for that long. It was never about the money. I enjoyed the thrill of it. It was stupid, and years ago.”
“I still didn’t call them.”
“But you still thought I did it,” he said, looking her up and down. “It’s written all over your face. Why else did you come to my hotel to question me? You think some dodgy paintings are enough for me to murder two women.”
Liz opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out. As she stared into Trevor’s eyes, the hurt loud and clear in them, she believed for the first time that he was innocent.
“I don’t think you did it,” Liz said, lowering her voice. “But I’m getting closer to figuring out who did. It has got to be one of the people in the club.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Trevor said. “I don’t care anymore! My reputation is ruined. Accusations like that stick. Whatever happens next, my life is ruined.”
Trevor turned on his heels and continued on his journey towards the coastline. Liz wanted to chase after him, but she knew there was nothing else she could say. She could not blame Trevor for the way he felt because she knew he was right. In small towns, accusations and false arrests were enough to smear a name if the real culprit was still at large.
Liz returned to her shop at the same time a large van pulled up outside. As if appearing out of nowhere, Bob bounced up to sign for the delivery before unlocking Liz’s flat door, so they could carry up the twenty or so brown boxes.
“Easy does it!” he called out. “We’ve waited a long time for this.”
Liz picked up her stool and resumed her place in front of her easel, but she was unable to muster up the energy to even start painting. She stared at her blank canvas, never less inspired in her decades of painting. A quick look around the room told her that the group shared her mood, except for Polly, who had almost finished her painting.
“Let’s call it a night,” Liz announced. “I’m not feeling too great.”
Lance and Nancy seemed the most relieved to leave early. They gathered up their things, their canvasses nothing more than a couple of pencil markings and faint brush strokes. Debbie had attempted her usual colour-explosion style, but even she seemed to lack the energy to finish.
When Liz was alone in the shop, she stared at the flowers as the last rays of the setting sun faded from the sky. Her mind was racing with dozens of questions, and yet she could not pin down a single concrete thought. She was sure she had the answer to figuring out the case, and yet it was clouded in a sea of noise.
She plucked her sketchpad out of her bag before flicking through the pages of scribbly notes she had made. She re-read over a couple of the pages, but nothing leaped out at her. She had written almost four pages dedicated to the fake paintings and Trevor’s sudden shift in attitude. She tore them out and ripped them in two.
“You’ve lost your touch,” Liz whispered to herself as she stuffed the pad back into her bag. “Perhaps it’s time to give it up for real.”
She finally stood up and packed away her equipment. When she finished, she picked up the flowers and placed them on the edge of the counter, not wanting them to go waste. As she inhaled the sweet scent of a rose, the shudder of an electric drill from her flat pierced through the silence, making her jump.
As the noise grew, she realised it was time to lock up and go up to the farmhouse for one last night. For the first night since Katelyn’s murder, she decided she was not going to spend it obsessively reading over her notes.
After pulling on her coat and scarf, she flicked off the lights and walked over to the door. As she looked down into her handbag to find her keys, her eyes drifted to something on the floor. Squinting into the dark, she saw that it was a small sketchpad.
Liz scooped up the book and walked back to the counter. She sat on the stool in front of the till and switched on the small lamp. She turned the small sketchpad over in her hands to find a name, but there was not one. Aside from her own shop’s sticker on the back, there were no other markings, and yet without even opening it, she could feel that every page was filled with art.
Liz flicked through the first couple of pages, which were full of simple sketches of landscapes and people’s faces. She tried to figure out which member of her group the style belonged to, but nothing gave it away. All she could glean from the work was that it did not belong to Nancy or Sylvia. She flicked through the pages until the pencil scratchings turned to paintings. They were bright and abstract in style, but they were also vaguely painted. It struck her that they could belong to Lance or Debbie, but their styles were so similar, there was nothing to distinguish between them.
She turned another page, her heart jumping. She dropped the sketchpad onto the counter, an image that she had not been able to shake from her mind staring back at her. It was an exact replica of the messy painting that had been applied to Katelyn and Catherine’s dead faces. Liz snapped the book shut, knowing
that she had flicked through the mind of a killer.
The little bell rang out in the shop, knocking her from her thoughts. Lance walked into the dark shop, a small smile on his face. Liz’s heart stopped as she glanced down at the sketchpad.
“I didn’t know if you’d still be here,” he said. “I’ve left something behind.”
Liz stared at Lance, a lump growing in her throat. She looked down at the sketchpad again, the painting deep within its pages burned into her mind.
“Is it this?” she said, her voice small as she held up the sketchbook.
Lance took a step forward, squinting into the dark, but he shook his head.
“Not mine,” he said with a shrug before turning and picking up his jacket from a basket of knitting wool with his sling-free arm. “Got it. Liz – I’m really sorry about what happened with the car.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Lance looked as though he was going to push the topic, but he nodded before turning back to the door, the tiny bell signalling his exit. Liz looked down at the sketchpad again, her heart racing. She looked at her phone poking out of the top of her bag, wondering if she should call the police.
“You’ve just put your prints all over the thing,” she whispered to herself. “You’re an idiot, Liz Jones.”
She stared at the book, trying to think what to do next, but the drilling and banging from upstairs was far too distracting.
“Liz?” a voice called into the dark. “You’re still here.”
Liz squinted into the dark as Debbie walked across the shop, the jangle of her bangles blending in with the noise coming from above. Debbie looked down at the sketchbook, and then back up at Liz, her face twisting into something Liz did not recognise. It was clear that both women knew exactly what the other was thinking.
Debbie moved so quickly that Liz did not even have time to react. She snatched up the sketchpad and ran for the door. Liz jumped up, knocking her chair over in the process. She ran around the corner, grabbing the back of Debbie’s off-the-shoulder tunic as she reached the door. The fabric ripped in Liz’s hand, knocking her back. It was enough to give Debbie her shot. With the force of a thousand men, she pushed Liz back, sending her towards the counter. Unable to stop herself, Liz tumbled back onto the counter. The edge of the wood struck the back of her skull, creating a noise in her head twice as loud as the drill upstairs.
