by Agatha Frost
“But I don’t,” Christopher said suddenly, his eyes widening as he stared at Lizzie. “I’m sorry, but I don’t. I thought I could do this, but I can’t wake up every morning knowing that we’d be living a lie. I’m sorry, Mother.”
With that, Christopher turned on his heels and hurried back down the aisle, gasps and whispering following him the whole way.
“Christopher!” Constance cried. “You get back here right now.”
“Might I remind you, Mrs Monroe, that it is illegal to force someone to marry,” Father Dwyer said, his tone shifting before turning to Lizzie. “I’m only sorry he waited until this moment to realise it was not what he wanted. Are you all right?”
Lizzie slid the veil from her golden ringlets before looking up at the high ceiling, a genuine smile on her face for the first time since Liz had met her. She looked like she was thanking her lucky stars.
“Keep your bloody money,” she cried as she thrust the veil into Constance’s hands. “I’m going home.”
She hitched up her dress and ran down the aisle, a wider smile on her face than that of any woman jilted at the altar before.
“What money, Constance?” Philip cried. “What have you done now, you daft old woman?”
16
Liz and Simon left the church as the whispering erupted into full shouting as everyone speculated about what had happened. Liz had more important things to think about; she needed to find Christopher.
“Do you think he’s gone home?” Simon asked when they were stood outside the church grounds. “Or to the harbour?”
Liz looked up and down the road, a twitch in the curtains in the top window of Debbie’s house catching her attention. She squinted, almost sure her eyes were deceiving her again. When she saw a definite flutter in the fabric, her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach.
“Go and find Christopher,” Liz said, gulping hard as she looked back at Simon. “I’ll go and call Trevor and tell him he shouldn’t expect a wedding party at the manor.”
“Is that important right now?”
“Yes,” Liz said, pushing Simon towards the road. “Go! Like you said before, sometimes it’s better when men have heart to hearts.”
Simon allowed himself to be pushed for a moment before standing his ground. He turned and looked down at Liz with a curious look. She flashed him a beaming smile, which she was sure looked more maniacal than reassuring, but it seemed to do the trick. Simon set off down into the heart of the town in search of Christopher.
Constance and Philip burst out of the church before jumping into one of the wedding cars and ordering the driver to set off. Liz wandered across the road to Debbie’s house. She glanced into the police car, but the young officer’s eyes were closed, his chin resting on his chest with his arms wrapped around himself.
“I’d have your job for that if you were my officer,” she whispered as she unclipped the garden gate. “They don’t make them like they used to.”
She crept down the garden path, ignoring the front door, instead walking around the side of the small house. The back garden was wild and overgrown, with flowers of every colour jumping out for attention; it was like looking at one of Debbie’s paintings.
Liz tried the kitchen door, but it was locked. She walked further along the house to the double glass doors in the dining room. To her relief, the left one slid open when she applied a little pressure on the handle. Holding her breath, she opened the door enough to slide through before closing it behind her. The colourfully decorated house was cast in darkness thanks to the closed curtains. There were no signs of any disruption, but Liz knew most people were more intelligent than to leave behind clues when they were sneaking about right under an officer’s nose; Debbie had been doing it for weeks.
After checking the rooms downstairs, Liz headed up the narrow staircase. The walls were lined with pictures of Debbie and Raphael from their wedding day to the present day. The further up she travelled, Debbie’s smile remained the same as she grew older and heavier, but Raphael lost a little bit of the sparkle in his eyes, his handsome looks unchanging.
Using her powers of deduction, Liz figured out which room she had seen the curtain twitching. She pushed open the door, but she did not step in immediately. From her position in the dark hallway, she looked around the room as best she could, but it seemed empty.
“I hope I’m wrong about this,” Liz whispered as she stepped into the room.
It was obviously Debbie’s bedroom. One of her bright abstract paintings had been hung above the wooden sleigh bed. The covers were as colourful as the picture and piled in a messy heap on the bed. The rest of the walls were covered in smaller paintings, covering almost every space of the wall from the skirting board to the alcoves. Treading carefully, Liz walked towards the window. The curtains were closed and still, but she jostled them anyway, looking across the road as the church emptied.
“Why did you have to come?” a voice whispered behind her, forcing her to spin around.
Liz squinted into the dark, the ruffled curtains letting in a beam of light. A hooded figure stood on the other side of the bed, a large kitchen knife clamped in their hand. With their spare hand, they pulled down the hood. Liz squinted further, not instantly recognising the bald figure as Debbie.
“You shaved your head,” Liz found herself saying as she spotted the familiar rings covering her fingers. “Must help you blend in.”
“It was freeing,” Debbie said, running her free hand across her prickly scalp. “I should have done it years ago. Why did you have to come here, Liz? I like you. This isn’t going to be easy.”
Liz looked down at the knife as it glittered in the light; she wished it had been the first time she had been in this position, but it was not. She looked around the room, hoping to find another door, but the only exit available was the door she had come through, and Debbie had that well and truly marked.
“You’ve been quite elusive,” Liz said, her voice calm as she focussed on Debbie’s face instead of the blade. “The police have been looking for you.”
“I’ve been sleeping rough on the beach,” Debbie said with a sniffle. “Wrapped up in a blanket, people thought I was a tramp. Woke up with coins at my feet more than once. Bodes well for my new life, don’t you think?”
“New life?”
“France,” Debbie said, her brows pinching together in the middle, a large chest at the foot of the bed commanding her attention for a moment. “I was never happier than those early days with Raphael. I can start a new life there. I can sell my paintings on the street and fall in love again. They don’t call me Debbie Downer anymore.”
Liz decided not to tell Debbie she would not get past the border with her passport. With the police looking for her, any chance of a new life off the streets would be almost impossible without a friend in the business of fake documentation.
“That sounds nice,” Liz said, eager not to annoy her captor. “They’ll probably have nicer weather than Scarlet Cove.”
Debbie laughed, and the knife dropped for a moment; she seemed to forget what had happened. When she remembered moments later, she lifted the knife up again before taking a step toward Liz, making her escape path even narrower.
“Why did you do it, Debbie?” Liz asked, genuinely curious. “There were other ways.”
“Were there?” she cried, the knife shaking in her hand. “Katelyn had everything I wanted. She had the job I wanted, and the talent I wanted, and she rubbed it in my face every chance she got. ‘Debbie Downer should fall down and not get back up’. That’s what she used to say to me at college. She turned everyone against me. They all used to say it. I did fall, but I got back up, and I’m stronger than ever. The thought of killing Katelyn had been a constant one since then. It was quieter when I was happy with Raphael, but it only grew stronger. When she ruined my chance – my one shot to be seen the way I should be, I knew I had to do it. I didn’t hesitate to pull that curtain tie around her neck. She barely put up a fight. It
shows how weak she was underneath it all. Who’s down now? She’s nothing more than a box of ashes sitting on someone’s mantelpiece, and even that’s too good for her. I turned her into art – she was my best piece. Ironic, don’t you think? She wouldn’t display my art, so she became it.”
Debbie laughed to herself, like a woman who had been told a childish joke; Liz realised she was not a sane woman.
“And Catherine?” Liz asked, eager to know everything now that the truth was rolling off her tongue. “I know she wouldn’t display your work, but you didn’t have a vendetta against her.”
“I didn’t plan to kill her,” Debbie said. “But I’m glad I did. I thought maybe the funeral would have changed her mind. Seeing Katelyn’s coffin seemed to soften her a little. I thought she might change her mind and agree to put my work up. She wouldn’t. In fact, she was even worse. When she told me – when she told me that it was Katelyn who Raphael had been cheating on me with, I snapped. I picked up the letter opener, and I stabbed her. She begged for help, but she died pretty quickly. It was lucky there was a sample box of new paints on the desk so I could create another real work of art. Canvasses could never compare, but I suppose I’ll have to adjust.”
Liz heard a creak on the staircase, but Debbie did not seem to notice it. Liz put it down to the house settling until she heard it again.
“Why did you come back here if you’re so set on your new life?” Liz asked, keen to keep Debbie talking; if she was talking, she was not stabbing. “You’ve dodged the police for this long. You could have slipped away, and no one would have noticed.”
“Because I’m a fool!” Debbie shrieked, her eyes as wide and white as the moon. “I knew everyone would be occupied by the wedding. My romantic side has always been my downfall. I came to say goodbye.”
“To the house?”
“No,” Debbie said, her eyes dropping to the floor. “To Raphael.”
Liz heard another creak outside the door. She held her breath, knowing it was now or never. As she caught the door opening out of the corner of her eye, Debbie did too. Liz took her chance and picked up the messy duvet to toss it over Debbie. It was long enough for Liz to dart over the soft mattress and behind the officer.
“Get on the ground!” the officer cried before being followed in by two others. “Get on the ground, now!”
The duvet fell to the floor in a heap. When the officer ripped it off, Debbie had the knife to her neck as she sobbed, but she could not do it. The blade fell from her hand and onto the floorboards with a heavy thud. She was face down on the ground and cuffed immediately.
After they escorted Debbie out of her house, Simon darted up the stairs, his face sweaty and full of fear. When he saw Liz, he grabbed hold of her like they had not seen each other in months.
“I’m such an idiot,” Simon said as he held her tight. “And you’re a bad liar. I got as far as the pier before I turned back. When I saw you twitching the curtain of Debbie’s house, I realised what you were doing.”
“I’m fine,” Liz said with a relieved smile. “I’m trained for this. She’s been caught, that’s all that matters.”
“It’s finally over,” Simon said, holding her at arm’s length. “Please promise you’re going to hang up your detective shoes this time for real?”
“I will after it is really over,” Liz said, nodding to the young officer she had seen asleep outside the house. “You there. What’s your name?”
“Police Constable Brady,” the young man mumbled. “David Brady, ma’am.”
“You realise falling asleep on the job is enough to have your stripes taken off you?” Liz demanded, the superior tone a natural one to her. “What would you have done if I, a stupid member of the public, had been murdered in here after I easily walked in because you were taking a nap on the job?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, his eyes on the carpet. “I argued with my girlfriend last night, ma’am. I didn’t get much sleep, ma’am.”
“You’re lucky I’m a retired detective,” Liz said more softly. “I won’t tell anyone, but I want you to do something for me first.”
The young officer nodded before following Liz back into the bedroom. She tossed the duvet onto the bed, walked over to the window, and pulled back the curtains, casting the colourful room in the grey afternoon light.
“Bust open the padlock on that chest,” Liz said, pointing to the wooden box at the bottom of the bed. “Debbie seemed quite interested in it.”
“But –”
“Do it, kiddo,” Simon said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ve learned it’s better not to argue.”
PC Brady looked between them with red cheeks before pulling out his baton. With the solid butt of it, he beat the metal padlock until it burst off the chest. When he went to open it, Liz stepped in and took over. She pulled it open, and for one of the few times in her life, she wished she had been wrong after all.
“Oh!” PC Brady cried, his hand over his mouth as he stared down into the chest, where a man lay in the foetal position covered in a white chalky substance. “What is that?”
“I think you mean ‘who’,” Simon corrected him.
“Raphael,” Liz said, her hand also over her mouth. “Debbie’s cheating husband. And judging by the looks of him, I’d say he’s been locked up in there for at least a month, although it’s hard to say with all the lime powder in there.”
“Lime powder?” Simon echoed. “We used that on the chickens when we had a load die during that hot summer a couple of years ago.”
“Stops the smell of decay,” Liz said as she walked over to the window to push it open. “Although not entirely. Slows down the rate of decay by sucking the moisture and bacteria out of the body. Let’s get out of here. It’s become an active crime scene. PC Brady, call this in. I’ll let you claim this one. Tell them you noticed the smell and don’t mention the padlock.”
Leaving the young officer behind, Liz and Simon set off out of the house and into the bright daylight. They reached the street in time to see Debbie being driven away in the back of a car, which was surrounded by everyone from the church.
“They’re going to talk about this day for decades,” Simon said with a shake of his head. “I’m sure Scarlet Cove wasn’t this eventful before you moved here.”
“Maybe I should go back to where I came from?” Liz asked, shielding her eyes from the sun as it finally broke through the dark clouds. “I seem to be a bad omen.”
“But you’re my bad omen,” Simon said, pulling Liz into his chest. “You’re not going anywhere, Liz Jones. You’re as much a part of Scarlet Cove as I am.”
17
When Liz announced to her art group that their current meeting would be their last, the three remaining members did not seem too surprised. In fact, Trevor and Sylvia seemed relieved, and it was only Polly who seemed upset that she would not get to paint every week. Liz assured her that they could paint together any time she wanted, which perked her up a little.
After they packed up their easels for the final time, Liz was glad to reclaim her shop for herself once again, even if she was sad that the group had failed. It had, after all, been one of Nancy’s better ideas, but its execution had been more murderous than Liz had expected.
The trio left, leaving Liz to clear up alone. Before she flicked off the lights, a suited figure stepped into the shop, frightening her.
“Christopher!” Liz exclaimed with a laugh as her heart pounded in her chest. “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” he said with a meek smile. “I’ve been waiting outside for the meeting to finish. I wanted to get you alone to say thank you.”
“For ruining your wedding?”
“Exactly,” he said with a nod and a wink. “Lizzie and my parents are currently somewhere over Asia as they fly back to Sydney. When I actually talked to Lizzie – the real Lizzie – I could almost understand. Her father has been putting pressure on her for years to marry to save the family, so when this opportunity fell
into her lap, she couldn’t pass it up. She even apologised, which was nice to hear.”
“And your parents?”
“Father said goodbye,” Christopher said, his smile turning down at the corners. “I doubt Mother will ever speak to me again, which means two fewer phone calls a year. How will I cope without being asked ‘are you married yet?’ on my birthday and at Christmas?”
“Sounds familiar,” Liz said as she leaned against the counter. “Although mine ask ‘are you still painting?’, and they’re not asking because they want something to hang in their living room.”
“If I had a drink, I’d toast it to bad parents.”
Liz picked up her dirty pot of paint water, tipping it to Christopher.
“To bad parents,” she said with a grin. “And to new beginnings. We get them every day, and yet we don’t even realise it.”
“You’re right there,” Christopher said. “Since we’re starting afresh, I suppose I should clear up one last mystery for you. It was I who put Katelyn in touch with the dealers about the fake Murphy Jones paintings, although I didn’t know they were fake, I thought they were stolen.”
“Of course.”
“An old woman called Dot stole the painting from the coffee shop in Peridale after it closed, and then a young lad stole it from her, probably hoping to sell it for a few pounds. His father passed it onto the police, but it never made it to the station because the officer’s brother happened to be an art dealer. It passed around the country and got coupled up with the second painting along the way until an old fishing contact of mine asked if I wanted to take some stolen Murphy Jones’ off his hands. I had to research the internet for the artist’s name, but when I saw how much his last piece sold at auction for, I put the dealer in touch with Katelyn. I thought I was doing her a favour. I don’t know how I could have lived with myself if those paintings had been the reason for her murder, but at least that would have made sense. Do you happen to know what Trevor will do with the paintings?”
