The Hour of Death Page 17

  So much for reticence. “Well, any thoughts about it?” Sister Agatha tackled a particularly stubborn bit of red wax as she listened. For the hundredth time she wished she had her suspect in an interrogation room. She could picture it. A small, white-walled room, its only illumination coming from a single harsh lightbulb. Lucy seated on a rickety wooden chair across from her. She sighed as her scraper dragged across the wall, peeling off only a thin layer of red wax. She needed to resign herself to having to do interrogations in less than ideal places. Like the cheese barn, surrounded by nuns scraping wax off plaster walls.

  “You know, thoughts about where the note might have come from? Or why someone would put it on your easel.”

  “How would I know?” Lucy shot back.

  Sister Agatha felt a little surprised at Lucy’s tone. She sounded almost defensive. But she had nothing to hide—or did she? Sister Agatha took a different approach.

  “I meant, did you perhaps remember anything from that day? Like … someone that you might have seen? Or just anything out of the ordinary.”

  “I already told you everything that happened that day.”

  Lucy stepped back and looked at the plaster wall. “The wax is coming off but it’s leaving a red stain.”

  “I know. I’m guessing we’ll be painting next.” Sister Agatha focused on the red wax on the wall. “Have you had any encounters with anyone in the village that seemed strange to you? Other than Tiffany?” Sister Agatha turned and regarded Lucy. The young woman stood only a few feet away from her. She was entirely focused on the wax on the wall, her red hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her pale skin seemed even paler. Sister Agatha thought that she detected just the tiniest hesitation before she responded.

  “No. I’m never in the village.”

  “Have you run into Millicent again?”

  “Not since that day on the beach. Look, I came to Wales to focus on my art, not get involved with people.”

  “But you paint people.”

  “So?”

  “So … I would think that you would be constantly observing people. In fact, I think you are.” Sister Agatha decided to take the plunge. “I know that as a writer I’m always paying attention. You know, to what people are saying, how they respond, their mannerisms. And I think you’re the same. I think that as an artist, you’re always watching.”

  Sister Agatha hesitated, then kept going. “And you told me once that you painted portraits because you were looking for someone. I was thinking that if you’re looking for someone, then you would probably always be paying attention.”

  Lucy froze, staring at the wall, her scraper motionless against the splattered plaster. Sister Agatha waited. Lucy was hiding something. She was almost sure of it.

  Lucy looked directly at Sister Agatha. “Sorry to shatter your illusion about me, Sister Agatha, but I’m not a tortured artist. And I probably don’t pay half as much attention to the world around me as I should.” She turned to the wall and applied her scraper to a stubborn red splatter. “And anyway, I don’t think I said exactly that I was looking for someone. I paint portraits because I can sell them for money and pay my rent.” She stepped back and surveyed the wall. “That’s a little better. If you don’t mind, I’m going to go see if Sister Gwenydd needs help. It looks as if the stove went through a natural disaster.” Sister Agatha watched as Lucy began to walk away, then stopped and looked back. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t appreciate your interest. It’s just that I am only here to pursue my art. Nothing else.”

  “Sorry,” Sister Agatha said with what she hoped was a warm smile. “But if you ever do want to talk, come and find me. I’m really good at problem solving.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t have a problem.” Lucy’s voice caught, and for one second, her casual attitude wavered. Then it was back in place again, so quickly that Sister Agatha wondered if she had imagined it. “At least no problem that I can’t solve myself.”

  She watched as the young woman made her way across the long room to join Sister Gwenydd. The two of them were soon engaged in taking apart the stove top, laughing as they did it. Sister Agatha turned back to the red-spattered wall. A young woman far from home. Her dog kidnapped. A threatening note left in her private room. Sister Agatha shook her head. If Lucy didn’t have a problem, then no one did.

  * * *

  Father Selwyn must have had his talk with Bevan, because when Sister Agatha slid into the back booth at the Buttered Crust Tea Shop on Tuesday morning there was half a cranberry scone sitting on a plate next to a pot of Glengettie tea in front of him. He looked up from the theological journal he was reading and smiled. “Good to see you, my friend. A cup of tea?”

  “No time, Father Selwyn. I was expected back at the abbey an hour ago. But when I saw you through the window, I had to come in. I heard Emeric is out of jail?”

  “Yesterday, late afternoon. Constable Barnes finally admitted that he couldn’t keep him locked up. Still, he insists that he is going to prove it was Emeric. But at least he’s out in time for the cantata. Truthfully, I think the constable’s solo during O Holy Night had something to do with it. Not that he’s ever going to admit it.” He pushed his half-scone toward her, and she took an absent-minded bite.

  Just as Sister Agatha was considering ordering some tea, Lewis Colwyn came in and looked around for an empty seat. Sister Agatha was again surprised at his appearance. The schoolteacher was always so put-together. This morning he looked like he had been dragged through a hedge backward. She remembered Sister Matilda remarking that he had missed their last meeting to work on organizing the community garden in Pryderi. Sister Matilda had been disturbed, because he didn’t just cancel, he simply didn’t show up and then didn’t respond to her text. She was worried that something had happened to him.

  “Is Lewis Colwyn still doing work at the church?” she asked Father Selwyn.

  “Yes. He’s filling in a bit during school holidays. Why?”

  She nodded in Lewis’ direction. “Don’t you think he’s looking a bit rough these days?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, yes. I’ve been meaning to ask him if everything is all right. But whenever I see him at the church, he hurries off.”

  “He’s avoiding you?” She looked over at Lewis. He was sitting slouched over at a table near the door. He stared out the window not even having ordered anything. He looked as though he hadn’t slept or bathed in days. Certainly hadn’t run an iron over his shirt.

  Father Selwyn shrugged. “That might be overstating it.”

  “Anyway,” she said, turning back to Father Selwyn. “What do you think of Millicent Pritchard?”

  “Millicent? Nice young woman. Terribly shy, a bit awkward. Nothing wrong with that, of course. Keeps to herself.” He thought for a moment. “I’d hoped she might find a spot for herself in the activities of the parish.”

  “Has she?”

  “Not really.” He poured some tea into his cup. “Why?”

  “Do you remember that morning right after we discovered Tiffany’s body in the parish hall?”

  “Yes. Millicent came in. I forget why.”

  “She was delivering flowers and she had heard that someone had died.”

  “Oh right. And I had to tell her it was Tiffany.

  “Do you remember that I asked her if she was an artist?”

  “I do. Because you noticed that she had paint on her sleeve. I remember thinking how very clever you have become at noticing details.”

  “Yes. Well. Thank you. Anyway, she told us she was not an artist. But she is. Lucy ran into her on the beach a few days ago, painting. She had an easel set up and everything.”

  “Wasn’t it awfully cold to be doing anything on the beach?”

  “She’s young. Lucy said that not only was she painting but she was very good.”

  “Why lie about being an artist?” He took a sip of tea. “Any progress on the dognapping or the note?”

  Sister Agatha sighed and took t
he final bite of cranberry scone. “No. Nothing. But I’m not giving up. Not yet.” And with that, she stood up and pulled on her blue woolly hat. “If you’ll excuse me, Father. I need to get back to the abbey. You wouldn’t believe our cheese orders. And I think I need one more conversation with Lucy.”

  * * *

  Sister Agatha had been in Lucy’s studio only once before and she had found it pleasant—sunny, filled with color and a comforting smell of acrylics and coffee. Lucy had purchased a coffee maker almost the first day she arrived and had placed it in the corner of her studio. Sister Agatha shook her head. Americans apparently did not understand the power of a good cup of tea. Though Sister Agatha had to admit, coffee smelled delightful. And for some reason it made her hungry.

  Sister Agatha had felt as if the conversation while they were cleaning wax had gone badly, and she hoped to reestablish some of Lucy’s trust. She also needed to get more information about Millicent from her. Sister Agatha couldn’t let go of the fact that Millicent Pritchard had been in the church the night of the murder. She had lied about being an artist, and the whole murder was tied to art. Admittedly, Millicent Pritchard was a weak suspect, and getting more information about her to solve the mystery seemed a long shot. But, as Inspector Rupert MacFarland would say, Don’t ignore your long shots. They may be the only shot you get.

  When Lucy answered Sister Agatha’s knock, she seemed reluctant to let her in and even asked her to wait on the landing. Lucy had closed the door. After a moment of loud moving and dragging, the door opened, and Lucy, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with an oversize burgundy cardigan, invited her in. Whatever had been moved wasn’t obvious in the crowded studio. Remembering Lucy’s previous reticence about revealing her paintings, Sister Agatha tried not to look too closely at the canvases scattered around the small room. But it was difficult. Lucy was talented, and Sister Agatha could see half-finished paintings with likenesses of the people of the abbey and a startling image of Treven, owner of the Lettuce-Us-Eat-Vegan grocery in the village.

  “When you do a portrait, I thought people had to sit for long hours?”

  “No. That’s pretty old school. I sometimes paint from memory or from a photo. Or even a quick sketch that I do when I’m with the person and then bring back to the studio. We don’t really live in a world where people can sit for hours or days while you paint them.”

  “True. Our world is moving faster and faster,” Sister Agatha said. “Which is both good and bad, I suppose.”

  “I think it moves pretty slowly. Especially out here.” Lucy gestured her to a chair. “Sit down. Do you want a coffee? It only takes a minute to make. I’m sorry I don’t have any tea. I should get some tea K-cups. Then I could have made you tea.”

  “A tea K-cup? Never mind. I’m fine, thank you.” Although Sister Agatha could have certainly done with a good cup of Welsh Brew. Hot, with a bit of cream and extra sugar. She sighed and opened her notebook. K-cup, indeed.

  The studio had a sagging but comfortable-looking loveseat, over which Lucy had flung a heavy bedspread, and an equally slouchy wing chair. She seemed to have replaced the flimsy canvas chairs of Sister Agatha’s last visit. She chose the wingback chair, and Lucy sat on the loveseat. Sister Agatha noticed that she sat with a brush in one hand and a longing glance at the canvas resting on the easel. Sister Agatha felt badly that she had interrupted a working morning. She knew what it felt like to have one’s precious time of creativity taken up.

  “I was hoping you could help me out with something,” she said, getting right to the point. “I wondered what more you could tell me about Millicent Pritchard, the young woman you met on the beach?”

  “Why? Do you think she killed Tiffany?”

  “Good heavens, why do you ask?”

  “Sister Gwenydd told me that you are like a nun-detective, and if it hadn’t been for you, the abbey wouldn’t even be here and she would be in jail. And that you caught a murderer last summer.”

  “Well, Sister Gwenydd is very generous in her assessment. The events of last summer, including Sister Gwenydd’s own personal dilemma, were solved by the help of a great number of people.” Sister Agatha paused. “Although I did jump in and solve it all in the end. Nun-detective isn’t completely inaccurate.” Modesty was not Sister Agatha’s long suit. She uncapped her Sharpie. “Which brings me to the matter at hand. I’m curious about Millicent Pritchard. And she’s a hard one to get to know.”

  “Millicent? I’m having a coffee if you don’t mind.” Lucy got up and poured water into her coffee machine, then inserted a K-cup. The machine gurgled and coffee burst out in a steady stream into the green mug she had placed at the front.

  “So that’s how that works. What happened to grinding coffee beans and watching it perk?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never done it that way.”

  Sister Agatha suddenly felt old. “Oh dear.” She picked up her Sharpie. “Tell me everything that you remember about the day when you saw Millicent on the beach.”

  Lucy settled back on the loveseat holding the coffee cup in both hands. She slipped off her shoes and folded her feet under her on the couch, pulling one of Sister Winifred’s prayer shawls onto her lap. This one was blue and purple. Obviously from her Advent collection.

  “It was really cold that day. I was just walking along the shore with Vincent van Gogh thinking that it was too cold for me out there and that I needed to turn back. I mean we were both bundled up, but still.”

  Sister Agatha had seen the dog in his little coat and hat. Royal Stuart tartan, if she knew her tartans. Lucy’s own sense of fashion was a bit more hit-or-miss, but Vincent van Gogh always looked like he had just stepped out of a bandbox.

  “Anyway, when I saw that someone had set up an easel and was painting, I was impressed. That takes true dedication or …” Lucy paused and took a sip of coffee.

  “Or what?”

  “Or they really want privacy. Nothing is more private than the beach in December. And when I walked up, she wasn’t thrilled to see me.”

  “Why did you think that?”

  “Just a feeling.”

  “What did you think of her painting?”

  “Stunning. Not what I do, but beautiful.”

  “Can you describe it to me?”

  “Sure. A bird. A seabird. Not a seagull but one of those little birds you see running across the sand. And the ocean behind it.”

  Sister Agatha noticed that the American girl just called the beautiful Irish Sea an ocean. Americans. She reached into her book bag and pulled out a file. “This is a clipping from the Pryderi Art Society contest last year. It’s the winning painting.” Sister Agatha waited a moment while Lucy looked at the article. “You saw all the entries didn’t you? Friday night when you went to the Art Society meeting.”

  “I did … and.…” Lucy looked up and handed the clipping back to Sister Agatha. “The woman who was killed. Her painting was very similar to the one I saw Millicent working on. Lucy thought for a moment, taking another sip of coffee. “Tiffany was clearly the more established artist. She even had an art dealer interested in her work and an offer of a gallery-showing in Cardiff.”

  “If Tiffany Reese was well-known in the art world … or at least having a show … then maybe Millicent was copying her. You know, trying to learn from her. It’s a small village. I can’t imagine that Millicent didn’t notice Tiffany’s work. Especially if she won the Art Society Show last year.”

  “Did Tiffany give lessons to Millicent? It’s easy to start painting like your teacher.” Lucy hesitated. “Although …”

  “Although?”

  “Well, Millicent had the better painting in my estimation. I would assume that Tiffany would enter her best work in the Art Show. And yet, Millicent’s half-done sketch on the beach was already better.”

  Sister Agatha stood up to leave. “Thanks, Lucy. I’ll let you get back to work.”

  “Any progress on who left the note on my easel?”

  “
Sorry, no. But I’m definitely pursuing it. Just keep your doors locked.”

  “My door was locked the day the note was left.”

  “Right …” Sister Agatha was reaching for the door handle when she turned around. “Have you ever heard of Margaret and Walter Keane?”

  “No. Are they people in the village?”

  “No. Margaret Keane was an artist in the 1960s.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Lucy stood up and put her coffee cup on the small table next to her easel. “Before my time. I was born in 1994.”

  Sister Agatha sighed and stepped out onto the landing, closing the door behind her. That was the year she had bought her blue woolly hat.

  * * *

  Father Selwyn leaned forward in the wingback chair and looked directly at Sister Agatha. “You think what again?” he asked.

  “That there is something fishy about the paintings. I need to get into Millicent’s and Tiffany’s studios. I need to see both artists’ work and compare them.”

  “What could you possibly learn that would tell you anything about the murders?”

  “What if Millicent copied Tiffany, learned from her, and then exceeded her as an artist?”

  “Well, Tiffany wouldn’t have liked that. At all. But if that’s the case, why is Tiffany dead and not Millicent?”

  “I know. It doesn’t make sense. That’s why I need to get into the studios of both women. And I want to take Lucy with me.”

  “How?” Father Selwyn looked at her quizzically. “Tiffany is dead and her house sealed off until the estate is settled. And Millicent is exceedingly private.”

  “For once, I’ve decided to start with the police. Instead of my usual avoidance pattern.”

  “Constable Barnes?” Father Selwyn eyebrows shot up.

  “Please. I’m confused enough over this case. I don’t need Constable Chaos. No. I am going to see if the young officer Clough will help me out.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sister Agatha couldn’t help noticing that Officer Clough’s eyes lit up when she introduced him to Lucy. Parker had met the two of them at the Buttered Crust Tea Shop in the back booth, which was fast becoming Sister Agatha’s office away from the abbey. She realized that there probably weren’t a lot of single young women in the village of Pryderi. Or young people at all, for that matter. A lack of jobs and nightlife seemed to be the contributing factors—or at least according to Sister Gwenydd, who rolled her eyes and snorted when she was asked why twenty-somethings weren’t settling in the village. Lucy was certainly single as well as talented, well-spoken, attractive, and, from what Sister Agatha could tell, entirely uninterested in Officer Clough. In fact, she was uninterested in the entire venture. She didn’t like the idea of sneaking into someone’s studio, nor was she at all keen on leaving her own studio early in the morning to sit in a tea shop and talk to a cop about another artist. And, as she told Sister Agatha, police officers, in her experience, were not people who cared about things like the arts. In other words, the abbey’s young artist-in-residence was in a grumpy mood.