On Deadly Tides Page 8

  “Come in.”

  Penny found herself in a spacious, high-ceilinged room painted a rich, warm burgundy, with natural wood trim. An imposing fireplace featuring a marble surround stood against one wall, and above it hung an oil on panel painting depicting the rugged Welsh landscape. The room was bathed in natural light from a tall window overlooking the car park, and below the window stood a long, highly varnished table, its surface clear.

  A large brown and white boxer resting in a dog bed got to his feet and wagged his tail as a woman turned away from her computer, stood up, and held out her hand across her desk.

  “Cilla McKee. And you must be Penny Brannigan. Thank you for coming in.”

  She gestured at the dog beside her desk. “This is Chris York. He’s allowed to come to work with me today. He’s big, I know, but he’s perfectly gentle. I hope you’re all right with dogs, but if you’re not, we’ll go somewhere else.”

  “He’s just fine,” Penny replied. “I love dogs.”

  When they were seated, Cilla folded her hands together and placed them on her desk. “Right. Well, let me just explain why I asked you here. I thought we might be able to include a few of your watercolours in our Christmas mixed exhibition, if you’d be interested in participating.” When Penny indicated she was, Cilla continued. “Good. Then let’s start by having you show me what you brought. You can use that table to display them.”

  Penny opened her portfolio case, removed a selection of unframed paintings, and spread them out on the table beneath the window.

  Cilla concentrated as she examined Penny’s paintings, placing most of them in a pile and setting two to one side.

  “Well, they’re lovely,” said Cilla. “You certainly know watercolour techniques. Your work on the bridges and stone walls shows you know what you’re doing. And you’ve included open gates, which is good. I like to see open gates. They invite the viewer into the painting. Otherwise, it all feels closed off.”

  “Oh, it’s great to hear that you like them. I wasn’t sure if you would. To be honest, I contacted the gallery a couple of times about the possibility of showing my work here. You and I even spoke on the phone, and there never seemed to be any interest, so I wondered why you called me now.” Fearing that might sound too assertive, Penny added, “But I’m so glad you did. I was really excited to hear from you.”

  “Like most things in life, it’s all about timing. The thing is, an artist I was going to include had to back out, and I thought you might be the solution to my problem.” She gestured at Penny’s paintings. “And I was right. You are. I’m sorry I didn’t have you in before. I should have—I can see that now— but we were always booked up. But then I saw your name mentioned in a newspaper article. You were described as a talented local artist, or something like that, and I remembered that we had spoken about your exhibiting here.”

  “This article you saw in the newspaper, am I right in assuming it was about the painting weekend on Anglesey?”

  Cilla nodded. “It said you were the one who found that poor girl’s body.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And the article included condolences from Sarah bloody Spencer, of all people.” Cilla spat out the words.

  Penny’s eyes widened and her mouth opened slightly. “From the way you say her name, I’m guessing you know her, and not in a good way.”

  “Oh, I know her all right.”

  “Would you mind telling me how you know her?”

  Cilla indicated that they should return to their chairs near the desk. “I usually have a cup of tea about this time. Would you like one? Or a coffee?” When Penny opted for coffee, Cilla picked up her phone and called the café. A tray arrived a few minutes later, and Cilla held out a cup to Penny, glanced at her sleeping boxer, and then settled back in her chair.

  “Sarah worked at a country house hotel outside Manchester, where my husband and I liked to go for Sunday lunch. The food was delicious. Fresh, local ingredients, beautifully prepared and presented. The staff were well trained—so polite, and nothing was ever too much trouble. The whole place was all about creating the perfect illusion of how the other half lives, so guests can imagine they’re living that life, too. Gracious rooms, curtains and soft furnishings in lovely floral patterns, antique furniture, soft lighting. Occasionally, we treated ourselves to a romantic weekend. Four-poster bed, working fireplace. And then, my husband stopped taking me there. Except he kept going without me, if you see what I mean.”

  “Oh, he …”

  “Yes, apparently Sarah took the bit about the staff being at your service to a whole new level. He and Sarah started up an affair, and then he announced that he was leaving me and moving in with her. She was married to someone else, too, but they didn’t let that stop them. Her husband and I got together a couple of times for a coffee, to talk about the situation. Misery loves company, and all that. He was determined to fight for his marriage, although God knows why he’d want to have anything to do with her after the way she treated him, but he must have changed his mind about her, because after a while someone told me that he’d moved away. I decided that would be best for me, too. My family’s from Wales, so I moved here and started over. And then three or four years ago, I heard the two of them were living together on Anglesey.”

  She took a sip of tea and eyed Penny over the rim of the cup.

  “Ever heard that old saying about the man who marries his mistress creates a job vacancy? It was like that with my ex. I’m sure as soon as he got together with Sarah, he was looking for the next one, although to be fair, they never legally married. And I doubt very much he would have married her, anyway.”

  “And how long ago did all this happen?” Penny asked.

  “Seven years.”

  “Gosh, I don’t really know what to say,” said Penny. “But I can certainly see why the newspaper story stirred up a lot of bad memories for you.”

  “Oh, it did, but it felt quite therapeutic getting all this out just now,” Cilla said. “It took me a long time to get over what they did, and I haven’t really spoken of him or her”—she said the word “her” as if it had curdled on her lips—“in some time. But I must admit I’m a little curious to know something. Did you meet her?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

  “What was she like? How did she seem?”

  Penny thought carefully before answering. “Well, I only saw her a couple of times. She was busy in the bar on the Friday night, and the next day she made a point of thanking me for, well, my role on the Saturday morning in what happened with Jessica Graham. I found her professional, actually.” If you want me to start slagging her off, you’re going to be disappointed, Penny thought.

  If she was disappointed that Penny hadn’t been more critical of Sarah Spencer, Cilla took care not to show it.

  “Well, enough about them and their sordid little lives,” she said with a tight smile. “Back to business—your paintings and the reason we’re here.” Indicating that the topic was now closed, Cilla opened her desk drawer and pulled out several pieces of paper clipped together and handed them to Penny. “Here’s our contract. The show opens November thirteenth and runs to the twenty-second of December.”

  “The twenty-second? Oh, of course,” said Penny. “It closes just before Christmas, to give people enough time to pick up the purchases they bought to give as gifts.”

  “Exactly. And you get to set your own price, but all work for sale in this exhibit must be priced under five hundred pounds. Is that all right with you? It should be. It’s quite a generous price for an amateur painting. You can take the contract home with you to read at your leisure, and if you’re in agreement with the terms, sign it and send it to me in the post, let’s say by the end of next week.

  “If you don’t want to participate, let me know ASAP so I can ask someone else. I don’t need to tell you that many local artists would love to have this spot. I’ll n
eed the framed artwork by November sixth. Nice, simple frames work best. If you take them to the framer in Llanelen and tell him it’s for a showing here, he’ll know what kind of frame to put on them. Now, let’s take one last look at your paintings.”

  They moved back to the table under the window, where Penny’s paintings were spread out. “So which ones would you like for the exhibit?” Penny asked.

  “All of them except those two.” She pointed to the two most recent paintings, the Georgian terrace Penny had painted during the weekend retreat in Anglesey. Of all the paintings, Penny liked them best because they were her most recent and because they reminded her of the time she’d spent with Colin. “It’s not that those paintings aren’t good. They are. It’s just I don’t care for the subject matter, and I don’t want to have to look at it.”

  “May I ask why not?” Penny asked, trying to keep the prickle out of her voice.

  “My ex owns a flat there, and very nice it is, too. More like a house, really, or so I’m told. Or maybe I should say owned. Past tense. I saw it was for sale. Anyway, he was living there with his fancy woman, but apparently he was the one who moved out when they broke up.”

  The conversation she’d had with Bill Ward outside the terrace sprang into Penny’s mind, and she remembered that he’d seemed to know quite a lot about the history of the property. Penny’s brows drew together as her head tilted slightly to one side. “Are you talking about Bill Ward? Is he your ex-husband?”

  “Yes, he is. Didn’t I say? I thought I told you that. And as for him, of course I was the one, with my gallery connections, who got him started on his brilliant painting career. Which he’s done very well out of, by the way. He was always one to make good use of people. Except maybe with Sarah Spencer, it was the other way round. He got caught up in her sticky web, and I expect he’ll pay dearly for that one way or another, if he hasn’t already.”

  She picked up her almost empty cup and forced down a sip of tepid tea, as if she could wash away the taste of the bitterness that filled her mouth.

  * * *

  “I was gobsmacked when Cilla McKee told me that Bill Ward, of all people, is her ex-husband,” Penny said to Colin that evening as they video-chatted.

  “I can imagine.”

  “I never bothered to Google Bill Ward because I thought I knew enough about him, but if I had, I suppose his ex-wife’s name would have come up, although I’m not sure I would have realized that she’s the same woman who runs the Snowdonia art gallery.”

  “Well now that you know about the relationship between Bill Ward and Sarah Spencer, are you going to do anything about it?”

  “What do you mean, ‘do anything about it’?”

  “Well, like, tell the police.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think it could be important?”

  “I’m not sure if whatever’s going on between Sarah Spencer and Bill Ward is connected to Jessica Graham’s death, but there certainly seem to be bad feelings between the two of them. When I was on my way to meet you for dinner in the hotel restaurant, I overheard Bill, on his mobile, saying something like, ‘Now maybe she’ll finally move out,’ and it certainly sounds as if he was referring to Sarah. Several people, including you, overheard the two of them arguing in the hotel bar that Friday night, and I think it was Sarah he was shouting at from the car park at midnight, because the person he was speaking to was in the coffee shop, and that could only have been an employee. And given everything else, the logical person for that to have been is Sarah.”

  “She was probably locking up or making sure all the appliances were switched off or something like that. Doing one last check to make sure everything was shut down for the night.”

  “That makes sense. But the timing of their argument, the night before Jessica died—well, it may not have anything to do with her death, but it makes you think, doesn’t it?”

  She mulled all that over for a moment. “I should tell Bethan if I happen to be speaking to her. She always says to tell her everything, no matter how small or inconsequential it might seem, and she’ll decide whether it’s important or not. But the police aren’t treating Jessica’s death as suspicious. As far as I know, they’re not even investigating it, so I don’t think this really matters.”

  Colin’s eyes flicked to the top of the screen to check the time. “I’m going to have to go in a minute. But before I do, congratulations again on being offered a place in the art gallery’s Christmas exhibit. I’m so happy for you.”

  “I’ve been wanting to show in that gallery for a long time, so I’m really chuffed.”

  “I’ll bet you are,” said Colin. At that moment, the screen posted a “Connection lost” message, and he disappeared. She waited for him to ring her back, and a few minutes later he did.

  “I’ve got to make this quick before we get disconnected again,” he said. “The Wi-Fi’s terrible here. I’ll be wrapping up in a few more days,” he added. “And then I’m between assignments. I thought I might stop off in the U.K. on my way home to Toronto. Would you like to meet up?”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  “Good. Maybe take you up on that invitation to visit you in Llanelen?”

  Penny indicated that would be fine with her, and Colin just had time to say, “Then I’ll see you soon,” before the connection was lost again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Checking your watch every thirty seconds won’t get his train here any faster,” said Victoria. Penny lowered her wrist with a sheepish grin.

  She’d insisted that she and Victoria set off from home to arrive at the Junction railway station with plenty of time to spare. Now, holding takeaway cups of coffee from the station buffet, they paced along the platform.

  “How do you feel about seeing him again?” Victoria asked.

  “A little nervous, but excited.”

  “But you like him, though?”

  “I do. But it’s early days.”

  “And he’s stopping at the hotel?”

  “We’re both more comfortable with that arrangement. We’ve only known each other in person for a few days, although we video-chat almost every day, so it seems like longer. We don’t want to rush into anything.”

  “Very wise.”

  “I thought I might invite him round to mine for dinner one evening.”

  “You? Make dinner?” Victoria grinned.

  “Stop that. I can heat up ready meals and open a bottle of wine with the best of them.”

  Victoria laughed. “Well, that’s true. Oh, and just to save any discussion later, I’m completely fine with you taking as much time off as you like whilst he’s here. You deserve a bit of fun.”

  Finally, Penny was rewarded with the sight of the train coming into view. It slowed on approach to the platform, then stopped, and after a moment the doors slid open and passengers began to alight.

  She scanned them anxiously until she saw the man she was looking for. His face lit up when he caught sight of her, and after allowing a woman with two small children to go ahead of him, he adjusted the camera bag on his shoulder and made his way along the platform toward her.

  When he reached Penny, he set down his case and took her in his arms. After giving her a warm hug, he released her and stepped back, turning his attention to Victoria. After a casual but cheerful introduction, the three made their way to the car and set off for Llanelen.

  Penny and Victoria were eager to hear about Colin’s recent trip to Africa, and once he’d described the animals he’d photographed in great detail and answered their questions, he settled back to drink in the rolling hills and neat parcels of land in varying shades of green, stitched together with drystone walls, hedgerows, and stands of trees.

  “They say the grass is greener,” remarked Colin, “and in Wales it really is.”

  Penny followed his gaze. Everything they passed—granite cottages and farmhouses with slate roofs, streams, woodlands, bridges—was d
renched in late summer sunshine, and she saw the beauty of it all through fresh, appreciative eyes.

  Finally, the narrow, twisting country roads brought them to Llanelen’s bridge spanning the River Conwy, and Victoria slowed the car as they approached it.

  “Here we are,” said Penny. “My favourite teahouse is just there on the left, and right across from it there”—she pointed to the other side of the river—“is our Spa, where Victoria and I work.” Colin made all the right admiring noises, and a minute later they pulled into the car park of the Red Dragon Hotel.

  “No need to come in with me,” Colin assured them. “I’m looking forward to a shower and a nap, and then I might take a stroll around the town.” After thanking Victoria for the lift from the station, he and Penny got out of the car.

  They stood there, Colin holding his bags, as Victoria drove away to return her car to its parking place.

  “I’ll see you after work,” he said to Penny, then gave her a light kiss on the cheek. Just as he straightened and they stepped apart, Penny caught sight of Mrs. Lloyd and her companion, Florence Semble, watching them from the pavement.

  “Oh, Mrs. Lloyd won’t let that go,” she whispered to Colin, and sure enough, a moment later the two women walked toward them.

  “Hello,” said Mrs. Lloyd, her blue eyes twinkling as she looked from Penny to Colin. Penny introduced them, and Mrs. Lloyd asked, “And how long will you be staying here in Llanelen?”

  “Not exactly sure,” Colin replied. “Depends. A few days anyway.”

  “Oh well, we’d love to have you for dinner whilst you’re here,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “Wouldn’t we, Florence?” When Florence indicated that, yes, they would, Mrs. Lloyd said, “Well, what about tomorrow evening? We’d love to hear all about your adventures.”

  “Didn’t I hear Alwynne Gwilt was with you on this painting excursion?” Florence asked.

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Penny. “She was.”

  “Well, what if we invited her and Medwyn and a few others, and instead of dinner, we had a little get-together at a drinks party?”