A Brush with Death: A Penny Brannigan Mystery - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,43

fond of him and he of us, we can’t give him up now. I’ve worked it out and we can easily manage his food out of the housekeeping, and he won’t be any trouble at all.”

“Come here, darling,” said Thomas, pulling her onto his lap. “Of course, he’s staying with us. I was going to ask you today if it would be all right with you! Now, we need to have a name for him. Do you have any thoughts?”

“Let me think. Do you have any ideas?”

“Well, there is one,” said the rector. “In fact, I had this made up for him in Llandudno when I was there a few days ago. I hope you’ll agree to it.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a dog tag in the shape of a bone. On one side was a little Welsh red dragon and on the other a boy’s name.

“Oh, it’s perfect! I love it!” said Bronwyn.

“Robbie.”

“Woof!”

The sound of laughter filled the bright, sunny kitchen.

Twelve

“Are you coming with me to Penny’s this evening, dear?” the rector asked his wife over a supper of cold roast beef and salad on Friday evening. “I’d like to,” Bronwyn replied and then, glancing down at Robbie sitting patiently beside her chair, added, “Do you think she’d mind if I bring Robbie? I don’t feel right to leave him.”

“I’ll just give her a quick ring and ask, but I’m sure she’ll be fine with it. Penny loves dogs. I’ll ring her right after dinner. This salad is delicious, by the way.”

“That’ll be the new Asian sesame dressing. We’ve not had it before.” She laughed. “Oh, look at us! Keeping a dog and eating fancy foreign food. What are we like?”

• • •

The Evanses, with Robbie in Bronwyn’s arms, were the last to arrive at Penny’s. She greeted them warmly, making a great fuss over the dog.

“So this is the little chap I’ve been hearing so much about,” she said as she fondled a silky ear. “Well, bring him in. I’ve put down a bowl of water for him in the kitchen, and here’s a little pup-warming present for you.”

She gave Bronwyn a box of gourmet dog biscuits tied in a bright red bow with little Dalmatians on it. Then she gestured toward the sitting area.

Alwynne, who was seated in a wing chair near the archway to the dining room, rose to greet them.

Penny joined the group and, after making sure everyone had a drink, invited them to sit down. Bronwyn scooped up Robbie, who had been wandering around giving everything a good sniff. He promptly curled up on her lap and, after one last look around the room, closed his eyes and went to sleep as Penny took her place in front of the group.

“I’d like to start by filling you in on what I’ve learned this week,” she began, “and adding to that a very important piece of information that Bronwyn and the rector, here”—she nodded and smiled in their direction—“have given us.

“At the time of her death Alys had been getting ready to participate in an art showing along with two other artists.” She consulted her notebook. “Millicent Mayhew and Cynthia Browning they were called. The curator of the show was an Andrew Peyton, and the four were photographed together just a month before Alys died. The show was to have been held in February 1971 and Alys was killed in December.”

She wrote the three names on the board and then continued.

“Now, Bronwyn and Thomas learned from Jones, the vet, Alys’s brother, that his parents were surprised that she had left so few paintings behind. But that doesn’t make any sense, does it?” She looked from one to the other.

“Of course it doesn’t! If she had a show coming up in two months, there should have been lots of paintings. But, so far, we only know about two. This one”—she pointed at the painting of the couple on the picnic that she had hung near the display board—“that belonged to Emma and its companion painting that now hangs in Richard Jones’s office. And that painting, according to Alun Jones, had been in the possession of his family.”

The rector nodded.

“So the question is this: What happened to the rest of her paintings?”

No one spoke.

“Well, there are a couple of things for us to consider. For every major artist, their work becomes more valuable after their death. That’s easy to understand. The creation of the work is over. There won’t be any more. Supply and