A Brush with Death: A Penny Brannigan Mystery - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,48

our sister’s death is a private, family matter best left alone, and he’s uncomfortable that you’re stirring all this up.”

“How do you feel?” Penny asked softly.

Jones seemed to age before her eyes. His eyes misted and he turned away. He looked unseeing out the window at the street below.

“You know, people expect you to get over something like this, but you never do. You learn to live with it, that’s all. All these years there’s the pain of the loss and on top of that, the pain of not knowing. So much destroyed in one hideous moment. Someone took my sister’s life and then just kept going as if nothing had happened, probably without so much as a backward glance.”

He brought his gaze back to Penny’s.

“If knowing who did this to her could help make some of that pain go way, then I’m all for it.”

“No matter what the truth is?” Penny asked.

Jones nodded. “No matter.”

With a small sigh, he straightened his shoulders and picked up their file.

“Right. Well, I think that’s all for now. As you know, the vendors want a quick closing, so I think we can get all this paperwork done, and if you could come back next week, we’ll hand over the keys. In the meantime, I think you should organize the builders and get the renovation work lined up.”

Penny wrapped the Alys Jones picnic painting in the bubble wrap and brown paper that had protected the watercolour of the roses, and they said their good-byes.

When they were out on the street, Penny turned to Victoria. “Well, I think we learned one thing today,” she said as they walked slowly toward the town square. “I don’t think he had anything to do with it. Not that we ever thought he did, of course,” she added quickly. “But why do you think Alun Jones doesn’t want us to look into this? Do you think he’s hiding something?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want the lesbian relationship to come out?” Victoria suggested.

“That seems pretty weak these days,” Penny said, “but you could be right.” She thought for a moment. “If he feels that way about it today, maybe he didn’t want it coming out thirty years ago, either. Maybe her parents didn’t know, or he thought they’d be ashamed or embarrassed if it got out.

“Anyway, I can’t wait to get this painting home, put it with the other, and see if they have anything to tell us.”

Penny let herself into the cottage, walked through to the dining room, and set the painting down on the table. She returned to the living room, picked up the companion painting, and set it down on the table beside the first one. Then, she looked around for something to use to prop them up so she could view them better. She picked up a few books to lean them against, and then pulled a couple more off the bookshelf. She put them against the bottom of the frames, wedging the paintings into an upright position.

She sat down, crossed her arms on the table, and rested her chin on them. She looked from one painting to the other, drinking them in. She loved the way the paintings looked together and was filled with admiration for the artist. She was so young, Penny thought. Really just getting started. Imagine what she might have achieved had she lived and had another twenty, thirty, or forty years to develop and expand her craft and creativity. And, Penny thought as she felt the sting of unshed tears, there’s love there. This artist loved these canvases.

Together, the paintings told one story. Individually, they told another. Penny tilted her head and looked more closely at the Jones painting. The figure of the woman, she was sure, was Emma. There was something about the way she held her glass of wine that looked so familiar. Penny had seen her holding an icy glass of gin and tonic on many a summer’s day in exactly that way, using her left hand to steady the glass by supporting the bottom. The male figure, dressed in trousers and a vest, appeared very relaxed as he leaned toward the female figure. His shirt was open at the collar and he wasn’t wearing a tie. A moment in time gone by, thought Penny. A guy on a picnic now would just as likely be wearing a ripped pair of jeans, scruffy T-shirt, and baseball cap on backward. She looked closer. Was it a man? Or was it Alys,