at the paper cup.
“God, I hate these paper cups. Make the coffee taste like blech!” She blew a light raspberry. “Do you know, when I first moved to Britain, train stations had cozy little restaurants where you could get a glass of wine or a pretty bad cup of coffee. But at least they were served up in proper glasses or cups and saucers.”
Victoria nodded. “Yes, I remember those days. God, we sound absolutely ancient when we talk like that. Anyway, do you think Peyton’s death is somehow connected to what happened to Alys?”
“I think it has to be. I think she was murdered for her art. Her brother, the vet, told Thomas and Bronwyn that their mother was surprised that she’d left so little work behind. But she had a show coming up, so the work must have been there. The thing is, what happened to it? There are only the two pieces we know about . . . Emma had one, and Jones the lawyer had the other.”
She took a sip of her coffee.
“I haven’t been able to find any local dealers who ever handled an Alys Jones painting, and because her work isn’t on the market, she isn’t known. She should have been known or would have been, if she’d lived. She was a very talented painter, you know. So to answer your question, I think Peyton knew something. Either about Alys’s death or the art.”
Victoria nodded. “Or both. And let’s assume the bones are Cynthia Browning. Do we think whoever killed Alys killed her, too?” Victoria asked.
“We do,” Penny replied. “And about the same time, too. It may be that Cynthia overheard something or asked one question too many. And Alys’s killer or killers decided she had to be silenced.”
“That was really awful about the little dog, though,” Victoria said.
Penny nodded and winced. “Very nasty.”
She drained the last of the coffee from the paper cup, snapped the plastic lid on it, and then peered into Victoria’s empty cup.
“Well, ready to go?”
They walked sedately up Brownlow Hill until they reached the gothic building that not only anchors a University of Liverpool neighbourhood but gave its name to the redbrick university movement of the late 1800s. They stood for a moment, heads back, to admire the famous Liverpool landmark with its spires, turrets, and gracefully arched windows.
As the bells in the clock tower tolled the hour, they passed through the entranceway and found themselves in a magnificent great hall, now used as a modern café. Faced with gleaming brown and blue terra-cotta tiles, the walls and archways were stunning. The columns, covered in shell-shaped brown tiles, were especially impressive for their smooth regularity. Admiring the interior as they went, they climbed the shallow stairs to the first floor.
With smiles and nods, they accepted glasses of wine from a young man holding a tray standing outside the adjoining rooms where the exhibit had been mounted.
“Real wineglasses, not that plastic rubbish!” Victoria grinned as she tipped her glass in Penny’s direction. They eased their way into the room and joined the small crowd. The exhibit was a multimedia retrospective of artists from the 1960s and included a large display case filled with drawings and sketches by Stuart Sutcliffe.
“He was a friend of John Lennon and . . .” Penny stopped when she realized Victoria wasn’t beside her. She looked around and saw her gazing at a painting on the far wall. The evening light pouring in through the tall, graceful window slanted down on her, touching her blond hair with little beads of sunshine. Victoria turned slowly, seeking out Penny with her eyes, then pointed at the painting.
Penny joined her and gasped.
“Don’t you think this looks a lot like yours?” Victoria said softly.
The painting showed a woman sitting in a striped deck chair, reading, with a brick wall behind her. She held a book in one hand and gently brushed the hair from her forehead with the other. She was wearing a summery white frock lightly sprinkled with delicate purple splashes.
“Mine?” asked Penny. “My painting or my garden?”
She leaned forward to look at the signature on the lower right of the painting and then said the name out loud.
“Millicent Mayhew.”
“If Millicent Mayhew painted that, I’ll eat my hat,” said a voice from behind her.
Penny turned around slowly to see an elderly woman planted squarely behind her. She was wearing a burgundy plaid skirt with matching jacket and a fussy blouse with frothy lace spilling down the front, struggling to break