A Brush with Death: A Penny Brannigan Mystery - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,71
killed him to silence him.”
They waited for the light to change and then started to cross the street.
“We just have to figure out how she did it.”
Eighteen
With autumn closing in, the velvety greens of summer that cloaked the timeless hills were giving way to the reds and golds of early fall. Thorny bushes bursting with plump, ripe blackberries lined the hedgerows, and the fields were dotted with grazing sheep, their fleeces thick and heavy against the coming winter. It had been almost two months since Penny had been sketching and she missed it. In the company of an artist friend or two, she enjoyed the leisurely Saturday morning or Sunday afternoon rambles along the pathways, across the fields, and up into the high hills with their panoramic views of the towns and villages spread out below.
By lunchtime, the fine mist that had shrouded the town as folks made their way to morning church services had dissipated, and the afternoon promised to be clear but cool. Dressed warmly in anoraks and sturdy boots, and carrying their painting gear, Penny and Alwynne strolled alongside the Conwy River and then cut across the fields toward Gwydyr Forest, on the eastern edge of Snowdonia National Park. Alywnne had chosen their destination, saying to Penny she had a hunch the spot she had in mind would intrigue and interest her.
The way was steep for the first couple of kilometers, as the path led them away from the valley and up into the shadowy glades of the forest. Finally, they arrived at a small clearing where they set down their wooden painting cases and shrugged off their backpacks. Alywnne produced a flask, and they sat on their small painting stools, wrapping their hands around warm mugs of tea and lifting their faces to the sun.
“Would you like to set up here?” Alwynne asked, “or carry on to the lake? I’d prefer the lake, but we have to keep an eye on the time. It gets dark so early now, we should aim to be back in town by six.”
“The lake, I think,” said Penny. “The view here is wonderful, but the lake isn’t much farther, and in this light I expect it will have a lovely shimmer to it. I’m sure it’ll be worth it.”
They packed up their tea things and carried on climbing.
“You know,” puffed Alwynne, “I do envy those ramblers who just have to worry about themselves. They don’t have to do this climb carrying all the gear we’ve got.”
“That’s true,” agreed Penny, “but we have something interesting to do when we get where we’re going. They just eat lunch.”
They continued along the path, which had been laid down a century ago by miners working the nearby, long-abandoned lead and zinc mines. They headed deeper into the forest until they caught their first glimpse of Llyn Parc, a long narrow lake surrounded by thickly wooded slopes leading down to the water’s edge. They found themselves in a sheltered glen and watched for a moment as a kestrel circled slowly overhead, casting a long, sweeping shadow.
Penny put down her painting case, folded her arms, and looked about.
“I’m not sure if I’ve been here before,” she said. “It looks vaguely familiar, but I know I’d remember that trek and I don’t. And I don’t think I’ve ever painted here.”
“But someone you know has been here,” said Alwynne, pointing across the glen.
Penny followed the sightline of her finger and gasped.
In front of her was a stand of what looked liked tall, dying weeds, but she realized that in early summer it would be a mass of brightly blooming wildflowers.
“They were here!” Penny exclaimed. “This is it! This is the spot where the picnic paintings were done. Emma and Alys were here.”
She looked around more carefully. “Of course, it’s much more overgrown, but I know this is it! I can feel it.”
She headed toward the edge of the clearing, set down her stool, and started removing painting items from her case. Out came a portable easel, a sketchpad, and pencils.
“I’m going to set up here.”
“I’ll set up right beside you,” said Alwynne, “but I’m going to face the other way and paint the lake.”
They were soon deeply engrossed in their work, the sound of their pencils and brushes occasionally drowned out by birds calling to one another across the treetops.
“Penny,” Alwynne said hesitantly.
“Hmm?”
“Something’s been bothering me.”
Penny stopped sketching, her pencil poised in mid-air, and looked at her friend. “What is it, Alwynne?”