A Brush with Death: A Penny Brannigan Mystery - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,8
venture.”
Three
“I’ve got some nice white wine in the fridge. Why don’t you come round and we’ll drink to our new partnership,” Penny said. “Of course, we’ll do something bigger and better later—make it more official. We’ll have a proper launch party when we open the spa.”
Victoria agreed and they set off on the walk through the town to Jonquil Cottage.
“Something’s bothering you, Penny,” Victoria remarked, “and I think it’s to do with that painting. It seems to have really spooked you. What’s the matter? Is it about that artist’s death? Who was she, anyway?”
Penny shook her head.
“I’ll show you when we get there,” she replied, “and tell you all about it. Or at least what I know so far. What was it you were saying about Bronwyn earlier?”
“Oh, that. Right, she wants to know if we’ll help out with the church jumble sale. Sort things out, put prices on them, that kind of thing. It’s not for a while yet, but I told her I would and said I’d ask you. I think she’s also hoping that you’ll donate any of Emma’s things that you don’t want.”
“Damn!” said Penny. “I should have remembered her sale is coming up. We dropped off tons of stuff yesterday at the charity shop. I’ll have to see what else there is. I haven’t done the bedrooms yet, so I’m sure there’ll be loads of clothes there for her. Good stuff, too. Not that old lady polyester rubbish.”
She smiled.
“Good thing you reminded me. Bronwyn would have been very cross with me.”
As the wife of Rector Thomas Evans, Bronwyn was involved in many aspects of town life and carried out the traditional demands of her role with great enthusiasm and empathy.
As she made a mental note to keep the church sale in mind, Penny and her friend turned down the small street that led to the cottage, and a few minutes later Victoria was gazing around the sitting room.
“I can see you’ve made great progress here. Everything looks decluttered, and a new coat of paint will go a long way to freshening everything up. What are you going to do about the floor? I’d go with hardwood, if I were you. Maybe get some of that new bamboo. Very ecological.”
Penny nodded, headed for the fridge, and then handed Victoria a glass of white wine.
“Here,” she said, leading Victoria to the table where the paintings that had been removed from the walls the day before were stacked. “What do you make of this?”
She pointed to the A. Jones painting.
Victoria bent over to take a closer look.
“I see what you mean, but I don’t get it. Would someone do two paintings of the same scene? Why not put everyone in the same painting if they were all there at the same time? I wonder, though. Two couples at a picnic? Wouldn’t it be more usual for a couple to go on a picnic by themselves? Just two people enjoying a bit of privacy, outdoors, over a simple meal?” She gazed at the painting. “Do you think it could be two views of the same couple? And who are they?”
“I don’t know yet, but I do want a closer look at Richard Jones’s painting. Do you think he’d let me borrow it? Or at least photograph it?”
Victoria thought for a moment.
“You know, he might, if you showed him this one and explained it all to him. He knows you’re an artist and he’d understand why you’re interested. But I think you should bring him, um, that one,” she said, pointing at the painting of the pink roses. “You can’t leave him with an empty picture hook behind his desk. He’d be more likely to lend you his painting if you offered to fill up the space with something.”
“You’re right,” said Penny. “I’ll do that. But here, there’s something else.”
She removed the packet of letters from the drawer in the side table and showed them to Victoria.
“I think these letters are from that artist, A. Jones. They’re to Emma. I haven’t read them properly. Gareth found them yesterday in the Welsh dresser, and I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to read them. I glanced at one of them, but it seemed invasive to read it. Didn’t feel comfortable. I guess they drum it into us when we’re young that we just don’t read other people’s mail.”
After a moment she sat on the sofa, folded her arms, and then continued. “I wasn’t even sure if I should read them.