Blackthorn Winter (20 page)

If he had the key with him at the Emporium, Veronica Pimms might have been able to take it and have a copy made on her lunch break.

Another possibility: Liza might have gone to the cottage to let herself in for some reason—and been followed. By whom? My list of suspects was long.

"D'you want to come in for tea?" Kate asked shyly when we reached her house, a freestanding (
detached,
Duncan said it was called) stone house on a rise above the beach. "Mummy usually makes enough to feed an army."

"Do you mean for a cup of tea—or for dinner?" I asked. It was still confusing to me, this liberal use of the
word "tea" to mean just about anything: a single cup, a light afternoon snack with scones and cakes and sometimes sandwiches, and an evening meal.

"Dinner is at midday," Kate explained with a laugh. "We ate dinner at school. The evening meal is tea. But you can call it supper, if you like."

I wanted to see Celia Glendenning's reaction to our news about the beach stone. "Sure," I said. "I mean, yes, thanks. I'd love to stay for supper."

"Dunk-o?" Kate grinned at him. I guessed when you'd known someone since nursery school, you could call him by his nickname. I knew I wouldn't dare—at least not yet.

Duncan shook his head and said he had promised his grandparents he would eat with them. "I eat there at least twice a week," he explained, "and especially on the nights when Quent is in London on business. Granny is teaching me to cook, believe it or not. I'll invite you two round there soon so you can sample my mouthwatering shepherd's pie!"

So we said good-bye to Duncan. Then Kate ushered me up the steps and inside her house. I looked around in surprise, immediately feeling stifled. The place was like a junk shop—absolutely and totally
crammed
with stuff. But on closer look, I realized this
stuff
wasn't junk at all. It was
Art
—Art with a capital
A.
The walls were covered with framed paintings, and the tables were covered with sculptures. Larger sculptures stood in corners and in the center of the living room and hallway. I could only imagine that the rest of the rooms were just as crowded. It was hard to walk around without bumping one of the sculptures. They were made of metal, of marble, of stone, of wood. Even plastic and china and blown glass. I remembered having
heard at Quent's fateful party what should have been obvious from my first step inside the door: Celia Glendenning was a
major
patron of the arts.

Kate pointed out two sculptures by Quent—a large, flowing form of bronze that reminded me of an ocean wave, and a smaller piece that must be quite recent, from his current Viking phase: a bronze ship, with shapes suggesting oarsmen bent over, rowing hard. There was an amazing mobile hanging from the ceiling in the front hall, handblown glass bubbles from Rodney Whitsun and Andrew Parker. And there was a large portrait of a toddler Kate, grinning out at the viewer so mischievously, you just had to grin back. I recognized Liza's style, and was glad that Celia had not taken that portrait down and thrown it away just because she was mad at Liza herself.

Somehow in all the fascinating clutter of metal and glass and wooden objets d'art, Kate found the phone and handed it to me. Then I realized I didn't know our phone number, so she had to phone directory assistance. I pressed the buttons, trying to memorize our new phone number (which had only six digits), staring all the while out the mullioned windowpanes at the view of the sea and the rocks below the house. Mom answered, and I asked permission to stay for tea.

"Oh, honey, I don't know. Quent was planning on taking me out for dinner," she said. "Just the two of us this time. To a Greek place in Portsmouth."

I didn't mind babysitting, but ... was this a
date?
Mom shouldn't be going out alone with men when she'd been away from Dad only two weeks.

I opened my mouth to complain, but before I had a chance to speak, Mom's voice was in my ear again. "On the
other hand, it's good for you to be making friends here, and being with Kate will take your mind off our troubles. I suppose Quent and I can take Ivy and Edmund along with us. That'll work."

I felt relieved. The Goops would make excellent chaperones. The one time last spring when Tim had come over—officially to copy my science notes after he'd been out with strep throat, but I'd been hopeful of something more and had made us hot chocolate and popcorn—the Goops had been all over him and we didn't get more than three minutes of privacy. "Thanks, Mom," I said.

Then, before we hung up, I told Mom in a hushed voice about how I'd found the beach stone and taken it to the police.

"Goodness!" Mom said. "This is getting creepier and creepier. Maybe you'd better come out to dinner with us after all."

"Why, Mom? That doesn't make sense!"

"None of this makes sense," she said, and sighed. "I guess I just don't want you coming home alone. Being in an empty house."

"I'll ask Duncan to come over," I said. "Or I'll go to his house and hang out there." I figured Duncan would be back from his grandparents' house by the time I was finished eating at Kate's.

"Well, I suppose that will be all right." I could hear the unease in Mom's voice. "I won't be sorry to get out of here myself for an hour or two, that's for sure."

"Ask Quent who else has keys, Mom. Okay?"

"I'll ask. Now Juliana, speaking of keys, do you have yours? Because I want to be able to lock up the cottage when we leave for dinner."

I assured her I did have my key. Then we hung up and I picked my way across the room to Kate to hand back the phone. "Permission granted," I told her. "Now ... show me around this museum!"

Kate's cheeks flushed. "I guess our house
is
pretty strange, isn't it?"

"I don't know about strange," I said tactfully. "Just unexpected."

"My mother is very, er ... eccentric," said Kate, with her shy smile. "But harmless."

I wasn't so sure about that.

Celia Glendenning breezed in the door with her arms full of canvases, startling us. "Help me with these, my pet?" she called to Kate, and then, seeing me, added, "Oh, good! Perfect! Juliana, I can use your help. I've got another pile of paintings out in the car. Will you get them? There's a good lass." She shrugged out of her coat and set her purse—an artsy sort of tapestry tote bag—on the hallway table.

We carried Celia Glendenning's newest purchases into the house, though I couldn't think where she'd find places to display them. The walls were full already.

"It's gotten to the point where I have to rotate pieces," she told me, as if she had read my mind. "There isn't enough space. I'd have to live in a place like the Old Mill House if I were to have enough room for every painting and every sculpture. But Quent doesn't even use what he has—not much, anyway. He's gotten too big for us."

"What do you mean, too big?" I asked cautiously.

"He's hit the big time, dear. And now that he has all these galleries in London clamoring for his work, he doesn't have as much time as he used to for mere
local
showings. The last few years—well, since Nora's accident, really—he's
spent a lot of time in London. Can't stand Blackthorn for all the memories, maybe. Not that Nora was spending all that much time in Blackthorn herself, right before the accident. She was on her way up, too—and who knows? She might have become an even bigger name in the art world than Quent!"

"My mom said she was talented."

"She was brilliant. Come upstairs with me, dear, while Kate heats the soup. It's just split pea soup and salad for tea, I hope you don't mind. I'll show you some of Nora's work I have on display. She was fabulous! Critics were starting to rave about her—and then there was the accident. She was cut down in her prime—no, she hadn't even reached her prime yet. Very sad. But I like knowing I had some part in helping her career, just as I helped make Quent as famous as he is by purchasing his work back when he wasn't such a star." She started up the steep staircase and I followed behind, telling myself that being alone with her for a few minutes couldn't be dangerous. Not with Kate just down in the kitchen.

The stairwell, too, was lined with paintings. I looked at the framed artwork as we climbed. "So," I said, "do you mean you help new artists start their careers by buying their paintings and sculptures?" I was not asking just to be polite. I hadn't ever known what role an art collector had in the art world other than just getting personal pleasure out of collecting.

"That's right, dear. Any sale is a vote of confidence for an artist. And when collectors start seeking out artists' work, galleries pay attention. And then so do the art critics, and the museums and so on." Her modest smile couldn't conceal the boastful tone in her voice. "I am
rather
well known in the right circles, dear, as an important collector. Galleries sit up and take notice of my purchases—the London ones, too."

We were in a square hallway with four doors. She gave me a quick tour: Kate's bedroom, very neat and austere—practically bare, compared to the rest of the house. The desk and dresser were clear, the bed neatly made, and the only clutter came from the several cameras and a tripod on the floor in one corner. The next room was Celia's bedroom—an explosion of floral pattern bedcovers, wallpaper, curtains, and rug. Again, the walls were hung with paintings. And every surface was covered with sculptures and stacks of art books. The bedside table was the only exception; it held simply a lamp, a glass of water, and a framed photo. I glanced at the photo: Oliver Pethering's round moon face smiled back at me.

Quickly, Celia Glendenning whirled me around and steered me toward the third bedroom. Was she trying to keep me from seeing Oliver's photo? But then why display it so openly? "Here we go," she said liltingly as we entered the guest bedroom. "Landscapes and jewelry by Nora Cooper Carrington."

The guest bedroom was a miniature museum of landscapes, deep hued and richly textured, almost minisculptures themselves. They were paintings of light on water, light on stone, light on fields and forests, light breaking through clouds. I counted eleven paintings, all framed in a plain pine. On the wall under the windows there was a glass display case with four necklaces inside. Each was similar to the one up in our sunroom—strung with blossoms, beads, shimmery bits of rounded glass, and found art from nature: an acorn, a seedpod, a feather.

"I had commissioned a special necklace for myself," Celia Glendenning told me. "But Nora died before she had a chance to make it. So I missed out."

"But at least you have these four," I pointed to the case.

"Yes," she pouted. "But these were not made especially for me, to be my special lucky charm. Nora called them that, you know. She believed they would guard against trouble. Against evil. She believed they would bring good luck!" Celia's laugh was indulgent. "They're beautiful pieces, but all that talk of luck and charms is nonsense, of course. If they really held any magic, Nora wouldn't be dead now."

"But she wasn't wearing hers when she died," I said. "It's at our house."

"Oh, I'm sure that isn't her special one, dear. She wouldn't even get into a car without wearing it. She was
that
superstitious. Certainly on a long drive to London she'd have been wearing it. Especially for her big gallery debut!"

I pictured the pink quartz necklace up in the little box in the sunroom. "Maybe Quent and Duncan asked for it back after the funeral—to remember her by."

"No, it's probably just one she was making for a customer and never finished," Celia maintained. "She would definitely have been wearing hers, and so I'm afraid it ended up destroyed in the wreckage, just as she was."

I must have winced because Kate's mother took me by the elbow and steered me back into the upstairs hallway. "Let's go down and have our tea," she said, heading for the staircase. "You're looking a bit rum. And, of course, I want to hear all about the stain."

"We had a call from the police this morning," I said. "It's a bloodstain. It's ... Liza's blood."

Celia stopped abruptly on the stairs. "Oh my." She turned to look back at me. "Are they sure? I mean, the blood is
proven
to be Liza's?"

"Yes, that's what they said."

"Isn't it awful, Mother?" cried Kate.

Celia continued down the stairs and led the way to the kitchen. "Yes, awful, and exceedingly strange. That's clearly where Simon Jukes knocked her out ... but why
there
?"

I said I didn't know. I was a little surprised, I guess, that she seemed as puzzled about it as anyone else. Either she was a very fine actor, or she really didn't know. In any case, for all the intensity she'd shown last night, now she didn't seem very interested in talking about the stain.

We sat in the kitchen at a small round table. Above our heads, dangling from a beam in the ceiling, was a glass sculpture that looked like candles dripping wax. Kate's mum saw my gaze and laughed. "That's a chandelier, dear. Handmade by Rodney Whitsun—you met him at Quent's party, I believe. His work is exquisite." She motioned with her hand to a switch on the wall. "Kate, dear, turn on the light so that Juliana gets the full effect."

Kate switched on the chandelier and immediately the dozens of little glass candles lit up and twinkled down on our meal like stars. "It's beautiful," I said. "Has he made more of these? Maybe my mom will buy one." I could imagine it at home in California, hanging over our dining room table. My dad would love it.

"I'm sure he will make one if she orders it," Mrs. Glendenning said. "But they cost quite a bit. I know Nora intended to have one made for your little cottage. Wanted to hang it in the stairwell, I believe. Rodney told me she'd had him come round several times to talk about plans
before she commissioned it, but then she died, poor dear, before he ever made it."

I blinked up at the glittering glass chandelier. So Rodney Whitsun had also been in our cottage, I was thinking. He, too, might have been given a key.

Kate served some very tasty pea soup and a salad of spinach and sliced cucumbers. Mrs. Glendenning held forth while Kate and I just listened. She didn't converse so much as lecture. I felt like I was sitting in school, like I should open a notebook and take notes about all the paintings and sculptures she was carrying on about. Like there would be a test before dessert.