She set off on her morning run earlier than usual. Her sleep had been interrupted by her tabby, Vincent—unashamedly named after Van Gogh because he was missing the tip of one of his ears. Vincent had darted off her bed at the crack of dawn, chased down the passage, and gone into hiding under the guest bedroom bed as if something had frightened him. When Jorja eventually unlocked his cat door and stepped out onto her porch he dashed past her legs and disappeared into the bordering bushes.
Her feet hit the road in a comfortable rhythm as she took her usual route down toward the bay that soon appeared in full view in front of her. Above her, the sky was hinting at a sunny day, and early morning seagulls squawked noisily above a dark shoal of fish just below the ocean's surface. At forty-eight, Jorja was still in top shape and looked ten years younger. After she came to live in St. Ives she had kept up her training routine; ten-mile runs every day at 7 a.m. and an hour of Pilates on her living room floor in the evening, never missing a single day. Superficially, she had always told herself it was because she liked how it felt to be healthy, but if she was truthful, she knew the real reason was that she wanted to be ready, clinging to the hope that she would one day return.
An only child of two blue-collar workers she’d run away from their modest English home at sixteen, dropping out of school after she traveled to Paris for the first time on a school trip to visit The Louvre. It was where she had first fallen in love with art, and all it came to offer in the years that followed.
When she returned home after the trip she would sneak away from school as often as she could, taking the train to London to roam the corridors of the National Gallery. There, in Room 43, she would lose herself in Van Gogh's paintings, and eventually, it was where she would also lose her heart. Her life was never the same again after she met him.
She had stolen money from her parents’ rainy-day fund to pay for her train ticket to Paris and a few months’ rent; silently vowing she would pay back every penny. And she did, with interest, in the form of an anonymous monthly check that enabled her parents to pay off their mortgage and retire early with change to spare. As far as she knew, they still lived in the same terrace house in Newcastle. Forced to break all ties when she moved to St. Ives she had not spoken to them since. For all she knew they had already passed.
As she turned the corner toward the coastal path that weaved its way along the sea cliffs, her name wafted in the breeze toward her and brought her to a sudden halt. She removed her AirPods and turned to see her friend fighting for her attention at the top of the road. Ewan beckoned her to come over and seemed excessively eager to speak to her so she ran toward him. He had been her best friend for the better part of fifteen years and despite the townsfolk's speculation that they were romantically involved, they had remained just close friends. He was also the town's commanding law enforcement officer, formally ranked as detective inspector.
"You're out early," he said as they neared each other, by now familiar with Jorja's running schedule.
"Couldn't sleep so I thought I'd get an early start. What's up that couldn't wait until I got back home?"
His face went grim beneath his handsome features.
"There was an incident."
"What type of incident?" She cocked her head to one side, wiping away a few beads of sweat that trickled down her left temple.
"A murder."
"A murder? You're joking. Here, in St. Ives?"
"Afraid not. Times are changing, I guess." His eyes narrowed as he held her eyes with his.
"Why are you looking at me like that? Who was it?"
"Myles Brentwood."
His green eyes remained fixed on hers as if he was prompting her for answers.
"What? When? How?" she rattled off, stunned by the information.
"We're guessing sometime last night, but we're not sure of anything just yet. My men are processing the crime scene as we speak and I'm still waiting for the forensic team to arrive."
Jorja rested both hands on her hips as she stared out across the ocean.
"Wow, I just saw him yesterday."
"I know." Ewan stared uncomfortably at his feet then looked up, struggling to find the words.
"Why are you looking at me like that, Ewan Reid? What's going on?"
He attempted to speak then stopped himself, drawing a deep breath instead.
"Spit it out, Ewan," she pushed, sensing he was holding out on her.
"I'm sorry, Jorgie, but I have to ask. It's my job."
He took one deep breath for courage and forced the words from his mouth.
"Where were you yesterday between five p.m. and sunrise?"
His face flushed as soon as the words left his lips.
Jorja's body tensed and she briefly turned her back on him before she spun around to face him.
"How long have we known each other, Ewan, huh? Do you honestly think I am capable of killing someone?"
He didn't answer, pushing the fragile boundaries of their friendship once more. He was torn between loyalty to his job and his best friend and, in all his years on the force, had never once thought he would have to challenge it in this way. But so far, what little evidence they had gathered during the night all pointed to her.
"I was home, alone, like I am every night. You of all people should know that by now."
She crossed her arms, her eyes filled with hurt.
Ewan's voice became gentle. “You were the last person to see him alive, Jorgie. I'm sorry, it's my job. I have to make sure I have all the facts before Major Crimes gets here. It's not like we have a murder here every week, you know. I'm sorry, okay?"
She stepped away from him again, her back toward him once more.
"Why don't you just tell me what you know, Jorgie, then I can move on and catch the guy who did this? Why did you close your shop early?"
Jorja threw her head back in disbelief as she turned and flashed an amused smile, knowing it could have only been Jenny from the flower shop next door that could have told him.
"That's the thing with our little town. Everyone knows everyone's business. Did Jenny also tell you that Myles was very much alive when he left my shop? And that I popped by Ann's to pick up some fresh milk and a tin of cat food for Vincent."
Ewan nodded.
"Well, then I don't understand, Ewan. I'm trying to stay calm here but I guess I am just a little offended that you of all people could think I am capable of committing murder. So, I will make it easy for you. I did not kill Myles Brentwood. He came into my shop around four forty-five p.m. as he’s done every Friday afternoon for as long as I can remember. He bought a small painting, no different from what he’s done the last Friday of every month, we made small talk, then he left saying he had a faculty meeting to get to. That's it. Besides, why would I kill him? I adored him. He was one of the few people around here who fully appreciated fine art. I loved discussing it with him."
"I know. We all loved him. It's quite a shock if I'm honest."
"I don't understand, Ewan. Why do you think I had anything to do with this then?"
He reached out and took hold of her arm.
"I'm sorry, okay? I know you couldn't do this. I don't know what I was thinking. It's just, I have to go by the book on this one or I'll risk losing my pips. I already have my chief inspector up in my face about this case. Something like this could be blown out of proportion quickly if the papers were to get hold of it. And bad publicity is the last thing this town needs."
He grabbed hold of her other arm, tilted his head to one side, and pinned his eyes on hers from beneath his dark, raised eyebrows.
"Forgive me?" he begged.
Her anger melted easily.
"On one condition."
"Name it."
"You tell me what you know."
"I can't discuss the case, Jorgie, you must know that."
Her eyes told him he had no choice.
"Fine, but it stays between us, okay? And you promise me you won't jump to any conclusions," he agreed, strong-armed by his sudden onset of guilt over upsetting her.
"Deal."
"Myles never made it to the faculty meeting yesterday. It was due to start at five. He is never late and he has never missed a meeting either. That's what raised concern. They tried ringing him on his cell, but the thing went straight to voicemail."
"That's not really that strange for Myles. He never remembered to charge his phone."
"Right, except, Mrs. Reeves says she knows his battery was fully charged because he had asked her to charge it in her office during school and gave it to him before he left to go to your shop. So, she went past his house around six thirty on her way home, after the faculty meeting. He wasn't there either. That's when she rang us. We searched all night and finally found his body at the start of the woodland path behind your house."
He paused to see her reaction but Jorja's face didn't reveal the thoughts that suddenly flooded her mind. Perhaps Vincent's behavior was in response to something he had heard outside. Cats sense danger long before humans do.
"There's more though, Jorgie." Ewan straightened his shoulders before he spoke.
"There was a piece of art, placed on top of his body. It looked to have been crafted by hand, from copper, like the pipes you find in a house's plumbing. It's quite unique and beautiful, and without a doubt made with skill by a very talented artist. Jorgie, it was a single long-stemmed rose. We believe it was also the murder weapon."