“I wonder what on earth it is?” Megan whispered.
The large canvas stood in the front of the Yoga Café window, covered in a large piece of lilac silk. Suzy was due to do a talk at lunchtime, and would unveil the picture at the end of it. She had carried it in with Christian, seeming very on edge and anxious to ensure nobody saw underneath the fabric. Keeley had to wonder indeed what was being revealed.
“I hope it’s not a nude,” she whispered back. “She’ll give the older residents a heart attack.” Although she expected that the majority of her customers today would be visitors to the art festival and that many of her regulars would stay away, Jack had promised to put in an appearance, tempted by the offer of an extra-large slice of her new goat’s cheese tart. She was offering it as a special along with her summer cream meringues, and had made an extra pot of her summer stew and added a Halloumi summer salad to the salad bar. Arranging and preparing the dishes last evening and early that morning had reignited some of her passion for her vocation. There was nothing she could do about Ben’s attitude toward her, or whatever was going on with Darla, but she could damn well make some good food.
Suzy was currently tucking into some of that good food, a large plate of tofu scrambles and a toasted homemade muffin, making appreciative noises although she looked as sullen as ever. Christian had left to set up his own exhibition at the diner, and Keeley thought that the young artist might be put out at the prospect of her boyfriend spending the day with the diner’s glamorous proprietor.
“Right, I’m going to open up,” Keeley said, checking the clock. Suzy nodded in between mouthfuls. During the morning, during the run up to the talk, she would be in the corner doing a sketch of the café itself, which Keeley thought was a lovely idea and had been flattered by, even if Suzy had just grimaced when Keeley expressed her delight.
As she opened up the café she looked down at the High Street, coming alive with the morning bustle as the other small-business owners in Belfrey got ready for their own day, the majority of them showcasing a local artist or two, from sculptors to card makers to graffiti artists. Later on, by the afternoon, the High Street itself would be full of stalls, and face painters and henna artists and the like. There was even going to be jugglers and a mobile tattooist from Matlock, Keeley had heard. She smiled to herself. Belfrey was finally coming into the twenty-first century. Growing up here, Keeley had often longed to escape its small-town stuffiness.
The first hour or so was quiet, with only Ethel coming in for her usual and then rushing off “before the tourists arrive,” and Keeley was pleased to see her usual Saturday morning regulars come in for breakfasts and smoothies, though the majority of them also hurried off noticeably quicker than usual. Keeley suspected it may have something to do with Suzy sitting in the corner sketching furiously away, an intent look on her face that was only interrupted by her looking up to scowl when customers asked her what she was working on or about her paintings. She wasn’t going to sell any with that attitude, but then Keeley had to wonder if she really intended to sell any at all, given the ridiculously high prices she had put on them.
Megan soon left to open up Crystals and Candles, and Darla made an appearance around midmorning, just as the café began to fill up with art lovers and tourists. Keeley was soon rushed off her feet, and glad when Darla pulled on an apron to help out, albeit with a look of weariness.
“You really need to get more organized,” her mother said, though there was no real criticism in her tone, more force of habit.
“Did you have a nice time last night?” Keeley asked before she could help herself as she chopped apples for the blender. Her mother paused, seemed to stiffen and then relax again before she looked Keeley dead in the eye.
“I need to talk to you later, dear,” she said in a low tone that sounded ominous to Keeley’s ears.
“What about?”
“Not now, dear,” Darla said in a firm voice that made Keeley feel about five years old again. “It’s very important, and I’m afraid you might be quite shocked.” Then she walked into the kitchen, leaving Keeley gaping after her. What could she want to tell her? The reason behind her odd behavior of late, certainly, but was it going to be the revealing of a new lover or the confession of something much worse?
Lunchtime fast approached, and Suzy stood up to do her talk. The café was heaving now, with a great deal of people unable to sit down and standing around the edges, drinking tea and eating meringues. Keeley had nearly run out of her goat’s cheese tart, and she began to cut a large slice for Jack before it ran out.
Right on cue, the door chimed and Jack came in, Bambi following faithfully behind him, woofing quietly and wagging his tail in excitement at the small crowd of customers. Suzy, who had been about to begin speaking, looked over at Jack and glared. Jack stared back, puffing on his pipe, until Suzy looked away, flustered. Keeley suppressed a smile. There wasn’t much, she reckoned, that could intimidate the old man.
“Here’s your tart,” Keeley said, sliding it over the counter toward him, “and there should be enough there for Bambi too.” The dog, hearing her mention his name, wagged his tail even harder, knocking into the legs of at least three people behind him.
“What’s she going on about then?” Jack asked a few minutes into Suzy’s talk.
“She’s doing a brief talk on accessing the muse, I believe,” Keeley said, “and then she’s going to unveil that big painting over there.”
“What’s with the secrecy? It’s just a painting.”
“I’m sure it will be very good.”
“Well, I can’t understand a word she’s saying.” Jack turned back to his tart, leaning on the counter. Keeley tried to tune in to what Suzy was saying as she went around collecting cups and plates to take in to her mother in the kitchen, who was washing up, in spite of the damage she insisted it would do to her manicure.
“A true artist,” Suzy was saying with more than a touch of arrogance in her voice, “should never shy away from the difficult subjects. Grief, anger, even brutality and abuse … these are all environments in which great art can grow, like a lotus from the mud.”
Keeley grimaced, although around her Suzy’s fellow artistes were staring at her in admiration. The door chimed, and Keeley looked over the heads to see who it was, wondering quite how she was supposed to fit any more people into the café. A tall, broad-shouldered man came through the door. She couldn’t quite see his face, but she knew that physique anywhere.
Ben.
She watched, suddenly frozen to the spot, as Ben made his way through the crowd toward her, his eyes focused on her face. People automatically moved out of the way for Ben, she noticed, without even seeming to register that they were doing so. Megan would no doubt put it down to his “aura.”
“Hey,” he said. Keeley just nodded, unsure of what to say, feeling her heart starting to pound in her chest and not wanting to say anything that would reveal her reaction to him. He sounded softer, more unsure of himself than he had on the phone the night before, and she felt a flutter of hope.
“Hello,” she said, in a formal tone that didn’t sound quite like herself somehow. “I didn’t think this would be your sort of thing?”
“It isn’t,” he admitted, “but I thought I would see how you were getting on. And I wanted to apologize for being short with you on the phone last night. It was a long day.”
“Right, I see. Thank you,” she said, still in that same tone. Next to her Jack was watching them with undisguised interest. There was an awkward silence. Flustered, Keeley turned her attention back to Suzy in an attempt to regain her composure. The artist was talking louder and faster now, reaching a crescendo, and moving toward the veiled painting, getting ready to reveal it. Keeley watched with genuine interest, eager to see what lay under the shiny fabric.
“As you will see from my latest project, I take inspiration from all that is dark in humanity,” Suzy said, lifting up a corner of the silk. “From death. From tragedy…” she pulled the silk from the canvas with a dramatic flourish.
“From murder.”
Keeley’s mouth fell open, and a collective gasp ran around the café. Darla, who was standing behind the counter, made a strangled sound. Bambi, picking up on the atmosphere, growled low in his throat. On the canvas, in a riot of color, was the depiction of a man, sitting twisted in a chair, covered in blood. Not just any man. Gerald Buxby.
Suzy had painted, in lurid and gory detail, the murder of the mayor of Belfrey.