Five days after her mother's body was taken from next door, there she was, Alice MacKensie-Wilcox, on my doorstep with a form for me to sign. The hoo-ha hadn't yet died down. After all, her mother 'Anita' (yes, the famous artist, but always 'Mrs WilcoxNext Door' to me) had been found dead of a sleeping pill overdose. I was having difficulty coming to terms with Mrs Wilcox's suicide, but as the doctor attending said to the TV cameras outside on our street, 'It's becoming more common amongst the elderly.'
It must have been 20 years since I'd seen Mrs Wilcox's Alice. But in that second, after I'd opened the door wide and wiped my hands on my apron, I flashed back to more than double those years and saw Alice, a bespectacled four-year-old the week the Wilcoxes moved in.
She'd come to introduce herself and her memorably precocious speech was oft quoted in our house: 'I'm Alice Mackensie-Wilcox, I'm four years old and I've come to see if you've a child I can play with?'
We had, but none so articulate. My youngest, Anne, and Alice became fast friends and were inseparable until their early teens. It was then that Alice's passion for insects got between them.
That Alice has inherited her father's looks was more evident now that she was approaching 50. She had his short-sightedness, his stoop and, poor thing, a hefty dose of his awkwardness. There she stood, pen and paper in hand, writhing with embarrassment.
Mrs Wilcox's racy circle had been appalled that her daughter had inherited none of her mother's legendary beauty. I'd heard this said many a time and often in Alice's hearing. I thought her life a rotten one and did what I could to bolster her ego.
Alice wouldn't accept tea or coffee. Isn't it the devil when people won't? The paper turned out to be a form for her mother's superannuation. She needed someone who knew her mother, but wasn't related, to witness her signature. We signed and she got up to leave. I could tell she had something more to say but had no idea how start. I offered every possible opening but it wasn't until we were at the front door that she broke down. I made out the odd word while steering her back to the lounge, again offering tea, but she threw me off in a fit of frustration, said I must come next door, she had something to show me. She was distraught, eyes full of panic.
Walking up Mrs Wilcox's garden path I was aware of a strange mixture of excitement, sadness and dread. It was years since I'd been inside the house.
I hadn't been estranged from Mrs Wilcox but after our children were grown there wasn't much reason for us to have regular contact. After all, you couldn't get two people more different. I've never worked, I was married to the same man for 53 years until his death three years ago and, really, all I've done is be a mum and these days a keen gran. For her part, Mrs Wilcox was the hugely successful painter, 'Anita', she'd had countless affairs, and was completely disinterested in being a wife, mother or homemaker. I live a quiet life; she was notoriously outspoken. Last year she caused a furore in the press over the plight of refugees. The only thing we had in common was age. We would both have turned 80 this year.
Over the years we'd developed our neighbourly habits. There's no way Mrs Wilcox would be twitching her curtains on neighbourhood watch duty, but even so I let her know when I'd be away and she did the same for me. Her trips abroad accompanying her work to exhibitions in Paris, New York, Milan, were exotic. Mine were to family. I still visit Anne and the children for a week twice a year and, up until last year, I was going to America every other year to visit Sarah, until my doctor ruled out international flights because of blood pressure. My youngest Simon visits regularly but seeing as he doesn't have children I don't bother with Brisbane (that awful humidity!)
For both of us, the trips had all but ceased. I can't remember the last time Mrs Wilcox was on my doorstep telling me where she was going and for how long. Even though for the last few years we'd rarely had occasion to see each other, we'd lived in gentle awareness of each other for fifty-one years.
As Alice and I headed along the hallway past the bedrooms, the house seemed smaller than I remembered. Memory plays strange tricks. It's still bigger than ours, of course, and much more grand. When we arrived at the back living area my heart did a sort of leap and I had to steady myself against the back of a chair and catch my breath. I was glad I'd tucked a hankie up my sleeve when I'd dressed that morning. The room was so full of her. I expected to see her lying on one of the sofas, sketchbook upon her knees, charcoal flying.
The back of the house had been modernised 10 or so years ago. I know because of builders' noise. I'd not been invited in to a viewing because Mrs Wilcox would never have thought to suggest something as mundane as coming in to look at renovations, even though there was nothing I'd have liked more.
Despite its newness - the modern glass doors that replaced the wall and looked out to the lawn and her studio beyond - there was evidence of her everywhere in just the way it had always been. Her paintings, of course, friends' works on the walls, sculptures taking up every available space. Piles of books, magazines. Familiar, lively, rich mess.
I found myself way back in time, having popped over to collect Anne because she'd refused to respond to my 'Dinner's ready!' calls over the fence. Forced away from my organised, apron-wearing existence to confront whatever was happening at the Wilcoxes. Butterflies and dry mouth notwithstanding, I'd head through the always-open front door, run the gauntlet of the hallway, into the den of iniquity, which was how I always thought of this back area.
You'd never know what to expect. It could be as mild as a poetry reading; but more often than not there'd be a nude person - fruit in their lap with any luck - modelling for a charcoal drawing, and always people, people.
Once or twice I'd stayed, my protests waived. I'd find myself halfway through a glass of red wine, the afternoon softened, melting into evening.
Late on one such afternoon, Mrs Wilcox whispered to me, 'Stay', during a general leave taking. My, 'But, the children's dinner...' was brushed aside and a surprisingly healthy feast of fruit and cheeses assembled for Alice and Anne. It was Clive's night at the Masons and the other two were out, so it didn't matter. She took me to her studio. I wouldn't take all my clothes off, but she said I was perfect in my underwear and made masses of drawings. She gave me the finished work a couple of weeks later. The oil paint was still so fresh it was intoxicating. Clive was appalled. What on Earth was I thinking? Was I drunk? (She'd painted me with the glass of red wine.) I put the painting away in the back of the wardrobe, where it's been ever since.
Surprisingly, Mrs Wilcox didn't drink, despite the fact that she was often in the midst of a party. She said it didn't mix with painting; she didn't have the discipline to work through a hangover. Like anything that got in the way of her work, husband included, alcohol got short shrift.
Alice hadn't stood a chance in the face of her mother's single mindedness. But, she'd survived and by all accounts had become an extremely successful entomologist. On the form that I signed, she was a 'Dr' but the scars were evident; her lack of social ease and the fact that she'd not formed a relationship (I won't add 'never had children', for two of my own, the childless ones, tell me that this is no longer a criteria for success or happiness).
I got my breath back and took in the fact that Alice was standing staring at the kitchen sink. I followed her over there and was struck, immediately.
'Is this how they found it, or has someone…?'
'No!' Alice interrupted, 'This is how it was.'
'But,' I stopped myself, not wanting to embarrass Alice.
'Go on,' she implored.
'It's never ever been like this. Look!' I picked up the gleaming milk saucepan then dropped it back immediately.
'There are no finger prints, I made them check,' said Alice.
'I wonder,' I began, 'If I could be perfectly and completely honest and you not take offence?'
'If you're going to say that my mother kept a filthy, shambolic kitchen and her disgusting sticky, never washed milk saucepan was the talk of the street, then don't worry, I knew.'
I really didn't know what to say. Mrs Wilcox's housekeeping, or rather lack of it, had been legendary in our suburb. A view of her milk saucepan was regarded as a coup and would be the talk of the street. As a rule I didn't join in gossip, but I have to confess to being fascinated by her complete disregard for, or any attempt to, keep up appearances. There was something delicious about living next door to a woman who didn't give a hoot about convention generally, and housekeeping in particular.
Mrs Wilcox's milk saucepan became the symbol for this. It was unbelievably filthy. Thickly encrusted with ring after ring of stale milk, I never saw it clean. While her friends would often be imbibing large quantities of alcohol, she'd be heating up more milk for yet another of her rich, dark, hot chocolates. She said the chocolate stimulated her creativity and, if she wanted to stay up all night to keep going on a piece of work, that was what she used. She offered me one once and ridges of aged, yellowy milk popped into my mind and I almost gagged.
Alice and I sat on either end of the sofa where Mrs Wilcox had done so many of her drawings. We put the gleaming milk saucepan on the coffee table in front of us.
'I know it looks like suicide. An empty bottle of sleeping pills was on the draining board.' Alice swallowed tears. 'But… the kitchen, the milk saucepan, was as you see it.'
'You don't think, if she had decided to take her life, that she may have had one final clean up?'
As soon as I said it, I knew it was absurd. Mrs Wilcox had that rare talent, among women anyway, of not noticing mess. When I think of how many hours I've put into keeping house, cleaning, wiping, tidying for visitors! It probably adds up to years. Scratch the surface of every housewife and you may well find a talented painter, sculptor or writer, if only she had the time!
'The delivery girl who found her called the police. They were here when I arrived. When I explained to the detective how a clean up was totally out of character, he laughed. 'Foul play suspected on account of a clean milk saucepan? Sorry love. The doctor had no hesitation in signing the death certificate.'
'But Alice, the alternative - it's just too awful to contemplate. It means…'
'Someone killed her,' Alice finished the sentence.
We were both absolutely stunned. Although I'd found the idea of Mrs Wilcox's taking her own life hard to swallow, I hadn't let myself think about what it meant if it wasn't suicide. I certainly hadn't let the word 'murder' enter my consciousness. A prickle of fear crept up my neck.
'Can we be absolutely sure it wasn't suicide?' I asked.
'She didn't leave a note. She abhorred drugs. She wouldn't even take an Aspirin,' Alice continued. 'Where would she have got prescription sleeping pills? She didn't see doctors.'
'Alice, she did get some sleeping pills. She went to the doctor about two weeks ago.'
Alice's face was stricken.
'Two weeks ago,' I said gently, 'your mother told me she was having trouble sleeping. She asked if I had noticed any unusual noises at night? I wondered if it could it be a prowler and offered to call the police. She refused and, when I telephoned next day, although she was edgy, she said everything was alright. She told me she'd been to the doctor who prescribed sleeping tablets.'
This timing struck a chord with Alice.
'Two weeks ago mother called my work, said she needed help. This was totally unprecedented. She never called me, nor asked for help. We had hardly any contact. We met so rarely, all we had were brief conversations about our work. Anyway, I was in South America picking up a colony of ants when I got the message. I called immediately and she said "You're no use to me on the phone". I tried to cut my trip short but there were no planes. As soon as we landed here, I settled the ants and dashed to her side. She said, "Problem solved". I pressed her, she refused to tell me, and we had a blazing row. That was the last time we spoke.'
Alice took off her glasses and sobbed. Deep, throaty moaning sobs. I found tissues, fetched a glass of water and patted her until she calmed down.
'You're not feeling responsible, are you Alice? When the police came next door and questioned me about her mental state,' I hesitated then said, 'I told them she'd been pretty fed up about her eyesight fading.'
'She wasn't depressed,' countered Alice. 'Worried, yes. The last time we spoke about her work she said, 'I'm in my Monet phase'. He struggled with blindness, you know. I know she didn't do it. I want an autopsy. I'm not having a funeral until I'm convinced that there was no foul play. I'm sorry to burden you, Mrs T. I couldn't think of anyone else to tell.'
'You're not to worry on my account,' I chastened Alice. 'I'm honoured to be in your confidence. But, what can be done? If the police accept it's suicide?'
Alice looked defeated.
'Alice, I don't want you to worry anymore,' I said in my most positive voice. 'If the police won't do anything, we'll investigate it ourselves.'
Alice's smile broke through her tears.
'I knew I could rely on you.'
I must confess, lying in the dark, hours later, wound up like a clock and unable to keep still let alone sleep, I wondered if, given my high blood pressure and the fact that I'll be 80 next month, I hadn't taken on rather too much.
Alice and I speculated about Mrs Wilcox's worries and our case for the rest of the afternoon. Perhaps Mrs Wilcox had been worried about security? A few years ago Alice insisted her Mother upgrade all her locks. She'd refused an alarm system, but security screens had been fitted over all windows. Given that there's a great deal of valuable art in the house, this was an excellent idea. Many of Mrs Wilcox's paintings are in art galleries and private collections, but she'd held onto favourites. Add friends' work, many well known, and you have a valuable stash. Maybe the 'unusual noises' Mrs Wilcox heard were from someone trying to get in?
'There's something very odd in here,' said Alice and she took me into her mother's bedroom. The room, unlike any other in the house, was completely bare of art. However, there were distinctive marks on the wall that showed where paintings had been.
'There were 25,' said Alice. 'All of Beatrix. She said she'd never part with them. I know they were here before I left for South America.'
'Do you think they've been stolen?' I asked.
'No,' said Alice and showed me a book her Mother kept of who bought her paintings and where they were. Under 'Beatrix x 25', it simply said, 'Lent Out. Safe Place.' It was clearly Mrs Wilcox's handwriting.
Other works were listed as in the state and national Art Galleries and with individuals. The Remingtons, of course, had the most substantial collection.
The Remingtons, Honey Remington specifically, had been Mrs Wilcox's patron. She'd recognised Mrs Wilcox's genius right from the beginning and it had been a mutually beneficial relationship. Mrs Wilcox's work was the instigation for the now famous Remington Gallery. The Remingtons' money had allowed Mrs Wilcox to flourish and not have to worry about teaching to make ends meet.
It hadn't been without its pressures, though. When Honey Remington decided to mount an exhibition, she'd be here on a daily basis making sure that Mrs Wilcox was applying herself and meeting her deadlines.
'Given that whatever happened is most likely related to your mother's work, our first investigative port of call should be Mrs Remington.'
But when Alice looked in her diary, she couldn't find a spot for us to meet with Mrs Remington until the middle of next week. Not only did Alice have her usual busy schedule, but she was on call to observe special activities in the South American ant colony. Just then, as if to prove how busy she was, her emergency beeper went off.
'You go, dear. I'll let you know what I find out,' I said.
Next morning, not early - I was acquainted with Mrs Remington's habits from years ago - I headed for the best street in town and knocked on her door.
I would have recognised Mrs Remington anywhere, although I hadn't seen her for more years than I cared to count. She was a tall woman, still very upright, and she cut a striking figure with her blonde hair (although that would be dyed these days) and piercing, blue eyes. She still favoured beautifully cut beige suits, understated jewellery and the glow that comes from being exceedingly pampered.
She didn't recognise me, which wasn't surprising. However, the length of time she took to register who I was reminded me how rude she was if she thought you not worth bothering with.
At first, walking past matching luggage in the hallway, I had a flash of amateur detective glory, thinking I'd come to the right place at the right time. I imagined apprehending a guilty Mrs Remington as she tried to escape the country.
She sat me down, ordered me tea and explained she'd just come back from a three-month cruise (so much for my citizen's arrest), then shed a few tears about Mrs Wilcox.
I asked her if she thought Mrs Wilcox had committed suicide?
'Anita would never take her own life! Her work may have taken a dive in popularity over the last two decades and prices dropped, but she was still working, healthy, positive! No!'
I ventured to suggest that if it hadn't been suicide, then foul play must have been involved. Mrs Remington was so horrified she all but pushed me out the door. On the way I did glean that she no longer had anything to do with the Remington Gallery. Her son Stewart had the reins. I also detected hostility. Stewart was always a difficult child, neglected, despite being surrounded by wealth. He'd performed oddly spiteful acts which Mrs Remington never believed him capable of.
On the doorstep, I asked about Miss Duke. She hesitated, then said, 'Beatrix is well looked after. She's at "The Laurels".'
Then she closed the door.
There was only one 'The Laurels' in the phone book. I rang, said who I was, that I was the neighbour of the recently deceased Mrs Wilcox, 'Anita', and asked did they have a Miss Beatrix Duke? I was informed that I wasn't on any of their inhabitants' visitor lists. Visits weren't encouraged as disruptions to routine caused distress. I asked, did The Laurels specialise in dementia? Although there was no absolute 'yes' reply, there was enough hesitation to convince me that this was indeed the case.
That night as I was having my sandwiches, Alice called and said, 'Switch on the TV news.' When I did, there was Stewart Remington, grin barely concealed, standing outside the Remington Gallery, being interviewed alongside another man who looked just like him. Stewart said that even though only a few days had passed since her death, Anita's work was enjoying a massive upturn in demand and Remington Gallery was mounting an exhibition in response.
I was particularly alerted when he said that there was a glaring hole in his collection. The 'Beatrix' series, paintings Anita made of her muse, were missing. He made a plea that anyone holding them came forward, for they were essential for the retrospective and would command a high price.
Minutes later, Alice was on my doorstep in a flap. There was something she hadn't told me.
'Actually, until that news broadcast, I hadn't put it together,' Alice wouldn't sit but paced, hands clasping and unclasping. 'Did you notice the man standing next to Stewart?'
'Yes,' I replied. 'I noticed how alike they are.'
'That's Marcus. Marcus appeared at my gym.'
It was so difficult to imagine Alice at the gym, I must have made a face.
'I have to go because I get back pain. Hunching over at the lab, computer,' she justified.
'That's marvellous, Alice. Everyone recommends it.'
'Marcus said he'd been an aerobics instructor and wanted to help me. He thought the gym was lax with people who weren't sporty. He asked me out, took me shopping, to his hairdresser. Recommended contact lenses. He's 20 years younger and I was waiting for the catch. After a couple of months I abandoned caution and I asked him, begged, practically, to come to bed.
'Immediately afterwards, he started in about Mother. "Where were the Beatrix paintings?" I knew, or rather assumed, they were in Mother's bedroom, but said I didn't know. Next day he came to the gym and barged into the ladies' change-rooms. "Where are the paintings?" he shouted. I was naked, frightened. I said, "I don't know!" Suddenly he seemed to believe me. "You really don't, do you! You disgusting, old..."
'There was more. I left for South America that night. If only I'd told Mother!'
That evening Alice accepted tea and some of my home-baked biscuits before going next door to stay.
Early next morning Alice called, distressed. When I offered to come over she said no, she'd come to me, for my house had always been a haven.
Apparently Alice, wearing only her mother's nightie, had been going through some papers when Stewart rapped on the glass doors. Alice got quite a shock and she had the feeling that this was just the effect he'd wanted. He barged his way in and wanted to know where were the missing 25 paintings?
She got rid of him, but she was very shaky.
Alice and I discussed everything we'd found out so far and decided to call the police. But when Alice recounted our story to the detective, that Mrs Wilcox had telephoned Alice in South America and called in on me, of Marcus's aggression, and of both his and Stewart's obsession with the missing paintings and, of course, the clean milk saucepan, I could tell she wasn't making much of an impression
Alice was very down when she got off the telephone.
I wanted to cheer her up and decided to show her my painting. I didn't say it was me and, given her reaction, I'm glad I didn't.
'Another person totally besotted by Anita,' she said.
'I beg your pardon?' I was thrown.
'Leaning forward, look of intense longing, parted lips, parted legs,' Alice spoke as if ticking items off on a list.
'You're reading too much into it,' I defended.
'Erect nipples?'
'She was cold.'
'There's a huge fire burning behind her.'
Not able to bear any more, I put the painting away.
After Alice left, a memory of sitting for the painting appeared, unsummoned. As if it were yesterday, I felt the touch of Mrs Wilcox's cool fingers as she adjusted my hair, the ripples of desire that flooded through me.
I first became aware of Mrs Wilcox's varied love life was when Mrs Honey Remington, having commissioned an exhibition, was panicking about Mrs Wilcox not meeting her deadlines. She insisted I use my spare key to let her in next door.
There'd been a party at the Wilcox's for days, but the noise had died down overnight and I thought they'd all left for one of their mad camping trips.
Much against my better judgement I unlocked the studio and Mrs Remington barged past me. Bottles, glasses, full ashtrays were strewn everywhere and there, in beautiful morning light streaming down from the skylight, were Mrs Wilcox and Mrs Duke naked on the rug (doing exactly what, I've never been able to fathom). Mrs Remington gave forth a stream of profanities and left. It took Mrs Wilcox weeks to forgive me and she never gave me the spare key again.
It was much later that night, when the memories began to fade and our present fix loomed large that I, unable to sleep, came up with my plan.
Strictly speaking, Remington's Gallery wasn't open while the huge exhibition of Mrs Wilcox's work was being mounted. The treacherous Marcus let me in when I told him I had one of the paintings they talked about on the television.
I was shown upstairs to Stewart's swanky office with its view of the park. Behind his desk in a neat kitchen, galley style, I think they call it, was Stewart, sporting rubber gloves, scrubbing away at a stainless steel percolator.
'How lovely to see a young man take such pride in his domestic duties,' I offered, my thoughts running to Mrs Wilcox's milk saucepan. I twittered on, old lady style, reminiscing about my knowing Stewart as a sweet boy (I had to make this up, obviously).
I tell them nobody knows of my painting's existence! Labour the point of how I live alone, how deaf I am. That, since Mrs Wilcox's death, I've hung the painting in my front upstairs bedroom. They're practically salivating by the time I leave.
My trap laid, all I had to do was wait.
I prepared for bed, then called Alice. As I'd thought, she was at the laboratory with the ants, who'd made an exciting break-away and were forming a new colony. She was up for the night.
So far, all was to plan. The lab was 12 minutes from my house at the most. Less, with no traffic.
'Just checking your number works, dear.' I said and settled down to watch from my bedroom window.
It wasn't in my plan to fall asleep! I thought I was far too nervous. I wake to noises. They're already in the house! The clock glows 4 am. I remember that was Mrs Wilcox's time of death.
I hear them moving around downstairs. I've lost precious minutes.
I find I'm absolutely frozen and they're getting closer. Finally, I manage to press 'redial' to Alice. But before I'm able to say anything, they're in the room. A torch blinds me. I try old lady asleep but the phone in my hand gives me away. It's grabbed, the cord ripped out of the wall. The torch flashes until it settles on my picture. I hear grunts of satisfaction. I swing my feet down to the floor but am pushed onto the bed, a big arm pins my chest.
A pillow is over my face, my arms trapped. I struggle, get a kick to one of them. One throws his full body weight on me now.
Then there's blackness. Silence.
Alice is pressing a lavender-scented flannel to my forehead when I come to.
A policewoman grins to see me awake.
'You are one truly amazing woman,' smiles Alice. 'Anita would be so proud of you.'
I was so grateful she didn't tell me off, call me a silly old lady.
'Did they…?' I whisper, barely able to get the words out.
'Both caught; with the picture.'
'How did you…?' I strain.
'Your number came up on my mobile. I knew something was up. The police were here within 10 minutes. Luckily.' Her eyes filled with tears. Mine, too, I confess; I'm not ready to go.
I squeeze her hand. She grabs mine, puts it up to her mouth and kisses it with such affection I'm quite taken aback.
'If you can bear any more excitement, I've found out where the missing pictures are,' she says.
I try to sit up.
'Tomorrow. Shhhh.'
'The Laurels', where Miss Beatrix Dukes is ending her days, is quite the nicest nursing home I'd ever seen. Her rooms are an art gallery. As well as the 25 beautiful portraits of Beatrix in her youth, there is one of Anita and Beatrix together, naked on the rug underneath the skylight, entwined around each other. It's entitled, 'Self-Portrait With Lover'.
The nurse said that although none of them can make any sense out of Beatrix on a daily basis, she seems quite lucid when talking to that painting.
The autopsy showed Mrs Wilcox had bruises 'commensurate with a struggle' and a well-hidden needle-mark puncture. Stewart Remington is being charged with murdering Mrs Wilcox with an overdose of morphine, with Marcus as his accessory.
After the forensics had their field day with the milk saucepan (there was no residue of sleeping pills, just aged milk and hot chocolate), Alice presented it to me mounted on a plinth, inscribed 'Mrs T. Domestic Goddess'.
I've put it on the hall table underneath my painting. That way no one can avoid noticing either trophy.