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  POISONED PALETTE

  A Fitzjohn Mystery

  JILL PATERSON

  Poisoned Palette

  Copyright © Jill Paterson 2017

  Cover design by Renee Barratt http://www.thecovercounts.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright holder.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN 978-0-9925840-3-0

  Print book ISBN 978-0-992584-4-7

  Publisher: J. Henderson, Australia

  Publication Date: January 6, 2017

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry.

  Creator: Paterson, Jill, author.

  Title: Poisoned Palette/Jill Paterson

  ISBN: 9870992584030 (ebook)

  Series: Paterson, Jill. Fitzjohn mystery; no.6

  Subjects: Detective and mystery stories.

  Australian fiction.

  Also by Jill Paterson

  The Celtic Dagger

  Murder At The Rocks

  Once Upon A Lie

  Lane’s End

  Deadly Investment

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Poisoned Palette

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Cast of Characters

  About The Author

  The Fitzjohn Mystery Series

  Connect with me on-line

  Poisoned Palette

  A Fitzjohn Mystery

  Featuring Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, Deadly Investment, is the sixth book in the Fitzjohn Mystery Series.

  An enthusiastic crowd gathered at Lyrebird Lodge in the Blue Mountains on that crisp autumn morning, all anxious to acquire one of Florence Fontaine’s much sought after paintings. However, the only art on one visitor’s mind is the art of murder.

  Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, unwittingly drawn into the case, launches his investigation that reveals a web of past and present jealousy, deceit and revenge, at a time when his own life is unravelling before his eyes.

  Meanwhile, Claire Reynolds, Florence’s business manager and organiser of the event, finds herself entangled in the police inquiry as evidence of her involvement is established. Traumatised, Claire is blind to the peril that surrounds her.

  CHAPTER 1

  The stench of fumes and burning rubber filled Claire’s nostrils as blood dripped from her fingertips and her ears rang with the scream of the engine. Bathed in sweat, she bolted upright, her eyes glaring into the darkened room.

  With the warmth of the sun on her face, Claire stirred, the terror of the night before diminished by the fragrance of the flowers on the wisteria vine wafting through the open window. Nonchalantly, she glanced at the clock on the bedside table before she glared at it in disbelief. That can’t be the time, she thought. Tell me it isn’t. Bolting from the bed, she ran to the shower, the weeks of planning in preparation for today’s auction tumbling through her mind. After all, she could not afford to be late as this was her first major event as business manager for Florence Fontaine, the renowned landscape artist.

  Surprisingly, after a flurry of activity mixed with panic, Claire emerged from her century old stone cottage in the village of Leura with a measure of calm. Now wearing a slim fitting floral dress, her fair shoulder-length hair swept into a chignon at the nape of her neck, she looked the epitome of not only elegance but also efficiency. Even so, tinges of anxiety and self-doubt swept over her as she opened the car door and slipped behind the wheel. Taking a deep breath she turned the ignition, well aware that today’s auction was crucial if Florence’s latest venture, to raise money for a gallery where struggling artists could exhibit their work, was to be realised. She was also aware that its success would reflect on her own abilities because the idea to auction Florence’s work as well as her favourite paint palette had been hers. If it failed, her new-found occupation could be in jeopardy. As this thought passed through her mind, she left the confines of the village and continued into the countryside towards Lyrebird Lodge estate, Florence’s home, and the venue for the auction.

  She arrived to find a large crowd already assembled with some milling around the marquee that had been set up the previous day, where the items up for auction could be viewed by prospective bidders. Others had claimed their seats early in the rows of chairs placed before the auctioneer’s lectern on the lawn in front of the lodge. The remaining participants, or inquisitive onlookers, were scattered some distance away, taking in the breathtaking view across the ruggedness of the Blue Mountains. With its deep inaccessible valleys and sheer cliffs that towered above eucalyptus forests, Claire paused to take in the scene, her confidence that the auction would be a success, growing. It was when she approached the assembled chairs in front of the lodge, however, and saw a grey-haired man with dark penetrating eyes watching her, that she faltered. Instantly, he looked away.

  ‘I did hope you’d have arrived earlier than this.’

  Claire spun around to the sound of Florence Fontaine’s shrill voice as she descended the steps of the verandah that ran wide and deep across the front of the lodge. A tall, elegant, figure dressed in a loose fitting blouse rich and brilliant in colour over a pair of tight black pants, she teetered on stiletto heels, the bangles on her wrists and the rings on her fingers, flashing in the morning sun. Still unaccustomed to Florence’s exuberance that lent an element of the theatrical some might call flashy, Claire flinched as doubt flooded her mind, yet again, as to her ability to tolerate the sixty-two year old’s passive aggressive nature.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Florence. My alarm failed to go off.’

  ‘I don’t want excuses, Claire. What I do want is a successful auction and to make that happen you have to do two things for me. Firstly, make sure my stepsister, Carolyn, who has just arrived unannounced with that useless husband of hers, doesn’t get an opportunity to speak to me. She only turns up when she wants something and that’ll be money. Secondly, I want you to keep that café owner, Aiden Farrell and that daughter of his, out of my sight. He’s an utter pest. His only interest here is to persuade me to sell the estate, and that I don’t intend to do. And as far as his daughter is concerned, well, she’s like her father, an opportunist.’ Claire could see Aiden and his daughter, Lucy, mingling amongst the crowd. She had avoided contact with either of them since her arrival in the village to take up her position; a post that Lucy had convinced herself was to be hers. Even Florence’s reassurance that this was not the case, had not stilled the uncertainty Claire felt as to whether she had made the right decision in taking up the post.

  ‘Are you all right?’ continued Florence. ‘You’re very pale.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Claire lied, casting her eye across the occupied chairs in front of the lectern to find the grey-haired man no longer there. ‘I’ll do my best
to keep Mr Farrell at bay as well as your stepsister,’ she said, turning back. ‘Which one of the ladies is she, by the way?’

  Florence chuckled. ‘That’s the first time I’ve heard Carolyn referred to in quite that manner. Amusing to say the least. She’s over there.’ Florence pointed in the direction of a chubby woman in a tight red dress with a fascinator perched on top of a pile of auburn hair. ‘She never did have much dress sense. The man trailing after her is her husband, Frank. I don’t see Farrell at the moment but he’ll be here, somewhere, probably drumming up business amongst my potential bidders. I’m sure you’ve run into him enough by now to know what a rogue he is.’

  ‘I have,’ replied Claire, well acquainted with Farrell’s leering looks and unwanted advances.

  ‘In that case, you know what an obnoxious creature he is.’ Florence turned to go. ‘Oh, one more thing. That architect you arranged to meet with here to clarify my requirements for the new annexe; he arrived early this morning. In fact, he woke me up.’

  ‘But our meeting isn’t until tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, he got it wrong and I haven’t seen him leave so get rid of him, Claire. I don’t want the proceedings interrupted.’

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ said Claire as Florence moved away.

  ‘She’s in fine form this morning. I received my orders on arrival as well.’ Claire spun around to find Laura Evans, her work colleague and Florence’s art shop sales assistant. Another new arrival in the village, Laura had moved from Sydney to take up her position just two months earlier. Claire initially thought they would find common ground as they embarked on their new found positions and they had to some extent but even so, she sensed a degree of reticence in Laura as if she did not want to become too familiar. As a result, Claire remained friendly but, at the same time, distant in her dealings with her.

  ‘She’s probably anxious that the auction will be a success,’ replied Claire, trying to hide her uncertainties concerning Florence’s rigid attitude. ‘If it isn’t, her plans will have to be shelved.’

  ‘Well, Audrey Green’s presence isn’t helping,’ continued Laura. ‘She’s here with that Don Juan husband of hers.’ Claire’s shoulders sank. ‘What’s more, she had a few words to say to Florence when she arrived this morning. I couldn’t hear exactly what was said but if her body language was anything to go by, she wasn’t wishing her a successful auction.’

  ‘She certainly looks ready for battle,’ said Claire as her gaze fell upon Audrey’s short, squat shape poised at the entrance to the marquee, her attention taken by her husband, Jack Green, and his proximity to Florence.

  ‘All I can say is, if Jack so much as utters a word to Florence, sparks will fly,’ replied Laura with an amused look.

  ‘In a way, it would serve Florence right if Audrey did make a scene. She does nothing to discourage Jack Green,’ said Claire, eyeing Florence who stood riveted in conversation with the auctioneer and appeared oblivious to the drama being played out around her and unaware that she played the leading role.

  ‘That’s because, if the truth be known, she likes the attention,’ replied Laura.

  ‘Well, it might be about to backfire on her,’ said Claire as they watched Jack reach Florence’s side and whisper in her ear. As he did so, however, a hush fell over those assembled and Audrey Green became immobilised amongst the bidders who surged forward.

  Claire also found herself in their midst, unable to ward off Florence’s stepsister, her chubby figure slipping in next to Florence.

  ‘You’re to be commended, Claire. It’s a fine turn out.’ Claire turned to see Aiden Farrell, his heavy-lidded ferret-like eyes ogling at her.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Farrell.’

  ‘Oh, now, we can’t have that,’ he continued, his hand stroking the small of her back. ‘As I’ve told you before, you must call me Aiden.’ Claire shook him off and looked away. ‘I don’t suppose you could persuade Florence to give me a few minutes of her time when the auction’s finished, could you?’

  ‘Not today because, as you can see, her time is taken up.’ Farrell followed Claire’s gaze to Florence. ‘I suggest you make an appointment with her for next week.’

  ‘I’ve tried that. It didn’t work.’

  ‘In that case, I suggest you try again. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

  Claire walked away, beyond the edge of the crowd to stand near to where a tall dark-haired young man stood alone.

  ‘I hope they get underway soon,’ he said after a while, his American accent taking Claire by surprise.

  ‘I don’t think it’ll be too long now,’ she replied with a quick smile.

  ‘I saw you speaking to Florence Fontaine earlier. Do you know her?’

  ‘Yes. I’m her business manager, Claire Reynolds.’

  ‘Matthew Avery,’ he replied, taking Claire’s outstretched hand. ‘I’m hoping for a successful bid on one of Ms Fontaine’s works of art.’

  ‘Are you a collector?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. If the opportunity comes along when I’m travelling, I like to take something back home to the States with me to remember my visit by. And particularly in this case, since I’m an admirer of her work.’

  As the auction got underway, Claire returned to Florence’s side. ‘Where have you been?’ said Florence under her breath. Realising that this question did not require an answer, Claire contented herself with watching as painting after painting was presented and sold in quick succession. ‘I can’t believe this,’ said Florence at last, squeezing Claire’s hand. ‘We’re doing better than I ever dreamt possible. This auction was a brilliant idea, Claire.’

  ‘And now ladies and gentlemen, to bring the auction to its conclusion, we have a special item on offer,’ called out the auctioneer. ‘A palette used by the artist herself over the past thirty-five years. What am I bid?’ Immediately hands were raised, the auctioneer’s voice quickening as bids escalated and rose to a crescendo with, ‘Going once, going twice, sold to the gentleman to my left for three thousand four hundred and fifty dollars.’ With that, the auctioneer’s hammer fell.

  Claire scanned the crowd to see who the lucky buyer was and her eyes came to rest, once again, on the man with the grey hair. Almost at once, her sense of panic returned.

  As the crowd dispersed, Florence encouraged those who remained to join her in the marquee for a celebratory glass of champagne to toast the auction’s success. Soon encircled by a convivial gathering, and with a glass in her trembling hand, Claire tried to still her unyielding sense of unexplained disquiet. It was not eased, however, when amid the din and as those around her listened to Florence’s words of gratitude, she glimpsed the man with the grey hair, once again, in the sea of faces. As their eyes met, he lunged forward towards the entrance knocking her glass and sending droplets of champagne across her dress. Incensed, she placed her untouched glass down on the refreshments table and emerged from the marquee only to see his receding back. Later, she would remember the applause, so poignant before the scream that followed. One of horror. Claire ran back inside pushing her way through the crowd to find Florence gasping in a futile effort to breath. She screamed and lunged forward but as she did so, Florence crumpled to the floor, terror radiating in her brilliant blue eyes before all but a deathly stare remained.

  CHAPTER 2

  Pleased that his joint investigation with the Blue Mountains Local Area Command had been a success, Fitzjohn closed his briefcase, shrugged into his suit coat and prepared to leave the Springwood Police Station. As he did so, he looked at his watch, aware that his sergeant, Martin Betts was waiting for him in the car. Nevertheless, he could not leave without saying goodbye to Sidney Blake, the local area command’s Chief Superintendent. Adjusting his wire-framed glasses, he picked up his briefcase and made his way to Blake’s office where he found the door open and the Chief Superintendent on the telephone. As Fitzjohn appeared in the doorway, Blake terminated his call and put the receiver down.

  ‘Fitzjohn. Just the man I wan
t to see. Come in.’

  ‘I came to say goodbye, sir. Is there something else?’

  ‘There is as a matter of fact. I want to ask a favour of you.’ Blake gestured to the chair in front of his desk. ‘I’ve just received word that there’s a suspected homicide outside the village of Leura. You’re aware our manpower is stretched to the limit with the spate of robberies in the area of late, not to mention the motor vehicle accidents with the unpredictable weather we’ve been experiencing. Can you stay on for a few more hours? I need someone who knows what they’re doing to attend the scene.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘I don’t have any pressing reason to get back to the city. Can I ask what the circumstances are, sir?’

  ‘It’s rather sad, actually,’ replied Blake, clasping his hands together on the desk in front of him. ‘The victim is one of our more prominent citizens in the region, if not the country. An artist by the name of Florence Fontaine.’

  Fitzjohn looked at the Chief Superintendent with surprise. ‘I know her work. She’s a world renowned landscape artist.’

  ‘She is, and that’s why I want to keep this quiet and away from the media until we have all the facts. You’ll find her at her estate, Lyrebird Lodge. I’ll have Constable Harris accompany you to show the way. Evidently, she was holding an auction of her work this morning, a fundraiser for a cause she was interested in. At the end, she collapsed for no apparent reason. At first, it was thought she’d had a heart attack, but it seems the pathologist who’s in attendance sent word there might be another reason at play. That’s why we’ve been asked to attend.’

  Together with the constable Blake had assigned to him, Fitzjohn emerged from the station into the fresh mountain air and crossed the parking area to where Betts, his ginger-haired young sergeant waited in the car. ‘I hope you haven’t got anything pressing waiting for you in the city, Betts because we’ve been asked to attend a suspected homicide,’ he said, bending down to look through the open car window. ‘Harris here is coming along to show us the way.’ With a shade of disappointment evident in his expression, Betts turned the ignition. ‘It shouldn’t delay us for too long,’ continued Fitzjohn as he settled himself into the passenger seat and pulled the seat belt over his rotund shape. ‘We just have to report back with our findings and then we’ll be on our way. I’ll explain the details as we drive.’