ONCE UPON A LIE (A Fitzjohn Mystery) Read online

  ‘Well, in making your decision just keep in mind how difficult it can be to run a winery from a distance when you have to rely on someone you’ve employed.’ Rafe hesitated. ‘I’m not trying to put you off or anything, Charlotte. ‘It’s just that… Well, I’m sure you’ll come to the right decision.’

  ‘I’m sure I shall,’ she replied.

  ‘I should ask then whether you’d like me to carry on for the time being? It’s just that there’s still quite a bit that needs to be done. I’m happy to continue with the arrangement I made with Michael.’

  Charlotte felt Rafe’s impersonal edge, and her thoughts went to Pierce Whitehead’s warning that Rafe coveted Five Oaks Winery. Was it true?’ She tried to dismiss the thought. She knew why her mother did not like Rafe Simms, and it was nothing to do with Five Oaks. How can I be swayed by something Pierce Whitehead told me, she argued with herself. ‘Yes. I’d appreciate that, Rafe.’

  ‘Fine then,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’ll speak to you before you leave. It’ll be nice to see Esme again. It’s been a long time.’

  A feeling of loss swept over Charlotte as she watched Rafe climb in to his truck and give a nonchalant wave before driving off. Charlotte turned and started to walk slowly back toward the house. They had once been so close and at ease with each other. Rafe’s uncharacteristic distance had unnerved her. But what did I expect, she thought. Our relationship has been over for a long time. Or have I only just realised that fact. It’s my own fault for turning up here out of the blue. I’ve embarrassed him. Unless, of course, Pierce Whitehead is to be believed. As she reached the verandah of the house, she looked out across the endless rows of vines. This place is certainly worth coveting. Inside, she found Esme sitting in the living room looking through an old photo album.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Charlotte. Were you able to speak to Rafe about the harvest?’

  ‘Yes. It’s all finished.’ Charlotte slumped down in to a chair.

  ‘What is it, dear? You look a bit down.’ Esme removed her glasses and put them on the table next to her chair before she closed the album. ‘Has seeing Rafe again upset you?’

  ‘You’re very perceptive , Esme.’

  ‘Well, it’s understandable, isn’t it? You two were engaged to be married. It can’t have been easy seeing him again.’

  ‘No. It wasn’t,’ said Charlotte, thinking about Sally. ‘But it’s also something he said that made me wonder... I’m probably wrong, but it was almost as though he was advising me to sell Five Oaks.’ Charlotte recounted her conversations with Rafe. ‘What do you think, Esme?’

  Esme sat in thought for a minute or two. ‘Perhaps he was merely letting you know the possible pitfalls you could face if you decide to run the winery from a distance. Although having said that, I seem to remember he did make an offer for Five Oaks just before your mother took over its management.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ replied Charlotte.

  ‘Oh, it was long before you and Rafe started seeing each other. And it was only a verbal offer, you understand, when he found out your grandfather planned to sell. I think it spurred your mother in to a decision. She’d been undecided for months about taking on the winery, and your grandfather got tired of waiting.’ Esme paused. ‘And as far as Pierce Whitehead’s claims about Rafe are concerned, I’m sure Pierce wouldn’t know your mother’s real reason for disliking Rafe. She’d never have disclosed that to a member of her staff.’

  ‘I know you’re right, but I can’t help wondering...’

  ‘About what?’ asked Esme. ‘About whether that was the reason he asked you to marry him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Charlotte. Do you really think that Rafe Simms is that sort of person?’ Esme sighed. ‘To be quite frank, my dear, I don’t see that there’s a dilemma. You turned Rafe down so as far as I can see, the matter’s closed. Unless, of course, you’re still in love with him.’

  ‘It’s too late for that, Esme. Rafe’s moved on.’

  ‘Oh. I see. Another woman.’

  Charlotte nodded.

  Esme got to her feet. ‘Didn’t you mention that you wanted to gather together all the papers that relate to the winery while we’re here. I think this is a good time to do that. Let’s get busy, my girl.’ Charlotte followed Esme out of the living room and into the study. ‘Oh, I remember this room when your grandfather was alive,’ said Esme, standing in the doorway. ‘And it’s almost as he left it.’ Esme cast her eyes around before they came to rest on a photograph on the wall above the bureau. ‘I remember when this was taken,’ she said, walking over. ‘It was just after I’d got news that Thomas was lost in action. Your grandmother, my sister, invited me here to stay with them for a while.’ Esme fell silent before her gaze lowered to the bureau beneath the photograph. ‘And this bureau was Thomas’s. I gave it to your grandfather. He and Thomas had been good friends.’ Esme opened the bureau letting down the writing desk. ‘I seem to remember a hidden compartment here somewhere. I used to keep Thomas’s letters in it. And if I’m not mistaken...’ As Esme pushed the surface above the desktop, a small drawer popped open. ‘Voila!’ A smile of satisfaction came to Esme’s face before it turned to one of surprise. ‘Oh, look, there are still letters inside. Surely they’re not mine.’ Esme peered into the small space and her smile faded.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Charlotte.

  ‘There are three letters here. All addressed to your mother.’ Esme handed the envelopes to Charlotte.

  Charlotte studied each one. ‘Should we open them? Or should we put them back.’ She looked across at Esme. ‘After all, letters are private. Even when you’ve passed away.’

  ‘It’s up to you, Charlotte.’

  ‘Well, the addresses on the envelopes are printed so I doubt they’re personal. I’ll just have a peak,’ she said with a smile. Charlotte took the first letter from its envelope, unfolded it and gasped.

  ‘What is it?’

  Charlotte handed the letter to Esme. ‘It’s not a proper letter, Esme. The words have been pieced together from newspaper and magazine print. And look what it says. It reads like a poison pen letter. Who would send such letters?’

  Esme put her glasses on and read the letter. ‘Someone with a twisted mind,’ she said, frowning.

  CHAPTER 15

  Charlotte sat at one of the coffee shop’s outdoor tables, absentmindedly turning the pages of the morning paper. The letters she and Esme had found at the winery the day before played on her mind, overshadowing her thoughts about Michael’s death.

  ‘You’re back.’ Charlotte looked up to see Phillipa Braithwaite. ‘I called at the bookshop yesterday and Irene said you and Esme had gone to the winery.’

  ‘We did. I thought I should speak to Rafe about the harvest.’

  ‘That must have been awkward for you,’ said Phillipa, sitting down.

  ‘Mmm. It was a bit.’ Charlotte cast her mind back to Sally’s appearance. ‘But, it had to be done. And besides, I wanted to get all the papers concerning Five Oaks, just in case I decide to sell.’ Charlotte folded the newspaper.

  ‘But I thought you weren’t interested in selling the winery.’

  ‘I wasn’t, but now...’

  Phillipa eyed Charlotte. ‘Don’t tell me your change of mind is because of Rafe Simms. You ended that relationship almost two years ago, Charlotte. It shouldn’t be a problem.’ Charlotte did not reply. ‘So, what else did you and Esme get up to while you were there?’ continued Phillipa.

  ‘Actually, we found something rather disturbing. In an old bureau that once belonged to Esme’s fiancé, Thomas. Esme said that while Thomas was in Korea, she’d kept his letters there, in a small drawer. When she opened that drawer there were still letters inside, but not from Thomas. These were letters addressed to my mother. Three of them, sent anonymously, each telling her that Richard was seeing someone else. And they weren’t written or typed, but made up from newspaper and magazine print.’ Charlotte sighed. ‘Poor Mum. Just when she and Richard wer
e getting their lives back together. I wish I’d known.’

  ‘Did you say there were three letters?’

  ‘Yes.’ Charlotte caught Phillipa’s surprised look. ‘Did you know about them, Phil?’

  ‘I knew your mother had received one because I was there when she opened it. I didn’t know there’d been others.’ The words cut through Charlotte. ‘Your mother made me promise not to say anything to anyone. And after her death… well, it had been so traumatic for everyone concerned that I didn’t want to bring the matter up. I’m sorry, Charlotte. I should have said something, but the time never seemed right.’ Phillipa paused. ‘Where are the letters now?’

  ‘They’re at Esme’s. I’m staying with her at the moment. I didn’t like the thought of her being alone in the house after that break-in. I was going to tear the letters up, but Esme said we should give them to the police. Especially since Michael had said he was looking for letters when he went to Esme’s that night.’

  ‘I think Esme’s right. The police need to be told, Charlotte, because they are asking questions about your mother. I know because they came to see me the other day.’

  ‘Really? Well, I suppose that’s because Michael told Esme he wanted to look through Mum’s study.’ Charlotte took a sip of her coffee not wanting to revisit thoughts of her mother’s death. But perhaps now, with these letters surfacing, and Michael’s death, she would have no choice.

  ‘I take it they haven’t spoken to you about her yet.’ Charlotte shook her head. ‘Well, they probably will.’ Phillipa looked at her watch. ‘Look, I have a meeting to attend so I’m going to have to go, but why don’t we meet later for lunch.’

  ‘I’d love to Phil, but I can’t,’ replied Charlotte. ‘There’s something I have to do. It’s about that sketch I lent to Michael.’

  ‘The Brandt sketch?’

  ‘Yes. Apparently, Mum had been looking in to its provenance before she died.’

  ‘Well, that does surprise me because I believe she bought it from my boss, Aiden Maxwell, and he’s nothing but reputable.’

  ‘I don’t know why she was doing it, but as I plan to sell the sketch I thought I’d follow it up.’

  ‘Do you know how long and arduous a task that could be, Charlotte?’

  ‘I can only imagine, but Mum did leave quite detailed notes about what she planned to do. I’ll follow them as best I can.’

  Phillipa smiled. ‘Well, in my experience, enthusiasm is the first thing that goes so when it does, let me know and I’ll give you a hand. And I won’t tell Aiden. He’d be mortified if he knew your mother doubted him.’

  Later that day, Charlotte made her way to Balgowlah and the home of Douglas Porteous in an effort to further her mother’s research in to the provenance of the Brandt sketch. She pulled over to the curb in front of a red brick Federation style semi, but hesitated before climbing out of the car. Unlike Claudia, Charlotte had little knowledge of the art world, and being unaware of what had transpired between her mother and Douglas Porteous when they met in 2010, she wanted to decide how to approach him. The house was situated on the low side of the street and on opening the front gate, she descended six steps in to an immaculate front garden, its walk way bordered by white standard roses. Their scent filled the air around her as she made her way to the porch where she tentatively knocked on the front door. When it opened, she was greeted by a plump woman wearing a yellow floral dress, her curly grey hair framing a round smiling face. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

  ‘My name’s Charlotte Rossi. I’m looking for Douglas Porteous.’ The woman’s smile disappeared.’

  ‘I’m Eunice Porteous. My husband died some time ago.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry. I had no idea.’

  ‘You weren’t to know.’ Eunice Porteous eyed Charlotte guardedly. ‘What is it you wanted to see Douglas about? One of his orders that never got filled? If that’s the case, then I’m very sorry. I probably didn’t get in contact with all his customers at the time of his death.’

  Charlotte shook her head. ‘No, Mrs Porteous, it’s nothing like that. It’s about a piece of art work.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘A piece of art work. A sketch that my mother, Claudia Rossi, bought just before she died.’

  Eunice Porteous folded her arms. ‘Well, as I said, my husband is gone, and besides, he was a furniture maker. He wasn’t an artist.’

  ‘I’m not saying that he was, Mrs Porteous. According to this,’ Charlotte held up the documentation her mother had left, ‘your husband was the previous owner of a sketch. A Brandt sketch. And I understand that my mother came to see him about it in mid-June 2010.’ Eunice Porteous tensed. ‘She was making enquiries about its provenance, but unfortunately she died before she completed her task.’

  ‘Well, as I said, you’re mistaken. You have the wrong Porteous.’

  I don’t think so, thought Charlotte as she watched the door close in her face. Surprised as well as intrigued by Eunice Porteous’s reaction at the mention of the Brandt sketch, Charlotte walked back through the garden to her car. Had her mother encountered a problem when she had approached Douglas Porteous? Is that why the report remained unfinished? Charlotte climbed into her car, opened the report and reread it. Aiden Maxwell’s name caught her eye. She knew her mother had worked closely with Aiden on a number of projects. Surely she would have spoken to him about her concerns for the sketch’s provenance. Charlotte started the car and as she did so, the sheer curtain on the main front window of Eunice Porteous’s house moved. She’s obviously frightened, but what of thought Charlotte?

  Charlotte recognized Aiden Maxwell as soon as she walked in to the Paddington gallery later that afternoon. ‘Mr Maxwell,’ she said as he glided across the room toward her. ‘I’m Charlotte Rossi, Claudia Rossi’s daughter.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I remember you well, my dear,’ he answered, a wide smile on his face. ‘We met at a number of your mother’s soirees.’ Maxwell took Charlotte’s hand and kissed it before adjusting his brilliant blue bow tie. ‘How can I help? Are you interested in a particular piece?’ he asked, looking round the room with his arm flung out.

  ‘Not at the moment. Actually, Aiden, I’ve come to see you about a sketch that my mother purchased here. It’s by an artist called Brandt.’

  ‘And a very good choice it was too. I told her so at the time.’

  ‘And I know she loved it. However, it’s come to my attention that my mother wasn’t satisfied with its provenance.’

  Aiden Maxwell’s smile left his face. ‘Its provenance? But why?’ Charlotte could feel Maxwell’s growing agitation.

  ‘That I don’t know. I thought she might have spoken to you about it.’

  ‘I wish she had.’ Maxwell shook his head. ‘This is most distressing. I don’t know what to say, Charlotte, other than you let me look in to the matter. You can appreciate, I’m sure, that my reputation is at stake here.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ replied Charlotte. ‘It wasn’t my intention to create a problem . And I didn’t expect you to have to look in to the provenance yourself.’

  ‘I’m more than happy to do so. After all, the gallery sold the painting to your mother. The least we can do is to put your mind at ease as to its authenticity.’

  ‘Well in that case, I have a report here that mum was working on. It might help you get started.’ Charlotte handed the report to Aiden Maxwell. ‘This afternoon, I spoke to Douglas Porteous’s widow. Mr Porteous is mentioned in the report as a previous owner of the sketch. But Mrs Porteous denies her husband ever owned it.’

  ‘I see. Well, I’ll keep that in mind when I speak to her.’

  CHAPTER 16

  Fitzjohn and Betts stood at the whiteboard discussing their investigation when the Incident Room door opened and the Duty Sergeant appeared.

  ‘There’s someone here to see you, Chief Inspector,’ he said. ‘Marion Davies from the New South Wales Art Gallery. She says you’re expecting her.’

  ‘I am, Serg
eant. Ask her to come in, will you?’ As the Duty Sergeant left, Fitzjohn nodded to Betts who returned to his desk. Fitzjohn took his suit coat from the back of his chair and slipped it on before straightening his tie. As he did so, a plainly dressed woman, wearing dark rimmed glasses, came through the door. Her blue eyes darted between the two men before settling on Fitzjohn.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, Ms Davies,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Betts.’ Marian nodded at Betts as she sat down on the chair in front of Fitzjohn’s desk. ‘We appreciate your taking the time to come in to see us.’

  ‘I was told at the gallery that you want to speak to me about Michael Rossi,’ she said, putting her handbag on the floor next to her flat black shoes. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I heard about his death,’ she continued. ‘I’d been speaking to him only the day before.’

  ‘So we understand,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘What time was that, exactly?’

  ‘It was late in the afternoon. After four. Just before I left for the day.’

  ‘And, can I ask what Michael Rossi wanted to see you about, Ms Davies?’

  ‘Yes. He wanted to ask me about his sister, Claudia. He knew we’d worked together at the gallery, you see.’

  ‘And how long had you and Claudia worked together?’

  ‘We started at about the same time, so it was June 2003.’

  ‘And you became friends?’

  Marian Davies thought for a minute. ‘I wouldn’t say we were friends,’ she said, pushing her glasses back up over the bridge of her nose. ‘That is, Claudia never confided in me as friends might have occasion to do. No. I’d say we were colleagues.’

  Fitzjohn sensed a level of indignation in Marian Davies voice. ‘So you didn’t meet socially.’

  ‘No, Chief Inspector. The only social contact we ever had was at a dinner party Claudia held. At the time, I suspected I was invited to make up numbers.’ Marian smoothed down her grey skirt. ‘In fact, that dinner party was what Michael Rossi wanted to talk to me about last Friday afternoon.’