“Have you got a cardigan?” she reminded Flora, as they crossed the road to a gleaming, stucco-fronted gallery. “You’ll catch a chill like that.”
Flora looked over her armful of cardboard with a sheepish expression. Alice pulled a spare pashmina out of her handbag and draped it over her shoulders. “Honestly, it’s a wonder you haven’t been struck down with pneumonia by now.”
Flora laughed. “Like Jane, in Pride and Prejudice.” She sighed happily at the thought while Alice held open the gallery door and followed her in. Trust Flora to view a deadly virus with such rose-tinted romanticism. Pride and Prejudice—the classic, Colin Firth BBC miniseries, of course—had become an institution in their household from the moment Flora and Jasmine arrived. Every Christmas, it was mandated that after the family meal, they all gather around the tree, pass out presents, and settle in for six hours of Flora swooning over breeches and Regency banter. Alice could recite Darcy’s “long have I struggled” speech from memory, such was the ardent devotion those first merry notes of the theme tune inspired.
“Flora, sweetheart!” A jovial man approached, landing air kisses on the both of them with practiced ease. “And this must be your sister. Great to meet you, Alice, was it? Gregory Kirk.”
“Nice to meet you.” Alice shook his hand, deftly juggling her load. He had a Greek, or Cypriot, look to him, with tanned skin, dark, curly hair, and a voice that boomed out in the empty gallery.
“Thank God you could drop by and lend your expert eye to all of this.” Gregory ushered them deeper into the pristine white space. “Helena here has been getting in a terrible muddle over the hanging.”
Helena there didn’t look particularly muddled. In fact, the tall, tawny woman with the clipboard was the picture of blond efficiency—black-rimmed spectacles low on her nose and a crisp white sundress showing not a smudge or sweat mark. “Flora, so good to see you again.” She greeted her with a broad smile. “I’m just thrilled about the show, aren’t you?”
Flora beamed. “I brought copies of everything,” she said eagerly. “So we could see how things worked, with different arrangements.”
“Lovely,” Helena agreed, taking in the large piles of prints Alice and Flora were bearing. “Well, we better get to it.”
Turning to Helena, Flora gave a perky grin. “So, did you want to start with my Rosebud period or Reflections on a Garden Path?”
***
Alice wandered the gallery for a while, taking in the current exhibition: a stark, modern series of abstract paintings, full of angry slashes and exclamatory dots. Flora was still happily chatting away to Gregory about the need to put the lilac pastels next to the pond sketches, so Alice slipped outside and found Helena smoking on the front curb. She was sucking in the cigarette with barely disguised relief, exhaling in a long, elegant plume.
“Have you worked here long?” Alice asked, leaning against the front window.
Helena nodded, hair falling in a flat, shiny sheet. “I’m the manager.” She flicked ash onto the pavement.
“It’s a great space.”
Helena inclined her head slightly. “Thank you. We have a reputation for showing some of the most provocative, challenging artists around.” Her gaze drifted back through the open door, and Alice was certain she saw her lip lift, in the smallest sneer.
“Well, Flora’s show should be a big draw.” Alice felt curiously defensive. “She’s very popular.”
“Yes,” Helena agreed, looking amused. “She is, isn’t she? Gregory just loves her little prints.”
Alice narrowed her eyes, but before she could say anything, Flora came breezing out. “All done!” she declared. Helena’s features rearranged themselves into pleasant enthusiasm.
“Fab!” she cooed, kissing Flora again. “I can’t wait.”
“Me either,” Flora agreed happily. “Looking back at some of those old paintings, I can’t believe how far I’ve come.”
Alice, who had seen everything from Flora’s earliest watercolor smudges on, had to agree. Her work may not be as provocative or challenging as Helena desired, but it had a certain quintessential charm—if you enjoyed Meditations on a Wheelbarrow, that is.
***
After a lunch of Iberian charcuterie and artisan breads (since it was apparently impossible to find a plain ham sandwich within a mile-wide radius of Westbourne Grove), Alice and Flora strolled back to the car. The day was finally warming, with hints of sun glinting between the wash of gray clouds; Alice shrugged off her cardigan and rolled up the sleeves of her printed silk blouse, enjoying the brief flashes of warmth on her face.
“Do you mind if we take a detour?” she finally suggested, as Flora searched her handbag for the keys. “I need to drop by…” Alice consulted the printed address. “Westbourne Gardens.”
“Sure,” Flora agreed. “Just as soon as I find…Aha!” She triumphantly held the pink-beaded keychain aloft. “What’s there?”
“I don’t know yet.” Alice climbed in. “I’m trying to track down some of these payments.”
“From Ella?” Flora paused. “I thought Stefan’s people were handling all that.”
“They are,” Alice agreed quickly, should Flora think she was ungrateful. “And they’ve been great. Thank you, again.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Flora insisted.
“It isn’t,” Alice corrected, thinking of the hours of work—and wages—the solicitor and Stefan were contributing to her care. “But I appreciate it all.”
“So, this place?” Flora prompted, pulling away from the curb. Alice wondered whether that had been a crunch of metal she heard as they drove off.
“What? Oh, right. I’m trying to piece together Ella’s movements, from all her fraud,” she explained. “There was a payment to a business with this address, so—”
“So you’re going to investigate?” Flora’s eyes widened. “Like Nancy Drew!”
Alice laughed. “If Nancy Drew had a debit card and online banking.”
“Cool.” Flora grinned, obviously thinking of haunted mansions and mysterious jade shipments, but when they parked outside the address, they found only an innocuous stucco-fronted house. “Do we go in?” Flora peered up at it.
“Why not?”