Paint Me True: Sample Chapters

Seven: The Date Discrepency

When we got home, my aunt was a little winded, but otherwise fine. I let us into the house and found that day’s mail had arrived. It was scattered on the floor, having been put through the mail slot. I stooped to pick it up as my aunt strode on over to the stack of mail on the table at the far end of the foyer. Pip darted out from the sitting room and stood up on his hind legs, tail wagging furiously.

“Junk, junk, junk,” she said, tossing most of the envelopes in the nearby trash can. “Oh, so honey, do I really get a custom painting?”

I glanced through today’s mail and noted most of the letters had been mailed yesterday. First class mail in Britain really was first class. “Sure,” I said. “It’ll give me an excuse to stay long enough to finish it.”

“Sounds like a plan. You must think I’m ridiculous, calling you out here over just a broken arm.”

I went over to put today’s mail on the stack on the table. “You don’t need an excuse. I’m always happy to visit.”

She smiled at me. “Here, can you actually take these letters to the recycling bin? You know what I’d love? A portrait of Paul.” He had been her husband, and had died in a car accident before I ever got to meet him.

“Yeah, okay. Do you have a picture you want me to base it on, or do you have a moment that you’d like me to paint that you weren’t able to get a picture of?” I dug the letters out of the wastebasket and saw that the date on the top one was Friday’s. My steps slowed as my mind chewed that over.

“Ooh, I’ll have to think about that.”

“Your housecleaner comes Fridays?” I asked

“Mmm-hmm.”

“There are letters here that would have arrived Saturday.”

“Hmm?”

“Someone picked up the mail on Saturday. Would your friend who has the key do that?”

“She’s in Tenerife, honey. I’m sure she’s still gone.”

I walked through to the kitchen, dumped the mail in the recycling bin, and checked the row of pegs by the back door where the car keys hung. There was no spare key. “Someone was in your house Saturday, but they didn’t take anything. I mean, they left your laptop and stuff.”

“That’s... that’s odd.”

“Think, would anyone else have a key?”

“No, I got the locks changed when I married Paul, and I’ve been very careful about who gets keys. No one has one to keep, and I change the location of the one I hide out front every time I tell someone where it is – save for you, of course. You’re the only person.”

“What about your kids?”

“They live clear out in Bristol and up in Leeds. I don’t think they’d be by.”

“And your cleaning lady?”

“Right, yes, she has one. Maybe she stopped by again Saturday, or maybe she was late last week?”

I stepped back into the entryway. “Would it be an overreaction to call a locksmith and change your locks?”

“No. That’s the easiest thing to do, isn’t it? Yes, why don’t we do that?”

I nodded and went to find the phone book. I heard Nora move into the sitting room and plop herself down.

“Sorry,” I said, “we were talking about Paul. How did you guys meet?”

“I came over here for my junior year abroad. Did you know that?”

“Huh-uh.”

“Yes, I came over here for my junior year abroad. I was studying English and the outfit that organized this put us up in a house off the High Street, but I did some of my tutorials at Balliol College. You know the one? It’s on Broad Street.”