By the time Angela arrived from Germany, they had the results of Peter’s autopsy.
“Poisoned?” said Maris. “But that’s impossible.”
“Not Peter,” said Dinah. “Nobody would poison Peter.”
“Ridiculous,” said Angela. “There must be some mistake.”
In time the initial shock wore off, but not the astonishment. Who would want to poison Peter? And why? The investigation soon told them how it had been done. The poison was in Peter’s Campari — not just his glass of Campari, but the whole bottle. It was chloral hydrate, a depressant used in sleeping medications — usually harmless, but lethal in an overdose, especially when combined with another depressant, alcohol.
“I was so sure he was having a stroke,” said Maris.
“Of course you were,” said Dinah gently. “Why would it occur to you that Peter had been poisoned? I probably would have thought the same thing.”
“You are both too kind,” said Angela. “I would have thought he was playing a trick to get attention. I probably would have told him not to be stupid and then I would have ignored him.” She crossed her arms in a self-satisfied gesture that was meant to absolve her of any compassion for her ex-husband.
Dinah smiled nervously at her and Maris glared. Angela worked hard at being uncompromising, and Maris supposed it had served her well in the cutthroat world of art and antiquities. But on a personal level, Maris thought her unkindness was despicable because it was so deliberate. She worked just as hard at it as at the other disagreeable aspects of her personality.
“You know,” she began, “you could show an ounce of compassion, Angela. If not for Peter, then at least for me and Dinah. We loved him, even if you did not.”
“Sorry, sorry,” said Angela, in a way that showed she was not. “It’s just my way of showing grief: by burying my true feelings under a mountain of rock. Okay?”
Maris wanted to say, “No, it’s not okay,” but she didn’t — more for Dinah’s sake than for her own. She was more than willing to take on Angela, but the time and the place weren’t right. It was true, she knew, that people often behaved in uncharacteristic ways in the face of grief or shock, or the truly unexpected, like murder. There was something about a situation like this that brought out either the best or the worst in people.
And this had to be murder. Peter wouldn’t poison his own Campari. There were easier ways to commit suicide. Besides, he’d only have to put it in his own glass, not the whole bottle. What if Maris had decided to have a glass with him? Would she be lying on a slab in the morgue along with him, with a Y-shaped incision in her chest badly stitched together with thick black twine?
It was an ugly picture. She excused herself and went to the washroom to splash cold water on her face to try and expunge the mental image. When Peter’s lawyer had called to give them the results of the autopsy, they had been at the gallery trying to decide what to do. Should they re-open and conduct business as usual after a suitable period of mourning? Should they sell off the inventory and close up for good? What about relocating the gallery to Berlin where Angela spent most of her time when she wasn’t travelling? Maris and Dinah preferred the option of leaving the gallery open. Surprisingly, so did Angela. All three were amazed at how easy it had been to agree.
“Of course,” said Angela, “it means I’ll have to take a greater part in the day-to-day operations. Peter was the one in charge of all of that.” The prospect was clearly distasteful to her. Angela preferred the role of globetrotting procurer. She liked the hunt; it suited her predatory personality. Angela had instincts, Peter used to say. He knew where to send her, but it was Angela who knocked on doors and shook hands with people, and then got whatever she wanted from them. She and Peter had been a good team where the business was concerned; but the marriage had failed after eight years. Neither had remarried in the seven years since the divorce and the business had benefited from their redirected passion. The gallery was their love child.
“You know,” said Dinah tentatively, “I’ve been Peter’s right hand for the last five years. I know the customers. I know the books. I know how Peter liked things done.”
Angela stood up and straightened her black silk skirt. Then she adjusted the matching black silk jacket. Maris thought, She’s built like a boning knife: all precision, balance and sharpness. Her highly polished, red-painted fingernails were perfectly manicured. Her blonde hair had just enough platinum highlights to catch the sun but not so many to make it look like a dye job. She was forty-five, Peter’s age, but looked thirty-five. Nothing drooped, nothing sagged. Give it another five years and she’d be getting the eye job and the Botox injections, probably in Bangkok where she could disappear while the swelling went down and the scars healed.
Maris looked at her own hands, an artist’s hands with strong fingers and flat, spatulate fingertips. Paint thinner had left its mark on them, cracking them around the nails and roughing them up on the backs. No amount of Vaseline Intensive Care for Extra Dry Skin could undo the damage. She was almost forty and had been painting for half her life. I look forty, she thought, catching her reflection in the glass cabinet that held the gallery’s most precious pieces. I’m low-maintenance, she thought, glancing at Angela, and it shows. Her brown hair used to be shinier, used to be thicker. When did that happen? Her skin already had a web of fine lines around her eyes and her mouth. It was hard to avoid the sun in Singapore, and she’d been here nearly four years. Who cares? she thought. I’ll age gracefully. I will become an “original,” like my mother. I won’t cave in to the youth cult thing. I won’t turn myself into a Botox Barbie like Angela. Right, she thought. Blah, blah, blah.
“I can’t pay you any more than Peter was paying you,” Angela told Dinah, thinking she would nip in the bud any plans Dinah might have to take advantage of the void Peter’s death had left. Maris saw Dinah flinch, ever so slightly, her head jerking back about a centimetre as if a mosquito had grazed her skin.
“I think we should discuss finances another time,” said Maris. “We’re all a little raw right now.”
“I have to go anyway,” said Angela. “I’m getting acupuncture treatments for these damn headaches.” Maris pictured Angela with a head full of long, thin needles, like a pincushion. It was perfect. She looked at Dinah, who was pursing her lips and staring off to the side. She knew that expression. It meant that Dinah was doing her detached thing so she wouldn’t laugh. Or cry.
After Angela left, Maris said to Dinah, “Are you back?”
Dinah nodded. “I just needed to zone out for a minute,” she said. “I was actually thinking about killing her.” Maris smiled. Dinah was probably the most gentle, least violent person she knew. The fact that she was small — maybe five feet tall — and slender — maybe ninety pounds — had nothing to do with it. Dinah was like a jasmine blossom. You walked by them every day without a second look. They were tiny and white and plain. But one day you might walk by when the wind was blowing a certain way and something would catch your attention. A subtle fragrance or a shiny leaf might get caught by the sun and you’d stop and take a second look. And you’d notice how beautiful it was, how essential. Because if all the jasmine disappeared from Asia, it would be a different place, bereft, less welcoming. And you’d be glad you stopped and took notice.
“So now what?” said Maris.
Dinah sighed. “I guess we try and pretend it’s business as usual.”
“I’m not keen on Angela being in charge.”
“Neither am I. But that’s the way it is. For now.” Dinah ran her fingers through her straight black hair. “I, for one, intend to….”
“What?” said Maris.
“I don’t know,” said Dinah. “I suddenly lost my train of thought.”
“Ah,” said Maris.
They had the funeral five days later. The police had released the body but said the case