Brody watched Finch closely. The hesitation, the almost desperate reliance on his
wife’s testimony – it was a common pattern in these early stages of an investigation,
but in Finch’s case, it felt particularly fragile. Brody made a mental note to have
Deputy Miller confirm Clara Finch’s account, discreetly. The lack of genuine remorse
in Finch’s demeanor was also striking. While many in town expressed shock and
sadness, Finch’s reaction was a curious blend of nervousness and something Brody
could only describe as… relief. It was as if the news of Thorne’s death, while
unwelcome, had also lifted an immense burden from his shoulders.
“Did you see Mr. Thorne at all that day?” Brody asked, pushing further.
“No,” Finch said quickly, perhaps too quickly. “I hadn’t seen Elias since our argument
on Thursday. I was avoiding him, frankly. I needed to think, to figure out how to
salvage what was left of our partnership after his… unilateral decisions.” He gestured
vaguely with his hands, as if trying to physically push away the unpleasant memories.
“He was a difficult man to be around, Sheriff. Especially when he felt cornered, or
when he knew he was in the wrong. He tended to lash out.”
Brody filed Finch’s statement away. The agitated demeanor, the thinly veiled
resentment over financial machinations, the convenient alibi provided by his wife
Arthur Finch was now firmly on Brody’s list of individuals with significant motive. The
partnership, once a symbol of Thorne’s success, had clearly become a breeding
ground for his downfall. Thorne’s relentless ambition had a way of corroding even the
most stable of relationships, and in Arthur Finch, Brody sensed the quiet desperation
of a man pushed too far, a man who might have finally decided to stop being a
bystander and take matters into his own hands. The cufflink found near the body,
with its intricate engraving, spoke of a certain level of affluence, a detail that certainly
aligned with Finch’s position as Thorne’s business partner, a man who likely
possessed such a refined accessory. It wasn’t the crude gesture of a simple farmer,
but the more calculated act of someone who understood Thorne’s world, and
perhaps, how to end it. The lack of remorse was the loudest clue; it spoke volumes
about the depth of Finch’s animosity, a depth that could easily translate into a
murderous intent. Thorne’s “reckless ambition” had not just risked their shared
enterprise; it had apparently cost Finch his peace of mind, and perhaps, his moral
compass. Brody felt a familiar tightening in his gut, the instinct that told him this was
more than just a business dispute gone awry.
There was a personal element here, a betrayal that ran deeper than balance sheets and profit margins. Thorne’s success had been built on the subjugation of others, and it seemed that even his closest confidant had finally succumbed to the crushing weight of his dominance. Finch’s words, while ostensibly describing Thorne’s character, also served as a stark self-indictment of his own growing desperation. The thought of Finch, the quiet, unassuming partner, capable of such a violent act, was unsettling, but Brody had learned long ago that the most dangerous individuals were often the ones who hid in plain sight, their true natures masked by a veneer of unassuming normalcy. Thorne, in his infinite capacity for self-deception, had likely underestimated Finch, just as he had underestimated so many others. And in that underestimation, lay the seeds of his own destruction.
Brody made a mental note to delve deeper into the specifics of the North Ridge deal, to
understand the precise financial ruin Thorne had orchestrated, because in the
precise details of Finch’s potential ruin lay the precise motive for murder.
The scent of turpentine and linseed oil hung heavy in the air, a cloying perfume that
did little to mask the undercurrent of sorrow within Clara Bellweather’s studio.
Sheriff Brody stood just inside the threshold, the stark contrast between the muted,
earthy tones of Thorne’s world and the vibrant, almost violent hues splashed across
Clara’s canvases striking him immediately. He’d been led here by a whispered rumour,
a whisper that had grown into a chorus of speculation about Elias Thorne’s private
life, and Clara Bellweather, the artist whose name was frequently, and often
damningly, linked with his. The studio itself was a testament to a woman wrestling
with her demons and her muse simultaneously. Unfinished portraits leered from
easels, their subjects captured in states of intense emotion, their eyes holding a
disquieting depth. A half-eaten apple lay on a paint-splattered table, a forgotten
casualty of a creative surge or perhaps a desperate attempt to stave off something
else.
Clara emerged from the shadows of a large canvas, her movements fluid, almost
unnervingly graceful, despite the palpable tension that seemed to radiate from her.
Her eyes, large and the colour of stormy seas, held a raw vulnerability that Thorne’s
public persona had always managed to expertly conceal. There were smudges of
charcoal on her cheek, like accidental tears, and her hands, though stained with paint,
moved with a nervous energy. She clutched a damp rag as if it were a shield.
“Sheriff Brody,” she said, her voice a low, husky murmur, surprisingly steady
considering the circumstances. “I heard. About Elias.” She didn’t ask for details, didn’t
feign surprise. The lack of overt shock was, in itself, a kind of revelation.
Brody nodded, his gaze sweeping across the room, taking in the controlled chaos.
“Ms. Bellweather. I’m sorry for your loss.” The words felt hollow, rehearsed,
inadequate for the complex web of emotions he suspected swirled around Thorne’s
life and death. He saw no flicker of genuine grief in her expression, only a simmering,
almost volatile, resentment.
“Loss?” Clara’s lips curved into a sardonic smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s a…
charitable word for it, Sheriff. For some, perhaps. For me, it’s more like the removal of
a persistent irritant. A particularly sharp, beautifully crafted irritant, but an irritant
nonetheless.” She gestured with the rag towards a stool laden with brushes. “Please.
Sit. Though I doubt you’re here for a critique of my latest emotional landscape.”
Brody chose to remain standing, his presence an anchor in the tempestuous
atmosphere of the studio. He preferred to keep his distance, to observe, to gather.
“I’m investigating Mr. Thorne’s death, Ms. Bellweather. As part of that, I need to speak
with anyone who had a close relationship with him.”
Clara let out a short, sharp laugh, the sound brittle. “Close relationship? Elias had
many… acquaintances, Sheriff. Many people he cultivated for his own amusement or
advancement. But ‘close’? That implies intimacy, a shared vulnerability. Elias Thorne
wasn’t built for intimacy. He was built for conquest.” She turned back to her canvas,
her eyes tracing a violent stroke of crimson across the painted face. “He was a charmer, no doubt. Like a siren song, drawing you in with promises of beauty and
passion. He could make you feel like the only person in the world, the only subject
worthy of his considerable attention.”
She paused, her breath catching. Brody watched her, sensing the carefully
constructed wall beginning to crumble. “But that was his artistry, wasn’t it? Not in
paint, but in people. He’d weave a narrative around you, a fantasy, and you’d fall
headfirst into it, believing every word. And then, when the colours started to fade,
when the fantasy no longer served him, he’d simply… move on. Discard you like a
finished sketch, leaving you to pick up the pieces of a life that had been so
convincingly built, and then so casually dismantled.”
Brody’s trained ear caught the subtle shift in her tone, the tremor of raw emotion
beneath the sophisticated veneer. This wasn’t just the detached recounting of a past
lover; this was the visceral echo of pain, the lingering sting of betrayal. “You and Mr.
Thorne were… involved?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
“Involved is putting it mildly,” Clara said, turning back to him, her eyes blazing with an
intensity that made Brody take a subtle step back. “We were entangled. He swept into
my life like one of his own dramatic canvasses, all bold strokes and vibrant colours. He
told me I was his muse, that my work inspired him, that he’d never felt this way about
anyone before.” She laughed again, a hollow sound. “He was very good at making you
believe you were special. The centre of his universe.”
“When did this involvement end?” Brody asked, his gaze fixed on her face, searching
for any tell-tale signs of deception. “Officially? About three weeks ago,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Unofficially? It ended the moment I realized he was lying. Again. He was seeing someone else. Of course, he was. He always was. I was just… a convenient distraction, an artistic diversion while he pursued more substantial acquisitions. He was always acquiring, wasn’t he? Land, businesses, people’s affections. And then he’d trade them in for newer models.”
Her words painted a picture of Thorne as a predator, not just in business, but in his
personal life as well. The carefully cultivated charm was a tool, the declarations of
passion mere manipulations. Brody recognized the pattern; it mirrored the
descriptions he’d heard from Finch, albeit from a different perspective. Both men, in
their own ways, had been subjected to Thorne’s relentless drive and his tendency to
view others as expendable.
“There were… arguments?” Brody prompted, wanting to understand the nature of
their ‘entanglement.’
Clara’s knuckles tightened on the rag. “Arguments? Sheriff, Elias didn’t ‘argue.’ He
dictated. He dismissed. He gaslighted. He’d twist your words, make you doubt your
own sanity, all while maintaining that infuriatingly calm, almost patronizing smile. We
had one particularly… memorable confrontation. It was just before the Harvest
Festival. I’d found out he was planning to buy out the old Hemlock property, the one
everyone knows Silas Hemlock is so protective of. Elias had been telling me it was a
done deal, that he’d already secured the financing, that it was all perfectly legal and
above board. But then I overheard him on the phone, bragging to one of his cronies
about how he was ‘strangling the old man’s legacy,’ how he was going to ‘bulldoze
sentimentality with concrete and profit.'”
She shuddered, her eyes unfocused, reliving the moment. “I confronted him. I told
him it was a disgusting, predatory move. I told him how much that land meant to this
community, to Silas, and to me, because Silas had shared his memories of it with me.
Elias just laughed. He said I was being overly sentimental, that I was letting my
‘artistic temperament’ cloud my judgment. He told me I didn’t understand the bigger
picture, that I was a naive little girl playing with paint, and he was a man of vision.”
Her voice cracked. “He told me if I couldn’t appreciate his ambition, then perhaps I
wasn’t the muse he thought I was.”
The mention of the Hemlock property, the same land Thorne had been aggressively
pursuing according to Arthur Finch, solidified the connection. Thorne’s ruthless
ambition wasn’t confined to his business dealings; it bled into every aspect of his life,
leaving a trail of collateral damage in its wake. Clara’s passionate outburst, her
palpable anger, certainly suggested a motive rooted in a deeply personal sense of
betrayal. The humiliation she’d clearly suffered at Thorne’s hands could easily fester
into a desire for retribution.
“He broke it off with you?” Brody asked, steering the conversation towards the end of
their relationship, and therefore, potentially, towards the timeline of the murder.
Clara turned away, her shoulders slumping. The fire in her eyes seemed to dim,
replaced by a profound sadness. “He didn’t break it off, Sheriff. He declared it
‘uninspired.’ Said my passion was becoming too… volatile. Too difficult to control. He
said he needed someone who understood the beauty of quiet devotion, not… this.”
She gestured vaguely around the studio, encompassing the raw emotion splashed
across her work. “He made it sound like I was the one who had failed him, not the
other way around.”
She walked over to a small table, picking up a delicate porcelain teacup, her fingers
tracing the rim. “After that, he… he avoided me. He knew he’d hurt me. He knew he’d
lied. He’d threatened my reputation, subtly, by implying our relationship was purely
platonic, a working arrangement, whenever he thought it suited him. He’d twist
things, make me out to be the overly emotional, unstable artist, the one who couldn’t
handle the ‘real world’.”
Brody observed her closely. Her distress seemed genuine, the grief of a spurned lover
mixed with the bitter resentment of a woman who felt used and discarded. “And on
the night of the Harvest Festival, Ms. Bellweather? Where were you?”
Clara set the teacup down with a soft clink. Her gaze met Brody’s, clear and direct this
time. “I was here. In my studio. I’d intended to go to the festival, to try and enjoy
myself, to forget him. But when I realized he’d be there, parading his… acquisitions… I
couldn’t bear it. So, I stayed. I worked. I painted until dawn. I was alone.”
The statement, delivered with such conviction, could be the truth. Or it could be a
carefully constructed alibi, born of her deep-seated anger. Brody made a mental note
to have his deputy, Miller, discreetly verify if anyone had seen Clara at her studio that
night, or if anyone had seen her not at the festival. The raw emotion, the burning
resentment, the very public humiliation Thorne had inflicted – it all painted a
compelling picture of motive. The artist, whose life was a canvas of expression, had
every reason to want to paint Elias Thorne out of her existence, permanently. The
thought of Thorne, so dismissive of her emotions, so quick to discard her, echoed in
Brody’s mind. Had he underestimated her, too? Had he seen her as just another
masterpiece to be admired and then forgotten, never realizing that a discarded
masterpiece could still hold a dangerous sharpness? The lingering scent of turpentine
suddenly felt less like artistic creation and more like the acrid smell of something
burned, something irrevocably destroyed. Her pain was palpable, a vibrant, throbbing
wound that Thorne, in his careless ambition, had inflicted.
And Brody knew that sometimes, the most devastating wounds were not physical, but emotional, and the desire for retribution could be as potent as any greed or envy. Thorne had a habit of collecting people, appreciating them for a time, then discarding them when their novelty wore off. Clara Bellweather was clearly one of those discarded pieces. He’d likely dismissed her emotional turmoil as a mere artistic temperament, failing to recognize the dangerous undercurrents of genuine hurt and anger that could easily
translate into a desperate act. His final words to her, that she was “too volatile” and
“difficult to control,” were likely intended to wound, to dismiss, but they had probably
only served to ignite a deeper rage. The raw, unvarnished emotion Brody saw in
Clara’s eyes was a stark contrast to the cool calculation he’d sensed in Arthur Finch.
Yet, both men, in their own ways, had been pushed to their limits by Elias Thorne.
Thorne’s immense success, built on the backs of those he manipulated and exploited,
had created a dangerous equilibrium, a precarious balance of power that was bound
to shatter. And in Clara Bellweather, Brody saw the potential for that shatter, for the
quiet desperation of a spurned lover to transform into the violent act of vengeance.
The sheer intensity of her feelings, the way she spoke of Thorne’s manipulative
nature, painted a vivid picture of a man who reveled in control and dismissed the
emotional consequences of his actions. For an artist like Clara, whose life revolved
around capturing and expressing emotion, Thorne’s callous disregard would have
been a profound betrayal, a desecration of her very essence. Her final words to Brody– that Thorne had declared their relationship “uninspired” and her passion “too
volatile” – were not just dismissive insults; they were calculated attempts to invalidate
her experience, to erase her significance in his life. This kind of emotional warfare,
Brody knew, could be as devastating as any financial ruin. It was a war waged on the
soul, and the casualties could be severe.
The thought of Thorne, so assured in his power to manipulate and control, so utterly blind to the depth of the resentment he was cultivating, was a chilling one. He had, perhaps, made his final acquisition, but this time, it was not of property or profit, but of the ire of someone who had finally decided that their portrait was complete, and it was time to paint over him. The delicate porcelain teacup, clutched in Clara’s paint-stained fingers, seemed to symbolize the fragility of her heart, a heart that Thorne had so carelessly fractured. Brody wondered if the rage brewing beneath the surface of her grief was enough to shatter more than just porcelain.
#adventure #murdermystery #skeletoninthehayride #newbook #fiction
Lemon and Rosemary 