Page 39 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

Chapter Twenty-Five

I was still full after Mitch’s delicious cooked breakfast, so I decided to take a rain check on lunch.

I’d start researching Ruth Mangan now, I decided with a frisson of determination.

I wanted to stop thinking about this morning and what had just happened– Mitch ploughing into the stormy sea, not considering his own safety or the risky situation he was putting himself in, Rhea thrashing around in the water, her stricken, tear-riddled face when she spoke about Freddie, my feelings of panic when I couldn’t spot Mitch in the water and I thought something had happened to him.

I knew I was being a coward, trying to keep my distance from people in case I lost them. It was inevitable. It would happen one day. But to me, it seemed far more sensible not to risk it in the first place. Joe had proved that. Damage limitation.

I gave my head a wobble and refocused on Ruth Mangan. Would I discover much about her? Well, there was only one way to find out and that was to try and do a bit of detective work. Some people still seemed to have very little social media footprint, although I think they were in the minority.

I just hoped Ruth wasn’t one of them.

Bronte gazed up at me from the sitting room rug.

I frowned.

Bugger. Of course. I hadn’t brought my laptop with me. Memories of me dashing around our apartment, grabbing what I could in a whirlwind of tears reared up again.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hasty, so pig-headed about not bringing my laptop. Okay, so I’d decided my writing career was over, but still, it wouldn’t have hurt to bring it just the same. I hadn’t been thinking straight. In fact, I hadn’t been thinking at all.

I crinkled my nose. I’d just have to use my phone to look up information about Ruth.

Then an idea popped in my head. Hold on. Grandma had her own Lenovo laptop.

I remembered her saying she’d bought it in an online sale last Christmas and that she’d been using it to look up art exhibition information and tips and tricks for her paintings. She’d used it to log onto Facebook to chat to me, too.

Right. Where might it be? Where would she have kept it? And even if I found it, would I be able to guess her password and gain access to it?

Bronte followed me down the hallway with interest as I made my way into my grandma’s art studio and took a look around in the cupboards. I wasn’t holding out much hope that it would be in there. I’m sure I would’ve spotted it when I’d started sorting out some of her clutter and papers.

Once I was satisfied that I’d checked everywhere in there, I headed back up the hallway, the sights and smells of her smudges of paints and her ornamental butterflies lingering at my back.

Bronte was at my heels as I proceeded to check the chest of drawers and wardrobe in my grandparents’ bedroom.

Glimpses of her long-fringed skirts and embroidered tops and of Grandpa’s favourite white trilby, the one he wore to the local bowling green, poked out of the wardrobe.

Nope. Her laptop wasn’t in there either.

With a growing feeling of frustration, I headed back to the sitting room to check in there.

I clicked open the heavy, maple and glass cabinet by the back wall and crouched down to peer inside. I was beginning to run out of ideas as to where she might’ve kept it. Grandma Tilda hadn’t been the most methodical of people, so it could be stashed anywhere.

There was a pile of creamy lace tablecloths folded up on the left inside the cabinet.

On the right-hand side was a stack of green and gold placemats.

I was about to close the double cabinet doors when I caught a glimpse of what looked like a sugar-pink leather laptop case.

I reached in and angled it out. Yes. This was it.

I took it over to the sofa, slid it out of the zipped-up case and plugged it in at the nearest socket. The screen shimmered into life. It had seventy percent power.

Then it winked at me, demanding I enter in my grandma’s password.

I sighed, before tapping in my late grandfather’s Christian name, Howard.

Nope. Wasn’t that. I entered my name. It wasn’t that either.

I typed in my mum’s name, Tessa. No. That wasn’t her password.

I tried Dad’s name next. No, it wasn’t Jack.

Then I tried the name of Grandma’s favourite Van Gogh painting, Almond Blossoms , but that wasn’t it either.

Frustration gripped me. What the hell could it be?

I tried to slip into my grandma’s shoes as I sat there, studying the laptop screen.

It must be something that meant a lot to her.

But what could that be? The make of one of her favourite paint brushes?

The name of one of her favourite artists?

Or might it be her favourite species of butterfly? I had no idea but it was worth a try.

My fingers danced over the keys as I typed in ‘Swallow tail’.

I held my breath.

The screen winked and then it took me to her home page. It worked!

With a happy ‘Yes!’ I rattled in the name of Ruth Mangan’s art gallery into the search engine. It came up in seconds. The website was a swish affair, with a sliding gallery of various local artists’ work.

Under the menu, there was a profile of Ruth Mangan.

Above it, was a dramatic, black and white headshot of her. A slash of lipstick, serious chin and grey bob.

I turned my attention to her bio below her picture.

Ruth Mangan, owner of the prestigious Lumiere Gallery, is a renowned art critic and talented artist, who turned her attention to opening up her own gallery, forty-five years ago.

Ruth has written for a number of well-known and respected art magazines and contributed to a number of newspapers.

Born and bred in Rowan Bay, Ruth strives to encourage other artists and is a fervent supporter of new and up and coming talent.

I pulled a sarcastic face. Yes, but it seemed she was very selective about who she supported.

My attention flitted to the website menu again.

It looked like there were a couple of other staff members who worked there.

One was a middle-aged, friendly-looking woman with red spectacles called Andrea Thompson, and the other was a delicate-featured younger man going by the name of Kennedy Whitelaw.

I wondered whether it might be an idea to try and speak to them about Ruth.

Then again, Ruth was so intimidating, they might not want to talk to me, in case they lost their jobs.

I resumed reading Ruth’s bio.

Ruth was the founding member of The Rowan Bay Artists’ Society in nineteen eighty-two, which is still running today.

I glanced out of the cottage sitting room window. There had been more rain and the snow was morphing into piles of beige slush. Dripping jewels of water dangled from the bare tree branches and the roofs.

A thought occurred to me. What if I were to try and speak to another member of The Rowan Bay Artists’ Society? Might they be able or even agreeable to tell me more about her?

There was a link to The Rowan Bay Artists’ Society at the bottom of the art gallery website, so I clicked on that.

Thankfully, they’d moved with the times too and had a modern website to navigate. All past chairs, their photographs and biographies, together with some impressive examples of their own artwork, raced along the screen.

The chairs were listed in chronological order, from when they took up the role to when they handed it over to the next.

Ruth Mangan’s name was first on the list, followed by her successor, a woman named Kirsty Ralston, who took over from her in nineteen eighty-nine. She had a bohemian vibe about her, with wild, grey-blue curls and a pair of copper leaf, dangly earrings.

I speed-read Kirsty Ralston’s biography. Keen artist of nature and wildlife, born in Shawlands in Glasgow in nineteen fifty-seven, gives evening classes to other nature painting enthusiasts at Rowan Bay Town Hall.

The name was nudging at the corner of my mind. I was sure Grandma had mentioned Kirsty to me before.

I noticed her mobile number and email address were at the bottom of her bio, as well as a link to her website.

I sank back on the sofa for a few moments. Bronte ambled over and jumped up beside me to make herself more comfortable.

I decided to give Kirsty Ralston a call. No time like the present.

It rang out before a recording of a fruity Scottish voice burred down the line and asked me to leave a message.

I took a breath, gave my name and number and asked her to call me back. I decided not to tell her the reason why I was calling. I figured if she thought I might be interested in buying one of her paintings, she would definitely return my call.

The issue that Ruth Mangan seemed to have with my late grandma continued to niggle at me, even when I took a delighted Bronte down to the bay for a scamper in the winter waves.

I was laughing at Bronte jumping backwards and forwards in the surf when she was joined by a little Jack Russell Terrier.

‘Teddy! Come here! Oh, I’m so sorry!’

An older lady, cocooned in a bright pink waterproof, came striding over. ‘Selective hearing, this one.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. Believe me, she’s the same.’

The lady squinted at me out of friendly, sky-blue, lined eyes. ‘Ah. You’re Tilda’s granddaughter.’

‘I am, yes.’

The lady bent down, clipped on Teddy’s lead and shook my hand. ‘I’m Gwen Montrose. I used to manage the local post office.’

‘Rosie Winters.’

She sighed. ‘I’m so sorry about your grandma. She was such a sweet woman.’

‘Thank you.’

We ambled away together back up towards the path with our dogs snuffling on leads either side.

‘And you’re staying in their cottage?’ She pulled a comical face. ‘Sorry, but you can’t keep many things secret around here.’

‘Yes. For the time being.’

The waves rocked below us as we negotiated our way back up the path.

We reached the top and Gwen nodded over at the cottage. ‘They were devoted to each other, your grandparents. Not many marriages like that anymore.’

Joe pinged into my mind. ‘No, you can say that again.’

She offered a pleasant smile. ‘Well, very nice to meet you, Rosie.’

‘And you.’ I made to open the garden gate, when a thought made me pause. ‘Wait. Sorry. Gwen?’

She spun round and encouraged Teddy back on his navy-blue lead. ‘Yes?’

I raised my chin from out of my green scarf. ‘I don’t suppose you know a woman called Ruth Mangan?’

Gwen’s pink waterproof crackled in the stiff wind. I noticed a strange look pass across her face. ‘Ruth Mangan?’

‘She owns the Lumiere art gallery?’

‘Aye. I know who she is.’ She paused. ‘I was never friendly with the likes of her. Served her in the post office but that was as far as my dealings with her went.’ She looked pensive.

The clouds bumped and jostled against each other over the bay.

‘She… She blamed your grandma for how things turned out for her, which was ridiculous.’

My eyes popped. ‘Why? What happened? What was my grandmother supposed to have done?’

Gwen started to move away in her heavy, black and pink walking boots.

‘I’d speak to one of the former members of the local art society if I were you.

Your grandma was a member at one time.’ She cajoled Teddy away.

‘Very unnecessary business, all of it. Your grandma didn’t deserve to be treated that way. ’

I stood there, with more questions than answers whirling around my head like cartoon canaries, as Gwen and her dog hurried away.

* * *

While I pottered for the rest of the day, taking Bronte out again, putting on laundry and debating whether to respond to more messages from Mia and Lola, I kept checking my phone. I was even more desperate for Kirsty Ralston to call me back, after Gwen’s cryptic conversation down by the bay.

But despite willing my phone to ring, she didn’t return my call.

The next morning, I had my breakfast, showered, dressed, and was just slipping on Bronte’s lead to take her out on her first walk of the day when my phone jumped in my pocket.

Kirsty Ralston’s jolly voice slid into my ear as she introduced herself. ‘Tilda’s granddaughter! Oh, my word! She was so proud of you! She was always showing me photographs of you.’

I let out a playful groan. ‘I hope she didn’t bore you too much.’ I paused. ‘So, you knew my grandma?’

‘Aye, I did. She was an amazing lady. So, are you in Rowan Bay at the minute?’

‘Yes. I’m currently staying in Grandma’s cottage.’

‘Well, I hope you can find some solace here. Is there something I can help you with?’

I admitted there was. ‘I actually wanted to talk to you about Ruth Mangan, if that’s alright?’

‘Oh, there’s plenty of material there, I can tell you,’ she said with a short, dark laugh. ‘No wonder you want to talk to me about Ruth.’

My curiosity went into overdrive. ‘Sorry? What makes you say that?’

Kirsty hesitated. ‘Are you around at all today, Ms Winters?’

‘Please call me Rosie. Yes, I am.’

‘Excellent. How about I drop by to see you around half past two this afternoon?’

‘That’s fine by me.’

I could sense her smiling down the line. ‘Good. I’ll see you then.’

I finished the call and shoved my mobile back in my coat pocket. Bronte peered up at me as if to say, ‘Are we finally going out now?!’

I had a feeling that whatever Kirsty Ralston was going to tell me this afternoon about Ruth Mangan, it wasn’t going to be favourable if it echoed what Gwen had alluded to.