Page 83 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

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.’