A Palette for Murder Read online

  “I ruin everything I paint. But that’s not why you’re here.”

  “No, it’s not. Can we sit?”

  We sat on a well-worn couch. Waldine, who wore tight jeans, a yellow sweatshirt, and tan cowboy boots, propped the boots on the edge of a scarred coffee table. She turned to look at me; her expression said, Go ahead. I’m listening.

  “I was wondering whether you’d be interested in joining me in some playacting.”

  “Playacting? I’m an artist, not an actress. Actually, I’m not much of an artist, either. Playact?” She laughed; it was a pleasant, guttural laugh that did wonders to lighten her persona.

  “I don’t mean you’d have to act exactly, Waldine.”

  “It’s Wally. My friends call me Wally.”

  “You won’t have to be an actress, Wally. All you’d have to do is pretend that you’re interested in buying a certain work of art.”

  “Oh? What work of art?”

  It was my turn to laugh.

  “I’m afraid I overstated it,” I said. “Are you aware that a sketch I did in the class where Miki Dorsey died was stolen from me?”

  “I read about it.”

  “And that it was stolen again from Dan’s Papers?”

  “That, too. Is that what you expect me to pretend I want to buy?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much is it worth?”

  “To me, nothing. To someone else? Who knows? I understand the asking price is up to three thousand dollars.”

  She directed a stream of air through her lips. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to pay, Wally. I’ll advance the money for you to use.”

  She got up and paced in front of the couch. “Why me?”

  “No special reason, except I like and trust you. It would be important that this remain a secret between us, at least until you’ve successfully gotten the sketch back for me.”

  She stopped pacing. “How do I do this?” she asked.

  “Let me lay it out for you, Wally.”

  * * *

  Once Wally Peckham agreed to help, I left the house and told Fred Mayer I was ready for lunch. He dropped me at a roadside fish restaurant that appeared to be barely more than a shack. It turned out that the Lobster Roll Restaurant was a lot more than its physical plant suggested. I downed a superb lobster roll and coffee, and even opted for dessert, heated raspberry pie with cinnamon ice cream. Somehow, having met with Chief Cramer and putting my idea into play with Wally Peckham had lifted a feeling of heaviness I’d been experiencing. Psychotherapists often say that any action is better than no action. I think they’re right.

  Until that morning I’d been floundering. Things had happened at such a dizzying pace that I hadn’t the time to sort through them. At times, it was a surrealistic experience—called to the scene of a young reporter’s murder at four in the morning, then having dinner in a fancy restaurant that same night with friends.

  I thought back to the day I left Manhattan on the Hampton Jitney for ten days of rest, relaxation, and quiet art lessons. That day, I’d been approached by a drug dealer, witnessed a senseless attack, and saw my books being illegally sold on the street. What had I thought as I climbed on the jitney? I’ve had enough crime to last a good long time.

  And here I was, surrounded by physical beauty and lovely people, and all I’d experienced was stolen art—and murder.

  I had to do something. I couldn’t go back to Cabot Cove and spend the rest of my life wondering whether Miki Dorsey and Joshua Leopold had died natural deaths. And I certainly couldn’t simply erase from my memory the sight of Jo Ann Forbes, whom I’d gotten to know a little, sprawled in Hans Muller’s tiny bedroom.

  I had to do something.

  I’d invited Fred Mayer to join me for lunch, but he declined, opting instead for a hamburger from a fast-food outlet down the street.

  “How was it?” he asked after we’d joined up again in his taxi.

  “Wonderful. With any luck I’ll taste the lobster roll for the rest of the day.”

  He smiled and started the engine. “Just want to satisfy my customer’s needs, Mrs. Fletcher. Where are we going this afternoon?”

  “First stop,” I said, “is Scott’s Inn. I need to check on my messages.”

  “We can call,” he offered.

  “No, I’d rather go back. There are a few other things I need to do there.”

  Joe Scott was at his small desk when I entered the inn. He greeted me warmly, and asked if there was anything he could do for me.

  “As a matter of fact, there is. Would it be possible to arrange with the phone company to run a private line into my room?”

  He pondered the question for a moment before replying, “I have a second line into the inn. Would it suffice to have an extension of that number installed for you?”

  It was my turn to consider. “I suppose so,” I said, “but a totally new line and number would really work better. Naturally, I’ll pay any costs involved.”

  “Then, it’s a new line and number you’ll have. My brother-in-law works for the phone company. I assume you want it now.”

  “Isn’t that always the case?” I said, smiling and sighing.

  “Not to worry, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll take care of it right away.”

  “Thank you. Any calls for me?”

  He handed me a batch of pink message slips. I ruffled through them.

  Two calls were from Cabot Cove: Dr. Seth Hazlitt, and Sheriff Morton Metzger. Call them back.

  Vaughan Buckley left a message that he’d be out until three, but wanted me to call him at home after that.

  Maurice St. James said that he expected me to stop by his gallery that day.

  A reporter from Dan’s Papers, Rich Norris, asked for an interview regarding the murder of Jo Ann Forbes.

  And Police Chief Cramer—funny, I thought, but I never did learn his first name—asked me to contact him at my earliest convenience.

  Because it was only two o’clock, it was too early to return Vaughan’s call. But I did want to see what was on Chief Cramer’s mind. I went to my room and called headquarters.

  “You said you wanted a chance to speak with Dr. Eder, the Suffolk County coroner,” he said.

  My heart tripped. Did that mean Cramer had been successful in calling for a second autopsy on Miki Dorsey?

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Here’s his number, Mrs. Fletcher. He said he’d be happy to meet with you.”

  “That’s wonderful, Chief. By the way, do you have a first name?”

  “Afraid I do.”

  “Oh?”

  “Hopeful.”

  “Hopeful? That’s your name?”

  “Yup. My friends call me Hope. You can imagine the confusion that causes.”

  “I take it your parents were optimists.”

  “They certainly were. Well, you know my secret now.”

  “I think it’s a perfectly fine name, but I’ll call you Chief Cramer.”

  He laughed. “A diplomat through and through.”

  “Any luck in arranging a second autopsy on Ms. Dorsey?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes. I think the district attorney is leaning my way. I should know by the end of the day.”

  “I hope he—”

  We both laughed, and I promised to check in later.

  I called the number given me by Chief Cramer for Dr. Peter Eder. After going through a series of voice-mail selections—how annoying they are—Dr. Eder came on the line. “Chief Cramer said you’d be calling,” he said. “It’s a pleasure speaking with you, Mrs. Fletcher. My wife is a true fan, has read most of your books.”

  “That’s always pleasant to hear, Dr. Eder. Did Chief Cramer tell you what it was I wished to discuss?”

  “No. But he did say I’d find it fascinating. In what is a basically dull existence, the thought of something fascinating is always appealing.”

  “When can we meet?”

  “
The end of today? I plan to be in the Hamptons this evening.”

  “That would be fine. Where and when?”

  “I have a satellite office there. Say, six?”

  “Fine.” He gave me the address, and we concluded the conversation.

  I freshened up, and was about to go downstairs when the innkeeper, Joe Scott, knocked. “Just wanted you to know, Mrs. Fletcher, that they’ll be installing the line into this room within the hour.”

  “Splendid. I hope you know how appreciative I am, Mr. Scott.”

  “I have no doubt about that, Mrs. Fletcher. You’re the sort of person who appreciates things. I knew that the minute I met you.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “And pretty soon you’ll have a phone of your own. Oh, by the way, you’ve already got your number.” He gave it to me on a slip of paper. “Just one request,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Keep it quiet. I don’t want other guests asking for the same thing.”

  “Our secret is safe with me. Thanks again.”

  I had Fred Mayer stop at a public phone where I called Waldine Peckham at the group house. “I have a number for you,” I said. She wrote it down. I quickly went over the plan I’d presented her at the house. As I was finishing up, I heard what I thought sounded like a receiver being lowered into its cradle.

  “Wally, is there someone else on the line?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so. The only other person here is Anne.”

  “Well, I guess you can get started.”

  “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” she said, laughing.

  “Call it a thirst for adventure.”

  “You can call it that,” she said. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything. ‘Bye.”

  So much for that.

  Next stop, Maurice St. James’s gallery.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The tiny bell tinkled as I entered St. James’s gallery, where a young couple in Bermuda shorts, and with an infant in a stroller, took in the works of Joshua Leopold. A girl still in her teens cleaned glass on the paintings with Windex and paper towels. She looked at me, said nothing, and continued to wipe.

  I approached her. “Is Mr. St. James in?” I asked.

  Without missing a beat with her chore, she replied, “He’s in the back.”

  “Would you please get him for me?”

  My interference into her routine was obviously the source of great annoyance. She sighed, pouted, placed the roll of paper towels on a table, and disappeared through the door.

  “He wants to know who wants to see him,” she said when she returned.

  “Mrs. Fletcher. Jessica Fletcher.”

  She disappeared again. A moment later St. James emerged, a broad smile on his face. “Ah, Mrs. Fletcher, I knew I’d see you today. What a pleasure.”

  “I received your message and thought I’d stop in.”

  “Delighted. Delighted.”

  He took my elbow and guided me to a far corner, stopping to wish the departing young couple a pleasant vacation. “Always browsers, never buyers,” he muttered. His face brightened. “But there are exceptions, aren’t there, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Obviously. How is Joshua Leopold selling these days?”

  “Fine. Slow. A transition period.”

  “How so?”

  “Artists on the ascendancy always suffer peaks and valleys. Like the stock market. Are you an investor?”

  “A modest one. Very conservative.”

  “Certificates of deposit.”

  “And a stock or two. Mr. St. James, could we go someplace where we can talk? Privately?”

  “Unfortunately, here in the gallery is probably the most private place I can think of.”

  I found his comment interesting. Until then I’d assumed he was well-to-do, and that his gallery was prospering. That evidently wasn’t true.

  “All right,” I said. “When I first came into the gallery, I jokingly said I was interested in buying every painting here. Remember?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Fletcher. But I didn’t take it as a joke.”

  “I gathered that, which is why I clarified myself the next time we met. But maybe it wasn’t as much of a joke as originally intended.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I might be interested in buying a number of Joshua Leopold’s paintings from you. Not everything, of course. But selected pieces.”

  “I think that represents a prudent approach to collecting art,” he said. “Choose those works that represent the artist at his best, that have the greatest potential for appreciation.”

  “Exactly. My financial adviser in Maine has been urging me to diversify my investments. He is a strong believer in collectibles, which, of course, includes art.”

  “You have an astute adviser, Mrs. Fletcher. The potential value of paintings certainly runs far ahead of the stock market, real estate, or any other more mundane investment strategy.”

  “That’s precisely what he said, Mr. St. James.”

  “Maurice.”

  “Maurice, let me be perfectly candid with you. Some of Leopold’s works on these walls are quite good. But they represent what I consider to be—well, they are pedestrian, if only because they are on public display, available to anyone who happens to wander into this gallery.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I—I see your point. Of course. Besides being a best-selling writer of books, you are a businesswoman.”

  “Thank you. Now, let’s take this conversation to a second level.”

  “Yes. Absolutely. Would you like to go to my office? A place to sit? Tea? Something stronger?”

  “That would be appreciated.”

  His office was small and cluttered with antique furniture. There were wooden file cabinets, a computer, and piles of oversize books, all having to do with art. St. James removed some of the books from an armchair and pulled it up to his desk for me. He sat behind the desk, leaned forward, and rested his chin on a shelf formed with his long, slender fingers. “Tea?” he asked. “I’ll have the young woman make some.”

  “No, thank you,” I replied, not wanting to further distract her from her glass-cleaning obligations. “Perhaps I’d better get to the point, Maurice.”

  “If you wish.”

  “I would like to buy some of Joshua Leopold’s less well-known works. Works that are in the hands of private collectors.”

  He leaned back, his fingers still beneath his chin. “Private collectors,” he repeated softly. “That isn’t easy, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “I don’t expect it is. And call me Jessica.”

  “Of course. Don’t misunderstand. There are a number of Joshua’s finer works in private hands. After all, that’s what successful collectors do, cull the best from an artist’s output.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “I want to buy Joshua Leopold’s best work.”

  “Well, Jessica, what I have to offer in this gallery represents some of his finer efforts.”

  I shook my head. “I think you know what I mean,” I said, injecting a modicum of gravity into my voice.

  He raised his chin and closed his eyes, as if in deep thought. Then, he opened his eyes, leaned forward, and said, “I know precisely what you mean, Jessica. And I think I can be of immeasurable help to you.”

  “I never doubted that for a moment, Maurice.”

  “But I must be candid, Jessica. Gaining access to such works carries with it a certain—well, let me just say there is a certain risk involved.”

  “Risk? Tell me about it.”

  “The wrong word, perhaps. ‘Discretion’ might be more accurate. Some of these works have ended up in private hands through unconventional channels. Do you follow me?”

  “ ‘Unconventional channels,’ ” I repeated. “Stolen? Misrouted?”

  “I like that, Jessica. Misrouted. Yes, that sums it up, I think.”

  “I have no problem with that. When can I see some pieces? I don’t plan to stay in the Hamptons much longe
r.”

  “Then, time is of the essence.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “I need twenty-four hours.”

  “That’s reasonable,” I said, standing and straightening my skirt. “Shall I call you then?”

  “Better that I call you. I have the Scott’s Inn number.”

  “Let me give you another number, Maurice.” I wrote out for him the number of the new phone in my room.

  I climbed back into Fred Mayer’s taxi.

  “Next?” he asked.

  “A store where I can buy a telephone answering machine.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Dr. Peter Eder’s Hamptons office was located in a small community hospital. As he warmly welcomed me, I realized he was not as old as he appeared from the steps of town hall. His smile was wide and genuine, his overall demeanor pleasant and outgoing, a personality one seldom expects from a coroner.

  It was a spare and spartan office, with standard-issue metal furniture and an assortment of medical equipment hanging on the walls. The Suffolk County coroner wore a white lab coat over a blue shirt and red tie. Half glasses were tethered by a red-and-white ribbon behind his neck. He’d been going through a Yellow Pages directory open on his desk.

  “A pleasure meeting you,” he said, closing the directory. “I have years of medical training but can’t get my VCR programmed. I was looking for someone to do that. Please, have a seat. Chief Cramer says you have something important to discuss with me.”

  “Yes, I do, Dr. Eder. It has to do with the autopsy you performed on Miki Dorsey.”

  He nodded.

  “I’ve asked Chief Cramer to try and arrange for a second autopsy on her.”

  “He told me that.”

  “Did he tell you why?”

  “No. He said I’d have the pleasure of hearing it directly from you.”

  “He’s right. Miki Dorsey died in front of my eyes. And I’d become a friend of sorts with the reporter who was murdered, Jo Ann Forbes.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Eder, his smile replaced with a frown. “Very sad what happened to Ms. Forbes. It was a vicious blow that killed her. Someone very strong, I’d say.”

  I immediately thought of Hans Muller. He certainly was big. But I suspected he wasn’t what you’d call strong. Flabby was more like it, a body bloated with alcohol.