A Palette for Murder Page 16

  My attention snapped back to Dr. Eder. “Doctor,” I said, “I have reason to believe that Miki Dorsey did not die of a heart attack.”

  “I’m aware of your reputation, Mrs. Fletcher, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to question the conclusion you’ve reached. My autopsy on Ms. Dorsey was thorough. She died as the result of a coronary thrombosis, leading to a myocardial infarction. Textbook case. No debate about it. Certainly, no doubt or reservation in my mind.”

  I knew coming into his office that I had to avoid questioning his professional competence if I were to gain his cooperation. Actually, I wasn’t doubting his credentials and skills. From what George Sutherland told me, it would take a medical examiner actively looking for something like ricin to find it. There was no reason for Dr. Eder to be searching for traces of this highly lethal drug, used primarily by clandestine operatives. Why would he? In the Hamptons? Hardly a place where murderous international spies would be acting out their deadly game.

  “Dr. Eder, I’m sure that every sign pointed to Miki Dorsey having died from natural causes. As you say, from coronary thrombosis that led to a—?”

  “Myocardial infarction.”

  “Yes. Myocardial infarction. Doctor, have you ever heard of a poisonous substance called ricin?”

  He chewed his cheek as he searched his medical mind for the answer. “No,” he said, “I can’t say that I have.”

  I told him what George Sutherland had told me about ricin. He listened attentively. When I was through, he smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid my medical training and clinical experience have spared me from Cold War cops-and-robbers poisons. You’re saying that it’s possible that Ms. Dorsey was killed by someone, using this substance?”

  “I’m saying that I don’t know and would like to find out. Do you remember doing an autopsy on an artist who died here about a year ago? A young man named Joshua Leopold.”

  “Of course I do. A few months after his death, I went out and bought one of his paintings. It hangs in my den.”

  “That’s nice. He was very young. Like Miki Dorsey.”

  “I recall. Early thirties, I think.”

  “A coronary thrombosis, leading to a—”

  “Myocardial infarction.” We said it in unison.

  “Him, too, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  I nodded. “Him, too.”

  “You’ve got to give me something tangible.”

  “Dr. Eder, I could go through all the scraps of disparate information I’ve collected. For me, those scraps add up to a good possibility that the deaths of Joshua Leopold, Miki Dorsey, and Jo Ann Forbes have a common thread running through them.”

  “Ms. Forbes, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what is that thread, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Art.”

  “Joshua Leopold’s art?”

  “I think so. And since you now own a Leopold, I would think you’d want to know how the artist really died.”

  “Uh-huh. Tell you what. If Hope Cramer and the DA agree, we’ll do another autopsy on Ms. Dorsey. But only after I come up with the necessary information and technique to test for this ricin.”

  “How quickly can you do that?”

  “I’ll get on it first thing in the morning. There’s a forensic pathologist in the city I’ll confer with. If he doesn’t know, no one does.”

  “I appreciate this very much, Doctor. One last request?”

  “Shoot.”

  “When you confer with this pathologist, could you arrange to have these tested for ricin?”

  I took from my pocket the two cigarette butts I’d gathered up before leaving the inn that afternoon, one smoked by Miki Dorsey just before she died, the other found by the tree outside Scott’s Inn. I also laid on the gray metal desktop the package of cigarettes I’d picked up from Chris Turi’s area of the artist’s studio he shared with Carlton Wells. I separated Miki Dorsey’s last smoke from the other items. “This is the cigarette I think might have delivered ricin to Miki Dorsey. This other half-smoked butt might have come from this package, Doctor. I don’t know whether any lab could ascertain that, but I’d appreciate it if you’d ask.”

  “Of course I will. Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “I have a question for you,” he said.

  I smiled. “As you said, ‘shoot.’ ”

  “If you’re correct, Mrs. Fletcher, who killed Ms. Dorsey? Who killed Ms. Forbes?”

  “Let me add a name. Who killed Joshua Leopold?”

  “Well?” he said, head cocked, eyes narrowed.

  “As soon as I figure that out, you’ll be among the first to know. Thanks again, Doctor. I hope you get your VCR programmed. A friend of mine back in Maine got mine working.”

  The ringing phone on his desk interrupted. Eder picked up. “Yes, Hope, she’s right here, about to leave.” He handed the receiver to me. “Chief Cramer.”

  “Hello, Chief.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher. Just thought you’d want to know that Mr. Hans Muller has disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? I thought you pulled his passport.”

  “We did. But that doesn’t mean he can’t travel anywhere in the United States. He was told not to leave the Hamptons. Looks to me like he’s saying loud and clear that he’s guilty.”

  “Juries are told not to make such an inference,” I said.

  “That doesn’t mean I infer it. I’ve put out an all-points on Muller. If you hear from him, tell him he’s making a big mistake. Tell him to turn himself in. And call me.”

  “I certainly will, Chief. Thanks for letting me know.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  A quick stop at Scott’s Inn enabled me to attach my recently acquired answering machine to the phone that had been installed in my absence. I recorded a simple outgoing message, stating only that the caller had reached the assigned number and to leave a message following the beep.

  Downstairs, I picked up the phone on Joe Scott’s desk and called my new number. My message came through loud and clear. Good, I thought. It’s working. My inability to hook up things electrical rivaled Dr. Eder’s skill at programming his VCR.

  I went back upstairs and used the new phone to call Vaughan Buckley.

  “I was getting worried about you,” he said. “Where have you been?”

  “Out and about. Sorry to be so late in returning your call.”

  “Somehow,” he said, “your idyllic vacation in the Hamptons hasn’t turned out quite the way Olga and I envisioned it.”

  “Best laid plans and all that,” I said. “Am I interrupting dinner?”

  “No. But we are getting ready to go out. We’re hoping you’ll join us.”

  “Depends on who else will be there. Goodness, that sounds pompous, but I’ve had enough art talk to last a good long while.”

  He laughed. “They can be a bit much, can’t they, artists and their followers. As a matter of fact, there isn’t an artist or artist’s rep or gallery owner on the horizon for this evening. Just Olga and me, and a few friends from publishing who have homes out here.”

  “That was another subject I pledged to avoid. Writers and publishers, present company an exception, of course.”

  “Of course. Still have that driver on call?”

  “Mr. Mayer? Yes. He’s downstairs waiting for me.”

  “Tell him to go home. We’ll pick you up.”

  “No, I—it’s too late for that. He’s planned his evening around driving me. Just tell me where to meet you.”

  “Everything okay with you, Jess?”

  “Yes. Everything is fine.”

  His silence said he wasn’t buying it, but he didn’t follow through, saying instead, “Olga and our friends are in the mood for Mexican food. There’s a good Tex-Mex restaurant, Santa Fe Junction. They don’t take reservations, but we won’t have to wait long.” He gave me the address.

  Mexican food has never been high on my list of favorite cuisines, with Indian food rivaling it. �
�That would be fine,” I said, thinking I can always find something on the menu that wouldn’t go down too hot and hard. “See you at eight.”

  I quickly freshened up and was about to leave the suite when the ringing of a phone stopped me in my tracks. I looked at the instrument on the nightstand next to the bed, then at the new phone sitting on the small desk. It was the new one clamoring for my attention.

  I stood at the desk as it continued ringing. As I was about to pick it up, my voice came through the tiny speaker on the answering machine, giving my outgoing message to whoever was calling. When I was finished, the familiar voice and German accent of Hans Muller said: “Mrs. Fletcher. It is Hans Muller. Are you there?”

  Why was he calling on a number that had been installed only hours ago? Who had I given the number to? Wally Peckham. Maurice St. James. That was it.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, please, if you are there pick up the phone. I must speak with you.”

  I drew a breath, exhaled, and slowly moved my hand toward the receiver.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I know I offended you when we last spoke. I apologize. I throw myself at your feet. Please, if you are there I—”

  “Mr. Muller?” I said into the mouthpiece.

  He sounded like a large balloon deflating. “Ah, Mrs. Fletcher. You are there. Thank goodness.”

  “Mr. Muller, are you aware the police are looking for you. They’ve put out an all-points bulletin.”

  “Ya. I know.”

  “Where are you? Why have you chosen to disappear?”

  Another lengthy, heavy sigh. “Because—because, I have not done what they say I have done. I did not kill Ms. Forbes. You believe that, don’t you?”

  “What I believe doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you turn yourself in to the police immediately. If you’re innocent, you’ll have the chance to prove that in the proper way and under the proper circumstances. Running away will only hurt you, not help.”

  There was silence.

  “Mr. Muller. Are you there?”

  “Ya, I am here, Mrs. Fletcher. And you are right, good lady. But I must speak with you before I make such a decision.”

  “Where are you, Mr. Muller?”

  “You will come?”

  “No. But where are you?”

  “I will not say unless you promise to come to me.”

  “Mr. Muller, I’m on my way to dinner with friends, and I—”

  “The Buckleys?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. How did you get this number? It’s new.”

  “A friend.”

  “Maurice St. James? He knows where you are?”

  “I must go.”

  “Mr. Muller, please. Listen to me. If you agree to turn yourself in, I’ll pave the way with the police. I know Chief Cramer. I’ll talk to him. I promise I’ll—”

  The click of the phone being lowered into its cradle jarred my ear.

  I pondered my next move. There was a good chance that Muller had called from Maurice St. James’s gallery. I had to assume it was St. James who’d given Muller my new number.

  But I hesitated running downstairs, jumping into Fred Mayer’s taxi, and going to the gallery to confirm my suspicion. It wasn’t my place to assume the responsibility of a bounty hunter, tracking down a possible murderer.

  I called police headquarters. Naturally, I didn’t expect Chief Hopeful Cramer to be there at that hour, but I was wrong. He’d stayed late to catch up on paperwork.

  “Sorry to bother you at night, Chief, but I thought it was important.”

  “What is it, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “I just received a call from Hans Muller.”

  “Really? Where is he?”

  “He didn’t say. But he wanted me to come to him. I declined.”

  “That was prudent. No idea where he is?”

  “Only one possibility. The art gallery downtown owned by Maurice St. James.”

  “I know it. Why do you think Muller might be there?”

  “Just because—well, just chalk it up to intuition.”

  “That’s good enough for me. I’ll have a car over there in minutes.”

  “Good. Will you be at headquarters long enough to know whether they picked up Muller?”

  “I’ll make a point of it.”

  “I’ll call. A half hour?”

  “That should give us enough time.”

  The minute I hung up, I knew I couldn’t just sit in the room for thirty minutes. I got into Mayer’s cab and told him to drive by St. James’s gallery, but to keep a distance. When we arrived, I saw two uniformed officers knocking on the gallery’s front door. One went to the back, but reappeared only a minute later. They looked at each other, shrugged, got back in their patrol car and took off. Obviously, no one was there. Or, if Muller was inside, he was laying low. in the shadows.

  Although I already knew Chief Cramer’s officers hadn’t found Hans Muller at the gallery, I made my promised call from a booth.

  “No one there,” Cramer said. “I considered trying to get hold of the gallery owner, St. James, but the investigating officers are convinced no one was inside.”

  “I’m sure they’re right. Well, Chief Cramer, if I hear from him again, I’ll call immediately.”

  “Thanks for your help, Mrs. Fletcher. By the way, the coroner was impressed with your presentation to him.”

  “That’s nice to hear, and it’s thanks to you. I’m off to dinner with friends at Santa Fe Junction, but I’ll keep in touch.”

  “My favorite Tex-Mex restaurant out here, Mrs. Fletcher. Enjoy!”

  When I told Fred Mayer where I was going, he asked, “You like that kind of food?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Maybe you’d better take these with you.” He reached into his shirt pocket and handed me a half-eaten roll of Turns.

  I laughed. “Really think it will be that bad?” I asked.

  “Even worse. Good luck.”

  I was the last one to join the dinner party, which had already been seated in a large green Naugahyde banquette with a maroon tablecloth. A cactus plant sat in the middle of the table. I was introduced to the others by Vaughan, and took the last available seat in the crowded booth. Everyone had been served their drinks; I opted for sparkling water with plenty of ice (getting ready for the hot stuff), and a wedge of lime.

  A minute after I’d been served, the waitress returned with an appetizer Vaughan had ordered for the table. I’d never seen anything quite like it, and asked what it was called.

  “Onion Blossom,” the pretty and pert waitress said as she served it to us.

  “You’ll love it,” Olga said. “They take a whole onion and peel it, then cut off the top and bottom, slice it into wedges and dip it in tempura batter. A little cilantro and chili pepper, and then into the deep fryer.”

  We each had our own Onion Blossom. I stared at the one in front of me. It had opened into a crispy flower during deep-frying. It was beautiful.

  “Dip it in the avocado sauce,” Vaughan said.

  It was as delicious as it was visually attractive. If the rest of the meal was as good, I might change my view of Southwestern cooking.

  We’d just been served our main courses when the young man who’d greeted me at the door came to the table. “Mrs. Fletcher?” he said.

  I looked up from my hot plate of mesquite-grifled vegetables and penne. “Yes?”

  “There’s a phone call for you.”

  “For me? Who can it be?”

  I excused myself and went to the manager’s podium, where a phone was off the hook. I picked it up and said, “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, Chief Cramer here. Sorry to disturb your dinner.”

  “That’s quite all right. I did tell you where I’d be. Is something wrong?”

  “Maybe there’s something right. We know where Muller is.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “He’s holed up in a boathouse down near the town dock.”

  “How did you find him?”<
br />
  “A patrol officer saw this big guy duck into the boathouse. Checked it out. Says it’s Muller.”

  “Is the boathouse surrounded?”

  “Yup. We’re just sitting and waiting. We don’t have a negotiating team like they do in the city, but we’ve been talking to him.”

  “And?”

  “Mr. Hans Muller says he won’t come out unless he talks to you first.”

  “Talks to me?”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “That’s preposterous. Can’t you just go in and take him? He’s not armed, is he?”

  “Negative on that, Mrs. Fletcher. He’s got a handgun. And he threatens to kill himself unless he gets to talk to you.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “That’s what I say, only my choice of words is a little different. Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I need you. You can head off a nasty episode just by talking with him. I’m sending a car for you. Should be there any minute.”

  “I have a taxi waiting outside. We’ll follow.”

  “Whatever you say. And thanks.”

  I hung up and turned to face the booth where my dinner companions were talking and laughing. What would I tell them? That the food hadn’t set well with me, and I needed to go home immediately? That I had a headache or a toothache?

  I decided the only course of action was to tell them exactly why I was leaving.

  My announcement caused sudden and total silence. It was Vaughan who broke it. “I absolutely won’t allow you to do this,” he said, covering my hand with his on the table. “Hans sounds as though he’s gone off the deep end. No telling what he might do to you. Hold you hostage. Even kill you. He might have killed Ms. Forbes. Nothing to lose by killing you.”

  “I’ll be with the police,” I said. “They’ll—”

  “This is so exciting,” one of my dinner companions said.

  “Can we go with you?” said another.

  The door to the restaurant opened, and a uniformed patrolman came through. I stood and motioned for him. He came to the table.

  “I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said.

  “I’m Officer Walsh. Coming with us?”

  “Yes.”

  Vaughan, Olga, and our dinner party accompanied me to the sidewalk. Everyone else in the restaurant was aware of the commotion and strained to make sense of it.