A Palette for Murder Read online

  “A shop that sells clocks.”

  “Clocks?” the reporter said through the open window.

  “Clocks,” I repeated, tapping Mayer on the shoulder. He slowly pulled away, leaving a puzzled reporter. A few cars fell in behind us, but I was pleased that most did not.

  “You serious about a store that sells clocks?” Mayer asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “I know just the place.”

  I stuck to my announced plan to shop, and to enjoy a quiet lunch until four o’clock—and until the few reporters following me eventually gave up—which, of course, was what I intended to happen.

  During lunch, which I enjoyed on the terrace of the Post House, a lovely restaurant recommended by Mayer, I used a phone inside to call Maurice St. James at his gallery.

  “Mr. St. James, have you come up with something to show me?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Fletcher. I didn’t expect to hear from you today. Not with what has happened to Hans.”

  “Poor man,” I said.

  “You were there.” He didn’t add as usual.

  “Yes, I was.”

  “He killed himself?”

  “Evidently. Maurice, I plan to leave the Hamptons very soon. Do you have works to show me?”

  “I have. It wasn’t easy, but I think you’ll be pleased with what you see.”

  “Wonderful. When can we meet?”

  “The gallery usually closes at nine today, but I’ll close earlier. Say seven?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Come to the back. Discretion is very much in order.”

  “I understand.”

  Back at Scott’s Inn, I went to my room and unwrapped my purchases of that afternoon, including the clock for Seth Hazlitt. It was exactly what he wanted.

  The red message light on the answering machine flickered indicating a message. There were two. The first was from Waldine Peckham: “This is Wally Peckham, Mrs. Fletcher. I think I’ve done pretty much everything I can. Any luck so far?”

  The second was the same male voice I’d heard earlier . He said: “I call again to offer the sketch you wish to buy. I will call one more time, tonight at midnight. If I fail to reach you, I won’t call again.”

  I made a mental note to be there at twelve, or lose the opportunity to recover my missing sketch.

  Next stop, police headquarters.

  “Well, Mrs. Fletcher, looks like you’re getting everything you’ve asked for.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that. What about the tests for ricin?”

  “You were right. There was ricin in that one cigarette butt that was smoked by Ms. Dorsey just prior to her death. And the ampoule you found at the scene of Mr. Muller’s death also contained traces of the poison.”

  I’d held my breath after asking the question. Now, with my gut instincts scientifically validated, I exhaled.

  Chief Cramer smiled. “You should be pleased, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Oh, I am. I certainly am. Will the second autopsy on Miki Dorsey take place?”

  “First thing in the morning. Dr. Eder is examining Hans Muller now. He told me he picked up quite a bit of knowledge from his forensic scientist friend in the city. He’ll be looking closely for any traces of ricin in Muller’s body.”

  “Good.”

  “So far. But there’s a large question remaining.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” I said. “Who killed Miki Dorsey and Jo Ann Forbes? And—”

  “And what?”

  “Maybe who killed Joshua Leopold, and possibly Hans Muller? Any chance of exhuming Leopold’s body?”

  “Now that it looks like ricin killed Ms. Dorsey, case could be made to take another look at Leopold’s body. I’ll see what I can do to put that into motion.”

  “I appreciate it, Chief.”

  “In the meantime, how are things with you?”

  “Just fine. I finally found some time to rest and relax. I did some shopping and had a delicious lunch.”

  “It’s about time. Anything further I can do for you?”

  “Thank you, no. You’ve done so much already. But I will touch base with you regularly.”

  “Always delighted to hear from you. And thanks again to you and your Scotland Yard friend for coming up with the ricin theory.”

  “I’ll pass your thanks along to George.”

  I spent the time between leaving Chief Cramer’s office and returning to Scott’s Inn making notes. I’ve always been an inveterate note maker, whether it’s a shopping list, a page of notes on what I intend to accomplish in any given day, or simply to help me focus my thoughts. That was something I tried to get across to my students in the seminar at NYU—that the act of writing forces you to think more clearly, about anything and everything.

  My pen-and-paper exercise was interrupted a number of times by calls. Mort Metzger called from Cabot Cove to repeat to me his message to Chief Cramer.

  “I know you care about me, Mort, but there’s no need to call the police here.”

  “Mrs. F., when I heard you were at the scene of another sudden death, I knew I had to make that call. Let the police handle things. You get home here and write your books. You’re a writer, not a cop.”

  “You’re absolutely right.”

  “Of course I am. And Seth agrees with me.”

  We chatted for a few more minutes before ending our conversation.

  Waldine Peckham called a few minutes after Mort and I hung up. I told her that her efforts seemed to have paid off, and recounted the two messages recorded on the answering machine. She was her characteristic low-key self: “I hope it works, but it probably won’t.”

  I thanked her again for her help, and promised to let her know how things progressed.

  Vaughan Buckley called as I was preparing to leave for Maurice St. James’s gallery. “Free for dinner?” he asked.

  “No, Vaughan. I decided to relax today. Did some shopping, bought a gift for a friend. I’m planning a quiet night.”

  “Great. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re staying with us. Remember?” “Oh, Vaughan, now that I’m off the case, as it were, and devoting myself strictly to rest and relaxation, I much prefer to stay here at the inn. You and Olga are wonderful to care so much about me, but I’m happy and secure right here.”

  “I wish you’d reconsider.”

  “But I won’t. You and that knockout of a wife of yours go out and enjoy the evening. I’ll be asleep by ten.”

  “I know better than to argue with you. Check in with us in the morning?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I’d dismissed Fred Mayer for the evening because he said he and his wife were having friends over. I now considered him a friend. He was a delightful gentleman, easygoing and unfailingly pleasant. I sensed after my lunch at the Post House that he might have taken a drink or two at some nearby pub. But I didn’t raise it with him. He drove sensibly for the rest of the afternoon, and wished me a pleasant evening before dropping me off.

  Time for my appointment with Maurice St. James.

  I went to the gallery’s rear as instructed and knocked on the metal door. It was dark back there, and I was grateful when St. James responded quickly. I looked past him. A narrow, dark hallway led into the rear of the gallery.

  “Please, come in.”

  The door closed behind me with a harsh clang. I followed St. James down the hall and into the gallery itself. Tiny pin spots trained on certain Leopold works provided dim light for the entire space.

  “Is what you’re showing me on the walls?” I asked. “I’ve already seen these.”

  “No. But before we get to the business at hand, I must ask you something, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you—well, Mrs. Fletcher, I must be assured that you are a legitimate buyer.”

  “Of course I am. I’m—”

  He raised his hand against my words. “Some of these works I am about
to offer you, Mrs. Fletcher, have an unconventional provenance.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that they’ve come into my possession from a variety of sources, not all of them—legitimate.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that,” I said.

  He held up his hand and smiled. “I am not saying that I have engaged in illegitimate activities. I would never stoop to that. But I did feel it appropriate to raise the subject with you.”

  “And I appreciate it, Maurice. Now that I’m forewarned, let’s get on with it. I’m not uncomfortable with the situation.”

  He rubbed his hands. “Good. Splendid. Come.”

  The room he led me to was one I wasn’t aware existed. It was fairly large. Two wooden worktables dominated the center. Lights with green metal shades were suspended above them.

  “This is our framing and preparation room,” St. James said. “It hasn’t been used much recently. Business has been slow.”

  “The economy?”

  “Among other things. Of course, that we feature only Joshua Leopold makes it more difficult.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Now, could we—?”

  “Of course. I’m sorry. I just feel a need to explain why I am willing to do certain things. Here.”

  He went to a comer where a pile of something was covered by a white cloth. He stripped the cloth away, revealing dozens of framed paintings leaning against each other. He picked up the first of them, carried it to where I stood next to a table, and held it up to catch the light.

  It was a typical Leopold; I’d now seen enough of them in the gallery to recognize his style. But then I thought of Chris Turi’s paintings in the studio where Leopold had died a year ago. Would I be able to discern the difference between him and Josh Leopold? I answered myself: No.

  “When was this painted?” I asked. “I mean, at what stage in his career?”

  “Late in his career, Mrs. Fletcher. I would say, oh, perhaps six months before he died. Do you like it?”

  “Very much. Where has it been for the past year?”

  “In private hands. Let me show you another.”

  Twenty minutes later, St. James had shown me two dozen paintings attributed to Joshua Leopold.

  “Well,” he said after the last painting had been exhibited for my approval. “Which ones appeal most?”

  “Hard to say,” I said. “I’m afraid I’ll have to look at them again.”

  “Certainly. Let me prop them up around the room. That way, you’ll be better able to compare.”

  As he spread out the paintings, I moved to where another white cloth covered something on the opposite side of the room. I pulled the cover back and saw another stack of paintings. The first one in the row immediately caught my eye. It had been rendered with a palette knife, vivid, bold colors slashing across the canvas. In the lower left was a crude cubist rendition of a nude young woman seated on a stool, her head and hair hanging down between her knees.

  I’d seen that painting before. In the studio shared by Chris Turi and Carlton Wells. I crouched and leaned closer to read the artist’s signature. Joshua Leopold.

  As I straightened up, I felt St. James’s presence immediately behind. I turned. His thin face was somber and cold.

  “May I see these?” I said.

  “Those are new, Mrs. Fletcher. I haven’t had time to evaluate their worth.”

  “New? Leopold’s been dead over a year.”

  His reply was to cover the second set of paintings again, move to the center of the room, and say, “Which ones do you wish to buy, Mrs. Fletcher? I have another appointment.”

  “How much are they?”

  “They vary in price. But for you—if you buy six or more—one hundred thousand dollars. Cash.”

  “May I have overnight to think it over?”

  “If you must. Be here at nine tomorrow morning. Otherwise, the offer is withdrawn.”

  “I understand. Maurice, let me be direct with you. You, Hans Muller, and, I believe, Miki Dorsey’s father, Blaine Dorsey, have been involved in promoting the name of Joshua Leopold and selling his works.”

  His face said nothing.

  “You are aware that Miki Dorsey was murdered?”

  Now his face said much. His eyes widened, and his mouth twisted into a thin, severe line.

  “She was poisoned by something called ricin.”

  “I know nothing of what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think you do, Maurice. I believe Hans Muller died from that same poison.”

  He stiffened, looking to me as though he didn’t know what to say or what to do next. Finally, he managed, “You aren’t interested in buying these works. Are you?”

  “I said I needed to think about it overnight.”

  “You’re here because you think I have done something wrong.”

  I pointed to the second pile of paintings. “Isn’t having forgeries made and sold to an unsuspecting public ‘doing something wrong’?”

  Until that moment, I’d felt secure in being direct with Maurice St. James. But then he picked up a knife with a curved blade I assumed was used in the framing process, and idly passed it from hand to hand. As he did, he moved in the direction of the door.

  “I have to leave now,” I said. “I’ll get back to you by nine.”

  His expression remained stone-like.

  I stepped in his direction.

  “You misunderstand, Mrs. Fletcher. You misunderstand.”

  I tensed; was he about to lunge at me with the knife?

  A car’s horn was heard from the street.

  “That’s my driver,” I said.

  “Your driver?”

  “Yes. Thank you. I’ll get back to you.”

  He stepped aside, and I left through the back door. A sound just across the narrow alley caused me to jump. I looked into the shadows but saw nothing. Probably a cat.

  I walked quickly to the street, turning in a direction that would not afford him a view of whether or not I did, in fact, have someone waiting for me.

  My heart pounded. He’d frightened me once he picked up the knife. I now knew that there was an underground market in forged Joshua Leopold art, and that Chris Turi was, at least, one of those turning out the forgeries.

  But how did that link up with murder?

  I was confident that the autopsy on Hans Muller would confirm he died from ricin, and it was now established that Miki Dorsey died from it. And I suspected Joshua Leopold had, too.

  Muller would have been the only possible source of the poison, by virtue of his former connection with East German intelligence.

  But who had used ricin on Miki Dorsey?

  Hans Muller? I somehow doubted it.

  Maurice St. James? A good possibility.

  Blaine Dorsey? Her own father? He was in London when she died. Wasn’t he? But had he known, along with the others, about the scam being perpetrated in forged art? And if Leopold himself had been murdered, with ricin the cause, had Blaine Dorsey known about that, too? And been involved in Leopold’s death?

  Carlton Wells? Anne Harris and Waldine Peckham both had questions about him because of his former relationship with Miki.

  It occurred to me as I continued to walk away from the gallery that I’d been blithely ignoring others who’d lived with Miki in the group house. I really knew only two, Anne Harris and Wally Peckham.

  And there was Jo Ann Forbes, the vibrant reporter for Dan’s Papers, found dead in Muller’s cottage. Had he killed her? Now that he was dead, it was unlikely anyone would ever know with certainty. Her notes said to me that she was on to something having to do with the Joshua Leopold art scam. Was that why she was killed? I thought so.

  I circled back to Scott’s Inn and went to my room. It was eight-thirty. I hadn’t eaten but wasn’t hungry. I was still slightly shaken by the way my meeting with St. James had gone. I knew I had to be in my room at midnight to receive the call from the person selling my sketch of the naked male model. The ques
tion was what to do between now and then.

  I was looking out the window when it struck me that I’d forgotten to ask Police Chief Hopeful Cramer an important question. I tried him at headquarters, but was told he’d gone home for the night. The officer on duty didn’t hesitate to give me the chief’s home number: “I know he wouldn’t mind you having it, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  Cramer’s wife answered. I introduced myself. After some pleasant chat, he came on the line.

  “Sorry to bother you at home, Chief, but I forgot to ask you something this afternoon.”

  “Sure. Go ahead and ask.”

  And I did.

  Chpter Twenty-six

  I’d no sooner hung up on Chief Cramer when the newly installed phone rang.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, it’s Anne Harris.”

  “Hello, Anne. I was hoping to hear from you.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “I was wondering whether we could get together.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes, if you’re not busy.”

  “I’m not. But I do have to be back here by midnight for a call.”

  She laughed. “You sound like Cinderella. I’ll have you back long before that. Pick you up. Ten minutes?”

  “All right. I’ll be waiting downstairs.”

  As I stood on the porch, I became increasingly anxious to see her and talk with her again. She’d said my first night at the group house that there was more to Miki Dorsey’s death than met the eye. Maybe this was the night she’d explain what she’d meant.

  I asked where we were going once we pulled away from Scott’s Inn.

  “Back to the house, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Fine. How has everything been with you?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Anne, you called on a number I’ve given only to two other people.”

  “Oh?”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Wally.”

  “She told you?”

  “Yup.”

  If that were true, I’d lost some faith in Waldine Peckham.

  We pulled into the driveway, got out, and went inside the house. There were no sounds. The only light came from the living room. I followed Anne down the dark hallway until we reached the room commonly shared by all the house’s summer residents.