A Palette for Murder Read online

  I heard the door close, and footsteps. I peered inside. A young woman stood in the middle of the room. She wore yellow shorts and a white T-shirt with an artistic design on it. Picasso?

  She looked up and saw me, froze, then backed toward the front door. I stepped inside. “Hello,” I said.

  Her eyes were wide. I approached her. “You startled me,” I said.

  “Me, too,” she said. We both smiled.

  “I’m Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Oh, the—you’re the writer who was here when Miki died.”

  “That’s right. Word travels fast.”

  “The Hamptons thrive on gossip.”

  “So I’ve heard. Did you know Ms. Dorsey well?”

  She nodded. “We lived together.”

  “Oh. It must have been a terrible shock for you.”

  “For all of us in the house.”

  “How many of you live together?”

  ‘“Ten. Some are here all summer. Some just weekends.”

  “I see. A group house. I’ve heard they’re popular in the Hamptons.”

  Another nod. She looked at the floor and chewed her cheek, as though deciding whether to say what she intended to say next. I waited.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, did you see anything unusual just before Miki died?”

  “Unusual? No, I can’t say that I did. She’d been posing, and was about to stop. The instructor told her the session was over. When she didn’t move, he went to her. I think he thought she was kidding around. She’d said she didn’t enjoy the pose she was in. He touched her, I think. Then she pitched forward.”

  The girl wrapped her arms about herself and shuddered.

  “I didn’t get your name,” I said.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Anne Harris.”

  “Nice to meet you, although I would prefer under more pleasant circumstances. Do you know what the funeral arrangements are?”

  “They’re doing an autopsy, I think.”

  “Routine in deaths like this. Has her family been notified?”

  “Her father. He’s flying in from London.”

  “He lives there?”

  “Yes. Miki’s parents have been divorced for a long time. I don’t know where her mother lives. Miki never talked about her. They didn’t get along.”

  “Are you an artist?” I asked.

  “A musician. Cello.”

  “How nice. I love the sound of a cello.”

  “You were taking lessons, weren’t you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was. I’m not very good. Just a hobby of sorts.”

  “Everyone’s talking about you. Chris said he met you on the jitney.”

  “Chris?”

  “Chris Turi.”

  “Oh, yes. The nice young man who sat next to me. An artist. Does he live in your group home?”

  “Weekends. He and Miki were going together.”

  “A sad time for him.”

  “For all of us. Are you sure Carlton Wells didn’t do anything unusual to Miki before she died?”

  “Carlton? Our instructor. No. Why do you ask?”

  “He hated Miki.”

  “I didn’t sense that. Why did he hate her?”

  “Because she dumped him. They used to go together.”

  “I see. Miss Harris, are you telling me that you think Miki’s death might not have resulted from natural causes?”

  “I don’t know what I think. All I know is that she was healthy before coming here for the modeling session. And now she’s dead.”

  I checked my watch. As I did, I realized I was still holding the cigarette butt I’d picked up outside. I dropped it into the pocket of my beige linen jacket and said, “I must be going, but I’d like to talk to you again. Would I be imposing if I stopped in at your summer home?”

  “No, that would be all right.” She gave me directions. “It’s right on the water,” she said. “Real pretty place. But kind of grim now.”

  “I can imagine. Well, Miss Harris, it was nice meeting you. I’ll be by.”

  Chapter Seven

  Jo Ann Forbes, the reporter from Dan’s Papers, called precisely at three, and we agreed to meet in a half hour at a pub in the center of town. I considered inviting her to my room at Scott’s Inn, but thought better of it. Somehow, having my feeble attempts at art in the room made it off-limits to everyone but me.

  The pub was pleasant, and relatively empty at three-thirty. Ms. Forbes ordered a beer called Killian Red; I settled for club soda with lime.

  I took the initiative. “What do you know about the dead model, Miki Dorsey?” I asked.

  She laughed. “I thought I was supposed to be interviewing you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “We’ll interview each other.”

  “All right. I don’t know anything about her. They’re doing an autopsy as we speak. It’s big news.”

  “A natural death is big news in the Hamptons?”

  “Sure. Young woman sharing a group home for the summer. Models in the nude to make ends meet. Famous author sketching nude models and watching her die. Former boyfriend conducting the class and known to have been dumped by dead model. Wealthy father, art dealer big-time in London, flying in. Yes, Mrs. Fletcher, it’s big news, not only here but in the city, too. The Post, News, and even the Times have stringers out here covering it. TV, too, I hear.”

  “Miss Dorsey having ‘dumped’ Carlton Wells seems to be common knowledge.”

  “Sure is. They came to blows over it.”

  “Then, why did she continue to model in the nude for his classes?”

  “Like I said, a need to make ends meet.”

  “You say her father is wealthy. He didn’t help her?”

  “Evidently not.”

  “What did she do for a living?”

  “A little of this, a little of that. Waitressed in the city—and out here, too, on occasion. Modeled. She wasn’t the classic model type—you know, tall and willowy—so she did nude modeling.”

  “Do you know her current boyfriend, a Chris Turi?”

  “No.” She scribbled his name in her reporter’s notepad.

  “Anne Harris?”

  “No.” She noted that name, too.

  Realizing I was giving her more information than I was receiving, I sipped my drink and fell silent.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, why did you decide to take up art?” she asked.

  “I wanted to create pretty things.”

  “Only reason?”

  “What other reason could there be?”

  She shrugged and drew on her beer. “I hear a rumor that the sales of your books have fallen off.”

  My guffaw was involuntary. “They’ve never sold better. ”

  “I just thought—”

  “That I’m looking for a new career in art? Ms. Forbes, I assure you that if that rumor were true, I do not have the artistic talent to earn a nickel.”

  “I thought your sketch was pretty good.”

  “You saw it?”

  “Yes. Just for a minute.”

  “Any word on where it might be?” I asked.

  “No. But another rumor flying around town is that it’s for sale.”

  I hated to keep laughing at things she said; she was a lovely young woman doing a good job. But I couldn’t help it. “How much are they asking for it?” I asked.

  “A thousand dollars.”

  “How’s the beer?”

  “Delicious. My favorite.”

  “I believe I’ll try one.”

  She was right. Killian Red had an unusual, tangy flavor. But I’m not a beer drinker, so managed only a few sips.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, do you think there might have been foul play in Miki Dorsey’s death?”

  “I have no idea. The autopsy will provide important information about that possibility.”

  “Are you investigating it?”

  “Investigating it. No, Ms. Forbes, I’m not.”

  “I only ask because you’re known for getting involved in real murd
ers outside those you solve in your books. I just thought—”

  “What if I were? Investigating Miki Dorsey’s death.”

  “Then, I’d like to be able to tag along with you.”

  “I couldn’t stop you. In return, will you help me find my missing sketch?”

  “Sure. But why not just buy it back? You’d have it, and you’d know who took it.”

  “Pay a thousand dollars for my own sketch? Absolutely not.”

  She finished her beer. “It’s a deal?” she asked, extending her hand across the booth’s small, scarred table.

  I shook it. “It’s a deal,” I said.

  Chapter Eight

  Was there no end to the number of art galleries in the Hamptons?

  They seemed to be everywhere, on every comer, in every nook and cranny of the area’s quaint villages. It reminded me of Seattle, where bookstores dominate each intersection.

  That evening, Vaughan and Olga took me to the Elaine Benson Gallery. Mrs. Benson, they told me, had been championing Hampton artists for more than thirty years, and was an active fund-raiser through her openings and shows.

  The gallery was bustling with people when we arrived. Vaughan and Olga were immediately welcomed, and introduced me around. The show featured three Hampton artists, two of whom worked in acrylic, the third a sculptor whose numerous small pieces were crafted of wire and thin metal strips into pleasantly recognizable forms—horses, a carousel, trees, and buildings.

  I accepted a glass of white wine from a uniformed waitress and followed Vaughan and Olga from group to group, thanking people for their kind words about my books, and hoping the facial muscles controlling my smile wouldn’t give out.

  I was eventually separated from Vaughan and Olga, and had to fend for myself. A woman to whom I’d been introduced earlier asked me about the rumor that I’d decided to become a visual artist. I assured her it wasn’t the case. We were joined by a young couple who wanted to discuss Miki Dorsey’s death, and that I’d been there to witness it.

  I really didn’t want to get into that subject, and tried my best to shift conversational gears. I was succeeding, steering us into a discussion of some of the art on the nearest wall, when I spotted Maurice St. James entering the gallery.

  “Excuse me,” I said, looking for the Buckleys. I spotted them in a far corner and tried to slither there through knots of people.

  I would have made it were it not for the corpulent gentleman in a red bow tie who stepped in my path and insisted upon discussing the plot of a book I wrote ten years ago.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Maybe we can discuss this later.”

  His face soured. “I just thought that you’d appreciate hearing why the plot didn’t work. You see, when Cynthia came out of the schoolhouse, she couldn’t possibly have—”

  I rudely circumvented him and continued toward the Buckleys.

  “Mrs. Fletcher!”

  I was face-to-face with Maurice St. James.

  “You devil,” he said, smiling and wagging his index finger in my face. “I knew I recognized you when you were in the gallery. I checked my library at home. There you were on the cover of one of your books. Of course I knew you.”

  “Mr. St. James, I really must apologize. When I said I might be interested in buying all of Mr. Leopold’s work, I was joking.” I winced. “I know, I know, it really isn’t funny. It was just a whim. I—”

  “My dear Mrs. Fletcher, there is no need for you to explain. I’ve heard of your interest in art, how you’ve been studying—Paris, I hear?—”

  “No. No, not Paris.”

  “I would be honored to represent your work, Mrs. Fletcher. We hold an esteemed position in the gallery world. We made Josh Leopold. By the way, are you still interested in buying him?” He looked left and right, then whispered, “I can make you a”—a laugh—“an offer you can’t refuse.”

  Vaughan and Olga rescued me.

  “You’ve met Maurice,” Olga said. “Maurice, tell Jessica about the woman who came to your gallery and offered to buy everything Leopold painted.”

  St. James laughed. “I already have,” he said.

  “Do you have plans this evening?” St. James asked us. “Dinner?”

  “As a matter of fact we do have plans,” Vaughan said.

  “Dinner,” said Olga. “Why don’t you join us?”

  St. James looked at me. “Only if Mrs. Fletcher would not consider it an intrusion.”

  “Jessica?” Olga asked.

  “No, not at all.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher!”

  A stout woman wearing an outlandish floppy straw hat stood before me. “Poor dear, being witness to the death of that young woman.”

  Some people next to us heard, turned, and picked up on that theme.

  Vaughan noticed my expression of distress, took my elbow, and led me from the crowd to the relative quiet of a distant comer. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  I let out a stream of air and shook my head. “This is all too much for me, I’m afraid,” I said.

  “Let’s leave.”

  “No, you and Olga stay. Enjoy dinner. I think I’m in for a quiet night alone. I didn’t realize how potent this morning’s experience was. It’s taken everything out of me.”

  “I’ll get the car.”

  “I can take a cab. In fact, I insist. I don’t want to upset your plans. Please.”

  I considered saying good-bye to Olga, Maurice St. James, and others I’d met, but the cab arrived almost immediately. “Tell Olga I wasn’t feeling well,” I said. “And thanks for understanding.”

  “Breakfast?”

  “I’ll call you.”

  I had the driver take me directly back to Scott’s Inn, where I went to my room, poured a tiny amount of brandy from a pretty decanter Mr. Scott had provided, kicked off my shoes, and pulled a chair up to the window. The gardens in back were nicely lighted, bathing the plantings in a soft, warm glow. A bright star twinkled above a large elm at the rear of the property. I couldn’t see the moon, but I knew it was there, adding to the illumination from over the front of the inn.

  I was sorry to have left the Benson Gallery and my friends so abruptly, but didn’t feel I had a choice. My head had begun spinning, and I was afraid I might faint. Now, in the solitude of my lovely room, I felt my equilibrium returning.

  I was suddenly aware of the gentle tick-tock of a wall clock, and looked at it. Six o’clock. My stomach was starting to protest. I was hungry.

  I picked up the newspapers and magazines Mr. Scott had given me and thumbed through them in search of a nearby restaurant that was informal, and hopefully not busy. An ad for a small Italian restaurant caught my eye. I checked a map in the guide; it was only a few blocks from the inn.

  I changed into beige slacks, a pink sweater, and new white sneakers I’d bought before coming to New York, freshened my makeup, and went downstairs, where Mr. Scott was sitting behind his small registration desk.

  He looked up. “Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Scott.”

  “I thought you’d gone out for the evening.”

  “I did, but changed my mind. I decided to spend a quiet night alone.”

  He nodded. “Anything I can do for you?”

  “No, thank you. I’m going for a bite to eat. Can I bring something back for you?”

  “Kind of you, Mrs. Fletcher, but no. Don’t need anything.”

  “Well, good night.”

  The phone on the desk rang. Scott picked it up. “Yes, matter of fact she’s standing right here.” He handed me the phone. “A Dr. Hazlitt, from Maine.”

  “Hello, Seth. How nice to hear your voice.”

  “And nice to hear yours, Jessica. I understand you’ve had quite a day.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “Not very difficult. Just a matter of turnin’ on the television.”

  “Television?”

  “Ayuh. Had a story on the tabloid channel about you drawi
n’ some naked models in some sort a’ class, and seein’ a woman model die.”

  “That’s basically true.”

  “You were there, sketchin’ naked models?”

  “Seth, that’s hardly the issue. What’s important is that a young woman died.”

  “Natural death, the TV says.”

  “It appears that way.”

  “You don’t sound so certain.”

  “I have no reason to believe anything else.”

  “Jessica.”

  “Yes, Seth?”

  “I thought I knew you pretty well.”

  “You certainly do.”

  “You’re studyin’ to be an artist? I didn’t know that.”

  “I’m not studying to be anything, Seth. Just a hobby. A new creative outlet. Stretching my horizons.”

  “Ayuh.”

  “I was just heading out for a bite to eat.”

  “With your publisher?”

  “Ah—yes, and I’m running late.”

  “Aside from seein’ young people droppin’ dead, is everything else all right with you?”

  “Of course. Everything is fine. I’m on vacation, and enjoying every minute of it.”

  “That’s nice to heah. Take care, Jessica. Keep in touch.”

  “I will. Good night, Seth. Thanks for calling.”

  I handed the phone back to Mr. Scott. “A very good friend back in Maine,” I said.

  “A doctor, huh?”

  “Yes. An old-fashioned chicken-soup doctor.”

  Scott laughed. “Not many of them left.”

  “Afraid not. See you later, Mr. Scott.”

  The restaurant was more of a pizza parlor, with a few Formica tables justifying its “restaurant” designation. Which wasn’t off-putting to me. I hadn’t had a slice of pizza in years, and it suddenly took on an almost urgent appeal.

  I stepped inside the brightly lit restaurant and went to the counter, behind which were pizza pies of various types, which posed a dilemma: What kind to order?

  “Yes, lady?” a young man in a tomato sauce-stained white apron asked.

  “A slice of pizza, please.”

  “Plain?”

  “With cheese.”

  “Extra cheese?”

  “No, not extra. Just plain. Cheese. And tomato sauce.”

  He looked at me strangely, but didn’t say what he was thinking, that this woman must never have had a pizza slice before. He picked up a slice from a pan and slid it into the large oven. “Eat here, take out?” he asked.