A Palette for Murder Page 6
“Eat here.”
“Drink.
“Ah, a Coke, I suppose.”
I sat at a vacant table to wait for my pizza to heat.
Three teenage girls came in and ordered slices to eat there. They took an adjacent table. They were very loud, giggling and talking very fast. It made me smile. Was I like that as a teenager? I didn’t think so, but maybe we never admit to acting in a way we find strange as adults.
The counterman was taking my slice out of the oven when the door opened. I recognized him immediately, Chris Turi, the young artist I’d met on the jitney, and who Anne Harris told me was Miki Dorsey’s boyfriend.
I came up behind him as he said to the counterman, “Three pies to go. Name is Turi.”
“Mr. Turi,” I said.
He turned, cocked his head.
“Jessica Fletcher. We met on the jitney.”
“Oh, sure, right. How are you?”
“All right. You?”
“Good.”
His one-word answer took me aback. I assumed he would have immediately mentioned Miki Dorsey’s death. After all, it had happened only that morning. Anne Harris said he and Miki were going together. But here he was picking up three pizzas to go, and saying he was fine.
Was it possible he didn’t know?
“Mr. Turi, I’m sorry about what happened to your—to Miki Dorsey.”
He pursed his lips and closed his eyes. When he opened them he said, “Yeah. Incredible, huh? You were there.”
“Yes, I was.”
“Twenty-two, fifty,” the counterman said. He’d piled the three pizza boxes on the counter.
“What? Oh, right.” Turi pulled money from his jeans pocket.
As the counterman made change, I said to Turi, “I met a young woman today at the building where Miki died. Anne Harris.”
“Anne?”
“Yes. She told me that you and Miki were—dose.”
“Anne said that?”
“Yes.”
His face twisted into an unpleasant sneer.
“Perhaps she was wrong,” I said.
A smile came to his face, too quick and forced, I thought. “It was really terrible what happened to Miki,” he said. “So sudden and unexpected.” He was handed his change.
“Looks like you’re feeding lots of people tonight,” I said.
“Your slice, lady,” said the counterman.
“Oh, yes.” I said to Turi: “Well, again I’m sorry about Miki. Anne Harris invited me to visit the group house you share with her.”
“Did she?”
“Yes. I thought I might stop by tomorrow. Unless—”
“Unless?”
“It just occurred to me that since I’m in the mood for pizza, and since you obviously are, maybe I could have my slice back at your house.”
Was I being too forward?
“Sure,” he said. “Good idea. Do you have a car?”
“No,” I said pleasantly. “I don’t even drive.”
“You don’t drive?” His tone of incredulity was thick.
“No.”
“Great. My car’s right outside. Actually, it’s not mine. I don’t own one. Belongs to Anne.”
Chris Turi drove too fast for my taste, but we arrived safely. The house was large, old, and ramshackle, a splendid example of waterfront elegance from another era. It was close to the shore, maybe too close in heavy weather. A wind had kicked up off the water, sending a spray into the air that was highlighted by the full moon’s light. A shutter on the front of the house flapped in the breeze. Three other automobiles were parked in a circular gravel drive, dotted with clumps of weeds.
I followed Turi across the driveway and up to a porch spanning the front of the house. A board threatened to give way beneath my foot as I ascended the steps. The front door was slightly ajar. Turi pushed it open with his foot and stepped inside, carrying the three large pizza boxes. The foyer was dark. I could see that directly ahead of me was a staircase, also shrouded in shadow.
There was a shaft of light from somewhere to the rear of the house, accompanied by the sound of laughter.
“Come on,” Turi said, leading the way down a hallway to a large kitchen that opened onto an even larger common room. “Pizza delivery,” he announced loudly to the half-dozen young people on couches and chairs. “This is Mrs. Fletcher, the famous mystery writer.”
Anne Harris, who’d been reading a magazine, jumped to her feet and came to me. “Mrs. Fletcher. Nice to see you again.”
“Sooner than either of us imagined,” I said. “Mr. Turi and I bumped into each other at the pizza parlor. He was nice enough to invite me to—well, actually, it was me who did the inviting.”
“Hope you like pizza,” Harris said.
“I’m in the mood.” It dawned on me that I’d left my single slice back at the pizza parlor, and hadn’t paid for it. I’d try to remember to stop by there tomorrow to square things.
Turi placed the pizza boxes on a large table and opened them, while Anne Harris and another young woman brought cans of beer, paper plates, and napkins from the kitchen. I placed a slice on a plate, sat in an overstuffed purple chair with some of the stuffing protruding, and balanced the plate on my knees.
“Beer, Mrs. Fletcher?” Chris Turi asked.
“No, thank you. A soft drink?”
“Diet okay?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Aside from Chris Turi and Anne Harris, the others had barely acknowledged me. A man and woman had looked up and nodded when Turi announced me, but went back to their Scrabble game, breaking only to bring their pizza and beer to where the game board was perched on an empty wooden crate. A delicate, pale young man sat on a window seat reading a book. Another woman, who appeared to be older than the others, was painting a picture in a comer. I wiped my mouth and went to her, hoping she wouldn’t resent my intrusion into her creative reverie.
“That’s very nice,” I said after standing silently behind her for a minute. She was painting a watercolor of a man’s face, somewhat abstract but certainly recognizable for what it was.
She lowered her brush, looked at me, and smiled. “Thank you.”
“I’m Jessica Fletcher.”
“I know. Chris brought you here?”
“Yes.”
“The grieving boyfriend.” She dabbed red paint on her brush from her palette and applied quick, delicate strokes to the painting.
“Yes, I heard he was Miki Dorsey’s boyfriend. He doesn’t seem especially upset over her death.”
She laughed softly and reapplied paint to her brush.
“None of my business, I suppose.” I looked around the room. The scene had all the appearance of a typical, peaceful evening at home for a bunch of college students. One of their housemates had died that morning. The feeling was eerie; I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature in the house.
I was about to walk away—in fact, I decided having come here was a mistake, and wanted to call a taxi—when the artist painting the man’s face said softly, “You saw Miki die.”
“Yes.”
“Look natural to you?”
“What do you mean?”
She continued to apply brush strokes as she said, “Did it look as though Miki had a heart attack?”
“I suppose it did. But the autopsy will determine that.”
“What did you think of Carlton Wells?”
“I thought he was a good teacher.”
“How did he treat Miki?”
“Fine. I didn’t see any hostility between them.”
She sighed, turned, and looked at me with sad, knowing eyes. “Hang around, Mrs. Fletcher. You may have the plot for your next murder mystery laid right in your lap.” With that she went to the center table and bit into a cold pizza slice.
I found Chris Turi in the kitchen. He was engaged in what appeared to me to be an angry conversation with Anne Harris. He sensed I was there and turned. “How was the pizza?” he asked.
“I’ll drive you,” he said.
“No need,” I said.
“I insist.”
“I’ll drive Mrs. Fletcher,” Anne Harris said. “After all, it’s my car.”
“I don’t want to trouble anyone,” I said.
Ms. Harris motioned with her finger for me to follow her, and we headed down the dark hallway to the front door. We’d no sooner reached it when it opened, and a man wearing a tan trench coat, wide-brimmed brown hat, and holding a soft-sided hang-up suitcase faced us.
“Can I help you?” Harris asked.
“I’m Blaine Dorsey, Miki’s father.”
“Oh,” Anne and I said in unison.
“May I come in?”
“Of course. Sorry,” Anne said. We stepped aside to allow him to enter.
“I’m sorry about your daughter,” I offered.
He didn’t respond to my comment, simply removed his coat and hat and tossed them on top of his luggage on the floor.
Harris and I stood mute.
“Who’s in authority here?” Dorsey asked.
“In authority?” Anne said.
“Who do I talk to about Miki?”
I took the opportunity to take in Dorsey’s face. He was a handsome man, in his early fifties, I judged, an Anglo-Saxon face with prominent thin nose, ruddy cheeks, heavy eyebrows, and a thin mouth. My overall reaction was that this was not a pleasant man.
“Who are you?” he asked, suddenly facing me.
“Jessica Fletcher,” I said.
“The writer?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you here?”
“I was getting a slice of pizza and—” I said to Anne, “Could we go?”
“Sure. Miki’s friends are in the back, Mr. Dorsey. That way.” She pointed to the hall.
He walked away in the direction of the light and conversation.
Anne Harris drove slower than Chris Turi had. We said nothing to each other as she navigated the streets in the direction of Scott’s Inn. When she pulled up in front, she said, “I’m glad you’re here, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s more to Miki’s death than it might seem.”
“Oh?”
“Maybe we should keep in touch, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Maybe we should. But can you give me a hint as to why you think Miki’s death was unusual?”
“Next time. I have to get back.”
“Of course. Thanks for driving me home.”
“My pleasure. How was the pizza?”
“Cold.”
“May I call you tomorrow?”
“I’ll look forward to it. Good night.”
Although I’d eaten only a few bites of the pizza, I was no longer hungry. I changed into my pajamas and robe, and sat by the window that overlooked the garden. The lights were still on, and the moon’s rays were as brilliant as ever.
I yawned. It was early, but I was tired. I hadn’t lied to Vaughan Buckley. The events of the morning had taken something out of me. I was drained, weary—the king-size, iron-and-brass bed looked heavenly.
I cast a final glance out over the garden. At first I thought it was a cloud passing in front of the moon, casting a fast-moving shadow. But then I realized it was a person who’d been crouching behind the elm, and who now ran across the garden from right to left. The figure—male, female?—stopped for a moment and looked up at me. His, her, face was obscured by shadow. Then a final motion and the person was gone.
I thought about what I’d seen as I waited for sleep to overtake me. No reason to be concerned about it. Probably, a person taking an evening stroll and startled at seeing me at the window.
But in a private garden, behind a private inn?
Why did I wonder whether it had something to do with the unlikely death of the young nude model, Miki Dorsey?
Anne Harris says there was more to Miki’s death than meets the eye.
Two people questioned the actions of the instructor, Carlton Wells, just before Miki’s death.
Everyone in the group home where Miki had lived seemed blase about her death, with the exception of Anne Harris.
Chris Turi supposedly was her boyfriend. Yet he was the most casual of all the night of her death.
And here was I, on vacation, wanting to find out why.
“Go to sleep,” I commanded myself. “Tomorrow is another day.”
I obeyed.
Chapter Nine
I awoke the following morning to the sound of rain hitting the windowpane. I looked outside. Everything was gray and wet, with a brisk wind whipping it about.
It was seven o’clock. I’d slept soundly. I slipped into my robe and called downstairs. Mr. Scott, the inn’s owner, had told me breakfast was available each morning at seven, either in the small dining room, or as room service.
“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Good morning, Mr. Scott. Don’t you ever sleep?”
He laughed. “Not in season. Plenty of time to sleep late all winter.”
“I was wondering whether a pot of tea, some orange juice, and a dry English muffin would be in order.”
“Of course. It will be up shortly, along with the newspaper. Sorry about the weather.”
“A good reading day—and to sign my books for you.”
As I waited for breakfast to arrive, I flipped through some of the local magazines and newspapers Mr. Scott had given me when I arrived, looking for an appropriate rainy-day activity.
I considered an afternoon movie, but that was too passive. There was some shopping I wanted to do before heading back to Cabot Cove—surely I could find the clock Seth Hazlitt coveted—but wasn’t in the mood.
I’d settled on gallery and museum browsing when Mr. Scott delivered my breakfast. I told him of my plan for the day.
“No shortage of them around.” He sat, carefully arranging my breakfast on a small table by the window. “I hear you’ve become quite the artist, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Don’t believe everything you read, Mr. Scott. In my case, don’t believe anything.”
He laughed. “Something else I can do for you?”
“No, thank you. This is perfect.”
Scott had brought that week’s edition of Dan’s Papers, which he’d folded over so that the front page wasn’t visible to me. I took a sip of tea and opened the paper. Staring back at me was a picture of myself, one of many taken over the years to help publicize my books. The headline read: FAMED AUTHOR TAKES UP THE BRUSH—WITNESSES SUSPICIOUS DEATH OF NUDE MODEL.
I sighed and closed my eyes. It was about to start. I opened my eyes and started reading the accompanying article, bylined Jo Ann Forbes.
The sudden death of a nude model at a sketch class conducted by local artist and teacher, Carlton Wells, was shock enough. But among students in the class sketching Miki Dorsey’s nakedness was none other than famed, best-selling murder mystery writer Jessica Fletcher, vacationing in the Hamptons as a guest of her publisher and his wife, Vaughan and Olga Buckley.
This reporter managed an exclusive interview with Mrs. Fletcher shortly after the tragic event. During it, Fletcher told me that rumors of falling sales of her books were false, and that she had taken up painting because “I wanted to create pretty things.”
In a related matter, a sketch of a nude male model done by Fletcher during the ill-fated class was stolen and offered for sale to Dan’s Papers. Dan Rattiner, owner and publisher of Dan’s Papers, expressed outrage at the proposed sale of the sketch, which clearly belonged to Mrs. Fletcher, and declined. Then, at a party at this newspaper’s offices, someone walked away with the sketch. It is currently alleged that whoever took the sketch is offering it for sale for one thousand dollars.
This reporter, at Mrs. Fletcher’s invitation, is working closely with her not only to recover her sketch, but to investigate wheth
er the sudden death of Miki Dorsey was not the result of a heart attack, or other natural cause. The results of an autopsy on Ms. Dorsey have not, as yet, been released.
I put down the paper, went to the bathroom, showered, and dressed quickly. I had the sinking feeling that this was not destined to be a day of casual browsing of galleries and museums—unless I did something to make it so.
The uneaten English muffin, untouched glass of juice, and barely tasted tea sat on the table as I put on my raincoat, stuffed a few things in my shoulder bag, and headed downstairs.
Mr. Scott was at his usual place at the small desk.
“Off on your museum tour, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes.”
“How was breakfast?”
“Fine. I didn’t eat much.”
“Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Yes?”
“These are for you.” He handed me a half-dozen telephone message slips.
“When did these people call?”
“Since I brought you your breakfast.”
“Oh, my.” The calls were all from media people.
“And there are some folks out on the porch looking for you.”
“The press?”
“Afraid so. I hope you don’t mind my not putting these calls through. I wanted you to have a peaceful breakfast.”
“To the contrary. I appreciate the consideration. Mr. Scott, is there a back exit from the inn?”
“Yes. Two of them. And another through the basement.”
My raised eyebrows said it all.
“Follow me,” he said.
We passed through the empty dining room and kitchen to a door leading to the rear garden.
“Do you think some of them might be waiting back here?” I asked.
“Already checked, Mrs. Fletcher. The coast is clear, as they say.”
“I appreciate this.”
“I wouldn’t want those damn media vultures hounding me, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll do whatever I can to help you avoid them.”
I stepped through the screen door to the garden I’d seen only from my suite’s window. The rain and fog had turned everything in it a vivid verdant green. A pungent smell of flowers and manure touched my nostrils.