“Hi,” he said after I’d settled in.
“Hi,” I said.
“I haven’t seen you before.”
Why would not seeing me before strike him as being unusual? I wondered. “Do you mean on this jitney?” I asked.
His grin broadened. “Yeah,” he said. “I take it all the time. Most people take it regularly.”
“I didn’t realize that,” I said. “This is my first trip.”
His smile faded and his brow knitted. “Do I know you from someplace?” he asked. “I mean, someplace other than the jitney.”
“I really wouldn’t know.”
“Are you a famous artist?”
I laughed. “Goodness, no. I can’t even draw the proverbial straight line.”
His eyes went to my portfolio. “I figured you were an artist because of that,” he said, pointing to it.
“Oh that,” I said. “Just to carry some oversize ... things.”
My seat companion started talking to the person across the aisle, giving me the opportunity to open one of two books I’d brought with me to read on vacation. But I had trouble starting it. There was too much to see out my window.
The driver left Manhattan via the Queens Midtown Tunnel and headed east on the Long Island Express-way. Although it wasn’t rush hour, at least according to my definition, traffic was horrendous and stayed that way until we’d reached Suffolk County, where things opened up and we were able to make better time. Soon, we were on smaller local roads, rolling along through farmland and passing lovely older homes mingled with more modem structures featuring lots of glass and natural woods.
I enjoyed my solitude, shifting my attention between the book and the scenery. But eventually, my seat companion struck up another conversation with me. “I still think I know you from somewhere,” he said. “By the way, name’s Chris Turi.” He extended his hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said.
“And you are?”
“J. D. Fletcher,” I mumbled.
“Fletcher. Fletcher. The mystery writer?”
I leaned close to him. “Yes, but I would just as soon not broadcast it. I’m coming to the Hamptons for what I hope is a very quiet ten days away from anything having to do with writing.”
He smiled. “Sure. I understand.”
“You thought I was an artist because of this portfolio I’m carrying,” I said. “I see you’re carrying one, too. Are you an artist?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “A struggling one,” he said. “Maybe someday my name will be as famous as yours.”
“I certainly hope so,” I said, not sure whether that indicated a certain pomposity on my part. “What sort of art do you do?”
“Hard to categorize,” he replied. “Modem, I guess, although I’ve been trying to incorporate a more traditional approach to some of my works.”
“Combining the old masters with modem design?” I asked, hoping my question didn’t sound stupid.
“Something like that,” he said.
We didn’t have time to discuss it further because minutes later, our driver pulled to the curb in the center of the charming Hamptons village that would be my home for the next ten days. Mr. Turi and I shook hands: “I’ll probably see you around,” he said. “Not a very big place.”
“Well, if we do bump into each other, I’d enjoy seeing some of your work.”
“Sure. Be my pleasure. Want to see some now?”
I saw Vaughan and Olga Buckley waiting for me on the sidewalk, their two little dogs, Sadie and Rose, on leashes. “Sorry, but there’s no time,” I said. “Maybe I’ll see you in a restaurant or café.”
“Yeah. That would be good. Nice meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Same here.”
“Jessica, how wonderful to see you,” Olga Buckley said, handing the leashes to Vaughan and giving me a hug.
“And good to see you again, Olga. You look stunning as usual.” Olga Buckley had once been a top fashion model in Manhattan. When she married the dashing young publisher, Vaughan Buckley, news of their permanent liaison was big news on the society pages. Although her modeling career ended a number of years ago, she looked as good today as when her cameo face and slender figure graced the covers of some of America’s leading fashion magazines.
Vaughan, who loved clothes and was always impeccably dressed, was no exception this day. He wore gray slacks with a razor crease, a double-breasted blue blazer with gold buttons, and a red-and-white checkered button-down shirt open at the collar. A red handkerchief jauntily protruded from his breast pocket. He kissed me on the cheek. Sadie and Rose yapped at my feet; I crouched and gave them each a scratch behind the ears.
“Well,” I said, straightening up, “here I am. What a charming village.”
“That it is,” Vaughan said. “Of course, it’ll get too crowded now that the season is upon us. But that adds a certain vitality to it.”
As we slowly walked along the street in the direction of the inn they’d chosen for me, Vaughan said, “Olga and I are still considering buying some property up in Cabot Cove.”
Olga laughed. “Ever since Vaughan came back from visiting you there, all he’s talked about is how beautiful Cabot Cove is, and how much we’d enjoy having a getaway there. He says a friend of yours makes the best blueberry pancakes he’s ever tasted.”
“That would be Mara. Everything she cooks is good.”
The inn was located on the main street, set back from the sidewalk. It was lovely in a gingerbread way, gray shingles and immaculately painted white trim cut into a series of circles that bordered the top and sides of the door. A pair of white wicker rockers stood on a small front porch. A bicycle rack holding a half-dozen bikes was to the right of the porch.
“It looks lovely,” I said.
“We think you’ll enjoy staying here, Jessica,” Olga said. “Dreadful timing, having our house renovated just when you come to visit. But this inn is really very comfortable. It only has a few rooms, but one is a suite in the back, overlooking a lovely garden. That’s your room.”
“Sounds yummy,” I said.
The Buckleys were greeted warmly by the inn’s owner, an older, cherubic gentleman with a baldpate, and a fringe of white hair that looked like cotton pasted to his temples. His name was Joseph Scott, and he seemed genuinely enthusiastic about my being a guest. He ushered us into a small sitting room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases on one wall. With great pride, he pointed to a section that con tained, at least it looked to me, every book I’d ever written. “My personal J. D. Fletcher library,” he announced.
“I’m very flattered, Mr. Scott. I don’t know of anyone who has every book I’ve written.”
“My hope is that you’ll sign them all for me,” he said. “That is, if it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition.”
I took in the room with a sweep of my hand and said, “I think I’ll be spending many hours here, plenty of time to sign your books a dozen times each.”
“Splendid,” he said, rubbing his hands. “I’m sure you’re tired after your trip, Mrs. Fletcher. Let me show you your suite.”
The suite at the rear of the house was as tastefully decorated and furnished as the downstairs. Everything was the color of ripe peaches, accented with dazzling white trim. The king-size iron-and-brass bed was covered with a lacy, crocheted spread. A magnificent painted leather screen stood next to a large fireplace. An ancient, lovingly restored armoire that must have had to have been disassembled to fit it into the room, dominated the wall. The bathroom was charming: a footed tub, pedestal sink, gleaming hardwood floor, and needlepoint rug.
My luggage rested on a chest at the foot of the bed. I leaned my oversize black portfolio against it. “What have we here?” Vaughan asked, touching it.
“What?” I asked.
“This artist’s portfolio. You aren’t thinking of abandoning writing for a career in art, are you?”
I hoped my forced laughter wasn’t obvious. “Just some—oversize—thin
gs,” I said.
Seemingly satisfied with my response, Vaughan went to the windows spanning the back wall and pulled the frilly white curtains aside. The rear of the property had the peaceful look of a classic English country garden.
“I think I’m going to be blissfully happy here,” I announced.
“And that’s all we want for you, Jessica,” Olga said, giving my arm a squeeze. “Why don’t you freshen up, maybe take a nap. We are having dinner together?”
“Looking forward to it,” I said. “And yes, I’d like to get unpacked, freshen up, and maybe close my eyes for twenty minutes. Where are we having dinner?”
“Della Femina, in East Hampton.”
“The famous advertising man?” I asked.
“One and the same,” Olga said. “He opened his restaurant here in 1991, and it’s been a success ever since. No matter what you order, save room for the warm valrhona chocolate cake. Served with fresh raspberries and chocolate-hazelnut gelato. To die for.”
“I was determined not to—”
“No diets this trip, Jess,” said Vaughan. “Great story about Jerry Della Femina. Years ago he was pitching a possible Japanese client for his agency. He became frustrated during the meeting and said, ‘How about we launch a campaign with the theme, ”From Those Wonderful Folks Who Brought You Pearl Harbor” ’?”
“Did he get the account?” I asked.
“No. But he wrote a best-selling book with that title.”
“And now he owns a restaurant.”
“And a good one,” Vaughan said. “Let’s go, Olga, let the lady relax. We’ll be by to pick you up at seven.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Once the Buckleys were gone, Mr. Scott asked whether I’d like tea.
“As a matter of fact, I would,” I said.
During his absence, I unpacked and put my clothing away. I waited until he’d delivered the tea and left the room before opening the art portfolio I’d been carrying. A lovely waning light spilled through the suite’s windows, and I held each item from the portfolio up to it. Some of them made me smile. Others caused me to wince. There were four watercolor landscapes, only one of which captured the scene with any validity. Pencil sketches of faces and figures were mostly out-of-proportion—a nose too broad, ears not matching facial structure, arms not in true relationship to the body. I responded favorably to one still life of a bowl of fruit. “Not bad,” I said aloud.
There was a knock at the door.
I quickly put the drawings and paintings back in the portfolio, and answered. It was Mr. Scott. “Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Fletcher, but I just thought you might like this selection of our local newspapers and tourist magazines.”
“Thank you so much,” I said. “I would like to read up a little on the area before venturing out. This is my first visit to the Hamptons.”
“I’ll do everything possible to make it memorable,” he said, backing out of the room and closing the door behind him.
Unpacked and freshened up, I decided not to nap but to take a walk before dinner. I stopped on my way out of the inn to admire some of the art on the walls of the common areas, and the antique furniture gracing each room. Filled with a sense of well-being, I stepped out onto the main street. Night hadn’t fallen yet, but wasn’t far away.
I went to my right because there seemed to be more shops in that direction. Turning to the left would have taken me out of town into what appeared to be a residential area.
I paused in front of store windows and admired the attractive display of goods—jewelry, rare books, perfumes, and toiletries, the sort of merchandise one expects to find in a resort town.
At the comer was an art gallery. There was a lot of activity inside, so I went in and was greeted by a middle-aged man wearing an obviously expensive blue suit of English cut. “Good evening,” he said.
“Good evening. What a lovely gallery. It’s larger than one imagines from outside.”
“Never large enough. Are you interested in something of Joshua’s specifically, or just perusing?”
“Perusing, I suppose. Joshua?”
His expression said to me that I had said something remarkably inept. “Joshua Leopold,” he said.
I looked at the art on the nearest wall. “Is he the artist?”
His expression deepened; I guess I was asking dumber questions all the time. “Joshua Leopold is perhaps the most highly regarded young artist in the field today. We’re his exclusive representatives in the Hamptons. Our sister gallery in Manhattan also features his work.”
“Well, I’m impressed,” I said, not really meaning it. The man’s pomposity was off putting, but I decided to not let that deter me. “I think I’ll—peruse, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. Just summon me if you need anything. I am at your disposal. My name is Maurice St. James.”
I didn’t bother to introduce myself, and slowly walked the perimeter of the gallery. Mr. Leopold, the artist, certainly had a strong style, working with large areas of vivid color that seemed to have been randomly applied to the canvas. I thought of Jackson Pollock, who influenced an entire generation of artists working in what some critic termed “Action Painting.” It’s never been my cup of tea. I’m a traditionalist in most things, including painting.
But I could see the appeal of this young artist’s work. It hit me between the eyes, the colors swirling in front of me like a runaway kaleidoscope. I’ve never claimed to be an expert in judging art. But I like to think I have as much appreciation of the visual as the next person. The problem comes in evaluating the open-market value of an unknown artist’s works. I would not have bought any of the art hanging on the gallery’s walls. Well, perhaps a hundred dollars for a few of the pieces that caught my eye, particularly the only work that had some roots in realism. By standing back and squinting, I discerned through the maze of yellows, reds, and purples a nude woman, sitting on what might have been a toadstool, her head down between her knees. At least that’s what it appeared to me to be.
I continued browsing before consulting a leather-bound book containing descriptions of Mr. Leopold’s art, and the prices for it. I was shocked. Some of his smaller pieces were offered at ten thousand dollars. Others were triple that. The one depicting the naked young woman—if my judgment of its subject matter was accurate—was one hundred thousand dollars. At least I’d picked what others considered the most valuable of the collection.
As I headed for the door, Mr. St. James stepped into my path. “See anything that tickles your fancy?”
“All of it,” I said. “I’ll take all of it.”
It was nice to see this self-assured gentleman at a loss for words. It didn’t last long. He smiled and said, “In that case, I am sure a substantial discount will be in order.”
“Yes, I’m sure it will be,” I said. “Decide how much the lot will cost. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
I left him slack-jawed. When I got to the sidewalk and was out of his view, I started to giggle. “What fun,” I said to myself, retracing my steps to the inn. What a wonderful fantasy, to imagine buying an entire gallery’s collection of an up-and-coming artist. Of course, I had no intention of going back, and quickly put the episode out of mind by the time Vaughan and Olga greeted me in the lobby of Scott’s Inn.
“Took a walk?” Olga asked.
“Yes. A very pretty village.”
“We knew you’d like it,” said Vaughan.
“Buy anything?” asked Olga.
“Oh, no. But maybe tomorrow. Ready to go? I’m famished.”
Chapter Three
“Is that—?”
Vaughan Buckley smiled. “Yes, it’s Barbra Streisand.”
I looked to my left. “Isn’t that—?”
A larger smile from Vaughan. “Right again. John Kennedy, Jr.,” who was with a beautiful young woman.
I’ve never considered myself to be unduly starstruck. But there were so many recognizable faces in Della Femina, I was in danger of losing
my aloof attitude toward the rich and famous.
The restaurant was everything Vaughan and Olga had said it would be. The dining room had a quiet elegance, although the bar area was considerably lighter in decor and spirit. We were seated at a choice comer table set for six.
“Are others joining us?” I asked after a waiter had taken drink orders.
“Yes,” Vaughan replied. “There are some people we thought you’d enjoy meeting.”
“Not writers, I hope.”
“No fear,” said Olga. “We’re being joined by friends from the art world.”
“Anyone I’d know?” I asked.
“Probably not,” said Vaughan, “unless you follow the art scene very closely. One of the reasons for the major renovation of our house out here is to create more wall space for some art we’ve recently collected.”
Olga chimed in: “Every place we’ve lived has always been dominated by wall-to-wall bookcases, overflowing with books. We decided to shift emphasis and surround ourselves with more visual things.”
“So have I,” I said, “although not on the scale you’re talking about. I’ve been buying works by Maine artists, and have the same problem, finding the right wall space to properly display them.”
Comparing our relative lack of wall space was interrupted by the arrival of two other guests, Jacob and Alix Simmons. Once they were seated and introductions had been made, Vaughan said, “Jake and Alix are artist representatives in the city.”
“That must be fascinating,” I said.
“Probably not nearly as interesting as writing best-selling murder mysteries read by millions of people,” Jake Simmons said. He was a short, slender man, with a deeply tanned, finely chiseled face and prominent hooked nose. His wife, Alix—interesting name, I thought; I mentally file interesting names for use in future books—was considerably heavier than her husband, although not overweight, a boxy, square body sheathed in a simple black dress, her oval face smooth and pale compared to her husband’s copper tan.
“Having millions of people read my books is fun,” I said. “Writing them is—well, I don’t find it to be fun very often. Do you represent any artists I would know?”
A Palette for Murder Page 2
