A Palette for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  The phone at the house Miki shared with friends was answered by a woman, who said Anne wasn’t there.

  “Would you tell her Jessica Fletcher called?” I said.

  “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher. This is Waldine Peckham. I was painting when you were here last night.”

  “I remember.”

  I also remembered what this woman, whose name I now knew, had said about Miki Dorsey’s death. Actually, it wasn’t what she’d said as much as how she’d said it: her voice dripping with sarcasm when she mentioned Chris Turi’s flat response to his girl-friend’s death, and her snide comment about Carlton Wells, our art instructor.

  “Enjoying your stay in the Hamptons?” she asked.

  “Very much. It’s lovely here. Reminds me a little of where I live, Cabot Cove. That’s in Maine.”

  “I know.”

  “Ms. Peckham, you said a few things last night that trouble me.”

  “Did I?”

  “You were critical of Chris Turi’s way of reacting to Miki’s death.”

  “Didn’t you find it strange? She dies, and he goes out for pizza.”

  “You’re the second person who asked me about Carlton Wells.”

  “A swine.”

  “That’s certainly direct.”

  “Just telling it like it is, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “When do you expect Anne to return?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Has Mr. Dorsey been spending much time there?”

  “Just last night. He stayed maybe a half hour. Didn’t have anything to say, just went into Miki’s room and closed the door.”

  “And when he came out?”

  “Looked more mad than sad to me, Mrs. Fletcher. Put on his hat and coat and stormed out of the house.”

  “Well, Ms. Peckham, it was nice meeting you. How’s the painting coming?”

  “I trashed it. I trash everything I paint.”

  I didn’t know how to respond, so I simply said good-bye and hung up. Ms. Waldine Peckham was obviously not a happy woman.

  I turned on the small TV in the suite and flipped through the channels. Nothing interested me, so I turned it off and tried to get back into the book I’d started on the jitney from Manhattan. I couldn’t focus on that, either.

  Then it dawned on me that I still owed for my slice of uneaten pizza. A good excuse for a walk. I put on a light windbreaker, went downstairs and to the street, turned right, and took the route I’d taken last night. The same young man was behind the counter when I entered. I told him why I was there, and placed money on the counter.

  “No need,” he said. “Hey, you’re the lady in the paper.” He pointed to a copy of Dan’s Papers lying on the counter, my face looking up at me.

  “Oh, that,” I said. “My fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just take the money. Your pizza is very good.”

  “You left with that guy.”

  “That’s right. I ‘left’ with that guy.”

  “You know what I think?”

  “About what?”

  “About what happened to that model who died?”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “I think she didn’t have no heart attack. I think somebody killed her.”

  “Any proof of that?”

  He shrugged. The phone rang. “Pizza Heaven,” he said into the receiver. I took the opportunity to leave.

  I headed in the direction of Scott’s Inn, but found myself detouring toward the gallery I’d stopped in the first night, the one owned by Maurice St. James. It was empty when I arrived, and I stepped inside, causing a tiny bell to sound that I hadn’t heard the first night I was there. I waited for someone to emerge from the back. No one did. ’

  Just as well, I thought. I was interested in looking more closely at Joshua Leopold’s artwork without having to make conversation.

  I went to the first painting, assumed what I felt was a proper distance to provide perspective, and looked intently at it. As I did, it took shape in the midst of its violent swirls of seemingly random color and slashes of crude black lines. I wasn’t sure what shapes I saw, but there was more than chaos in the work.

  I moved to the second painting, a larger vertical one that was more subdued.

  As I continued around the room, my appreciation for Joshua Leopold was enhanced. It was almost as though I now understood what he was trying to convey, although I knew those with greater insight would probably consider my reactions sophomoric, at best.

  I’d traveled one wall of the large space, and was about to turn the corner to take in the back wall when I heard voices. I paused and held my breath. The voices were male, and came from somewhere behind the wall.

  “... And I will not tolerate your arrogance. I simply will not put up with it.”

  “Shut up, Maurice. This is business. Why the hell do you think Hans and I have gone to the extent we have to ... ?”

  I’d moved slightly to my right to get closer to the voices. In doing so, I bumped into a small table on which a piece of sculpture was displayed. Fortunately, it was metal. It fell off the stand to the floor, making a racket but suffering no damage. My ego was another matter.

  A door opened, and Maurice St. James stepped through it. “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, eyes wide, voice slightly higher than I remembered it to be.

  “Mr. St. James.”

  “What a pleasant surprise.” He quickly regained his usual composure.

  “I was just admiring Mr. Leopold’s work.”

  “Wonderful. Still interested in buying the lot?”

  “Afraid not.”

  I looked past him to the door through which he’d arrived. I only saw him for a moment, a fleeting glance, but enough to know who it was. Miki Dorsey’s father.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” I said.

  “Of course not. I didn’t hear the bell. It isn’t very loud.”

  Not as loud as your voices, I thought.

  “May I act as your guide?” St. James asked, glancing over his shoulder, seeing that the door was open, and closing it with his foot.

  “No need,” I said. “Actually, I was enjoying a solitary tour of the art. Very relaxing, very soothing.”

  He forced a laugh. “Few refer to Josh Leopold as ‘soothing.’ But it is, after all, in the eye of the beholder.”

  “As it should be. Please, don’t let me take you from your—meeting.”

  “Meeting? I—”

  I moved away from him and began looking at the other paintings on the wall. I glanced back. His smile was pasted on his face, but there was a worried look in his eyes. I smiled. He did a little bow from the waist, then opened the door and disappeared through it.

  I’d lost interest in viewing any more of the art on the walls.

  What was Mild Dorsey’s father doing there discussing what sounded like serious business? His daughter was dead only two days. What kind of a man was he?

  Maurice St. James reemerged. “Any questions about the work?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I understand that art theft is common. Have any of Mr. Leopold’s works disappeared?”

  It was a thin smile.

  I waited for a reply.

  “Disappeared? I don’t think so.”

  “Is he a—what would you call it?—was Mr. Leopold a hot item in other parts of the world?”

  “Yes. His reputation has begun to develop a strong foreign following.”

  “Was he a prolific artist?”

  “Extremely. Remarkably so.”

  “So this gallery represents only a small percentage of his work.”

  He drew a deep breath; he was obviously annoyed at my questions.

  “I don’t mean to ask so many questions, Mr. St. James, but I might be interested in buying some of his paintings. I think knowing how many pieces of his art exist would have something to do with the value of each piece.”

  “Very astute, Mrs. Fletcher. And you’re right. It does have a bea
ring. To answer your question, yes, what you see on these walls is only a small portion of his overall artistic output.”

  “That would diminish his worth. Supply and demand, I believe it’s called.”

  “That’s right. I think you might—”

  The door opened, and Dorsey poked his head into the gallery. “Maurice!”

  “Mr. Dorsey,” I said, stepping in his direction and extending my hand. “Jessica Fletcher. I met you last night at the house where your daughter lived. I’m terribly sorry about what happened.”

  He had no choice but to take my hand, although his sour expression said loud and clear he wasn’t happy to see someone else there.

  Dorsey dropped my hand and said to St. James, “Maurice, please.”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher,” St. James said. “Please continue to browse. I’ll be—back there—in case you have any questions.” With that, he disappeared with Dorsey behind the wall.

  I left immediately, returned to the inn, and ordered up tea. After Mr. Scott had delivered it, I sat by the window and thought about everything that had happened since my arrival in the Hamptons.

  Nothing tangible had occurred to cause me to question how Miki Dorsey had died. A heart attack, according to the coroner.

  But another young person, part of the Hamptons’ art scene, had also died of a “heart attack.” Joshua Leopold.

  Miki Dorsey supposedly had an original Leopold that disappeared from her room right after she died.

  Her father flies in from London and immediately starts conducting business with Maurice St. James, whose gallery features Joshua Leopold. And Dorsey obviously knows the German art collector, Hans Muller.

  Miki Dorsey’s alleged boyfriend, Chris Turi, doesn’t act like a grieving boyfriend.

  Everyone views the art instructor, Carlton Wells, as a swine, as Waldine Peckham put it.

  My sketch of a male nude model is stolen and offered for sale, the price now up to two thousand dollars.

  I saw a shadowy figure in the garden behind my suite.

  And—

  The phone rang. It was Vaughan Buckley, saying he’d pick up me and the reporter, Jo Ann Forbes, at six.

  “I’ll let her know,” I said.

  “How did you spend the rest of your day?” he asked.

  “Relaxing.”

  “Exactly what I want to hear, Jess. We’ll make sure the evening is a relaxing one, too.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was no surprise to me that despite the renovations being done to their Hamptons weekend home, the dinner party Vaughan and Olga held was lavish.

  Jo Ann Forbes and I were two of a dozen guests. I wondered how Jo Ann would handle herself in what basically was a sophisticated, well-heeled crowd. I needn’t have been concerned; she was poised and at ease with the flow of conversation that ran the gamut from politics to publishing, art to travel, fashion to food.

  The only person I knew, aside from the host and hostess, was the German art collector, Hans Muller. He seemed even bigger than when I’d met him at dinner at Della Femina. His suit was rumpled and stained, as was his shirt, its collar too tight for his sizable neck. His ruddy skin had a constant sheen from perspiration. And, of course, he was never without a cigarette between his fingers. Vaughan and Olga, good sports that they are, made sure there were ashtrays on every table.

  Ms. Forbes and I stayed pretty much together until a couple, introduced as publishing colleagues of Vaughan, got into a serious conversation with her about the state of media coverage of celebrities. I drifted away from them and found myself face-to-face with Hans Muller, who’d gravitated to a corner of the sprawling living room.

  “Ah, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, taking my hand with the one not holding a cigarette. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

  “Likewise, Mr. Muller. What a lovely home.”

  “To be expected of people of taste. Cigarette?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “You and everyone else here. As usual, Hans is the only one.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  He laughed. “To the contrary. It gives me a certain exclusivity I enjoy. What did you think of the autopsy report this afternoon on poor Ms. Dorsey?”

  “Tragic. So young.”

  “Ya. Fate can be cruel. So tell me, Mrs. Fletcher, are you enjoying your stay?”

  “Very much.”

  “And are your skills as an artist improving?”

  “Probably not. I haven’t tried my hand since the morning Ms. Dorsey died.”

  “Pity. I understand one of your sketches is commanding a pretty sum on the open market.”

  I laughed. “Oh, that? So I hear.”

  Muller looked past me. Seeing that no one was within hearing distance, he leaned closer and said, “Mrs. Fletcher, it might be beneficial to both of us if we got to know each other a little better.”

  “Oh? Why is that, Mr. Muller?”

  “I believe we could strike a mutually advantageous business relationship.”

  “A business relationship? What sort of business?”

  He smiled, exposing his yellowed teeth. “Would you be my guest at dinner tomorrow night, bitte?”

  “I don’t know. I have other commitments during my short stay in the Hamptons.”

  “I am sure you do.” He lit a cigarette. “But, I assure you, the restaurant will be excellent, the wine rich and full-bodied, and the conversation stimulating.”

  “And smoky,” I said.

  “And smoky. Will you? Dine with me tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Splendid.” He exhibited his widest smile of the night. “But let’s keep it between us, shall we? There’s so much gossip here, so many snooping people. You brought one with you this evening.”

  “Miss Forbes? She’s promised to simply enjoy the party. No notes. No tape recorder.”

  “You’re very trusting, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “At times. Well, I think I’d better talk with others. Will you call me? I’m at Scott’s Inn.”

  “First thing in the morning. Enjoy yourself. It’s a charming group the Buckleys have gathered together this evening.”

  I no sooner walked away from Hans Muller when serious doubts about having dinner with him surfaced. I rationalized as the evening wore on that there was nothing to lose by joining him at a restaurant. Besides, it might provide the opportunity to learn more about Miki Dorsey’s father, who obviously knew the corpulent German.

  Olga—more accurately, two members of her house staff under her direction—put out a lovely meal: A red pepper soup with garlic croutons, a salad of mozzarella, tomatoes, and onions drizzled with a lovely light dressing, grilled pepper-crusted salmon steaks with cucumber relish, asparagus roasted in olive oil, and for dessert, fresh peach pie. The white wine served with dinner was exquisite, at least to this palate. Vaughan said it was a 1993 Riesling Grafenreben that he personally favored. No argument from me.

  I occasionally glanced over at Jo Ann Forbes, who seemed to be having a wonderful time. As had happened at the restaurant, Hans Muller was becoming drunk and sleepy, something I’d better keep in mind when we had dinner.

  We left the dining room after dessert to enjoy coffee and brandy in what Vaughan described as the library. Like every other room in the house, it was oversize. One long wall was dominated by floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Other walls held a variety of paintings hung close together.

  “This is the one room we’re not renovating,” Vaughan said after toasting our being together. “And you can see why we’re redoing the place. Walls should never be this cluttered.”

  “And lots more to hang, I understand,” said a guest.

  Olga’s face lit up. “We have been on a buying spree,” she said. “I’d forgotten how much fun art auctions can be. We’ve picked up some marvelous pieces.”

  “An unveiling?” Hans Muller asked.

  “Now?” said Vaughan. “They’re all standing on the floor of a spare room.”
/>   “So what?” said another guest. “Come on, Vaughan. Show off your purchases. No false modesty.”

  The spare room was empty, except for dozens of framed paintings leaning against each other in a comer.

  “Will you do the honors?” Vaughan asked Olga.

  “Sure.”

  She slowly displayed each work, angling it so that it caught the light from overhead track lighting. Vaughan narrated:

  “We decided not to limit ourselves to any style or period. And, more important, we did not buy anything with an eye toward making a profit. We invested in what our eyes responded to, not any quest for appreciation.”

  As they went through the works, some of the names struck me as being artists of great reputation and value. There was a small impressionistic sketch by James Ensor, an original Kandinsky, a self-portrait by Oskar Kokoschka, and an original Stella montage. I was impressed. Although the names were only vaguely familiar to me, I knew they’d cost the Buckleys a great deal of money.

  “We bid on an early Monet,” Vaughan said, “but we lost out to an anonymous bidder from Europe.”

  “A shame,” said a guest. “No home is complete without an original Monet.” His comment brought forth laughter.

  Olga continued to show the artwork in the room while her husband commented on each piece. It was when she pulled out the next to last piece to be shown that Hans Muller, who’d almost dozed off leaning against the wall, came to life. “Wait,” he said.

  “Like this one, Hans?” Olga asked.

  “Who is it?” Muller asked, his words slightly slurred.

  “The one unattributed piece in the bunch,” Vaughan replied. “No artist’s signature. We’re planning to have it appraised, hopefully to discover it’s by Pollock. It could be, wouldn’t you agree?”

  The painting was distinctly modern. Colors were splashed across the canvas in what seemed to be random patterns, vivid colors, reds and purples and yellows and orange.

  Muller stepped to where Olga held the painting, and leaned forward to better see it.

  “Your opinion?” Olga asked the big German.