A Palette for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  Besides Vaughan, Olga, Maurice St. James, and me, the table included the couple I’d dined with my first night in the Hamptons, Jacob and Alix Simmons, both artist representatives from Manhattan, and a vivacious young travel writer, Laurie Wilson, who said she was in the Hamptons doing a magazine piece, and who might write a book for Buckley House on how the rich and famous vacation.

  I admitted only to myself that I was not in an especially good mood. Jo Ann Forbes’s murder had occurred less than twenty-four hours ago. The spirited, free-flowing conversation seemed out of place, although I didn’t indicate my feelings about that. At least I wasn’t at dinner with Hans Muller. That would have been too much to bear.

  Funny, I thought, how we’re able to shift mental gears over a period of time. As the evening wore on, I found myself thinking less about Jo Ann Forbes and more about the blatherskite at the table. Maybe it was the food; it flowed freely, too, beginning with thickly sliced Tuscan bread with Monini olive oil for dipping, huge fresh green salads, deep-fried zucchini chips, and then, at Vaughan’s suggestion, grilled free-range chicken rubbed with rosemary and roasted garlic, and flash-cooked in an oven Vaughan claimed got up to over six hundred degrees. I love chicken, and pride myself on being a pretty good cook. But because I don’t possess an oven capable of generating such intense heat, I could never duplicate the crisp skin that crackled and the incredibly juicy meat. The meal was topped off with a dessert of almond biscotti and Tuscan vin santo. Oh, my, I thought, daring to touch my waistline. How can people do this every night and not end up terminally obese?

  My involuntary pushing of Jo Ann Forbes and her death from my mind was interrupted when Olga brought up the subject over second cups of coffee. “How are you holding up, Jess?” she asked. “Seeing that reporter’s body this morning must have been dreadful.”

  I nodded. “It was, Olga. Not my idea of the way to start a day.”

  “I hesitated mentioning that,” said St. James. “Poor woman. Is there anything new on who might have done such a thing?”

  “Not that I’ve heard,” I said. “You?”

  He shook his head. I asked the others. Negatives all around.

  “I know one person who’s sweating even bigger bullets than he usually does,” Vaughan said.

  “Hans,” Olga said.

  “You bet,” said Vaughan. “And I’m not feeling at all sorry for him. He called twice this afternoon. Wanted my help in dealing with the police, get his passport back. Some nerve. He claims to have lost our painting, then wants our help.”

  “What painting?” St. James asked.

  Vaughan explained.

  “Hans didn’t say anything to me about—”

  Vaughan asked, “Why would he have?”

  St. James’s smile was thin and forced. He waved his hand and said, “Oh, for no reason. I just thought—”

  “Did you see Mr. Muller today?” I asked the gallery owner.

  “No.”

  I waited a moment, then said, “You’re obviously a good friend of Blaine Dorsey.”

  St. James replied, “I know him. Not well. Frankly, I find the man to be distasteful, unpleasant.”

  “Oh?”

  “A most dishonest man. A scoundrel.”

  “The dead model’s father?” Vaughan said.

  “Yes,” I said. “He flew in from London, where he’s involved in some capacity in the art world. From what I hear, his reputation there is less than savory. He’s suspected of dealing in stolen art, and was a suspect in the murder of an artist not too long ago.”

  As I spoke, I kept my eye on Maurice St. James, who appeared to become more uncomfortable with each word. When I’d finished laying out what I’d learned about Dorsey from my Scotland Yard friend, George Sutherland, I stared at St. James, awaiting a reaction.

  “You seem to know a great deal about him” was his comment.

  “I’ve made a point of it.”

  Vaughan looked at me, his smile saying, What are you up to now?

  “You knew none of this, Maurice?” I asked the increasingly nervous gallery owner.

  “No. It is all news to me, and unpleasant news at that. It is people like Dorsey who give those of us in the art world with integrity and honor a bad name. Don’t you agree, Vaughan? Olga?”

  They did.

  “And Hans Muller,” St. James added. “Oh, I suppose he’s harmless enough—unless you are in a closed room with him and his dreaded cigarettes—” He laughed. “But the circumstances of the poor young woman’s death. Hans with her at a dinner party. Hours later, she is dead in his bedroom. And you say, Vaughan, he claims to have lost a painting belonging to you. I assume it was a valuable work.”

  “Hard to say, Maurice. We were hoping to nail down its provenance. Hans said he’d help do that. That’s why I let him take it last night.”

  Maurice slowly shook his head and sighed loudly. “It is all so unfortunate,” he said. “Ah, well. Who can explain the behavior of some? Shall we end this lovely evening with brandy. Or perhaps a good port?”

  We all declined.

  Laurie Wilson, the travel writer, laughed as she said, “Maybe I should think about writing a murder mystery set in the Hamptons instead of a travel guide.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Vaughan said.

  “I must go,” St. James said, standing, clicking his heels together and bowing slightly. “This has been a splendid gathering, as expected. Mrs. Fletcher—Jessica—will I have the pleasure of seeing you again before you leave the Hamptons?”

  “I’m sure you will.” Please don’t kiss my hand, I thought. He seemed poised to do just that.

  Shortly after St. James’s departure, Ms. Wilson’s sister, Pamela, arrived to pick her up.

  “The night is young for you two, I assume,” said Vaughan after we’d been introduced.

  The sisters laughed. “Just a party,” Laurie Wilson said. “This has been great, Vaughan. Thanks so much.”

  “Give the book idea some more thought,” the publisher said.

  As we watched the sisters leave, Vaughan announced, “I think it’s time for us to call it a night, too. I have early tee off tomorrow at the club.”

  His defection put a definitive end to the dinner. Vaughan introduced me to Shirley MacLaine, who was as gracious as I expected her to be, and we all went out to our cars. I expected to be driven back to the inn by my publisher and his wife. Instead, Vaughan headed in the direction of their house.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Home,” he replied. “For that brandy or port. And a few questions for my favorite mystery writer.”

  “... And so I went through her files,” I said, a brandy shimmering in an oversize snifter in my hand. “That’s when I found it. Most of Jo Ann’s notes are in shorthand, but I think I made sense out of them.”

  “And you’re going to get together with the police chief tomorrow.”

  “Yes. He has a set of the notes, too. What intrigues me is that Joshua Leopold and Miki Dorsey were lovers.”

  “She was an active young lady,” said Olga, passing a plate of cheeses. “Sexually, that is. You say she was intimately involved with this Chris Turi and with your instructor, Carlton Wells.”

  “That’s right. There’s a set of notes from the file that I am having trouble sorting out. My interpretation is that somehow Miki Dorsey lost her position with Leopold.”

  “Her position?” Vaughan asked.

  “A business arrangement with the artist. Besides being lovers, it seems that Miki functioned as Leopold’s representative. At least early on. And it seems—again, I’m having trouble nailing down the literal meaning—it seems that Miki might have lost her status as his rep to Maurice St. James.”

  Vaughan and Olga sat forward in their chairs. “Maurice?” said Olga. “How would he have stolen Leopold away from her?”

  Vaughan answered. “Money! Money fuels the art world, like it does just about everything else. Does that gibe with your notes, Jess?”


  “Could be,” I said, sipping my brandy. It went down hot. “What do you make of Maurice’s derogatory comments at dinner about Miki Dorsey’s father, Blaine Dorsey?”

  “I don’t know the man,” Vaughan said. “Do you?”

  “I’ve bumped into him a few times, and my friend with Scotland Yard, George Sutherland, gave me background on him.”

  “So you mentioned at dinner,” Olga said. “More brandy?”

  “Heavens, no. From what I can piece together from Jo Ann’s notes, Miki Dorsey started representing Joshua Leopold through her father in London. But then, if I’m correct, Maurice St. James stole Leopold away from her. Blaine Dorsey was angry with Maurice when I overheard a conversation between them. Oh, by the way, I stopped in this afternoon at the studio where Joshua Leopold died. It’s now a studio for Chris Turi and Carlton Wells.”

  Vaughan shook his head. “You’ve been busy, Jess.”

  “I suppose I have. Vaughan, I’ve been contemplating doing something that might bring this to a head. If I decide to go ahead, I might need your help.”

  “You know I’ll do anything I can to help you, Jess. What is it that you’re thinking of doing?”

  “I need to give it more thought, Vaughan. In the meantime, I’m ready for bed. Call me a cab?”

  “Where’s your driver?”

  “Fred Mayer? I sent him home. He’ll pick me up at the inn in the morning.”

  A half hour later I was in my room, in my robe and pajamas, and thinking back over this most traumatic of days. The sheer thought of it magnified my natural fatigue tenfold.

  I went to the window and looked out. A fog had settled over the Hamptons, shrouding the garden’s trees and shrubs in wispy, swirling cotton as the breeze propelled it.

  As I was about to turn away from the window and give in to my weariness, a momentary flicker of orange light caught my eye. I leaned closer to the window, placed my nose against it, and squinted. There it was again. My initial thought was of World War II, when blackout drills were routine. A cigarette can be seen from an aircraft, we were warned.

  Or seen through the fog from a window.

  The light glowed again, then fell to the ground, and a shadow moved through the fog, away from the tree behind which it had been, and out the rear gate.

  I drew the drapes tight across the window and climbed into bed. Should I call downstairs and ask Mr. Scott to go outside to check on what I’d seen? That wouldn’t be fair to him.

  Call the police? Call 911?

  And tell them what? That someone was trespassing?

  It wasn’t my property.

  As I allowed sleep to overcome me, I made a decision. I was close to having had enough of the Hamptons, enough of art and artists, of art dealers and gallery owners—of all of it.

  I’d give it another few days. Whether I got to the bottom of things or not, I’d pack my bags and head home to Cabot Cove, where things were ... well, where things were normal.

  The contemplation made me smile as my eyes closed and I drifted off.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I suppose you’re right, Mrs. Fletcher. But-I’m not sure I see how these things link up.”

  Police Chief Cramer and I had gone over every word on the three pages taken from Jo Ann Forbes’s file marked LEOPOLD, JOSHUA. Some entries were complete enough to make obvious sense to both of us. Others were subject to interpretation, and our interpretations often differed.

  “Let me see if I understand your thesis, Mrs. Fletcher,” Cramer said. “You’re saying that because of the dead artist, Leopold, these other things have happened—Ms. Dorsey’s death and the murder of the reporter, Jo Arm Forbes.”

  “That’s right. Interesting, you continue to differentiate between Miki Dorsey’s ‘death,’ and Jo Ann Forbes’s ‘murder.’ ”

  His eyebrows went up. “And you feel both were murder.”

  “I feel that there’s a good possibility that Miki Dorsey’s death was not by natural causes. Would you, could you arrange for a second autopsy on her?”

  He slowly spun in his chair so that he faced away from me. I heard him sigh deeply. Obviously, my request was one with which he’d just as soon not deal.

  He completed his 360-degree spin and again looked at me. “That’s easier said than done, Mrs. Fletcher. Her father has been badgering us to release his daughter’s body so he can take her back to London. Frankly, I don’t have much to stand on to keep her here.”

  “Except that, as you told me, you share my feelings that she might have been killed. As I recall, you said there were certain people reinforcing that view for you. Who are they?”

  “I can’t tell you. But I will say that they include an individual who is—well, let me just say that he’s not without some influence.”

  I didn’t press for him to break his trust. It wouldn’t have done any good even if I had. Chief Cramer was obviously a man of integrity and honor. But at least I knew that this unnamed individual was a man.

  But I decided to again raise the issue of having a second autopsy performed on Miki Dorsey. Cramer’s reaction when I originally brought it up wasn’t a flat turndown. All he’d said was that it wouldn’t be easy.

  “Can you?” I said. “Arrange for a second autopsy on Miki Dorsey?”

  “I can try.”

  “But will you?”

  His expression was thoughtful. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll pull out all the stops.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. Ordinarily, I’d be annoyed with a civilian injecting herself into what is my area of responsibility. But in your case—”

  “Yes?”

  “In your case I think you’ll be more of a help than a hindrance. You’ve already proved that. I’ll push for the second autopsy.”

  “Good. Now, in regard to that, I would like to have the opportunity to speak with the coroner before that second autopsy is performed.”

  “Why?”

  “To share with him some knowledge that could be useful.”

  “Which is?”

  I would have preferred not to reveal what George Sutherland told me about the powerful poison, ricin. But I felt I owed it to this very nice chief of police. I outlined for him what ricin was, how it worked, and how it could easily escape detection during an autopsy unless the examiner was specifically looking for such a lethal substance. Cramer listened attentively.

  When I finished, he grunted and stood behind his desk. “You’re a remarkable woman, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m impressed.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, but please don’t be impressed. All I want is to get to the bottom of these tragic events and return to my home in Maine.”

  “Then, let’s work together to see that you get back home as quickly as possible.”

  As he walked me to the front door of police headquarters, I asked when Jo Ann Forbes’s autopsy would be completed.

  “It was an hour ago,” he said. “The blow to the head did it.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Muller.”

  “Are you charging him with her murder?”

  “Between us?”

  “Of course.”

  “Probably. But not today. The DA feels there’s enough circumstantial evidence to indict, and wants to go forward. I’ve persuaded him to allow us to develop whatever additional evidence might be out there to strengthen the case. In the meantime, Mr. Muller is threatening everything from suing us to a nuclear response by Germany.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “He does tend to be dramatic,” I said.

  “If only he didn’t smoke so much. The interrogation room became uninhabitable.”

  “Well, thanks for everything this morning. We’ll keep in touch. Can I talk to the coroner?”

  “I’ll set something up.”

  Fred Mayer was waiting. When he picked me up earlier that morning at Scott’s Inn, I detected the smell of alcohol in the cab. His eyes were watery, and he hadn’t shaved. I asked if he was feeling ok
ay.

  “Tip-top, Mrs. Fletcher. You?”

  “Fine.” I somehow didn’t believe him, but wasn’t about to mount a challenge. It was possible I’d been tainted by Chief Cramer’s comment about my driver, that he was perhaps too fond of “the grape,” as the saying goes. I decided that unless he drank while in my employ, I had no right to question what he did when he wasn’t on duty. And so I said nothing else.

  I had Mayer drive me to the house shared by Miki Dorsey, Chris Turi, and others. It was a lovely day by the water, sunny and bright, a light onshore breeze bringing that invigorating tangy salt smell to my nostrils. We parked in the driveway, and I sat quietly in the rear seat. Eventually, Mayer asked what I intended to do.

  “Go inside,” I replied, “after I put a few things in mental order.” I finally got out, went to the front door, and was about to knock when it opened.

  “Ms. Peckham,” I said. “Jessica Fletcher.”

  “I don’t forget people that easily,” she said.

  Waldine Peckham was the older member of the household, the artist who’d been painting during my first visit. By “older,” I mean only slightly older. I judged her to be in her thirties. There was a no-nonsense quality about her that I liked and to which I related. She was obviously not a woman to be trifled with, nor would she suffer fools easily. All points in her favor.

  “Here to see the grieving boyfriend?” she asked, one hand on a cocked hip.

  “Chris? No. I actually came to see you.”

  “Why?” No beating around the bush with her.

  “May I come in and explain?”

  “Sure. I was on my way out, but it’s nothing important.”

  We went to the living room. I was pleased to see that no one else was there. Waldine walked to an easel holding a painting on which she was working: a still life of a bowl of flowers on a nearby table.

  “That’s very nice,” I said.

  “Not bad. I’ll ruin it.”

  “Why do you say that?”