A Palette for Murder (11 page)

I checked my watch. Three o’clock. That made it nine in the evening in Europe.

I pulled out a small address book I always carry with me, found George Sutherland’s home number in London, and dialed it.

George Sutherland is a senior inspector with Scotland Yard. I met him years ago when I was in London to address a mystery writers’ convention. While there, I stayed with a friend, Marjorie Ainsworth, then the grande dame of murder mystery writers. While a guest in her mansion in the tiny town of Crumpsworth, someone drove a knife into her as she slept, and I found myself not only giving a speech, but helping solve her murder. That’s how I met George. He was called into the case, and we became friendly.

Just so there isn’t any misunderstanding—there has been with my two best Cabot Cove friends: Dr. Seth Hazlitt and our sheriff, Morton Metzger—George and I have never been romantically involved. I’ll be honest. I find him to be the most handsome and charming man I’ve met since the death of my husband many years ago. And yes, my thoughts sometimes stray to romance. But that’s as far as it’s ever gone. We keep in touch by letter and the occasional phone call, and ended up together for a week in San Francisco, where I was promoting one of my books, and he was attending an FBI conference on forensic investigation techniques. That week turned into a repeat of my London adventure—I helped solve a murder, which freed a woman falsely convicted of the crime. I even wrote a book based upon the experience,
Martinis & Mayhem.

“George?”

“Jessica. What a pleasant surprise.” I always smile when I hear George Sutherland’s voice. He’s Scottish by birth, born in Wick, Scotland, on the northernmost coast. His brogue delights me. “Where are you?” he asked. “London, I hope.”

“Afraid not, George. The Hamptons. On the eastern end of Long Island.”

“On a holiday? Or working as usual?”

“It started as a holiday.”

He laughed. “Don’t tell me. Someone has been murdered, and Jessica Fletcher is hot on the trail.”

“Something like that,” I said, joining his laughter. “George, I thought you might have some knowledge that would be helpful to me.”

“I hope you’re right, Jessica. What do you need?”

“I need to know about poisons that can kill a person, but make it look like a heart attack, even to a trained coroner.”

There was silence on the other end.

“George?”

“Yes, I’m here, Jessica. Why do you want to know this?”

“George, I’m not intending to use such a substance, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Never entered my mind.”

“I would hope not.”

I explained the circumstances of Miki Dorsey’s death, and mentioned that Joshua Leopold had died the same way.

“And you think their deaths might not have been natural.”

“I don’t know what to think. But I am curious.” I told him what Seth Hazlitt had told me.

“And how is your Dr. Hazlitt?”

“Just fine. Busy, as usual. Do you know of any such substances, George?”

“Not offhand, but there are those I can ask. Which I will do first thing in the morning.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I always enjoy doing you a favor, Jess, because then you owe me one.”

“Just ask.”

“Come visit me here in London. Better yet, spend that week with me in Wick we’ve talked about for too long.”

“I still intend to do that, George. Maybe later this year.”

“What?”

“The harder the task, the more determination is needed. An old Scottish expression. My father, rest his soul, was fond of it. More determination is needed to get Jessica Fletcher to visit me in my Wick homestead. A castle, actually. Lovely views.”

“So you’ve said. Call you tomorrow night?”

“Unless I call you first. Where are you staying in the Hamptons?”

I gave him the Scott’s Inn phone number. “Oh, one other thing, George.”

“Yes?”

“Could you—would you also check on a gentleman living in London? His name is Blaine Dorsey.”

“American?”

“Yes.”

“What’s he do for a living?”

“He’s involved in the art world in some capacity.”

“Oh,
that
Dorsey.”

“You know him?”

“Know of him. A bit of a rogue, Mr. Blaine Dorsey is. Lots of speculation about him and the way he does business. He’s been under investigation for quite a while.”

“Really? What’s he suspected of?”

“Art theft. No, I take that back. More of a fence for stolen art. A middleman.”

“I see. He’s never been arrested?”

“Not as far as I know, but I can check on that, too.”

“Thanks, George.”

“We’ll talk,” he said. “Pleasant dreams.”

“It’s only the afternoon here.”

“Of course. Well, wish
me
pleasant dreams. It’s been a long, hard day.”

“Pleasant dreams, George.
Guideen nicht.”

A loud laugh. “Nicely done, Jessica. I’ll make a Scot of you yet. And good night to you, too.”

My next call was to Anne Harris. I’d promised to get in touch again, although I wasn’t calling because of that promise. I wanted to talk with her, hopefully to shed some light on what I’d just learned from Jo Ann Forbes, that Miki Dorsey owned an original Joshua Leopold painting, and that it disappeared the day of her death. I also wanted to learn what I could about Miki’s relationship with her art-dealing father—or, if George Sutherland was correct, her
shady
art-dealing father.

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 bearing. 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.”