A Palette for Murder (12 page)

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.”

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.

“Powerful,” he said. “A bold statement.”

“Like your current favorite artist, Josh Leopold,” said Vaughan.

“It is not a Leopold,” Muller said. “Yet—where did you get this?”

“An estate auction last weekend,” Olga replied.

“Here? In the Hamptons?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Just a few miles from here.”

Muller frowned. He turned to Vaughan and said, “I would like a few days with this painting.”

“Oh?”

“To examine it. It has—well, you know it is of a style and school in which I have a special interest. Just a few days at my leisure.
Ya?”

Olga and Vaughan looked at each other, then said in unison, “Ya.”

The party broke up shortly after that. Vaughan offered to drive me and Jo Ann Forbes home, but another couple, he an investment banker, she a fashion designer, insisted they were passing Scott’s Inn anyway and would be pleased to provide transportation. Vaughan called a cab for Hans Muller, who left cradling the painting in his arms.

“It was wonderful having you,” Olga said to me. “And you, too, Ms. Forbes.”

“It was gracious of you allowing me to invite myself,” Jo Ann said. “I had a wonderful time. And I kept my promise. No notebooks, no tape recorders.”

Olga laughed. “It wouldn’t have mattered. Nothing newsworthy here tonight, just good friends enjoying themselves.”

“And a mini-education in art,” Forbes said. “Again, Mrs. Buckley, thank you. It was a great evening.”

The couple who drove us back offered to take Jo Ann to where she lived, but she insisted upon getting out of the car with me. When they drove off, she asked, “A nightcap, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Afraid not. This lady is ready for bed.”

“I understand. Did you find Mr. Muller’s behavior strange after he saw that painting, the one he took with him?”

“No. You did?”

“I guess not. It’s just that ever since Miki Dorsey died, I find myself suspicious of anyone with an interest in art.”

“I suggest you get over that,” I said pleasantly. “If you don’t, you include the Buckleys and me in that perception.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” she said defensively.

“Of course you didn’t. And to be honest, I share a little of that—may I call it paranoia?”

She giggled. “Call it anything you want. Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Sure. How far do you live from here?”

“Not far. By the water. A short walk. Not far from Mr. Muller’s beachfront cottage. Good night, Mrs. Fletcher. Jessica.”

“Good night, Jo Ann. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

It wasn’t until I was in my suite that I wondered why she knew where Hans Muller lived. Probably because she’s a reporter, curious about everyone and everything, I decided.

But she was right. Muller’s intense interest in that particular painting did seen unusual. Then again, everyone involved in the world of art seemed—well, a little strange. Including Hans Muller.

The ringing phone jarred me awake. I fumbled for the small travel alarm I’d placed on the table next to the bed, and held it up to catch moonlight pouring through the windows. Four o’clock.

It kept ringing. I picked up the receiver and mumbled, “Hello?”

“Mrs. Fletcher.”

The German accent came through loud and clear.

“Mr. Muller?”

“Ya.
I woke you.”

I almost laughed. “Of course you woke me. It’s four in the morning.”

“Ya. I am sorry, Mrs. Fletcher. But a terrible thing has happened. I didn’t know who else to call. Your number was the first that came to me.”

My bad luck,
I wanted to say. Instead, I said, “What has happened that is so terrible?”

“Your Ms. Forbes.”

“My Ms. Forbes?”

“The reporter.”

“I know who you’re talking about, Mr. Muller. What about her?”

“She—is—dead!”

I snapped on the bedside lamp and sat up straight. I heard Muller breathing heavily on the other end of the line. Was he crying?

“Mr. Muller, please get a hold of yourself. You say Ms. Forbes is dead? How do you know that?”

“Because she is here.”

“There? With you?”

“Ya.
At my house.”

“How? Why? What happened?”

“I don’t know. I arrived here a few minutes ago and found her. In my bedroom. Dead! She is
dead!”