A Palette for Murder (20 page)

“No, thank you,” I replied, not wanting to further distract her from her glass-cleaning obligations. “Perhaps I’d better get to the point, Maurice.”

“If you wish.”

“I would like to buy some of Joshua Leopold’s less well-known works. Works that are in the hands of private collectors.”

He leaned back, his fingers still beneath his chin. “Private collectors,” he repeated softly. “That isn’t easy, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I don’t expect it is. And call me Jessica.”

“Of course. Don’t misunderstand. There are a number of Joshua’s finer works in private hands. After all, that’s what successful collectors do, cull the best from an artist’s output.”

“Exactly,” I said. “I want to buy Joshua Leopold’s best work.”

“Well, Jessica, what I have to offer in this gallery represents some of his finer efforts.”

I shook my head. “I think you know what I mean,” I said, injecting a modicum of gravity into my voice.

He raised his chin and closed his eyes, as if in deep thought. Then, he opened his eyes, leaned forward, and said, “I know precisely what you mean, Jessica. And I think I can be of immeasurable help to you.”

“I never doubted that for a moment, Maurice.”

“But I must be candid, Jessica. Gaining access to such works carries with it a certain—well, let me just say there is a certain risk involved.”

“Risk? Tell me about it.”

“The wrong word, perhaps. ‘Discretion’ might be more accurate. Some of these works have ended up in private hands through unconventional channels. Do you follow me?”

“ ‘Unconventional channels,’ ” I repeated. “Stolen? Misrouted?”

“I like that, Jessica. Misrouted. Yes, that sums it up, I think.”

“I have no problem with that. When can I see some pieces? I don’t plan to stay in the Hamptons much longer.”

“Then, time is of the essence.”

“Yes it is.”

“I need twenty-four hours.”

“That’s reasonable,” I said, standing and straightening my skirt. “Shall I call you then?”

“Better that I call you. I have the Scott’s Inn number.”

“Let me give you another number, Maurice.” I wrote out for him the number of the new phone in my room.

I climbed back into Fred Mayer’s taxi.

“Next?” he asked.

“A store where I can buy a telephone answering machine.”

Dr. Peter Eder’s Hamptons office was located in a small community hospital. As he warmly welcomed me, I realized he was not as old as he appeared from the steps of town hall. His smile was wide and genuine, his overall demeanor pleasant and outgoing, a personality one seldom expects from a coroner.

It was a spare and spartan office, with standard-issue metal furniture and an assortment of medical equipment hanging on the walls. The Suffolk County coroner wore a white lab coat over a blue shirt and red tie. Half glasses were tethered by a red-and-white ribbon behind his neck. He’d been going through a
Yellow Pages
directory open on his desk.

“A pleasure meeting you,” he said, closing the directory. “I have years of medical training but can’t get my VCR programmed. I was looking for someone to do that. Please, have a seat. Chief Cramer says you have something important to discuss with me.”

“Yes, I do, Dr. Eder. It has to do with the autopsy you performed on Miki Dorsey.”

He nodded.

“I’ve asked Chief Cramer to try and arrange for a second autopsy on her.”

“He told me that.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“No. He said I’d have the pleasure of hearing it directly from you.”

“He’s right. Miki Dorsey died in front of my eyes. And I’d become a friend of sorts with the reporter who was murdered, Jo Ann Forbes.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Eder, his smile replaced with a frown. “Very sad what happened to Ms. Forbes. It was a vicious blow that killed her. Someone very strong, I’d say.”

I immediately thought of Hans Muller. He certainly was big. But I suspected he wasn’t what you’d call strong. Flabby was more like it, a body bloated with alcohol.

My attention snapped back to Dr. Eder. “Doctor,” I said, “I have reason to believe that Miki Dorsey did not die of a heart attack.”

“I’m aware of your reputation, Mrs. Fletcher, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to question the conclusion you’ve reached. My autopsy on Ms. Dorsey was thorough. She died as the result of a coronary thrombosis, leading to a myocardial infarction. Textbook case. No debate about it. Certainly, no doubt or reservation in my mind.”

I knew coming into his office that I had to avoid questioning his professional competence if I were to gain his cooperation. Actually, I wasn’t doubting his credentials and skills. From what George Sutherland told me, it would take a medical examiner actively looking for something like ricin to find it. There was no reason for Dr. Eder to be searching for traces of this highly lethal drug, used primarily by clandestine operatives. Why would he? In the Hamptons? Hardly a place where murderous international spies would be acting out their deadly game.

“Dr. Eder, I’m sure that every sign pointed to Miki Dorsey having died from natural causes. As you say, from coronary thrombosis that led to a—?”

“Myocardial infarction.”

“Yes. Myocardial infarction. Doctor, have you ever heard of a poisonous substance called ricin?”

He chewed his cheek as he searched his medical mind for the answer. “No,” he said, “I can’t say that I have.”

I told him what George Sutherland had told me about ricin. He listened attentively. When I was through, he smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid my medical training and clinical experience have spared me from Cold War cops-and-robbers poisons. You’re saying that it’s possible that Ms. Dorsey was killed by someone, using this substance?”

“I’m saying that I don’t know and would like to find out. Do you remember doing an autopsy on an artist who died here about a year ago? A young man named Joshua Leopold.”

“Of course I do. A few months after his death, I went out and bought one of his paintings. It hangs in my den.”

“That’s nice. He was very young. Like Miki Dorsey.”

“I recall. Early thirties, I think.”

“A coronary thrombosis, leading to a—”

“Myocardial infarction.” We said it in unison.

“Him, too, Mrs. Fletcher?”

I nodded. “Him, too.”

“You’ve got to give me something tangible.”

“Dr. Eder, I could go through all the scraps of disparate information I’ve collected. For me, those scraps add up to a good possibility that the deaths of Joshua Leopold, Miki Dorsey, and Jo Ann Forbes have a common thread running through them.”

“Ms. Forbes, too?”

“Yes.”

“And what is that thread, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Art.”

“Joshua Leopold’s art?”

“I think so. And since you now own a Leopold, I would think you’d want to know how the artist
really
died.”

“Uh-huh. Tell you what. If Hope Cramer and the DA agree, we’ll do another autopsy on Ms. Dorsey. But only after I come up with the necessary information and technique to test for this ricin.”

“How quickly can you do that?”

“I’ll get on it first thing in the morning. There’s a forensic pathologist in the city I’ll confer with. If he doesn’t know, no one does.”

“I appreciate this very much, Doctor. One last request?”

“Shoot.”

“When you confer with this pathologist, could you arrange to have these tested for ricin?”

I took from my pocket the two cigarette butts I’d gathered up before leaving the inn that afternoon, one smoked by Miki Dorsey just before she died, the other found by the tree outside Scott’s Inn. I also laid on the gray metal desktop the package of cigarettes I’d picked up from Chris Turi’s area of the artist’s studio he shared with Carlton Wells. I separated Miki Dorsey’s last smoke from the other items. “This is the cigarette I think might have delivered ricin to Miki Dorsey. This other half-smoked butt might have come from this package, Doctor. I don’t know whether any lab could ascertain that, but I’d appreciate it if you’d ask.”

“Of course I will. Anything else?”

“No.”

“I have a question for you,” he said.

I smiled. “As you said, ‘shoot.’ ”

“If you’re correct, Mrs. Fletcher, who killed Ms. Dorsey? Who killed Ms. Forbes?”

“Let me add a name. Who killed Joshua Leopold?”

“Well?” he said, head cocked, eyes narrowed.

“As soon as I figure that out, you’ll be among the first to know. Thanks again, Doctor. I hope you get your VCR programmed. A friend of mine back in Maine got mine working.”

The ringing phone on his desk interrupted. Eder picked up. “Yes, Hope, she’s right here, about to leave.” He handed the receiver to me. “Chief Cramer.”

“Hello, Chief.”

“Hello, Mrs. Fletcher. Just thought you’d want to know that Mr. Hans Muller has disappeared.”

“Disappeared? I thought you pulled his passport.”

“We did. But that doesn’t mean he can’t travel anywhere in the United States. He was told not to leave the Hamptons. Looks to me like he’s saying loud and clear that he’s guilty.”

“Juries are told not to make such an inference,” I said.

“That doesn’t mean
I
infer it. I’ve put out an all-points on Muller. If you hear from him, tell him he’s making a big mistake. Tell him to turn himself in. And call me.”

“I certainly will, Chief. Thanks for letting me know.”

A quick stop at Scott’s Inn enabled me to attach my recently acquired answering machine to the phone that had been installed in my absence. I recorded a simple outgoing message, stating only that the caller had reached the assigned number and to leave a message following the beep.

Downstairs, I picked up the phone on Joe Scott’s desk and called my new number. My message came through loud and clear. Good, I thought. It’s working. My inability to hook up things electrical rivaled Dr. Eder’s skill at programming his VCR.

I went back upstairs and used the new phone to call Vaughan Buckley.

“I was getting worried about you,” he said. “Where have you been?”

“Out and about. Sorry to be so late in returning your call.”

“Somehow,” he said, “your idyllic vacation in the Hamptons hasn’t turned out quite the way Olga and I envisioned it.”

“Best laid plans and all that,” I said. “Am I interrupting dinner?”

“No. But we are getting ready to go out. We’re hoping you’ll join us.”

“Depends on who else will be there. Goodness, that sounds pompous, but I’ve had enough art talk to last a good long while.”

He laughed. “They can be a bit much, can’t they, artists and their followers. As a matter of fact, there isn’t an artist or artist’s rep or gallery owner on the horizon for this evening. Just Olga and me, and a few friends from publishing who have homes out here.”

“That was another subject I pledged to avoid. Writers and publishers, present company an exception, of course.”

“Of course. Still have that driver on call?”

“Mr. Mayer? Yes. He’s downstairs waiting for me.”

“Tell him to go home. We’ll pick you up.”

“No, I—it’s too late for that. He’s planned his evening around driving me. Just tell me where to meet you.”

“Everything okay with you, Jess?”

“Yes. Everything is fine.”

His silence said he wasn’t buying it, but he didn’t follow through, saying instead, “Olga and our friends are in the mood for Mexican food. There’s a good Tex-Mex restaurant, Santa Fe Junction. They don’t take reservations, but we won’t have to wait long.” He gave me the address.

Mexican food has never been high on my list of favorite cuisines, with Indian food rivaling it. “That would be fine,” I said, thinking I can always find something on the menu that wouldn’t go down too hot and hard. “See you at eight.”

I quickly freshened up and was about to leave the suite when the ringing of a phone stopped me in my tracks. I looked at the instrument on the nightstand next to the bed, then at the new phone sitting on the small desk. It was the new one clamoring for my attention.

I stood at the desk as it continued ringing. As I was about to pick it up, my voice came through the tiny speaker on the answering machine, giving my outgoing message to whoever was calling. When I was finished, the familiar voice and German accent of Hans Muller said: “Mrs. Fletcher. It is Hans Muller. Are you there?”

Why was he calling on a number that had been installed only hours ago? Who had I given the number to? Wally Peckham. Maurice St. James. That was it.

“Mrs. Fletcher, please, if you are there pick up the phone. I must speak with you.”

I drew a breath, exhaled, and slowly moved my hand toward the receiver.

“Mrs. Fletcher, I know I offended you when we last spoke. I apologize. I throw myself at your feet. Please, if you are there I—”

“Mr. Muller?” I said into the mouthpiece.

He sounded like a large balloon deflating. “Ah, Mrs. Fletcher. You are there. Thank goodness.”

“Mr. Muller, are you aware the police are looking for you. They’ve put out an all-points bulletin.”

“Ya.
I know.”

“Where are you? Why have you chosen to disappear?”

Another lengthy, heavy sigh. “Because—because, I have not done what they say I have done. I did not kill Ms. Forbes. You believe that, don’t you?”

“What I believe doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you turn yourself in to the police immediately. If you’re innocent, you’ll have the chance to prove that in the proper way and under the proper circumstances. Running away will only hurt you, not help.”

There was silence.

“Mr. Muller. Are you there?”

“Ya,
I am here, Mrs. Fletcher. And you are right, good lady. But I must speak with you before I make such a decision.”