A Palette for Murder (22 page)

“That single butt, Chief Cramer. Remember the package of cigarettes I gave the coroner?”

“Yes?”

“Would you see to it that this butt is compared to the cigarettes in that package, the one I gave you?”

“Of course.”

“Am I free to leave now?”

“Sure. Will you see her home, Mr. Buckley?”

“Certainly. Come on, Jess.”

Fred Mayer stood next to his taxi as we approached. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“A death,” I replied.

“Back to Santa Fe Junction?” Vaughan asked. “We left our dinners.”

“The last thing I want,” I said.

“We’ll go to the house,” he said. “No, first we’ll swing by Scott’s Inn and pick up your things. You’re staying with us for the rest of your so-called vacation.”

“No, Vaughan, I don’t want to impose. You have all that work going on and—”

“I’m your publisher, Jess, which makes me your boss in a sense. And your boss says you’re staying with us.”

“All right,” I said, “but I can’t give up—I don’t want to give up my room at the inn.”

“Why?”

“Because I might need to use it. I’ll stay with you, but only with that caveat.”

“Fine. Mr. Mayer, first stop is Scott’s Inn.”

I took from my room at Scott’s Inn only enough personal items for that night. Vaughan accompanied me to the room but didn’t notice the second phone or the answering machine. The little red light on the machine wasn’t flashing; no one had called.

We settled in the Buckleys’ kitchen. I was hungry by this time; Vaughan put shell steaks on a gas barbecue on the patio, and Olga whipped up a simple salad.

“Delicious,” I said after we’d eaten.

“You have some constitution,” Olga said, “being up for a meal after what you’ve been through tonight.”

“After what she’s been through twice since arriving in the Hamptons,” said Vaughan.

“Three times,” I corrected. “I was there when Miki Dorsey died.”

“Yes, three times,” Vaughan said. “I’m sorry about all this, Jess. Somehow, I feel responsible by having invited you here.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Whether I’m responsible or not, tell me about this poison you think might have killed Hans.”

“Ricin?” I told them what I’d learned about it from George Sutherland.

“Whew!” Vaughan said. “That’s remarkable.”

“Hans had a background in intelligence, didn’t he?” Olga said. “With East Germany?”

Vaughan laughed. “He talked about it. Frankly, I always considered it a case of fantasizing by Hans. You know, trying to inject intrigue into what was basically a pretty dull life.”

“Let’s assume his background did include some sort of clandestine life,” I said. “That would have given him access to a wide variety of things that kill.”

“True,” said Vaughan.

“But I have a problem,” I said.

“Which is?”

“Even if this potent poison, ricin, that I think was used to kill Miki Dorsey and perhaps Joshua Leopold, came from Hans Muller, I somehow can’t buy him as having used it to murder anyone.”

“I never would have thought it, either, Jess,” Olga said.

“But if what I’ve pieced together is true—that there is a definite link between Muller, Maurice St. James, Blaine Dorsey—and if Miki Dorsey had been cut out of her role as Leopold’s exclusive representative— and if Jo Ann Forbes had begun to put this together and lost her life because of it—then—”

Vaughan and Olga looked at me.

“Then what?” Vaughan asked.

“One of them is the murderer,” Olga said. “Right, Jess?”

“Or someone murdering for them,” I said.

Olga made tea, and we sat on one of their screen porches. It had gotten warm and humid; the cicadas made their presence noisily known, harmony provided by an occasional cricket. It had been a clear night, but low clouds now obscured the moon and stars.

We didn’t say much as we sat in the dark. I suppose we each were dealing with our individual thoughts and reactions to what by now had become a pattern of death in the pretty, pleasant Hamptons. Hans Muller had been their friend, and now he was dead, probably of a poison he administered to himself, the same poison that perhaps had killed Miki Dorsey. But that was supposition on my part. A second autopsy on her was crucial to proving my thesis.

Vaughan, who’d left the kitchen and the porch a few times to take phone calls in his study, broke the silence: “I know one thing for certain, Jess.”

“Yes?”

“If you thought there was media interest in you before, this nasty episode with Hans tonight will make your life hell.”

I nodded in agreement. He was right, of course. I didn’t relish the thought.

I eventually excused myself and went to the pretty guest room above their three-car garage. Olga had laid out fresh towels for me and a small basket of pretty-smelling soaps. How she came up with fresh flowers on such short notice was a mystery to me, but she had.

 

I got ready for bed, and was about to turn out the light when I saw that there was a phone in the room. I hesitated picking it up in case someone was on the line. But I did, and received a dial tone. I pulled the slip of paper from my purse on which was written the number of the new phone in my room at Scott’s Inn and dialed it.

“You have
reached
—”

The moment I heard my voice begin to give the outgoing message, I punched in “1,” then “0.” My message stopped. A mechanical male voice said,
“You have one message.”

I heard the tape rewind. And then a man’s voice said:
“I understand you wish to buy a sketch by a certain famous woman. I have that sketch. I will call again.”

There was a “beep,” and all went quiet.

I hung up and tried to place the man’s voice. I failed. I detected the hint of a Southern accent. I also had the feeling the voice was being disguised in some way; the old place-a-handkerchief-over-the-mouthpiece routine? I was tempted to tap into the message again but decided it could wait until morning.

Sleep came later, and with some difficulty. I assume I dreamed, but had no recollection when I awoke in the morning to birds singing and sunlight streaming through the windows, what those dreams might have been.

I used the phone to call Fred Mayer’s little office across from police headquarters. I’d told him I’d let him know when I needed him that day.

“ ‘Morning, Mrs. Fletcher. Just sitting here listening to the news about that fella last night down at the town dock.”

“What are they saying?” I asked.

“Seems he was a German guy. Maybe a spy. The announcer says the cops suspect suicide.”

“What else was said?”

“Just that you were there, a regular heroine, going inside to try and save him.”

“That’s not what I did. Can you pick me up at Mr. Buckley’s house in an hour?”

“Yes, ma’am, provided I can get the cab out of the driveway.”

“Why would that be a problem?”

“Got to be a dozen cars and trucks belonging to newspapers and radio stations and the like. Seems they know I’m your driver and intend to follow me.”

“I’m sorry.”

He laughed. “Hey, don’t be sorry. Most excitement I’ve had in thirty years. Be there in an hour.”

Should I cancel him, and try to avoid the press by using other means of transportation?

No. They’d find me no matter how I elected to get around.

“Yes,” I said. “An hour.”

I felt like I was in a parade.

I sat in the back of Fred Mayer’s taxi as we led an entourage of media vehicles from the Buckley house into town. Vaughan and Olga had urged me to lay low, to use their pool and tennis court, to lounge about and read, nap, relax. Although a hoard of workmen had descended at eight, Vaughan assured me they would not be hammering and sawing everywhere, and that I could find spots of solitude and relative silence.

I knew they meant well; the contemplation of what they suggested was appealing.

But I was determined to move the day along, and to take every step that might help that process.

I ran into Scott’s Inn, where Mr. Scott was at his desk.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher.” He gave me a wry smile. “Looks like you just seem to attract murder.”

“Goodness, I hope that’s not true,” I said as he handed me a batch of message slips, which I didn’t bother to read. “Besides, the gentleman who died last night wasn’t murdered. He committed suicide.”

The moment I said it, it flashed across my mind that maybe Hans Muller
hadn’t
committed suicide. Could someone else have been in the boathouse and used ricin to kill him?

I went upstairs and listened to the message again. I played it over and over. There was something vaguely familiar, but I still couldn’t identify who owned the voice.

I called Police Chief Cramer.

“Mrs. Fletcher, I’m glad you called.”

“I thought I’d better check in.”

“You should know you’re not alone in this.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I just got off the phone with a Sheriff Morton Metzger from Cabot Cove.”

“You
did
? Why did Mort call
you
?”

“He says he heard about last night from TV news, and wanted me to know that he was holding me and my department personally accountable if anything happens to you.”

“He didn’t
really
say that?”

“Yes, he did. Actually, he sounded like a nice fellow. I’m sure he meant well.”

“Mort is a—nice fellow. He means well. Have you heard from Dr. Eder?”

“He called just before your sheriff friend did. Called from the city. Those cigarettes you gave him are being analyzed as we speak. He says the forensic scientist knows a lot about this ricin you think might be in them.”

“Good. What about a second autopsy on Miki Dorsey?”

“Should know for certain by noon. I think it’s pretty well decided. There’s some heavy influence being peddled on that issue.”

“So you said. What about her father?”

“Went back to London last night.”

“I wish he hadn’t done that.”

“Why?”

“Just a feeling.”

“You have lots of those, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I suppose I do. A family curse. I don’t suppose you have any new information on Mr. Muller.”

“Dr. Eder is doing an autopsy this afternoon as soon as he gets back from the city.”

“What was in his pockets?”

“You asked that last night. I have an inventory. I can get it for you.”

“Could I come by and see it?”

“Any time. I plan to be here most of the day.”

I emerged from Scott’s Inn into the crowd of press people who’d followed me there. They started shooting questions at me. I paused at the top of the steps leading to the porch, held up my hands, and said, “I am going shopping. Then, I intend to enjoy a quiet lunch—
alone
.”

The number of questions tripled, all having to do with my having been present in the boathouse last night. I waited patiently until the din died down, then said, “Ladies and gentlemen, you are chasing the wrong person. I am here in the Hamptons to enjoy a much-needed vacation. A few unfortunate events have gotten in the way of that. I don’t intend to allow any other distractions to interfere with my leisure during my final days here. I will say nothing else to you, and I would appreciate being left alone. Thank you.”

As I settled in the rear seat of Mayer’s taxi, a female reporter asked him where he was taking me next.

Mayer laughed: “With this lady, you never know.” He turned to me. “Where to, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“A shop that sells clocks.”

“Clocks?” the reporter said through the open window.

“Clocks,” I repeated, tapping Mayer on the shoulder. He slowly pulled away, leaving a puzzled reporter. A few cars fell in behind us, but I was pleased that most did not.

“You serious about a store that sells clocks?” Mayer asked.

“Absolutely.”

“I know just the place.”

I stuck to my announced plan to shop, and to enjoy a quiet lunch until four o’clock—and until the few reporters following me eventually gave up—which, of course, was what I intended to happen.

During lunch, which I enjoyed on the terrace of the Post House, a lovely restaurant recommended by Mayer, I used a phone inside to call Maurice St. James at his gallery.

“Mr. St. James, have you come up with something to show me?” I asked.

“Mrs. Fletcher. I didn’t expect to hear from you today. Not with what has happened to Hans.”

“Poor man,” I said.

“You were there.” He didn’t add
as
usual.

“Yes, I was.”

“He killed himself?”

“Evidently. Maurice, I plan to leave the Hamptons very soon. Do you have works to show me?”

“I have. It wasn’t easy, but I think you’ll be pleased with what you see.”

“Wonderful. When can we meet?”

“The gallery usually closes at nine today, but I’ll close earlier. Say seven?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Come to the back. Discretion is very much in order.”

“I understand.”

Back at Scott’s Inn, I went to my room and unwrapped my purchases of that afternoon, including the clock for Seth Hazlitt. It was exactly what he wanted.

The red message light on the answering machine flickered indicating a message. There were two. The first was from Waldine Peckham:
“This is Wally Peckham, Mrs. Fletcher. I think I’ve done pretty much everything I can. Any luck so far?”

The second was the same male voice I’d heard earlier . He said:
“I call again to offer the sketch you wish to buy. I will call one more time, tonight at midnight. If I fail to reach you, I won’t call again.”