A Palette for Murder (24 page)

“Sorry to bother you at home, Chief, but I forgot to ask you something this afternoon.”

“Sure. Go ahead and ask.”

And I did.

I’d no sooner hung up on Chief Cramer when the newly installed phone rang.

“Mrs. Fletcher, it’s Anne Harris.”

“Hello, Anne. I was hoping to hear from you.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering whether we could get together.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes, if you’re not busy.”

“I’m not. But I do have to be back here by midnight for a call.”

She laughed. “You sound like Cinderella. I’ll have you back long before that. Pick you up. Ten minutes?”

“All right. I’ll be waiting downstairs.”

As I stood on the porch, I became increasingly anxious to see her and talk with her again. She’d said my first night at the group house that there was more to Miki Dorsey’s death than met the eye. Maybe this was the night she’d explain what she’d meant.

I asked where we were going once we pulled away from Scott’s Inn.

“Back to the house, if that’s okay with you.”

“Fine. How has everything been with you?”

“Pretty good.”

“Anne, you called on a number I’ve given only to two other people.”

“Oh?”

“Where did you get it?”

“Wally.”

“She told you?”

“Yup.”

If that were true, I’d lost some faith in Waldine Peckham.

We pulled into the driveway, got out, and went inside the house. There were no sounds. The only light came from the living room. I followed Anne down the dark hallway until we reached the room commonly shared by all the house’s summer residents.

“Beer, Mrs. Fletcher? Coke?”

“A diet drink would be fine.”

She went to get it, and I casually strolled the room. A cello on a stand in one comer, undoubtedly belonging to Anne. I’d forgotten she’d said she was a musician.

In another comer, near French doors that were cracked open, was a half-finished painting on an easel, probably the work of Waldine Peckham.

“Is Wally here?” I asked when Anne reappeared.

“I don’t know. I don’t keep track of her.”

Her comment had a nasty edge to it, which surprised me. Evidently, Waldine Peckham and Anne Harris weren’t the best of friends.

She handed me my soda and sat on the window seat. I wasn’t sure where to perch, so I continued standing. When she didn’t say anything, I said, “I’ve been wanting to speak with you ever since the first night I was here. I don’t know if you’re aware that I’ve been spending some time looking into Miki Dorsey’s death. Jo Ann Forbes’s, too. And now Hans Muller’s.”

She said nothing, simply sat and stared into her coffee cup. I joined her on the window seat. “Anne, tell me what it is you know.”

She drew a breath, turned, and locked eyes with me. “There are certain things that have been going on out here for the past couple of years which have gotten lots of people in trouble.”

“In trouble? What do you mean?”

“Have gotten them killed.”

I nodded. “Go on.”

I could see her internal debate swirling inside her—to tell me more, or to stop.

“Anne, I never had any intention of becoming involved in murder when I came to the Hamptons for a vacation. It’s hardly been that. But I happened to be in an art class when Miki Dorsey died. Because of that, I got to know a local reporter, Jo Ann Forbes, and she ended up dead, too. And then someone I met socially, Hans Muller, ends up dead. All I want is to leave here knowing that justice has been done. For Mild. For Jo Ann. And for Mr. Muller.”

“I can understand that,” she said.

“Do you know that Miki didn’t die of a heart attack?”

“Yes. She was poisoned.”

“That’s right. But
how
did you know that?”

“I—”

“Who told you?”

“I did, Mrs. Fletcher.”

Maurice St. James stepped from the dark recesses of the kitchen.

His sudden and unexpected appearance on the scene startled me. Again, I saw a vision of the curved knife in his hands. He held nothing in them now.

I asked Anne Harris, “Why did you bring me here?” my voice steady and hard.

“To make sure you stay out of our way long enough for us to accomplish what we must,” said St. James.

“Which is?” I asked, forcing an increasing fear from my voice.

“To put an end to what has been going on,” Anne Harris said. “I’m sure you’d like to see that happen.”

“Not without those responsible for the deaths of four people brought to justice.”

“Four?” St. James said.

“Yes. Miki Dorsey. Poisoned. Jo Ann Forbes. Beaten to death. Hans Muller. Poisoned. Joshua Leopold. Poisoned.”

“You have a rich imagination, Mrs. Fletcher,” St. James said. “But that is to be expected from a writer of murder mysteries.”

“It’s not my imagination, Maurice. But I must admit, Anne, that I never thought you were a part of this nasty little game.”

“That doesn’t matter. Besides, I haven’t killed anyone. That’s the truth.”

“But you’re supporting those who have, and you brought me here tonight under false pretenses, to get me out of the way until—what? Until you’re able to pack up and leave?”

“You’re very astute, Mrs. Fletcher,” St. James said. “We’re not asking much of you. You’ve been poking your pretty nose into things that are none of your business. Because you have, it’s necessary for us to make alternate plans.”

I stood and walked to the center of the room. Neither Anne Harris nor Maurice St. James moved to stop me. I had a moment of exhilaration. Maybe they weren’t ready to back up their threatening words with action.

But as I took another step in the direction of the hall leading to the front of the house, I heard the front door open, then slam closed. Moments later, Carlton Wells joined us in the living room, blocking my exit.

I took everyone in. It was a cabal, this dealing in forged art—and murder. Who
wasn’t
involved? Waldine Peckham? Chris Turi? I wouldn’t have been surprised to see them join the crowd any moment.

I decided that my only option was to stand tall and firm. Of course, if these people had killed the others, that stance might end up nothing more than foolhardy bravado. But I didn’t see any alternative.

“I don’t know all the details of what you’ve done, or how you’ve done it,” I said, “but if you’ve been responsible for the deaths of these people, you’ll never be able to run away from it. Your only sensible course of action is to—”

“Why don’t you shut up!” Carlton Wells stepped closer to me and thrust his jaw at me. “You’re a meddling old fool, lady. None of this is your business, so just shut up unless you—”

I cut him off with, “Unless I want to be murdered, too? Let me ask you something, Mr. Wells. Was the money you’ve all made from selling Joshua Leopold paintings—and forged copies of them—worth murder?”

“Just sit down over there,” Wells said, pointing to a chair near the entrance to the kitchen. I stood my ground. He grabbed my arm and propelled me to the chair. His grip was powerful; I winced against the pain it caused. “I’m going back to finish packing up, Maurice,” he said. “I need help.”

“What about her?” St. James asked, referring to me.

“Get some rope and tie her up.”

I stood.

Wells pushed me back down in the chair.

I looked to Anne Harris, who stood with her back to the action, arms crossed, her attention focused on a window and what was outside it.

“Anne,” I said, “they may not have any common sense, but certainly you do. It’s not too late for you to—”

She turned, said to Wells and St. James, “Give me the gun. I’ll make sure she doesn’t go anywhere.”

Wells drew a small snub-nosed revolver from his windbreaker pocket and handed it to her. To me: “Just keep your mouth shut, Mrs. Fletcher, and you’ll be all right—for now.”

I watched St. James and Wells leave the room and disappear down the hall. I turned to Anne, who had now taken a chair a few feet from me. The revolver rested comfortably in her hands—too comfortable, I thought. This seemingly sweet, pleasant woman obviously had another hard, vicious side to her.

We sat in silence, eyes on each other. Finally, I said, “Anne, I know you didn’t kill Miki Dorsey, or anyone else for that matter. I know who did.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Oh?” she said, a tiny smile on her lips.

“But if you go along with them, you’ll end up being tossed right in the midst of murder charges. You’re so young. Why would you want to throw away your life?”

“I don’t have a choice, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Of course you do.” I leaned forward as I said it to amplify my words, but my action caused her to stiffen, and to lift the weapon and point it at me.

I averted my gaze from the revolver and looked directly at her face. “I don’t know the extent of your involvement in this enterprise, Anne, but my instincts tell me—and they’re usually pretty good—that you’re a minor player.”

Her face took on sudden animation. Her laugh was scornful. “Maybe your instincts aren’t as wonderful as you think they are,” she said.

“Maybe they aren’t. But I prefer to go with them.”

Her animated face changed from wide-eyed wonder to a dark, serious frown. “Do you know how much money can be made from an artist like Josh Leopold, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I’m afraid I’ve started to learn.˝

“He’s the hottest young artist on the scene today.”

“But he’s dead.”

A guffaw. “And worth a lot more dead than alive.”

Her message wasn’t lost on me: “Are you saying he was
killed
in order to increase his worth on the open art market?”

“That, and other reasons. He started out going along with having other artists paint under his name. It’s no big deal. Every great artist had apprentices who painted in their style. How many masterpieces hanging in museums today were actually painted by the masters’ apprentices? A lot more than you think.”

“But he balked, and died for it.”

“Why don’t we stop talking, Mrs. Fletcher. It won’t get either of us anywhere.” She lowered the revolver to her lap and sat back.

As she did, I saw a shadow move across the wall behind her. The source of the shadow became visible. It was Wally Peckham who stepped through the open set of French doors. She picked up a wooden palette by her easel and continued toward us. I kept my eyes on Anne to avoid tipping her that someone else was in the room.

Wally silently crossed the room and came up behind Anne. Anne finally realized someone was there, but reacted too slowly. Wally brought the edge of the palette down across the back of Anne’s neck. Simultaneously, I leaped up and grabbed the weapon from her.

Anne slumped in the chair, her eyes closed, her hand gripping her neck and back of her head. Wally stood frozen next to me. We heard each other’s hard breathing, and felt our mutual trembling.

Anne looked up at us. “Bitch!” she said to Wally.

“Let’s go, Mrs. Fletcher,” Wally said. “I think it’s time to get out of here.”

“What about Anne?” I asked.

“Forget her. She’s not worth worrying about.”

Anne slowly got to her feet. Her expressive face was now a mask of pity and sorrow. She began to cry. “Mrs. Fletcher, you were right. I never killed anyone. I got involved—I mean, I didn’t want to get involved but—”

I stopped her mea culpa speech. “Anne, you’ll have a chance to explain to the proper authorities. In the meantime, you can help me, which might work in your favor.”

“I never meant—”

“Stop it! Where have Carlton and Maurice gone?”

“To the gallery to pack up the paintings.”

“And where are they going after that?”

“Europe. They already have their tickets. Once you started uncovering things, they decided it was time to pack up and get out.”

“Where in Europe?”

“London. Blaine Dorsey is part of the group.”

“But his daughter was killed.”

“Let’s go, Mrs. Fletcher,” Wally said, yanking on my arm.

“All right. My suggestion to you, Anne, is that you stay right here.
”

She didn’t reply. Wally tugged at me again, and we ran up the hall and out the front door.

“Where’s your car?” I asked.

“I don’t have one. You?”

“I don’t drive.”

I looked to my left. Two bikes leaned against the porch. “Ride a bike?” I asked.

“Not since I was a kid.”

“You never forget. I ride them all the time back home. Come on.”

They were men’s bikes, and not in very good shape. I told Wally she was the navigator back to Scott’s Inn: “The fastest way you know,” I said.

She led us through backyards and up tiny streets. I began to wonder whether she knew where she was going, but suddenly we were at the rear of the inn’s property, and entering through the gate leading to the English garden. We dropped the bikes to the ground and tried the rear door. It was locked. We skirted the inn and came in through the front door. “Come on,” I said. “My room’s upstairs.”

We were about to ascend the stairs when Mr. Scott came through a door and said, “Mrs. Fletcher. There’s someone to see you.” As he said it, Chris Turi came from the library.

“Chris,” Wally said.

“Hi. I got here as fast as I could.”

Wally and I looked at each other.

“I heard you were at Maurice’s gallery, Mrs. Fletcher, and that you told him everything you knew. You’re in danger.”

“Maurice told you?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Have you spoken with Anne Harris?”

“No. Come on. I have a car. I’ll take you to the police.”

“Yes, you’ll be going to the police, Chris. To be charged with the murder of Miki Dorsey, Jo Ann Forbes, and Hans Muller. And maybe Joshua Leopold.”