A Palette for Murder (4 page)

At first, I didn’t connect the name with the gentleman who’d greeted me at the gallery featuring the works of Joshua Leopold. Realizing I was out of the loop, Vaughan Buckley said, “Maurice St. James owns a gallery just down the street from where you’re staying, Jessica. He features an artist named Joshua Leopold.”

“Oh, of course,” I said. “I—”

Muller laughed, causing him to cough. “A wonderful story from Maurice,” he said. “A woman. came into the gallery this evening and offered to buy every piece in the place.”

“All of it?” Olga Buckley said, her eyes wide. “Who was she?”

“All of it,” said Muller. “Maurice didn’t get her name. He said she looked vaguely familiar, but doesn’t know why. She’s coming back tomorrow with an offer.”

“Maurice must be in heaven,” Alix Simmons said.

“A shame Leopold isn’t around to enjoy it,” said Jacob Simmons.

“Yes, that’s true,” Muller said.

The banter ceased, and they all looked at me.

“She must be—very rich,” I said.

“Must be,” they agreed.

“You said it’s a shame the artist isn’t around to enjoy it.”

“Unfortunate, but true,” Muller said. “He died earlier this year.”

“How old was he?” I asked.

“Thirty-one,” Vaughan said.

“Thirty-two,” Muller corrected.

“Hans is an expert on Joshua Leopold,” Olga explained. “He has a large Leopold collection back in Germany.”

Muller smiled at me, and I noticed for the first time how yellow his teeth were, and that a tooth was missing on each side. “Our generation’s Picasso,” he said. “Pollock.”

“How impressive,” I said. “How did Mr. Leopold die?”

Alix Simmons replied, “A frightfully premature heart attack.”

“So young,” I said.

“And so much more art to create,” said Muller.

“I can see why this mystery woman wants to buy up everything of his she can.”

“That’s what you need, Hans,” Vaughan said, laughing. “To hook up with a filthy rich woman who wants to buy Joshua Leopolds for you.”

Muller placed his hands over his heart and rolled his eyes up. “Every man’s dream,” he said. “A woman of beauty and wealth, who loves Leopold as much as I do.”

Although the dinner left me little room for dessert, I was compelled to try the
valrhona
chocolate cake. Olga hadn’t overstated its beauty and taste. It was heavenly.

Everyone ordered after-dinner drinks except me. I glanced at Hans Muller, who was drunk, I judged, and very tired. Large, watery eyes had lowered to half-mast, and his speech had become sloppy. He looked at his watch. “Damn jet lag,” he said. “Ten o’clock here. Let me see. That makes it—it makes it four tomorrow morning for me.”

“Still in the habit of never changing your watch when you travel?” Vaughan said.

“Ya. I always keep it on Germany time, and translate.”

“So do I,” I said. “Not Germany time. But I always keep it set to Cabot Cove time no matter where I am.”

“Cabot Cove—?”

“Where I’m from,” I said. “This has been a lovely evening, but I’m afraid I’m suffering a little jet lag myself. Hampton Jitney lag is more like it, I suppose.”

“This has been a nice evening,” Olga said as we made our way to the door. “Breakfast at nine? Our house? They haven’t demolished the kitchen yet.”

“Oh, Olga, I would love to but—”

She and her husband looked at me.

“I have a—I have a—a need to walk a beach at sunrise. Yes, that’s it. I promised myself to spend each morning meditating. Besides, after this huge dinner, the thought of putting anything else in my stomach is too formidable. Lunch? Can we catch up for lunch at some pretty little café? My treat.”

“All right,” Vaughan said. “I’ll call you at Scott’s Inn—after you’re done meditating and communing with the sandpipers.”

I hated to lie to them, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit what I really had planned for the following morning. Maybe one day I’d get over my reluctance to bare my soul, and admit to giving vent to a secret and powerful passion.

In the meantime, a few white lies would have to be tolerated.

The naked young man slowly climbed down from the low platform on which he’d been posing, picked up a white terry cloth robe at his feet, put it on, and headed for a table on which a large coffee urn and a platter of doughnuts were displayed.

“You’re getting chubby, Willard,” the instructor told the model. “Time for Weight Watchers.”

The model, who hadn’t cracked a smile for the entire one-hour session, glared at the instructor, dropped a doughnut back onto the tray, and left the room.

The fifteen students drifted in the direction of the refreshments. As they did, the instructor, Carlton Wells, wandered among the easels, stopping at each to check on each artist’s progress. His expressive face was easy to read: a frown, a smile, a puzzled look, downright disgust.

As I stood in line for coffee, I glanced over my shoulder to check his reaction to my sketch. It was noncommittal. Better than disgust, I thought.

“How can you sketch wearing those big dark glasses?” a young woman asked me after I’d drawn my coffee and was sipping it in a comer.

“These? Oh, I have an—an eye infection. Actually, I can see just fine.”

Her eyes traveled up to the red turban I wore.

“A hair infection,” I said with a smile.

She went to where a knot of younger artists congregated. No question about it; I was hands down the oldest student in the studio. Which didn’t bother me. I’d gotten over worrying about my age the day I decided almost two years ago to give vent to what had been a secret passion for a long time, the urge to paint.

Was I too old to take up a new hobby, to learn a new and different art?

I decided that I was not too old, and took my first tentative steps to becoming a visual artist. I didn’t expect miracles, nor did I envision myself painting anything good enough to be of interest to anyone but me. But that would be good enough.

My first step was to buy a few books on art and some basic supplies. I had no idea what kind of art I wished to create. I would stand in museums marveling at the great works on the walls, including one entire day of Washington’s magnificent National Gallery of Art, where I reveled in the splendor and indescribable talent of Botticelli and da Vinci, Raphael and Van Dyck, Cézanne and Monet and Renoir and van Gogh.

But while they were inspirational, they did not inspire in me any foolish notion of trying to achieve their artistic level.

So I lowered my sights and spent more time studying contemporary artists, not those who pour paint on large canvases, or wrap objects in plastic and call it art, but to younger artists who have learned their craft, and apply it to their creative visions.

Although I’d decided to pursue the study of art, I was never able to shake a certain embarrassment about it. Silly, I knew. But there is something daunting about creating a drawing or painting, and then having someone else view it. I don’t feel that way about the books I write. Maybe that’s because I’ve been writing for a very long time, and am comfortable with the process.

But there was another reason for my reticence about admitting to having taken up art, or allowing others to witness the results.

When people read my books, it takes them time to get through all the pages.

Reaction to a painting or drawing is immediate.

The instructor, Carlton Wells, came up behind me. “Not bad,” he said.

“What? Oh, my sketch. I don’t think it’s very—”

“No false modesty, Mrs. Fechter. It’s looking good.”

“Thank you.”

I’d registered for the class under an assumed name. I suppose I could have chosen a pseudonym farther afield from my own, but hadn’t thought fast enough.

“I’ll be interested in how you handle the next model.”

“I hope to your satisfaction, Mr. Wells.”

“Carlton. Call me Carlton.”

“All right—Carlton.”

Carlton was a middle-aged man wanting desperately to be twenty years younger. He wore his graying hair long in the back, secured by what looked to me to be a silver and turquoise clip of Zuni origin. He was bare-chested beneath a brown corduroy jacket that was, to be kind, well-worn. His jeans had holes at the knees, although I suspected he’d cut them, rather than having it occur naturally through wear and age. The jeans looked new. Leather sandals on surprisingly large bare feet completed the “look.”

I’ve always been more comfortable with people who simply get dressed in the morning, rather than costumirig themselves. But I didn’t let that cloud my judgment of Carlton, who’d been pleasant and courteous to me and the others in the class.

Ten minutes later, we were all behind our easels awaiting the next model. She came through a door behind the refreshments table wearing what appeared to be the same white robe worn by our male model. She lazily ascended the platform, tossed the robe to the floor, and stood naked before us. There wasn’t a hint, an expression, a gesture to indicate that she was uneasy being nude in front of fifteen strangers, male and female.

She was a pretty young girl, in her early twenties I judged, but not beautiful. At least not according to the prevailing standards set by the pundits of beauty in Hollywood, or the modeling agencies. Her features were too coarse to be labeled classic. Sensuous, though, large brown heavy-lidded eyes, lips full and fleshy, thick, auburn hair obviously washed that morning and catching the sun that poured through large windows on the studio’s north wall.

Her body was firm and without blemish, breasts in proportion to her overall frame. I judged her to be only slightly over five feet tall, certainly nothing willowy about her. She had sturdy, healthy legs that undoubtedly served her well in a gym, or when playing volleyball on a beach.

“Well, let’s begin,” Wells said.

I noticed that the model, who was introduced to us as Miki, wore white sweat socks, her only clothing. I felt a chill, and checked her for goose bumps. None. She evidently was used to being naked in cold rooms.

“All right, my budding Rembrandts and Caravaggios, pick up your pencils and go to work.” To Miki: “Ten minutes, my dear. Profile. Sit up straight. Hair out of your eyes. That’s it. A little to the left. Aha. Perfect. Hold that pose.”

I glanced over at the easel to my immediate left. The artist, a chubby, pink-cheeked young man wearing thick glasses, began sketching with fervor, licking his lips as he did.

To my right, a painfully thin and pale young woman kept cocking her head as she observed Mild, whose expression had settled into one of supreme boredom.

I made a curved line on the paper on my easel to represent Miki’s back. No. It was wrong. Too curved. I muttered under my breath as I took an eraser to it. The woman to my right was still sizing up things. I reached into the oversize black leather portfolio I’d bought for the occasion and withdrew the sketches I’d done of the male model. Now that was a back. I felt I’d captured the curvature of his spine rather nicely, and resumed trying to achieve the same with Miki.

Ten minutes later, Carlton asked us to stop while Mild took a break. He should have called it a breather, because she immediately slipped into her robe, opened a fire door at the rear of the white clapboard building, and stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. So young, I thought, to be hooked on a nicotine habit. If I were her mother... which I wasn’t, of course ... but if I were, I’d try to convince her to quit before it became too ingrained, and difficult.

Carlton strolled between easels, glancing at what we’d done during the first ten minutes. “Good start,” he told me. The only thing on my paper was the redrawn curve of Miki’s back.

“It’s so difficult to get it just right,” I said.

“You did better with Willard.”

“I think you’re right,” I said. “Is it usually easier to draw men than women?”

“Depends entirely on your sexual orientation,” he replied, a small smile on his lips.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” I said.

“Of course you didn’t, Mrs. Fechter.” He moved to the next easel.

As I stood waiting for Miki, the model, to return, I thought about being there on this Saturday morning. I’d signed up for the life-drawing class in the Hamptons because it was far from my home in Maine. I knew that Cabot Cove had similar classes—at least two local artists of note held them.

But I would have been too embarrassed to have taken them there. Jessica Fletcher sketching nude models? The gossip mill would have gone into high gear. My closest friends would be calling to see whether I’d slipped into senility without them having noticed it.

No. If I was to pursue this dream of mine, it would have to be done surreptitiously, at least in the early stages of my “fling.” Perhaps one day I would be proud enough of what I’d drawn and painted to show it off to my friends. In the meantime, I was committed to remaining a closet artist. Here, in this studio in the Hamptons, I was Mrs. Fechter, who came to the class with her hair hidden under a brightly colored turban, and who was partial to oversize sunglasses that never left her nose.

Two of my “works” hung on the walls of my home. My friends visit often, but no one has ever asked who painted them. And, of course, I hadn’t signed them.

“Pretty scene,” one friend said. “Where did you get it? Flea market?”

“Nice colors. Goes with the couch.”

“Are those
birds?”

“Are those trees?”

“Let’s go,” Carlton said to Miki.

She snuffed out her second cigarette, came inside, and again took her position on the platform. “We’ll do fifteen this time,” Carlton said. “Full frontal view.”

Miki faced us. A wan smile came and went. She directed a stream of air at a lock of hair that had fallen over her forehead, hunched her shoulders, allowed them to relax, and settled in for another modeling session.