A Palette for Murder (6 page)

“At least it won’t be on your front page,” I said.

“Please, Mrs. Fletcher, won’t you give me an interview about your new career as an artist?”

“I don’t have a new career—as anything. I’m a writer. I paint strictly as a hobby.”

“Just a few minutes. Your inspirations. How you felt sketching naked models. The medium you prefer, how many pieces you’ve done so far, things like that.”

Vaughan stepped between us. “Maybe another time,” he told the reporter. “Mrs. Fletcher has had a rough morning.”

“You saw Miki die.”

“Did you know her?” I asked.

“A little. We have mutual friends.”

I looked at Vaughan, whose expression was a question mark.

“How about later?” I suggested to Ms. Forbes.

“Jessica, I think—.”

“No, Vaughan, it’s all right. Call me later this afternoon,” I said to her. “Around three.”

Vaughan escorted me to my room. He closed the door and said, “I’m not sure you should talk to her.”

“She seems nice,” I replied, looking out over the rear garden.

“You know the press, Jessica. Do you really want to go public about your art studies?”

“It’s already public, Vaughan. I was very upset when I first heard that someone had stolen my sketch from my portfolio. I still am, but not nearly as much as I was. Initial shock has worn off. As long as people know anyway, I might as well relax and try to enjoy the rest of my stay.”

“That would make Olga and me happy. We’re looking forward to spending time together.”

“And we will. Thanks for breakfast, and for lending your ear.”

“Always an ear available for my favorite author. What do you plan to do for the rest of the day?”

“Hang out, as they say.”

“Oh,” he said, “I almost forgot. We’ve been invited to a gallery showing at five. Thought you might like to join us before we head for dinner.”

“At five? All right.”

“Pick you up here.”

He went to the door, placed his hand on the knob, turned, and said, “Careful what you say to the reporter this afternoon.”

“I promise. Hopefully, I’ll learn more from her than she’ll learn from me.”

It’s a curse, this need of mine to get to the bottom of things.

Finding out more about the dead model, Miki Dorsey, wasn’t destined to accomplish anything for me, or for anyone for that matter. As tragic as her death was, it undoubtedly resulted from some congenital defect in her physiological makeup. Like those young athletes we occasionally read about who suddenly die on the basketball court, or on the line of scrimmage. A bad draw of the cards.

But it shouldn’t happen. One minute Ms. Dorsey was very much alive and posing for fifteen fledgling artists. The next minute she was dead.

I knew I could justify looking into her death based upon the theft of my sketch. Maybe I could find out who took it. Even more important, the sketch was now floating around the Hamptons. Where was it? And who had it now?

I stopped going through my internal justification process, and decided to take a walk. It was sunny and warm outside, the sort of pretty day I’d counted on when deciding to vacation in the Hamptons.

I went downstairs, passed through the empty lobby and parlor, and peeked through the curtains on the front door. No one outside, either.

Once at the sidewalk, I had a decision to make. Left or right? I took the same route I’d chosen the night before, taking me into town, past the shops and galleries. It was as I approached the gallery in which the dead young artist, Joshua Leopold, was featured that I realized I did not want to bump into the gallery owner, Maurice St. James. I left the main street a block shy of the gallery and wandered in the direction of the ocean. And toward the small white clapboard building in which the art class had been held.

Where Miki Dorsey died.

Aside from people strolling past, nothing seemed out of order when I reached it. For some reason I expected to see yellow crime-scene tape strung across the front door. But a crime hadn’t taken place. Someone had died a natural death.

Of course, when any sudden and unexplained death occurs, an autopsy must be performed to rule out foul play. How long would it take to autopsy Miki Dorsey’s body?

The front door was unlocked, and I entered. Everything was still; a clammy chill contrasted with the sunny warmth of the outdoors.

I went to where Miki’s body had fallen. The police had used chalk to outline it. Good for them. At least they were taking prudent steps in case it turned out not to have been death from natural causes.

I eventually drifted in the direction of the door leading to the rear of the building, and the small landing where Miki Dorsey had gone for her cigarette breaks. I pushed it open and stepped outside. At my feet were her cigarette butts. I bent over and picked one up. As I did, I heard the front door open. It startled me, and I instinctively moved out of the line of sight of whomever had come into the building.

I heard the door close, and footsteps. I peered inside. A young woman stood in the middle of the room. She wore yellow shorts and a white T-shirt with an artistic design on it. Picasso?

She looked up and saw me, froze, then backed toward the front door. I stepped inside. “Hello,” I said.

Her eyes were wide. I approached her. “You startled me,” I said.

“Me, too,” she said. We both smiled.

“I’m Jessica Fletcher.”

“Oh, the—you’re the writer who was here when Miki died.”

“That’s right. Word travels fast.”

“The Hamptons thrive on gossip.”

“So I’ve heard. Did you know Ms. Dorsey well?”

She nodded. “We lived together.”

“Oh. It must have been a terrible shock for you.”

“For all of us in the house.”

“How many of you live together?”

‘“Ten. Some are here all summer. Some just weekends.”

“I see. A group house. I’ve heard they’re popular in the Hamptons.”

Another nod. She looked at the floor and chewed her cheek, as though deciding whether to say what she intended to say next. I waited.

“Mrs. Fletcher, did you see anything unusual just before Miki died?”

“Unusual? No, I can’t say that I did. She’d been posing, and was about to stop. The instructor told her the session was over. When she didn’t move, he went to her. I think he thought she was kidding around. She’d said she didn’t enjoy the pose she was in. He touched her, I think. Then she pitched forward.”

The girl wrapped her arms about herself and shuddered.

“I didn’t get your name,” I said.

“Oh. I’m sorry. Anne Harris.”

“Nice to meet you, although I would prefer under more pleasant circumstances. Do you know what the funeral arrangements are?”

“They’re doing an autopsy, I think.”

“Routine in deaths like this. Has her family been notified?”

“Her father. He’s flying in from London.”

“He lives there?”

“Yes. Miki’s parents have been divorced for a long time. I don’t know where her mother lives. Miki never talked about her. They didn’t get along.”

“Are you an artist?” I asked.

“A musician. Cello.”

“How nice. I love the sound of a cello.”

“You were taking lessons, weren’t you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“As a matter of fact, I was. I’m not very good. Just a hobby of sorts.”

“Everyone’s talking about you. Chris said he met you on the jitney.”

“Chris?”

“Chris Turi.”

“Oh, yes. The nice young man who sat next to me. An artist. Does he live in your group home?”

“Weekends. He and Miki were going together.”

“A sad time for him.”

“For all of us. Are you sure Carlton Wells didn’t do anything unusual to Miki before she died?”

“Carlton? Our instructor. No. Why do you ask?”

“He hated Miki.”

“I didn’t sense that. Why did he hate her?”

“Because she dumped him. They used to go together.”

“I see. Miss Harris, are you telling me that you think Miki’s death might not have resulted from natural causes?”

“I don’t know what I think. All I know is that she was healthy before coming here for the modeling session. And now she’s dead.”

I checked my watch. As I did, I realized I was still holding the cigarette butt I’d picked up outside. I dropped it into the pocket of my beige linen jacket and said, “I must be going, but I’d like to talk to you again. Would I be imposing if I stopped in at your summer home?”

“No, that would be all right.” She gave me directions. “It’s right on the water,” she said. “Real pretty place. But kind of grim now.”

“I can imagine. Well, Miss Harris, it was nice meeting you. I’ll be by.”

Jo Ann Forbes, the reporter from
Dan’s Papers,
called precisely at three, and we agreed to meet in a half hour at a pub in the center of town. I considered inviting her to my room at Scott’s Inn, but thought better of it. Somehow, having my feeble attempts at art in the room made it off-limits to everyone but me.

The pub was pleasant, and relatively empty at three-thirty. Ms. Forbes ordered a beer called Killian Red; I settled for club soda with lime.

I took the initiative. “What do you know about the dead model, Miki Dorsey?” I asked.

She laughed. “I thought I was supposed to be interviewing
you,
Mrs. Fletcher.”

“We’ll interview each other.”

“All right. I don’t know anything about her. They’re doing an autopsy as we speak. It’s big news.”

“A natural death is big news in the Hamptons?”

“Sure. Young woman sharing a group home for the summer. Models in the nude to make ends meet. Famous author sketching nude models and watching her die. Former boyfriend conducting the class and known to have been dumped by dead model. Wealthy father, art dealer big-time in London, flying in. Yes, Mrs. Fletcher, it’s big news, not only here but in the city, too. The
Post, News,
and even the
Times
have stringers out here covering it. TV, too, I hear.”

“Miss Dorsey having ‘dumped’ Carlton Wells seems to be common knowledge.”

“Sure is. They came to blows over it.”

“Then, why did she continue to model in the nude for his classes?”

“Like I said, a need to make ends meet.”

“You say her father is wealthy. He didn’t help her?”

“Evidently not.”

“What did she do for a living?”

“A little of this, a little of that. Waitressed in the city—and out here, too, on occasion. Modeled. She wasn’t the classic model type—you know, tall and willowy—so she did nude modeling.”

“Do you know her current boyfriend, a Chris Turi?”

“No.” She scribbled his name in her reporter’s notepad.

“Anne Harris?”

“No.” She noted that name, too.

Realizing I was giving her more information than I was receiving, I sipped my drink and fell silent.

“Mrs. Fletcher, why did you decide to take up art
^?
” she asked.

“I wanted to create pretty things.”

“Only reason?”

“What other reason could there be?”

She shrugged and drew on her beer. “I hear a rumor that the sales of your books have fallen off.”

My guffaw was involuntary. “They’ve never sold better. ”

“I just thought—”

“That I’m looking for a new career in art? Ms. Forbes, I assure you that if that rumor were true, I do not have the artistic talent to earn a nickel.”

“I thought your sketch was pretty good.”

“You saw it?”

“Yes. Just for a minute.”

“Any word on where it might be?” I asked.

“No. But another rumor flying around town is that it’s for sale.”

I hated to keep laughing at things she said; she was a lovely young woman doing a good job. But I couldn’t help it. “How much are they asking for it?” I asked.

“A thousand dollars.”

“How’s the beer?”

“Delicious. My favorite.”

“I believe I’ll try one.”

She was right. Killian Red had an unusual, tangy flavor. But I’m not a beer drinker, so managed only a few sips.

“Mrs. Fletcher, do you think there might have been foul play in Miki Dorsey’s death?”

“I have no idea. The autopsy will provide important information about that possibility.”

“Are you investigating it?”

“Investigating it. No, Ms. Forbes, I’m not.”

“I only ask because you’re known for getting involved in real murders outside those you solve in your books. I just thought—”

“What if I were? Investigating Miki Dorsey’s death.”

“Then, I’d like to be able to tag along with you.”

“I couldn’t stop you. In return, will you help me find my missing sketch?”

“Sure. But why not just buy it back? You’d have it, and you’d know who took it.”

“Pay a thousand dollars for my own sketch? Absolutely not.”

She finished her beer. “It’s a deal?” she asked, extending her hand across the booth’s small, scarred table.

I shook it. “It’s a deal,” I said.

Was there no end to the number of art galleries in the Hamptons?

They seemed to be everywhere, on every comer, in every nook and cranny of the area’s quaint villages. It reminded me of Seattle, where bookstores dominate each intersection.

That evening, Vaughan and Olga took me to the Elaine Benson Gallery. Mrs. Benson, they told me, had been championing Hampton artists for more than thirty years, and was an active fund-raiser through her openings and shows.

The gallery was bustling with people when we arrived. Vaughan and Olga were immediately welcomed, and introduced me around. The show featured three Hampton artists, two of whom worked in acrylic, the third a sculptor whose numerous small pieces were crafted of wire and thin metal strips into pleasantly recognizable forms—horses, a carousel, trees, and buildings.