A Palette for Murder (9 page)

I went up the driveway. “Hello,” I said.

The man, who I could now see was old and gnarled, smoked a curved pipe. He nodded without getting up.

“Bad weather for a yard sale,” I said pleasantly.

“Can’t do much about that,” he said.

“I suppose not. Mind if I look?”

“I’d rather you buy something.”

I laughed. “I just might do that.”

As I perused the eclectic array of items for sale, I thought back to yard sales I’d held at my house in Cabot Cove. They were hard work, but fun. And it was always pleasing to see things I no longer wanted or needed end up in someone else’s hands. I never made much money from those sales, but that hadn’t been my purpose. What little cash they did generate paid for dinner out with my friends who’d helped me move items to the yard, and to tag them.

The garage contained some broken stereo equipment, frayed throw rugs, kitchen items, tools, a pile of framed pictures, worn clothing, and other things no longer of interest to the home’s owner, nor to me.

I focused on the pile of framed pictures. Some looked as though they might have been painted by a small child, so crude were the images. There were a couple of prints of pastoral scenes. I held up a photograph of what I presumed was the man and his family, taken many years ago. Why did he think a photo of him and his family would be of interest to anyone else? The frame, I suppose. It was a discolored metal frame with filigree in its enlarged corners.

“You can have them all for five dollars,” he said.

“That’s very—generous,” I said.

The painting at the very bottom of the pile was slightly larger than the others. I picked it up and held it away from me. It was very different from the others. It was modem in style, vivid reds and greens and yellows slashing the canvas from top left to bottom right.

“Where did you get this one?” I asked.

He turned in his chair and narrowed his eyes. “Wife picked it up at some other yard sale. Month or so ago. Ugly, ain’t it? That one you can have for nothing.”

I went to the open overhead door to catch more light on the painting. It was covered with dust, and I used the flat of my hand to clear some of it away.

“Never hung it,” said the man. “Put it in the basement back of the water heater.”

“It is dirty,” I said. “There’s a water stain.”

“Flood. If it keeps raining, we’ll have another. Like I said, take it for nothing.”

He reminded me of some old salts back in Maine. “I will take it,” I said.

“Takin’ the others?” he asked, drawing on his pipe and exhaling a stream of blue smoke.

“No thank you. Here.” I pulled a five-dollar bill from my purse and handed it to him.

“No need for that. A deal’s a deal.”

“Please. I’d feel better.”

He tucked the bill into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt and said, “Much obliged.”

“The trick now is to keep it dry,” I said.

He got up for the first time, took a shopping bag from a hook on the wall, and handed it to me. I thanked him, slipped the painting into the bag, and left.

The rain had let up some. I continued my route to the town dock and looked out over the churning waters. Many small boats at mooring bobbed in the swells; a half-dozen yachts were tethered to the dock by multiple lines. I was the only person there that morning. I took some deep breaths. As I stood there enjoying the momentary solitude, I remembered I’d promised to call Vaughan Buckley about getting together for breakfast. There was a single pay phone on the dock, and I used it. Olga answered.

“Jessica, we were getting worried about you.”

“Sorry. I made a fast exit from the inn to avoid the press camped outside.”

“I don’t wonder,” she said. “We’ve been getting calls all morning since the story appeared in
Dan’s Papers.
Where are you?”

“At the town dock.”

“In this weather?”

“I took a walk, stopped in at a soggy yard sale. Bought a painting.”

“From a yard sale?”

“Five dollars. It’s interesting.”

“We’ll come get you.”

“No need. I enjoy the walk.”

Vaughan came on an extension. He asked the same questions, and received the same answers from me.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he said.

“If you insist.”

Good to his word, he pulled up less than five minutes after I’d hung up. “You’re soaked,” he said.

“Not on the inside.”

“What have you got there?” he asked, indicating the shopping bag.

“Oh, just a painting I bought at a yard sale.”

“Hell of a day for a yard sale.”

“More a garage sale. Where are we going?”

“Breakfast. I understand the press is hot on your heels.”

“That’s what I’m told. Vaughan, any word on when Miki Dorsey’s autopsy will be released?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. Heard it on the radio on the way to get you. The coroner is holding a press conference this afternoon at two.”

“Where?”

“Town hall.”

“I’d like to be there.”

“No problem. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Sorry I ran out on you last night. I ended up at the house Miki Dorsey shared.”

“You did? How did that come about? And why?”

I recounted my quest for a slice of pizza, meeting Chris Turi, and going back to the house with him.

“How was it?” Vaughan asked as he pulled into the parking lot of the Maidstone Arms, an inn and restaurant. “Hungry, Jess?”

“Yes. Mr. Scott brought me breakfast, but I didn’t eat it. Was in too much of a rush to leave. I saw the front page of the newspaper, with my picture on it.”

“Nice shot of you,” said Vaughan, coming around to open my door. The rain was now more of a mist. We stepped into the handsome dining room, with its blue-plaid carpet, pale gold wallpaper, tables covered with crisp white linen and surrounded by ladder-back chairs stained dark.

“What a pretty place,” I said as we were led to a window table.

“Olga is joining us in a few minutes. Maurice St. James, too.”

“Oh. Does he have to—join us?”

“Problem?”

I decided to tell Vaughan that I was the mystery woman who offered, in jest, to buy Mr. St. James’s entire collection of Joshua Leopold’s paintings. After I had, and Vaughan had stopped laughing, I added, “Pretty foolish attempt at humor, huh?”

“I love it,” he replied. “There’s Olga and Maurice.”

They joined us, and we ordered hearty breakfasts. After coffee had been served, Vaughan said, “Jessica told me her little secret with you, Maurice.”

“What secret?” asked Olga.

I told my story again.

“You didn’t?”

“Oh, yes, she did,” St. James said. “I’m still waiting for a check.”

“I am sorry,” I offered.

“Think nothing of it, Mrs. Fletcher. But you might reconsider. Leopold’s worth increases every day.”

“I’m sure it does. You mentioned at dinner the other night that Leopold died young, a sudden heart attack, I think you said.”

“That’s right,” St. James said.

“Where did he die?” I asked.

St. James looked at Vaughan and Olga before answering, “He died here, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?”

“No special reason. But here we have two young, seemingly healthy people dropping dead of what’s termed heart attacks. That doesn’t strike anyone as strange?”

“I see your point,” Vaughan said.

“I don’t,” Olga said. “A terrible coincidence, for certain, but it’s only two people. Not a dozen.”

“And a year apart,” Vaughan said.

“I suppose you’re right,” I said.

“Josh Leopold was a chain smoker, too,” said Olga. “Like Hans. Damn cigarettes. They’re killers. They should be outlawed.”

“Like whiskey during Prohibition?” Vaughan said. “That sure wasn’t any answer.”

The debate on whether cigarettes should be banned was interrupted by the serving of breakfast, and the conversation shifted focus. Vaughan asked me to tell the others about the painting I’d purchased that morning at the garage sale.

“I’m not even sure I like it,” I said. “It just caught my eye. Too modem for my usual taste, but nice. I paid five dollars for it.”

“From how you describe it, you might have overpaid,” St. James said.

“Perhaps I did, especially when I could have had it for nothing.”

“I’d like to see it,” St. James said.

“It’s in Vaughan’s car.”

“When we go out,” Vaughan said.

As it turned out, everyone forgot about viewing my garage sale purchase. Maurice St. James drove away to his gallery, and Vaughan, Olga, and I got into their car. As we drove to Scott’s Inn, Vaughan casually mentioned to Olga that I’d gone last night to the house in which the deceased model, Miki Dorsey, had lived.

“I wondered what you had decided to do last night,” Olga said. “I was worried about you.”

“No need to worry,” I said. “Miki Dorsey’s father arrived from England while I was there.”

“A tragic trip,” Olga said.

“Yes. Strange, but the other young people who shared the house with Ms. Dorsey didn’t seem particularly upset by her death. It was sort of business as usual there. The young man I’d met on the jitney, and who took me there, was supposedly her boyfriend, at least according to some others I’ve spoken to. He didn’t seem too devastated, either.”

“What other tidbits did you pick up on, Jess?” Vaughan asked, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

“Well, it seems that the instructor in our sketch class, Carlton Wells, was not especially popular. I’ve been asked whether he acted in an unusual way just prior to Miki Dorsey’s death.”

“Sounds like the making of your next murder mystery,” Olga said.

I laughed. “The last thing on my mind, Olga. I’m on vacation.”

“A busy one, I’d say,” Vaughan said as he pulled to the curb in front of Scott’s Inn.

“I intend to correct that,” I said. I surveyed the porch. “Looks like the press gave up.”

Vaughan turned to Olga. “Jess wants to be on hand when the autopsy report on the model is released at two.”

Olga looked at me and smiled. “Doesn’t sound to me as though you’re looking for peace and quiet. The press will be there in droves.”

“I know,” I said, sighing. “But I’d like to hear the report firsthand.”

“I’ll take you,” Vaughan said. “How about lunch?”

“Goodness, no. I just finished breakfast. And it was very good, I might say. I think I’ll catch up on some reading until two.”

“I’ll be here a few minutes before,” Vaughan said.

“I’ll be waiting.”

I started to get out of the car, remembered the shopping bag with the painting in it, grabbed it, and left the car.

“A peek?” Vaughan said.

“Of this? Sure.” I removed the painting and held it up for them to see. They screwed up their faces.

I laughed. “I know,” I said, “it’s not wonderful. But—”

“Not so fast,” Vaughan said. “It’s interesting. Reminds me of someone.”

“Just a silly impetuous purchase. Pretty slimpsy,” I said, placing the painting back in the bag.

“Slimpsy?”

“An old Maine expression. Not good quality. Well, see you later.”

Mr. Scott had left the phone messages in my room. There were now ten of them. I shoved them into my purse; I wasn’t about to return any of them.

A few minutes later I strolled downstairs, entered the library, and pulled one of my books down from a shelf. I was flipping through the pages when Scott entered. “Ah, Mrs. Fletcher, you got the messages I left for you?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Enjoy your gallery browsing?”

“Never did get to a gallery,” I replied. “Took a long, wet walk down to the town dock.”

“Not an especially nice morning for a walk.”

“It wasn’t bad. I’m from Maine. We’re used to heavy water.”

“In a signing mood?” he asked.

“I certainly am.”

I signed each book handed me by Mr. Scott. I’ve always found signing books to be an especially difficult chore, especially when faced with more than one. The tendency is to want to write something clever and insightful, which is never easy off the top of your head. Still, I did my best to personalize each book to my gracious host, and eventually completed the task. He thanked me profusely, and I started to leave the room.

“Anything new about your missing sketch, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked.

“Afraid not. I’d forgotten about it.”

“A lot of money, a thousand dollars.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Tea?”

“No, thank you.”

I lay on my bed, eyes open, and thought about the morning. I’d enjoyed my walk, even in the pouring, blowing rain. I knew I was not being especially fair to Vaughan or Olga Buckley, with my sudden disappearances and frequent unavailability.

In the meantime I gave up my pledge to spend the next few days on a quiet, carefree vacation. I wanted to know why Miki Dorsey died.

And if it wasn’t from natural causes, I wanted to know who killed her.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Paul Fargis, your mayor.”

Approximately fifty people were on hand for the release of the autopsy report on Miki Dorsey. Vaughan and I tried to slip into the crowd unseen, but Jo Ann Forbes, the reporter from
Dan’s Papers,
spotted me and immediately approached.

“I was hoping you’d be here,” she said breathlessly.

“I wasn’t sure I would be,” I said. Vaughan nodded to her.

“How do you do, sir?” she asked.

“Just fine. I read your story this morning. It was—good.”

“Thank you. I take that as a real compliment. Mrs. Fletcher, could we talk for a minute?”

“Maybe we’d better hear what they have to say up there,” Vaughan suggested, nodding toward the front steps of the town hall, where Mayor Fargis, a handsome, silver-haired man, was conferring with an older gentleman wearing a white lab coat, whom I assumed was the coroner.