A Palette for Murder (15 page)

“Can he win such an action?”

“Not in time to make much difference. Know anything about art, aside from doing some painting of your own?”

“Very little.”

“People kill other people over paintings.”

“Some paintings are worth millions,” I said.

“Worth killing for. This Leopold, his works command big bucks, I understand.”

“That’s true. Chief Cramer, you asked me here to answer some questions. I really haven’t heard many.”

“Guilty as charged, Mrs. Fletcher. I got you here under false pretenses. I’d like your help.”

“That’s not a problem. But I don’t think I have much help to give.”

“Too modest, Mrs. Fletcher. Let me cite two things. One, you have a reputation as a remarkably astute detective. And two—”

“Chief Cramer, I might write about solving crimes, but I’m a rank amateur when it comes to actually doing it.”

“Not from what I hear. Two, you seem to be in the thick of things here when it comes to people dying, and art. You know this Hans Muller. You were the person he called regarding Ms. Forbes. You were there when Ms. Dorsey died. You’ve been to Ms. Dorsey’s house, met her father. You seem to know a great deal about the artist, Joshua Leopold. I’d say you’re in a position to be of immeasurable help to me.”

“As I said, I’ll be happy to do what I can.”

“Mean that?”

“Of course. Just call.”

“I will. Buy you a cup of coffee?”

“Thanks, no. I have things to do. What funeral plans have been made for Jo Ann Forbes?”

“None yet. Another autopsy to be performed. Her folks have been notified. They’re coming in from Baltimore. Hell of a reason to make a trip.”

“The worst I can imagine.”

Reporters were waiting for me outside. I wasn’t sure what to do next, aside from getting away from them. I looked across the street and saw there was a tiny white building with a sign that read TAXI. I quickly crossed and entered the building, where a little old man, wearing a baseball cap and a yellow cable-knit sweater that had seen better days, sat behind a desk reading a magazine.

“Good morning,” I said.

He looked up. “Good morning. Something I can do for you?”

“Yes. I need a taxi.”

“No problem.” He tossed the magazine on the desk and stood. “Where to?”

“Many places. I need a taxi for about a week.”

He looked at me quizzically.

“I need a car and a driver for a week,” I said. “I’m here on vacation.”

“Happy to oblige, lady, but you’d do better—be cheaper to rent a car.”

“I don’t drive.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, I suppose we can work something out.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Fifteen minutes later I was in the backseat of an older blue sedan, with Mr. Fred Mayer, owner of Fred’s Taxi Service, at the wheel. He’d called a friend to take over the day-to-day operation of his taxi business, and committed himself to me for the duration. I liked Fred Mayer. He had a wry sense of humor, not unlike some of my friends back home, and would surely prove to be a valuable source of insider gossip about the Hamptons and its summer residents.

I looked back; the press stood on the sidewalk. I felt better.

I gave Mr. Mayer the address of the sprawling old waterfront house in which Miki Dorsey had lived before her death. We pulled into the driveway and stopped. Mayer turned. “Here we are, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Fine. You’ll wait, of course.”

He smiled. “I’m yours for the day. For the next seven days. That’s the deal.”

I knocked on the front door. When no one replied, I tentatively opened it. “Hello?”

“Hello” came a male voice from somewhere in the house.

I stepped inside, closed the door, and headed down the hall I knew led to the large living room. Chris Turi, whom I’d met on the jitney, and who was said to have been Miki Dorsey’s love interest, was seated on a window seat by a window overlooking the ocean.

“Hello, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.

“Hello, Chris. Hope you don’t mind my barging in unannounced like this.”

“No. How are you?”

Since he didn’t get up, I went to him. “I’m not very good, to be honest. You heard, I assume, about the reporter, Jo Ann Forbes.”

At least I’d gotten his attention. He sat up and said, “No. What about her?”

“Did you know her?”

“No. Well, maybe I met her at a party or something.”

“She was murdered this morning.”

“Huh?”

“She was murdered early this morning. Not far from here, as a matter of fact.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Sorry to be the bearer of the news. Chris, do you think I could see Miki’s room?”

He frowned. “I suppose so. But why?”

“Just curious. I feel a certain kinship with her. I suppose it’s because I was there when she died.”

“Yeah. I can understand that. Actually, I’ve—well, once the police were through checking out her room, I sort of moved in. It’s bigger than mine was and—”

“No need to explain. Have all of Miki’s things been moved?”

“Yes. I mean, out. They’re in a storage room. Her father says he’ll arrange for them to go back with him to England.”

“Has he been here much?”

Turi shook his head. “Come on, I’ll show you the room. But excuse the mess. I’m still getting settled.”

The room was at the other end of the rear of the house. The door was open, and Turi indicated with his hand that I should enter. It hadn’t been an overstatement; the room was in chaos. Clothing was tossed into every comer. Books from piles had toppled to the floor. The bed was unmade. The blinds were crooked. Pictures on the walls had obviously been hung haphazardly and at cockeyed angles. I thought of the movie Rocky, and Burgess Meredith’s line when he first saw Rocky’s hovel: “Nice place you got here.” I didn’t say it.

I stood in the middle of the room and felt a profound sadness. This was where Miki Dorsey read, and slept, and thought about her life and where she wanted it to go.

I turned and said to Chris Turi, “Do you know anything about a painting missing from Miki’s room?”

He didn’t seem comfortable answering, so I asked again.

“The Leopold.”

“You do know about it.”

“I heard.”

“My understanding is that it hung right here in her room. Do you remember seeing it?”

He shrugged, and looked even more uncomfortable. “I guess I did. I never paid attention.”

I shifted my attention to the paintings on the walls. “Are these yours, Chris?”

“Yeah. Are you hungry? Can I get you something?”

“No thank you. Your work is very good.”

What struck me about them was their similarity to the Joshua Leopold painting style. To my untrained eye, they could almost have been interchangeable to some of Leopold’s paintings in Maurice St. James’s gallery.

“Did you know Joshua Leopold?” I asked.

“Who? Oh, Leopold. No.”

“Never met him?”

“No. Look, I—”

“I ask because your style strikes me as being influenced by him.”

“Nah. Pollock, maybe. Lichtenstein. Kandinsky. I like Kandinsky a lot. And Masson.”

“I don’t know him.”

“He brought the viewer into the unconscious. Done here, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes. Thanks for showing it to me.”

We stood in the kitchen, where Turi made himself a sandwich. I accepted a diet drink from him. As he spread mayonnaise on his bread, he asked, “How was the reporter murdered?”

“Someone hit her head very hard.”

“You said it happened not far from here.”

“That’s right. At a beach cottage rented by a German art collector, Hans Muller.”

He dropped the knife to the floor, hurriedly picked it up, and wiped the resulting mayo spill with a paper towel.

“I take it you know Mr. Muller,” I said, following him to the window seat. He sat and started to eat.

“I’ve heard of him. It happened at Hans’s—
his
cottage?”

“That’s right. Well, Chris, you’ve been very gracious. Thanks for the soft drink. It was refreshing.”

“Sure. Anytime, Mrs. Fletcher.”

He didn’t make a move to escort me to the front door, so I started on my own. Before I left, I turned and said, “When we met in the pizza parlor, I said Anne Harris told me you and Miki were close. You denied it. Were you?”

“What do you mean, ‘close’?”

I smiled. “Chris, I think you know full well what I mean.”

“Did we sleep together? Sure. Big deal. Welcome to the nineties, Mrs. Fletcher.”

I chewed my cheek. “I’ve heard that the pendulum has swung into the nineties, Chris. But you’ve answered my question, thank you. Hope to see you again.”

Fred Mayer jumped out of his cab and opened the door for me. “No need for that, Mr. Mayer,” I said. “But thanks anyway.”

“Where to now?” Mayer asked, starting the engine.

I checked my watch. A little after eleven. I knew I should have been tired, considering I’d been up since four. But I wasn’t. I was energized. The problem was I didn’t know what to do next with my energy.

“Feel like a tour?” Mayer asked.

“A tour. That sounds wonderful. I really haven’t seen much of the Hamptons.”

We drove along narrow country roads, coming close to water, leaving it, skirting marshland, passing lovely homes large and small, then back at the water, quiet bay beaches that reminded me of Cabot Cove, old inns and ultramodern houses. There were lots of bike riders, which caused me to reconsider my decision to hire Fred Mayer to drive me. I often ride my bicycle at home and love it. But I rationalized my decision based upon a lack of time. When I ride my bike, I like to do it leisurely, without a need to be somewhere quickly. As appealing as getting on a bike in the Hamptons was, Fred Mayer made more sense.

After forty-five minutes, Mayer asked if there was anything I especially wanted to see.

“A restaurant,” I said. “I’m hungry. But first, would you drop me off at Scott’s Inn. I need to pick up something.”

“Sure thing. That’s a nice place to stay. Joe Scott’s a real gentleman.”

“He certainly is. And he runs a very good hoteL”

As I walked through the door to the inn, I was surprised to see Vaughan Buckley in the small library, browsing in one of my books he’d taken from the shelf.

“Vaughan. What are you doing here?”

He replaced the book, shook his head, and motioned for me to sit down in a small upholstered chair in the comer. He sat in a matching chair at my side. “Hoping you’d return,” he said.

“Is something wrong?”

“Yes. I’d say there is. Hans Muller arrived at the house right after I talked to you.”

“And?”

“He was beside himself. Of course, it doesn’t take a lot to send him off the deep end.”

“Has he been accused of Jo Ann Forbes’s murder?”

“Not officially. But they’re holding his passport.”

“Somehow, Vaughan, I don’t think you’re here because your chain-smoking German friend lost his passport.”

“You’re right, Jess. It’s what else he lost that brings me here.”

“What was that?”

“The painting he took from the house last night. You know, the modem work he wanted to examine.”

“He’s
lost
it?”

“That’s what he says. Jess, when you were called to his cottage, did you see that painting?”

“No. But then again, I wasn’t looking at anything except Ms. Forbes’s body. When Mr. Muller left your house after the party, he stopped in to see Blaine Dorsey at Dorsey’s hotel.”

“The dead model’s father?”

“Yes.”

“How did you learn that?”

“Police Chief Cramer.”

“When did you talk to him?”

“This morning. Vaughan, were you being truthful when you said you didn’t know the artist who’d done that painting?”

“Between you and me?”

“Sure.”

“Olga and I think it’s a Joshua Leopold. An early work. That’s the only reason I allowed Hans to take it. He’s a Leopold expert.”

“So is Blaine Dorsey.”

“Maybe he took it to Dorsey for his opinion.”

“A good possibility. But now it’s lost, you say.”

“That’s what Hans says. He claims he took it with him to his cottage, found Ms. Forbes, called you, and waited for the police. Then, he says, after everyone left, the painting was gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not the painting that upsets me, Jess, although it does represent a possible substantial loss. The problem is that I don’t believe Hans.”

“About the painting simply disappearing?”

“Right. And once you don’t believe a friend about one thing, it’s hard to believe him about others.”

“Like Jo Ann Forbes’s murder.”

“Exactly. Jess, stay away from Hans.”

My laugh was small. “I’ve already come to that conclusion on my own. We were to have dinner tonight. I canceled.”

“Good.”

“Vaughan, tell me what you know about Hans Muller, his life, his background.”

“I don’t know much. He’s East German, worked for one of its agencies until the wall came down.”

“What agency?”

Vaughan laughed. “Some clandestine agency, to hear him tell it. Like a KGB or CIA. From what I’ve heard, he was in a position to smuggle out of East Germany a lot of expensive art. But you can’t prove it by me.”

“Interesting.”

“He’s an interesting man, despite those infernal cigarettes and his penchant for too much whiskey.”

He glanced out the window. “That cab waiting for you?”

“Yes. I booked him for a week.”

“Jess, why didn’t you call me. I could have arranged for a limo and driver.”

“I don’t need a limousine, Vaughan. Mr. Mayer is charming, and knows a lot about the Hamptons. I’m perfectly happy with him.”