A Palette for Murder (21 page)

“Where are you, Mr. Muller?”

“You will come?”

“No. But where are you?”

“I will not say unless you promise to come to me.”

“Mr. Muller, I’m on my way to dinner with friends, and I—”

“The Buckleys?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. How did you get this number? It’s new.”

“A friend.”

“Maurice St. James? He knows where you are?”

“I must go.”

“Mr. Muller, please. Listen to me. If you agree to turn yourself in, I’ll pave the way with the police. I know Chief Cramer. I’ll talk to him. I promise I’ll—”

The click of the phone being lowered into its cradle jarred my ear.

I pondered my next move. There was a good chance that Muller had called from Maurice St. James’s gallery. I had to assume it was St. James who’d given Muller my new number.

But I hesitated running downstairs, jumping into Fred Mayer’s taxi, and going to the gallery to confirm my suspicion. It wasn’t my place to assume the responsibility of a bounty hunter, tracking down a possible murderer.

I called police headquarters. Naturally, I didn’t expect Chief Hopeful Cramer to be there at that hour, but I was wrong. He’d stayed late to catch up on paperwork.

“Sorry to bother you at night, Chief, but I thought it was important.”

“What is it, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I just received a call from Hans Muller.”

“Really? Where is he?”

“He didn’t say. But he wanted me to come to him. I declined.”

“That was prudent. No idea where he is?”

“Only one possibility. The art gallery downtown owned by Maurice St. James.”

“I know it. Why do you think Muller might be there?”

“Just because—well, just chalk it up to intuition.”

“That’s good enough for me. I’ll have a car over there in minutes.”

“Good. Will you be at headquarters long enough to know whether they picked up Muller?”

“I’ll make a point of it.”

“I’ll call. A half hour?”

“That should give us enough time.”

The minute I hung up, I knew I couldn’t just sit in the room for thirty minutes. I got into Mayer’s cab and told him to drive by St. James’s gallery, but to keep a distance. When we arrived, I saw two uniformed officers knocking on the gallery’s front door. One went to the back, but reappeared only a minute later. They looked at each other, shrugged, got back in their patrol car and took off. Obviously, no one was there. Or, if Muller
was
inside, he was laying low. in the shadows.

Although I already knew Chief Cramer’s officers hadn’t found Hans Muller at the gallery, I made my promised call from a booth.

“No one there,” Cramer said. “I considered trying to get hold of the gallery owner, St. James, but the investigating officers are convinced no one was inside.”

“I’m sure they’re right. Well, Chief Cramer, if I hear from him again, I’ll call immediately.”

“Thanks for your help, Mrs. Fletcher. By the way, the coroner was impressed with your presentation to him.”

“That’s nice to hear, and it’s thanks to you. I’m off to dinner with friends at Santa Fe Junction, but I’ll keep in touch.”

“My favorite Tex-Mex restaurant out here, Mrs. Fletcher. Enjoy!”

When I told Fred Mayer where I was going, he asked, “You like that kind of food?”

“Not especially.”

“Maybe you’d better take these with you.” He reached into his shirt pocket and handed me a half-eaten roll of Turns.

I laughed. “Really think it will be that bad?” I asked.

“Even worse. Good luck.”

I was the last one to join the dinner party, which had already been seated in a large green Naugahyde banquette with a maroon tablecloth. A cactus plant sat in the middle of the table. I was introduced to the others by Vaughan, and took the last available seat in the crowded booth. Everyone had been served their drinks; I opted for sparkling water with plenty of ice (getting ready for the hot stuff), and a wedge of lime.

A minute after I’d been served, the waitress returned with an appetizer Vaughan had ordered for the table. I’d never seen anything quite like it, and asked what it was called.

“Onion Blossom,” the pretty and pert waitress said as she served it to us.

“You’ll love it,” Olga said. “They take a whole onion and peel it, then cut off the top and bottom, slice it into wedges and dip it in tempura batter. A little cilantro and chili pepper, and then into the deep fryer.”

We each had our own Onion Blossom. I stared at the one in front of me. It had opened into a crispy flower during deep-frying. It was beautiful.

“Dip it in the avocado sauce,” Vaughan said.

It was as delicious as it was visually attractive. If the rest of the meal was as good, I might change my view of Southwestern cooking.

We’d just been served our main courses when the young man who’d greeted me at the door came to the table. “Mrs. Fletcher?” he said.

I looked up from my hot plate of mesquite-grifled vegetables and penne. “Yes?”

“There’s a phone call for you.”

“For me? Who can it be?”

I excused myself and went to the manager’s podium, where a phone was off the hook. I picked it up and said, “Hello?”

“Mrs. Fletcher, Chief Cramer here. Sorry to disturb your dinner.”

“That’s quite all right. I did tell you where I’d be. Is something wrong?”

“Maybe there’s something right. We know where Muller is.”

“Wonderful.”

“He’s holed up in a boathouse down near the town dock.”

“How did you find him?”

“A patrol officer saw this big guy duck into the boathouse. Checked it out. Says it’s Muller.”

“Is the boathouse surrounded?”

“Yup. We’re just sitting and waiting. We don’t have a negotiating team like they do in the city, but we’ve been talking to him.”

“And?”

“Mr. Hans Muller says he won’t come out unless he talks to you first.”

“Talks to me?”

“That’s what he says.”

“That’s preposterous. Can’t you just go in and take him? He’s not armed, is he?”

“Negative on that, Mrs. Fletcher. He’s got a handgun. And he threatens to kill himself unless he gets to talk to you.”

“Oh, my.”

“That’s what I say, only my choice of words is a little different. Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I need you. You can head off a nasty episode just by talking with him. I’m sending a car for you. Should be there any minute.”

“I have a taxi waiting outside. We’ll follow.”

“Whatever you say. And thanks.”

I hung up and turned to face the booth where my dinner companions were talking and laughing. What would I tell them? That the food hadn’t set well with me, and I needed to go home immediately? That I had a headache or a toothache?

I decided the only course of action was to tell them exactly why I was leaving.

My announcement caused sudden and total silence. It was Vaughan who broke it. “I absolutely won’t allow you to do this,” he said, covering my hand with his on the table. “Hans sounds as though he’s gone off the deep end. No telling what he might do to you. Hold you hostage. Even kill you. He might have killed Ms. Forbes. Nothing to lose by killing you.”

“I’ll be with the police,” I said. “They’ll—”

“This is so exciting,” one of my dinner companions said.

“Can we go with you?” said another.

The door to the restaurant opened, and a uniformed patrolman came through. I stood and motioned for him. He came to the table.

“I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said.

“I’m Officer Walsh. Coming with us?”

“Yes.”

Vaughan, Olga, and our dinner party accompanied me to the sidewalk. Everyone else in the restaurant was aware of the commotion and strained to make sense of it.

“I’m coming with you,” Vaughan said.

“If you insist,” I said, opening the back door of Fred Mayer’s taxi.

“In here, Mrs. Fletcher,” one of the officers said, indicating the back of his marked squad car.

“No,” I said. “We’ll follow.”

“What’s going on?” Mayer asked. “Am I in some sort of trouble?”

“No,” I said. Vaughan jumped in the taxi with me. “Just follow the police car, Mr. Mayer.”

“Let me have those Tums,” he said, falling in behind the squad car. I handed them to him over the seat. The police vehicle turned on its flashing lights and siren, and picked up speed. Mayer kept pace, saying, “At least I won’t get a speeding ticket.”

We reached the town dock where a small gray building was surrounded with police cars, their swirling lights cutting through a dense fog, turning it into multicolored cotton candy. Vaughan and I got out of the taxi and were approached by Police Chief Cramer.

“He’s in there?” I asked, pointing to the building.

“Yes.”

The harsh sound of a policeman’s voice through a bullhorn violated the ears. “Mr. Muller, this is the police. You are to come out with your hands up. You will not be hurt in any way. I promise you that. Just come out and everything will be fine.”

There was silence following what undoubtedly had been an oft-repeated announcement. I noticed a cop crouched by the door to the boathouse. He kept low as he ran back to where we stood. “He says again he wants to talk to this Fletcher broad.”

The moment he said it, he saw me standing there. “Are you—?”

“Yes. I’m that Fletcher broad. Don’t let it bother you. I’ve been called worse.”

“Sorry, ma’am. It’s just that—”

Chief Cramer cut him off. “Are you willing to talk to him, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“That’s why I’m here, Chief.”

“We’ll escort you to the door. Talk to him through it.”

“What if he wants her to go inside?” Vaughan asked.

“That’s up to her,” Cramer said, nodding at me.

“Let’s see how it develops,” I said. “Come on. I left a dinner that’s getting cold.”

I was led to just outside the boathouse door. Uniformed cops with guns drawn flanked me. One of them nodded. I returned the nod.

“Hans?” I said in much too soft a voice. “Hans?” Louder this time. “Mr. Muller, it’s Jessica Fletcher.”

We waited. There was no response.

“Mr. Muller. Are you in there?” I said, fairly shouting this time.

Still no sound from inside.

“I’m going in,” I said.

“No, ma’am, not without the chief’s order.” He looked back to where Cramer stood with Vaughan.

I instinctively reached for the door handle and turned it, pushed the door open. The only light inside was from the police cruisers that came and went in red bursts through a large skylight. I narrowed my eyes and saw a man’s body on the floor. He was sitting up, his back propped against a wall.

I didn’t hesitate. I stepped inside and went directly to the slumping body of Hans Muller. A handgun was on the floor a few feet from him. Next to it was a half-empty package of cigarettes, and a butt smoked down to its filtered end.

I came to his side and peered into his round face. I thought he was dead, but he proved me wrong by saying, “Mrs. Fletcher. You came.” His breathing was labored, low rasps coming from his heaving chest. His beefy hand found mine.

“Yes, I came. Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“Mrs. Fletcher, I did not kill that young girl.”

“No, I don’t think you did.”

Police came through the door, flashlights illuminating us together on the floor. I held up my hand to keep them away. I said to Muller, “Do you know how the model, Miki Dorsey, died?”

He coughed, sending his large body into spasm. He managed, “Ya.”

“Was it poison? Was it a poison called ricin?”

His answer was to squeeze my hand tightly, and then to let out an anguished, painful gasp. His free hand went to his chest. His eyes opened wide, filled with fear. “It was—”

He shuddered. His grip on my hand loosened. A gurgling sound came from his throat. And he was still.

Suddenly, the damp, dank room was filled with police, their lights illuminating every comer. Chief Cramer knelt by Muller’s lifeless body and touched the big German’s neck in search of a pulse. There was none.

Using a handkerchief, an officer picked up the revolver and showed it to Cramer. The chief sniffed the end of the snub-nosed barrel. “Hasn’t been fired,” he said. He opened the chamber. “Empty. No bullets.”

“What killed him?” I asked.

Vaughan Buckley came to where I stood and put his arm around me. He looked down at Muller and muttered, “My God!”

As another policeman moved past us, his foot caught something on the concrete floor and sent it to the tip of my shoe. It was small, the size of a vitamin or pain-relieving gel. I picked it up and held it in my palm. It was a plastic ampoule that was broken in half. It reminded me of an electrical fuse of the type that’s been replaced in most homes by circuit breakers.

“What do you have?” Vaughan asked.

I showed him.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know, but I have a hunch.”

I showed the ampoule to Chief Cramer. He asked the same question Vaughan had asked.

“I think it might be what killed Hans Muller,” I said. “Could you have what’s left of the contents of this analyzed?”

“Sure. But why? What do you think it is?”

“Ricin.”

“Ricin?” Vaughan said.

“A poison, the same one that might have killed Miki Dorsey, and maybe Joshua Leopold.”

Cramer took the ampoule from me and placed it in a small plastic bag a uniformed officer handed him.

“What’s in his pockets?” I asked.

“I’d rather wait for the crime-scene boys before anyone touched him.”

“Of course. His ever-present cigarettes are there,” I said, pointing to the package and the butt.

They were collected by an officer, and placed in plastic bags.