A Palette for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  There were screams and muttered curses.

  By the time I stood, Carlton had already called the local police. He asked for an ambulance, but I knew it was too late. I covered Miki’s bare body with her robe.

  Minutes later, the door opened and two uniformed officers entered, followed closely by a man and woman from the town’s volunteer ambulance service.

  “She’s dead,” the male medic said.

  “I know,” I said.

  One of the officers looked at me. “Who are you?”

  “I’m ... I’m J. D. Fletcher. I’m a student here.”

  “Fletcher?” Carlton said. “I thought you were Mrs. Fechter.”

  “Well, you see, I—”

  The older of the two policemen narrowed his eyes. “You that famous mystery writer?”

  “I really—”

  “It is,” one of my fellow students said loudly. “It’s Jessica Fletcher. I’ve read some of your books.”

  I held up my hands and said, “I really think who I am is beside the point. Our lovely model is dead.”

  An hour later, after Miki Dorsey’s body had been removed, and we’d all given statements to the police, I packed up my things, left the studio, and started walking back to the inn. I couldn’t shake the vision of the lifeless young woman sprawled on the platform, her future snuffed out, her dreams and aspirations never to be fulfilled.

  Dying so young violated the natural order of things. There was no rationalizing it, whether it occurred because of war or disease, famine, acts of nature, or natural disasters. The young were to live until it was time for them to die.

  My eyes filled up, and I wiped a tear from my cheek. I ached for the young model named Miki. And I felt a little sorry for myself. What was to have been a pleasant foray into the world of art had ended in death, right before my eyes.

  Chapter Five

  The first person I saw as I approached the inn was its owner, Mr. Scott. He stood on the sidewalk as though waiting for someone. It turned out to be me.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked.

  “Yes. Well, I’ve been through a difficult morning, but—”

  “So I heard,” he said, slightly breathless. “They’re inside.”

  “Who is inside?”

  “Two reporters.”

  “Reporters?”

  “Waiting for you.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “They said you witnessed a murder.”

  “No. Not a murder. A tragic death of a young woman.”

  The front door opened and a sprightly young woman came bounding through it, followed by a young man carrying a camera. My instinct was to turn and run, but there was no time for that.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” the woman said, smiling and offering her hand. “Jo Ann Forbes, Dan’s Papers.”

  We touched fingers.

  “This is Jim Bellis, my photographer.”

  “Hello,” I said. He replied by quickly raising the camera and squeezing off a shot of me.

  “We got here as fast as we could, Mrs. Fletcher,” Forbes said. “As soon as we heard.”

  I looked to Mr. Scott for support. All I received from him was a pained expression.

  “You saw Miki Dorsey die,” Forbes said.

  “Yes. It was tragic.”

  The photographer kept shooting—me, Mr. Scott, the front of the inn. People now stopped to see what the commotion was. The crowd was growing.

  “Maybe we’d better go inside,” I said.

  “Okay,” said Forbes.

  “All right, Mr. Scott?” I asked.

  “I suppose so,” he replied, not sure whether he meant it.

  We settled in the parlor.

  “It’s quite a story,” Jo Ann Forbes said.

  “I don’t think—it’s a sad story, that’s all. And I don’t see why you want to talk to me. I was just another student in the class when she died.”

  “Exactly,” Jo Ann said. “The famous Jessica Fletcher, writer of best-selling murder mysteries, taking an art class and sketching naked men and women.”

  “Oh, my dear, I really think that—”

  “The sketch was good.”

  It took me a moment to process what she’d said. “What sketch?” I asked.

  “The one you did of the naked male model.”

  “Sketch I did? You must be mistaken.”

  “It was delivered to the office right after we heard about the model’s death. We bought it.”

  “Bought the sketch I did?”

  “Yes. I have tremendous admiration for you, Mrs. Fletcher, taking up art at your age.”

  “Excuse me,” I said, “but I really must get to my room. I have some phone calls to make.”

  “lust a few more minutes,” Ms. Forbes said. ”Please. Give me some comments about what it was like for Jessica Fletcher to be sketching naked men.”

  Mr. Scott’s eyes had widened to their fullest aperture.

  “Good-bye, Ms. Forbes,” I said, heading up the stairs, with Scott right behind me. Once in my room, he said, “I’m terribly sorry about this, Mrs. Fletcher. I didn’t know what to tell them when they arrived.”

  “No fault of yours,” I said. “I just need time alone to sort this out.”

  “Of course. Would you like some tea?”

  “That would be much appreciated.”

  As he backed to the door, his eyes remained on my large black leather portfolio. I said nothing. Once he was gone, I opened the portfolio and pulled out my sketches. The one I’d done of the male model was missing. Someone had taken it in the confusion that followed Miki Dorsey’s death. Who would have done such a thing? How dare someone take what was mine?

  The reporter had said the sketch had been delivered to the newspaper, and that they’d “bought it.”

  Outrageous, I thought. Someone stole my sketch in order to sell it to a newspaper, capitalizing on someone’s death, and on my name. Did the paper intend to publish it? “I’ll sue,” I muttered to the empty room.

  And then it struck me why I was so upset. It wasn’t that someone had done this to me. It was that my precious little secret was no longer a secret. My wanting to learn to be an artist was now public knowledge.

  That was the most maddening aspect of all.

  Mr. Scott delivered my tea and asked if I needed anything else.

  “Thank you, no,” I said. “Are they still downstairs?”

  “No, Mrs. Fletcher. They left immediately.”

  “Good. Mr. Buckley hasn’t called, has he?”

  “No.”

  “Well, maybe this all will simply go away.” I managed a smile. “Thank you for everything, Mr. Scott.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He looked at my portfolio as he left.

  The phone rang. It was Vaughan Buckley.

  “Hello, Vaughan,” I said.

  “What in the world is going on?” he asked.

  “About what happened this morning? You’ve heard?”

  “Yes. Well, I really don’t know the details but—I just got a call from the editor of Dan’s Papers.”

  “What is Dan’s Papers?” I asked.

  “The Hamptons’ leading newspaper. Been around for, must be, thirty years. Keeps tabs on all the celebrity comings-and-goings.”

  “Why did he call you?”

  “To see if I could persuade you to give them an interview. They know me pretty well, know I publish your books. What were you doing in an art class sketching nudes?”

  “I started taking up art a few years ago and—it doesn’t matter. What did you tell them?”

  “I said I couldn’t speak for you. He mentioned something about a sketch of yours they intend to run.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “A sketch of a naked man?”

  “Yes. Vaughan, I think it might be best if I cut short my vacation and headed back to Cabot Cove.”

  “Not on your life, Jess. Did you give them permission to publish the sketch?”

  “
Of course not. Someone in the class stole it from my portfolio and sold it to them. I think I’ll sue.”

  “Was it good?”

  “Was what good?”

  “The sketch.”

  “No. Vaughan, maybe we should get together. Now.”

  “Sure. Olga took Sadie and Rose to be groomed. I can be there in—”

  “Maybe we’d better meet somewhere else.”

  “Yes, of course. I’d say the house, but there are workmen everywhere. The Grand Café. Ask Joe Scott to call you a cab. They all know where it is. A half hour?”

  “Sure.”

  The Grand Café was bustling when I arrived. Vaughan, dressed in jeans, loafers sans socks, and a white lightweight V-neck tennis sweater, was waiting for me on the sidewalk. “I got us an outside table,” he said. “More privacy.”

  We walked through the silver and plum art deco interior to the outside dining area, which was as crowded as inside had been. Once seated, Vaughan ordered coffee and orange juice for us: “Hungry?” he asked.

  “No,” I replied abruptly.

  “I am.” He ordered a frittata omelet for himself.

  “I changed my mind,” I said. “One of the muffins would be nice.”

  “Blueberry?”

  “That will be fine.”

  “So, Jessica, tell me all about it.”

  “About the young model’s death? All I know is that one minute she was alive and posing for us, the next minute she was dead.”

  “No idea how it happened?”

  I shrugged, and offered my hands palms up. “Heart attack? Stroke?”

  “At that age?”

  “I know. Unlikely. But what else could it be?”

  Vaughan leaned closer. “Jess, tell me about you taking up art.”

  “Not much to tell. I decided that—”

  “Research for your next book? Stolen art? International art theft ring? It’s a hot topic these days.”

  “No, Vaughan, nothing like that. I simply wanted to learn how to paint. To sketch. To create something beautiful on paper.”

  “You do that with your books.”

  “This is different.”

  “I know. I’m not being difficult, Jess. It’s just that you’ve kept this secret passion under wraps for so long. Why? I think it’s wonderful that you decided to pursue another creative outlet.”

  “Silly, I suppose, but that’s the way I wanted it to be. Until I had something worthwhile to show people.”

  “I understand. Are you serious about suing Dan’s Papers if they run your sketch?”

  “Probably not. I’m not the litigious type.”

  ‘“They’ll play it up big.”

  “Not bigger than the death of the young woman, I hope. Did you or Olga know her? Her name is—was—Miki Dorsey.”

  “No.”

  “I just thought you might have run across her through your connections here in the art world.”

  “Afraid not.”

  “I’d like to learn more about her.”

  “I thought you wanted to go home.”

  “I do. But I don’t think I’ll rest if I didn’t have, at least, some inkling of who she was and why she died. I felt as though I knew her. She was a smoker, and I thought that if I were her mother, I’d get her to give up the habit.”

  His smile was warm and genuine. He placed his hand on my arm and said, “So typical of you, Jessica. So caring.”

  “Maybe curious is more accurate.”

  “Whatever. Want me to make some inquiries about her?”

  “Sure. I suppose the newspaper will have some details of her life.”

  “Undoubtedly. Unless she was one of thousands of young people who congregate out here in the summer, sharing group houses, taking odd jobs to pay the rent. A nude model? I suppose it pays well.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  The muffin was delicious. Vaughan drove me back to Scott’s Inn in his Mercedes. The reporter, Jo Ann Forbes, and her photographer, Jim Bellis, were waiting on the front porch. “I’ll handle it,” Vaughan said, walking in front of me.

  “Hi, Mrs. Fletcher,” Jo Ann said to me over his shoulder.

  I didn’t return the greeting.

  “Please leave Mrs. Fletcher alone,” Vaughan said. To Bellis: “And stop taking pictures!”

  “Just a brief interview?” Ms. Forbes said.

  “Maybe another time,” said Vaughan, leading me up to the porch and through the front door.

  “They stole your nude sketch,” Forbes said from behind us.

  I stopped and turned. “I am well aware of that,” I said.

  “No, not from you,” she said, closing the gap between us. “From the newspaper office.”

  “Who stole it?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Fletcher, but it’s disappeared. The publisher, my boss, Dan, who owns the paper, blew his stack at the editor who bought the sketch. Said it belonged to you, and that he wasn’t about to violate your rights by publishing it.”

  I drew a breath and smiled. “Please thank your boss for his sensitivity and ethics. You say it’s now missing.”

  “Yes. We had a reception this morning for a gallery owner who’s opening up a branch of his Manhattan gallery in town. Fifty, sixty people milling around. I don’t know where the sketch was, but it’s gone. Vanished.”

  “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.”

  Chapter Six

  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.