But we didn’t leave in time. I was spotted by reporters, and they descended upon me. Their pent-up frustration at not having anything to ask the coroner was taken out on me.
“How’s your new art career going?”
“Any word on your missing sketch of the naked male model?”
“You visited Miki Dorsey’s home. Are you investigating this as a possible murder?”
I tried to answer them as succinctly as possible, but each time I did, it prompted follow-up questions.
Vaughan tried to buffer me from them, gently leading me in the direction of his car. The reporters, including Jo Ann Forbes, followed, questions still coming.
“Look,” Vaughan said when we reached the car, his hands held up in a gesture that said halt. “You’re making mountains out of proverbial molehills. Mrs. Fletcher is here in the Hamptons enjoying a much-needed vacation. That she happened to be present when Ms. Dorsey died doesn’t mean she thinks anything untoward occurred. She’s heard the autopsy report just as you have. The case is closed. A tragic, premature natural death of a young woman. Now, please allow her to get on with her vacation.”
“But why did you visit Miki Dorsey’s home?” I was asked.
“I—”
“She went to pay her respects. Ms. Dorsey’s father was there, as were her friends.” He opened the door, and I got in. Vaughan came around and got behind the wheel.
As he started the car, a rear door opened and Jo Ann Forbes slid onto the seat. “Hi,” she said. “You promised we would work together, Mrs. Fletcher. Mind if I tag along?”
Vaughan started to protest, but I said, “It’s all right, Vaughan. I did promise Ms. Forbes that we’d—well, exchange information. I don’t mind if she comes with us. She’s promised to help find my missing sketch.”
Vaughan sighed. “If you say so, Jess. Where to?”
“Scott’s Inn. I have some calls to make.”
When we arrived, Vaughan said, “Olga and I wondered if you’d like to come to the house for dinner tonight. The workmen have pretty much finished up in the dining room and kitchen, at least to the extent we can use those rooms. Lots of decorating to do, but—”
“I’d love it,” I said.
“Just a small, intimate party. A dozen or so.”
“I’m free for dinner tonight,” Jo Ann said cheerily.
Vaughan and I looked at each other.
“I’d love to do a story on the famous publisher, Vaughan Buckley and his wife, the former famous model. You’re distinguished members of our summer community.”
“I really don’t think that’s what I want,” Vaughan said. “We come to the Hamptons to get away from people like—”
“People like me?” Jo Ann said, her voice never losing its pleasant tone.
“I didn’t mean anything derogatory,” said Vaughan.
“And I didn’t take it that way.”
I smiled. So did Vaughan. “Sure, come along,” he said. “There’s always another place at our table.”
“Terrific,” Jo Ann said. “Formal or informal?”
Now Vaughan laughed. “Distinctly informal, Ms. Forbes. And that means no pad and pencil.”
“On my word.”
Ms. Forbes followed me into Scott’s Inn. We stopped in the entrance hall, and she peeked into adjacent common rooms. “Wow, this is beautiful,” she said. “I’ve never been here before.”
“It’s very comfortable,” I said.
Mr. Scott emerged from the dining room. “Some more calls for you, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, handing me the message slips.
“Thank you,” I said. I introduced Jo Ann to him.
“You’re from the newspaper,” Scott said.
“Don’t hold that against me,” she said, extending her hand. My fondness for her was growing; she had a spirit that matched her pretty young face and figure.
Scott looked at me with a quizzical expression: Want me to get her out of here? it said.
“Ms. Forbes will be spending some time with me, Mr. Scott. She’s become a friend.”
“You should be flattered, Ms. Forbes.”
“Oh, I am, believe me,” she said.
“Come on,” I said. “I’ll show you where I hang out. It’s a lovely suite.”
As we started toward the stairs, Scott said, “Thank you again, Mrs. Fletcher, for signing all your books for me. I enjoyed what you wrote.”
Jo Ann stopped and turned to me. “You signed all your books for him?”
“Yes. He has just about every one.”
She pulled out her reporter’s notepad and started writing.
“Hardly worth noting,” I said.
“I think it is.”
The maid had been to the suite. A platter of fresh fruit and a bottle of champagne were on the small desk in the corner.
“This is beautiful,” Forbes said. She looked out the window to the English garden. “Nice view.”
“Yes. Very nice. Now, Ms. Forbes, let’s spend a few minutes talking. Any leads on my missing sketch?”
She looked left and right, as though to see whether there might be someone listening to our conversation. “Yes,” she said.
“I’m listening.”
“Because of the article I wrote about you and Miki Dorsey’s death, I received a call this morning at the paper. A woman. She said she knew where the sketch was, and could arrange for you to get it back, through me.”
“Through you?”
“Yes.”
“Did she tell you where it was?”
“No. She’s calling me again tomorrow, after I’ve had a chance to speak with you.”
“What’s to speak about?” I asked. “Of course I’d like it back.”
“It’s still for sale,” she said.
“And I said I would not pay a thousand dollars to get back what already belongs to me.”
“Two thousand.”
“Pardon?”
“The woman said it’s for sale for two thousand dollars.”
“That’s outrageous! Absurd!”
Jo Ann shrugged. “I’m just passing on what I was told by the caller.”
I said nothing.
“What should I tell her when she calls back?” Forbes asked.
“Tell her to return the sketch. No pay. No money. It rightfully belongs to me.”
“That’s what I’ll say.”
“Good.”
“Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes?”
“Your turn.”
“My turn for what?”
“Your turn to tell me something new.”
“Oh. That’s right. We had a deal.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have anything to share with you.”
“I don’t think that’s true, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Call me Jessica.”
“You went to Miki Dorsey’s home last night.”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“You heard Vaughan Buckley. I went to—”
Her cocked head and wry smile said she wasn’t about to believe what I was poised to say.
I recounted for her my bumping into Chris Turi at the pizza parlor—I still hadn’t returned to pay for the slice I didn’t eat—and accompanying him to the house Miki Dorsey shared with Turi and others. She took notes as I spoke. When I was finished, she looked up from her notepad and said, “I tried to interview Miki’s father this morning. He refused.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Surely, you can’t find that to be a surprise,” I said. “I have a personal distaste for the press interviewing grieving family members, asking for their reaction to the untimely death of a loved one.”
“I agree, Jessica,” she said. “But I wasn’t going to ask that sort of dumb question. I wanted to know about a rumor that Miki Dorsey had an original Joshua Leopold painting, and that it disappeared the morning of her death.”
I’d been looking out over the garden. I slowly turned and stared at this yo
ung reporter. “I hadn’t heard that,” I said.
“Just a rumor.”
“Where did you hear it?”
“Another reporter at Dan’s Papers. He covers the arts scene out here.”
“Strange,” I said.
“What is?”
“That she would have something as valuable as a Leopold. You told me that she had to struggle to make ends meet.”
“Her father might have given it to her.”
“But he didn’t help his daughter financially. So how would she come into possession of a work by an expensive artist? Who, by the way, also died at a young age, ostensibly of a heart attack.”
“I remember when Leopold died. She might have gotten the painting before his value shot up. Happens all the time with artists. They become worth more dead than alive.”
“Some writers, too.”
“I suppose so.”
“Jo Ann, was Joshua Leopold’s death as sudden as Miki’s? I mean, was there the same sort of shock when it happened?”
She screwed up her face in thought. “Yes, I suppose so, although it was very different.”
“How so?”
“There wasn’t the world’s most famous mystery writer present when it happened.”
I smiled. “But it happened the same way. Alive one minute, dead the next.”
“That’s right.”
“How and where did he die?”
“Let me see. He died in his studio as I recall. That’s right. He was in the process of finishing a canvas when it happened. Fell into the canvas and to the floor. I remember the photograph.”
“I see. Do you know, Jo Ann, whether Miki Dorsey and Joshua Leopold knew each other?”
She shrugged.
“Would you mind if I asked you to scoot along, Jo Ann? I could use a few hours alone.”
“Sure. Thanks for having me to your room. I love it.”
“So do I.”
She looked at my large black leather portfolio. “Your artwork, Jessica?”
“Yes.”
“Could I see?”
“Absolutely not. You run along. Give me a call about five. I’ll know by then what time we’re going to the Buckleys.”
She left, and I glanced at the message slips Mr. Scott had given me. They could wait. I dialed the number for Seth Hazlitt, Cabot Cove’s leading physician and one of my closest and dearest friends. He answered on the first ring.
“Seth, it’s Jess. How are you?”
“Fair to middlin’. There’s a bug goin’ around that’s got half the yow-uns laid up. You?”
“Fine. Sorry to hear so many kids are sick.”
“So’s their parents. How’s the vacation goin’?”
“Just fine. Seth, they just released the autopsy report on that young model who died in the figure-sketching class I was taking.”
“Ayuh. What was it?”
“The coroner says it was a heart attack.”
“Sounds right to me.”
“Seth, what else could cause death that would seem like a heart attack, but isn’t?”
“Nothin’ I can think of, Jessica. A fatal heart attack leaves a pretty specific set of circumstances for a coroner to see.”
“Nothing?”
“Nope. Well, there are some substances that can cause the heart to stop. A coroner who’s not too meticulous might miss it, see only the result, not the cause.”
“What substances?”
“Can’t tell you offhand. Sort of things you read about with spies. Exotic poisons. Nothin’ for you to be thinkin’ about, unless you intend to do a spy book next.”
“Not a bad idea. How can I follow up on what you’ve just said?”
“Call the CIA. They’ll be glad to show you around; maybe even demonstrate how they can kill somebody and make it look like a heart attack.”
“You’re being facetious, Seth.”
“Ayuh, that I am. Anything else I can do for you, Jessica? I got a waitin’ room full a’ yow-uns out there wantin’ Doc Hazlitt to give ‘em the magic pill that’ll make ’em better.”
“Then you get to them, Seth. Thanks. I’ll call again.”
“Make sure you do that.”
I no sooner hung up when I heard a cough just outside my door. I quickly opened it. Jo Ann Forbes was just about to head down the stairs. She smiled weakly. “I was just—admiring these paintings on the hall wall.”
“Oh. They are pretty.”
“I’ll call later, Jessica.” With that, she went down the stairs two at a time.
I closed my door, stood in the middle of the room, and pursed my lips. It seemed I’d better be on my toes where the charming Ms. Jo Ann Forbes was concerned. She may be pleasant, but she was also a reporter, and an ambitious one at that.
Admiring the paintings in the hall, indeed.
Chapter Eleven
I checked my watch. Three o’clock. That made it nine in the evening in Europe.
I pulled out a small address book I always carry with me, found George Sutherland’s home number in London, and dialed it.
George Sutherland is a senior inspector with Scotland Yard. I met him years ago when I was in London to address a mystery writers’ convention. While there, I stayed with a friend, Marjorie Ainsworth, then the grande dame of murder mystery writers. While a guest in her mansion in the tiny town of Crumpsworth, someone drove a knife into her as she slept, and I found myself not only giving a speech, but helping solve her murder. That’s how I met George. He was called into the case, and we became friendly.
Just so there isn’t any misunderstanding—there has been with my two best Cabot Cove friends: Dr. Seth Hazlitt and our sheriff, Morton Metzger—George and I have never been romantically involved. I’ll be honest. I find him to be the most handsome and charming man I’ve met since the death of my husband many years ago. And yes, my thoughts sometimes stray to romance. But that’s as far as it’s ever gone. We keep in touch by letter and the occasional phone call, and ended up together for a week in San Francisco, where I was promoting one of my books, and he was attending an FBI conference on forensic investigation techniques. That week turned into a repeat of my London adventure—I helped solve a murder, which freed a woman falsely convicted of the crime. I even wrote a book based upon the experience, Martinis & Mayhem.
“George?”
“Jessica. What a pleasant surprise.” I always smile when I hear George Sutherland’s voice. He’s Scottish by birth, born in Wick, Scotland, on the northernmost coast. His brogue delights me. “Where are you?” he asked. “London, I hope.”
“Afraid not, George. The Hamptons. On the eastern end of Long Island.”
“On a holiday? Or working as usual?”
“It started as a holiday.”
He laughed. “Don’t tell me. Someone has been murdered, and Jessica Fletcher is hot on the trail.”
“Something like that,” I said, joining his laughter. “George, I thought you might have some knowledge that would be helpful to me.”
“I hope you’re right, Jessica. What do you need?”
“I need to know about poisons that can kill a person, but make it look like a heart attack, even to a trained coroner.”
There was silence on the other end.
“George?”
“Yes, I’m here, Jessica. Why do you want to know this?”
“George, I’m not intending to use such a substance, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Never entered my mind.”
“I would hope not.”
I explained the circumstances of Miki Dorsey’s death, and mentioned that Joshua Leopold had died the same way.
“And you think their deaths might not have been natural.”
“I don’t know what to think. But I am curious.” I told him what Seth Hazlitt had told me.
“And how is your Dr. Hazlitt?”
“Just fine. Busy, as usual. Do you know of any such substances, George?”
“Not offhand, but there
are those I can ask. Which I will do first thing in the morning.”
“I appreciate it.”
“I always enjoy doing you a favor, Jess, because then you owe me one.”
“Just ask.”
“Come visit me here in London. Better yet, spend that week with me in Wick we’ve talked about for too long.”
“I still intend to do that, George. Maybe later this year.”
“Set a stoot hert to a stey brae.”
“What?”
“The harder the task, the more determination is needed. An old Scottish expression. My father, rest his soul, was fond of it. More determination is needed to get Jessica Fletcher to visit me in my Wick homestead. A castle, actually. Lovely views.”
“So you’ve said. Call you tomorrow night?”
“Unless I call you first. Where are you staying in the Hamptons?”
I gave him the Scott’s Inn phone number. “Oh, one other thing, George.”
“Yes?”
“Could you—would you also check on a gentleman living in London? His name is Blaine Dorsey.”
“American?”
“Yes.”
“What’s he do for a living?”
“He’s involved in the art world in some capacity.”
“Oh, that Dorsey.”
“You know him?”
“Know of him. A bit of a rogue, Mr. Blaine Dorsey is. Lots of speculation about him and the way he does business. He’s been under investigation for quite a while.”
“Really? What’s he suspected of?”
“Art theft. No, I take that back. More of a fence for stolen art. A middleman.”
“I see. He’s never been arrested?”
“Not as far as I know, but I can check on that, too.”
“Thanks, George.”
“We’ll talk,” he said. “Pleasant dreams.”
“It’s only the afternoon here.”
“Of course. Well, wish me pleasant dreams. It’s been a long, hard day.”
“Pleasant dreams, George. Guideen nicht.”
A loud laugh. “Nicely done, Jessica. I’ll make a Scot of you yet. And good night to you, too.”
Chapter Twelve
My next call was to Anne Harris. I’d promised to get in touch again, although I wasn’t calling because of that promise. I wanted to talk with her, hopefully to shed some light on what I’d just learned from Jo Ann Forbes, that Miki Dorsey owned an original Joshua Leopold painting, and that it disappeared the day of her death. I also wanted to learn what I could about Miki’s relationship with her art-dealing father—or, if George Sutherland was correct, her shady art-dealing father.
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