“Powerful,” he said. “A bold statement.”
“Like your current favorite artist, Josh Leopold,” said Vaughan.
“It is not a Leopold,” Muller said. “Yet—where did you get this?”
“An estate auction last weekend,” Olga replied.
“Here? In the Hamptons?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Just a few miles from here.”
Muller frowned. He turned to Vaughan and said, “I would like a few days with this painting.”
“Oh?”
“To examine it. It has—well, you know it is of a style and school in which I have a special interest. Just a few days at my leisure. Ya?”
Olga and Vaughan looked at each other, then said in unison, “Ya.”
The party broke up shortly after that. Vaughan offered to drive me and Jo Ann Forbes home, but another couple, he an investment banker, she a fashion designer, insisted they were passing Scott’s Inn anyway and would be pleased to provide transportation. Vaughan called a cab for Hans Muller, who left cradling the painting in his arms.
“It was wonderful having you,” Olga said to me. “And you, too, Ms. Forbes.”
“It was gracious of you allowing me to invite myself,” Jo Ann said. “I had a wonderful time. And I kept my promise. No notebooks, no tape recorders.”
Olga laughed. “It wouldn’t have mattered. Nothing newsworthy here tonight, just good friends enjoying themselves.”
“And a mini-education in art,” Forbes said. “Again, Mrs. Buckley, thank you. It was a great evening.”
The couple who drove us back offered to take Jo Ann to where she lived, but she insisted upon getting out of the car with me. When they drove off, she asked, “A nightcap, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Afraid not. This lady is ready for bed.”
“I understand. Did you find Mr. Muller’s behavior strange after he saw that painting, the one he took with him?”
“No. You did?”
“I guess not. It’s just that ever since Miki Dorsey died, I find myself suspicious of anyone with an interest in art.”
“I suggest you get over that,” I said pleasantly. “If you don’t, you include the Buckleys and me in that perception.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” she said defensively.
“Of course you didn’t. And to be honest, I share a little of that—may I call it paranoia?”
She giggled. “Call it anything you want. Can I call you tomorrow?”
“Sure. How far do you live from here?”
“Not far. By the water. A short walk. Not far from Mr. Muller’s beachfront cottage. Good night, Mrs. Fletcher. Jessica.”
“Good night, Jo Ann. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
It wasn’t until I was in my suite that I wondered why she knew where Hans Muller lived. Probably because she’s a reporter, curious about everyone and everything, I decided.
But she was right. Muller’s intense interest in that particular painting did seen unusual. Then again, everyone involved in the world of art seemed—well, a little strange. Including Hans Muller.
Chapter Fourteen
The ringing phone jarred me awake. I fumbled for the small travel alarm I’d placed on the table next to the bed, and held it up to catch moonlight pouring through the windows. Four o’clock.
In the morning!
It kept ringing. I picked up the receiver and mumbled, “Hello?”
“Mrs. Fletcher.”
The German accent came through loud and clear.
“Mr. Muller?”
“Ya. I woke you.”
I almost laughed. “Of course you woke me. It’s four in the morning.”
“Ya. I am sorry, Mrs. Fletcher. But a terrible thing has happened. I didn’t know who else to call. Your number was the first that came to me.”
My bad luck, I wanted to say. Instead, I said, “What has happened that is so terrible?”
“Your Ms. Forbes.”
“My Ms. Forbes?”
“The reporter.”
“I know who you’re talking about, Mr. Muller. What about her?”
“She—is—dead!”
I snapped on the bedside lamp and sat up straight. I heard Muller breathing heavily on the other end of the line. Was he crying?
“Mr. Muller, please get a hold of yourself. You say Ms. Forbes is dead? How do you know that?”
“Because she is here.”
“There? With you?”
“Ya. At my house.”
“How? Why? What happened?”
“I don’t know. I arrived here a few minutes ago and found her. In my bedroom. Dead! She is dead!”
“My God,” I muttered to no one in particular. It then occurred to me that it was four A.M. Muller left the Buckleys when I did, at about eleven-thirty. Why was he just now arriving home? I asked.
“Please, Mrs. Fletcher. I will explain everything when you come.”
“You expect me to come now? Have you called the police?”
“No. I don’t know what to do. I am a stranger here. You have dealt with such things before. Please. Bitte. Come now.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and shook my head to dislodge the last remaining cobwebs of sleep. “All right. Where do you live?”
He gave me the address.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. In the meantime, do not—I repeat—do not touch anything. Do you understand?”
“Ya. I will touch nothing.”
I threw on some clothes and started downstairs on tiptoe. I didn’t want to wake any other guests. I remembered that a list of taxi service numbers was posted on the wall next to Mr. Scott’s desk.
But as I descended the stairs, I realized that someone had to have put through the call to my room. There was no direct dial at Scott’s Inn. I was right. Mr. Scott, wearing a bathrobe and slippers, was at the desk.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Scott,” I said.
“He said it was an emergency. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have put the call through.”
“I understand.”
“Is everything all right?”
“No. Well, it probably is, probably just a mistake. But I have to respond. Are any taxis working this hour?”
“Two run all-night service. Want me to call one?”
“Please.”
A minute later, a cab pulled up in front of the inn. “Again, Mr. Scott, I’m sorry you had to be awakened at this ungodly hour.”
He smiled; bless him. “Goes with the business, Mrs. Fletcher. You never know what’s going to happen when you run an inn.”
The driver was a pleasant older man who immediately asked why I was heading for the beach at this hour.
“A friend is sick,” I replied.
“Sorry to hear that. Need a doctor?”
“I don’t think so, but thanks for suggesting it.”
I’d forgotten how dose Scott’s Inn was to the shore. We arrived at the narrow street leading down to the water in five minutes. Muller’s cottage was at the end of the street, the one closest to the coast. A yellow light glowed on a small porch, and lights inside could be seen through the windows. I strained to see a sign of Muller through the fog, but saw nothing. The only thing of which I was aware was the sound of waves hitting against the shore.
“Maybe I should wait until you check on your friend,” the driver said.
“No, that’s not necessary. On the other hand—”
“Go on in, ma’am. I’ll be here until you give me the okay sign.”
“Fine. Let me pay you.” I handed him the fare, opened the door, and approached the cottage, stopping once to look back at the driver. He waved. I returned the wave. A nice man.
I slowly ascended the three steps to the porch and went to a window. Through it I could see a source of illumination, a table lamp that cast a weak pool of light over what appeared to be a living room. I stepped closer and tried to take in the entire room. I saw no one.
I knocked on a screen door. When there was
no response, I tried again, harder this time. I heard footsteps, heavy ones, and then the inner door opened.
“Here I am, Mr. Muller.”
“Ya. Ya. Danke. Thank you for coming, Mrs. Fletcher.”
I looked back to where my cabdriver waited. He’d turned on the vehicle’s interior light; I could see him straining to see what was happening at the cottage door.
“Come in, come in, bitte.”
“Where is Ms. Forbes?” I asked.
“In the bedroom, as I told you.” He looked past me to the taxi. “Who is that?”
“A cabdriver. He drove me here.”
“Tell him to go away.”
“Why?”
“Please.” Muller pushed past me and went to the edge of the porch. “Go away!” he shouted at the driver.
I came up behind him and touched his broad back. He wore the same white shirt he’d worn at the dinner party. It was wet with his perspiration. “Mr. Muller, take me to Ms. Forbes,” I said coldly and flatly.
The cabdriver started to get out of his car, but I said, “Everything is all right. You can go. Thank you for staying.”
“You sure, lady?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Muller and I watched the driver make a U-turn and drive away. Muller turned to me. “Come on,” I said. “I didn’t come here at four in the morning to admire the ocean.”
I followed Muller inside, where we stood in the center of the cramped living room. He took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, and pointed to an open door.
I went to the door, which led to the cottage’s only bedroom. It was dark. I ran my hand over the wall just inside in search of a light switch. There wasn’t one. I turned to Muller. “Where’s the light in here?”
I stepped aside to allow him to enter the room. He went to the bed, reached above the headboard, and turned on a twin wall light with tulip-shaped clear-glass shades. I took in the room.
“Where is she?” I asked.
“There. Behind the bed.”
I tentatively skirted the unmade double bed and peered over it. There, between the bed and the wall, was Jo Ann Forbes. She was on her back. Her eyes were wide open. So was her pretty mouth. One hand was on her chest, the other on the floor at her side.
I leaned closer. The lamp provided minimal light, but enough to allow me to see that there was blood on one side of her face, her left cheek, and up into her hairline.
I stepped back and sighed. Muller stood in the doorway. I turned to him. “You found her exactly the way she is?” I asked.
“Ya. Just like she is.”
“You didn’t touch her?”
“No. No, not true. I picked up her hand to see if there was a pulse.”
“You did?”
“Yes. The hand on her chest. I put it there.”
“What else did you touch, Mr. Muller?”
“Nothing.”
“She had nothing in her hands?”
He paused, too long for comfort.
“Mr. Muller?”
“No. Nothing. In her hands.”
I went to the living room. “Where’s the phone?” I asked.
“In the kitchen.”
The kitchen was a Pullman type, very small and with a mini-refrigerator, two-burner stove, and a microwave unit. It struck me as I entered it that the cottage was remarkably spartan for a man I assumed was a wealthy art dealer and collector. I would have expected him to rent more lavish quarters while in the Hamptons.
The white wall phone was over the short, narrow countertop. I picked up the receiver and dialed 911. A woman answered on the first ring. No surprise. How many 911 calls would be made at this hour in a resort area like the Hamptons?
“My name is Jessica Fletcher. I’m calling to report a death.”
“Jessica Fletcher. The mystery writer?”
“That’s right.”
“Where are you?” the 911 operator asked.
I gave her Muller’s address.
“Please stay right there, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve dispatched someone.”
“I will. Thank you.”
The police arrived minutes later, two marked cars, each carrying two uniformed officers. They came through the door, flashlights blazing, and followed the direction in which I pointed.
“One deceased female, Caucasian,” I heard one say.
Another officer spoke into a handheld portable phone: “We need detectives, lab technicians, the chief. We have a possible homicide.”
More cars arrived. Soon, there were six of them blocking the street. Their flashing lights and wailing sirens had awakened other residents, who stood outside their homes wearing robes and pajamas, their attention focused on the cottage behind yellow crime-scene tape that had been draped.
Inside Muller’s cottage, the police forensic unit was hard at work in the bedroom. Hans Muller sat in a comer of the living room with two detectives. Another detective was with me in the kitchen.
“Tell us again how you came to be here, Mrs. Fletcher,” the detective, whose name was Paul Kelley, asked. He was middle-aged, and wore a tan windbreaker over a maroon turtleneck. He had a youthful face and a warm smile.
I repeated everything I’d previously told him-about having been at a dinner party earlier with Jo Ann Forbes, our ride to Scott’s Inn together, her decision to walk home, and the call at four a.m. from Hans Muller, informing me that Jo Ann was dead.
“What is your relationship with Mr. Muller?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t have one really. I’ve met him a few times at dinner since arriving in the Hamptons. That about sums it up. I was with him at my publisher’s house last night, and we were going to have dinner together tonight.”
I wished I hadn’t mentioned the latter. It had no bearing on Jo Ann Forbes’s death. All it did was cause Detective Kelley to raise his eyebrows and say, “Sounds to me, Mrs. Fletcher, that your relationship with him, Mr. Muller, was—how shall I say? Growing?”
“Not at all.”
“Did Ms. Forbes and Mr. Muller have a relationship?”
“No. I mean, not that I know of.”
“You said she elected to walk home last night, and said she lived near here. Near where Muller lives.”
“That’s right.”
“Looks like she walked here, rather than to where she lived.”
“It would seem that way.”
“Any ideas why she came here?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Well, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m sorry you had to be involved. Must have been a shock seeing this young woman only hours after she’d been alive and having a good time at a dinner party.”
“The shock was pretty much over once Mr. Muller made his call. Still—”
“Yeah, I know. Still—A ride back to Scott’s Inn?”
“I’d appreciate that very much. What about Mr. Muller?”
“What about him?”
“I assume he’s a suspect.”
“Sure. We’ll have a lot more questions for him. In the meantime, thanks for your help. How long will you be in the Hamptons?”
“I’d planned on another week.”
“Good. There’ll probably be loose ends I’ll want to follow up on with you.”
“Anytime. By the way, Detective Kelley, do you know what funeral plans have been made for Miki Dorsey, the young model who died?”
“No, but I can find out. I’ll call you.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“That’s right. You were there when she died—”
I smiled. “You can say it. When she died, too.”
“Lousy coincidence for you.”
“Yes. Lousy coincidence.”
I intended to say good-bye to Hans Muller, but he was in the midst of his questioning by the two other detectives. He’d call, I knew. In the meantime I felt a desperate need for something to eat, and to get some sleep. I was dropped at the inn by a uniformed officer in one of the marked cars. Mr. Scott was sweeping
the front porch when we arrived. He put down his broom and hurried down the path to where I was exiting the car.
“Mrs. Fletcher. Are you all right?”
“Fine, thank you, Mr. Scott. This officer was kind enough to give me a lift.”
“How is your sick friend?”
I couldn’t meet his eyes. “Not well,” I said.
“Anything else, Mrs. Fletcher?” the officer asked.
“No. You’ve been very kind. I’ll be fine.”
Mr. Scott brought toast and tea to my room. Once I’d satisfied my gnawing hunger, I took a shower, got into fresh pajamas, climbed into bed, pulled the covers up under my chin, and tried to sleep away the memory of seeing Jo Ann Forbes dead on the floor of Hans Muller’s bedroom. Detective Kelley had told me it appeared she’d been killed by a blow to the side of her head from a blunt object. An ambulance from a local hospital had arrived to take away her body as I was leaving. Another young death. Another autopsy.
I gave up any thoughts of sleeping. This vacationing writer of murder mysteries was undoubtedly in for a busy day, once the press learned I’d been close, yet again, to another death.
The only difference was that unlike Miki Dorsey, and the artist, Joshua Leopold, there was no debate about how Jo Ann Forbes had died. She’d been murdered, pure and simple.
And although I didn’t have anything tangible to link those three deaths, I was certain there was a connection between them.
All I had to do was prove it.
Chapter Fifteen
Vaughan Buckley called:
“What in the world is going on, Jessica?” he asked the minute I picked up the phone.
“You’ve heard about Ms. Forbes.”
“Of course I have. Hans Muller called to tell me. You were there?”
“Yes. Not when she was killed. Muller called me and—it doesn’t matter. It’s horrible.”
“Hans says the police are treating him as though he’s a suspect.”
“That’s reasonable. She was found in his house. He says he found her. Did he say why he took so long to get home, Vaughan? He left your house at eleven-thirty. He didn’t arrive at his cottage until four. Where was he?”
“He didn’t mention that. How were you treated?”
“Fine. The detective who interviewed me was a perfect gentleman.”
“I’m glad to hear that. What are you doing today?”
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