A Palette for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I haven’t decided. I’d like to find out about Jo Ann’s family. Another young life snuffed out.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Not that I can think of. But if I come up with something, I’ll certainly ask.”

  “Fair enough. Jess, Ms. Forbes’s murder—and we know this one is murder—changes things. There’s a murderer out there. And that means anyone close to these events is in potential danger.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Did you hear me, Jess?”

  “Yes, I heard you. And you’re right. A little caution is in order from now on.”

  “Glad to hear it from you. Keep in touch.”

  Hans Muller called:

  “Mrs. Fletcher, how are you?”

  “All right, considering what’s occurred. You?”

  “Terrible. They question me as though I killed Ms. Forbes.”

  “Mr. Muller, did the detectives ask you where you’d been between the time you left the Buckleys’ house, and when you arrived at your cottage?”

  “Ya. They did.”

  “I’m curious about that, too, Mr. Muller.”

  It sounded again as though he were about to cry.

  “Mr. Muller. Where were you?”

  “I stopped to see a friend.”

  “Oh? Who was that?”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, why are you asking me such things? I answered questions by the police.”

  “Because I had become friends with Ms. Forbes. And now she’s dead. Murdered. In your house. I think I have every right to ask you that question.”

  I could almost hear him stiffen. He said, “I am surprised at you, Mrs. Fletcher, surprised, and offended at your—your—”

  “I don’t wish to offend, Mr. Muller, but receiving your call and seeing Jo Ann Forbes’s body has been extremely upsetting, as anyone would understand.”

  “I suppose—”

  “Where were you?”

  “Perhaps we can discuss it at dinner. That is, if the police do not lead me away in handcuffs.”

  “Whether they do or not, Mr. Muller, I don’t think I’m in the mood for dinner.”

  “As you wish. You’re a lovely woman, Mrs. Fletcher. And rude. Guten tag.”

  “Good day to you, too, sir.”

  The chief of police called:

  “Mrs. Fletcher, this is Police Chief Cramer.”

  “Hello, Chief Cramer.”

  “I was wondering whether you’d be good enough to come to headquarters. Detective Kelley said you were extremely cooperative and helpful. I have some other questions that you might be able to answer.”

  “I’ll be happy to help in any way I can. When do you want me there?”

  “Say an hour?”

  “That’s fine.” He told me where police headquarters was located, and we concluded the brief conversation.

  The press, local and national, called.

  Dr. Seth Hazlitt, my physician friend back in Cabot Cove, who’d heard on the radio that I’d been “involved” in yet another death in the Hamptons, weighed in.

  “Here you go again, Jessica, pokin’ that pretty nose ‘a yours into murder.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way, Seth. Wrong place, wrong time, that’s all.”

  “I’ve heard that before. When are you comin’ home?”

  “As soon as my vacation is over.”

  He laughed. “As soon as you figure out who killed who, you mean.”

  “If that should happen, Seth, you’ll be the first to know. In Cabot Cove, that is. Have to run. Talk with you again soon.”

  Cabot Cove Sheriff Morton Metzger, another good friend, also called after hearing the same news report. “I just heard, Mrs. F., about what you’re gettin’ yourself into out there.”

  “I’m not ‘out there,’ Mort. I’m down here, in the Hamptons, on the end of Long Island.”

  “Wherever you are, doesn’t sound to me like you’re havin’ much of a vacation.”

  “Not true. I’m having a lovely time.”

  “Trippin’ over bodies isn’t my idea of a vacation.”

  “Mine, either. But I think I’ve seen the end of the bodies, Mort. It was good of you to call.”

  “Always thinkin’ about my favorite writer, Mrs. F. How’s the art lessons comin’?”

  “On hold until I get home. I’ll keep in touch. Love to everyone.”

  The next call was one I eagerly took. It was from Scotland Yard Inspector George Sutherland.

  “How are you, George?”

  “Splendid, Jess. You?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Oh? What’s happened?”

  I filled him in on the events of early that morning. He listened with his usual patience. When I finished the story, he said, “I don’t like you being there. The mysterious death of the model was one thing. Now a murderer has shown his hand. You’re too close to it, Jessica. I mean that.”

  “I know you do, George, and I appreciate your concern. What did you come up with on poisons that mock heart attacks?”

  He laughed. “I fear my words fell on deaf ears.”

  “Not at all. It’s just that if I can come up with some answers—at least enough to satisfy this lady’s insatiable curiosity—I’ll be able to enjoy what time I have left on this vacation. And go back home with a clear mind.”

  “I know you well enough, Jessica, to not waste too much time attempting to dissuade you. Ricin.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Ricin. A substance that fits your bill. One of the world’s most toxic substances. Ranks right up there with botulinus. Let me see. I made notes while talking with my source, who, by the way, is an expert in such matters. Ricin is isolated from castor oil beans. It was considered as a possible chemical warfare agent in World War Two. Thank God cooler heads prevailed. My friend tells me that one-millionth of a gram is enough to kill thousands of people. As many as fifty thousand.”

  “My goodness.”

  “Shocking, I’d say.”

  “What about it causing a medical examiner to think death might have resulted from natural causes? Say, a heart attack.”

  “Ricin is very hard to detect in a body, Jess, especially because it takes only such a tiny amount to kill. Most medical examiners miss it because they’re not even aware of its existence. They don’t look for such an exotic agent. It would take an especially keen examiner, one who would include ricin on his or her list of things to look for, to identify it as a possible cause of death.”

  “I see,” I said. “How is ricin administered?”

  “I asked that question, too. Evidently, it can be ingested, inhaled, or injected. A versatile murder weapon, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “You say this latest young person to die, this Ms. Forbes, was killed by a blow to the head. If something like ricin was used to kill the young model—Ms. Dorsey, is it?—it seems unlikely that the murderer would so dramatically shift modus operandi. In one case, he or she utilizes one of the most exotic substances known to man. In the next, brute force is used.”

  “I agree,” I said. “But maybe two different murderers are involved. George, how would someone not involved in clandestine government agencies get hold of something like ricin?”

  “Hard to say. But we all know how even the most protected of things, whether it’s poison or documents or anything else, often end up in unintended hands. Dangerous hands.”

  “Unfortunately, you’re right.”

  “What do you intend to do with the information I’ve given you, Jessica?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll think of something. Thanks so much, George, for taking the time to come up with this.”

  “More important, Jess, when will I see you again?”

  I smiled. He never failed to ask that, no matter what the genesis of our conversations.

  “Soon, I hope.” It was my usual stock answer when I didn’t have a better one.

  “Characteristically vague, as usual. B
ut I’ll pin you down, Jessica. I always get my man. Or in this case, woman.”

  “George, any further information you can give me on Blaine Dorsey?”

  “Not really. As I told you, he’s got a shady reputation in the London art world. Was a suspect in a murder a few years ago, never formally charged. Chatted with one of our art squad detectives about Dorsey. The claim was that this young artist was killed in order to boost the prices of his artwork.”

  “Good Lord, George. Someone would actually do that?”

  “Nothing surprises me anymore, Jess. Not in this world. Actually, it turned out that the artist was killed by someone to shut him up about a counterfeiting ring. Painting copies of valuable art.”

  “Amazing, what people will do for money. Well, thank you again, George, for your help. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Sooner, rather than later, I hope.”

  “Sooner. I promise.”

  I’d made notes of what George had said about this powerful poison, ricin. Reading them caused me to shudder, and to feel a sudden chill. What horrible things we human beings have invented to kill fellow human beings.

  Police Chief Cramer had said his office was within walking distance of Scott’s Inn. A knot of reporters milled about on the porch as I came through the door. They started shooting questions at me, but I waved them off with a smile and set out at a brisk pace, with them falling in behind. It was a lovely day, sunny and with a crispness in the air to which I always respond.

  They asked repeatedly where I was going. When I walked up the steps to police headquarters, they had their answer. I stopped before entering, turned, and said, “I know you’re doing your job, but—”

  “Except,” a young man interrupted, “Jo Ann Forbes was one of us. A journalist.”

  I had to nod. He was right. For them, there was more to her murder than there might have been under other circumstances.

  “Look,” I said, “I’m sorry about what happened to Jo Ann Forbes. She’d become my friend. I hated being called to go see her body at the cottage, and I’m determined to—”

  I hadn’t meant to publicly announce that I was interested in finding out who’d murdered Jo Ann, and perhaps link her death to Miki Dorsey’s and—and I knew this was a long shot—and maybe even find a connection to the death of Joshua Leopold, the young artist who, like Miki, had allegedly died of a premature heart attack.

  “You’re determined to what, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “To—to help the authorities in any way I can. Please excuse me. I have an appointment inside.”

  “With the police?”

  I entered the building and asked a uniformed woman at a desk for Chief Cramer.

  “Yes, Mrs. Fletcher. Down that hall. Last door on the right.”

  For some reason—I suppose it’s because I spend most of my life in a small Maine town called Cabot Cove—I expect the police of similar small towns to be, well, not especially military. Mort Metzger, Cabot Cove’s police chief, is a good-looking man who isn’t exactly what you’d call in shape.

  But Chief Cramer was straight out of a West Point recruitment flyer. Salt-and-pepper hair was closely cropped, almost a crew cut. He was slender, and wore his uniform, replete with medals, as though standing inspection at a military base. He smiled broadly, extended his hand, and said, “It’s a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher. Thanks for coming.”

  “It would never have occurred to me not to heed your call.”

  I sat across the desk from him. He leaned his elbows on it and said, “Tough night for you.”

  “Worse than that, I’m afraid.”

  “Detective Kelley filled me in on what you told him at Mr. Muller’s cottage. Frankly, what you said raised other questions for me.”

  “Such as?”

  “Why Muller called you.”

  “He told me it was my number that first came to his mind.”

  “He had your number?”

  “He knew I was staying at Scott’s Inn. We were to have dinner together tonight. He was to call to arrange a time and place.”

  “Okay. What do you know about Muller?”

  I shrugged. “Not much.” I explained my two brief meetings with him. “He called me this morning. He’s upset that he’s considered a suspect.”

  Cramer sat back and smiled. “What does he expect? A girl is found murdered in the bedroom of his cottage.”

  “Chief Cramer, did Mr. Muller explain where he’d been between the time he left the dinner party at the Buckleys, and arriving home at four in the morning?”

  “Sure.”

  “What did he say?”

  The chief consulted notes on his desk. “He said he was with a friend, Blaine Dorsey.”

  I sat up straight. “The father of the young model, Miki Dorsey, who died a few days ago.”

  “One and the same, Mrs. Fletcher. Muller said he stopped in to see Dorsey at his hotel.”

  “A late visit,” I said.

  “That’s right, only late nights aren’t unusual here in the Hamptons. Lots of late parties. The rich tend to stay up late and sleep late.”

  I smiled. “I’m afraid I’m not one of them.”

  “Me, either. I hear around town that you question how Miki Dorsey died.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not questioning it exactly, Chief Cramer. Did you know the artist, Joshua Leopold?”

  “Yes. He died, too, of—of a heart attack—at a very young age.”

  My eyebrows went up. “Raise any questions with you?”

  “No. But to be honest, I hadn’t thought of Leopold in connection with Ms. Dorsey’s death. You aren’t suggesting that both were killed, are you?”

  “Just asking, that’s all. Just playing the ’what if’ game.”

  Cramer smiled. “The mystery writer’s mind at work.”

  “Something like that. I was told Miki Dorsey owned an original Joshua Leopold painting, and that it disappeared from her room after she died.”

  “That’s news to me. The only missing art I’ve heard about is your sketch of the—”

  I completed his sentence: “Of the naked male model. Is finding it on your agenda?”

  “Of course.” He stood and went to the window, arched his back against a stiffness, turned, and said, “Mrs. Fletcher, I’ll be up front with you. Your suspicions about everything not being what they seem might not be far-fetched.”

  “Oh?”

  “I can’t tell you my sources, but there’s some speculation that Jo Ann Forbes might have been killed because of the artist, Joshua Leopold. And if Miki Dorsey didn’t die of a heart attack, she, too, could have been killed over the same issue.”

  “The coroner said it was a heart attack.”

  “I know. But because there is this—how shall I put it?—mis possibility of a link between Jo Ann Forbes’s murder, and the death of the other two, we’re holding Ms. Dorsey’s body. Her father is pretty upset over it, claims he wants to have her buried immediately in England. He’s threatening legal action.”

  “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.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  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.