A Palette for Murder (7 page)

I accepted a glass of white wine from a uniformed waitress and followed Vaughan and Olga from group to group, thanking people for their kind words about my books, and hoping the facial muscles controlling my smile wouldn’t give out.

I was eventually separated from Vaughan and Olga, and had to fend for myself. A woman to whom I’d been introduced earlier asked me about the rumor that I’d decided to become a visual artist. I assured her it wasn’t the case. We were joined by a young couple who wanted to discuss Miki Dorsey’s death, and that I’d been there to witness it.

I really didn’t want to get into that subject, and tried my best to shift conversational gears. I was succeeding, steering us into a discussion of some of the art on the nearest wall, when I spotted Maurice St. James entering the gallery.

“Excuse me,” I said, looking for the Buckleys. I spotted them in a far corner and tried to slither there through knots of people.

I would have made it were it not for the corpulent gentleman in a red bow tie who stepped in my path and insisted upon discussing the plot of a book I wrote ten years ago.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Maybe we can discuss this later.”

His face soured. “I just thought that you’d appreciate hearing why the plot didn’t work. You see, when Cynthia came out of the schoolhouse, she couldn’t possibly have—”

I rudely circumvented him and continued toward the Buckleys.

“Mrs. Fletcher!”

I was face-to-face with Maurice St. James.

“You devil,” he said, smiling and wagging his index finger in my face. “I knew I recognized you when you were in the gallery. I checked my library at home. There you were on the cover of one of your books. Of course I knew you.”

“Mr. St. James, I really must apologize. When I said I might be interested in buying all of Mr. Leopold’s work, I was joking.” I winced. “I know, I know, it really isn’t funny. It was just a whim. I—”

“My dear Mrs. Fletcher, there is no need for you to explain. I’ve heard of your interest in art, how you’ve been studying—Paris, I hear?—”

“No. No, not Paris.”

“I would be honored to represent your work, Mrs. Fletcher. We hold an esteemed position in the gallery world. We made Josh Leopold. By the way, are you still interested in buying him?” He looked left and right, then whispered, “I can make you a”—a laugh—“an offer you can’t refuse.”

Vaughan and Olga rescued me.

“You’ve met Maurice,” Olga said. “Maurice, tell Jessica about the woman who came to your gallery and offered to buy everything Leopold painted.”

St. James laughed. “I already have,” he said.

“Do you have plans this evening?” St. James asked us. “Dinner?”

“As a matter of fact we do have plans,” Vaughan said.

“Dinner,” said Olga. “Why don’t you join us?”

St. James looked at me. “Only if Mrs. Fletcher would not consider it an intrusion.”

“Jessica?” Olga asked.

“No, not at all.”

“Mrs. Fletcher!”

A stout woman wearing an outlandish floppy straw hat stood before me. “Poor dear, being witness to the death of that young woman.”

Some people next to us heard, turned, and picked up on that theme.

Vaughan noticed my expression of distress, took my elbow, and led me from the crowd to the relative quiet of a distant comer. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

I let out a stream of air and shook my head. “This is all too much for me, I’m afraid,” I said.

“Let’s leave.”

“No, you and Olga stay. Enjoy dinner. I think I’m in for a quiet night alone. I didn’t realize how potent this morning’s experience was. It’s taken everything out of me.”

“I’ll get the car.”

“I can take a cab. In fact, I insist. I don’t want to upset your plans. Please.”

I considered saying good-bye to Olga, Maurice St. James, and others I’d met, but the cab arrived almost immediately. “Tell Olga I wasn’t feeling well,” I said. “And thanks for understanding.”

“Breakfast?”

“I’ll call you.”

I had the driver take me directly back to Scott’s Inn, where I went to my room, poured a tiny amount of brandy from a pretty decanter Mr. Scott had provided, kicked off my shoes, and pulled a chair up to the window. The gardens in back were nicely lighted, bathing the plantings in a soft, warm glow. A bright star twinkled above a large elm at the rear of the property. I couldn’t see the moon, but I knew it was there, adding to the illumination from over the front of the inn.

I was sorry to have left the Benson Gallery and my friends so abruptly, but didn’t feel I had a choice. My head had begun spinning, and I was afraid I might faint. Now, in the solitude of my lovely room, I felt my equilibrium returning.

I was suddenly aware of the gentle tick-tock of a wall clock, and looked at it. Six o’clock. My stomach was starting to protest. I was hungry.

I picked up the newspapers and magazines Mr. Scott had given me and thumbed through them in search of a nearby restaurant that was informal, and hopefully not busy. An ad for a small Italian restaurant caught my eye. I checked a map in the guide; it was only a few blocks from the inn.

I changed into beige slacks, a pink sweater, and new white sneakers I’d bought before coming to New York, freshened my makeup, and went downstairs, where Mr. Scott was sitting behind his small registration desk.

He looked up. “Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Good evening, Mr. Scott.”

“I thought you’d gone out for the evening.”

“I did, but changed my mind. I decided to spend a quiet night alone.”

He nodded. “Anything I can do for you?”

“No, thank you. I’m going for a bite to eat. Can I bring something back for you?”

“Kind of you, Mrs. Fletcher, but no. Don’t need anything.”

“Well, good night.”

The phone on the desk rang. Scott picked it up. “Yes, matter of fact she’s standing right here.” He handed me the phone. “A Dr. Hazlitt, from Maine.”

“Hello, Seth. How nice to hear your voice.”

“And nice to hear yours, Jessica. I understand you’ve had quite a day.”

“How would you know that?”

“Not very difficult. Just a matter of turnin’ on the television.”

“Television?”

“Ayuh. Had a story on the tabloid channel about you drawin’ some naked models in some sort a’ class, and seein’ a woman model die.”

“That’s basically true.”

“You
were
there, sketchin’ naked models?”

“Seth, that’s hardly the issue. What’s important is that a young woman died.”

“Natural death, the TV says.”

“It appears that way.”

“You don’t sound so certain.”

“I have no reason to believe anything else.”

“Jessica.”

“Yes, Seth?”

“I thought I knew you pretty well.”

“You certainly do.”

“You’re studyin’ to be an artist? I didn’t know that.”

“I’m not studying to be anything, Seth. Just a hobby. A new creative outlet. Stretching my horizons.”

“Ayuh.”

“I was just heading out for a bite to eat.”

“With your publisher?”

“Ah—yes, and I’m running late.”

“Aside from seein’ young people droppin’ dead, is everything else all right with you?”

“Of course. Everything is fine. I’m on vacation, and enjoying every minute of it.”

“That’s nice to heah. Take care, Jessica. Keep in touch.”

“I will. Good night, Seth. Thanks for calling.”

I handed the phone back to Mr. Scott. “A very good friend back in Maine,” I said.

“A doctor, huh?”

“Yes. An old-fashioned chicken-soup doctor.”

Scott laughed. “Not many of them left.”

“Afraid not. See you later, Mr. Scott.”

The restaurant was more of a pizza parlor, with a few Formica tables justifying its “restaurant” designation. Which wasn’t off-putting to me. I hadn’t had a slice of pizza in years, and it suddenly took on an almost urgent appeal.

I stepped inside the brightly lit restaurant and went to the counter, behind which were pizza pies of various types, which posed a dilemma: What kind to order?

“Yes, lady?” a young man in a tomato sauce-stained white apron asked.

“A slice of pizza, please.”

“Plain?”

“With cheese.”

“Extra cheese?”

“No, not extra. Just plain. Cheese. And tomato sauce.”

He looked at me strangely, but didn’t say what he was thinking, that this woman must never have had a pizza slice before. He picked up a slice from a pan and slid it into the large oven. “Eat here, take out?” he asked.

“Eat here.”

“Drink.

“Ah, a Coke, I suppose.”

I sat at a vacant table to wait for my pizza to heat.

Three teenage girls came in and ordered slices to eat there. They took an adjacent table. They were very loud, giggling and talking very fast. It made me smile. Was I like that as a teenager? I didn’t think so, but maybe we never admit to acting in a way we find strange as adults.

The counterman was taking my slice out of the oven when the door opened. I recognized him immediately, Chris Turi, the young artist I’d met on the jitney, and who Anne Harris told me was Miki Dorsey’s boyfriend.

I came up behind him as he said to the counterman, “Three pies to go. Name is Turi.”

“Mr. Turi,” I said.

He turned, cocked his head.

“Jessica Fletcher. We met on the jitney.”

“Oh, sure, right. How are you?”

“All right. You?”

“Good.”

His one-word answer took me aback. I assumed he would have immediately mentioned Miki Dorsey’s death. After all, it had happened only that morning. Anne Harris said he and Miki were going together. But here he was picking up three pizzas to go, and saying he was fine.

Was it possible he didn’t know?

“Mr. Turi, I’m sorry about what happened to your—to Miki Dorsey.”

He pursed his lips and closed his eyes. When he opened them he said, “Yeah. Incredible, huh? You were there.”

“Yes, I was.”

“Twenty-two, fifty,” the counterman said. He’d piled the three pizza boxes on the counter.

“What? Oh, right.” Turi pulled money from his jeans pocket.

As the counterman made change, I said to Turi, “I met a young woman today at the building where Miki died. Anne Harris.”

“Anne?”

“Yes. She told me that you and Miki were—dose.”

“Anne said that?”

“Yes.”

His face twisted into an unpleasant sneer.

“Perhaps she was wrong,” I said.

A smile came to his face, too quick and forced, I thought. “It was really terrible what happened to Miki,” he said. “So sudden and unexpected.” He was handed his change.

“Looks like you’re feeding lots of people tonight,” I said.

“Your slice, lady,” said the counterman.

“Oh, yes.” I said to Turi: “Well, again I’m sorry about Miki. Anne Harris invited me to visit the group house you share with her.”

“Did she?”

“Yes. I thought I might stop by tomorrow. Unless—”

“Unless?”

“It just occurred to me that since I’m in the mood for pizza, and since you obviously are, maybe I could have my slice back at your house.”

Was I being too forward?

“Sure,” he said. “Good idea. Do you have a car?”

“No,” I said pleasantly. “I don’t even drive.”

“You don’t drive?” His tone of incredulity was thick.

“No.”

“Great. My car’s right outside. Actually, it’s not mine. I don’t own one. Belongs to Anne.”

Chris Turi drove too fast for my taste, but we arrived safely. The house was large, old, and ramshackle, a splendid example of waterfront elegance from another era. It was close to the shore, maybe too close in heavy weather. A wind had kicked up off the water, sending a spray into the air that was highlighted by the full moon’s light. A shutter on the front of the house flapped in the breeze. Three other automobiles were parked in a circular gravel drive, dotted with clumps of weeds.

I followed Turi across the driveway and up to a porch spanning the front of the house. A board threatened to give way beneath my foot as I ascended the steps. The front door was slightly ajar. Turi pushed it open with his foot and stepped inside, carrying the three large pizza boxes. The foyer was dark. I could see that directly ahead of me was a staircase, also shrouded in shadow.

There was a shaft of light from somewhere to the rear of the house, accompanied by the sound of laughter.

“Come on,” Turi said, leading the way down a hallway to a large kitchen that opened onto an even larger common room. “Pizza delivery,” he announced loudly to the half-dozen young people on couches and chairs. “This is Mrs. Fletcher, the famous mystery writer.”

Anne Harris, who’d been reading a magazine, jumped to her feet and came to me. “Mrs. Fletcher. Nice to see you again.”

“Sooner than either of us imagined,” I said. “Mr. Turi and I bumped into each other at the pizza parlor. He was nice enough to invite me to—well, actually, it was me who did the inviting.”

“Hope you like pizza,” Harris said.

“I’m in the mood.” It dawned on me that I’d left my single slice back at the pizza parlor, and hadn’t paid for it. I’d try to remember to stop by there tomorrow to square things.

Turi placed the pizza boxes on a large table and opened them, while Anne Harris and another young woman brought cans of beer, paper plates, and napkins from the kitchen. I placed a slice on a plate, sat in an overstuffed purple chair with some of the stuffing protruding, and balanced the plate on my knees.

“Beer, Mrs. Fletcher?” Chris Turi asked.

“No, thank you. A soft drink?”

“Diet okay?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Aside from Chris Turi and Anne Harris, the others had barely acknowledged me. A man and woman had looked up and nodded when Turi announced me, but went back to their Scrabble game, breaking only to bring their pizza and beer to where the game board was perched on an empty wooden crate. A delicate, pale young man sat on a window seat reading a book. Another woman, who appeared to be older than the others, was painting a picture in a comer. I wiped my mouth and went to her, hoping she wouldn’t resent my intrusion into her creative reverie.