A Palette for Murder (8 page)

“That’s very nice,” I said after standing silently behind her for a minute. She was painting a watercolor of a man’s face, somewhat abstract but certainly recognizable for what it was.

She lowered her brush, looked at me, and smiled. “Thank you.”

“I’m Jessica Fletcher.”

“I know. Chris brought you here?”

“Yes.”

“The grieving boyfriend.” She dabbed red paint on her brush from her palette and applied quick, delicate strokes to the painting.

“Yes, I heard he was Miki Dorsey’s boyfriend. He doesn’t seem especially upset over her death.”

She laughed softly and reapplied paint to her brush.

“None of my business, I suppose.” I looked around the room. The scene had all the appearance of a typical, peaceful evening at home for a bunch of college students. One of their housemates had died that morning. The feeling was eerie; I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature in the house.

I was about to walk away—in fact, I decided having come here was a mistake, and wanted to call a taxi—when the artist painting the man’s face said softly, “You saw Miki die.”

“Yes.”

“Look natural to you?”

“What do you mean?”

She continued to apply brush strokes as she said, “Did it look as though Miki had a heart attack?”

“I suppose it did. But the autopsy will determine that.”

“What did you think of Carlton Wells?”

“I thought he was a good teacher.”

“How did he treat Miki?”

“Fine. I didn’t see any hostility between them.”

She sighed, turned, and looked at me with sad, knowing eyes. “Hang around, Mrs. Fletcher. You may have the plot for your next murder mystery laid right in your lap.” With that she went to the center table and bit into a cold pizza slice.

I found Chris Turi in the kitchen. He was engaged in what appeared to me to be an angry conversation with Anne Harris. He sensed I was there and turned. “How was the pizza?” he asked.

“Fine. Just fine. I was wondering if you’d be good enough to call me a cab. I want to get back to where I’m staying.”

“I’ll drive you,” he said.

“No need,” I said.

“I insist.”

“I’ll drive Mrs. Fletcher,” Anne Harris said. “After all, it’s my car.”

“I don’t want to trouble anyone,” I said.

Ms. Harris motioned with her finger for me to follow her, and we headed down the dark hallway to the front door. We’d no sooner reached it when it opened, and a man wearing a tan trench coat, wide-brimmed brown hat, and holding a soft-sided hang-up suitcase faced us.

“Can I help you?” Harris asked.

“I’m Blaine Dorsey, Miki’s father.”

“Oh,” Anne and I said in unison.

“May I come in?”

“Of course. Sorry,” Anne said. We stepped aside to allow him to enter.

“I’m sorry about your daughter,” I offered.

He didn’t respond to my comment, simply removed his coat and hat and tossed them on top of his luggage on the floor.

Harris and I stood mute.

“Who’s in authority here?” Dorsey asked.

“In authority?” Anne said.

“Who do I talk to about Miki?”

I took the opportunity to take in Dorsey’s face. He was a handsome man, in his early fifties, I judged, an Anglo-Saxon face with prominent thin nose, ruddy cheeks, heavy eyebrows, and a thin mouth. My overall reaction was that this was not a pleasant man.

“Who are you?” he asked, suddenly facing me.

“Jessica Fletcher,” I said.

“The writer?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you here?”

“I was getting a slice of pizza and—” I said to Anne, “Could we go?”

“Sure. Miki’s friends are in the back, Mr. Dorsey. That way.” She pointed to the hall.

He walked away in the direction of the light and conversation.

Anne Harris drove slower than Chris Turi had. We said nothing to each other as she navigated the streets in the direction of Scott’s Inn. When she pulled up in front, she said, “I’m glad you’re here, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s more to Miki’s death than it might seem.”

“Oh?”

“Maybe we should keep in touch, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Maybe we should. But can you give me a hint as to why you think Miki’s death was unusual?”

“Next time. I have to get back.”

“Of course. Thanks for driving me home.”

“My pleasure. How was the pizza?”

“Cold.”

“May I call you tomorrow?”

“I’ll look forward to it. Good night.”

Although I’d eaten only a few bites of the pizza, I was no longer hungry. I changed into my pajamas and robe, and sat by the window that overlooked the garden. The lights were still on, and the moon’s rays were as brilliant as ever.

I yawned. It was early, but I was tired. I hadn’t lied to Vaughan Buckley. The events of the morning had taken something out of me. I was drained, weary—the king-size, iron-and-brass bed looked heavenly.

I cast a final glance out over the garden. At first I thought it was a cloud passing in front of the moon, casting a fast-moving shadow. But then I realized it was a person who’d been crouching behind the elm, and who now ran across the garden from right to left. The figure—male, female?—stopped for a moment and looked up at me. His, her, face was obscured by shadow. Then a final motion and the person was gone.

I thought about what I’d seen as I waited for sleep to overtake me. No reason to be concerned about it. Probably, a person taking an evening stroll and startled at seeing me at the window.

But in a private garden, behind a private inn?

Why did I wonder whether it had something to do with the unlikely death of the young nude model, Miki Dorsey?

Anne Harris says there was more to Miki’s death than meets the eye.

Two people questioned the actions of the instructor, Carlton Wells, just before Miki’s death.

Everyone in the group home where Miki had lived seemed blase about her death, with the exception of Anne Harris.

Chris Turi supposedly was her boyfriend. Yet he was the most casual of all the night of her death.

And here was I, on vacation, wanting to find out why.

“Go to sleep,” I commanded myself. “Tomorrow is another day.”

I obeyed.

I awoke the following morning to the sound of rain hitting the windowpane. I looked outside. Everything was gray and wet, with a brisk wind whipping it about.

It was seven o’clock. I’d slept soundly. I slipped into my robe and called downstairs. Mr. Scott, the inn’s owner, had told me breakfast was available each morning at seven, either in the small dining room, or as room service.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Good morning, Mr. Scott. Don’t you ever sleep?”

He laughed. “Not in season. Plenty of time to sleep late all winter.”

“I was wondering whether a pot of tea, some orange juice, and a dry English muffin would be in order.”

“Of course. It will be up shortly, along with the newspaper. Sorry about the weather.”

“A good reading day—and to sign my books for you.”

As I waited for breakfast to arrive, I flipped through some of the local magazines and newspapers Mr. Scott had given me when I arrived, looking for an appropriate rainy-day activity.

I considered an afternoon movie, but that was too passive. There was some shopping I wanted to do before heading back to Cabot Cove—surely I could find the clock Seth Hazlitt coveted—but wasn’t in the mood.

I’d settled on gallery and museum browsing when Mr. Scott delivered my breakfast. I told him of my plan for the day.

“No shortage of them around.” He sat, carefully arranging my breakfast on a small table by the window. “I hear you’ve become quite the artist, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Don’t believe everything you read, Mr. Scott. In my case, don’t believe
anything.”

He laughed. “Something else I can do for you?”

“No, thank you. This is perfect.”

Scott had brought that week’s edition of
Dan’s Papers,
which he’d folded over so that the front page wasn’t visible to me. I took a sip of tea and opened the paper. Staring back at me was a picture of myself, one of many taken over the years to help publicize my books. The headline read: FAMED AUTHOR TAKES UP THE BRUSH—WITNESSES SUSPICIOUS DEATH OF NUDE MODEL.

I sighed and closed my eyes. It was about to start. I opened my eyes and started reading the accompanying article, bylined Jo Ann Forbes.

I put down the paper, went to the bathroom, showered, and dressed quickly. I had the sinking feeling that this was not destined to be a day of casual browsing of galleries and museums—unless I did something to make it so.

The uneaten English muffin, untouched glass of juice, and barely tasted tea sat on the table as I put on my raincoat, stuffed a few things in my shoulder bag, and headed downstairs.

Mr. Scott was at his usual place at the small desk.

“Off on your museum tour, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes.”

“How was breakfast?”

“Fine. I didn’t eat much.”

“Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Yes?”

“These are for you.” He handed me a half-dozen telephone message slips.

“When did these people call?”

“Since I brought you your breakfast.”

“Oh, my.” The calls were all from media people.

“And there are some folks out on the porch looking for you.”

“The press?”

“Afraid so. I hope you don’t mind my not putting these calls through. I wanted you to have a peaceful breakfast.”

“To the contrary. I appreciate the consideration. Mr. Scott, is there a back exit from the inn?”

“Yes. Two of them. And another through the basement.”

My raised eyebrows said it all.

“Follow me,” he said.

We passed through the empty dining room and kitchen to a door leading to the rear garden.

“Do you think some of them might be waiting back here?” I asked.

“Already checked, Mrs. Fletcher. The coast is clear, as they say.”

“I appreciate this.”

“I wouldn’t want those damn media vultures hounding me, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll do whatever I can to help you avoid them.”

I stepped through the screen door to the garden I’d seen only from my suite’s window. The rain and fog had turned everything in it a vivid verdant green. A pungent smell of flowers and manure touched my nostrils.

I walked to the elm tree and paused next to it. A vision came back of last night: the shadowy figure paused behind the tree, then running out of sight. Who might it have been? All my imagination? I didn’t think so.

I was about to step away when I happened to look down to the ground next to the lovely, graceful tree. I crouched and picked up the cigarette butt that had caught my eye. It looked similar to those I’d found outside the building where Miki Dorsey had died during the class, the ones she’d smoked during the breaks. I’d forgotten that I’d put one of those butts in a jacket pocket, which was hanging in my closet. I picked up this butt, put it in my raincoat pocket, and walked with purpose through a gate to a small road running behind the Scott’s Inn property. I looked up. The sky was dark and angry. The wind slapped the rain against my face, stinging it. Maybe venturing out wasn’t such a good idea.

I considered returning through the garden to the house and holing up in my room until the weather cleared. But that didn’t seem to be a viable option, not with the press camped on the porch.

I headed in the direction of the shore. I didn’t have a destination in mind. I just wanted to get away from people, specifically the press. A boy on a bicycle passed, his head lowered into the wind. He was followed by a shaggy brown dog, who didn’t look happy. A warm, dry rug in front of a roaring fireplace would be more to his liking.

I eventually reached a small street that led directly to the water, and to the town dock, according to a rustic sign attached to a telephone pole. The street was lined with small, modest homes, some in bad repair, others reflecting more active maintenance. As I walked toward the waterfront, I noticed a crudely lettered sign at the foot of a driveway: YARD SALE. At the other end of the driveway was a garage with its overhead door open. Inside, items for sale were haphazardly displayed, illuminated by a bare bulb hanging from a rafter. A man sat on a wooden chair just inside the garage.