There were two additional pages, extensions of the first page, which I read and gave to Chief Cramer.
“Is that it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“So, Mrs. Fletcher, give me your read on these pages.”
“I want to read them again. I wonder—” I looked to a comer where there was a small photocopy machine. “Mind if I make a copy?” I asked.
“Not if you make two.”
I copied the three pages and replaced the originals in the file. “I have a suggestion,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“That we both read these pages, then get together for some joint analysis of them.”
“Makes sense to me.”
“Just as long as we make sense out of these pieces of paper.”
“Need a ride back to Scott’s Inn?”
“No, thanks. I have Mr. Mayer for the day. For the week, as a matter of fact.”
Cramer smiled. “A nice old fella,” he said. “But keep him away from restaurants and bars. He’s been known to down a few.”
“And drive a cab?”
“Seldom at the same time. When do you want to get together again?”
“Tomorrow? In the morning? Say ten?”
“I’ll come to you this time, Mrs. Fletcher. Scott’s Inn at ten.”
Chpter Eighteen
“Hungry now?” Fred Mayer asked after I’d climbed into the backseat of his taxi.
“Yes, but it’s too late for lunch. I’ll be having dinner soon.” It suddenly dawned on me that he hadn’t had lunch, either, and I asked if he’d like to stop for something.
“Snuck a sandwich while you were inside,” he replied.
“Good. Mr. Mayer, do you remember back a year ago when a young artist named Joshua Leopold died?”
“Sure do. I drove lots of folks to his studio, where he died.”
“Excellent.”
“Still an artist’s studio, I think. Different artists, though.”
“Can we go there?”
“On our way.”
The studio in which artist Joshua Leopold had worked, and died, was typical of so many other small buildings in the Hamptons. It was close to the town dock, where I’d ended up after my garage sale expedition. Its white clapboard was stained with black and green streaks; scraggly grass grew in clumps along a front walk of cracked and chipped flagstone.
There was a small sign next to the door, too small to read from the cab. “Back in a minute,” I said, exiting and going to the door.
The crude sign read W-T STUDIOS. I’d just read it when the door opened, and a young woman faced me. “Can I help you?” she asked.
She startled me: “No. Ah, yes. This is an artist’s studio, isn’t it?”
She smiled sweetly. “Yes it is. Want to come in?”
“Thank you.” I looked back at Fred Mayer, who appeared to be dozing behind the wheel.
The building consisted of one large room, which had been partitioned into four areas. The two spaces to the rear had easels. Paintings in various stages of completion were tacked up everywhere.
The space to my left was obviously occupied by a sculptor. To the right, a potter’s tools were evident.
“Are things here for sale?” I asked. “Or is it just a working space?”
“Both. Look around. I was just putting up a fresh pot of coffee. Like some?”
“That would be lovely, thank you.”
She attended to a coffeemaker in what I judged was her space—she was the sculptor—and I browsed, eventually ending up in one of the artist’s spaces at the back of the room. I looked at the paintings pinned up to the wall, crude watercolor renderings of naked men and women.
I moved to the other space. Remarkable, I thought. These recently rendered works looked like they’d come from the brush and palette of Joshua Leopold. And one, of a nude young woman, looked strangely like Miki Dorsey. Not the face. Everything in the painting was too obscured by energetic brush strokes and slashes of vivid color from a palette knife. But it was the pose that captured my attention. Within the abstraction was a young woman seated on a stool, her head hung down low between her knees. It could have been Miki. What reality the artist had injected into the work showed a body structured very much like I remembered her body to be.
“How do you take it?”
I turned. The young woman was standing just behind me. “Your coffee,” she said.
“Black will be fine.”
She handed me a steaming mug.
“Who are these artists?” I asked, taking a sip.
“Chris and Carlton. They’re not here, but should be back in about an hour.”
“Chris Turi and Carlton Wells?”
She laughed. “I see you know your art, and artists. Have you met them before?”
“No. Maybe in passing. But I certainly know their work.”
“That’s always nice for an artist to hear. Well, I have to get back to something I’m working on. Make yourself at home.” She extended her hand. “I’m Debbie Lane.”
I shook her hand and mumbled my name.
“Fletcher, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“Give a yell if you need anything.”
Carlton Wells, my instructor, and Chris Turi sharing a studio. Well, well.
Both had had an intimate relationship with Miki Dorsey.
Everyone I talked to, it seemed, considered Wells to be a swine of sorts.
Chris Turi had showed no remorse over Miki’s death.
What was going on here?
I lingered in Chris Turi’s space. As I did, the similarity of his painting style to Joshua Leopold became more striking. I was about to leave when my eye went to a small table on which jars of paint stood. Among them was an open package of cigarettes. I glanced back to see if Debbie Lane was looking. She wasn’t; she was focused on a small piece of marble being transformed into some sort of figure.
I picked up the pack, pulled out a cigarette, and examined it closely. I wasn’t sure, but it appeared to me to be similar to the butt I’d picked up just outside where Miki Dorsey died, and from beside the tree in the garden behind Scott’s Inn. I put the cigarette in the pocket of the light teal windbreaker I wore and emerged from Turi’s space.
“Ms. Lane, is this the studio where Joshua Leopold died?” I asked, coming abreast of her working space.
She looked up. “Yes, it is.”
“What a tragedy that was,” I said. “So talented, and so young.”
“Sure was. I didn’t know him. I just started renting this space a month ago from Chris and Carlton. It’s my first season out here in the Hamptons.”
“Oh? Where are you from?”
“The city. Do you live here year-round?”
“No. Just visiting. Do Chris Turi and Carlton Wells ever talk about Josh Leopold?”
“No. I don’t think so. There’s a gallery in town that features his work.”
“I know. I’ve been there. It’s owned by a gentleman named St. James. Maurice St. James.”
“I don’t know who owns it. Do you want to leave a number where Chris or Carlton can reach you?”
“That’s not necessary. Before I leave, I was hoping to catch up with some old friends. Hans Muller?”
She laughed. “The big German guy with a terminal smoking habit? He comes in now and then. Was here just an hour or so ago. Talked to Chris about something.”
“Sorry I missed him. Blaine Dorsey?”
“Who?”
“Nothing. Well, thanks so much for your time. You’ve been very gracious. I like your sculpture.”
“Thanks. It’s all for sale.”
“I’ll be back.”
I opened the taxi’s door, waking Mayer. He shook himself and smiled. “Dozed off,” he said.
“Good. A nap is always nice. Do you think we could park somewhere where we wouldn’t be seen by anyone in this building, but from where we could keep an eye on it?”
His face mirrored his puzzlement.
I said loudly, “Nothing nefarious, Mr. Mayer. I’m just hoping to catch a glimpse of someone who I’d rather not see me.”
“I guess I could arrange that. Let’s see.” He surveyed the area. “How about over there? By the dock.”
“Looks good to me.”
We parked where he’d indicated. A few minutes later, I noticed his head drooping. “Go ahead, Mr. Mayer, fall asleep. I’ll let you know when it’s time to leave.”
That time came a half hour later when Chris Turi pulled up in front of the studio, got out, and entered, followed by none other than Blaine Dorsey, Miki Dorsey’s father. The car was familiar to me: Anne Harris’s car, the one Turi had used to drive me to his house, and in which Anne had driven me back to Scott’s Inn.
“Wake up, Mr. Mayer.”
I debated returning to the studio to see what another visit might result in. No, I decided. Another time. Besides, it was getting late, and I’d promised to be in touch with Vaughan Buckley regarding dinner that night.
But as we approached the inn, I asked Mayer to stop in front of Maurice St. James’s gallery. It was a whim, pure and simple, but I had to do it.
I went inside, the tiny bell announcing my arrival. St. James was behind the counter. He looked up, smiled, and approached. “Ah, Mrs. Fletcher. A pleasant surprise, twice in one day.”
“Twice?”
“We’re having dinner together this evening. With the Buckleys.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” I said. “But now that I am, I look doubly forward to it.”
“May I do something for you?”
“Perhaps. But only if you can keep a confidence.”
He leered conspiratorially. “My middle name is discretion, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“That’s good to hear. I might be interested in doing what I said the first time I was here.”
“Which was?”
“To buy a large number of Joshua Leopold paintings from you.”
His eyes widened, and he rubbed his hands together. “An excellent decision, Mrs. Fletcher. Leopold’s worth rises with each day. Any in particular?”
“No. I’ll need time to carefully examine the lot, and I don’t have that time now. Perhaps tomorrow.”
“Of course. I assure you I will offer you a very attractive price for them.”
“I would certainly expect that. In the meantime, not a word to anyone. Certainly, not to the Buckleys at dinner.”
He pressed his index finger to his lips. “They are sealed, Mrs. Fletcher. Rest assured.”
Chapter Nineteen
I knew one thing for certain. If Vaughan and Olga kept taking me to fancy restaurants for dinner, I was in for a month of serious dieting and exercise when I got home.
This night found us in a place called Nick and Toni‘s, a comfortable spot with an eclectic clientele. There were senior citizens, young families and babies, and a smattering of recognizable celebrities, including the singer Billy Joel (I didn’t recognize him because I didn’t know what he looked like, but Olga did the honors), New York Senator Alfonse D’Amato and a stunning woman I’d seen him with on C-SPAN, and who looked as though she’d be at home in Washington’s power corridors, and later, the wonderful actress and author Shirley MacLaine, to whom I was introduced at the end of the evening.
Besides Vaughan, Olga, Maurice St. James, and me, the table included the couple I’d dined with my first night in the Hamptons, Jacob and Alix Simmons, both artist representatives from Manhattan, and a vivacious young travel writer, Laurie Wilson, who said she was in the Hamptons doing a magazine piece, and who might write a book for Buckley House on how the rich and famous vacation.
I admitted only to myself that I was not in an especially good mood. Jo Ann Forbes’s murder had occurred less than twenty-four hours ago. The spirited, free-flowing conversation seemed out of place, although I didn’t indicate my feelings about that. At least I wasn’t at dinner with Hans Muller. That would have been too much to bear.
Funny, I thought, how we’re able to shift mental gears over a period of time. As the evening wore on, I found myself thinking less about Jo Ann Forbes and more about the blatherskite at the table. Maybe it was the food; it flowed freely, too, beginning with thickly sliced Tuscan bread with Monini olive oil for dipping, huge fresh green salads, deep-fried zucchini chips, and then, at Vaughan’s suggestion, grilled free-range chicken rubbed with rosemary and roasted garlic, and flash-cooked in an oven Vaughan claimed got up to over six hundred degrees. I love chicken, and pride myself on being a pretty good cook. But because I don’t possess an oven capable of generating such intense heat, I could never duplicate the crisp skin that crackled and the incredibly juicy meat. The meal was topped off with a dessert of almond
biscotti
and Tuscan
vin santo.
Oh, my, I thought, daring to touch my waistline. How can people do this every night and not end up terminally obese?
My involuntary pushing of Jo Ann Forbes and her death from my mind was interrupted when Olga brought up the subject over second cups of coffee. “How are you holding up, Jess?” she asked. “Seeing that reporter’s body this morning must have been dreadful.”
I nodded. “It was, Olga. Not my idea of the way to start a day.”
“I hesitated mentioning that,” said St. James. “Poor woman. Is there anything new on who might have done such a thing?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” I said. “You?”
He shook his head. I asked the others. Negatives all around.
“I know one person who’s sweating even bigger bullets than he usually does,” Vaughan said.
“Hans,” Olga said.
“You bet,” said Vaughan. “And I’m not feeling at all sorry for him. He called twice this afternoon. Wanted my help in dealing with the police, get his passport back. Some nerve. He claims to have lost our painting, then wants our help.”
“What painting?” St. James asked.
Vaughan explained.
“Hans didn’t say anything to me about—”
Vaughan asked, “Why would he have?”
St. James’s smile was thin and forced. He waved his hand and said, “Oh, for no reason. I just thought—”
“Did you see Mr. Muller today?” I asked the gallery owner.
“No.”