started as a holiday.”
He laughed. “Don’t tell me. Someone has been murdered, and Jessica Fletcher is hot on the trail.”
“Something like that,” I said, joining his laughter. “George, I thought you might have some knowledge that would be helpful to me.”
“I hope you’re right, Jessica. What do you need?”
“I need to know about poisons that can kill a person, but make it look like a heart attack, even to a trained coroner.”
There was silence on the other end.
“George?”
“Yes, I’m here, Jessica. Why do you want to know this?”
“George, I’m not intending to use such a substance, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Never entered my mind.”
“I would hope not.”
I explained the circumstances of Miki Dorsey’s death, and mentioned that Joshua Leopold had died the same way.
“And you think their deaths might not have been natural.”
“I don’t know what to think. But I am curious.” I told him what Seth Hazlitt had told me.
“And how is your Dr. Hazlitt?”
“Just fine. Busy, as usual. Do you know of any such substances, George?”
“Not offhand, but there are those I can ask. Which I will do first thing in the morning.”
“I appreciate it.”
“I always enjoy doing you a favor, Jess, because then you owe me one.”
“Just ask.”
“Come visit me here in London. Better yet, spend that week with me in Wick we’ve talked about for too long.”
“I still intend to do that, George. Maybe later this year.”
“Set a stoot hert to a stey brae.”
“What?”
“The harder the task, the more determination is needed. An old Scottish expression. My father, rest his soul, was fond of it. More determination is needed to get Jessica Fletcher to visit me in my Wick homestead. A castle, actually. Lovely views.”
“So you’ve said. Call you tomorrow night?”
“Unless I call you first. Where are you staying in the Hamptons?”
I gave him the Scott’s Inn phone number. “Oh, one other thing, George.”
“Yes?”
“Could you—would you also check on a gentleman living in London? His name is Blaine Dorsey.”
“American?”
“Yes.”
“What’s he do for a living?”
“He’s involved in the art world in some capacity.”
“Oh, that Dorsey.”
“You know him?”
“Know of him. A bit of a rogue, Mr. Blaine Dorsey is. Lots of speculation about him and the way he does business. He’s been under investigation for quite a while.”
“Really? What’s he suspected of?”
“Art theft. No, I take that back. More of a fence for stolen art. A middleman.”
“I see. He’s never been arrested?”
“Not as far as I know, but I can check on that, too.”
“Thanks, George.”
“We’ll talk,” he said. “Pleasant dreams.”
“It’s only the afternoon here.”
“Of course. Well, wish me pleasant dreams. It’s been a long, hard day.”
“Pleasant dreams, George. Guideen nicht.”
A loud laugh. “Nicely done, Jessica. I’ll make a Scot of you yet. And good night to you, too.”
Chapter Twelve
My next call was to Anne Harris. I’d promised to get in touch again, although I wasn’t calling because of that promise. I wanted to talk with her, hopefully to shed some light on what I’d just learned from Jo Ann Forbes, that Miki Dorsey owned an original Joshua Leopold painting, and that it disappeared the day of her death. I also wanted to learn what I could about Miki’s relationship with her art-dealing father—or, if George Sutherland was correct, her shady art-dealing father.
The phone at the house Miki shared with friends was answered by a woman, who said Anne wasn’t there.
“Would you tell her Jessica Fletcher called?” I said.
“Hello, Mrs. Fletcher. This is Waldine Peckham. I was painting when you were here last night.”
“I remember.”
I also remembered what this woman, whose name I now knew, had said about Miki Dorsey’s death. Actually, it wasn’t what she’d said as much as how she’d said it: her voice
He laughed. “Don’t tell me. Someone has been murdered, and Jessica Fletcher is hot on the trail.”
“Something like that,” I said, joining his laughter. “George, I thought you might have some knowledge that would be helpful to me.”
“I hope you’re right, Jessica. What do you need?”
“I need to know about poisons that can kill a person, but make it look like a heart attack, even to a trained coroner.”
There was silence on the other end.
“George?”
“Yes, I’m here, Jessica. Why do you want to know this?”
“George, I’m not intending to use such a substance, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Never entered my mind.”
“I would hope not.”
I explained the circumstances of Miki Dorsey’s death, and mentioned that Joshua Leopold had died the same way.
“And you think their deaths might not have been natural.”
“I don’t know what to think. But I am curious.” I told him what Seth Hazlitt had told me.
“And how is your Dr. Hazlitt?”
“Just fine. Busy, as usual. Do you know of any such substances, George?”
“Not offhand, but there are those I can ask. Which I will do first thing in the morning.”
“I appreciate it.”
“I always enjoy doing you a favor, Jess, because then you owe me one.”
“Just ask.”
“Come visit me here in London. Better yet, spend that week with me in Wick we’ve talked about for too long.”
“I still intend to do that, George. Maybe later this year.”
“Set a stoot hert to a stey brae.”
“What?”
“The harder the task, the more determination is needed. An old Scottish expression. My father, rest his soul, was fond of it. More determination is needed to get Jessica Fletcher to visit me in my Wick homestead. A castle, actually. Lovely views.”
“So you’ve said. Call you tomorrow night?”
“Unless I call you first. Where are you staying in the Hamptons?”
I gave him the Scott’s Inn phone number. “Oh, one other thing, George.”
“Yes?”
“Could you—would you also check on a gentleman living in London? His name is Blaine Dorsey.”
“American?”
“Yes.”
“What’s he do for a living?”
“He’s involved in the art world in some capacity.”
“Oh, that Dorsey.”
“You know him?”
“Know of him. A bit of a rogue, Mr. Blaine Dorsey is. Lots of speculation about him and the way he does business. He’s been under investigation for quite a while.”
“Really? What’s he suspected of?”
“Art theft. No, I take that back. More of a fence for stolen art. A middleman.”
“I see. He’s never been arrested?”
“Not as far as I know, but I can check on that, too.”
“Thanks, George.”
“We’ll talk,” he said. “Pleasant dreams.”
“It’s only the afternoon here.”
“Of course. Well, wish me pleasant dreams. It’s been a long, hard day.”
“Pleasant dreams, George. Guideen nicht.”
A loud laugh. “Nicely done, Jessica. I’ll make a Scot of you yet. And good night to you, too.”
Chapter Twelve
My next call was to Anne Harris. I’d promised to get in touch again, although I wasn’t calling because of that promise. I wanted to talk with her, hopefully to shed some light on what I’d just learned from Jo Ann Forbes, that Miki Dorsey owned an original Joshua Leopold painting, and that it disappeared the day of her death. I also wanted to learn what I could about Miki’s relationship with her art-dealing father—or, if George Sutherland was correct, her shady art-dealing father.
The phone at the house Miki shared with friends was answered by a woman, who said Anne wasn’t there.
“Would you tell her Jessica Fletcher called?” I said.
“Hello, Mrs. Fletcher. This is Waldine Peckham. I was painting when you were here last night.”
“I remember.”
I also remembered what this woman, whose name I now knew, had said about Miki Dorsey’s death. Actually, it wasn’t what she’d said as much as how she’d said it: her voice
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