dripping with sarcasm when she mentioned Chris Turi’s flat response to his girl-friend’s death, and her snide comment about Carlton Wells, our art instructor.
“Enjoying your stay in the Hamptons?” she asked.
“Very much. It’s lovely here. Reminds me a little of where I live, Cabot Cove. That’s in Maine.”
“I know.”
“Ms. Peckham, you said a few things last night that trouble me.”
“Did I?”
“You were critical of Chris Turi’s way of reacting to Miki’s death.”
“Didn’t you find it strange? She dies, and he goes out for pizza.”
“You’re the second person who asked me about Carlton Wells.”
“A swine.”
“That’s certainly direct.”
“Just telling it like it is, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“When do you expect Anne to return?”
“I have no idea.”
“Has Mr. Dorsey been spending much time there?”
“Just last night. He stayed maybe a half hour. Didn’t have anything to say, just went into Miki’s room and closed the door.”
“And when he came out?”
“Looked more mad than sad to me, Mrs. Fletcher. Put on his hat and coat and stormed out of the house.”
“Well, Ms. Peckham, it was nice meeting you. How’s the painting coming?”
“I trashed it. I trash everything I paint.”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I simply said good-bye and hung up. Ms. Waldine Peckham was obviously not a happy woman.
I turned on the small TV in the suite and flipped through the channels. Nothing interested me, so I turned it off and tried to get back into the book I’d started on the jitney from Manhattan. I couldn’t focus on that, either.
Then it dawned on me that I still owed for my slice of uneaten pizza. A good excuse for a walk. I put on a light windbreaker, went downstairs and to the street, turned right, and took the route I’d taken last night. The same young man was behind the counter when I entered. I told him why I was there, and placed money on the counter.
“No need,” he said. “Hey, you’re the lady in the paper.” He pointed to a copy of Dan’s Papers lying on the counter, my face looking up at me.
“Oh, that,” I said. “My fifteen minutes of fame.”
“Huh?”
“Just take the money. Your pizza is very good.”
“You left with that guy.”
“That’s right. I ‘left’ with that guy.”
“You know what I think?”
“About what?”
“About what happened to that model who died?”
“Tell me,” I said.
“I think she didn’t have no heart attack. I think somebody killed her.”
“Any proof of that?”
He shrugged. The phone rang. “Pizza Heaven,” he said into the receiver. I took the opportunity to leave.
I headed in the direction of Scott’s Inn, but found myself detouring toward the gallery I’d stopped in the first night, the one owned by Maurice St. James. It was empty when I arrived, and I stepped inside, causing a tiny bell to sound that I hadn’t heard the first night I was there. I waited for someone to emerge from the back. No one did. ’
Just as well, I thought. I was interested in looking more closely at Joshua Leopold’s artwork without having to make conversation.
I went to the first painting, assumed what I felt was a proper distance to provide perspective, and looked intently at it. As I did, it took shape in the midst of its violent swirls of seemingly random color and slashes of crude black lines. I wasn’t sure what shapes I saw, but there was more than chaos in the work.
I moved to the second painting, a larger vertical one that was more subdued.
As I continued around the room, my appreciation for Joshua Leopold was enhanced. It was almost as though I now understood what he was trying to convey, although I knew those with greater insight would probably consider my reactions sophomoric, at best.
I’d traveled one wall of the large space, and was about to turn the corner to take in the back wall when I heard voices. I paused and held my breath. The voices were male, and came from somewhere behind
“Enjoying your stay in the Hamptons?” she asked.
“Very much. It’s lovely here. Reminds me a little of where I live, Cabot Cove. That’s in Maine.”
“I know.”
“Ms. Peckham, you said a few things last night that trouble me.”
“Did I?”
“You were critical of Chris Turi’s way of reacting to Miki’s death.”
“Didn’t you find it strange? She dies, and he goes out for pizza.”
“You’re the second person who asked me about Carlton Wells.”
“A swine.”
“That’s certainly direct.”
“Just telling it like it is, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“When do you expect Anne to return?”
“I have no idea.”
“Has Mr. Dorsey been spending much time there?”
“Just last night. He stayed maybe a half hour. Didn’t have anything to say, just went into Miki’s room and closed the door.”
“And when he came out?”
“Looked more mad than sad to me, Mrs. Fletcher. Put on his hat and coat and stormed out of the house.”
“Well, Ms. Peckham, it was nice meeting you. How’s the painting coming?”
“I trashed it. I trash everything I paint.”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I simply said good-bye and hung up. Ms. Waldine Peckham was obviously not a happy woman.
I turned on the small TV in the suite and flipped through the channels. Nothing interested me, so I turned it off and tried to get back into the book I’d started on the jitney from Manhattan. I couldn’t focus on that, either.
Then it dawned on me that I still owed for my slice of uneaten pizza. A good excuse for a walk. I put on a light windbreaker, went downstairs and to the street, turned right, and took the route I’d taken last night. The same young man was behind the counter when I entered. I told him why I was there, and placed money on the counter.
“No need,” he said. “Hey, you’re the lady in the paper.” He pointed to a copy of Dan’s Papers lying on the counter, my face looking up at me.
“Oh, that,” I said. “My fifteen minutes of fame.”
“Huh?”
“Just take the money. Your pizza is very good.”
“You left with that guy.”
“That’s right. I ‘left’ with that guy.”
“You know what I think?”
“About what?”
“About what happened to that model who died?”
“Tell me,” I said.
“I think she didn’t have no heart attack. I think somebody killed her.”
“Any proof of that?”
He shrugged. The phone rang. “Pizza Heaven,” he said into the receiver. I took the opportunity to leave.
I headed in the direction of Scott’s Inn, but found myself detouring toward the gallery I’d stopped in the first night, the one owned by Maurice St. James. It was empty when I arrived, and I stepped inside, causing a tiny bell to sound that I hadn’t heard the first night I was there. I waited for someone to emerge from the back. No one did. ’
Just as well, I thought. I was interested in looking more closely at Joshua Leopold’s artwork without having to make conversation.
I went to the first painting, assumed what I felt was a proper distance to provide perspective, and looked intently at it. As I did, it took shape in the midst of its violent swirls of seemingly random color and slashes of crude black lines. I wasn’t sure what shapes I saw, but there was more than chaos in the work.
I moved to the second painting, a larger vertical one that was more subdued.
As I continued around the room, my appreciation for Joshua Leopold was enhanced. It was almost as though I now understood what he was trying to convey, although I knew those with greater insight would probably consider my reactions sophomoric, at best.
I’d traveled one wall of the large space, and was about to turn the corner to take in the back wall when I heard voices. I paused and held my breath. The voices were male, and came from somewhere behind
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