A Palette for Murder

Table of Contents

 

 

 

For Jessica Fletcher, this nude girl, effortlessly holding a provocative pose, represented a supreme challenge. Somehow Jessica had to capture her youth, her beauty, her aliveness on the piece of blank white paper before her.

 

Little did Jessica suspect that an even greater challenge lay ahead... when Jessica no longer had to try to capture the girl on paper... but instead capture her murderer in a maze of sunlit sin and shadowy guilt, where the first wrong turn could lead to Jessica’s own dead end....

 

 

SIGNET
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, October 1996

Copyright © 1996 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All Rights Reserved.

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

 

 

 

 

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eISBN : 978-1-440-67347-4

 

 

 

 

Jack Pearl
Jack Douglas
Long John Nebel
Hank Caruthers
and
R. H. “Red” Sutherland

“Why does it matter?”

“It matters because good writing always matters,” I said, allowing an involuntary sigh of frustration to escape my lips. “I care about good writing because I am a professional. Readers care about good writing. They expect, and deserve it. That, sir, is why it matters.”

My mini-sermon was met with a vacant stare from the student who’d challenged my criticism of his short story. It was mid-June, and I was teaching a group of young aspiring writers at New York University. Since starting to give these occasional workshops a few years ago, they’d become a regular part of my yearly schedule. I loved doing it—I’ve reached an age where I try to do only things I enjoy—but it could be frustrating at times. This was one of those moments.

My stubborn student was a young man wearing a baseball hat backward. He’d been a thorn in my side for the entire three days, mostly because he talked a better game than he wrote.

He made it obvious on the first day that he considered the writing of murder mystery novels to be a subspecies of literature, beneath his dignity. The first time he cast a disparaging remark about the genre, I asked why, if he felt that way, he was taking my seminar. His reply: “I may want to turn to writing mysteries if I ever get hard up for money.”

I allowed this and other snide comments to slide, but must admit that by this, the third day, my patience was running thin.

“I think it says exactly what I wanted it to say,” he said, referring to the paragraph on which I’d zeroed in.

“Well, Richard, then allow me to read it again aloud. I shall do so very slowly in the hope that you get the point.” I picked up the page on which the paragraph in question was contained and read: “The first thing she noticed upon entering the living room was a large, circular bloodstain in the rug that was in the center.”

I looked at him.

He shrugged.

“Richard, the way you structured this sentence, the reader doesn’t know whether the bloodstain was in the center of the rug, or the rug was in the center of the room. That ambiguity would be cleared up if it read, ‘The first thing she noticed upon entering the living room was a large, circular bloodstain in the center of the rug.’”

He guffawed and looked to his fellow students for support. I was pleased to see he received none.

“I still don’t see why—”

I dropped his paper, picked up another, and began to read from it. I’d had enough of Richard, with his silly-looking hat and arrogant attitude.

The rest of the morning went well, Richard the duly noted exception. Most of the students in the class had been attentive and responsive to my suggestions, and some had brought in copies of my books for me to sign, which I happily did.

I checked the clock on the wall: twelve-thirty. Time for a quick lunch with the dean of NYU’s writing program, and then, hopefully, a quick ride on the jitney to the Hamptons, where I planned to spend the next ten days relaxing after a demanding, frustrating spring.

 

I’d run into problems with my most recent manuscript. Instead of delivering it by March to my publisher, Vaughan Buckley of Buckley House, I didn’t put the finishing touches on it until a week before coming to New York to teach. Vaughan was characteristically gracious about my lateness, but I wasn’t pleased with it. I pride myself on meeting deadlines, and have little patience with writers who don’t share that attitude.

“Sorry for the delay,” I’d said after delivering the manuscript four days ago, and after one of his secretaries had served me tea in Vaughan’s spacious, handsomely appointed office. “I had to rewrite the final third to make it work.”

“No problem,” he said. “I’m sure the delay has resulted in an even better book. So, you’re about to teach another seminar.”

“Yes. And then off to your beloved Hamptons.”

“It’s going to be wonderful having you out there with us, Jess. I apologize again for the timing. If Olga and I had known you planned to take some vacation time after teaching, we wouldn’t have started a major renovation on the house.”

“Don’t give it another thought.”

Vaughan and Olga Buckley, two of my favorite people in the world, have a summer home in the Hamptons. I’d never seen it, but they’d shown me photographs. It was lovely, situated right on the water, with graceful porches affording magnificent views in every direction.

I had mixed emotions, in a sense, about not being able to stay with these dear friends. On the one hand, I always enjoy their company and revel in their fawning over me. Vaughan and Olga Buckley are the perfect host and hostess.

On the other hand, there is something appealing to me about being on my own. Being a houseguest carries with it certain obligations and restrictions.

Actually, the situation in the Hamptons represented the best of both worlds. I would be staying at a lovely inn, chosen by the Buckleys, but would be within minutes of their home. Having it both ways.

Vaughan escorted me to the elevator. “Teach good, Jess,” he said. “Don’t let those kids put anything over on you.”