Free A Palette for Murder by Jessica Fletcher

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.
    The sudden death of a nude model at a sketch class conducted by local artist and teacher, Carlton Wells, was shock enough. But among students in the class sketching Miki Dorsey’s nakedness was none other than famed, best-selling murder mystery writer Jessica Fletcher, vacationing in the Hamptons as a guest of her publisher and his wife, Vaughan and Olga Buckley.
    This reporter managed an exclusive interview with Mrs. Fletcher shortly after the tragic event. During it, Fletcher told me that rumors of falling sales of her books were false, and that she had taken up painting because “I wanted to create pretty things.”
    In a related matter, a sketch of a nude male model done by Fletcher during the ill-fated class was stolen and offered for sale to Dan’s Papers. Dan Rattiner, owner and publisher of Dan’s Papers, expressed outrage at the proposed sale of the sketch, which clearly belonged to Mrs. Fletcher, and declined. Then, at a party at this newspaper’s offices, someone walked away with the sketch. It is currently alleged that whoever took the sketch is offering it for sale for one thousand dollars.
    This reporter, at Mrs. Fletcher’s invitation, is working closely with her not only to recover her sketch, but to investigate whether the sudden death of Miki Dorsey was not the result of a heart attack, or other natural cause. The results of an autopsy on Ms. Dorsey have not, as yet, been released.
    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