Manhattans & Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  Waldo attended a junior college for a year, maybe two, and stayed in Cabot Cove. He married a girl he’d dated in high school, and they quickly had two children. It wasn’t easy for me to remember these details because I had never been a personal friend of Waldo and Nancy Morse. In fact, I only saw them once every couple of months in a store, or when passing in a car, and had virtually no firsthand knowledge of their life together. But there was the powerful Cabot Cove gossip mill that ensured that no one could ever live a truly private life there.

  While taking marine biology courses in the junior college, Waldo had become fascinated with the sea and signed on as a hand on local lobster boats that left each morning from the town dock. Then, if memory serves, he bought his own lobster boat and moved south to picturesque, touristy Ogunquit, where I was told he became a relatively successful fisherman. It struck me as strange at the time because Nancy and the kids remained in Cabot Cove. His decision to move to Ogunquit had something to do, as I recall, with less competition there. But the real reason, according to more credible informants, was that Waldo and Nancy weren’t getting along. That version proved out when the divorce came, evidently an amicable one because Waldo returned to Cabot Cove on a regular basis to visit his family.

  While we kept up with Waldo Morse’s life through the grapevine, one aspect of it suddenly became public knowledge, not only in Cabot Cove but in all of Maine, and undoubtedly beyond. He was arrested in Ogunquit and charged with drug smuggling.

  According to newspaper accounts—embellished by those who claimed to have the “straight scoop”—Waldo had allowed his lobster boat to be used by drug runners from the Caribbean and Florida. These dealers would place narcotics in watertight containers in Waldo’s lobster traps—lobster “cars”—to be picked up later by Waldo and delivered to other members of the drug ring somewhere in Maine. Most of the drugs ended up in Boston, said the reports, although that was never confirmed.

  It was anticipated that Waldo would receive a stiff jail sentence. But a deal was struck. He turned state’s evidence in return for immunity and a place in the Federal Witness Protection Program. The trial ended, the major figures were convicted and sentenced to long prison terms, and Waldo vanished.

  That was the last I’d heard of him until that fateful afternoon on Fifth Avenue.

  Waldo’s wife, Nancy, was a clean-cut, rosy-cheeked, and energetic young blonde who’d been a popular cheerleader in high school. A good mother, it was said, and a woman who kept a low profile in Cabot Cove. After Waldo became a prosecution witness, there was natural and justifiable concern for the safety of Nancy and her children. But nothing happened to them, and those fears eventually dissipated.

  Some of my friends speculated that because Waldo had lived in Ogunquit and was divorced, the drug dealers with whom he’d become involved never knew he had a family in Cabot Cove. If that was true, Nancy Morse and the kids were fortunate. From what I’d always heard, people involved in the drug world don’t differentiate between women, children, and husband-informants.

  Nancy and the kids stayed in Cabot Cove after Waldo’s submersion into the famous but flawed witness protection program. The kids continued in school, and she ran her home and life quietly

  I suffered a sudden chill and walked to the center of the living room. Would the police know that Waldo had been in the witness protection program, and as a result simply bury him without notifying anyone?

  What a horrible contemplation. Nancy Morse certainly should be made aware of her husband’s demise. My shoulders felt heavy as I realized I might be the only person in a position to break that sorry news to her. But I resolved not to let that happen. I would call Detective Rizzi first thing in the morning and demand that an official notification of his death be delivered to the family. But then I wondered if notifying Nancy Morse that her husband had been murdered would place her and her children in jeopardy? How did the witness protection program work? Were the families of such individuals taken care of, informed of death, counseled, given some sort of insurance proceeds to help them continue with their lives? These questions, and many more, were gnawing at me when Vaughan Buckley turned his key in the door and stepped into the apartment.

  “Jessica. I didn’t think you’d be back so early.”

  “I didn’t think I would, either.”

  He made himself a drink and settled across the coffee table from me. “Oh, before I forget,” he said, pulling a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket. “My secretary took this message for you. ‘Joe Charles. Tell Jessica Fletcher that Joe Charles will know. ’ ”

  “What does it mean?” I asked.

  Vaughan laughed. “Beats me, but that’s exactly what the message was. ‘Joe Charles. Tell Jessica Fletcher that Joe Charles will know.’ ”

  “Who left the message?”

  “According to my secretary, the caller hung up without giving his name.”

  Until then, I hadn’t said anything to Vaughan about Waldo Morse. But I wanted to share it with someone. Because Vaughan sat in front of me, he became the obvious choice. I told him everything that had happened since first spotting Waldo.

  “That’s a remarkable story, Jess,” Vaughan said. “You know nothing about his life after the trial ended?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing. Obviously, he ended up in New York, and at the time of his death was playing Santa Claus on the street.”

  “It sounds like these people he turned in got even,” Vaughan said.

  “That would seem the logical explanation, although I learned years ago to not always accept logical explanations, especially where murder is involved. My major concern is that his family be properly notified. Do you think the police will do that?”

  “If they know who he is.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking. Someone in the witness protection program would have false identity. I can’t imagine Waldo carrying anything to indicate that he has a family back in Cabot Cove. In fact, I’d be surprised if he didn’t take special steps to see that they were never linked to him.”

  “What do you know about his family?” Vaughan asked.

  “Not much. His wife and children are still there, but once Waldo left, he became an unknown person.

  “Any idea of his life here in New York, aside from playing Santa on a street comer?” Vaughan asked.

  “No, but I think I have an obligation to find out.”

  Vaughan smiled. “You can’t resist getting involved in this sort of thing, can you?”

  “I don’t think it’s a matter of satisfying personal needs. But yes, I do have a certain fascination with murder. You and my readers should appreciate that.”

  Vaughan stretched and stood. “All I can say, Jess, is go slow and be careful. The witness protection program is a strange world, filled with bad people and even worse motives. Sure you just don’t want to forget it, finish up promoting your book and head back to Cabot Cove to start your next one for us?”

  I sighed. “The idea is tempting, but I have to find out what happened. I won’t burden you and Olga. Would you prefer that I move into a hotel? That would give me more freedom and ...”

  “Freedom? You make us sound like jailers. You can come and go as you please. If Olga and I can be of any help, including this Waldo Morse business, just yell. We’re both very fond of you, Jess.”

  The dogs, Sadie and Rose, came to my chair, one on each side, and placed their chins on my lap. I rubbed them in the groove between their eyes.

  “Looks like they’re fond of you, too,” Vaughan said.

  I stood and said, “The look in Waldo’s eyes the first time I saw him was like a frightened, tired dog that’s been on the run for a long time. Thank you for being such a good friend, Vaughan. I think I’ll take a bath and get dressed. We are having dinner out again, I assume. Not good for my commitment to a slimmer waistline.”

  “Indulge yourself while you’re here, Jess. Once you’re back in Cabot Cove, you can diet all you want. When you’re our guest in New York,
indulgence is expected.”

  I laughed. “The problem is I’m about to indulge myself in investigating the murder of a former drug runner turned Santa Claus. While that might not put weight on me, it certainly weighs heavy. See you in an hour.”

  Chapter Six

  We had dinner in a private room of a Japanese restaurant called Nippon. The presentation of the food was beautiful, and some of the dishes, especially something called Sake Kawayaki—smoked salmon skin soaked in sake and broiled to crisp perfection—were delicious to this pedestrian palate. But not to the extent of abandoning my love of lobster cookouts, homemade biscuits, corn-on-the-cob, and blueberry pie.

  We sat on silk cushions on the floor (more suited to a younger person’s vertebrae), and were joined around the black-lacquered table by another of Buckley House’s authors, Harrison Libby, and his wife, Zelda. Mr. Libby had written a book in which he traced the sexual lineage of four-legged animals to us two-legged species. He had flowing white hair, wore jeans and a sari, and was inordinately fond of four-letter words. Zelda claimed to be an interior decorator; her choice of makeup and clothing did little to instill in me any faith in her ability to create a harmonious setting. Still, it was an interesting evening, but could have ended sooner.

  To be honest, the real problem with dinner was me. As hard as I tried to focus on what Libby and his wife were saying, I had trouble shifting gears and setting aside Waldo Morse for longer than minutes at a time. Had I not thought it rude, I would have taken out a pad and pencil, and made notes about how I intended to initiate my investigation. I just hoped that time and the sake would not cause me to forget what I’d been thinking during dinner. The minute I returned to the apartment, I went to my room and wrote down every thought I could resurrect.

  Had it been earlier, I would have called my physician friend in Cabot Cove, Seth Hazlitt. The message Vaughan had given me, that someone named Joe Charles would know, intrigued me. I might not have thought anything of it except that the name rang a distant bell. For some reason I connected it with Cabot Cove, although I couldn’t put my finger on why. Seth, who prided himself on remembering everything about the people of the town, might have a better recollection than mine. But I didn’t want to awaken him. Most people in Cabot Cove go to bed early and get up even earlier. The call would have to wait until morning.

  As far as I knew (and any knowledge I had was only hearsay), Waldo’s wife and children had not been financially deprived by his entrance into the witness protection program. I’d heard from the mailman, local merchants, and others in Cabot Cove that they seemed to be quite comfortable. A large addition had been put on the house, a new cherry red Volvo station wagon and a black-and-gold Jeep Wrangler sat in the driveway, and the mailman regularly delivered videotapes, compact discs, and books from clubs to which Nancy belonged. Did the authorities who managed the witness protection program take especially good care of the families of people involved in it? That was one of the things I hoped to find out.

  Where had Waldo lived in New York City? He’d played Santa Claus, which meant someone had to have hired him. But he’d likely used another name because of the need for his underground existence. What identification was on his person when he was shot? I should have asked, another question to raise with Detective Rizzi.

  Had Waldo been in contact with his wife and children once he’d turned state’s evidence? I wasn’t aware that he had, although that didn’t prove anything. Maybe there were channels through which people in his circumstances maintained a relationship with family. Nancy Morse would be the best source of information about that.

  I thought of his parents, but recalled that both had died in a fire at the motel. It was now a fast-food outlet.

  My list was growing too long, each question leading to at least two others. I decided the best thing was a good night’s sleep, provided my mind would indulge me that luxury.

  I announced through a series of yawns that I was going to bed, but I’d taken only a few steps toward my room when the phone rang.

  “At this hour?” Olga Buckley said.

  Vaughan answered, listened intently, then glanced in my direction. “It’s for you, Jessica.”

  Who would be calling me? Not many people knew I was there. I’d left the address and phone number with Seth and Morton Metzger in Cabot Cove, but there was no need for anyone else to have it because all my arrangements in New York were handled through Buckley House.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Mrs. Fletcher. Bobby Johnson from the Post.”

  “How did you ... ?” My prophecy had been fulfilled.

  “Did you see the story?” he asked.

  “What story?”

  “About the Santa Claus murder. It’s in the edition that just came out.”

  “No, I have not seen it.”

  “It wasn’t easy getting a good photo of you, but I think the one we went with looks okay.”

  “Photo? Of me? Why would you—how dare you run my picture.”

  “Hey, Mrs. Fletcher, I know a big one when I see it. There’s no sense in us being on opposite sides in this thing. Play ball with me, and we’ll both make out good.”

  “I have nothing further to say until I see the story. Thank you for telling me about it.”

  “My pleasure. By the way, I’ve done a little digging. Looks to me like it might have been a drug hit.”

  I was speechless. Had he pierced the veil of secrecy surrounding Waldo? Did he know about the trial, about Waldo turning state’s evidence, about having entered the witness protection program and disappearing for all these years? If so, he was an even better reporter than I’d given him credit for. No, more than that. He was world-class.

  It struck me that I could benefit from staying in touch with him, as unpleasant a contemplation as that was. I knew very little about New York City; he obviously knew a great deal. “Mr. Johnson,” I said, “I’ll look at the story, and then perhaps we can talk. How do I reach you?”

  He gave me numbers at the Post and at home. “Call any time, day or night, Mrs. Fletcher. I swiped a copy of your latest novel from our book reviewer’s desk. Looks like you’re about to get a million dollars worth of publicity Hope your publisher appreciates it.”

  “I ... good night, Mr. Johnson.” I turned to Vaughan and Olga. “That was a reporter from the New York Post,” I said. “They’ve done a story about Waldo Morse’s murder and used a picture of me.”

  Vaughan put on his coat, “I’ll run out and get a copy,” he said. “Be back in a few minutes.”

  Ten minutes later he stood in the doorway holding up a copy of the paper. Most of the front page was taken up with the photograph of me. An insert in the lower right-hand corner was a picture of a very dead Santa Claus. The headline in large type read: “SANTA DEAD.” A smaller headline beneath it said: “DRUG DEALERS RUB OUT KRIS KRINGLE. XMAS CANCELED.”

  Beneath my picture was the caption: “Famed murder mystery writer Jessica Fletcher, who witnessed the slaughter on Fifth Avenue, is reported to have photographed the entire event and will devote her yuletide New York holiday to solving this brutal, distinctly unseasonable crime.”

  Chapter Seven

  Once the initial shock of the Post’s front page had passed, I sat down with Vaughan and Olga to read the story that took up all of Page Three and jumped to another page deeper inside. Initially, I think, Vaughan found the situation somewhat amusing. But then when he read that I was staying with my publisher and his wife in their “palatial” apartment in the Dakota, the bemused smile on his lips turned to a hard line. “We’ll be inundated with press and curiosity seekers,” he muttered.

  “I’m sorry about this, Vaughan,” I said. “I hope you know I didn’t tell the reporter I was staying here.”

  “Of course you didn’t. The question is, how do we handle this?”

  I said, “I think I should move to a hotel.”

  “What good will that do?” Olga asked. “They’ll find you wherever you go.”
r />   “Yes, but the burden won’t be on you.”

  “Absolutely not,” Vaughan said. He paced the large room. “We’ll gut this out together. Besides, as long as it’s happened, we all have to admit it will help sell your book.”

  I felt a twinge of resentment. He was right, of course, but I wished he hadn’t seen it that way.

  “I suggest we all try to get some sleep,” Olga said. “Looks like it could be a busy day tomorrow.”

  The phone rang.

  “Or tonight,” Vaughan said, answering. It was a local radio station wanting to interview me. Vaughan cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and told me the nature of the call, his eyebrows arched into question marks. I shook my head. “Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher isn’t available at the moment,” he said.

  The phone rang again. And again. All media, and all wanting interviews with me.

  “This is horrendous,” I said. “I cannot subject you to this. Have your publicity people find me a secure hotel tomorrow.”

  Olga protested again, but Vaughan held up his hand. “Maybe Jessica is right, Olga. Not for our sake, of course, but she might feel better handling this in the impersonal atmosphere of a hotel suite. We’ll talk about it in the morning.” He put on the answering machine, smiled smugly, and said, “You can call them back tomorrow, Jess—if you choose to.”

  I lay on my bed stiff as a board, eyes wide open, ears picking up the ring of the telephone and the faint sound of Vaughan’s voice informing callers that the phone couldn’t or wouldn’t be answered at the moment. “Leave your message after the beep and ...”

  I needed sleep. But when I was still awake at four the next morning, I gave up, clicked on the light next to the bed, and sat against the pink tufted headboard. Seth Hazlitt usually got up a little after five. He wouldn’t be too upset—would he?—getting started an hour earlier. He answered on the first ring, the result of years of calls at odd hours from pregnant women about to deliver.