Manhattans & Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Mrs. Fletcher, you just keep answering my questions.”

  I stiffened. “I don’t you see why this should be a one-way street,” I said. “I think I have a right to ask questions of my own.”

  I detected a slight smile on the stenographer’s lips, and was glad Rizzi hadn’t. His response was slow in coming. “Mrs. Fletcher, you seem like a very nice lady, and I know you’re a famous writer and all that. You’re probably down here in New York having a good time publicizing your new book, and you probably look at guys like me as though we’re dirtbags.”

  “Dirtbags?”

  “Yeah. Maybe not as good as you and the people you hang out with. Emily, my wife, sometimes sees me that way. She’s a WASP. She grew up in Jersey where the worst thing ever happened was the garbage man didn’t put the cover back on the can. She meets me, an Italian from Brooklyn, and falls in love because she never met an Italian from Brooklyn before. All she knew were wimpy guys from Jersey. My mother-in-law, Mrs. Wilson, looks at me funny, too.”

  “I don’t know why she would,” I said, wanting to make him feel better. “Do you always call your mother-in-law Mrs. Wilson?”

  “Yeah. She told me to. She went along with the marriage because she didn’t have a choice, but she told me to always call her Mrs. Wilson.”

  “You don’t sound especially fond of her,” I said.

  “What’s to be fond of? She looks down her nose at everybody, especially me, but I have to put up with it. I mean, she is my wife’s mother.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  He stood, his face hard. “Just to let you know, Mrs. Fletcher, that I’m not what you probably think I am. I know a lot about a lot of things. I know my wines, and I spend a lot of time in museums. You know much about art? You ever hear of Domenikos Theotokopoulos?” He didn’t give me a chance to say that I hadn’t. “That was El Greco’s real name. I like Matisse and Chagall, but I never did like the Cubists. What’s your favorite wine?” Again, no time for an answer. “I prefer the softer Burgundies of the cotes de Beaune, and I find a Puligny Montrachet satisfying at certain times.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “You see, Mrs. Fletcher, people like you and Mrs. Wilson underestimate people like me, which can be good because it gives me an edge.”

  I looked into his black eyes and tried to fathom the psychology behind what he was saying. He was obviously a man who felt there were two worlds—his, and a much larger one made up of people who scorned him. Sad, I thought. I also reminded myself that what he’d said was undoubtedly true. He was a man who always looked for the edge and used it, especially with people “like me.”

  “So you knew this Waldo Morse. Did you talk to him? Before he was killed, I mean.”

  “Yes. The day before.”

  “The day before?”

  “That’s when I first recognized and approached him. He told me to come back the next day at two. I did, and he was murdered. That’s why I was there and saw it happen.”

  “Did you talk to him yesterday, just before he was shot?”

  I shook my head.

  “What did you talk about the day before?”

  “Nothing.” I looked across the table at a stone-faced Rizzi, and my resolve waned. I drew a breath and said, “Again, may I ask what name he was carrying.”

  “No. Witness protection program? You say this guy was in it?”

  “That’s my understanding.”

  “We’ll check the Feds on that. What else can you tell me?”

  I pursed my lips. “Nothing. Is there anything further you can tell me, Detective Rizzi?” I glanced at the stenographer.

  “You’re going to be in New York for a while?” Rizzi asked.

  “Yes. Through New Year’s Eve.”

  “Good. Tell you what, Mrs. Fletcher. You go on promoting your book, and I’ll go on trying to solve this murder. Give me a call now and then. If I think it’s okay, I’ll tell you how I’m doing. Fair enough?”

  “I suppose it has to be. Am I free to go?”

  “You were always free to go. I didn’t cuff you, did I?”

  “You also didn’t tell me I didn’t have to come with you this morning. I’m afraid there are a lot of people at that bookstore who have been disappointed. So is a rako talk show host who’s sitting in his studio at this moment reading from the Manhattan phone book.” Rizzi’s expression said that if anything in this world concerned him, disappointed book buyers and radio hosts were not on the list.

  He escorted me from the room. As we passed through the squad room, he was stopped by a uniformed officer who said, “You got a call, Al. It’s the Feds about the Marsh case.”

  Marsh? Feds? Could he be talking about Waldo Morse, who’d perhaps changed his name to Marsh? I would have assumed that anyone in a witness protection program would go further afield in choosing a new name—Symington, or Wolinoski, or Buttafucco—but that represented only my logic.

  Marsh. I kept that name with me as Rizzi took me to the door. I extended my hand; he took it with uncertainty “I hope your wife enjoys the book, Detective Rizzi.”

  “She will. Thanks.”

  “And Mrs. Wilson, too. Have a nice day.”

  “It’ll be a lot nicer when you find that film.”

  It had grown sharply colder. I looked up into a low sky the color of lead and pulled my coat collar up around my neck to shield against a brisk wind. It looked, and smelled, like snow.

  The film!

  Who could have taken the roll of film?

  Vaughan or Olga Buckley? No.

  Their housekeeper, Gina? Unlikely.

  Someone at Dastardly Acts? Possibly.

  But why?

  Maybe it fell out of my purse when leaving the bookstore.

  Maybe ... maybe lots of things.

  I reached the corner and looked down at a homeless man who’d established himself on a grate. He’d spread out cardboard and had wrapped himself in a heavy blanket, his possessions in shopping bags at his side. He looked up and extended a hand. “Just money to eat, lady. I don’t drink.”

  As I handed him a dollar bill, I was able to look closely at his face. What I saw were Waldo Morse’s eyes—frightened, defeated, life drained from them.

  Poor man, I thought as I spotted a cab discharging a passenger a half block away. I ran for it and said to the driver through the open back door, “I’m going to the Dakota apartments.”

  He barked that he was off-duty and told me to close the door. I did and he drove off, leaving me with a distinctly bitter taste in my mouth. It wasn’t so much from tasting too many plates of New York taxi drivers. I could deal with that, as unpleasant as it might be.

  It was the death of Waldo Morse that was upsetting me.

  I knew one thing for certain.

  I had to find out the real story.

  Chapter Nine

  The press was camped outside the Dakota when I arrived. I waved off their questions and went to the apartment where Gina polished silver.

  “Did the Buckleys leave messages for me?” I asked.

  “Sí,” she said, handing me a yellow ruled legal pad containing a number of entries. The one I immediately responded to was a call from Seth Hazlitt.

  “Where have you been?” he asked.

  “Where I said I was going to be, at the—no, that isn’t true. My appearances at the bookstore and the radio interview were canceled. I’ve been with the police.”

  “I already know that, Jessica. The all-news station from Bangor just ran an item sayin’ you’d been arrested.”

  “I wasn’t arrested, Seth. They just wanted to ask me some questions.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Back at the apartment. I’m fine. The police were very nice to me.”

  “If you say so. Looks like your memory is pretty good, Jess.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Rememberin’ the name Joe Charles. He’s a local boy.”

  “He is?”

&
nbsp; “Ayuh, except Joe Charles wasn’t his name when he was growin’ up here. He’s Flo Johnson’s boy from up north of town. Called him Junior. Remember?”

  “Flo Johnson. Yes, I do remember she had a son they called Junior. Junior Johnson. That’s Joe Charles?”

  “Sure is.”

  “But why would the name Joe Charles ring a bell if I knew him as Junior Johnson?”

  “ ’Cause when he became a musician, he changed his name to Joe Charles. He had a band that used to work in these parts.”

  “Now I remember. Is he still in Cabot Cove?”

  “Nope. Not much work for a musician here, so seems he headed for the big city, Los Angeles first. His mother says he ended up in New York.”

  “As a musician? Performing under the name Joe Charles?”

  “She isn’t certain about that. Seems the boy doesn’t have much contact with her. Just like young people these days, leave your roots and forget they’re still planted. Not hard to pick up a phone, drop a postcard to your mother once in a while. At any rate, Jess, he might be the same Joe Charles that came over your answering machine.”

  “Seth, this has been extremely helpful. Anything else?”

  “Nope, ‘cept Mort got a nice letter from Parker Brothers this mornin’ ’bout his board game. Seems like they’re interested.”

  “That’s wonderful. He must be thrilled.”

  “Not so’s you’d notice.”

  Our sheriff had been working on a murder mystery board game for years. Every time he thought he had it ready to submit, one of us would come up with another flaw and he’d start over. Two months ago he decided he’d made enough changes and announced he was sending it off to Parker Brothers.

  “I have to run, Seth. Lots to do. Thanks again.”

  “If I was you, Jessica Fletcher, I’d pack my bags and come back home. New York City’s bad enough without you witnessin’ murders and endin’ up a news item on the radio like some common criminal.”

  “You know something, Seth, I just might do that. But not right away. Plans still proceeding for the New Year’s Eve party?”

  “Sure are. The only thing lackin’ will be Jessica Fletcher. You think about what I said.”

  “I promise I will. Congratulate Mort for me.”

  I perused other messages on the page. Three were from Ruth Lazzara asking me to call the minute I returned. There were calls from media, including a London tabloid anxious to interview me because I’d been involved there a year ago investigating the murder of a dear friend, the grande dame of mystery writing, Marjorie Ainsworth.

  I called Ruth Lazzara. Her assistant told me there had been a change in schedule that afternoon. Originally, there were only two interviews, one with Publishers Weekly, the “Bible” of the publishing industry, the other with the Village Voice. Now, they’d sandwiched in four more.

  “Impossible,” I told her. “I made it clear that I need some time for myself during this trip. I don’t want to be uncooperative but ... ”

  “I’ll have Ms. Lazzara call you.”

  Did I dare skip out? Obviously, I would honor the two interviews that had originally been arranged, but if I didn’t know the specifics of the others, I couldn’t very well show up.

  I put on my coat and headed for the door. “Please tell the Buckleys I’ll be back sometime this evening, Gina, but not to plan on me for dinner.”

  “Sí, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  I heard the phone ring and paused at the door to listen to the incoming message. It was Ruth Lazzara. She sounded positively frantic.

  My Publishers Weekly interview was at three, and the Village Voice reporter was to meet me at Buckley House at six. They could count on me. The others could wait.

  There was something else I had to do.

  Local 802, the New York office of the American Federation of Musicians, was located far west on Forty-second Street. There was a lot of activity in a large room at the end of a hallway. A hundred people, musicians I assumed, milled about in what appeared to be a shape-up hall. I scanned the crowd for someone who looked official, and who might direct me to member records. Before I succeeded, a paunchy little man wearing a shirt opened to his belly, and sporting Fort Knox around his neck and on his fingers came up to me. “You a singer?” he asked.

  “Me? Heavens, no.”

  “You sure you don’t sing. I need a singer tonight at Roseland.”

  “I’m afraid I’m no singer. Only in the shower, and pretty bad at that.”

  “You got a costume? Play maracas, cowbell?”

  “Excuse me,” I said, walking to a desk in the corner at which a sullen gentleman sat. “Excuse me, sir, I’m trying to locate a musician.”

  “You come to the right place.” He grinned and took in the men and women on the floor with outstretched arms.

  “I don’t want to hire a musician. I’m trying to locate a certain individual. Where would member records be?”

  “Upstairs.”

  The woman in charge of member records was middle-aged and pleasant. I told her I was anxious to contact a musician who worked under the name Joe Charles.

  “Why do you want to find him?” she asked.

  She was obviously concerned I might be a process server, or from a collection agency. “Nothing bad, I can assure you,” I said. “He comes from my home-town in Maine. I have good news for him.”

  That seemed to satisfy her. She went to a large bank of file drawers, pulled out a folder, and returned to her desk. “Let’s see,” she said. “Yes. Joe Charles is a paid-up member.” She placed the folder in front of me. I took the address and phone number from it, thanked her, and left the building, my heart pounding. Things had worked quickly and smoothly. Here I was with the address and phone number of the person I assumed had been referred to me by my mystery caller. Good old Seth. He’d really come through for me, as he usually did.

  Junior Johnson, a.k.a. Joe Charles, lived on Crosby Street, of which I’d never heard. I had no idea where in Manhattan it was, but assumed cab drivers would know. I was wrong. The first two drivers shook their heads and said they didn’t know any Crosby Street. I suggested to the second that he consult his map: “No map, no map,” he said, speeding off. I was luckier with the third, an older man who was nicely dressed, and who actually seemed to display pride in being a taxi driver who knew his city.

  “Not a very nice neighborhood you’re going to,” he said, activating the meter.

  “It won’t be a problem in daylight, will it?” “No, but it’s not my favorite part of New York. Just keep your eyes open.”

  I sat back in his refreshingly clean cab and watched the city slide by. It had started to snow. Fine, delicate flakes swirled about the windows and gave me a sense of security. Maybe that’s why they call it a blanket of snow. I’ve always liked it when it snows in Cabot Cove. I love the crackling wood and aroma from the fireplace, the crunch beneath my feet when I walk outside, the pristine tranquility it drapes over the town. Would it snow enough to accomplish the same thing for me in Manhattan? I’d never been in New York City when it snowed. Another life experience.

  We stopped for a light at the intersection of Bowery and Houston streets where two disheveled men rubbed dirty rags on the windshield despite my driver’s attempts to wave them away. Another man, tottering from alcohol, knocked on my window and shook a paper cup at me.

  “Sorry about that, ma’am,” the driver said as the light changed and he pulled away.

  “I feel sorry for them,” I said. “I was thinking how pleased I was to see the snow, but I’m sure they aren’t happy about it.”

  We pulled up in front of a beautiful old office building at the north end of Crosby Street, at the comer of Bleecker. I said to the driver, “What unusual architecture.”

  He replied, “I’m really not up on architecture, ma’am, but I do know this building was designed by someone named Louis Sullivan. Pretty famous in his day.”

  “I feel better already,” I said.

  �
��Why?”

  “I know this isn’t a very nice neighborhood, but if a lovely building like this can survive here, it can’t be all bad.”

  He drove off, leaving me to admire the twelve-story building with its terra-cotta leafy designs that drew the eye to six angels above the cornice, their wings outspread as though to welcome visitors.

  The address I’d been given at the musicians union was two doors up from the office building. It looked like a warehouse or factory. Why would someone live in a factory? I wondered. I heard music coming from inside—dissonant, loud, grating electronic sounds that had the quality of long fingernails dragged across a blackboard.

  I went up a few steps and stood at the front door, which was slightly ajar. Doorbells had been attached to the side of the door but the wires connecting them had been cut and dangled free.

  I looked back at the street. The delicate flakes had turned fatter and wetter, which usually meant to us in Maine that the snowfall would not continue as long as if the flakes remained small and dry. But maybe rules of nature like that didn’t apply in New York City. I pushed open the door and stepped into a large foyer. The walls were covered with graffiti, much of it patently offensive. The music was louder now, and came from above.

  Startled by the sound of heavy shoes on a metal staircase, I looked up and saw a young man round the comer and continue toward me. He wore high military boots, shorts, and a purple-and-yellow Day-Glo tank top. His long hair was tied in a ponytail.

  “Excuse me,” I said. He stopped. “I’m looking for an old friend of mine, a musician named Joe Charles.”

  “Upstairs, third floor. His name is on the door.” He turned and was gone. Shorts in this weather? Maybe I was missing something.

  I slowly ascended the stairs, my heels clanging on the metal with each step. As I got higher, the volume of the music increased. It came from behind the door on which “JOE CHARLES” had been scribbled on a piece of cardboard. I’d never heard such music before. I call it music because the alternative was to label it “sounds from a construction site.”