Manhattans & Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  I knocked. Whoever was inside certainly wouldn’t hear me above the level of the music. This time, I banged on the door with the fleshy portion of my hand. The music stopped. “Who is it?” a man yelled.

  “A friend of Waldo Morse,” I shouted back.

  Although I couldn’t see inside the room, I had the feeling that the person in it, presumably Joe Charles, was debating whether to respond. I waited what I thought was an appropriate amount of time, then raised my hand again and was prepared to knock when the door opened. Facing me was a short, chubby young man, but old enough to have seen much of his hair recede. His round face was covered with stubble, and his pale blue eyes had a watery quality to them. He wore coveralls over a bare torso. Rubber thongs were on feet in need of a bath.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your practice,” I said pleasantly, “but I came here about something pretty important. My name is Jessica Fletcher. I’m from Cabot Cove, Maine, and ...”

  “Sure, the mystery writer. My mother knew you, didn’t she?”

  “Mrs. Johnson? Yes, I know your mother. Not well, but I certainly remember that she had a son everyone called ‘Junior,’ and who became quite a musician under the name Joe Charles. That is you, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “You said you were a friend of Waldo Morse. Why did you say that?”

  “Well, I might not have been a close friend, but I was a witness to his murder. You probably read about that in the paper.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t read the papers. Maybe Rolling Stone, Downbeat. Sure, I heard what happened to Waldo. A real bummer.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Yes, I suppose it was a bummer, as you say. May I come in?”

  He’d been cordial, but there was now conflict written on his face. “I promise I won’t take much of your time,” I said, “but it is important that I speak with you.”

  He stepped back to allow me to enter.

  The room was very large; furniture was obviously not on the list of priorities. A mattress with a flowered sheet was on the floor in one corner. His clothing, what there was of it, hung from hooks along a wall. The kitchen was part of the main room, a small sink, stove and refrigerator tucked into a corner. There was a door which, I assumed, led to the bathroom. All of this was contained in the north end of the room.

  The southern end was chockablock with musical instruments. There was a rack on which four keyboards of different sizes were mounted. A set of drums sat in a corner. A large instrument that appeared to be a marimba stood in front of the drums. Another rack, from which bells, tubes, and wooden sticks dangled, was in the center of the area. A computer completed the paraphernalia.

  “I’ve never seen so many instruments in one place,” I said.

  “I use .them all sometimes,”

  “Do you use them outside of the apartment? You must need a truck to take them to work.”

  “Sometimes. I have a couple of groupies who help me.

  “Groupies? Women who follow you around?”

  He smiled. “Yeah. Fem Lib at work. As long as they’re going to hang around, they might as well make themselves useful.”

  “That’s pragmatic,” I said. I looked around the room. “May I sit down?”

  “Okay.” He pointed to a black hydraulic chair in front of the rack of keyboards, pulled a plastic milk crate from the kitchen, and sat on it, facing me. “Who told you about me?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. That sounds silly. Someone left an anonymous message with my publisher in which you were mentioned. I checked friends back home, and they reminded me about you. The message said you would know.”

  “Know what?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. I must admit, I’m very confused about Waldo. I remember when he got into all that trouble in Cabot Cove.”

  “Ogunquit,” Charles corrected me.

  “Yes. Ogunquit. Have you been in touch with Waldo since he went into the witness protection program?”

  “A little. Not much.”

  “Had he been in New York City all this time?”

  A shake of the head. “No, Waldo was relocated—I think that’s what they call it—he was relocated out in Colorado.”

  “Did you know him when he was there?”

  “I knew him from Cabot Cove, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Of course. You lost all contact with Waldo while he was in Colorado?”

  “Yup. We were never real good friends in Maine. We hung around a little together. I was into music, he was a football player, but we got along. I remember the last conversation I had with him there. He told me he was marrying Nancy. I told him I thought he was nuts.”

  “Nuts? To marry Nancy?”

  “To marry anybody. He was a young guy. I felt trapped in Cabot Cove and couldn’t wait to get out, but he seemed to want to keep himself in that trap, get married, have kids, try to make a living there.”

  “So you went to Los Angeles to find fame and fortune.”

  It was a gentle, self-effacing laugh. “I’m afraid I didn’t find much of that in L.A. Kind of ironic, Mrs. Fletcher. I gave Waldo a lecture about staying single, but six months after I get to L.A., I meet a chick and marry her. It lasted almost a year.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No big deal. We didn’t have any kids, so when we split, nobody got hurt. She was okay. I still talk to her once in a while if she’s in New York, or I make it out to the West Coast.”

  I stopped asking questions and glanced toward windows that overlooked Crosby Street. It was snowing harder now; a strong wind rattled the panes.

  “Want a cup of coffee or something?” he asked.

  “That would be lovely. I prefer tea.”

  “I have to go get it. Only be a minute.”

  “Please, don’t bother. I thought you had it here.”

  “There’s a Korean deli up the street. Want something to eat? A donut? Candy bar?”

  “No, thank you. Just tea will be fine. A little milk.” I watched him put on a green army surplus overcoat that reached his ankles, and a black stocking cap. “Can I buy?” I asked.

  “If you want to. I’m a little short of cash. I have a gig tomorrow night.”

  I handed him a five-dollar bill. He thanked me, left, and I heard the sound of his feet on the metal stairs.

  I stood and surveyed the room with more scrutiny than when I’d first entered. Junior Johnson, alias Joe Charles, had certainly been open enough with me. I liked him. He had a way about him that was appealing. He was probably not the best of sons, judging from his lack of communication with his mother, but who was I to pass judgment about something like that?

  I went to the rack of keyboard instruments from which tiny red lights shone. I touched a key and an eerie, wailing, earsplitting scream came back at me from large speakers. Whatever happened to a good old acoustic piano? I wondered as I took a closer look at the other instruments. I picked up a mallet off the marimba and ran it across a set of wooden chimes that hung from the other rack. The sound was Oriental, or Middle Eastern, and pleasant. I did it again but wondered if I might be disturbing others in the building. I put the mallet down and smiled. If Joe Charles hadn’t been disturbing others in the building when I arrived, no one ever would.

  I perused the rest of the room. As I was looking at a photograph over the mattress of him performing with a musical group, the door to the bathroom slowly opened. Every muscle in my body tensed, and I braced. Then, I looked down and saw a large, fat, black-and-white cat come through the now open door and rub against the edge of it.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and said the sort of silly things we always say to cats. True to its nature, the cat looked at me, then walked away with its back arched, stepped up onto the mattress, stretched, and curled into a ball.

  I peeked in the bathroom. One of those portable plastic shower enclosures was in a comer. A chipped white-enamel sink was stained with rust. Beneath the sink was a low cardboard box that functioned as a litter box. Strips of newspaper li
ned its bottom. I leaned forward to better see the ripped-up newsprint. Looking back at me was an eye; my eye. One of the strips had been torn in such a way that my eye from the front page of the Post was visible. Other strips from that same page were in the box, too.

  I straightened and returned to the main room. Strange, I thought. Charles had said he knew Waldo was dead, but had not read about me. He said he didn’t read newspapers, yet here was the edition of the Post on which my face was plastered all over Page One. Why would he lie about something like that?

  The phone rang, a muffled sound; the instrument must have been smothered beneath something. I looked at the mattress and saw a black cord leading under pillows. The ringing stopped, and Joe Charles’s voice said, “I split this scene for a while, but I’ll make it back soon. Lay your message on me when you hear the A-flat, and I’ll return the favor when I get back. Ciao!”

  Then, the caller’s voice was heard: “Eleven tonight,” a man said. “Usual place. Don’t be late.” There was the sound of the phone being hung up, a series of beeps, and the room was silent again.

  I cocked my head and narrowed my eyes as though that would help me think, the way I have to turn off the radio in a car when looking for a house number. Always someone else’s car, of course. I don’t drive.

  I’d recognized the voice of the caller. Detective Alphonse Rizzi. I wasn’t certain it was him, at least not enough to testify under oath, but it certainly sounded like him. Why would he be calling Joe Charles?

  I contemplated replaying the message but the sound of footsteps on the metal stairs sent me back to the black chair. Charles came through the door carrying a brown paper bag. He took off his coat, opened the bag on the plastic box on which he’d been sitting and, on his knees, looked up at me. “Sure you don’t want something to eat?” he asked. He’d bought, along with his coffee and my tea, two packages of chocolate cake filled with a gooey white substance, undoubtedly terminally sweet.

  “No, thank you. Just the tea will be fine.”

  He handed me my cup, opened one of the packages, and eagerly ate its goopy contents. He finished it in seconds and opened the second. I’d bought him a meal, maybe the only one he would have that day. He didn’t mention change from my five dollars; I didn’t ask.

  “That’s a pretty cat,” I said.

  “Yeah, only he’s getting fat. His name is Thelonious.”

  “Interesting name.”

  “I named him after Thelonious Monk.”

  “The jazz musician,” I said, glad to demonstrate a little knowledge of his world. “Did he play all these instruments?”

  Charles laughed. “Nah. This kind of electronic stuff wasn’t around when he was working. He probably wouldn’t have liked it anyway.” He looked at his watch. “Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I was in the middle of a composition that I have to have ready for tomorrow night. I’m afraid I have to cut this off.”

  “Of course, I didn’t mean to take from your composing time. Let me ask you this before I go. How did you and Waldo end up getting back together in New York?”

  “He looked me up when he came from Colorado.”

  “Why did he come to New York? If he was in the witness protection program, it would seem safer in Colorado.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I really have to get back to work.”

  I stood. “Waldo was accused of drug smuggling in Maine. Was he involved in drugs here in New York?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “The police say Waldo was murdered by drug dealers.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “Did he live here with you?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Where did he live?”

  “I really don’t know. Somewhere around.”

  “I promise I’ll leave in a minute, but I have so many questions. What name did you call him?”

  “Huh?”

  “Waldo Morse, or Waldo Marsh?”

  “How do you know ... ?”

  “That he used the name Marsh? It was on his ID the day he died. That was his name under the witness protection program.”

  “Right.” Charles pulled my chair over to the keyboard rack, sat in it, and played a chord that reverberated throughout the room.

  I went to the door. “I would love to hear you perform, Joe. Where will you be tonight?”

  “I don’t have a gig tonight.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know very much about jazz, but I thought I might learn a little while visiting New York. Can you recommend a good jazz club? I’m having dinner with business associates, but I’ll be free by eleven and ...”

  He said quickly without looking at me, “All over the city. Lots of jazz clubs in the Village, some fancier joints uptown.”

  “Well, I wish I could hear you play. You said you had to have your composition ready for tomorrow night. Could I hear you then?”

  I knew I was pushing it; the scowl on his round face confirmed it. “You wouldn’t enjoy my music, Mrs. Fletcher. The kind of music I’m into is for young people. I figure you’re more comfortable with Tommy Dorsey and Benny Goodman.”

  I smiled. “I loved those bands, but I’m not so old that I can’t appreciate new things.”

  “Thanks for the coffee and pastry.”

  I wouldn’t have called it pastry, but I suppose the word would do. I said as an afterthought, “Do you have a phone? I would like to be able to call you.”

  “It’s out of order.”

  “How do you get calls from people who want you to perform?” I asked.

  “I use a service. Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher, but I really have to get back to this.”

  “Yes, and I apologize for not taking my cue earlier. You’ve been very kind.”

  I was on my way down the metal stairs and had rounded the comer at the second level when a young woman raced up from the foyer and almost bumped into me. She mumbled an apology and kept going. I stepped back against the wall so that I could see the third floor and saw her run directly to Joe Charles’s door, open it, and disappear inside. Charles had started playing his keyboard instruments the minute I was out of his apartment, but the music stopped abruptly. I lingered as long as I thought I could; I was tempted to go up and press my ear against the door, but was afraid I couldn’t navigate the metal stairs in silence.

  I went back out to Crosby Street, now covered with a dense, white layer of snow. It was beautiful; all the hard, dirty concrete that had been there when I’d arrived was hidden. I was struck with a sudden touch of nostalgia. Was it snowing in Cabot Cove?

  Chapter Ten

  The Publishers Weekly interview ended a little before five, which gave me an hour until my appointment with the Village Voice at Buckley House. Ruth Lazzara, who wasn’t happy that I’d been unreachable, but didn’t make too much of it, suggested a drink or a cup of coffee, but I told her I had errands to run.

  I needed a walk to clear my head. The snow had tapered off, and the city was aglow with the lights reflecting off its crystalline ground cover. I walked slowly, enjoying store windows that were showcases for their owners’ holiday wares. I stopped to admire a collection of cut glass. As I did, a shop I’d passed a few doors away came to mind. I’d considered going in but talked myself out of it. Silly, I’d told myself. Too cloak-and-dagger. You’re a grown woman, Jessica. Forget it.

  I retraced my steps and stood in front of the other window once again. A few deep breaths and I was inside where a chubby young woman wearing clothes too tight for her figure, and chewing gum with enthusiasm, asked without enthusiasm if I needed help.

  “Yes, I think so. I’m not quite sure the style I want. Perhaps if you show me a few models, I’ll be able to decide.”

  She didn’t seem happy about having to get up from a stool behind the counter, but did and went to a wall on which the shop’s merchandise was displayed. “We have all these in stock,” she said.

  “Quite a selection,” I said. “I think what I’m after is something contemporary, modem. ‘Wi
th it,’ I suppose is the phrase. Could I see that one?”

  She removed a coal black wig from a plastic, featureless head, and handed it to me. Her pained expression testified to what she was thinking. I ignored her, took the wig to a mirror, and put it over my short, piccolopasso red hair. It was a full wig that reached my shoulders and made my head appear twice as big, my face half its normal size. I cocked my head left and right, smiled at my image in the mirror, and turned to her. “Yes, I think this is perfect. What do you think?”

  “It’s the last one I figured you’d pick,” she said. “It’s not you.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Yes, I’ll take this one.” I removed the wig and handed it to her.

  As she put my purchase into a small shopping bag and started to write out a sales receipt, I went to a revolving display stand of large, garish sunglasses, pulled a pair from the rack, checked myself in a mirror attached to the stand, and handed them to her. “Please add these to the bill.” She looked at me with that same pained, quizzical expression. As I left the shop, she quickly placed a “CLOSED” sign in the door. I could imagine her conversation that night with friends about the kooky woman who was her last customer.

  Originally, the interview with the Village Voice was to be on the subject of the mystery genre and my views of it as an emerging force in mainstream publishing. But because of the hullabaloo about the Waldo Morse murder, the literary critic for the Voice was accompanied by an investigative reporter whose specialty was the Manhattan police beat. I parried their questions best I could, falling back time and again on the impropriety of discussing an ongoing murder investigation.

  When I’d arrived at Buckley House, three members of the press were in the reception area. They’d been there all day, according to the receptionist, and must have been half-asleep. By the time they realized who I was, I was on my way through a door to the conference room. They were more alert when Ruth Lazzara and I came out of the interview. I fended off their questions as politely as possible, knowing that Ruth preferred that I sit with them.