Manhattans & Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  He hesitated; would my bite be as strong as my bark? He slowly backed out, saying, “Please, give me ten minutes sometime today.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe.”

  He slammed the door, leaving Ruth and me alone in the backseat that was separated from the driver by a Plexiglas partition. Buckley House’s publicist said, “Mrs. Fletcher, this is getting out of hand. I know that all this media attention creates a lot of tension for you. At the same time, we have a golden opportunity to milk every avenue of publicity for your new book. That benefits not only Buckley House, but you, too, in a very tangible way. I would like to schedule a press conference.”

  “A press conference?” My laugh was involuntary. “Press conferences are to announce budget cuts at the Pentagon, invasions, declarations of war.”

  “Believe me, Mrs. Fletcher, this story ranks right along with those. Please. Let me schedule one.”

  “When?”

  “I want to have enough time to properly notify everyone. How about Saturday? Saturday is a slow news day. We might get major space out of it.”

  “Sorry, but I won’t be available this weekend.”

  “What do you mean you won’t be available?” The words exploded from her lips.

  “I need a day off, maybe two. I decided to hibernate this weekend, collect my thoughts, get a decent night’s sleep. I need that.”

  Her voice softened. “Yes, I understand. I know I’ve been pushing pretty hard. How about Sunday afternoon? That would give you all of Saturday and Sunday morning to rest up. Could I schedule it for Sunday afternoon?”

  “I’d prefer Monday, if we have to do it at all.”

  “Sunday is better, believe me. Come Monday and the papers and stations get too busy. Sunday is perfect. If we give them enough provocative material on Sunday, they’ll give us plenty of space and time on Monday.”

  The thought of facing a press conference was overwhelming. But I knew I couldn’t continue to disappoint her, or Vaughan Buckley. No matter how distasteful I found the experience, I did have a certain obligation, and I like to think of myself as a person who meets her obligations. Sunday afternoon would work. I would be in Cabot Cove Saturday and Saturday night, and fly back Sunday morning. One thing I was determined not to do, however, was to tell Lazzara or anyone else that I was leaving the city.

  I agreed to the press conference.

  The TV interview went smoothly, although it took concentration on my part to focus upon what was being asked. That had become a pattern since witnessing Waldo Morse’s murder—physically being in one place, my mind in another. As I sat beneath the glaring, hot lights of the television studio and discussed my working habits, my thoughts were really on Detective Alphonse Rizzi and Joe Charles. It was like waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop. The first had hit the floor with a resounding thud when Joe Charles came back into Sweet Basil and saw me sitting at the table, sans wig and glasses. The second shoe, of course, was what they would do now that I’d confirmed a relationship between them. I’d reasoned during my restless night in the hotel that much depended upon the motive for their clandestine meeting in a jazz club at eleven o’clock at night. If it was for a good reason—a rational, legal, moral reason—it shouldn’t bother them that I’d snuck in and observed. On the other hand, if there was something nefarious about their rendezvous, I might have more to worry about. The worst thing was not knowing which of the two scenarios was the true one. I was tempted to call Rizzi and confront him openly, but the morning was too rushed for that. Still, it was an option to consider, just as returning to Joe Charles’s apartment to confront him was another.

  “Pardon?”

  “Oh, sony, my mind wandered for a moment. I don’t know how anyone can concentrate under all these lights and with all these wires underfoot,” I said.

  “You get used to it, Mrs. Fletcher. I was asking whether you always know the ending of your books before you start writing them.”

  I answered that question, and others. Eventually, it was over and we left, Ruth praising me too much, I thought, for my performance. Fortunately, it had been taped. The daydreaming segments could be cut away.

  “What’s next?” I asked.

  “An interview with Voice of America,” she said. “It’s on your itinerary.”

  “I’m looking forward to that one,” I said. “I’ve never been interviewed by a government agency before.”

  “The interviewer, Dave Hubler, will be in Washington,” she told me. “You’ll be sitting in the New York studio and hear his questions over earphones. When it’s done, he’ll take your answers and weave them into a finished show. He’s terrific at it. It will be translated into many languages.”

  “Now I’m even more excited,” I said. “Are you still planning a press conference for Sunday afternoon.”

  “Absolutely, which is why I have to get back to the office the minute we leave VOA. Sorry I can’t have lunch with you. You do know about the People interview at three?”

  “Yes. I’ll be on time. I’m so far behind in my Christmas shopping. I’ll try to squeeze some in before that interview.”

  A million other people were evidently behind in their shopping, too, judging from the crowded stores. I stopped at Bames & Noble on lower Fifth Avenue and stocked up on all the books on my list (mostly books for me; I bought a few as gifts and had them shipped home to avoid having to haul extra weight with me). My next stop was Caswell-Massey on Lexington where I bought pretty fragrances for female friends, including almond cream and cucumber soaps. I was running out of time. One more shop—F.A.O. Schwarz, and a collection of toys for the little ones on my list. If I didn’t have that three-o’clock interview with People, I would have stayed the afternoon in the fabled toy store’s fantasyland.

  The reporter from People asked few questions about my work but many about my personal life, including romantic interests, which conjured up pleasant, unstated thoughts of George Sutherland in London. A photographer from the magazine took dozens of shots under the theory, I assumed, that if you take enough, you’re bound to come up with a usable one. They also announced they wanted to photograph me at home in Cabot Cove when I returned. I agreed.

  “Dinner plans?” Ruth asked as we sat alone in the conference room that had been the scene of the interview.

  “No, and delighted I don’t. I can’t wait for a quiet evening in that lovely suite.”

  There were myriad messages for me at the hotel, including one from Vaughan Buckley marked “URGENT.” I was immediately put through to him at Buckley House. “Jessica, glad you got back to me. I just missed you and Ruth at People. I received word this afternoon that the Times review of your book is a rave.”

  “How thoughtful of you to call with that news.”

  “It gets even better. The Times wants to do a profile on you for the same issue the review will appear in, a week from Sunday. I set up dinner this evening with the writer doing the piece.”

  “Tonight? I was looking forward to doing nothing.”

  “I imagine you were,” he said, laughing, “considering the schedule you’ve been on. But Jess, this is a golden opportunity. By having an interview appear in tandem with a great review, it takes you and the book to another plateau. This was a last-minute decision on the Times’ part. We can’t disappoint them.”

  I sighed deeply. I knew he was right. I would go along with the interview because it was expected of me. At the same time, I had a nagging and painful desire to be transported magically from the suite and from Manhattan to my comfortable, familiar living room in Cabot Cove, a fire crackling in the large fireplace, and me dressed in my best no-visitors outfit.

  “All right,” I said. “Where and when?”

  “Le Cirque. I’ll have a car pick you up at the hotel at eight.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  With another dinner staring me in the face, true and total relaxation was out of the question. I paced the suite, becoming increasingly angry at my inability to turn o
ff the world and to wind down. I took a fast shower, changed into what I would wear that evening, and went downstairs. I’d become paranoid enough to expect members of the press to be hovering outside the elevator door whenever I walked through it. But that wasn’t the case tonight. I walked on Park Avenue to Fortieth Street and found a cab. “Crosby Street, at Bleecker.”

  Once again, I stood alone on the street in front of the converted warehouse in which Joe Charles lived. I watched the taxi disappear around a comer, its red tail lights trailing away like a rescue ship that had missed me. It was bitter cold. I pulled the collar of my crimson cloth coat tight around my neck and the back of my head, and took deep breaths to stave off my shivering. I wasn’t sure where the cold left off and fear began. It really didn’t matter. I had acted on impulse, as though some force over which I had no control had dictated I be there, that I confront Joe Charles before he, or Detective Rizzi, took the initiative.

  I crossed the street and looked up at the building. There were a few lights on in apartments on upper floors, but not many. The entrance door was still ajar. I pushed it open and stepped into the depressing, odorous lobby. The inner door was open, too. I placed one foot on the first step of the metal staircase and listened, hoping to hear music from Charles’s floor. There was only a stagnant, unnatural silence. No people talking, laughing, arguing, and certainly no music.

  I ascended the staircase slowly to keep my footsteps from ringing out, and paused at his door. I poised to knock. If no one was home, knocking on the door was academic—and safe. Another deep breath, and a rap of my knuckles.

  What was the sound that came from inside? A gasp? A startled cry? I placed my ear against the door and focused on the sound. It had stopped. Quiet now. Should I knock again? No need. I placed my hand on the doorknob, slowly turned it, and pushed it open. A dim shaft of light from a street lamp outside splashed a faint yellow ribbon across the floor. I surveyed the room. I could see the end of it where the array of musical instruments had been. They were gone. Was Charles out on a playing job, a “gig” as he would call it?

  In order to see the other half of the room, I had to enter. I was reluctant because of the noise I’d heard when I knocked, but what was to be gained by having again come here and not following through? Chances were he’d gone out to play his instruments in some nightclub, that the apartment was empty, and that—

  I saw the source of the sound I’d heard. The cat crossed the room and sat in a comer, like one of those feline doorstops sold at art fairs. I had nothing to fear by going inside. Was it a breach of etiquette to do that? Of course it was, just as having contemplated stealing the envelope in Sweet Basil wasn’t especially ladylike, to say nothing of legal. But I wasn’t there to steal anything.

  “Hello,” I said softly.

  I heard the noise again. I looked at the cat. He was still curled up in the comer.

  “Hello,” I repeated. “This is Jessica Fletcher. Joe? Are you here?”

  Hearing nothing, I took bold steps through the door and looked to my left; a light was on in the bathroom.

  I again scrutinized the main room. It was empty, no musical instruments, no bed, no chairs, nothing except cardboard boxes piled in front of the window. Charles must have moved. Because I’d bumbled upon him and Rizzi in Sweet Basil? Maybe, although there could be other reasons—maybe a sudden playing job opportunity in another city. No, that was silly. He’d bolted: Because of me.

  I turned and squarely faced the closed bathroom. The light seeping under the door seemed to have intensified in brightness, as though a rheostat had been turned up.

  I considered leaving, running down the stairs and finding the first transportation uptown. That would have been the sensible thing to do. But as Seth Hazlitt often accused me, I was not always the most sensible of people. Prudent in many aspects of my life, certainly reasonable in selected areas, but not always sensible, at least according to his definition.

  I approached the bathroom door and, after a long, deep breath to fill myself with courage, opened it.

  She came directly at me. It happened fast; all was a blur. I instinctively fell out of the way, my back smashing against the wall. Her forward momentum carried her slightly past me, a toilet plunger held high in both hands.

  “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m Jessica Fletcher. I was a friend of ...”

  My words froze her. She slowly lowered the plunger and faced me. It was the girl I’d seen entering the apartment the first time I was there, and who was with Charles at Sweet Basil. She was a pretty little thing, although the fright on her face masked much of her beauty. She wore jeans and a red-and-black flannel shirt. I forced a smile and said gently, “You can put that down. I just came here hoping to see Joe again. It looks as though I’m late.” I gestured to the empty room. “He’s gone?”

  She lowered the plunger and stared at me, helpless, confused, every muscle in her slender body coiled. Then, as though she were an ice statue that had been hit by a sudden blast of hot air, she visibly relaxed. The plunger fell to the floor. She looked down at it, kicked it across the room, and followed the path it took.

  “I saw you with Joe at Sweet Basil.”

  She said without turning, “Yes, I know. He told me when he got in the car. He was furious.”

  “He had every right to be. Was Detective Rizzi angry, too?”

  She laughed, her back still to me. “Mad enough to kill,” she said.

  “I didn’t mean to upset anyone to that extent,” I said, walking to the boxes piled near the window and sitting on them. “What is your name?” I asked.

  She faced me. “Susan Kale.”

  I took in the empty room. “Joe has left?”

  She nodded.

  “For good? Do you know where he’s gone?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Then what about these?” I asked, patting the boxes on either side of me. “How will you know where to send them?”

  “They’re my things. I packed them.”

  “You lived here with Joe?”

  “Yes. And with Waldo sometimes.”

  “With Waldo? I assumed you were Joe’s girlfriend.”

  She said ruefully, “What difference does it make? Joe is gone, and Waldo is dead.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “I suppose you know I witnessed Waldo’s murder.”

  “You should have looked the other way.”

  That’s what I’ve been thinking ever since it happened. I would like to know more about Waldo, especially his life here in New York. I thought Joe would be able to help me. Now that he’s gone, would you fill me in about Waldo?”

  She’d become calm, almost catatonic. Now she stiffened, her pretty, soft mouth stretched into a hard line. “Why should I talk to you or anybody else?”

  “You don’t have to, of course. I have no official connection with Waldo’s murder.”

  “Then why ... ?”

  “Why am I here? Why did I go to such ridiculous lengths to follow you and Joe to Sweet Basil? Because, as my friends back in Maine say, I was bom to snoop.” I laughed. “Here I am snooping again, and this time it’s on you. I want to be your friend, Susan. I wish you no harm, but I do need to sort this out. After all, I was a witness to a murder. That doesn’t give me a legal right to ask questions, but it certainly makes my interest understandable. Don’t you agree?”

  “What good are answers going to be, Mrs. Fletcher? It won’t bring them back.”

  “You make it sound as though Joe is dead, too.”

  “Maybe he is.”

  “It looks to me as though he moved. To avoid being dead? Is that a possibility?”

  “You bet it is,” she said.

  It was the first sign of spark she’d exhibited, and I was happy to see it. “Who would he be running from?”

  “Everybody.”

  “That’s a big cast.”

  “Look, Mrs. Fletcher, this is all very nice but I have to get out of here, too. I need to find a place to live, a
place to—”

  “To hide?”

  “Call it what you want.” A heavy navy pea jacket was on one of the boxes. She put it on.

  “I have a suggestion.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you stay with me for a few days. I have a lovely suite in a very nice hotel. The couch in the living room opens up. You’d be safe and secure there. Besides—”

  “Besides, you’d have me around to question.”

  I smiled. “Yes. My offer is not entirely altruistic. Will you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

  “It would give you time to collect your thoughts. I promise you don’t have to answer any questions if you don’t want to.” Her eyes narrowed into skeptical slits. “I promise. I keep my promises.”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s better than a flat refusal. Tell you what. I’m staying at the Sheraton-Park Avenue. It’s at Thirty-seventh Street and Park. I have to go to a very important dinner. I’ll leave instructions with the desk that when you arrive, you’re to be given a key to the suite. Do you have some identification that will prove to them you’re Susan Kale?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. I know I can’t force you to do this, but I urge you to. Bring Thelonious.”

  “I call her Miss Hiss.”

  “Miss Hiss is certainly welcome. I should be back to the hotel by eleven, certainly no later than midnight. In fact, I’ll make sure I am. I hope you’ll be there.”

  I rose from the boxes and extended my hand. She seemed unsure whether to touch me, but did. I took her slender hands in mine and squeezed. “I think between the two of us, Susan, things might work out just fine.” I gave an extra squeeze for emphasis and left.

  I stopped at the hotel, left instructions about Susan, and was ready when the limo arrived to take me to Le Cirque.

  I’d expected to see Ruth Lazzara at dinner, but she wasn’t there. It was just Vaughan Buckley and the Times writer. Again I had to force myself to focus on the conversation because my mind kept snapping back to the hotel. Would Susan Kale show up?