Manhattans & Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  After dinner, Vaughan drove me back to the Sheraton-Park Avenue. As we sat in front of the entrance, the car’s heater staving off the outside freeze, he said, “You have a lot on your mind, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.” I paused, said, “You said you’d make this evening up to me, Vaughan.”

  “You name it.”

  “Give me tomorrow night off.”

  “I don’t think anything was scheduled for tomorrow night. You can check with Ruth in the morning.”

  “Schedules don’t seem to mean much these days. There’s always something coming up at the last minute. I desperately need some time to myself.” I placed my hand on his sleeve and smiled. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me and the book, but I’m afraid I’m one of those creatures—maybe just a typical writer—who needs think-time. Ruth has scheduled a press conference for Sunday afternoon, and I’ll be there. There’s a book signing tomorrow morning. I’ll be at that, too. But after it, I’d love to hibernate, become a bear in the woods.”

  “Then that’s exactly what you’ll do, Jessica. Go on, get to bed. And thanks for being there tonight.”

  I opened the door to my suite and called Susan’s name to an empty living room. She wasn’t in the bedroom, either, or the bath.

  “Damn!” I said. Foolish girl. I’d offered her sanctuary, and she’d shunned it.

  It was quarter of twelve. The sensible decision would have been to simply go to bed and hope she showed up later that night, or the next day. But I knew I wouldn’t sleep.

  I called the car service I’d used before and asked to be picked up as quickly as possible. The car arrived fifteen minutes later. When I told the driver to take me to Crosby Street, he gave me the same strange look that Roy, my previous driver, had given me. We pulled up in front of the converted warehouse. “Please wait for me,” I said.

  “Here?” He looked out at the deserted, dark street.

  “I won’t be long.” He got out and opened my door.

  As I crossed the street, I saw him get back into the car like a man possessed, and heard the snap of electronic door locks.

  I bounded up the stairs without concern for any noise my shoes made on the metal, went directly to Joe Charles’s door, and tried it. It opened. All the lights were off but there was sufficient light from outside to see Miss Hiss curled up next to what appeared to be a person in a sleeping bag.

  “Susan,” I said.

  The only response came from the cat. It stood, hunched its back, and curled up again against the form on the floor.

  I stepped inside. “Susan,” I said louder this time. Still nothing. I went to the sleeping bag and looked down. My eyes widened, a cry caught in my throat. It was no sleeping bag. It was a shower curtain wrapped around the body of Susan Kale.

  I picked up the cat, left the apartment, went down the stairs, and crossed the street to where my driver jumped out to open the door. I scrambled inside and let the cat out of my arms. “Take us to the nearest phone booth.”

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Something is very wrong. And this cat’s name is Miss Hiss. She’s going to need a home.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “And that’s all you know about the deceased?” I stood in the middle of the apartment with two detectives, an assortment of uniformed police, a couple of lab technicians, and a police photographer. I’d called 911 from the first booth we came to, and the dispatcher directed me to return to the scene and wait. I followed her instructions to the extent that I went back to Crosby Street, but didn’t go to the apartment. I stayed in the limo with the driver and Miss Hiss until the first patrol cars arrived, sirens blaring, roof lights tossing twisted, disorienting red pulses into the air.

  The detectives were courteous and businesslike; I was disappointed Rizzi wasn’t one of them.

  I said to the officer who questioned me, “Yes, that’s all I know about her. She said her name was Susan Kale. She was the girlfriend of a young man who lived here. Joe Charles.”

  The detective looked around the room, now flooded with lights powered by a portable generator. “Doesn’t look to me like anybody lived here.”

  “Joe Charles has disappeared. I was here earlier today and spoke with Ms. Kale. I asked her to stay with me at my hotel because I thought her life might be in danger.”

  “What made you think that?”

  “Because her boyfriend disappeared so suddenly. That struck me as unusual. Doesn’t it strike you that way?”

  He grunted. He obviously was more comfortable asking questions than answering them. I, of course, was again faced with the dilemma of how much to tell him, especially about my knowledge of Rizzi’s familiarity with Joe Charles and the dead girl. They’d been together at Sweet Basil the night before. Should I mention that? I was hesitant to involve Rizzi, not out of any feelings for him but because I was afraid. Yes, afraid. To link him with Susan Kale and Joe Charles, and to further identify any possible connection between them and Waldo Morse—also a murder victim—could create a major scandal, one in which I would be hopelessly mired.

  There was, of course, the possibility—perhaps even the probability—that Rizzi knowing these people meant absolutely nothing. I had no knowledge of what they talked about at the jazz club. As far as I know, there is nothing in the rule book prohibiting a detective from enjoying an off-duty night out.

  This detective, whose name was Santana, lowered his notebook to his side and slowly shook his head. “You know, Mrs. Fletcher, this is the second murder you’ve been involved with.”

  “‘Involved with?’ I happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time when Santa Claus was shot, and I discovered this body because I met a young girl and cared about her. I wouldn’t call that ‘being involved.’ ”

  “Call it what you want, Mrs. Fletcher, but you sure do have a lousy sense of time and place.”

  I asked if I could leave.

  “In a minute.” He issued orders to a technician, then went to a comer where he perched on a windowsill and wrote in his book. I gave him a few minutes before approaching. He looked up and raised his eyebrows.

  “Detective Santana, is Detective Rizzi on-duty tonight?”

  “Al? No, he comes on in the morning.”

  “What time?”

  Santana shrugged. “Eight, eight-thirty.”

  “Thank you very much.” I started to walk away.

  “Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Yes?”

  “Leave Rizzi out of this.”

  I closed the gap between us. “Leave him out of this? Why would I do that? He was involved with my first poor sense of time and place, and I ...”

  We both turned as the apartment door opened. A uniformed patrolman stepped inside and said to Santana, “The Fonz is here.”

  “The Fonz?” I said.

  “The ... Forget it,” Santana said. He announced to others in the room, “Shape up. The commissioner is here.”

  The commissioner? The Fonz? They call the police commissioner of New York “The Fonz”?

  A tall, heavyset man wearing an expensive black overcoat, and with a head of thick salt-and-pepper hair entered.

  Why would the police commissioner be interested in the murder of a girl on Crosby Street? I didn’t have to wait long for the answer. With an engaging broad smile on his handsome, tanned face, he crossed the room and extended his hand. “Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Yes. You’re Commissioner...” I had no idea what his name was.

  “I’m Police Commissioner Frye, Ferdinand Frye. It’s a real pleasure to meet you Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve been a fan for years.”

  Was he being honest, or trying to flatter me? He put that doubt to rest when he mentioned two of my older books, and referred to one of the characters by name.

  “I really should offer an apology to you, Mrs. Fletcher. Here you are in New York promoting your latest best-seller, and all you seem to come upon are murders. Hardly the way to welcom
e one of the world’s most distinguished writers to our city.”

  His charm—he dripped with it—took me off-guard. Whether he was an effective police commissioner remained conjecture, but he certainly made an engaging official greeter for the city of New York.

  “I wonder if I might have a word with you in private, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Of course.”

  He led me past technicians drawing diagrams on the floor to the small, shabby bathroom and closed the door behind us. “Mrs. Fletcher, I’m sure you have your share of crime in Cabot Cove, and I’m also sure that your law enforcement officers there are first-rate.”

  “That’s true,” I said.

  Commissioner Frye’s face twisted into a grimace. He shoved his hands deep into his overcoat pockets and said, “The problem is, Mrs. Fletcher, in a city like New York, crime sometimes gets complicated.” He scrutinized me through narrowed eyes. “Do you know what I mean?”

  “I don’t think so. Are you talking about the murder of this young girl tonight?”

  “Maybe. The point is there are forces at work that sometimes turn simple murders into complicated ones for me and my department.”

  He waited for my response. I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “I still don’t understand, but I’ll accept your statement.”

  “Good.” That big smile washed over his face again.

  We looked at each other in silence. What was I supposed to say next?

  He broke the quiet. “Tell you what, Mrs. Fletcher. The mayor has personally instructed me to extend to you every courtesy of the city. He’s authorized me to pick up all your expenses while you’re here, hotel, meals, the works.”

  “That’s very generous, Commissioner Frye, but all my expenses are paid by my publisher.”

  “We thought they probably were, so we’d like to offer something above and beyond expenses. How would you like a free vacation—in the Bahamas?”

  Free? Is there such a thing as a free vacation or lunch? I smiled. So did he. “Why?” I asked. “You say you’ve been authorized to offer me this. An offer is usually in return for a service. What service am I to give?”

  “Ah, the mind of a mystery writer at work.” He laughed. “Mrs. Fletcher, there are no strings. As I said, we’re unhappy that your trip to the city has ended up with witnessing one murder, and discovering the body of another victim. The mayor wants to make it up to you.”

  “Well, that is very generous of the mayor, but I’m afraid it isn’t necessary. No, I really don’t need, or want, a vacation paid for by New York City”

  “Suit yourself, Mrs. Fletcher. The mayor does feel strongly, however, that he does not want you to suffer any further unpleasant incidents while you’re our guest. I’m assigning twenty-four-hour security for the duration of your stay.”

  I suppose my face reflected my confusion. “Do you think my life is in danger?” I asked.

  That easy, pleasant laugh again. “No, not at all. But we know how much pressure has been put upon you by the press. I’m afraid that pressure is going to become even more intense. There must be fifty media vultures waiting downstairs.”

  “That’s dreadful.”

  “But understandable, considering your fame as a mystery writer and the publicity you generated by witnessing the murder of that sidewalk Santa. We’d feel better knowing that you’re under our protection day and night. You know, New York City doesn’t have the best reputation with the rest of the country. Johnny Carson and other TV comics saw to that. We want to make sure that you—that we don’t give them any more grist for negative humor.”

  I shook my head. “I do not want a policeman with me twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Afraid you don’t have much say about it, Mrs. Fletcher. I have a responsibility for the safety of the citizens of this city, including visitors.”

  I shrugged. “I suppose there is nothing I can do about it. I probably should be grateful. I’m not.” I opened the door and looked into the living room where technicians were still at work. I said to Commissioner Frye, “I’m suddenly very tired. I’d like to go back to my hotel.”

  “Of course. I have a car waiting downstairs. I assume you gave a statement to the detectives.”

  “Yes, as brief as it was. I really didn’t know anything aside from having discovered her body, poor thing.”

  I started to leave the bathroom but stopped in the doorway, turned, and said, “Detective Rizzi. Will he be assigned to this murder?”

  Frye frowned. “Rizzi? No. He’s narcotics. Why do you ask?”

  “Just that he was the detective with whom I spoke after witnessing the murder of the Santa on Fifth Avenue. I felt comfortable with him, that’s all. If I am to have constant contact with the police, I would appreciate having Detective Rizzi assigned to my detail.”

  Frye grunted. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said without conviction.

  The commissioner and two uniformed patrolmen escorted me down the steps and to the front door of the building. An hour ago, Crosby Street had been eerily deserted. Now, it was a jumble of police cars, ambulances, media vehicles, cops, reporters, and dozens of onlookers drawn to the scene like moths to a summer candle. The moment I appeared, harsh lights controlled by television crews came to life, along with strobes from still photographers.

  “Let us through, let us through,” Frye said as he led me to a black, unmarked sedan Two officers stiffened as we approached; one opened the back door. Frye said, “These two officers are assigned to you tonight. They’ll be relieved in the morning.”

  “The quiet little hotel I’m staying at will not appreciate this,” I said.

  “Can’t be helped, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  I suddenly remembered my car and driver, and Miss Hiss. “Excuse me,” I said, walking away from Frye and his officers, who fell in step. My driver was seated behind the wheel of the limo, Miss Hiss asleep in his arms.

  “Looks like you have a friend,” I said as he lowered his window.

  The driver grinned. “Nice little cat. Wish I could keep her.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Three dogs and a wife.”

  “We’ll take the cat,” Frye said.

  “To where? The pound?”

  “She’ll be all right.”

  “Absolutely not. I’ll take her with me to the hotel.”

  “Whatever you say.” There was fatigue in his voice.

  “Do you know where I can buy cat food and litter this time of night?” I asked.

  Frye turned to an officer. “Go find a couple of bowls, litter, a litter box, and some cat food.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just do it,” Frye said. “Bring it to ... what hotel are you at?”

  “The Sheraton-Park Avenue.”

  “Bring it there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  My driver handed Miss Hiss to me. She purred, and I squeezed her. We went to the police car, photographers’ strobes going off with every step.

  “Get some sleep, Mrs. Fletcher,” Frye said through the partially open window after Miss Hiss and I were settled in the backseat. “If you need anything, call me directly.” He handed me a card that included his private telephone number.

  “I want you to know, Commissioner Frye, that I don’t like any of this.”

  “Better than tripping over dead bodies. Good night, Mrs. Fletcher. Sleep tight.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher,” a pleasant male voice said on the phone.

  “Morning?” I looked at the watch I’d worn to bed. It was seven; I’d gotten to sleep at four.

  “My name is Tom Detienne. I’m the hotel’s assistant manager,”

  I said in a thick, slurred voice, “Yes?”

  “Could I have a few minutes of your time this morning?”

  “This morning?” I rubbed my eyes and sat up. “I haven’t had much sleep, Mr. Detienne. When did you want to see me?”

  “Whenever it’s convenient for you.”
/>   “I suppose if I get up now and take a shower—I need breakfast. Yes, I’m hungry. Would an hour be all right? Make it an hour and a half.”

  “Eight-thirty will be fine. What would you like for breakfast? I’ll put in the order personally.”

  “That’s kind of you.” I told him what I wanted.

  “What time would you like it delivered, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Oh, eight.”

  “It will be there at eight, and I’ll come up at eight-thirty. Thank you.”

  I stumbled out of bed, went to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face. I looked at myself in the mirror: “You look the way you feel, Jessica.” More water on my face and over my wrists, something my mother taught me when I was a child. The blood in the wrists is cooled and goes to the rest of the body, which helps wake you up. At least that’s what she said. I have no idea whether there is any physiological truth to it, but it always seems to work.

  I felt better after showering. At eight sharp, a bellhop arranged my breakfast on the desk near the window.

  At eight-thirty, Mr. Detienne arrived, a tall, handsome man with gray hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a nicely tailored gray suit. “Sorry to intrude upon you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Don’t be silly. My life has been nothing but intrusions since I arrived in New York. Please, sit down.”

  Miss Hiss came from where she’d been sleeping on a couch and rubbed against his leg. He smiled and stroked her head. “Nice cat,” he said.

  “Her name is Miss Hiss. I hope you don’t mind my keeping her here.” I’d arranged the water and food bowls, and litter pan in the bathroom and had created a bed from towels.

  “No, that’s fine,” he said. “We don’t allow pets under ordinary circumstances, but this is hardly ordinary.”

  “Far from it,” I said.

  Detienne seemed unsure, or unwilling to say what was on his mind. Finally, he looked up from highly polished shoes he’d been examining and said, “Mrs. Fletcher, this whole thing is getting out of hand. You’ve seen today’s papers?”