“No, I haven’t.”
He picked up the phone and instructed someone to bring up all the morning papers. He resumed his seat and said to me, “The lobby is crawling with press. Two uniformed New York City policemen are sitting in chairs outside your door. The phones are ringing off their hooks with calls from other media inquiring about you. Mobile TV vans are lined up in front of the entrance, which keeps our guests from getting cabs. Guests are complaining. We have a lot of regulars who come here because we are a quiet oasis in the middle of Manhattan. That’s no longer true, I’m afraid.”
I felt guilty and embarrassed. At the same time, I knew that none of this was my doing. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Seeing Waldo Morse shot on the street was certainly not my fault. But if I hadn’t pursued the Joe Charles-Alphonse Rizzi-Susan Kale connection, I would not have ended up discovering her body in a loft on Crosby Street.
“I’m terribly sorry about this, Mr. Detienne. I was staying with friends when all this broke, and I felt it wasn’t fair to have them subjected to the chaos. Now, I guess I’ve done the same thing to you and your guests. I’ll arrange to leave immediately.”
He shook his head. “No, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m not asking you to do that. We’re honored to have someone of your stature staying with us. What I was going to suggest was that we move you to our penthouse suite on the roof. That would get you out of the main flow of hotel traffic. The suite has three bedrooms. Maybe your police protection could station themselves in one of them, or out on the roof. There’s a lovely garden just outside the suite’s patio doors, and you’ll have a private elevator, and—”
“Put the police out in a garden in this weather?”
Detienne laughed. “We’ve already discussed that and are willing to go to the expense and trouble of putting up a tent, and to use portable heating units to keep them warm. In other words, Mrs. Fletcher, we’ll go to any lengths to accommodate you, while at the same time accommodating our other guests. The move won’t cost you any more.”
“That’s very generous,” I said.
“Your bill is being paid by Buckley House, and we’ll inform them, if you wish, that you’ll be in the penthouse at no additional charge.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if I just found another place to stay?”
“Wouldn’t hear of it, Mrs. Fletcher.” He stood.
There was a knock on the door. Detienne answered and handed me the morning newspapers. The Daily News was on top. Its front page was a photograph of me exiting the building on Crosby Street at three o’clock that morning. The story began: Famed mystery writer Jessica Fletcher, who witnessed the murder of the sidewalk Santa on Tuesday, discovered the body early this morning of a young woman named Susan Kale. Looks like Jessica Fletcher doesn’t have to make up plots for her murder mysteries any longer. She can take all she needs from her real-life experiences.
“This is awful,” I said.
“Very upsetting to you, I’m sure.”
Next came the Post. It had two photographs on the front page. One was of me climbing into the car provided by Commissioner Frye, Miss Hiss in my arms. The other was of the body bag containing Susan Kale’s remains being loaded into a police ambulance. The Post headline read: ANOTHER REAL MURDER FOR JESSICA FLETCHER. The caption read: Mystery writer Jessica Fletcher, in New York to promote her latest murder mystery, has been promoting real murder since her arrival. She witnessed the slaying of a sidewalk Santa on Fifth Avenue, and early this morning discovered the body of a young woman on Crosby Street. Post reporter Bobby Johnson, who has been following Ms. Fletcher’s bloody trail, reports on Page Three.
I tossed the Post on the floor along with the News, and scanned the front page of the New York Times. There was no mention of the events of a few hours ago but Detienne suggested I look at the first page of the Metro Section. There it was, a brief story that reported the death of Susan Kale. It went on to say that I had found the body, and was the one who’d witnessed the murder of the sidewalk Santa.
“Even the Times,” I sighed.
“I’ll leave these with you,” Detienne said. “When you head off for the day, I’ll have our staff move you to the penthouse. Again, Mrs. Fletcher, I hope this won’t cause you any additional grief.”
I heard his words but didn’t digest them. I finally realized he’d been speaking to me, looked at him, and said, “Oh, my mind is elsewhere, which is probably good. Thank you for your courtesy Please ask your staff to move Miss Hiss to the penthouse, too, and to take care that she doesn’t get loose.”
“I understand,” he said. “I have two cats of my own.”
When he was gone, I absently opened the Post to Page Three. Bobby Johnson was getting up in the world; there was a head shot of him along with photographs from the scene of Susan Kale’s murder. My eyes sped over the page and stopped on a paragraph where a name popped out at me—Detective Alphonse Rizzi. He’d given a statement to the press:
“The deceased, a Ms. Susan Kale, was found dead in her apartment on Crosby Street. She was in the process of moving because there was no furniture in the apartment, and there were boxes containing her possessions. We have no leads at this time, but an initial examination of the body by an assistant medical examiner indicates that she was sexually assaulted, and that heavy traces of cocaine were found in her bloodstream.”
Impossible, I thought. The girl seemed perfectly lucid when we talked. I hadn’t examined the body, but from what I could see she was fully clothed. She’d been beaten about the head, which undoubtedly caused her death.
I didn’t see any signs of what Rizzi had said. And, I asked myself, why had he indicated that it was her apartment? Surely, he knew about her relationship with Joe Charles, and that Joe Charles lived there. He’d called and left a message on the answering machine confirming their eleven-o’clock rendezvous at Sweet Basil. Not only that, I had no doubt that he was aware that Waldo Morse was a friend of both Joe Charles and Susan Kale. None of that was mentioned in his statement.
Rizzi ended his comments to the press with:
“Unfortunately, a guest of our city, famous mystery writer Jessica Fletcher, had to be the one to discover the body. You’ll recall that it was Mrs. Fletcher who witnessed the shooting of the Santa Claus on Fifth Avenue on Tuesday. Mrs. Fletcher evidently happened upon the body purely by chance, but we are providing her with round-the-clock police protection for the duration of her stay in Manhattan. ”
Ruth Lazzara called from the lobby. She was to accompany me to a book signing at a midtown store. “Mrs. Fletcher,” she said breathlessly, “I can’t believe what’s happened to you. Another murder?”
“Afraid so, I think I’d better go home to Cabot Cove. If I stay much longer, your homicide rate will break all records.”
“Are you all right?” she asked. “I mean, are you up to making appearances today?”
“I think so. I might as well. They don’t murder people in bookstores, do they?” I was sorry at my feeble attempt to make light of what had happened. Somehow, it didn’t lend itself to comedy high or low. “I’ll be down in a minute,” I said. “But, I should warn you, Ruth, we’ll have a couple of uniformed members of New York’s finest with us every step of the way.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing. There’s plenty of press down here.”
“You’ll steer me through them, I’m sure.”
Two policemen sat in the hall in straight-back chairs.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Good morning, ma’am.” As I started down the hall, they trailed after me. I stopped and turned. “There really is no need for you to spend the day with me.”
“Orders, ma’am.”
“Yes, I suppose you have no choice in the matter. Well, come on. It’s going to be a busy day.”
And tomorrow, too, I thought. Police escorts or not, I was going to Cabot Cove in the morning and I intended to make that trip alone.
Chapter Thirteen
When I returned to the hotel
at five, I was personally escorted to the penthouse by Mr. Detienne. It was a stunning suite of rooms on the top of the hotel. A sliding glass door led to the roof garden, a vast expanse of AstroTurf stretching to the roof’s edge. Nothing was in bloom, of course, but dozens of evergreens in large wooden tubs and strung with hundreds of tiny white Christmas lights defined the area.
I’d insisted that the two policemen assigned to me take one of the inside rooms, rather than being banished to a tent. There was more to my decision than altruism. The suite was served by a private elevator, which seemed to be the only access to it. I asked Detienne whether there was another exit.
“There’s a small elevator that goes down to the kitchen,” he said. “It’s on the other side of the roof. Why do you ask?”
“No special reason,” I said cheerily. “Just my natural curiosity at work. I always look for entrances and exits wherever I stay, a habit I got into when placing my characters in different situations.”
He laughed. “Always working, huh?”
“Afraid so. It goes with the territory of being a writer. As an author-friend of mine often says, ‘Everything gets used.’ ”
After Detienne gave me a tour of the suite, I threw up my hands and said, “This is absolutely lovely. Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure. Would you like me to make a dinner reservation for you tonight?”
“Goodness, no. As far as I know, I have the night off and intend to take full advantage of it—a long soak in a hot tub, a good book, asleep by nine.”
“Dinner in your room?”
“Splendid. I’ll check the room-service menu and call down a little later.”
I walked him to the door that led to the interior hall and the suite’s elevator. “Might I ask you something, Mrs. Fletcher?” he said.
“Of course.”
“I know the police are here for your protection, but do you feel secure having them in the suite with you?” My puzzled expression prompted him to add, “They may be police, but you never know what kind of people they really are. I mean, a single woman sharing a suite with two strange men could be—well, awkward.”
I smiled. “I’ve thought of that, and I don’t have any qualms. The bedroom they’re staying in is certainly enough removed from mine, and has its own bath facilities. They know I need my privacy. Their door will be closed, and so will mine. But thank you for thinking of it. Good night, Mr. Detienne. I’ll be fine.”
I must admit that I was a little on edge as I soaked in the tub knowing that two strange men were in the next room. But I didn’t dwell upon it. The luxurious pleasure of the hot water penetrating my skin was too delicious to let anything mitigate the experience.
I stayed in the tub for almost an hour. Shriveled, contented, and sleepy, I wrapped myself in a thick terry cloth robe provided by the hotel and placed my dinner order—shrimp cocktail, lamb chops cooked pink, fresh asparagus, a spinach salad, a raspberry tart, and a large pot of tea. It was scrumptious, and when I climbed into bed at precisely nine, Margaret Truman’s latest capital crimes mystery on the pillow next to me, I felt as though I’d been transported to a gentler, kinder place, at least for this night. I could see through the windows that it was crystal clear outside. Stars twinkled in a black sky, like the lights on the evergreens. It was windy; the windowpanes rattled, which only added to my feeling of secure coziness.
I didn’t leave a wake-up call because I didn’t want the phone to ring. Instead, I set a tiny travel alarm I always carry with me and awoke at five to its faint, lilting chime. I quickly turned it off, got out of bed, crossed the carpeted room to the closed door, and pressed an ear to it. A television was playing in the room assigned to the officers. I couldn’t make out what they were watching, but it didn’t matter. Any sound would help.
I dressed in casual clothing—slacks, sweater, sneakers—then went to the bathroom where my black wig and sunglasses were on the vanity. I put them on and checked myself in the mirror. Hopefully, the disguise wouldn’t be necessary. The officers seemed content watching Saturday morning fare on TV, and their replacements wouldn’t arrive until seven. By then, I’d be long gone.
I buttoned my coat, pulled the collar up around my chin and neck, picked up a small bag I’d packed the night before, carefully opened my door, and waited. The sound of the TV was louder now that my door wasn’t a barrier to it. One of the officers laughed; they were watching a cartoon. Thank you Nickelodeon.
I stepped into the foyer that connected the suite’s bedrooms, pressed my door shut, and went through the living room to the sliding doors. I undid the latch, slid the doors open just enough for me to squeeze through, and closed them.
The wind was still blowing fiercely; hopefully, it wouldn’t disrupt flights out of New York’s airports. It was still dark, but the tiny lights on the trees gave off enough illumination for me to make my way.
I moved toward the back of the garden and up steps into an area used for summer concerts. I turned right again until reaching the rear of the hotel and the door Detienne had mentioned. It hadn’t occurred to me that it might be locked. It was. I noticed a small button next to it and pressed, heard a ringing from far below and the groan of an ascending elevator. The door opened and a young Hispanic kitchen worker dressed in whites faced me.
“I’m Jessica Fletcher, the mystery writer. I’m staying in the penthouse suite and am researching different ways my characters might move through the hotel. Please take me down to the kitchen.” I added, “Mr. Detienne, the assistant manager, knows about this.”
He either didn’t understand much English, or the sight of a ridiculous-looking, windblown woman standing outside at five-thirty in the morning was too much of a shock. He didn’t argue, simply stepped aside. I got into the elevator and rode it down to the kitchen where I received more quizzical stares. I ignored them and went through swinging doors into the empty main dining room, and to an exit onto Thirty-seventh Street. To my delight, a cab sat at the curb, motor running, driver snoozing. I knocked on the window; he awoke with a start. “LaGuardia Airport,” I said through the window. He unlocked the curbside passenger door, and I slid into the seat. “The Delta Shuttle.”
As we headed for the airport, I removed my wig and sunglasses, an action the driver noticed in his rearview mirror. “I just came from a costume party,” I said pleasantly.
“Must have been a hell of a party,” he commented.
“Oh, it certainly was. It’s still going on.” I stuffed the paraphernalia into my bag.
The driver kept glancing at me in the mirror all the way to the airport. Maybe I should have continued to wear my disguise. If he recognized me from all the pictures in the newspapers, it could jeopardize my determination to leave the city unnoticed. As it turned out, he didn’t say another word.
As I crossed the nearly deserted terminal, I passed a newsstand on which all three New York papers were prominently displayed. There I was again on the front page of two of them. I detoured to a lady’s room where I put on my wig and sunglasses, then went to the counter and bought my ticket to Boston—under my real name, the name on my charge card.
“You’re the famous writer,” the pretty blond ticket agent said.
I glanced left and right before leaning across the counter and whispering, “Yes, but I prefer to keep it quiet today.”
She handed me my boarding pass, wished me a pleasant flight, and whispered, “Your secret is safe with me, Mrs. Fletcher.”
The 727’s passenger compartment was sparsely populated. Most of my fellow-passengers read the Times, but a young man and woman across the aisle perused their individual copies of the Post. I’d intended to remove the uncomfortable wig once we were airborne, but thought better of it. I settled in my seat and, in what seemed only minutes, the captain announced we were beginning our descent into Logan Airport.
I smiled contentedly. It had worked even better than I’d hoped. No hitches, no glitches. Way to go, Jess.
Brimming with confidence, I
stashed my wig and sunglasses and left the aircraft with my head high. New York City didn’t exist. I was going home. I had only one moment of concern. As I reached the terminal’s main entrance and looked for Jed Richardson, an unmarked green sedan barreled up to the entrance and two men jumped out. Police, I thought, turning away. Could they be looking for me? Impossible. I’d only been gone a few hours.
I looked over my shoulder and saw them run inside the terminal. Then, I heard Jed Richardson’s loud, gravelly voice yell, “Jessica. Over here.”
Not so loud! Jed stood next to a taxi. After a final glance at the terminal doors—the two men had disappeared inside—I quickly crossed the road.
“Sight for sore eyes,” Jed said, an infectious grin on his round, tanned, deeply creased face. He wore a battered leather aviator’s jacket, a white silk scarf around his neck, and a blue peaked cap with Jed’s Flying Service emblazoned on it.
“Where’s your plane?” I asked.
“Over at private aviation. I got me this cab.” The driver, an older man with a large, bulbous nose, did not look happy that we were standing there talking. I suggested we get going. “You bet,” Jed said. “Looks like we got us a serious weather front coming through. The sooner we get off, the better.”
Our driver complained for the duration of the short trip to the private aviation area: “I could have had a fare into the city,” he said more than once. To which Jed replied: “And we could have ended up with a pleasant driver.”
He dropped us next to a hangar. I went through my usual debate of whether to tip him a lot to compensate for the short trip, or to tip him little for his rudeness. My choice fell somewhere in between. He looked at the money I handed him, shrugged, and drove off.
“Damn big-city attitude,” Jed said.
“You should visit New York,” I said.
“No thanks. Boston’s as big as I ever want to visit. Don’t much like Bangor, either, no more. Come on, Jessica. Let’s get outta here.”
Manhattans & Murder Page 10