Manhattans & Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Home! It looks wonderful,” I said as Mort pulled into my driveway. Joseph, a mildly retarded gentleman who made a pretty good living around town as a handyman, had shoveled my driveway and walk. Whenever I was away, he also checked on the house every day to make sure that the heat, which I left on a low setting, was still on, and took in my mail and newspapers.

  I got out of the car and headed for the front door.

  “Don’t slip,” Seth said. I looked down, saw the icy patch to which he was referring, skirted it, fumbled for keys in my purse, and opened the door. I stood in the middle of the living room and did a clumsy pirouette. “Look. Joseph has put wood in the fireplace. Put a match to it, Seth, while I set the table.”

  A half hour later we enthusiastically dug into the pies. “Mort,” I said between bites, “I heard the news about Parker Brothers being interested in your game.

  “Haven’t heard another word from them, so I don’t get my hopes up. I suppose they get lots of people like me inventing games and sending them to them, bein’ the biggest and all.”

  “But your game is really very good,” I said. “Take it from a mystery writer.”

  Seth sat back, dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, and patted his sizable belly. “So, Jessica Fletcher, you got your chance to talk to Nancy Morse. Didn’t seem to me like she was likely to be any help.”

  “It looks that way, Seth, but I haven’t had a chance to digest what she said.”

  “How about fillin’ us in on everything’s been happening to you down in New York,” Mort said, taking another serving.

  “I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Actually, I’m not supposed to be here.”

  “That young lady you found?” Seth asked.

  “Yes. You know about that?”

  “Been on the radio this mornin’.”

  I sighed and shook my head. “Because of finding that young woman’s body, I was prohibited from leaving New York.”

  “Don’t seem right,” Metzger said. “No crime in findin’ a body. Causin’ one’s another matter.”

  “How did you manage to leave?” Hazlitt asked.

  “I’ll show you.” I went to the bedroom, put on the wig and sunglasses, and returned to the dining room. “Ta da,” I sang, assuming a silly model’s pose.

  “Who’s that lady?” Seth asked Mort. They laughed heartily.

  “Where did Jessica go?” Mort said, playing into the banter.

  “Effective, huh?” I said.

  “You look like one of those New York City cabaret singers,” Mort said.

  “I hope so. Just as long as I didn’t look like a mystery writer named Jessica Fletcher.” I pulled off the wig and glasses, and started to tell them how I’d managed to elude the New York patrolmen assigned to my suite. I didn’t get very far. An automobile pulled into the driveway, doors opened, slammed shut, and footsteps were heard approaching the front door.

  “Looks like you got company, Jess,” Seth said.

  “I can’t imagine who. Did you tell anyone I was coming home?”

  “Nope,” Seth said. “Well, a few folks, but I was pretty choosy about it.”

  I threw my physician friend a skeptical glance as someone knocked.

  “You sit,” Mort said, heading for the door. “I’ll get it.”

  I couldn’t hear what the man said to Mort, but I did hear my name. I raised eyebrows at Seth, and we joined them.

  “Jessica Fletcher?” the man said. Another man stood directly behind him. They were straight out of central easting—police.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Detective Pehanich, N.Y.P.D.” He flashed a badge at me. “This is Detective Taylor.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come with us, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Why? I haven’t done anything.”

  “We have a warrant for your arrest.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Leaving the scene of a crime as a material witness.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s nonsense,” I said. “I’m coming back in the morning. I just left the city to—”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, please don’t give us a hard time.”

  Mort Metzger pulled himself up to full height and stepped between me and Pehanich. “I’m Morton Metzger, sheriff of Cabot Cove,” he said with authority. “Let me see that warrant.”

  Pehanich handed it to Metzger, who took glasses from his pocket, perched them on his nose, and studied the paper carefully. He turned to me and said, “Appears to be in order, Jess.”

  “Could we get going, Mrs. Fletcher,” Taylor said. “If we leave now, we can catch the last flight out of Bangor.”

  “Were you the gentlemen at Logan Airport this morning?”

  “No, ma’am. They were Boston police. Somebody from New York called them when they discovered you missing.”

  I sighed. “Your efficiency impresses me.”

  “Please, ma’am. It’s cold. We’d like to get back. The holidays and all.”

  “Yes, the holidays,” I said wistfully. “The holidays.”

  Mort Metzger said, “You don’t have to go with them, Jess. We can fight extradition.”

  “Hey, Sheriff, cool it,” Detective Taylor said. “She’s wanted back in New York as a witness, not ’cause she killed anybody.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said.

  “I mean it, Jess,” Mort said. “We’ll buzz up Cal Simons right now.” Simons was Cabot Cove’s leading attorney.

  “No, Morton, that won’t be necessary. I was going back anyway and might as well have company.” I said to the detectives, “Please come in and enjoy the fire while I clean up the dishes. There might even be some food left. We were enjoying clam pie.”

  “No thank you, ma’am,” Pehanich said, “but we will come inside. Please hurry. We don’t want to miss that flight.”

  I indicated to Seth that I wanted him to follow me into the kitchen. The moment we got there I whispered, “Do me a favor. Go back to Nancy Morse’s house and see if there’s a young man with her. Don’t let her see you. Stay out on the road and just watch.” I quickly described the adult Junior Johnson, a.k.a. Joe Charles.

  “What do I do if I see him?”

  “Tell me the next time we talk.”

  I sensed the presence of one of the detectives in the doorway and rinsed a dish.

  “Please, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Of course. Sorry. I’m ready.”

  I was led to the rental car the detectives had driven from Bangor Airport.

  “No cuffs,” Mort Metzger said.

  The detectives looked at him strangely. Taylor said, “No, no cuffs, Sheriff. Nice town you have here.” He then said to me, “My wife is a big fan, Mrs. Fletcher. I wondered maybe you could autograph a book to her. Her name is Lynn.”

  “Sure,” I said, climbing into the backseat. “And let me have your mother-in-law’s name, too. I’m sure she’d enjoy a copy.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Hard for me to believe, Mrs. Fletcher, but that’s what they say. You’re a suspect in the murder of the Kale girl.”

  The voice delivering this weighty message was Sergeant Dennis Murphy, one of New York’s saintly Irish cops who would have made a far better Santa Claus than Waldo Morse had. He’d been assigned to me the minute I was spirited into the precinct by my two bounty hunters, and we sat in a small holding cell just beyond the booking area.

  “Am I officially a suspect?” I asked, attempting to sound unconcerned.

  “No. Just what I hear, ma’am. A shocker, I’d say. You, the world’s most famous mystery writer—and obviously a fine lady, too—dragged into this tawdry affair. Must be a mistake is all I can figure.”

  “Yes, there must be. It’s preposterous. I found her. I didn’t kill her.”

  “I’m sure it will all be straightened out in short order. Sometimes when they don’t have any leads, they ...”

  “ ... They accuse the closest, easiest pers
on?” I said, finishing his thought. “I have a problem with that logic.”

  Murphy shrugged. I poised to deliver a speech about the absurdity of that approach to crime solving, but didn’t. It would have been lost on him. Besides, he’d been extremely courteous and solicitous, even allowing me to use the phone before entering my confines. I’d made two calls, the first to Vaughan Buckley. My timing was good, considering it was Saturday night; I caught him as he and Olga were preparing to leave for dinner. He told me to sit tight and that he’d be there as soon as he could, hopefully with a lawyer named Winter, who, he claimed, was the city’s best criminal attorney.

  My second call was collect to Seth Hazlitt in Cabot Cove to let him know I’d arrived safely. My timing was good with that call, too. He and Mort Metzger were waiting to be picked up by Jed Richardson, who would fly them to Boston where they would catch the next available flight to New York.

  “Please don’t, Seth. I’m fine. I spoke with Vaughan Buckley, and he said—”

  “Save your breath, Jessica. Mort and I had a meeting soon’s those gorillas took you away. We decided our place was at your side.”

  “But if you come, you’ll have to ....”

  “Not another word. We’ll head straight for that Park Avenue Hotel you’re stayin’ in. Be there as soon as we can.”

  I stopped trying to dissuade them. They’d show up whether I wanted them to or not. Seeing them would be comforting, of course. But they could also add another complication, as had happened a year ago when they flew to London to “comfort me” during the investigation of Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder. Neither of these dear friends was at home in large cities, and their penchant for getting into trouble when away from their familiar, secure Cabot Cove was only slightly less than astounding.

  But I should be the last one to talk about finding trouble in strange big cities. There I was sitting in a holding cell in N.Y.P.D. headquarters as a material witness to one murder and, as I’d just learned, a murder suspect in another. Time to stop worrying about others and to start worrying about myself. As absurd as I found the entire situation, the ramifications could be serious.

  That realization turned the stuffy, hot cell into a refrigerator for me. I wrapped my arms about myself and waited for what would happen next.

  Which was the arrival of Police Commissioner Ferdinand Frye. He nodded for Murphy to leave. When we were alone, Frye leaned against the bars and slowly shook his head. Then he smiled. “What are we going to do with Jessica Fletcher?” he asked.

  “My first suggestion is to let me out of here immediately.”

  “Of course. That’s why I’m here, to see that you leave without further delay.”

  I stood and straightened my skirt. “They took my coat,” I said.

  “We’ll get your coat, Mrs. Fletcher. But before we do, and before you leave, there’s the question of where you’ll be going.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I want you out of this city.”

  “And I would like very much to get out of this city, Commissioner Frye. My visit has not been what you would call festive and gay. But I have an obligation to see through my book promotion activities. I owe that to my publisher.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Buckley would understand if you cut it short. He must know how much you’d like to be home for the holidays. There’s no place like it, as the song says.”

  “True,” I said. “And the contemplation of going home is more delicious than you could ever imagine. But no, I intend to stay as long as necessary to fulfill my obligations. My coat please.”

  The wide, perpetual smile faded, replaced by a slash for a mouth and hard, dark eyes. He pushed away from the bars and closed the gap between us. “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said in the measured tones of an impatient schoolteacher explaining something to an especially dense student, “your presence seriously hampers my ability to solve two murders. Your involvement in them, as coincidental as it might be, has created a media circus. If I didn’t have faith in your integrity, I’d wonder whether it’s all been designed to help sell your books.”

  “I assure you that’s not the case.”

  “Of course it isn’t. But you’re in my way. I don’t like it when people get in my way, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Ill do everything within my power to stay out of your way. But now I want to leave here, return to my hotel, and go to bed. I’m very tired.”

  Footsteps sounded outside the cell, and Vaughan suddenly appeared. With him was a short, squat man wearing a black cashmere overcoat and black astrakhan hat. “Jessica,” Buckley said. “How could they have put you in a cell like this?”

  “I was just leaving,” I said, smiling sweetly at Commissioner Frye.

  “What is she charged with?” Winter asked Frye. He might have been short, but his voice was tall.

  “Nothing, Jerry,” Frye responded. “How’ve you been?”

  Winter ignored the pleasantry. “Then why was she detained?” he asked.

  “Mrs. Fletcher is—was a material witness to murder.”

  “As well as a suspect in another murder,” I interjected.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Buckley said.

  “What she might be damn soon, Commissioner,” Winter said, “is the plaintiff in a suit against you and the city.”

  “As you wish,” Frye said. “I suggest we all go home.”

  “I went home,” I said, feeling my adrenaline surge. “But you brought me back.”

  “Back from where?” Buckley asked.

  “Cabot Cove.”

  “I didn’t know you were going home, Jess.”

  “It was my secret, at least for a few hours. May I?” Frye stepped back to allow me to exit. I turned and asked, “Do your police have an unusually high number of sick days each year?”

  “What?”

  “There’s no air in this building. Very unhealthy.”

  “Thank you for pointing it out to me.”

  Frye joined us as we walked to the front door. “By the way, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “since you insist upon staying in New York, you’re on your own. I’m canceling your police escort, effective immediately.”

  “Frankly, that’s good news,” I said. “Thank you for your courtesies, Commissioner. Perhaps we’ll meet again.” I extended my hand. As he took it, his winsome smile returned.

  “It’s been a pleasure,” he said.

  “I’d like to say the same, but I really can’t. Nothing personal.”

  “Nothing personal when she files suit, either,” Winter said, a long black cigar clenched in his teeth.

  “I somehow don’t see Mrs. Fletcher as the litigious type,” Frye said. “But do whatever you think is right. Good night.”

  As we watched Frye climb into the back of his limo and speed off, I drew a series of deep breaths. It was a cold, clear night. Overhead, thousands of jewellike white stars were displayed on a black scrim. Buckley said, “I should have introduced you. Jerry Winter, Jessica Fletcher.”

  Winter grunted something, reached in his pocket, and handed me his card. “Monday morning at ten, my office.”

  “Why?”

  “To start the action against the city.”

  I laughed. “I’m afraid Commissioner Frye was right,” I said. “I’m not litigious.”

  “Suit yourself, Mrs. Fletcher, but you’ve got this city where you want it. Well, whatever you decide to do, I’m glad I could help you out tonight. Lucky Vaughan caught me. I was heading out of town for the weekend.”

  Help me out? I wondered. What did he do? Would he send a bill?

  “He wouldn’t send me a bill, would he?” I asked Vaughan after Winter had departed.

  “He’d better not. If he does, I won’t publish his next book. Look, Jess, I think this has gone far enough, you getting involved in real murder. Come on. We’ll check you out of the hotel and move you back in with us. You talk to no one, no press, no cops, only book people. I’ll instruct Ruth Lazzara to ease up on the sch
edule, focus only upon major media.”

  I said I would think about it, but that I wanted that night in my suite to sleep away everything that had happened over the past twenty-four hours.

  “Fine,” he said. “But once you’ve done that, Olga and I want you back at the apartment.”

  “Let me sleep on it, Vaughan. And thanks for being such a dear.” He drove me to the hotel, reiterated his wishes, wished me pleasant dreams, and drove off, leaving me to enter the empty lobby, dart into the elevator, ride it to the penthouse, and fling open the door. No room has ever looked more inviting—except for the flashing light on my telephone. A sign I’d left on my bathroom door, “DO NOT OPEN! ATTACK CAT INSIDE,” was still there. I opened the door and Miss Hiss undulated through the opening, brushed against my leg, and wandered into the living room.

  I called the desk and was given thirteen messages, most from media. Two were from Bobby Johnson, who invited me for brunch the next day, Sunday.

  Sunday!

  The press conference. A message left by what the hotel operator termed “a frantic woman,” Ruth Lazzara, informed me that the conference would be held at three at the Plaza. The thought of it was depressing, but I had to go through with it. Lazzara didn’t know anything about my having left the city and the ensuing madness. I returned her call; thankfully I reached her answering machine on which her frantic voice urged callers to leave a message. Which I did; I’d be there with bows on.

  There was also a message from Seth and Morton. They’d called from the airport and would be at the hotel within the hour. I smiled. They’d be here in an hour provided the cab driver didn’t bring them via Philadelphia.

  Their pending arrival ruled out any long nap so I showered, changed into slightly more dressy clothes, and waited for their next call. It came exactly an hour later. They’d checked in and were downstairs in the Judges’ Chambers, the hotel bar.

  “Gorry, you look like death,” Seth said when I joined them.