Manhattans & Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Thank you for that vote of confidence, Seth.”

  “No offense, Jessica, but the bloom is gone from your cheeks. I don’t wonder. No one in this city has bloom on their cheeks. Just gray circles under their eyes.”

  “It isn’t that bad,” I said in defense. “New York is actually a nice place—once you get used to it. It grows on you.”

  “Sort ’a like a fungus,” Mort offered.

  “If you say so. Hear anything from Parker Brothers about your board game?”

  “Just a letter from a lawyer tellin’ me they’re lookin’ at it.”

  “That’s encouraging,” I said.

  “Maybe I ought to get myself a lawyer,” he said.

  “I know a wonderful one here in New York. Jerry Winter. So, fill me in on your trip.”

  “Pretty routine,” Morton responded. “Seems like it’s your trip ought to be talked about. I called the police headquarters where you were held, identified myself as a fellow law enforcement officer to some ugly fella, and told ‘em to put you on. They said you were gone. ‘Where?’ I asked. He hung up on me. I’d like to get his name.”

  “They’re very busy at the precinct,” I said. I asked Seth whether he’d gone back to Nancy Morse’s house after I’d left. He had, of course, being the dependable person that he is. But he saw nothing, no unidentified man.

  “Thanks for trying,” I said. “By the way, I’m no longer a material witness to Waldo’s murder, nor a suspect in Susan Kale’s death.”

  “Good,” Seth said.

  “I’m famished. Feel like a walk and a quick dinner?”

  “Awful late,” Seth said, checking his watch, then patting his corpulent belly. “But I am a mite hungry.”

  We walked out onto Park Avenue and started uptown. It’s a desolate part of town at night, lots of vehicular traffic but few pedestrians. We headed toward Fifth Avenue and its festive lights and decorations. As we waited at the comer of Fortieth and Madison, a homeless man stepped from a doorway and extended his hand to us. Mort spun around, grabbed the man’s wrist, and announced, “You’re under arrest. I’m a police officer.”

  “No, Morton, it’s all right,” I said quickly. “Here.” I handed the man a dollar bill. He thanked me, looked quizzically at Metzger, muttered “weirdo,” and backed into the shadows of his doorway haven.

  “Just a cold, homeless person,” I said. “There’s lots of them in the city.”

  “Could have arrested him for vagrancy,” Morton said.

  When I’d reached into my coat pocket for the dollar, I’d also pulled out the paper on which I’d jotted down that day’s telephone messages. “Excuse me,” I said, stepping into a public phone booth.

  “New York Post,” an operator said.

  “Editorial department please,” I said. “Mr. Bobby Johnson.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Before leaving the hotel Sunday morning to meet with Bobby Johnson, I talked with Ruth Lazzara about that afternoon’s press conference. No, I didn’t need a limousine to take me. I’d get there on my own, and on time. And no, I would not discuss Waldo Morse or Susan Kale. I was a writer of murder mystery books and intended to stick to that in any subsequent interviews. She was disappointed but agreed. She didn’t have a choice.

  Seth Hazlitt and Morton Metzger wanted to accompany me to my brunch with Johnson, but I stood firm. “That’s why we’re here, Jessica,” Seth said. “Keep you out ’a further trouble.”

  “I assure you, Seth, there will be no more trouble for this lady. I intend to promote my book and soak up the holidays. Period. I want you to do the same.” To their glum faces I added, “Let’s meet here at six. Enjoy the city. We’ll find a really good restaurant for dinner. And speaking of trouble, I suggest you two avoid it.”

  Johnson had chosen a restaurant called Ernies, claiming it offered the best Sunday brunch in Manhattan. “An ‘in’ place,” he’d said. “And my treat,” he added as additional inducement to join him. He didn’t know that I didn’t need extra inducements. I’d decided while sitting in a Manhattan jail cell that the best way to get out from the middle of murders in Manhattan—but still see the web of mystery surrounding Waldo and Susan Kale resolved—was to lay everything I knew on him. He could take it from there. After all, he was an investigative reporter, and a good one from what I’d observed. Time for me to play the bystander, feed him what information I had, and watch things develop.

  I arrived at Ernies early, confirmed the reservation he’d made under his name, and waited outside rather than taking the table. The air was crisp and smelled clean. Well, relatively clean. I closed my eyes and imagined I was standing on the Maine coast inhaling its invigorating ocean breezes. I was deep into my reverie and didn’t see or hear Johnson. “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  My eyes snapped open. “Oh, yes, of course. I was daydreaming.”

  “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “That’s all right. I confirmed your reservation. Shall we go in?”

  After being seated at a comer table, I got right down to business. “The reason I agreed to meet with you, Bobby, is that I’ve decided to share with you what I know about Waldo Morse’s murder, and the murder of Susan Kale.”

  He smiled. “Why the turnaround, Mrs. Fletcher. Until now, you’ve treated me like the enemy. I want to be your friend.”

  “In return for exclusive juicy stories,” I said.

  “Sure. No such thing as a free brunch. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be friendly.”

  I observed him across the table. He was a nice-looking young man, but someone who, no matter how hard he tried, would always appear slightly unkempt. He was losing his hair prematurely; an attempt to grow a beard was hampered by a lack of natural facial hair. It grew in sparse clumps. He looked perpetually tired, and I wondered about his lifestyle. Probably a night person. Did he have a special girl in his life? Maybe there wasn’t time for that. So many questions fueled by my inherent curiosity. I didn’t ask them, however. As much as I wanted to cooperate with him, I wasn’t seeking friendship. Besides, my motives in meeting with him were as devious as his. I wanted him to get to the bottom of the murders for my sake, my self-interest. He was right. No such thing as a free brunch, no matter who paid the bill.

  A pretty young waitress gave a theatrical presentation of the day’s specials. An out-of-work actress, I judged, waiting tables to pay the rent until the big break came along. She wrote down our orders—eggs Benedict and a Bloody Shame for me (the British term for a Virgin Mary), and huevos rancheros, a Mexican egg dish, and the real thing, a Bloody Mary for Johnson—and started to walk away. She turned, narrowed her eyes at me, and said, “You’re a famous actress, aren’t you? Your name is on the tip of my tongue.”

  “Afraid not,” I said lightly. “But I’m sure you’ll be famous one day.”

  She beamed, said, “That’s my goal.” She handed me a business card. “If you hear of anything,” she said.

  “Of course.” That was one of the appealing things about New York. Everyone walking around with big dreams and willing to sacrifice to realize them.

  “Well,” Johnson said. “Here we are. What’s new in the life of Jessica Fletcher?”

  “Quite a bit, Bobby. I visited Waldo Morse’s wife, Nancy, in Cabot Cove yesterday. She told me some things I thought you’d be interested in.”

  “You went home yesterday?”

  “Yes, but only for a few hours.” I told him of my furtive escape from Manhattan and of my unexpected, premature return. He found it amusing, which, in retrospect and from an observer’s perspective, it probably was.

  “I knew Waldo Morse from Cabot Cove.”

  His eyebrows went up.

  I told him everything I knew about Waldo, including his disappearance into the witness protection program.

  “You say you talked to his wife.”

  “Yes. She was in the process of moving.” I filled him in on Joe Charles and his relationship to Waldo and to S
usan Kale. I did not, however, mention the third member of the intriguing triangle I’d uncovered, Detective Alphonse Rizzi. I’d raise him with Johnson when, and if, I felt the time was right.

  “Where did Morse’s wife move?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” I wished I did. And then I remembered the yellow pages I’d torn from the pad in her kitchen, and which were back in my hotel room. If she’d pressed down hard enough when writing on the top pages, the ones I’d removed might have indentations that could be read using the old run-a-pencil-across-it technique. That was my intention when taking them, but I’d forgotten about it in the lunacy of the past two days.

  Johnson had been taking notes on a small pad as I talked. He put it aside when our food was served, and we talked of things other than murder. When coffee arrived, he leaned across the small table and asked, “Do you realize what we have here, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Please, call me Jessica. And no, I don’t know what we have here. That’s what I’m hoping you can provide.”

  “We have the makings of a best-selling true-crime book.”

  I sat back. “We? True crime book? I’m not interested in that.”

  “Suit yourself, Jessica. I can write it myself. But I think it’s only fair for you to share in the spoils. Make a great movie, TV miniseries.”

  “Thank you for thinking of me, Bobby, but no thank you.” Was I acting precipitously in sharing information with him? He was obviously a young man with ambition, like our actress-waitress. Could I truly trust him? I decided on the spot that now that I’d gone this far with him, I might as well.

  We parted with the understanding that we would share our knowledge of the murders with each other, but that I would no longer be actively seeking information.

  “Think about my idea for a book,” he said as we shook hands on the sidewalk.

  “Sorry to disappoint, but I won’t be giving it a second thought, even a first one. Feel free to pursue it on your own.”

  “Fair enough, Jessica. Keep in touch.”

  Later, at dinner with Seth and Morton at a steak house near the hotel—we chose it to satisfy Morton’s refusal to avoid red meat in his daily diet: “Real men eat meat,” he was fond of saying, to Seth’s chagrin—I was pumped for what I’d learned from the crusading young reporter.

  “Nothing,” I replied. “I talked, he listened. I’m afraid the reporters at the press conference this afternoon didn’t learn much from me. All they wanted to talk about was Waldo and Susan Kale’s murder. And I refused to discuss those things. Ruth Lazzara, Vaughan’s publicity director, wasn’t happy either. But I feel good about my decision to stick to what I know: writing books. I feel incredibly relieved, a heavy burden off my back. Bobby Johnson will investigate murder, and we’ll investigate the wonders of this city. By the way, what did you do today?”

  My question prompted a spirited replay by both men of their sightseeing. They’d spent most of the afternoon in F.A.O. Schwarz, which had brought out the child in both of them. Their faces glowed as they described the toys, and the children who marveled at them.

  “Not such a bad place after all,” I said.

  “The store?”

  “The city itself.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Cabot Cove’s sheriff replied.

  He’d worn his tan uniform, Stetson hat, and badge everywhere since arriving, which drew considerable reactions from most people, including patrons of the steak house. “Damn near got killed by a couple ’a crazy taxi drivers. They wouldn’t get away with drivin’ like that back home.”

  “No, they wouldn’t, not with Sheriff Morton Metzger in charge,” I agreed. “Shall we? This lady is getting sleepy.”

  Which I remedied by climbing into bed soon after getting back to my suite, Miss Hiss curled at my feet. I closed my eyes and allowed sleep to quickly and quietly consume me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Islept soundly but not long enough. The jangling of the phone next to my bed sent Miss Hiss scurrying for cover, and jarred me to an unsteady sitting position against the headboard. I shook my head and tried to read the time from the digital clock radio. It couldn’t be. Five-fifteen? Maybe I’d slept all day, and it was early evening.

  “Hello,” I mumbled, thankful the incessant, grating ringing had ceased.

  “ ‘Mornin, Jess. Seth here.”

  “Seth, it’s five-fifteen.”

  “I know that, and I apologize for waking you. But I thought it was important.”

  “You’re up,” I said, knowing immediately it was a stupid thing to say. Of course he was up. He was talking to me.

  “Couldn’t sleep. Nothing but sirens and horns beeping and garbage trucks rattling cans right outside my window. At any rate, I’ve been watchin’ TV—CNN—quite a service to have, TV news twenty-four hours every day.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Just heard a report that a Catholic priest was murdered early this morning in St. Patrick’s Cathedral, of all places.”

  “How terrible. It was on CNN already?”

  “Nope. Got that on a local channel. Certainly is a terrible thing. Seems nobody’s safe. No safe place.”

  There was silence.

  “Why was it necessary to wake me at five in the morning to tell me this?”

  “ ‘Cause it got me to thinkin’ about this Waldo Morse mess. Seems to me Waldo was killed right next to that church.”

  “That’s right. But how would you know that?”

  “You told me the comer where Waldo got it. Mort and I stopped in the cathedral yesterday. Some imposing place. Anyway, seemed to me that it might be a useful coincidence.”

  “Hmmm. Maybe.” My thoughts leaped back to the first day I’d seen Waldo. A priest had approached him, and I’d found it interesting that Waldo had handed the priest something rather than the other way around. “Any other details on TV about the priest being murdered?” I asked.

  “Nope. I suppose you might as well go back to sleep. See you at nine for breakfast.”

  I was now wide-awake and craving a cup of hot coffee. I’m basically a tea drinker, but there are times when only coffee will do. “Go back to sleep?” I said, laughing. “Out of the question. See you in the dining room at seven.”

  I knew I wouldn’t hold out until seven, so I ordered coffee and a muffin from room service and turned on the television. The priest’s murder was reported the minute the screen came to life.

  “ ... And, in Manhattan, a priest was shot and killed on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral early this morning. The priest, whose identity is being withheld pending notification of relatives, was shot three times in the chest while leaving the cathedral. It is not clear why he was there at that hour or whether he was a member of the cathedral diocese. Robbery has been ruled out as a motive, say police.”

  After enjoying the coffee and muffin, I took a quick shower, tossed on my sweats, and rode the elevator down to the lobby. Evidently my steadfast refusal at the press conference to not speak about real murders had had its intended effect. There was no one from the media ready to pounce on me. I went to a small store that sold newspapers. I didn’t expect the priest’s murder to be in early editions but bought them all anyway, scanned the headlines, and continued my morning constitutional at a brisk pace. I enjoy the early mornings. So many possibilities lie ahead. People seem hopeful as they hurry to work, purpose written on their faces, urgency in their step. Maybe that’s why I’ve always written early in the day, using afternoons and evening for reading, and catching up on correspondence and paperwork. I’ve never understood writers who write all night and sleep all day. But they wouldn’t understand my schedule either. Different body clocks, circadian rhythms marching to different drummers.

  After breakfast, Seth and Morton headed off for more sightseeing and shopping—remarkable, I thought, how quickly they’d adopted the Christmas spirit in dreaded New York City—and I stayed in my suite returning phone calls, including a postmortem by Ruth Lazzara on the Sunday pres
s conference. She’d received a number of calls that morning from the press, including offers for me to appear on afternoon television talk shows. I’d watched a few of them back in Cabot Cove and, frankly, they didn’t impress me. I asked Ruth, “Why would they want me? I’ve never slept with anyone but my husband, never abused a child, and never would talk on television about those things if I had.”

  “But these are national shows, Jessica, with huge and loyal followings. The book will race to the top of the best-seller charts the day after you appear.”

  “Sorry, Ruth, but I simply won’t subject myself to that type of situation.”

  Her deep, dark sigh said many things; I was grateful she didn’t express them.

  I called Bobby Johnson at the Post but didn’t reach him. I wondered what he knew about the priest’s murder that morning. Chances were it was pure coincidence. But I’d learned over many years of plotting crimes for my books, and solving them, that taking coincidences for granted could prove misleading, if not dangerous. My books may be fiction, but there’s nothing fictitious in this world that hasn’t actually happened to someone.

  My first appointment that day was an eleven-o’ clock book signing at Shakespeare and Company, a popular Manhattan bookstore. Seth and Morton insisted upon joining me, and we took a cab from the hotel. It had started to flurry; the TV weatherman predicted one-to-three inches that day, a mere dusting back home but obviously cause for major concern to New Yorkers. I wondered if the weather forecast would keep people from attending the signing. It didn’t. A large crowd had already gathered on the second-floor landing of the store, and it was only ten-thirty.

  To my chagrin, there were reporters and photographers in the crowd, and they were soon joined by a camera crew.

  “Seems to me we should leave,” Seth whispered in my ear. “They brought you here to sign books, not to put yourself in a fishbowl.”

  “It’s all right,” I replied. “Let them take pictures. As long as I don’t have to answer questions.”

  I ignored the media and got down to signing books, which proved to be enjoyable. No doubt about it. I’d relaxed considerably since the madness of the previous week. I felt at peace with myself and the world. Contrary to popular belief, New Yorkers can be friendly and helpful. One “fan” filled me in on the best Christmas window displays in the city and offered to take me on a personal tour. Another brought me a tin of homemade frozen lasagna: “I heard you say on a talk show that you liked Italian food,” she said sweetly. Mort Metzger took the lasagne from me and said after the woman had left with her autographed book, “I’ll get rid of it, Jess. Never know what some cuckoo might slip in it.”