Manhattans & Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  Every taxi driver I’d had since arriving in New York drove as though he (in one case a she) was competing in the Indy 500. But now that I wanted to get to my destination as quickly as possible, I ended up with a driver who, when it came time to sell his vehicle, wanted to claim it had been driven by a little old lady from Pasadena. But we eventually reached Bobby Johnson’s apartment building, a decaying structure I assumed had once been a magnificent home. It was located in the low hundreds, a few doors from Riverside Drive. What a magnificent neighborhood this must have once been. I paid the driver and thanked him for a sane ride.

  He smiled. “Life’s too short to get yourself killed,” he said.

  How right you are, I thought as I approached the steps leading up to the front door. Unlike the building in which Joe Charles lived, this door was secured, and buzzers to apartments were connected. I found Johnson’s nameplate and pushed the button. A sharp buzz was returned. I pushed open the door and stepped into the foyer. Another door gave me access to the first-floor hallway. A small elevator was to my right and waiting. I pushed Six. When I stepped out on to the sixth floor, Bobby stood in his open doorway. “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Come on in.”

  I’d expected the worst. Why, I don’t know. The address, I suppose, and a preconceived notion of the sort of lifestyle he led. But there I was assuming things again, as I’d done that day on Fifth Avenue when I assumed it was Waldo Morse who’d been shot.

  The apartment was spacious, nicely decorated and spotlessly clean. I was immediately drawn to a room at one end that overlooked the Hudson River. “What a beautiful view,” I said.

  “Better than looking out on to somebody’s air shaft.”

  I surveyed the rest of the apartment. Its only disconcerting aspect was its dim lighting. A few small lamps cast ominous shadows as their low-wattage light fell on objects in the living room. Samuel Barbour’s Adagio for Strings, one of the most somber pieces of music ever written and played at virtually every state funeral, came from unseen speakers, adding to the room’s funereal atmosphere.

  “Well, are we ready to go?” I asked, injecting cheer into my voice.

  “In a few minutes,” Johnson said. He went through a doorway to another room. I wondered what I was supposed to do next. When he didn’t return, I followed to where he’d gone. It was his office, or study. He sat behind a small desk. The light from a single desk lamp was the room’s only illumination aside from the eerie glow from a color computer monitor. He looked up at me and said, “Come here, Jessica. Sit down. I want to discuss something with you.”

  I continued to stand in the doorway. “What is it you want to discuss?” I asked.

  “This.” He pressed a few keys on his keyboard, and a dot matrix printer went into action. When it had completed its task, Bobby tore off the document it had printed, carefully removed the perforations from the edges, and laid it on the desk. “Come on, Jessica. Sit down and read this.”

  I sat in a leather club chair on the other side of the desk, picked up the printout, and held it up to catch the scarce light. It was an article. The headline read: “STARTLING DEVELOPMENT IN SANTA CLAUS MURDER.”

  I glanced up at him. He’d leaned back in his high-back leather chair, fingers laced on his chest, a satisfied smile on his face.

  I started to read the article itself.

  The brutal murder of a sidewalk Santa Claus on Fifth Avenue a week ago has taken a sudden and dramatic turn. In an exclusive interview with world-famous mystery writer, Jessica Fletcher, this reporter has learned that the individual thought to have been killed that day, Waldo Morse, is, in fact, very much alive.

  I slowly shook my head. “I don’t believe you’re doing this, Bobby.”

  “Keep reading. It gets even better.”

  Mrs. Fletcher, whose novels about murder have sold in the millions and have been translated into dozens of languages, knew Waldo Morse from her home-town of Cabot Cove, Maine. Morse had run a lobster fishing business out of Ogunquit, Maine, until being arrested for aiding drug smugglers bringing their wares into New England. He copped a plea and, in return for helping convict members of the drug cartel, was placed in the Federal Witness Protection Program. He was in that program when Mrs. Fletcher first spotted him across from St. Patrick’s Cathedral. She made an appointment to see him the next day. When she returned, she not only witnessed who she thought was Morse being gunned down by unknown assailants, she took photographs of the event. Those photographs ended up in a rival newspaper, an unfortunate fact that has never been explained to anyone by Mrs. Fletcher, including the police who would like very much to get their hands on the roll of film.

  “This is outrageous,” I said.

  “But true, isn’t it? Have I misstated any of the facts so far?”

  He had. Waldo had not been in the witness protection program when he was working the streets as a charitable Santa. But Johnson wouldn’t find that out from me.

  I tossed the pages back on the desk.

  “You haven’t finished,” he said.

  “Nor do I intend to. Why are you showing this to me? Obviously, you intend to run this story in your newspaper tomorrow.”

  He came forward, causing the springs on his chair to wheeze. He placed his elbows on his desk, laid his chin on a shelf made by his folded hands, and said, “I don’t have to turn this story in, Jessica. That’s up to you.”

  “If you think I’ll change my mind about doing a book with you, Bobby, you’ve wasted your valuable writing time. I would certainly prefer that you not run this story, but I would never change my mind in order to avoid that.”

  “Fair enough, Jessica. But I don’t have to continue sharing information with you, either. I know where Joe Charles is. You say he might be a murderer, and that Morse’s wife is in danger because of him. I can nail down that linkup without you.”

  I stood and came around the side of the desk. “I understand how much you want to do this book with me. I don’t fault you for that, and maybe I’ve been too rigid in how I view it. I’m sure you can understand that making such a decision is extremely difficult in the midst of the tension and pressures I’ve experienced since arriving in New York. I don’t make snap decisions, never have. I’ve often complained that the biggest problem we all face is a lack of quiet, contemplative time to think things out. I promise to give the idea serious consideration once everything has been resolved, and I have an opportunity to go home and clear my head.”

  The expression on his face didn’t tell me whether I was making an impact or not. I continued. “If that isn’t enough to convince you to take me to Joe Charles tonight, let me again remind you that Nancy Morse’s life might be at stake. I believe that Joe Charles knows where she is. If I’m right, confronting him might save her life and the lives of her children.” I raised my hands, then slapped them to my thighs. “That’s all I have to say, Bobby. You can either do what you promised me earlier this evening, take me to where Joe Charles is appearing, or go back on your word, turn in this article, and let the chips fall where they may.” I returned to the living room, picked up my coat from a chair, and put it on.

  “Okay,” he said, standing in the doorway. “But only if you promise one other thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you’ll allow me to continue talking to your agent, Russ Checkett. At least give me the opportunity to sell him on the idea.”

  “Without me,” I said.

  “You said you’d think about it.”

  “And I will. Continue talking to him, but only on the condition that you not tell him that I’ve agreed to anything—yet.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We had to walk to Broadway to find a cab. When we were ensconced in the backseat of a yellow Checker and Bobby had given the driver an address in the Bronx, I asked how he’d learned where Joe Charles was appearing that evening.

  “Easy,” he replied. “I called the twenty-four-hour jazz line.”


  “What’s that?”

  “A service for the jazz community. You call and get a recording telling you who’s appearing in clubs around New York.”

  “Just like that,” I said.

  “Yeah, just like that.”

  “I wish I’d thought of it.”

  He laughed. “But you didn’t. Like I said, Jessica, we make a great team.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  As we left Manhattan and entered the Bronx, the change in landscape was as distinct as the change in my mood. Pure adrenaline had carried me to this stage. I’d been pumped up with a sense of mission. Forget that I’d resolved days ago to leave the digging to Bobby Johnson, and be content with learning from him what had happened. That was then. This was now, a cold, wet night two days before Christmas. I wondered whether Santa visited the Bronx. The real one, I mean. Or, the mythical one. I’m sure he did, at least in the minds of the children. I thought of Santa being murdered on Fifth Avenue, could see the blood again, hear the report of the weapon. I’d never view Santa Claus again in the same pleasant light.

  Bobby said little during the ride. He was lost in thougnt, his attention on the passing scene as we moved through neighborhoods that looked as though they’d suffered massive air raids. I remembered seeing and hearing scenes of the South Bronx when President Jimmy Carter visited there in 1978. He’d promised to commit a large amount of money to rebuilding the area, but that obviously hadn’t happened. So much rebuilding to accomplish and so little money with which to do it. What a tragedy, block after block of such beautiful buildings that once housed thriving families reduced to ruin.

  The taxi kept swerving to avoid potholes, but not always successfully. Once, he slammed on the brakes because a painfully thin stray dog darted out in front of us after having knocked over a garbage can. It had started to drizzle before we left Manhattan. The cab’s windshield wipers did nothing but smear dirt across the window’s surface. The overall impact of the ride was to cause me to almost call a halt to the trip, to instruct the driver to return to Manhattan. Let Bobby Johnson do his stories. I’d had enough.

  But then we turned off 137th Street and were on a street called Alexander Avenue. At least there was life there. We passed two magnificent churches and then, to my relief, drove past a police station, in front of which were parked a dozen patrol cars. The movie Fort Apache had depicted being a cop in such surroundings. A tough job. Hopefully, our destination wouldn’t be too far from the precinct house.

  Lights from a couple of small grocery stores spilled out onto the wet pavement. People milled about in front of them, undeterred by the light rain. Small residential buildings dotted the avenue. It was good to know that other people were there. I’d begun to think Bobby and I were the only two people in the South Bronx that night.

  We pulled up in front of a red-brick building. The tattered remains of a green canopy hung loosely over the span between the door and curb. Dozens of garbage cans overflowing with trash stood between us and the door as we exited the cab. Music of the type I’d heard through Joe Charles’s door on Crosby Street forced its way to the street. A faint light could be seen through a dirty window, half of which was covered by cardboard. A crude sign written in some sort of pen announced: “APPEARING TONIGHT JOE CHARLES.”

  “This is it, huh?” I said to Bobby as the cab pulled away.

  “Looks like it. Not much of a place.”

  I looked up and down the street. “No, it isn’t. Let’s go in. I’d rather take my chances inside than stand out here.”

  The minute we pushed open the door, the music assaulted us with the potency of a tornado. The room was long and narrow. Running along the left side was a bar. Small tables were crowded together along the right-hand side. At the far end of the room was a bandstand on which Joe Charles, surrounded by all his instruments, performed a musical composition that sounded to these untrained ears like a steel factory in full production. It was deafening.

  “Over there,” Bobby said, pointing to the only vacant table along the wall. We went to it and, with considerable jockeying, managed to squeeze onto small, rickety wooden chairs. A young woman with a mane of reddish hair, and wearing an extremely short skirt and low-cut blouse, came to our table. Bobby looked at me questioningly. “Soda,” I shouted. “Coke or Pepsi.” Bobby ordered a beer. “No glass, just the bottle,” he said.

  The seats we’d taken had me facing the bandstand. Bobby’s back was to it. I squinted against tearing eyes. A thick blue haze of smoke filled the room, and there was the pungent odor of marijuana. A young man and woman directly behind Bobby openly passed a cigarette back and forth. I looked to my left and saw that men at the bar had turned to observe us. I suppose it was natural that we would attract attention. Aside from Joe Charles, we seemed to be the only Caucasians in the place.

  The waitress placed my soda in front of me, but I didn’t touch it. I’d lost my thirst. Talking to Bobby was impossible because of the music’s volume, and so we sat, each chewing on our individual thoughts and waiting for Charles to take a blessed intermission.

  We must have come in toward the end of his set because after a crashing finale to whatever composition he was playing, he stopped, nodded to acknowledge the few people who bothered to applaud, stepped down from the bandstand, and went to the bar where he was handed a beer by the barmaid. I was tempted to get up from the table and approach him, but I stayed seated and simply watched. He took a swig from the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and began a conversation with a young woman. It was obviously a pleasant conversation because they laughed a great deal.

  “Should we go over to him?” I asked Bobby.

  “No. Let’s wait a little. I’d rather get him alone.”

  My concern was that he would stay with his friend at the bar until it was time to perform again. I wasn’t sure my ears could tolerate another round of his music. But then he kissed his friend on the cheek, accepted another beer from the barmaid, and slowly made his way along the bar toward the front door. He was almost abreast of us when he spotted me. I read in his face a combination of surprise, and then panic. “Joe,” I said, raising my hand.

  He stood transfixed, obviously confused about what to do next. Bobby Johnson had turned in his chair so that he faced Charles. “Can we talk to you for a minute?” he asked.

  I sensed Charles was about to turn and head back to the bandstand, or for the door. Bobby and I quickly stood, which placed each of us in the path of either escape route.

  “Please, Joe,” I said. “Give us a few minutes. It’s important. ”

  Our brief dialogue, and the fact we’d stood so suddenly and had him wedged between us, captured the attention of others within earshot. Charles was aware of them looking at us, which, I think, caused him to decide to listen to what we had to say instead of pushing us aside and causing a scene. “What do you want?” he asked me.

  “A few answers, that’s all. Please sit down.” I looked about me for a third chair, but there wasn’t one.

  “Is there another room?” Bobby asked.

  “No. Look, I don’t know why the hell you came here,” Charles said. “I don’t know anything. I told you that when you came to my apartment, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “And I came back, only to find Susan dead. How did she die, Joe?”

  My question unnerved him. He started to move away. I put my hand on his arm and said, “You’ve got to talk to me. Only for a few minutes.” I looked to the bandstand. “Could we go up there? I promise I won’t take longer than your normal intermission.”

  “Yeah, like when you came to my place and said you wouldn’t ask any more questions. But you just kept asking them.”

  “I’m sorry. A bad habit of mine.”

  Charles seemed to be suddenly aware that Bobby Johnson was there, too. “Joe,” I said, “this is Bobby Johnson. He’s a reporter.”

  From the look on Charles’s face, I was sorry I’d mentioned Bobby’s press affiliation. “A reporter? Jesus.�
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  “Maybe we should go outside,” I suggested.

  “Sure,” Charles said. “Why not?” He heaved a deep sigh, finished what was left of his beer, plunked the empty bottle on the table, and said, “I could use some air anyway.”

  It was raining harder now. We stood beneath the canopy, but its gaping holes afforded little protection. “Maybe we should go back inside,” I said.

  Charles ignored my suggestion and pointed across the street. “That bodega’s open,” he said. He ran across the street, and we followed. It was pleasant and warm inside the small store. An Hispanic husband and wife served customers from behind a counter so laden with items that there was only a small space through which to transact business.

  We stood just inside the door. I started to ask a question when the husband behind the counter said something loud in Spanish. He sounded angry.

  “Yeah, yeah, sí, sí,” Charles said. “He doesn’t want us standing here unless we buy something.”

  I went to a magazine rack directly behind Charles and pulled out a copy of El Diario, the Spanish newspaper. I took it to the counter, paid for it, and returned to Charles and Bobby Johnson. “This should buy us a few minutes,” I said. “Joe, do you know where Nancy Morse is?”

  “Nancy Morse? Why would I know where she is?”

  “Because—she moved from Cabot Cove. I was there the day she left. I think you were there, too.”

  He looked at me as though I was crazy. “You’re nuts,” he said. “Why the hell would I be at her house?”

  “You lied to me the day I visited you. You said your phone was broken, but it rang when you were away from the apartment. It was a call from Detective Rizzi.”

  “So what? Where’s it written that I have to be honest with you?”

  “And you and Susan Kale met with him the night I came to Sweet Basil.”

  “You didn’t come to Sweet Basil, Mrs. Fletcher. You followed me there.”