Manhattans & Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  I slept well considering everything that had happened. I had breakfast in the room, enjoyed a leisurely shower, and felt rested and relaxed when it was time to meet Ruth in the lobby for our trip to Macy’s. Because public scrutiny of my daily activities had diminished, I’d become used to arriving in the lobby without being ambushed by the press. Which accounted for my surprise when I stepped off the elevator and was confronted with cameras and reporters. I was about to retreat to the security of the elevator when Ruth, who’d been hidden behind a group of media representatives, yelled my name and ran to me. “This is incredible,” she said, thrusting a copy of that morning’s New York Post at me. The entire front page was covered with a stock photograph of me. A small insert picture in the lower right-hand comer was of the bodega’s entrance. The headline—it couldn’t have been bigger—read: “JESS DOES IT AGAIN!”

  I pulled Ruth into the elevator and pushed the button for my floor. Reporters tried to join us, but I held them off with a steely stare.

  “I can’t believe this happened to you last night,” Ruth said. “Why didn’t you tell me when you called?”

  “Because I wanted to forget about it,” I said, turning to Page Three where the story began. It was bylined by, who else? Bobby Johnson “reporting from his bed at Bellevue Hospital.” He recounted the details of the shooting and made much of the fact that I was witness to yet another Manhattan assault. The rest of the story was dominated by a rehash of the Santa Claus slaying on Fifth Avenue, my discovering the body of Susan Kale, and the fact that we’d gone to the South Bronx to talk to a musician, Joe Charles, in the hope of verifying that the person originally thought to have died in the Santa Claus costume had not, in fact, been that person. At least he’d fudged it. He hadn’t claimed outright that Waldo Morse was alive.

  When we were in the suite, I said, “This is dreadful.”

  “I know,” Ruth said without conviction. “It must be trying for you. But the publicity is incredible. Johnson mentions the name of your new book at least three times. And he calls you ‘Manhattan’s Mayhem Madam.’ ” She giggled.

  I winced.

  The phone rang. It was Seth, who’d just picked up the Post. “You stay right there, Jessica. Mort and I are on our way up.”

  “I can’t face the press again,” I said to Ruth.

  “Is there a back door?” she asked.

  I thought of my previous escape from the roof and down to the kitchen, but thought better of it. There was a loud knock on the door. I opened it, and Seth and Morton came in. Seth wore his usual brown tweed jacket, forest green suede vest, and bow tie. Morton, no surprise, was in his tan Cabot Cove sheriff’s uniform replete with badge, and broad-brimmed Stetson hat.

  “We have to go,” Ruth said.

  “Where are we going?” Morton asked.

  “Macy’s,” I said. “To sign books.”

  “If it was me, Jessica, I’d cancel out and stay right here,” said Seth. “Not safe for you to be out on the streets of this city.”

  I forced a laugh. “Don’t be silly,” I said. “The only threat to me is the free press. If you gentlemen will run interference for me, I’m ready to leave.”

  They did a pretty good job of helping me navigate the crowd in the lobby and out to the sidewalk. We were followed of course, as we made our way across town to Macy’s on Thirty-fourth Street, but the store’s management did a good job of crowd control. They kept the press at bay while I frantically signed books for hundreds of people.

  I’d ordered a car to pick me up in front of the store at eleven-thirty. Seth, Morton, and Ruth accompanied me out to the sidewalk where I found my driver, who held up a large cardboard sign with my name on it.

  “Where are you going?” Ruth asked.

  “A personal errand,” I said.

  Seth opened the back door and climbed in.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “With you on this personal errand,” he said. “Come on, get in.”

  Two things crossed my mind. The first was that there was no way I could dissuade them from accompanying me. The second was that I welcomed their company. I was naturally concerned that their presence might upset Waldo. But it wasn’t as though I was bringing total strangers. They’d known Waldo’s mother in Cabot Cove. If being with me bothered Waldo, so be it. It was time I stopped doing a solo act.

  “By the way,” Morton said as we headed for the Queens Midtown Tunnel and the Long Island Expressway, “I got hold of the moving company in Portland that moved Nancy.”

  I looked at him with wide eyes. “And?”

  “Seems they brought her here to New York City.”

  I wasn’t surprised, not with the message she’d left at the hotel. Of course, she could have called long distance, but somehow I doubted it. I asked, “What address did they take her to?”

  Morton pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. It was a building number on Sullivan Street. “Thanks, Mort,” I said. “I appreciate this.”

  I’ve heard people refer to the Long Island Express-way as the world’s longest parking lot. I was now a believer. It was a tortuous ride to where we exited and headed north until reaching the quaint, petite village of Sea Cliff. It was lovely, an oasis not many miles from Manhattan that reminded me somewhat of Cabot Cove. It was on the water, Long Island Sound, and the houses were gingerbready and eclectic. Our driver let us out across the street from K. C. Gallaghers, an unimposing storefront pub with small evergreens decorated with red Christmas bows in window boxes.

  “Cute place,” Seth said. A young couple passed and gave Mort and his uniform a second look.

  “Think hell show up?” Seth asked.

  “There’s one way to find out,” I said.

  Waldo was seated at a table for two in a back corner. He saw me come through the door and started to stand, then saw Seth and Mort and sat back down. I quickly went to him because I knew what he was thinking. “Waldo,” I said, placing a hand on his shoulder, “it’s all right. These are friends from Cabot Cove. We’re all here to help you.”

  His expression said he wasn’t sure. But he didn’t leave.

  “We’ll need a bigger table,” I said.

  We took a vacant table for four in the opposite comer. Waldo obviously was no stranger to the restaurant. A waitress immediately appeared and asked if he would have “his usual.” We all ended up ordering it, French onion soup and salads.

  “I don’t like this,” Waldo said after the waitress had left the table. “Who are you people?”

  I explained Mort and Seth’s connection to me. “Mort learned where Nancy might have moved,” I said.

  “Where?”

  “Seems they moved some of her things to a place called Sullivan Street,” Mort replied.

  I added, “Nancy tried to reach me last night, but I wasn’t at the hotel when she called. She didn’t leave a number. Have you seen the papers this morning?”

  “The Times.”

  “There’s a front-page story in the Post about an incident in which I was involved last night. A reporter, Bobby Johnson, was shot in a store in the Bronx. I was with him. He wrote about it from his hospital room. He mentions in the article that there is the possibility you are still alive.”

  “Great,” Waldo said. “That’s just great. How did he find that out?”

  “From me, I’m afraid. But I don’t think it will matter if we move, quickly. I also saw Joe Charles last night.”

  “Where?”

  “At a small jazz club across from the store where the reporter was shot.”

  “Was Nancy—?”

  “No, she wasn’t with him. That’s why I went to see him, to ask if he knew her whereabouts. He said he didn’t.”

  “You believe him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope you’re right, Mrs. Fletcher. He’s dangerous. He’ll do anything to save his hide.”

  “What’s he have to save himself from?” Mort asked in his best interrogation voice
.

  “He—he’s a drug runner,” Waldo replied.

  “He is?” My surprise was genuine.

  Waldo looked at Seth and Mort before asking me, “Are you sure I can talk freely?”

  I nodded. “Trust me, Waldo. Trust us.”

  “Okay. I don’t know why I should, but I’m running out of options. If what you say is true about people knowing I’m alive, I might not stay that way very long.”

  “Go on, Waldo. Tell us about Joe Charles.”

  He gathered his thoughts before saying, “When I split from the witness protection program and started working for New York MPD, one of my first assignments was to link up with Joe again. The cops knew he was dealing drugs, especially in the jazz community. Turns out some of his suppliers are connected with the guys I helped put away. Joe was sort of a conduit for musicians, a guy they could always come to make a buy. Rizzi—”

  “That’s the detective assigned to Waldo,” I explained to my friends. “And he’s been assigned to me in a manner of speaking. Go on Waldo.”

  “Yeah, Mrs. Fletcher’s right,” he said. “Rizzi has been my control ever since I started informing. Anyway, when Rizzi found out that Joe and I went back to Cabot Cove together, he set me on to him. We got friendly again, only it wasn’t exactly friendship. I mean, I was hanging around with him and then telling Rizzi everything about how Joe dealt drugs, who bought them, stuff like that. I was a rat, a well-paid one.”

  Morton’s expression said he’d just tasted something sour. But Seth leaned closer to Waldo and said, “Sometimes we do what we have to do, Waldo. I got a feeling that this Joe Charles came to know what you were doin’ to him.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did Joe know you’d arranged to have your friend stand in for you that day?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so. At least he didn’t learn it from me.”

  “What about Susan Kale?” I said. “She told me she’d lived with you and with Joe Charles at different times. And you indicated at the library that you thought Joe might have killed her. Why?”

  “For the same reason he wanted me out of the way. Susan came to know what was going on between me and Joe. Knowing too much about double-dealing isn’t healthy. At least not in this case.”

  I told Waldo about having seen Joe Charles, Susan Kale, and Detective Rizzi together at Sweet Basil. “If Rizzi and the police were interested in Joe because he was a drug dealer, why would the detective and the drug runner be together in a jazz club?” I asked.

  “Because—” Waldo looked to Mort Metzger before completing his statement. “Because Rizzi’s dirty.”

  “Dirty?”

  “Yes. Dirty.”

  “Careful now accusing a law enforcement officer,” Mort said sternly.

  “I can’t prove it,” Waldo said. “But talk on the street is that Rizzi is always on the take, always with his hand out to drug dealers in return for looking the other way.”;

  “You wouldn’t see any ’a that in Cabot Cove,” Mort said.

  “Waldo,” said Seth, “did this Detective Rizzi become aware that you know he’s ‘dirty’ as you put it?”

  The soup and salads were served. Waldo answered Seth. “I have no way of knowing,” he said. “I suppose the guys who told me might have told Rizzi I know about him. I sure never brought it up with him.”

  “But he knows that you dropped out of the federal program,” I offered. “He might assume you’re ready to do the same with him and the New York police. If you did—if you were no longer under his thumb—you might be tempted to talk to another authority.”

  Waldo started to respond but I quickly added, “And consider this, Waldo. Rizzi didn’t know about the switch that day between you and your friend. At least he wouldn’t have known about it until after the fact. Once he did realize it, it could have been the subject of the conversation I witnessed between Joe, Susan, and Rizzi that night in Sweet Basil. I know one thing for certain. They weren’t happy about something.”

  We fell silent. Seth twisted some of the melted cheese from the top of his soup and tasted it. Food had no appeal for me at that moment. Morton’s soup and salad were almost gone.

  “Excuse me,” Waldo said. “Nature calls.”

  He went behind a partition and was out of our sight.

  “What do you think?” I asked Mort and Seth.

  “Hard to say,” Mort replied. “Can’t say I like him much. Anybody gets involved with drugs like he did doesn’t sit well with me, no matter what excuses they make.”

  “Do you believe him?” I asked.

  “That’s hard to say, too,” said Seth. “You get one story from Joe Charles, another from him. Some friends. Seems like they’re each out to sink the other.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” I said. “But what if both are telling to truth? I mean, at least from their individual perspectives? Somehow, Detective Alphonse Rizzi keeps coming to mind. No offense, Morton, but being a police officer doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a good person.”

  “Are you suggestin’ that this Detective Rizzi might actually have tried to kill Waldo, and kill that girl, too?” Seth asked.

  I sat back and closed my eyes, slowly shook my head. “I can’t prove it, but I have this nagging feeling that he’s capable of it. Waldo says Rizzi is dirty, that he takes payoffs from drug dealers. If that’s true, he’d have every reason to get rid of people who knew about it and could testify against him.”

  “Soup is good,” Seth said, taking another spoonful.

  I glanced at my watch. Waldo had been gone too long. I mentioned it to Seth and Morton.

  Mort wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I’ll go check on him,” he said, hitching up his pants and following Waldo’s footsteps. He returned moments later. “I can’t find him,” he said.

  I motioned for our waitress. “Did you see where Waldo went?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Looks like he did what he usually does,” she said. “I think you’re stuck with the check.” She handed it to Seth.

  “By the old Lord Harry!” Seth muttered.

  “Shiftless son-of-a-gun,” Mort said.

  “Why would he have run from us?” I asked aloud. “Where would he be going in such a hurry?”

  I picked up the check that Seth had dropped on the table. “I’ll get this,” I said. “We’d better head back to the city.” I took a credit card from my purse and laid it on the check. It was then that I noticed that the waitress had left a pencil with it. A plain, old-fashioned Number Two lead pencil.

  I went back into my purse and found the sheets of paper I’d taken from the yellow legal pad in Nancy Morse’s kitchen in Cabot Cove. I pushed aside the tablecloth on my side and laid the pages on the table’s hard surface.

  “What the devil are you doin’?” Seth asked.

  “Something I’ve been meaning to do ever since we went to Nancy’s house.” I held the pencil so that the side of the lead was flat and began to slowly rub it over the faint indentations on the paper. Words began to appear. They were barely readable, but when the paper was held to catch the light at precisely the right angle, they took shape.

  Seth and Morton moved next to me and squinted to read what had formed on the paper. Not every word took shape, but enough had for the message to come through loud and clear.

  I shoved the pages back in my purse, replaced my credit card with enough cash to cover the bill and stood. “Come on,” I said. “We don’t have a minute to lose.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Sullivan Street, according to our talkative driver, was actually in Greenwich Village but was sometimes considered part of New York’s Little Italy. It was a lovely street of row houses that had been renovated over the years. But even with attempts at modernization, it retained the look of yesteryear, a set Hollywood might build for a movie about tum-of-the-century immigrants in Manhattan.

  We stopped in front of the address Morton had gotten from the moving company. “What now?” Seth asked.


  “Let’s see if she’s put her name on one of the mailboxes,” I suggested. I knew she wouldn’t have if seeking anonymity, but it was worth a try. I went up the short flight of steps and checked. No Morse. I returned to the car. “No luck,” I said. “I guess we just wait. Is that all right with you?” I asked the driver.

  “I’m yours till six,” he said. “I go off-duty then. It’s Christmas Eve.”

  “It certainly is,” I said. A wave of nostalgia swept over me. Sitting in a hired car on a Greenwich Village street was a new holiday experience for me, one I hoped would never be repeated.

  “Want me to go in and knock on a few doors?” Mort asked.

  “No, let’s just sit here awhile,” I said. “We’ll give it a half hour.”

  As we waited, the sunshine of earlier in the day was replaced with low, angry clouds from which snow began to fall, gently at first but then whipped by a sudden wind into a horizontal whiteout. People on the street reacted predictably, walking faster, coats pulled up tight around their necks, hats pulled lower over their foreheads. Those walking into the wind leaned forward. Everyone seemed to be carrying presents wrapped in brightly colored paper. Lights on Christmas trees and wreaths in apartment windows took on their own surrealistic movement as the driven snow whipped past them. The sound of the wind, and of the car’s heater, was embellished by a church bell from across the street.

  “Like some Christmas music?” the driver asked, turning on the radio before we had a chance to answer.

  “Wait,” I said.

  “Huh?” the driver said.

  “Turn it off,” I said.

  “Sounds pretty,” Seth said.

  The driver clicked off the radio. I leaned forward and peered through the window. It wasn’t easy to see because of the weather, but there was no doubt that it was Waldo coming up the street. He was moving fast, hunched forward into the wind, hands jammed in the pockets of his army surplus jacket, eyes narrowed against the sting of the snow.