“Here comes Waldo,” I said.
Mort and Seth turned to see what I was seeing. “Ayuh, that’s him all right,” said Seth.
Waldo walked past us and stopped at the building to which Nancy had moved, hesitated, looked left and right, went up the steps and disappeared inside.
“Looks like you were right, Jess,” Seth said. “He knew exactly what building it was.” I’d told Waldo only that Nancy had moved to Sullivan Street. I hadn’t given him the address. I also knew why he’d run from the restaurant in Sea Cliff. My acknowledgement that I knew where Nancy was had panicked him. The note I’d deciphered, written to him by Nancy, told me only that he and Nancy were planning to run off together. It didn’t tell me when. My assumption was that the timetable would be pushed up, which proved out.
“I’ll go get him,” Mort said, reaching for the door handle.
“Wait,” I said. “Look.”
A car driven by Detective Alphonse Rizzi, the same car he’d driven me in the previous night, parked at a hydrant up the street. Rizzi got out, went straight to the building, and bounded up the steps.
“Who’s that?” Seth asked.
“The infamous Detective Rizzi,” I said. “Let’s go.”
The three of us left the car and walked quickly to where Rizzi stood at the top of the steps. He’d just pressed one of the buzzers, and the return buzz that allowed the door to be opened sounded. “Hello,” I said.
He looked down at me. For the first time since I’d met him, his expression wasn’t one of anger or scorn. He was surprised, pure and simple. I went up the steps with Seth and Morton at my side. “I know why you’re here,” I said. “Waldo Morse has already arrived. I assume he’s with his wife, Nancy.”
The buzzing had stopped. Now it started again. “Is that you, Rizzi?” Waldo’s voice asked through a tiny speaker. “Come on up.”
“Get out of here,” Rizzi said to me.
“Morton Metzger, sheriff of Cabot Cove, Maine,” Morton said, flashing his ID.
“Detective Rizzi,” I said, “we’re not going anywhere until I talk to Nancy Morse.” The buzzer sounded angrier this time. So did Waldo. “Hey, is that you, Rizzi? Come on, we don’t have all day.”
I stepped past him and pushed open the door. If he had any thoughts of stopping me, the presence of Seth and Mort laid them to rest. I turned to him and said, “What apartment is it, Detective? We’ll bang on every door if we have to.”
“All right, Mrs. Fletcher. You’re here. You might as well go up. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“We’ll go up,” I said, nodding at Seth and Morton.
“Two C,” Rizzi said.
I led the way, with Rizzi bringing up the rear. The door to Apartment Two C was at the top of the stairs and open. Waldo stood in it. “Hey, what are you doing here?” he said when he saw me.
“Putting an end to the unpleasant part of my trip to New York,” I replied. I was angry, and my voice testified to it.
“Who is it?” Nancy asked as she came to the door. “Mrs. Fletcher. How did you—?”
“It doesn’t matter how I found you, Nancy. May we come in?” I looked back at Rizzi, who shrugged at Waldo and Nancy.
The apartment was virtually bare. A metal single bed was against one wall. Two directors’ chairs were against another. Suitcases were piled near the door.
Waldo and Nancy didn’t appear to be ready to move to allow us to enter, but when Morton stepped toward them, they backed inside. We all entered. Waldo and Nancy stood together in front of their suitcases. They held hands.
“You knew where Nancy was all along,” I said to Waldo. “This was planned from the beginning, your staged murder, Nancy’s sudden move from Cabot Cove, everything—except for Susan Kale.”
“What do you mean by that?” Waldo asked.
“What I mean, Waldo, is that you didn’t include murdering her in your plans. The only murder you arranged for was your unfortunate friend, George Marsh.”
“I think you’ve said enough, Mrs. Fletcher,” Rizzi said.
“I disagree,” I responded. “You were in on it, too, from the beginning. You knew Waldo was setting up to disappear, and that feigning his own death was the first step.”
I looked to Nancy, who’d disengaged her hand from Waldo’s and stepped away from him. I asked her, “Nancy, did you know that Waldo intended to have someone killed in order that people should think he’d died?”
She looked at Rizzi as though wanting him to answer my question. I, too, looked at him. “I don’t understand,” I said to the detective, “why you would be a part of this. You’re supposed to uphold the law, not help someone break it.”
“You’re in over your head, Mrs. Fletcher,” Rizzi replied. “I tried to give you a lesson last night in how the real world works in New York. You and your buffoon friends here think the world works like in your little town in Maine. The fact is, I do what needs to be done to get results. You deal from theories. You write nice, neat little books about murder where the bad guys wear black hats and the good guys wear the white ones. Everything tied up at the end. Crime doesn’t pay. The killer gets his, and the good guys ride off into the sunset together. Sorry. It don’t work that way in real life.”
I turned to Waldo and Nancy. “Is that what you’re trying to do, ‘ride off into the sunset together’ as Detective Rizzi puts it?”
“What’s wrong with that?” Nancy asked, steeping forward, her chin jutting out at me. “Don’t you think we’ve paid enough? You haven’t lived my life all these years, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s been a living hell for me and the kids. This was a chance to put it all back together, for Waldo and me and the kids to start over. Yes, I knew what Waldo planned to do.”
“Shut up, Nancy,” Waldo said.
“No, you shut up! We’ve been put in this position because of you and your stupidity in Ogunquit.” She smiled at me. “The fact is, Mrs. Fletcher, it doesn’t matter what you and your friends know because everything that’s happened has the blessing of the New York City Police Department. Everything. Isn’t that right, Detective Rizzi?”
“She’s right, Mrs. Fletcher. Like I said, you don’t understand the real world. You think of yourself as a nice person. Right? A real lady who cuddles little animals and wants everybody in the world to live happily ever after. You want these two people to live like that? Then get lost. Go back to your cocoon in Maine and take these guys with you. So somebody gets killed, like this loser in the Santa Claus getup. Because ’a that, Waldo and Nancy get to see that sunset. He’s done a good job for us, paid his dues. But now it’s time for him to move on. I like that. A nice happy ending for the book I write when I retire.”
“And a tife—two lives—mean nothing to accomplish this.”
“You ready?” Rizzi said to Waldo and Nancy. They answered by beginning to pick up the suitcases.
I stood there feeling more helpless than ever before in my life. It was the way I’d felt on Fifth Avenue the day George Marsh was shot, the callous attitude of witnesses to the slaying, the nonchalant air of Rizzi and the other police. Helpless. What was I to do? What could I do? Waldo Morse, with the blessing of his Wife, had arranged for a friend to be murdered in order that he and Nancy might be free to flee their current lives for a new and better one. There they were, willing to admit it and about to head for an airport or train station—and a New York City detective was helping them.
“What about Susan Kale?” I asked, my voice reflecting how little time I had to ask anything. “What did she do to deserve to die, threaten to expose your scheme? Or did she get in the way because she loved you, Waldo?”
“Grab that other bag,” Nancy told Rizzi, who did.
“You even carry their luggage,” I said. “How pathetic.”
I looked at Seth and Morton. “I’m an officer of the law,” Mort said. “There’s a murder been admitted to here.”
“Cool it, Sheriff,” Rizzi said. “You might be a law enforcement officer in Maine, but here you’re no
thin’. Get out of the way.”
The three of us stepped back and allowed them to leave, saw them struggle down the stairs with their bags, watched as they put the luggage in the trunk of Rizzi’s car, get in themselves, pull away from the curb, and never look back.
“Must be somethin’ we can do,” Seth said.
“I’m afraid there isn’t,” I said sadly. “Except to go home.”
Chapter Twenty-six
My favorite day of the year has always been New Year’s Day. It’s a day of pure relaxation, as well as the official beginning of a new year and what it promises.
But this New Year’s Day had even greater meaning for me. The previous year had ended on its sad, frustrating note on Sullivan Street in New York City. Hopefully, the new year would be full and rich enough to smother lingering memories of it.
Seth, Morton, and I had attended the Buckleys’ Christmas Eve party at their apartment, although we didn’t stay very long. I’d taken Vaughan aside earlier in the evening and told him what had happened that afternoon. He was shocked, of course. “Please don’t let this put a damper on your party,” I said. “I’d just as soon that no one aside from you and Olga know about it. And, Vaughan, I’m afraid I must change my plans. My friends and I want to go back to Cabot Cove in the morning. I know it means canceling a few promotional appearances next week, but there really aren’t many”
“Of course,” he said. “I do hope you’ll find some time to tell me the story in more detail.”
“Maybe one day,” I said. “But what I really want is to forget it as quickly as possible.”
Seth, Morton, and I took a flight on Christmas morning to Boston. Jed Richardson met us in one of his twin-engine aircraft, and flew us without incident to Cabot Cove.
And here it was New Year’s Day. I was in my favorite sweatsuit. A fire crackled in the fireplace. I’d attended the annual Cabot Cove New Year’s Eve party but hadn’t stayed late at that, either. I was asleep by eleven; the new year rolled in without me.
Seth, Morton, and a few other close friends planned to stop by later in the afternoon to share in the clam pies I’d ordered from Charlene Sassi. It was noon. I was at my desk going through the last of a mound of mail that had accumulated while I was away when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Jessica. Bobby Johnson.”
“Bobby. How are you?”
“Fine. Healing up great. You?”
“All right.”
“I’ve got some interesting news, Jess.”
“You have my undivided attention,” I said.
“I took everything I have on Rizzi, Waldo, Joe Charles, the works to my publisher. It took him a while to decide what to do, but he finally set me up with an assistant Manhattan D.A. I figured nobody would take action against a cop like Rizzi, but I was wrong. This D.A.—she’s a tough lady, Jess, you’d really like her—is calling for a grand jury hearing on the whole ball ’a wax. She’s got subpoenas out for Waldo, Nancy, and Joe Charles. Rizzi’s been suspended pending an Internal Affairs investigation. Jess, I think they’re all going to go down.” The enthusiasm in his voice was contagious and satisfying.
“That’s wonderful news,” I said.
“Yeah. I thought you’d want to know. I also called to wish you a happy new year, Jess, and to thank you for what you did with Russ Checkett.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Sure you did. If it wasn’t for you, I don’t think he would have taken me on as a client and agreed to represent The Santa Claus Murder.”
“I’m sure it will be a very good and successful book, especially if Rizzi and the others ‘go down,’ as you put it.”
“Russ told me you agreed to read the manuscript and consider providing an endorsement to use on the cover and in ads.”
“Yes, I did. Happy to, Bobby.”
I fell silent.
“Jess?”
“Yes, sorry. My mind was wandering. I was thinking that Rizzi was right. I don’t deal with the real world of crime, especially the way it’s played out in New York.”
“Don’t feel bad about not understanding it, Jess. It isn’t to be understood except by the players. Still willing to have me come up for a couple of days so I can drag all you remember out of you?”
“I have to think about that, Bobby.”
“Use that quiet time you crave to contemplate?”
“Something like that. It was good of you to call, and I’m glad you’re on the mend. Happy new year.”
“Same to you, Jessica Fletcher. You’re some special lady.”
The evening was quiet and lovely. The clam pies were unusually tasty, the conversation subdued and pleasant. Everyone left by nine except for Mort and Seth. They lingered for an extra cup of coffee. As we sat in my kitchen, the subject of Waldo Morse came up for the first time that night. “The level of deception Waldo Morse practiced is remarkable to me,” Seth said. “To think that he could fake his own death and then disappear indicates how unbalanced he is.”
“And cruel,” I added. “Having his friend stand in for him, knowing he’d be killed, was horrible. But I’m afraid Waldo has been practicing deception his entire life. In some perverted way, he meant well. He wanted to get out of the life he’d been leading and accomplish what he’d intended when he became a witness against those drug dealers in Maine. He wanted to go somewhere with his wife and children, and establish a quiet life. But he wasn’t the only one practicing deception. The people he put his faith in weren’t honorable or honest, either.”
“I feel especially sorry for that young girl,” Mort said, taking another piece of apple pie I’d baked that morning. “She just ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“More important, she hung out with the wrong sort ’a fellas,” Seth said. “Like I always say, if you want a good life, hang out with the winners.”
“In her case, the lesson is if you want to live,” I said.
“The amazing thing is that Waldo didn’t kill you, Jess,” Mort said. “When you showed up on Fifth Avenue that day and recognized him, you upset his whole misguided scheme.”
“I’ve thought of that on occasion but I try not to dwell upon it.” I told them what Bobby Johnson had told me, that it looked as though Rizzi, Waldo, Nancy, and Joe Charles would have to face a jury one day for their deeds.
“I hope so,” Mort said. “Just wouldn’t seem right that no justice comes out of what they did, two murders and all.”
I smiled, said, “Somehow, gentlemen, I believe that justice will prevail in their case no matter how this district attorney fares in prosecuting them. I’m talking about the brand of justice in which the guilty live a life in their own private Hell.”
“Like No Exit,” Seth said.
“What’s that?” Mort asked.
“A play by Jean Paul Sartre,” Seth said. “He defined Hell as being in a locked room with people you can’t stand. Maybe that’s what Waldo and his wife will suffer.”
“I think you’re right, Seth,” I said. “There’s no exit from the life they’ll be living for the rest of their lives. By the way, Mort, how is Miss Hiss?”
“Cute little rascal. Gets along real good with Jesse.” Jesse was Mort’s dog. He swears he didn’t name her after me, but I’ve always had my doubts. He’d agreed to take Miss Hiss, and the adoption was working out fine.
I started to laugh.
“What’s funny?” asked Seth.
“I was just thinking of the night Rizzi came to my hotel suite and started sneezing. He’s very allergic to cats, and Miss Hiss really set him off. He told me that his mother-in-law, Mrs. Wilson, who evidently is no fan of his, bought two cats just to torture him. That’s how I see justice being dispensed where he’s concerned. Locked in a room with a thousand cats and no exit.”
They laughed, too. “I kind ’a like that, Jess,” Mort said.
“So do I,” said Seth.
“I thought you would. Now go home. This writer starts he
r new book first thing in the morning.”
I learned later that charges were brought against Rizzi, Waldo Morse, and Joe Charles. Nancy Morse wasn’t indicted, although she’d certainly been a co-conspirator in Waldo’s twisted scheme. The three of them had been found in a little town in New Mexico where they lived together. I felt bad for Nancy’s children. The sins of their father would certainly impact upon their young lives.
Hopefully, Bobby Johnson’s book about what became known as the Santa Claus Murder will shed light on what really happened, especially Detective Alphonse Rizzi’s role in it. I fervently hope so, as much as I hope that one day I’ll be able to forget about it. I think the former is realistic. As for my latter wish, only time will tell.
Come to the Caribbean with Jess—
Don’t miss the
Murder, She Wrote
mystery novel
Rum and Razors
by Jessica Fletcher
and Donald Bain
Available from Signet
Chapter One
GLOTCOYB.
Not another one. It was the fifth envelope I’d received in the past two weeks in which a piece of paper with the letters G-L-O-T-C-O-Y-B was enclosed. So
amateurish, out of a Grade B movie—letters of varying sizes and fonts cut from magazines and newspapers, and pasted next to each other on a sheet of green construction paper. No return address. No signature. Each mailed from a different neighboring town. Obviously the work of an immature prankster with nothing better to do. Get a life, as they say.
Still, my palms felt clammy as I retrieved the dirty white envelope from the mailbox, knowing that yet another nonsensical message was contained in it. The air was damp and chilled; I felt a cough brewing deep in my lungs. It had been a cold winter in Maine, a tautology if there ever was one.
I scurried back into the warmth of the house where the fireplace and Vermont Castings woodstove blazed, wrapped my arms about myself and went to refill my teacup. I sat at the kitchen table, the latest of the unexplained envelopes in front of me, and breathed in the rich fragrance of Orange Pekoe drifting up from my cup. What punctuation would the sender of the message use this day? That was what was most upsetting about the mailings, the use of different punctuation each time. The first hadn’t used any. The second was GLOTCOYB followed by a question mark. A comma followed the third GLOTCOYB. The fourth letter punctuated the gobbledygook message with a period. Here was the fifth.
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