Rum and Razors

by Jessica Fletcher

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Teaser chapter

  Chapter One

  THE TOUCH OF DEATH

  I went to the water’s edge and stepped in far enough to cover my bare feet. It was considerably warmer than I’d expected. Still it was refreshing. I decided I would end each evening on St. Thomas with a walk on this tiny beach because I knew if I did that, no matter what else might happen, my vacation would be a success.

  It was near midnight, so I turned to retrace my steps, stopped, lifted my right foot and examined its sole. I’d stepped on something soft. A jelly fish? Seaweed? Laurie had cautioned me to not step on, or touch certain things on the beach. “They sting,” she’d said. “A few can make you sick.”

  I turned my body so as not to block light from the moon, and leaned over to see what had been beneath my foot. It couldn’t be. A hand? A human hand... ?

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,

  Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,

  Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,

  New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore,

  Auckland 1311, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, April 1995

  Copyright © 1995 Universal Licensing Studios LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All Rights Reserved.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  eISBN : 978-1-440-67360-3

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Zachary and Alexander

  Chapter 1

  “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, an oxymoron if there ever was one.

  I scurried back into the warmth of the house where the fireplace and Vermont Castings wood-stove 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. I 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.

  I opened it. “GLOTCOYS!!!” The three exclamation points delivered a sense of finality. There was something ominous about it. On the other hand, I reasoned—as we are prone to do when wishing to dismiss unpleasant thoughts—it might mean the end of the letters.

  I placed the fifth piece of green paper in a file folder along with the previous four and took it, and my tea to the office where the manuscript of my latest book was neatly stacked next to the manual typewriter I’ve used to write all my murder mysteries. I sat and stared at the half-finished page in the typewriter. This latest book was close to completion. A solid day’s work would wrap it up. It was due tomorrow at my New York publisher. Ordinarily, I would have completed it well in advance of my deadline. But this winter had been anything but ordinary for me.

  I’d been progressing nicely with the book when the cough started. Then came the fever. “You’ve got yourself a good case ’a pneumonia,” my good friend and physician, Seth Hazlitt, told me after a thorough examination.

  “I can’t have pneumonia,” I protested. “I’m in the middle of a book.” Each word was separated by a cough.

  “Ayuh, I’m well aware of that, Jessica. But you’re about to put that book aside, climb into bed, take your medicine, and get better.”

  I started to protest again but was silenced with, “Maybe I better check you into the hospital. Hire guards ’round-the-clock to make sure this stubborn woman does what the doctor orders.”

  And so I took to my bed, consumed all the antibiotics Seth prescribed, and “got better.” It seemed as though I was out of commission for months, although it wasn’t that long. To be truthful, I cheated after a week, forcing myself to sit at the typewriter to grind out a painful page or two before succumbing to damnable fatigue and crawling back into bed, happy to be there.

  Seth eventually gave me a clean bill of health, along with the admonition that I ease back into my usual busy lifestyle. No
longer a prisoner trapped within my own body, I got back to work in earnest on the book, an occasional coughing fit triggered by cold air the only reminder of the compelling endurance test I’d been through. I dove back into the novel, my fingers trying to keep up with my mind as I crafted the final, climactic scene in which my detective-heroine unravels the mystery and, through her dogged pursuit of the truth, points the finger of guilt at the murderer.

  Tomorrow’s deadline loomed large, of course. But there was another inducement for me to finish. In two days I would be on a plane headed for the Caribbean island of St. Thomas for two weeks of relaxation, rum fruit punch, and spicy West Indian food, balmy ocean breezes, tropical nights on the beach, and a few good books by other writers to read while rocking lazily in a hammock strung between palm trees.

  I couldn’t wait. Just what the doctor ordered. In fact, Seth had suggested I spend some time in a warm climate. So had my good friends, Walter and Laurie Marschalk, who’d left Cabot Cove three years ago to buy and manage Lover’s Lagoon Inn, a small, chic and wildly expensive hotel on St. Thomas.

  They had been inviting me to be their guest ever since taking over the inn, but I never seemed to have the time. But after this winter, their sales-manship was no longer needed. I would make the time.

  The notion of basking in a balmy clime was, of course, appealing. And so was the contemplation of seeing Walter and Laurie again. Before becoming an innkeeper, Walter had been a highly respected travel writer, his articles appearing in hundreds of publications. His guidebooks to exotic, off-the-beaten-track destinations were considered the best of their genre. When the Marschalks lived in Cabot Grove, Walter was away most of the year. Fortunately, Laurie was the sort of self-sufficient woman who always had a dozen projects going at once. She missed Walter, of course. But there was never a hint of unhappiness or envy. Travel, and writing about it, was what Walter did. Just that simple.

  Laurie had her own career. A superb chef, she’d studied at the world’s finest cooking schools. Her book on New England cooking, published ten years earlier, was considered a classic. When she and Walter left for St. Thomas, she was in the midst of writing another cookbook, this one a virtual encyclopedia of herbal cooking.

  But she’d shelved that project, according to a recent letter I’d received from her, because she’d fallen in love with Caribbean cooking and had signed a publishing contract to write a book on that subject. “I admit, I experiment on my guests,” she wrote me, “but so far no fatalities. Can’t wait to tickle your palate, Jess.”

  “GLOTCOYB.”

  I picked up the folder and examined its contents again. What could this be about? Maybe I should be more concerned, even frightened with so many crazies running around these days. Cabot Cove was a peaceful little community, virtually crime free. But there were the requisite “unusual people” who didn’t always act quite normal, at least when judged against the town’s norms.

  I tried to get back to my writing, but “GLOTCOYB” dominated my thoughts. I had to put it to rest if I were to complete the manuscript, get it off to New York by Federal Express, pack for my trip, and do a zillion other things.

  I dialed Cabot Cove’s sheriff and my good friend, Morton Metzger. It was time to ring someone else in on what was going on. As silly as the whole thing probably was, a little prudence might be in order.

  Mort was out of the office according to his deputy. “Just tell him I called,” I said. I then tried a friend with the FBI in Bangor, but he was “out of the country.”

  A sudden thought caused me to smile. This whole “GLOTCOYB” business had probably been brainstormed by somebody who’s read too many mystery books, possibly a fledgling mystery writer looking for a break. I pictured my friendly Federal Express driver arriving at my door with a manuscript titled, “GLOTCOYB.” The letters were a misguided attempt to capture my attention and whet my appetite. Maybe not so misguided. If that was the scenario behind the mailings, my attention had certainly been captured. Much to my chagrin.

  I’d just returned to my manuscript when the phone rang. I picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Glot-coyb.” It was a female. Or a man with a high voice.

  Click.

  I knew one thing. If it was a writer looking for my help, he—or she—would get a scathing review from this author.

  It wasn’t until seven that evening that I typed, with a profound sense of relief and pride, THE END. I’d called my publisher in New York, Vaughan Buckley, whose Buckley House had been my publisher for years, to inform him that the manuscript would be a day late. He laughed. “The way most writers work, Jessica, being one day late is like being two months early. Don’t worry about it, and have a great vacation. I envy you.”

  I looked out the kitchen window. It had rained late in the afternoon but had now stopped. Hopefully the skies would clear for my flight. I was nervous enough in planes, but my knuckles turn especially white when I can’t see the wingtips.

  Time to pack.

  I went to a closet in which I stored my summer wardrobe and started the process. I’d gotten packing down to a science after years of touring to promote my books, using a long typewritten list as my guide. For short trips, I found that saying out loud each day that I would be away, and selecting a day and nighttime wardrobe for each was a helpful supplement to my list. A traveling bag of toiletries was always packed and ready to go.

  With packing behind me, dinner loomed large. The cupboard was relatively bare; no sense having food sit around for the two weeks I’d be away.

  I opened the freezer door and took out one of two low-calorie frozen dinners that remained there. I placed it in the microwave, set the timer, and returned to my office to prepare the package for pickup in the morning by Federal Express. As I sat at my desk filling out the form, a flash of light from outside caught my eye. Strange, I thought, a bolt of lightning in the middle of winter? I went to the window, held my hand above my eyes, and peered through the glass. The front yard was illuminated by dozens of flashlights. Police? A search party in search of a fugitive? Then I saw it, a long white banner held aloft by a row of people. On the banner were big, bold black letters: GLOTCOYB.

  The doorbell rang. I tensed. My hands became fists. I glanced about the office in search of a weapon. I thought of the fireplace tools in the living room. The doorbell sounded again, longer this time, sustained ringing.

  I walked quickly to the living room, picked up a fireplace poker and approached the front door, the poker raised. All right, I thought. I don’t know who you are, or what you’re doing here, but you won’t get what you want without a fight.

  I drew a deep breath, reached for the doorknob, and turned it. I slowly pulled the door open and was face-to-face with—Dr. Seth Hazlitt, Sheriff Morton Metzger, schoolboy grins on their faces, satisfaction in their eyes. Behind them stood a crowd of other familiar faces, the banner held aloft with one hand, their other hands clutching bottles of champagne or baskets of food.

  “GLOTCOYB,” they shouted. “Good luck on the completion of your book.”

  “I don’t believe this,” I said.

  “Put the poker down, Jess,” Morton said. “You could kill a fella with that thing.”

  Tears began to collect in my eyes, but I managed to control them. A loose cough formed in my chest as the frigid night air reached my lungs. “Come in,” I said, standing back to allow them to enter.

  Once everyone was inside, and corks popped on the champagne bottles and food was in the oven, Mort asked, “Well, Jess, what’d you think of all those crazy letters you’ve been gettin’?” A silly grin was still painted all over his broad face.

  Should I admit to him that I’d become fearful, and had even called the FBI?

  “To tell you the truth, Mort, I really didn’t give them much thought. I knew they were the work of some silly prankster—or pranksters. A lot of good it would have done me to be concerned and call you.” Everyone laughed.

  Clam pies, pork and beans, a hearty meat st
ew, and bowls of fresh salads miraculously appeared on my dining room table. They’d even brought plastic plates and utensils, and plastic glasses for the champagne. “To your good health, safe, pleasant trip and to the completion of another best-seller,” Seth said, raising his glass. “GlotcoyP!”

  “GlotcoyP?” I said. “You mean glotcoyB, don’t you?”

  “No, I mean GlotcoyP,” he said, enunciating the P. “Good luck on the completion of your pneumonia.

  “That I’ll drink to,” I said, sipping my bubbly.

  “Here, here,” the crowd chanted, joining me in the toast.

  Someone had brought a tape of Calypso music to get me in the mood for my trip, and the party soon became a festive gathering of dear friends who I knew had meant well with their Glotcoyb game. I still harbored a certain anger at having been put through the series of mysterious mailings, but I didn’t express it. It was not the time, nor the place. But when I returned from my vacation, I would bring it up with Seth and Morton. It might have truly frightened another person.

  As the party wound down, Jed Richardson, a former Pan Am pilot who now owned and operated his own small airline out of Cabot Cove, took me aside. “Sure you don’t want me to fly you down to Bangor to catch your plane to St. Thomas?” he asked.

  “Not this time, Jed,” I said. “Seth really wants to drive me. Besides, he has some shopping to do in Bangor.” I didn’t add that I would feel more secure in a car. Not that Jed wasn’t an excellent pilot. I’d flown often with him, and he had my complete trust despite a few harrowing experiences that had nothing to do with his piloting skill. It was just that considering everything I’d been through this winter, I wasn’t up for a cold, bumpy ride in a small, single-engine plane no matter who piloted it.

  My guests cleaned up and started to leave. Lots of kisses on the cheek and hugs. “Have a ball in St. Thomas,” I was told. “Don’t get sunburned,” another person told me. “That island sun can gettcha.” And, “Not too much demon rum, Jess. It sneaks up on yah.”