“No, I don’t have any trouble. Do you know if the Legislature is in session today?”
“No, ma’am, and don’t really care. Politicians. They just sit and talk about nothing.”
I laughed. “I know that,” I said, “but I would enjoy hearing them talk, even about nothing.”
“No problem, ma‘am. Remember, this is the Caribbean. Everything is ’no problem.’” He was such a likable person, friendly without being overbearing, and with a knack for knowing what to say, and when to stop saying it. He must do nicely when it comes to tips.
Peter seemed to know everyone on the island. The trip was punctuated with someone waving at him, or honking their horns every few minutes.
“Cousins?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He stopped in front of a white cement house with a front porch. “That’s my momma’s house,” he said. “I was born right inside there. So was my eleven brothers and sisters. Seven of ’em still live there with momma.”
“She must be quite a woman.”
“The best, ma’am. You want to come in and meet her?”
“No, thank you. That would be an imposition. Besides, I’m anxious to get to town.”
“As you say.” He beeped the horn, and people from inside the house came to the porch and waved. I returned the greeting as Peter roared off in the direction of Charlotte Amalie, leaving behind a cloud of dust that enveloped the porch of his birthplace.
We entered the crowded and congested capital city of Charlotte Amalie where tourists from the large cruise ships swarmed over endless vendors strung out along the dock. “Best to avoid this area,” said Peter. “Not dangerous, mind you, but these guys sell junk. The best shops are up these cobblestone streets. See?” I looked in the direction he pointed. “Lots of beautiful and expensive shops up there. Good merchandise for sale. Big money but no problem, huh?”
I looked down to see what I was wearing that spoke money to Peter. My J. Crew cotton skirt and blouse spoke only comfort to me. Maybe it was my wedding ring; it looked a lot more than it had cost. Of course, from Peter’s perspective, staying at Lover’s Lagoon Inn said worlds about a person’s net worth.
He pulled up to the curb where one of the narrow cobblestone streets began. “This is a good place for you to start your walk, ma’am. Want me to go with you?”
“No, thank you. It would bore you. I just want to stroll at my leisure, window-shop. Better if I do it alone.”
“As you wish. Two hours?”
“That sounds about right. Maybe we can do some sightseeing from the Jeep this afternoon.”
“At your service all day.”
“Where will I meet you?” I asked.
“Over there, ma‘am. Can’t miss it.” He pointed to a building across the street. It was neon pink. We both laughed. As I started to exit the Jeep, he said, “If you’ll be looking for jewelry, ma’am, I recommend that shop.” He indicated a modest storefront a few yards up the cobblestone street. A sign in front read: “LOVER’S LAGOON FINE JEWELRY.”
“Your cousin’s place?” I asked lightly.
“That’s right. I’ll tell him to be expecting you. Give you the best price, that’s for sure.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Any other suggestions?”
“If you’ll be having lunch, I recommend Rasheda’s Long Look Vegetarian Restaurant. Very popular with tourists. Be sure to have a glass of sea moss.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Seaweed. But it doesn’t taste like it. Much sweeter.”
“I’ll be sure to try it,” I said. This was a time when lying was definitely the better part of valor.
I decided to put off looking at jewelry until the end of my walk. The sun was hot and so I tried to stay in the shade as I made my way through the city, my guidebook my map. There were a surprising number of churches for such a small island, and a synagogue the book said was the oldest in continuous use under the American flag. I walked up a steep, narrow street known as Ninety-nine Steps for obvious reasons (I didn’t count the steps as I ascended, but was convinced upon reaching the top that there were more than ninety-nine of them.) At the top was a neighborhood known as Queen’s Street, and a guest house called Blackbeard’s Castle, originally part of a castle supposedly the home of a notorious twentieth-century pirate named Edward Teach. How romantic. The only pirates these days seem to be elected officials. With that unkind thought, I decided to have lunch at Blackbeard’s Castle. It was a good decision. My sandwich and iced tea were served on a terrace near a pool, and offered me lovely views of the city and harbor beyond.
Refreshed, I headed back down into the center of town. I had a half hour before meeting up with Peter again. I was almost to his “cousin’s” jewelry store when I noticed a bookstore. Try as I might, I simply cannot pass a bookstore without stopping in.
The minute I entered the pleasant, air-conditioned shop, I was face-to-face with a rack filled with the paperback edition of my last book that had been published in hardcover a year ago. I sometimes buy a copy of my books when visiting bookstores, and decided this would be one of those times. Because it can be embarrassing to be caught purchasing a book you’ve written (does it hint that it isn’t being bought by others?) I try to do it without being identified as the author. I was confident that my straw hat with its large, floppy brim that dipped low over my eyes, and my oversize sunglasses would do the trick.
“That will be $4.95,” said the gentleman at the register. I opened my purse and handed him a five-dollar bill. He said as he gave me my change, “There you go, Mrs. Fletcher.”
All I could do was laugh.
“Thought you’d sneak out without anyone recognizing you, eh?” he said, flashing a broad, friendly grin marred by badly discolored teeth. “Walter and Laurie are good friends of mine. When they told me you’d be visiting us, I stocked up.”
“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” I said, offering my hand.
He took it. “My name’s Justin Wall, Mrs. Fletcher. Your books are selling very well since word got around you’d be on St. Thomas. I asked Walter if you might be interested in doing an autographing session here at the store, but he came to your defense immediately, told me this was your well-deserved vacation and that nothing should interfere.”
“I must thank him,” I said.
“But would you sign just one for me personally? Even your initials.” He smiled that smile again.
“Of course. I’d be happy to.”
As I wrote, For Justin, best wishes, Jessica Fletcher, he said, “I have one question about this book, Mrs. Fletcher, a question that bothers me.”
“Yes?” I said.
“The use of a razor as a murder weapon. Surprisingly brutal for you, isn’t it? I mean, in all your previous books—at least those I’ve read—the means of murder are considerably more genteel. Poison, a car tampered with, perhaps a gun. But a razor. Is that to satisfy society’s increasing need for violence?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t try to satisfy society when I write. I just felt that—well, I’m sorry it shocked you. I’ll think twice before being so brutal in the future.”
“You aren’t offended,” he said.
“Gracious, no. I appreciate such feedback. I learn from it.”
He thanked me for the autographed book, leaned on the counter, and said in low tones, “Damn shame what’s happening to Walter and Laurie.”
“I don’t know—what is happening to them?”
“You haven’t read the paper today?”
“No.”
“I just hope it’s not true, and that the editors have it wrong.”
“Have what wrong?” I asked.
His voice dropped even lower. “Seems there’s some sort of government investigation into their inn. According to the article, Walter illegally purchased Lover’s Lagoon by bribing one of our politicians, Bobby Jensen.”
“That’s a serious charge,” I said, recalling what Walter had told me at dinne
r.
“The newspaper goes on to say that Walter and Laurie owe a lot of money on it, and to bad people.”
“Bad people? What bad people?”
“Criminals back in the States.”
I shook my head. “You’re right, Mr. Wall. The editors must have it wrong. Do you have a copy of today’s paper?”
“No, but they’ll have one on the newsstand ’round the corner.”
I thanked him and hurried out the door.
Sure enough, the headline on the St. Thomas Gazette read: “LOVER’S LAGOON INVESTIGATION LAUNCHED.” A photo of Bobby Jensen ran on the front page. Walter’s photo appeared where the story jumped to page three. I shoved the paper in my large straw bag. I would read it back at the hotel.
Walter and Laurie must be devastated over this, I thought. I’d sure picked a heck of a time to visit them. Did Walter’s death threat have something to do with the investigation? He hadn’t seemed overly concerned about it. It was good they’d gotten off the island, if even for a day. It occurred to me that because they were in Miami, they might not have seen the newspaper story. I hoped they hadn’t. They had enough on their minds without having this interfere with the meeting with their attorney.
I downed a cup of ice-cold mango juice purchased from a street vendor and checked my watch. It was time to meet Peter in front of the pink building. I would pass Lover’s Lagoon Fine Jewelry on the way. I wouldn’t have gone in it except that I saw Peter through the window. He greeted me warmly and introduced me to his cousin, the owner.
“I have something ’specially picked out for you, Mrs. Fletcher,” said the cousin. He placed a felt pad on the counter. Displayed on it was gold pendant in the shape of Lover’s Lagoon.
“It’s lovely,” I said.
“I designed it myself,” Peter’s cousin said. “For you, a very special price.”
And so I bought it, as well as a gold chain on which to hang it. While he attached the chain, he waxed poetic about the real Lover’s Lagoon. “The most beautiful spot in the world,” he said. I thought I detected a Boston accent.
“Undoubtedly true,” I said, “provided you don’t count the beaches of Cape Cod.”
That caused him to laugh. He had grown up in Boston but returned to St. Thomas ten years ago. “You know, Mrs. Fletcher, wearing this pendant will always ensure your good fortune,” he said. “It has the same mystical powers as the lagoon itself. ‘Kiss her once in Lover’s Lagoon, and she will be yours forever.’ ”
“Does it work the other way around?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “Kiss him once—”
“I really must be going,” I said. I was enjoying the conversation but the newspaper and its accusatory article weighed heavy in my bag. “Thank you. You’ve been very kind and generous. I’ll wear it with pride.”
The minute we got into Peter’s Jeep, I pulled the paper from my bag and began to read.
“Where to?” Peter asked.
“What? Oh, sorry. Have you seen the paper today?”
“Yes, ma’am. You’re referring to the story about the Marschalks.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know what to believe,” he said sadly. “Still want to go to the Legislature Building?”
“More than ever,” I answered, going back to my reading.
The article was filled with unsubstantiated charges and unattributed sources. Basically, it accused Walter and Laurie of acquiring Lover’s Lagoon by virtue of having bribed Bobby Jensen to take the property off the government roll of protected land. That was nothing new. Walter had freely mentioned those charges to me at dinner.
But the writer of the piece, Adrian Woodhouse, went further. He painted Walter as an unscrupulous travel writer who was “widely known” in the travel industry to have accepted payoffs for favorable reviews.
And then the real bombshell appeared.
“Reliable sources have told this newspaper that the unsolved murder three years ago of local resident Caleb Mesreau might well be linked to the purchase by the Marschalks of Lover’s Lagoon.”
According to the article, Caleb Mesreau had owned a tiny portion of the land on which Lover’s Lagoon Inn is now situated. Mesreau refused to sell what he owned to Walter Marschalk, or to the government. He was found murdered, his throat slit, his body jammed into a rusted oil drum and weighted to make it sink. The weights eventually came loose, and the drum and Caleb Mesreau floated to the surface. Following his disappearance, and before the discovery of his body, a deed to his land “mysteriously surfaced” and was produced by Bobby Jensen, who claimed that Mesreau’s small lot had been sold to the government before his death. Because the deceased was without next of kin, and died without a will, the property clearly belonged to the government of St. Thomas, and would be included in the tract sold to the Marschalks.
Although the article did not come straight out and accuse Walter or Jensen of having killed Mesreau, the inference was strong.
“All this because of a body of water,” I muttered.
“A very special body of water, Mrs. Fletcher,” Peter said. “Here we are.”
We were in front of the pale green building that housed the islands’ Legislature. I asked Peter to give me an hour. “Care to come with me?” I asked.
“No, ma’am. I stay away from anything government unless I’m arrested.”
I smiled. “You’re a wise man, Peter.”
“Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Yes?”
“Are you going in there because you enjoy that sort of thing, or because of the story in the newspaper?”
“Good question. Originally, just because I enjoy ‘that sort of thing.’ But now—well, I admit I’ve become curious. What do you know about this Bobby Jensen?”
“Powerful man, Mrs. Fletcher. Keeps getting elected because he knows where to spread the money around. Not a very nice man, I hear, but I don’t know from my own experience. I don’t vote for him.”
“He doesn’t give you money?”
“No, he doesn’t. I’ll be waiting.”
A tall, lanky guard stood at the front entrance. I asked him about access to whatever government business might be going on at the moment. He shrugged his shoulders, which looked like suit hangers beneath his shoulder pads, and suggested I check in with the public affairs office.
Once inside, I decided I’d bypass Public Affairs and simply try a few of the massive mahogany doors that opened off the wide hallway. It was eerily quiet in the building. I saw no one. I was about to choose the first door to open when I heard footsteps on the hard marble floor. A man, followed by three other men, walked quickly toward me. I recognized him immediately. It was Senator Bobby Jensen.
“Senator Jensen,” I said. “My name is Jessica Fletcher. I’m a close personal friend of Walter and Laurie Marschalk.” He stopped as if someone had pulled on his reins, and smiled a politician’s smile. If I’d had a baby in my arms, he would have planted a kiss on it.
“Yes, Mrs. Fletcher. Welcome to sunny St. Thomas. Walter Marschalk told me you’d be visiting, and I fully intend to make it over to Lover’s Lagoon before you leave.”
“I’d look forward to that.”
“What brings you here?” he asked, indicating the building with a nod of his head.
“I always enjoy—well, to be honest, I’ve just read the paper. It’s a shocking series of allegations they’ve made about you and the Marschalks.”
His face turned hard. It was a youthful face, far younger than his age. He was light-skinned, almost Caucasian. His hair was reddish blond. His clothing was expensively cut.
“We have to go,” one of his aides said.
“In a minute,” Jensen responded. He looked me squarely in the eye. “Are you down here writing a book about this?” he asked.
“About this? This scandal? Heavens, no. I’m on vacation, pure and simple.”
“Come here,” he said, taking my arm and leading me to a corner where the others wouldn’t hear. “Let me
tell you something, Mrs. Fletcher, that you probably already know. Walter and Laurie Marschalk are two of the nicest people in the world. I treasure their friendship. Now let me tell you something you don’t know. My colleagues who are calling for this absurd probe into Walter’s purchase are whores. They’re on Diamond Reefs pad and have been for a long time. Until today they’ve snuck around trying to dig up evidence to support their claims. Now, they think they have. But you read the paper. Nothing but rumors and innuendo designed to ruin innocent people like the Marschalks—and me. It’s all political. Greed. Jealousy.”
“I’m certainly happy to hear there’s no substance to the story,” I said, not quite sure what the proper response was.
“Senator!” an aide said sharply.
“Have to run, Mrs. Fletcher. Have to catch a flight to Miami. Nice meeting you. Say hello to Walter and Laurie for me.”
“They’re in Miami,” I said. “They’re due back tomorrow. What about this Mesreau character I read about?”
“Just a crazy old coot who got his throat slit by assailants unknown. I’ll get over to buy you a drink before you leave the inn. That’s a promise.” With that he was gone, saying over his shoulder, “I’ve read some of your books. They’re good. I like them a lot.” He stopped, added, “If you need anything, anything at all, see my secretary. Room Seven. Tell her I said to give you carte blanche.”
I left the building and climbed into Peter’s Jeep.
“Just heard the news on the radio,” he said as he started the engine.
“What news?”
“Senator Bobby Jensen resigned this afternoon over the investigation.”
“I just—I just spoke with him.”
“Bet it’s the last we’ll ever see of him on St. Thomas,” said Peter. “They say he’s got millions stashed away in Miami. Probably go back there and be a big-shot lawyer. Where to?”
“Home,” I said, thinking of Cabot Cove.
I considered walking down to the lagoon, but a typical late afternoon rainstorm seemed imminent. The air was uncomfortably close. I went to my room, stretched out on the bed, and closed my eyes. For some reason I was hungry, famished. The sandwich at Blackbeard’s Castle had been tasty but small. I got up, took a banana from the fruit basket on the wicker table, and sat on the terrace. Music by a steel drum band at Diamond Reef drifted to where I sat. They seemed to have music twenty-four hours a day. I pondered what I was about to do, which meant chewing my cheek, a bad habit that sometimes gets out of hand. Why not? I was free for dinner. I’d be dining at the inn for the rest of my stay once Walter and Laurie returned.
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