He replied without turning from his task, “I would certainly agree with that, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Do you—do you have any ideas who might have done it?” I asked.
“Me?” His smile was small. “Oh, no, ma’am. I would have no idea about that. That’s what I told the police.”
“Did they question you last night?”
“First thing this morning when I came on duty. Five o’clock.”
“Is that the first you’d heard about it?” I asked.
His smile was now gone. Replacing it was a furrowed brow and lips pursed tightly together. He did not respond.
“Thank you,” I said when he’d finished setting up breakfast.
“Yes, ma’am.” He left quickly.
I took a few halfhearted nibbles of the croissant, sipped my coffee, and focused on what had happened, and what might be in store. It occurred to me that the wisest thing I could do was leave St. Thomas. But I’d meant what I’d told Detective Calid. I would be available to help Laurie in any way I could, and until she no longer needed me. Packing up would be to abandon a dear friend in dire need. But the temptation was there. The vacation was over, no matter how many days I stayed on what had been an idyllic Caribbean island. Nothing idyllic about it anymore. Murder tends to do that to otherwise pleasant places.
It was too soon for any mention of Walter’s death in the papers. But I was curious to see if the local press had followed up on the investigation into Walter’s ownership of Lover’s Lagoon Inn. It hadn’t. Of course, the local papers were weeklies. It would take time for them to develop the story and to publish it. At least Laurie wouldn’t have to deal with that this day.
I’d just about finished going through the newspapers when the phone rang. It was Laurie. “Holding up?” I asked.
“What’s the alternative? Every time I’m about to give in, I think of what Walter would say. He wouldn’t like it, so I don’t.”
“I understand. I’m showered, dressed, and have had breakfast. What can I do?”
“Nothing at the moment, but I would enjoy lunch together. By then most of the guests will have checked out. They’re already starting to leave. Some are asking for refunds. I suppose I can’t blame them. We don’t promise murders in our brochure. Just relaxation in the sun and gourmet meals. By lunch I’ll need a solid shoulder and clear head to lean on. How about my office? I couldn’t bear the dining room. Enough of the ‘I’m so sorrys’ already.”
“Wherever you say. Noon?”
“Noon.” She gave forth a bitter laugh. “Here you are asking what you can do for me. You’re a guest. What can we do for you?”
“Make me useful. I’ll be in the villa all morning. Call if you need me. Otherwise I’ll stay out of your way.”
I brought a pad of paper and a pen to the terrace and started making notes. I’m an inveterate list maker. I can’t function without lists. I suppose I sometimes go overboard, creating lists of lists, much to the amusement of certain friends back in Cabot Cove. The psychologists claim that those who need lists have an untidy mind, and use lists to keep the mental clutter in-check. If they’re right, so be it. All I know is that making lists provides me with a certain comfort level, which is all that matters.
I jotted down in my own brand of shorthand everything that had happened leading up to my discovery of Walter’s body:
» Laurie well-known—no ticket from cop at airport—on verge of tears—business problems—bookings down—mentioned political intrigue and corruption.
» Dinner with Walter—looked haggard—Laurie having “business” dinner in town—claimed man at table was a spy for Diamond Reef—DR wants Lover’s Lagoon—DR claiming Walter bribed politico friend Bobby Jensen—Nasty note threatening Walter’s life—Partner Chris Webb joins us—argues with Walter—they leave—Walter returns—points out young employee about to be fired—I decide to go to DR for nitecap.
» DR big, active place—young people—Mark Dobson GM—nasty things to say about LL—travel writers confab coming up—invite me to join them.
» Next A.M.—Walter fires employee outside my window—Laurie calls—she and Walter going to Miami to meet attorney—coming back next day—toured Charlotte Amalie—Newspaper story about investigation into LL—Bobby Jensen—bought LL pendant—Caleb Mesreau murdered—owned piece of LL land—Walter termed unscrupulous (take money for favorable reviews)—Jensen claims pol investigating LL paid by DR—Find out from driver Jensen just resigned—decide to have dinner at DR.
» Mix-up with name (Jennifer Fletcher)—Fred Capehart arrives—nasty comment to Jennifer about Walter (my assumption it was Walter)—Jennifer have affair with Walter???? (another J.F. assumption)—DR GM Mark Dobson says accusations against Walter and LL true—I go to lagoon—find Walter’s body—Didn’t go to Miami—Chris Webb leaves first thing that A.M.—Razor the weapon??
I started a second list, this one headed “To Do.”
» Call Jennifer Fletcher.
» Consider accepting Dobson’s invitation to join travel writers for dinner.
» Confirm Jensen resigned.
» Lunch with Laurie. Ask about Chris Webb. Why Walter didn’t go to Miami. Dismissed employee. Bobby Jensen.
It occurred to me as I wrote that I was injecting myself into the mystery surrounding Walter’s murder as an unofficial investigator. It’s happened too many times in the past to come as a surprise. Maybe it’s genes. Maybe it’s the result of having plotted and written too many murder mystery novels during my career. Maybe it’s because a close friend had been brutally slain, and I wouldn’t rest until I knew the how and why of it. My reasons were as obscure as my compulsion was strong.
Before I knew it, the morning was about to become afternoon and I was minutes away from lunch with Laurie. I literally had one foot out the door when the phone rang. I hurried back inside and answered it. “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher? Jessica?”
“Yes, this is Jessica Fletcher.”
“Hi. This is Jennifer Fletcher. We met last night at the Diamond Reef.”
“Of course,” I said. “Hard to forget someone with your own name.” I was glad she’d called. It’s always satisfying to be able to cross an item off a “To Do” list.
“I just heard what happened last night, Mrs. Fletcher. Do you have a minute?”
I didn’t but said, “Yes.”
“Actually, I need more than a minute. Could we possibly get together later today. This afternoon?”
“Yes, I think we could do that. Four o’clock?”
“I’m supposed to be attending a conference on tourism, but considering the circumstances—”
“Why don’t you come to my room at Lover’s Lagoon. I’m in Villa Number Ten.”
“No,” she said. “I mean, I’d rather not come to—would you please come to my room at Diamond Reef? I’m in twelve-oh-two.”
“I’ll be there at four.”
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Fletcher. I have to go.” She was whispering now, and I heard a male voice in the background. She abruptly hung up.
I assumed the male voice belonged to Mr. Pleasant, Fred Capehart. I hoped he wouldn’t be with her at four. Then again, maybe I’d learn more from him than from her. No sense pondering it now. I’d find out when I got there.
I left my room and headed for the main building, which housed both Laurie and Walter’s offices. The door to Laurie’s office was closed. I knocked. No one answered. I knocked again. “Laurie? It’s Jessica.”
Still no response.
I walked into the small lobby where Laurie was behind the desk. Couples milled about. I saw what she’d meant. They were checking out, and some of them were vocal and loud. “I don’t want a check sent to me,” a man said. “I want my refund now.” A woman, whose leathery skin attested to a sunbathing addiction—her face looked like a purse—said loudly, “To allow someone to have his throat slit within yards of our room is disgraceful.” Her husband added, “You’ll hear from our attorney.”
&nb
sp; Laurie glanced at me and forced a weak smile. My heart went out to her. Surely, these people knew it had been her husband who’d been murdered. The insensitivity of some people never ceases to amaze, and disgust me. “A few minutes,” Laurie mouthed to me.
“Take your time,” I said, wandering from the lobby and down a narrow corridor off which Walter’s office opened. A bronze plaque with his name testified that he’d once been vibrant—and alive.
As I approached, a tall, young black man in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie was knocking at the office door. He held an envelope in one hand. He sensed my presence and turned. “May I help you with something?” I asked.
“Not unless you’re related to this guy.” He shoved a Polaroid photo of Walter at me. “His name is Walter Marschalk.”
“No, I’m not related to him. But I am a close friend.”
“I have papers to serve on him. I’m a process server. Do you know where he is?”
What now? I wondered. Poor Walter. Even death didn’t guarantee him peace. Who could be suing him? The Diamond Reef? I knew one thing. I was going to do my best to get ahold of those papers before Laurie did. That’s all she needed at this moment. I wasn’t sure what the laws for serving people were in St. Thomas, but no one would arrest me for a momentary indiscretion. Would they?
“Look,” I said, “I’ll make sure Mr. Marschalk gets this.” I pointed to the envelope the young man held firmly in a clenched hand. “As I told you, I’m a very close friend. We’re practically related.” I wished I’d stretched the truth in the first place and claimed that we were.
I expected to have to press the argument, but I didn’t. He simply said, “All right,” and handed the envelope to me. “Sign there,” he said. I suppose he didn’t get paid until he’d delivered the papers and had a signature to prove it. I signed at the X. He walked away.
I examined the envelope but its contents were securely sealed inside. I was about to hold it up to the light when Laurie came up behind. “Jessica, sorry for the delay.” I quickly shoved the envelope into my straw bag, turned, and gave her a hug. “What a mess,” she said.
“I saw,” I said. “Some people are so rude.”
“I know. In a way I’m glad to see them go. I got tired of answering questions. Let them have their damn money back.”
“I know how you feel.”
“Well, let’s have that lunch I promised.” She led me back through the lobby and to her office. “My chef couldn’t get out of bed this morning,” she said over her shoulder. “Not that there’s anyone left to cook for except me, and you. That old saying, ‘Good help is hard to find,’ is the national anthem in the Caribbean. Doesn’t matter. I took care of things in the kitchen.”
She unlocked her office door, and we went in. “Sit down, Jess. I’ll be just a minute.” She pointed to a red wooden straight-back chair next to her desk, and left.
Her office was small but tastefully decorated. Framed photographs and drawings of food rivaled rows of cookbooks for wall space. Two huge color photos dominated the wall behind her desk. One was of several bulbous, ripe tomatoes and brilliant green scallions. The other featured an immense, red freshly cooked lobster sitting in a vivid yellow pool of drawn butter. I wished I’d finished my croissant.
She returned. “Sorry. Lunch will be up in a minute.” She sat behind her desk, removed the baseball cap she wore, and directed a stream of air at a strand of hair that had fallen over her forehead.
“You amaze me,” I said. “You just seem to keep going, like that battery bunny on TV.”
“Like I said, the alternative is worse.”
“I’ve been admiring the photographs, Laurie. They’re beautiful. I guess I never stopped to think of food as being worthy of art. I was wrong.”
“The photographer is a good friend of ours. Of mine now, I suppose. He’s world famous for his food photography.” She idly picked up a stack of mail from her desk and perused it.
I got up and looked at a bookshelf on which antique cookbooks were displayed. One caught my eye: Maine Cooking. I was about to pull it from the shelf when there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Laurie said. Thomas wheeled in a cart with our lunch. “Hope you don’t mind I ordered for both of us,” Laurie said, still examining her mail. “Shrimp salads and vichyssoise. The shrimp is absolutely the freshest. And the cocktail sauce is special, my own spicy mango sauce. I know you’ll like it.”
I sat at the table and waited for Laurie to join me. She was still involved with the mail, and seemed strangely detached from everything, everyone at that moment. A defense against the intense pain I knew she must be suffering? What other answer could there be for her enigmatic calm, her seeming oblivion to the fact that her husband had just been brutally murdered, her guests were exiting en masse, and the inn that represented their life’s dream was under pressure from many fronts: political, legal, and certainly financial.
She dropped a fistful of mail, looked at me, and smiled. “I’m sorry, Jess. My mind keeps betraying me.” She joined me at the table where Thomas stood stoically. “Thank you, Thomas,” Laurie said. “I’ll call you when we’re done.”
“Yes, ma’am. Are we expecting any arrivals today?”
Laurie frowned. “Two couples scheduled to check in, I think. If they haven’t heard about the additional recreation we’re providing these days.” She laughed ruefully. “Murder mystery weekends. I understand they’re quite popular now,” she said. “Well, Jess, let’s eat.” Thomas backed from the office and closed the door.
Her demeanor had me on edge. If she’d been one thing only—sad, depressed, angry—I would have felt more comfortable. But she was mercurial, shifting rapidly from mood to mood. I wasn’t being judgmental. When I lost my husband, I, too, found myself being pulled by conflicting moods and needs. And, of course, I hadn’t had the additional pressure of attempting to salvage a failing business that was buffeted from all sides. I decided that I was being selfish. I wanted her to behave in a way that suited me. I wanted her to be tearful and morose, which would have made my task easier.
I remembered the legal notice in my bag, forced it from my mind, tasted my vichyssoise, smiled, and said, “It’s excellent, Laurie.”
“Glad you approve,” she said. “I made it myself. Therapy. I can get lost in cooking. The world and all its nastiness disappears.”
“Writing does it for me. When I’m into an especially challenging murder scene, I—” Laurie glanced at me and smiled. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Sometimes my mind goes on vacation but my mouth works overtime.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, Jess. Walter’s murder is a fact. Reality. I’m beginning to be able to view it that way and concentrate on what needs to get done. The biggest problem at the moment is handling the press queries. They’re starting to come in. I think the public relations people call it ‘damage control.’ Putting a positive spin on a very negative story.”
“I suppose you have to deal with that,” I said. “Judging from the people I saw in the lobby, business is already suffering.”
“And bound to get worse.” She took a few spoons of vichyssoise, sat back, raised her thin arms above her shoulders, and rested her hands on top of her head. The bags under her eyes, and a hasty job of applying makeup revealed her fatigue.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” she said, looking up at the ceiling. “I know it’s a fact, as I said. I accept that. But part of me doesn’t. A bad dream. I expect Walter to come through the door any time now. Only I know he won’t.” She closed her eyes tightly against tears.
“You never get over that,” I said. “Expecting someone you love to walk through the door even when—anything new with the investigation?”
She shook her head. “No. I doubt if they’ll come up with Walter’s murderer. Not that the police here are any less efficient than anywhere else. Detective Calid has quite a reputation. He’s studied all over the world, even with the FBI in the States. It’s just that a random killing like this mak
es it impossible to resolve. No motive. Just a mentally unbalanced native.”
“Are you sure about that?” I asked.
“What else? Neither Walter nor I know anyone capable of such brutality. It had to be a local.”
“It wasn’t robbery,” I offered. “Detective Calid said Walter had a lot of cash in his pocket.”
“I’d feel better if it had been a robbery. At least some poor person would have a few bucks for his trouble.”
Since I couldn’t suggest that Laurie eat her vichyssoise before it got cold, I ignored the food and said, “I find it interesting that the weapon was probably a straight razor. Walter was one of the few men I knew who still used such an old-fashioned type of razor to shave. It was sort of a running gag in Cabot Cove. Remember? Seth and Mort always gave him such a ribbing about it.”
Laurie grinned. I was glad I’d reminded her of something amusing from yesteryear. “Walter swore by that razor,” she said. “He always said to me, ‘Old-fashioned or not, it’s the best way to get the job done.’ Ironic, isn’t it?”
I remembered a time as we sat there when Walter arrived at a party wearing a bandage on his chin. When I asked what had happened, he told me he’d slipped while shaving. “I’ll probably end up slitting my own throat one of these days,” he’d said, laughing. It was a grim recollection that I chose not to share with Laurie.
Nor did I mention the use of a razor as a murder weapon in my last novel, whose paperback copies were prominently displayed in Justin Wall’s bookstore in Charlotte Amalie.
“Well, enough of this,” Laurie said. “We have to eat, and I intend to.” We finished our soup and the plump, juicy shrimp. During our meal, and the conversation that accompanied it, the phone rang numerous times. Laurie ignored the calls, said they were being answered by the assistant manager at the desk. An answering machine in her office went into action when the assistant was slow to pick up, its faint outgoing message, and the beginnings of incoming ones barely audible. “I told him not to disturb us,” she said.
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