Rum and Razors

by Jessica Fletcher

  But a flashing light on my answering machine indicated I had two messages. One would be Adrian Woodhouse requesting an interview. I pressed “PLAY,” heard Woodhouse’s voice asking for the interview, and then the voice of Cabot Cove’s sheriff, Morton Metzger, came from the tiny speaker: “Hello, Jessica. Mort Metzger here. Been trying to reach Seth at that resort, Diamond Reef, all day, but they keep tellin’ me he’s not there. ’Preciate a call when you get a moment.”

  I returned the call immediately. After initial greetings, I suggested that Seth had probably been out all day sightseeing. “How are you?” I asked.

  “Been better, Jess. Joe, my deputy, smashed up the patrol car he was drivin’. Hit a patch of ice, tore through a fence, damn near ran over Billy Cotton’s favorite horse, and came to a stop against a big boulder.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mort. Was Joe hurt?”

  “Nah. But you should see that car. Going to take a heap of explaining down at the Town Council. Sure you don’t know where Seth is?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. But I know where he’ll be at six-thirty.”

  “Where?”

  “Right here with me. We’re going to a dinner party hosted by Laurie Marschalk.”

  “A dinner party? Hasn’t been but a few days since Walter got himself killed.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said, “but don’t judge her harshly. She’s juggling a dozen problems at once, and is handling them quite well. Want me to give Seth a message?”

  “Ayah. Tell him Mrs. Markey had the baby at the hospital. I drove her there myself. Husband’s out ’a town on business. Mother and son doin’ fine.”

  “Seth will be delighted to hear that,” I said. I knew that Elaine Markey had been going through a difficult pregnancy, which added to my surprise that Seth had chosen to take a vacation. In all the years I’ve known him, he’s seldom left Cabot Cove when a patient was in need. Evidently, he felt Elaine was in good enough hands with a new obstetrician who’d moved to town a year ago, his faith justified by Mort’s news.

  After Mort and I finished our conversation, I slipped into the Indonesian batik wrap that came with the room, poured myself a glass of pineapple juice from an icy pitcher placed in the room during my absence, and went to my favorite resting spot, the terrace. I stood at the edge and looked out at Lover’s Lagoon, expecting to see the police barge still there. It was gone. Had they found the weapon used to kill Walter? I hoped so, and made a mental note to call Detective Calid first thing in the morning to find out.

  It was still brutally hot, and the sun was beating down on the terrace. I returned to the room and, for the first time, closed windows and doors and flipped on the air-conditioning. More comfortable now, I sat in a chair and attempted to get back into the book I’d started a half dozen times since arriving on the island. But my mind wandered again; I couldn’t focus on the words.

  It was five o’clock. I sat at the desk, used my international calling card, and after some static and a delay, reached Buckley House, my publisher in New York. “Vaughan Buckley, please,” I said.

  Vaughan’s secretary of many years, Rhea, a woman I’d grown to like very much, greeted me, asked how my vacation was going, and put me through to her boss.

  “Jessica,” Vaughan said in his customary ebullient manner. “What are you doing calling your publisher? You’re on vacation.”

  “Yes, I know, but I couldn’t help wondering what reactions have been to the manuscript I delivered before taking off for St. Thomas.”

  “We’ve only had it for about a week,” he said.

  “I know, and I suppose I’m growing impatient in my old age but—”

  “But—I read the entire manuscript the night I got it. It’s wonderful. First-rate. Another winner from Jessica Fletcher.”

  I sighed. No matter how many books I’d written, and no matter how successful they’d been, I’m always nervous about how people will respond to my latest effort. I suppose all writers feel that way. You pour your heart and soul into a manuscript, and you do it assuming you haven’t lost your touch. But you never rest easy until there is confirmation from those you trust, in this case a wonderful publisher, and an astute editorial staff that is always quick to respond, and honest in its responses.

  “Enjoying St. Thomas?” Buckley asked.

  “I think so, although I’ve been busier than I would have liked.”

  “Nothing new there. I was thinking about you when I got the news about Walter Marschalk’s murder. I’ve been on the road at sales conferences since the middle of last week and only caught snippets of news about it.”

  “I’m staying at their inn,” I said. “I was the one who discovered his body.”

  “You what? Discovered his body?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re staying at Walter’s inn? What’s it called?”

  “Lover’s Lagoon Inn.”

  “Right. How are things there? How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Things are chaotic, as to be expected. I had lunch with Laurie Marschalk today. She mentioned she’d tried to call you concerning royalties that might be due on Walter’s books.” There was silence.

  “Vaughan?”

  “Yes. Sorry. Mentioning Laurie Marschalk and her husband’s books brought back some unpleasant, diverting memories.”

  It was my turn to be silent. As far as I was aware, each of Walter’s travel books had sold smashingly well for Buckley House. Unpleasant memories? I asked what he meant.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Jess. Walter was an incredibly difficult human being. I know I shouldn’t be speaking this way about a dead author, but—”

  I thought back to when Laurie had made a similar comment about not bad-mouthing the dead. I asked, “Was he that difficult?”

  Vaughan chuckled. “In all my years publishing books, I’ve dealt with some of the most frustrating, self-centered, demanding, infuriating authors around. May I just say that Walter Marschalk tops the list.”

  Another condemnation of my Cabot Cove friend, whom I’d always assumed was a pretty nice guy. The axiom that you can’t tell a book by its cover came to mind, appropriate to the moment but too much the pun to be said. “I thought his books were best-sellers,” I said.

  “They were. They are. Walter had a way of describing a place like nobody else in the business. He could write about a monastery in Tibet, a saloon in Budapest, a Japanese geisha house, or a diner in Des Moines and, by God, you were there. His descriptive powers were without peer.”

  “So? What difficulties did you have with him? Money? Royalties?”

  “All the above, and more. I used to cringe when he called, or stopped by the office. It was as though Buckley House was in business just to serve him. That was the aura he gave off.” A soft laugh announced he’d decided to soften his condemnation of Walter Marschalk. “I suppose I’m being unduly harsh,” he said. “I had a couple of lunches with Walter that were relatively pleasant. I suppose my view is jaded by that scene I went through six months ago concerning his books.”

  “Scene? With Walter?”

  “As a matter of fact, no. It was with a young writer. You know something, Jess, it just occurred to me that she had your name. Fletcher. Let’s see. Her first name even began with J.”

  “Jennifer Fletcher.”

  “Good guess.”

  “No guess involved. I’ve met Jennifer Fletcher. In fact, she’s staying next door to Walter and Laurie Marschalk’s inn. It’s a resort called Diamond Reef. She’s a travel writer attending a conference there.”

  “Small world. Has she made the claim to you that she wrote Walter Marschalk’s last two books?”

  “No. Wrote Walter’s books? Why would he need someone to ghost his books? You said he was a wonderful writer.”

  “Let me put it a different way, Jess. Walter’s travel books were superb, and I assume the words in them came from him—his thoughts, his style, his mind. But according to this young woman—and by the way, Jess, she created quite a scene
in my office, threatened to sue, demanded money, was going to the press, a nasty confrontation. At any rate, she claimed she had written Walter’s books, every word of them, using material he provided.”

  “Do you think—?”

  “Let me correct that,” he said. “She said she and another writer had ghosted his books.”

  It just came out of my mouth. “Fred Capehart,” I said.

  “I don’t believe this. What have you become, some sort of mystic?”

  “Hardly. But Mr. Capehart is attending the conference, too. Evidently there’s a relationship between them. What was the thrust of Jennifer’s upset, Vaughan? That she and Capehart had written Walter’s books but were never paid?”

  “Exactly. She claims they had a verbal financial arrangement with him, but that he reneged.”

  “If that was true, it could make someone pretty mad. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Sure.”

  “Mad enough to kill? Was she that angry?”

  I could picture Vaughan sitting back in his chair and holding up his hands. “Nobody should be mad enough to kill anybody” was what he said. “Are you suggesting that this attractive and talented young woman, and her boyfriend, murdered Walter Marschalk to get even for having been stiffed?”

  “Nothing of the sort. I’m simply free-associating.”

  “And your free-associating is pretty damned provocative. What’s new with the murder? I assume you’re keeping tabs on things in your inimitable fashion.”

  “Worse than that, Vaughan. I’m determined to get to the bottom of it before I leave this island.”

  His tone turned markedly more somber. “Mind some advice from an old friend?” he asked.

  “When have I ever turned down advice from the erudite and occasionally brilliant Vaughan Buckley?”

  He laughed modestly. “Stay out of it, Jess. Move to another hotel on the island, get a little sun—not too much to mar that beautiful fair complexion of yours—and let others solve Walter Marschalk’s murder.”

  “Advice received and under serious consideration,” I said, sounding like an airline pilot making an official PA announcement.

  “Good,” Buckley said. “The next time you see Laurie Marschalk, tell her I’ll get a breakdown from the accounting department on royalties that might be coming due on Walter’s books. They aren’t scheduled to be paid out until spring, as you well know, but if Laurie is in serious financial trouble, maybe I can speed up the process.”

  “I’m sure she’ll appreciate that, Vaughan. Call you when I’m back in Cabot Cove.”

  I sat on the terrace and chewed on what Vaughan had told me about Jennifer Fletcher and Fred Capehart claiming to have written Walter Marschalk’s books. If they had—and if Walter had failed to compensate them as had been agreed—it cast a different light on them regarding his murder.

  Was Laurie aware of these claims of authorship?

  Did she know Walter had had an affair with Jennifer?

  If so, it promised to be a very interesting dinner party.

  Seth Hazlitt was characteristically on time. After a friendly hug and kiss on the cheek, we went to my terrace where I’d put out a chilled bottle of white wine and some snacks from the mini-bar.

  “You look splendid,” I said. “But a little formal for the Caribbean?” He wore a dark blue vested suit, white shirt, muted red paisley tie, and black wingtip shoes.

  “It might be a dinner party, Jess,” he replied, “but considering that Walter’s been dead only a few days, I thought something a little more conservative might be in order. This is a mourning period, isn’t it?”

  I looked down at my outfit for the evening—a festive, floral cotton skirt and crinkly orange blouse. “Frankly,” I said, “you wouldn’t know anyone was in mourning. I suppose they do things different here on St. Thomas.”

  “Good taste doesn’t know geographic boundaries,” he said sternly, pouring us each a glass of wine and holding his up in a toast. “Here’s to seeing you again.”

  I laughed. “I’ve only been away a few days.”

  “Ayah, but when you sit back home hearing and reading about you bein’ involved in a murder, it makes it seem a mite longer. Anything new on findin’ Walter’s murderer?”

  “Sit down, Seth. I’ll bring you up-to-date.”

  Which I did, using notes to jog my memory, including a few I’d made immediately following my conversation with Vaughan Buckley.

  Seth said nothing as I recounted what had occurred since my arrival on the island the previous Sunday. When I was finished, he rubbed his chin and said, “Sounds to me like it could have been any one of a number of folks who did Walter in.”

  His conclusion was hardly revelatory. I’d already reached that conclusion myself. “What keeps gnawing at me, Seth, is how many people disliked Walter. He seems to have alienated virtually everyone with whom he came into contact.”

  “Hardly the Walter Marschalk I remember from Cabot Cove.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” I said. “But then again, Walter wasn’t there very much. He was always away on a trip. The only time we got together was when he’d come home to do his laundry and pack to leave again. Hard to get to know someone under those circumstances. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes, I would agree with that. You say Laurie was about to divorce him, and that he threatened to fight her. Maybe we didn’t know Laurie that well, either.”

  “I keep dismissing that thought, Seth. There may have been tension between them, but Laurie Marschalk is no murderer.”

  “But what if there was someone else who’d be affected by Walter’s refusal to grant her the divorce?”

  “Another man in her life?”

  “Ayah.”

  “She denies being involved with anyone.”

  “Except you say there’s this partner, Webb, and these attorneys up in Miami who tried to buy the property from that fella they found dead three years ago.”

  “The same attorneys that were handling her divorce.”

  “Seems possible to me that this fella, Webb, might have had something to lose if Walter didn’t agree to the divorce.”

  “Such as?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Just thinking out loud.” He checked his watch; it was a few minutes before seven. “Time for us to get movin’?” he said.

  “Give me a minute to freshen up.” I checked my makeup in the bathroom mirror, then pulled my blue blazer from the closet but realized I hadn’t bothered to sew the missing button back on. I tossed a white scarf around my neck, received a nod of approval from my Cabot Cove friend, and we headed off.

  I was certain Seth would be out of place in his dark suit. But it turned out that I was the one inappropriately dressed. Everyone was in black or navy. Laurie wore a floor-length black silk dress that clung to her every curve. Pamela Jensen, Senator Bobby Jensen’s wife, a pretty woman tottering on the verge of overweight, wore a black suit, frilly white blouse, and abundant jewelry. Even Jennifer Fletcher, whom I assumed traveled light with clothes appropriate only to the destination, was in slacks and a cotton sweater of a somber gray color.

  The men were in suits—gray or blue. Only Chris Webb tipped his hat to the island culture by wearing white shoes, and a wide, vividly colored tie on which flamingos of varying hues played on his chest.

  When Laurie greeted Seth and I at the door to the dining room, I noticed Fred Capehart huddled in a corner with Jennifer Fletcher. The minute he saw me, he quickly left her side and disappeared through doors leading to the kitchen.

  “What a sight for sore eyes,” Laurie said, taking in Seth from head to toe, then hugging him.

  “Bet you didn’t expect to see me here,” he said.

  “No, I certainly did not. When Jess told me you’d arrived on St. Thomas, I was thrilled. Now we can have a proper party, just like back home in Cabot Cove.”

  Laurie had transformed the dining room into an elegant setting. Individual tables had been placed together in the cente
r of the room to form one long one at which a dozen places had been set. Thomas, wearing a white shirt, starched white jacket, and black bow tie, manned a small bar in one corner. A young man sat on a stool in another corner cradling an acoustic guitar as though it were a living thing, and played familiar classical melodies.

  The ambiance was as refined and pleasant as one might expect when attending an intimate state dinner party at the White House, or Buckingham Palace.

  Laurie surveyed the room, said, “Let me see. I know you have met some of these people, Jess, but they’re all strangers to you, Seth. Come. Let me introduce you.”

  And so we made the rounds. I’d met everyone, including a couple of guests whose presence was a surprise, to put it mildly—Mark Dobson, Diamond Reefs general manager, who no longer wore a cast on his leg, and who greeted me like a long-lost family member; and the hulking, imposing owner of the St. Thomas newspaper, Adrian Woodhouse. I’d had the feeling I’d see him again, but never dreamed it would be this soon, or in this circumstance.

  The only person in the room I’d not met was a tall, strikingly attractive woman who Laurie introduced as Nadine Kodner. “My mentor,” she said. Nadine had shoulder-length gray hair, and I judged her to be about forty-five. She and Laurie might have been sisters. “Nadine has written several cookbooks,” Laurie said. “Not only is she a wonderful writer, she can cook rings around me.”

  Nadine shook off the compliment. “Don’t you believe it,” she said. “Nobody can hold a spatula to Laurie Marschalk.”

  Introductions completed, Seth settled into a conversation with Bobby Jensen and his wife, and I accompanied Laurie to the bar. “I didn’t know you were that friendly with Mr. Woodhouse, the newspaper owner.”

  “Adrian? A marvelous man.” I suppose my face reflected my puzzlement over her view of Woodhouse. After all, he’d written a scathing article that all but accused Walter Marschalk and Senator Bobby Jensen of having illegally conspired to buy the Lover’s Lagoon land, and perhaps to have even arranged the murder of an old man in order to bring that about.

  “You’re thinking about the article he wrote,” Laurie said, reading me perfectly. “He’s already apologized for it, and is planning to do another piece exonerating us of any collusion or conspiracy.”