Murder, She Wrote: The Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher

by Jessica Fletcher Donald Bain

  “In that case, you may not be up to reading my new book,” I said, holding up the novel I’d brought as a gift. “Should I offer it to the nurse instead?”

  “Put that back on the nightstand where you found it,” he said, scowling. “I’ll read it tonight. Good-bye, Jessica.”

  “Good-bye, Cliff. I’ll be back. With the lawyer. You need a formal will, even though I expect you’re going to live a lot longer than you think.”

  But I was wrong.

  Chapter Two

  1805 HOUSE FOR SALE

  Charming historic colonial built by a sea captain for his young wife

  • Spectacular water views

  • 8 bedrooms, 3 baths, kitchen, dining room, laundry, library

  • Lots of period details

  • Separate barn on the property

  • Price on request

  • An Eve Simpson exclusive

  “If Cliff Cooper knew what we’re doing, he would spin in his grave—that is, if he’d already been buried,” I said to Eve Simpson.

  To Seth’s consternation and contrary to my prediction, Cliff had succumbed within a few days of my visit, and I was never able to arrange for him to execute a more formal will than the makeshift one he’d dictated to me. Attorney Fred Kramer said Cliff’s will would likely stand up in probate court, but he wished he could have made one with another witness’s signature on it.

  “I have to get rid of those books, Jessica. No one wants to buy a house where the bookshelves are overflowing. They’re everywhere—on the floor, chairs, and on the steps going upstairs.”

  “That may be, Eve, but just throwing away all these books would be a crime.”

  “That’s why I asked you to look through them. If there’s anything of great value, I figured you’d recognize it.”

  Eve steadied the library ladder, on which I was perched five steps up, while I inspected one of the multiple shelves of books in Cliff’s big seaside house, which she had recently advertised as on the market. With Cliff’s encouragement, Eve had started the sales process right away, putting a notice in the local newspaper and planning improvements to the huge house. She billed herself as Cabot Cove’s premier real estate agent, and I didn’t doubt that she was. She didn’t have a lot of competition. Even so, Cliff’s home was the historic Spencer Percy House, the oldest house in Cabot Cove. Selling it would provide considerable bragging rights, plus a sizable commission, if Eve could find a buyer. But that was a big “if.”

  The house was much larger than the average family was likely to want. Cliff Cooper had been a widower with little interest in keeping it up, and with a tendency to save rather than throw things away. He was a hoarder, Cabot Cove’s version of the compulsive Collyer brothers, who collected tons of items in their New York town house in the first half of the twentieth century. Thank goodness Cliff hadn’t gone to the extremes of those famous siblings.

  But he almost had.

  Apart from two furnished bedrooms, other rooms in the Spencer Percy House had been repositories of cast-off furniture, old luggage, and piles of household items that were saved even though they no longer had a function in the lives of the occupants. Whether much of this had already been here when Cliff and his wife, Nanette, first moved in, or whether Cliff filled the empty spaces himself after her death, neither Eve nor I knew.

  “Fred Kramer said he’s officially the lawyer for the estate. I assume that means he’s found Elliot,” Eve said.

  “Yes, but don’t ask me how he discovered his whereabouts. He said Elliot was camping in Alaska with a friend who’s a bush pilot. He’s coming home, but he’s coming by motorcycle, of all things. We’ll have to hold off the funeral until he arrives.”

  “When was the last time he was in Cabot Cove?”

  “No idea. I never saw Elliot after Cliff sent him off to boarding school.”

  “Well, at least Fred assured me that I’m free to do as I please with these books. What do you have there?”

  “I’m no expert in antiquarian books,” I said, pulling out a large cloth-covered volume missing its dust jacket, “but I have to say that most of Cliff’s collection seems to be a combination of popular novels, outdated texts, old travel guides, and”—I flipped through the pages—“reference books from the last century. Hawaii isn’t even a state in this 1956 atlas.”

  “Maybe I should call the junk man again,” Eve said. “Herb carted away at least a ton of magazines and newspapers before Cliff died.” She looked down at the faded carpeting. “That’s how I found out that this is an oriental rug. You couldn’t see the pattern with all the papers piled up on it. I didn’t dare bring Cecil here. He’s barely paper trained as it is.”

  Eve’s Chihuahua, Cecil, was a canine senior citizen with dental problems and an occasionally weak bladder who’d belonged to an actress making a film in Cabot Cove. The actress had the misfortune of being killed on the set by someone with a grudge, and her grieving family wasn’t willing or able to adopt the dog. But Eve generously took him in, much to my relief, because he’d been a temporary boarder at my home.

  “You don’t think Cliff’s grandson will want any of the books as a keepsake?” I asked.

  “Fred says to do what I want with them, and that’s good enough for me.”

  “Did you ask at the library?”

  “They don’t want anything published before the year 2000, and Doris Ann said that was stretching it. She said the library can’t afford to hire the staff needed to sort through all the books people want to donate.”

  I returned the atlas to the shelf and stepped back down the ladder. “Well, that’s a shame, but I doubt there’s much of value here to salvage. If there is, it’ll take greater expertise than I possess.” I tried to shake the cobwebs and dust off my hands but only succeeded in smearing the dirt even more. “If I’d known I’d be scrambling around in this grimy house, I’d have worn my old painting clothes. Those shelves look like they haven’t seen a vacuum or dust cloth in decades.”

  “I’m sorry, Jessica. I didn’t realize it would be so bad.”

  Eve, of course, was pristine in a taupe suit with a silk scarf in a navy check artfully arranged around her neck, not a wave out of place on her carefully coiffed head. I, on the other hand, was afraid to use my grubby fingers to replace the lock of hair that had fallen down on my forehead.

  “Well, what’s done is done,” I said. “Where’s the nearest sink?”

  “In the kitchen. Follow me.”

  Eve led me through the library’s archway, down the main hall, and into a kitchen that had last been updated in the same decade as the atlas. Faded wallpaper with teapots on a yellow gingham background covered most of the walls, except where someone had pulled a section away to reveal even older wallpaper with stylized blue leaves surrounding bunches of cherries. The cast-iron sink was full of rust stains, but the cold tap worked, although it gave a loud groan before the water trickled out. I rinsed my hands, and Eve handed me a paper towel from a roll standing on the counter.

  “If Fred Kramer said you’re free to remove the books, what do you think about putting on a secondhand book sale?” I suggested. “If nothing else, you’ll get a lot of people coming to see the house and perhaps attract a buyer. You might even sell as much as half the collection that way.”

  A soft thud sounded from somewhere in the house.

  “What was that?”

  “Oh, these old houses are full of random noises,” Eve said.

  “You’re sure it’s not Cliff Cooper back to haunt the place?” I said.

  “Very funny, Jessica, but you’re not the first to suggest that.”

  “That the house is haunted?”

  “So rumor has it, but you can’t prove it by me, even though every time I’m here, I hear something new. Yesterday, I was sure I heard someone walking around on the second floor. I raced upstairs, read
y to threaten to call the police on the trespasser, but no one was there.”

  “I hope you don’t have raccoons or squirrels,” I said. “They’re difficult to remove.”

  “Not according to the home inspector, but he found plenty of other things to repair, which is why, while I like the idea of a book sale, c’est impossible. I’m way too busy. There are a gazillion things to do before we’re ready for the open house. The place is falling down.”

  We heard another loud thud, and Eve and I looked at each other in alarm. Then a voice called out a long, “Halloo?” and we heard footsteps approach the kitchen. We turned to see our sheriff’s head peeking around the corner. He had a big grin on his face. “Hello, ladies. Am I interrupting anything?”

  “Good heavens, Mort, you gave us quite a start,” I said.

  “Sheriff Metzger, you’re not to do that again,” Eve said. “You must’ve taken ten—or maybe five—years off my life.” She fanned her face with her hand.

  “The front door was open,” he said, coming into the room. “I’ve never been in here. Thought I’d take a look around before someone buys it. Pretty big, huh? My wife would love this kitchen, although I wouldn’t love all the work it’ll take to fix it up.”

  “It’s reasonably priced,” Eve said, recognizing a potential customer in Cabot Cove’s top law enforcement officer. “If you’re really interested, I’m sure we can work out a deal.”

  “Whoa! Slow down. I’m not in the market to move. I’ve already given up two weekends painting the bathroom at home. With a project this size, I’d never see another football game again.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, here’s my card.”

  Mort tucked it in his pocket.

  “Eve and I were just discussing what to do with Cliff Cooper’s books,” I said.

  “Yeah? The guy must’ve been some brain. Did he really read all those books out there?” He gestured toward the hallway.

  “I believe so,” I said. “The trouble was he didn’t know what to do with a book once he finished it.”

  “But I do,” Eve said, making shoveling gestures.

  A crackle of static and a tinny voice on a police radio reached our ears. “Come in, Sheriff Metzger. This is Deputy Chip. You got a ten-twenty-one B—that’s a ten-twenty-one B. Do you copy?”

  “Oops! Gotta go,” Mort said.

  “What’s a ten-twenty-one B?” Eve asked.

  “It’s police radio code for ‘call your home,’” I said.

  “I hope it’s not an emergency, Sheriff,” Eve said.

  “It’ll be a ten-forty-five if I don’t bring my wife the bottle of vinegar she asked me to pick up. She’s practicing making an apple onion pie to enter in the Harvest Festival. See you, ladies.”

  “What’s a ten-forty-five?” Eve whispered to me.

  “A domestic dispute,” I whispered back. “Send our best to Maureen,” I called as he raced down the hall and out the door.

  “He’s such a nice man,” Eve said.

  “And a good sheriff,” I added as he left the house.

  Eve sighed. “Too bad there’s no radio code for ‘Who wants a book?’ It will be impossible to stage the house for prospective buyers with all these dusty tomes cluttering up the place.”

  “Since there’s so much on your calendar, why don’t you wait a little before making a decision on the books?” I said. “I know a gentleman in New York who runs a secondhand bookstore. He might be interested in taking a look at what’s here. He would know if Cliff had a gem buried among his odds and ends.”

  “That would be absolument merveilleux, Jessica,” Eve said, clapping her hands. “I knew you would come up with a solution.”

  “I’m not promising anything. His shop’s bookshelves are overflowing as it is. But even if he finds a prize or two, that doesn’t solve your problem of getting rid of thousands of other books, most of them probably worthless. A book sale is really your best bet.”

  Eve pouted and cocked her head at me with a bright smile. “If you’d like to organize it, I’d split the profits with you, sixty-forty.”

  “I wasn’t volunteering, Eve. I’m busy, too.”

  “I’ll make it fifty-fifty.”

  “It’s not the money,” I said, laughing, “but I tell you what. If you agree to run a sale as a fund-raiser for the library, I’ll help you make plans for it.”

  “These books have to go. I suppose it’s better to make a little something on them than pay to have them hauled away.”

  “Make a little something for the library, you mean.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Jessica Fletcher, but okay, I’ll give the library my half, after I pay Herb to cart off whatever we don’t sell.”

  “In that case, I recommend that you get in a cleaning service to dust first.”

  “They’re coming tomorrow, along with the painters and the roofers. I’m thinking carpenters may be next.”

  “Who’s going to pay for the work that’s needed?” I asked.

  “Fred Kramer said he’d allow me a small budget to fix up the place. He said he can do that as the lawyer for the estate. It’s a nice idea, but it’ll never be enough.”

  “It’s ironic, isn’t it?” I said. “Cliff must have done repair work on half the homes in Cabot Cove, but he didn’t take the time to work on his own.”

  “It’s like the shoemaker’s children going barefoot,” Eve said. “He told me the only place he did any carpentry in this house was in the basement. You’ll never believe what’s stored down there.”

  “I can guess. More books.”

  Eve sighed and nodded.

  We paused at the entrance to the library and took a last look at the spacious room. The drapery had been pulled aside many years ago, and I suspected it might fall apart if anyone tried to close the panels now. The once-red oriental carpeting had darker patches where mounds of papers had kept it from fading. The few pieces of furniture included a well-worn leather recliner next to the fireplace, a round library table with stacks of books covering its surface, and two sturdy wooden chairs with frayed cushions.

  Seeing that two books had fallen off the table, I crossed the room to pick them up.

  “Oh, don’t bother, Jessica. You can spend your life here picking things up.”

  “It’s no trouble. I didn’t notice them before.” I leaned down to retrieve the first book, a paperback with a lurid cover showing a woman in the grip of a knife-wielding assailant. The title was Betrayal!

  Meanwhile, Eve had picked up the other book. “I didn’t realize Cliff went in for this sort of thing,” she said, handing it to me so I could see the cover illustration.

  “I guess he was a fan of noir mysteries.” I grimaced at the picture of blood dripping down a shattered door over which black letters spelled out Taking My Revenge.

  “Do you know the author?” she asked.

  “Graham P. Hobart. No. His name is not familiar.” I placed both books on the shortest stack on the table.

  Eve shivered. “That’s some imagination. I wouldn’t want to meet Mr. Hobart in a dark alley,” she said as we exited the room. “Do you really think anyone would want to buy books like that?”

  “Cliff Cooper did. There are readers for all kind of books.”

  Eve opened the front door and drew a ring of keys from her pocket. “I’ll drop you at home first, and you can call your friend about the books. If he’s not interested, I guess we’ll have to put on the book sale. Either way, the quicker we get rid of them, the happier I’ll be.”

  As she pulled the door closed to lock it, I thought I heard another thud from inside the house. I cocked my head; the sound didn’t repeat itself. I thought about the rumor that the Spencer Percy House was haunted. How silly, I thought as we walked to where she’d parked her car on the gravel driveway. I love a good ghost story as much as th
e next person, but that’s what they are: stories—the inventions of fiction writers and people with vivid imaginations. I looked back at the imposing house, smiled, got in Eve’s car, and she drove us toward town.

  Chapter Three

  “Arthur’s Selected Works, secondhand but never second-class. May I help you?”

  “Arthur? It’s Jessica Fletcher. Am I getting you at a bad time?”

  “Jessica Fletcher! How delightful to hear your voice again.”

  He yelled to someone in his shop, “Roger, put those Shirley Jacksons over in the horror section, and bring me the stepladder.”

  “I can call you back if you’re too busy,” I said.

  “No! No! I may be up to my elbows in first editions, but I always have time for you, my dear. Just need to get off my feet so we can chat. There. That’s better.”

  “Thank you, Arthur. It’s been quite a while.”

  “Can’t believe you abandoned the Big Apple for the boondocks. How do you like it up there in the backwoods of Maine?”

  “Actually, Cabot Cove is on the coast, and I like it just fine. Love it, in fact. How have you been?”

  “Oh, toddling along. The city is being bought up by foreigners who don’t read. The neighborhood streets are clogged with stroller pushers who won’t touch a pre-owned Dr. Seuss unless it’s guaranteed to have been sanitized. Do they think Barnes and Noble disinfects the children’s section every night? Thank goodness for the tourists, who’ll accept any souvenir so long as it has a ‘New York’ label. I’ve made up a thousand bookplates with the shop’s name and added ‘The favorite bookstore of knowing New Yorkers.’ ‘Knowing New Yorkers.’ I like the subtle alliteration, don’t you? They only get a bookplate if they buy a book.”

  “Clever marketing,” I said. “Is it working?”

  “Occasionally. I could make more money selling the bookplates, but unfortunately that’s not my business. Well, you do what you have to do to survive.” He called out to the other person with him. “Roger, the Higgins Clark books go on the cozy shelf, not the hard-boiled. Yes, I know Clark is close to Chandler alphabetically, but that isn’t the point.” His sigh was exaggerated. “Sorry, Jessica. He’s a new employee. Still there?”