Dying to Retire

by Jessica Fletcher

  It was signed by one of five names on the letterhead, whose title was general counsel to Wainscott Associates, Inc.

  I handed the letter to Seth, who frowned as he read it. “Looks like Mr. Wainscott is playing hardball,” he said, passing the letter back to Sam.

  “This beach was supposed to be part of Foreverglades,” Sam said. “It was in all the brochures. Wainscott’s reneged, but we’re not going to let him get away with it. He thinks he can push us around ’cause we’re old. We may be old, but we’re not dumb.”

  “Do you think making a lot of noise will make him change his mind?” Seth asked.

  “No,” Sam replied. “He’ll never listen to us. He figures he’s already got our money.”

  “Then what good will the demonstration do?” Seth said.

  “The power of the press,” Sam said. “I called all the papers and television stations. We’re a great pop photo.”

  “I think you mean photo op, Sam,” I said.

  “That’s it. If we can get the press to cover us, it’ll push the authorities to pressure Wainscott to reopen the beach.” Sam looked at me. “I called you to let you know what was going on,” he said. “Didn’t want you to miss an opportunity for publicity. Stick with us and you could sell some more books.”

  “That’s very thoughtful,” I said. “How did you even know where to find us?”

  Sam grinned. “Good police work,” he said. “Helen told me where you lived. I figured out the doc’s office would probably know where you went. Told the lady who answered that it was a police matter, and we needed to locate your whereabouts. She gave me the telephone number.”

  “Good grief,” Seth said. “They must think I’ve been arrested.”

  “You’d better call them today,” I said. “You know how rumors spread.”

  Sam climbed back into the Cadillac and returned to shouting words of encouragement into his bullhorn. Seth and I gravitated to a large knot of seniors, many of whom we recognized from our stay at Foreverglades. Monica Kotansky, in hot-pink Capri pants and a tight white T-shirt, Snowy nestled in her arms, saw us coming. She broke away from the others and came directly to Seth.

  “Oh, Seth,” she said, batting her long, false eyelashes. “I’m so relieved you’re here. I was worried about you.”

  “Worried about me? That’s very flattering, but why?” he asked, straightening up and drawing in his stomach.

  “I was looking all over for you, but you seemed to have disappeared. I was hoping I’d see you at the gym, but—”

  “Just away for the weekend,” Seth said, smiling.

  I touched Seth’s arm, hoping to signal him to move on, but he seemed content to remain talking with Monica.

  “I’ll be with the others,” I said, walking away. I glanced back to see my dear friend from Cabot Cove still transfixed by the alluring Monica.

  “Hello, Jessica,” Minnie Lewis said. “How was your trip to the Keys?”

  “Just fine, but I see we almost missed the action here.”

  “Isn’t this something?” she asked.

  “I saw the letter,” I said.

  “Sam was so incensed, he hasn’t stopped organizing since we received it. I’m so proud of him. Once Sam gets going, Wainscott won’t know what hit him.”

  “The nerve of that man,” Helen Davison said, “trying to bully us with his highfalutin law firm and all that legal mumbo-jumbo. I closed up my shop today, told all my customers to come down here and demonstrate. If we don’t stand up for ourselves, no one else will do it for us.”

  “Did he give a reason for closing the beach?” I asked.

  “Oh, sure, he gave a reason,” she replied, indignant, her voice getting louder. “His ugly face shows up on TV last night and he says there are too many alligators in the area, and it’s dangerous for the old folks. Can you imagine? He actually called us ‘old folks.’ Said he was concerned we’d get hurt and that he was only doing this to protect us from attack. Baloney! He’s doing this to get even with the protesters who oppose his construction. We’ll show him ‘old folks.’ Won’t we?”

  A cheer went up at the conclusion of Helen’s tirade.

  A young man with camera equipment strung around his neck approached, focused on individual faces, and took a quick succession of shots, going from one face to the other.

  Clarence put his hand up in front of his face. “What newspaper are you from, young man?” he snapped.

  The photographer said nothing as he took a few more pictures and moved on to another group.

  “Caramba! I’ll bet he’s from Wainscott’s office,” Amelia said. “Spying on us, taking our picture. My sister-in-law probably sent him. Then she’ll turn our pictures over to those goons, and we’ll be in trouble.” She pointed to where Wainscott’s security men stood with their arms crossed defiantly on their chests, their grim expressions saying loud and clear they weren’t enjoying this impromptu beach party.

  “Hush, Amelia,” Helen said. “You’re only going to scare people away, and we need everybody here.”

  “Too many of us to arrest,” Minnie said with a satisfied nod. “They tried to get us to leave, but we stood our ground. Strength in numbers, that’s what I always say.”

  Miles Davison, who had been leaning on his two canes, raised one and shook it at the police and security men. “I dare ’em to arrest me,” he said, stepping away from us and hobbling in their direction.

  “I don’t think you should confront them,” I called after him.

  But he wasn’t to be deterred.

  “Oh, my,” Helen said. “Miles, don’t egg them on. You’ll get hurt.”

  “Hope they don’t shoot the damn fool,” Clarence said.

  All eyes were on Miles as he walked unsteadily but with purpose, in order to lay down a face-to-face challenge. The policemen, too, seemed to brace for what would come next. When Miles was within fifteen feet of them, the security guards dropped their arms and took a few steps toward him. Earl and Burl gasped and hurried over to stand on either side of the old man, protecting him from the brawny guards. A cheer went up from the crowd.

  Detective Zach Shippee appeared from behind the officers and confronted the guards, who stepped back into place.

  “Who’s that?” someone in our group asked.

  “He’s from the police,” I said, relieved that he’d shown up when he did. The detective stopped close to Miles and the Simmons twins and said something to them. The trio simply nodded and turned back in our direction, Earl and Burl assisting Miles till Helen ran to help him.

  I looked to where Seth had been talking with Monica. They were gone from view. Coming from that direction was a two-person crew from a local TV station. One carried a video camera, the other a microphone tethered to the camera, and a clipboard. They approached us, and the young woman carrying the microphone, who I assumed was the reporter, took us in, fixed on me, and said, “You’re Jessica Fletcher.” She said it as though delivering a revelation.

  “I’m afraid I am,” I said.

  “And you’re part of this demonstration.”

  “Well, no. Actually, I’m not. We were in Key West and—”

  “And returned for the demonstration,” she said, again a statement of supposed fact.

  “No,” I said. “We didn’t know that—”

  She turned to her cameraman and said, “Get a two-shot of Mrs. Fletcher here.”

  “Now wait a minute,” I said, raising a hand. “I’m just a visitor. It’s Sam you should interview.” I pointed to Sam standing in the pink Cadillac.

  Her microphone suddenly appeared in front of my mouth. “Why have you lent your considerable celebrity, Mrs. Fletcher, to this demonstration? Are you now living in Foreverglades?”

  I stepped back and to the side, out of camera range.

  “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher,” a male voice said. I turned to see that Detective Shippee had come to my side. “Grabbing fifteen minutes of fame?” he asked, not unpleasantly.

  “The la
st thing I want,” I said. I looked to Miles, who’d now rejoined us, and the Simmons twins, who were surrounded by well-wishers, and said to Shippee, “Thanks for intervening with them.”

  “We’re supposed to be keepers of the peace,” he said. “Got a moment?”

  The TV reporter had repositioned herself and her cameraman to take another stab at interviewing me.

  “Please,” I said. “This is inappropriate.”

  “Later,” Shippee told the reporter, taking my arm and leading me to an unoccupied area of the parking lot.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Won’t make any difference,” he said. “You’re a celebrity. That’s what the media thrives on. Your face will be all over TV tonight.”

  “I suppose it will.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “did you know this demonstration was going to take place?”

  “Goodness, no. My friend Dr. Seth Hazlitt and I were totally surprised. We just came back from a trip to the Keys and noticed no one was at Foreverglades. Now we know why.”

  “It’s a touchy situation, as I’m sure you can understand. Wainscott has a legal right to close the beach. He owns it.”

  “And that’s a shame,” I said.

  “Yeah, sure, I agree with you. But the law’s the law.”

  “And I respect that, although there are many times when the law should be changed. These are good, decent people who moved here to live out their retirement years with the expectation that the beach was among the good things in life they would enjoy. Wainscott is guilty of false advertising at a minimum, perhaps even fraud. Frankly, Detective Shippee, I find him to be an arrogant bully, without any sensitivity to the needs of others.”

  “I warned you about him, didn’t I?” Shippee smiled and looked out over the water, his eyes squeezed almost shut against the glare. He drew a deep breath and again faced me. “This sort of situation happens in Florida every day. Land is precious. Men like Wainscott grab it up and build what they hope will make them millions of dollars. Citizens like your friends from Foreverglades get hurt in the process. I understand why they’re angry. They have a right to demonstrate, and I respect that. They buy a place with beautiful water views, and along comes a developer like Wainscott who takes it away from them.”

  “But . . .” I said, reading that in his voice.

  He grinned. “Yeah, that’s right, Mrs. Fletcher. There’s always a ‘but’ involved.”

  “The law.”

  “The law. That’s right, although I don’t think Wainscott has ever come up against a gang like this.”

  “Gang?”

  “All these golden-agers. They’re old enough to not care what people think about them anymore. They’re not concerned with image. They’re concerned with what they think is right, and they fight for it. Tip over one of their wheelchairs and they’ll find a way to get up and keep fighting. They don’t let their walkers or Coke-bottle glasses stop them when they think they have a just cause. They may have become weaker physically, but they haven’t lost a thing when it comes to commitment.”

  “I’m sure they’d be pleased to know you feel that way,” I said.

  “I’ve got a mother and father getting on in years,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Even so, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m sure you realize that in the end, Wainscott will win. The moneymen always do.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “In the meantime,” he said, “there’s Mrs. Shelby’s death to solve.”

  “Solve?” I said. “You don’t think it was from natural causes either?”

  “You and I were on the same page all along, but I couldn’t go public without proof.”

  “And now you have it?”

  He nodded. “And now I’m going to do something about it.” He looked around at the demonstrators, and started walking toward Sam standing in the Cadillac.

  “Not Sam,” I whispered. “Never Sam.”

  The detective called up to Sam, who put down his bullhorn and leaned down to hear what Shippee had to say. He straightened up again and looked out over the crowd, pointing to the group I’d recently been standing with.

  Shippee turned toward them and I followed quickly, in time to hear him say, “You’re under arrest for the murder of Portia Carpenter Shelby. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

  The people around us were stunned.

  “Portia was murdered.”

  “Can you believe it?”

  I heard the murmurs as the realization spread through the crowd.

  Then Detective Shippee pulled out his handcuffs and Clarence Shelby held out his hands.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Where are you going?”

  “What makes you think I’m going anywhere in particular?”

  “You don’t wear shorts very often, Seth.”

  “Don’t know why a man can’t put on a pair of shorts without raising suspicion.”

  It was the morning after the demonstration and the shocking arrest of Clarence Shelby. Although according to Amelia, who told everyone who would listen, she had suspected him all along. Minnie had cried, and Helen and Miles had helped Sam take her home.

  Seth and I walked down the stairs from our respective apartments. He opened the building door for me.

  “Are you going to play tennis with Mort?” I asked, stepping outside.

  “No, I’m not going to play tennis with Mort.”

  “Good, because I asked him to meet me at the police station.”

  “The police station, huh? Going to see Detective Shippee?”

  “Yes. I want to talk to him about Clarence. I thought he might be more amenable to answering questions if another police officer was present.”

  “What are you questioning him about? You suspected Portia was murdered. I didn’t think so, but you were right. The police have arrested her murderer. I should think you’d be satisfied.”

  “I was. I am. I just want to assure myself they have the right person.”

  We crossed the courtyard and paused on the sidewalk. “So where are you going?” I asked.

  “Just out for a little walk.”

  I raised my eyebrows at him. He was obviously concealing something.

  “Well, if you must know, I’m going over to the gym.”

  “That’s wonderful, Seth. Why didn’t you say so? You’ve been talking about starting an exercise program. The trainers are supposed to be very knowledgeable, although I’d heard it was difficult to get an appointment.”

  “Yes. Well, we’ll see.”

  “You did make an appointment, didn’t you?”

  “Why are you so danged nosy about what I’m going to do at the gym?”

  I laughed. “Because you’re usually not so secretive about your activities.”

  A car horn sounded, and I turned to see Monica Kotansky driving a red convertible. Snowy was sitting in the passenger seat. She pulled over to the curb. “Seth? Oh, Seth,” she called out.

  Seth raised one hand in a sheepish wave.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “I just got back from the store, and I still have to change and walk Snowy. Why don’t you go on over? I’ll be there in two minutes. Hi, Jessica. Nice to see you again.” She drove off without waiting for my reply.

  Seth’s face was the color of Monica’s car. “She’s going to show me how to use the equipment.”

  “It’s not my business who you meet at the gym,” I said.

  “Yes. Well. She offered, and I thought it would be a good opportunity.”

  “Just be careful,” I said. “Take it easy the first time. You haven’t used the machines before. You don’t want to pull a muscle.”

  “I know that. You don’t have to tell me to take it easy. I’ve been telling my patients the same thing for years.”

  I glanced at my watch. “I’ve got to go,” I said. “Have a good time. I’ll see you later.”

  As Seth st
arted walking toward the rec hall, I couldn’t resist teasing him. “I’ll phone you this afternoon,” I called after him. “We can go back to Portofino for dinner. Unless you have other plans.”

  He batted a hand at me behind his back, and I laughed.

  The station house in Foreverglades was on a side street, away from the busy shopping area, in a low brick building with a white façade. Mort was already there when I arrived.

  “He said he can see us in about ten minutes. That okay, Mrs. F?”

  “Sure, Mort. I’m glad he’ll see us at all.”

  We took seats on a wooden bench in the narrow lobby. The desk sergeant in uniform was at a desk behind a glass partition. Working with him was an elderly gentleman who answered telephones. Behind them was a wall-size corkboard covered with papers, clipboards, visitors’ badges, and pictures of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted fugitives. A glass door off to the side allowed a view of a corridor leading to other offices.

  “What do you want to talk about with him, Mrs. F?”

  “I want to let him know what Gabby said about the Key West project, in case it has any bearing on the evidence. Detective Shippee mentioned an accident once, and I think that’s what he may have been referring to.”

  “You mean about the crane operator and the guy who was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could just be a coincidence.”

  “It could. I’d also like to find out how they came to suspect Clarence.”

  The elderly man at the desk tapped on the glass partition, and we looked up. “Detective Shippee can see you.” He waved us over to a door and buzzed us in. “Write your name on those and put them on, please,” he said, handing us orange visitors’ badges and a marker.

  We did as we were asked, and he led us through the glass door to the corridor, escorting us to small room furnished only with a table and four chairs. Detective Shippee met us at the door.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, how are you?” he said. “Metzger.” He nodded at Mort.

  We sat at the table, and there was an awkward moment of silence.

  “Didn’t see you on the news last night,” Shippee said to me.

  “Just as well,” I said. “Your arrest made the demonstration even bigger news.”