Manuscript for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  Something changed in Lane’s expression, back briefly to the youthful excitement that had characterized our early years together. “Can I ask you a favor?”

  “Anything.”

  He picked up the manuscript and placed it on my lap. “Tell me what you think of The Affair.”

  “For a blurb?”

  “And your thoughts. To see if I’m way off base on this one, if I’m just an old man still chasing a dream.” Lane’s gaze locked on the stack of pages. “And that’s the actual original manuscript sent by the author himself. He e-mailed the file after I requested it, but it felt good to receive an actual manuscript, like in the old days.” He shook his head reflectively. “An old man talking again.”

  “You’re only a few years older than me, Lane, and I do dreams for a living.”

  That got him to smile. “You’ll read it?”

  “Of course. On one condition.”

  “Anything,” he said, throwing my word back at me.

  I leaned a little closer to him. “When I told you Thomas was dead, first I thought you looked indifferent. Then I realized it was more like . . . relieved. Right or wrong?”

  Lane nodded just once, looking like he’d just swallowed something bitter. “That flash drive he swiped from my desk . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “The Affair was copied onto it.”

  Chapter Three

  “You’re kidding,” Herb Mason said to me from behind his old-fashioned steel desk.

  “Have you ever known me to kid about money, Herb?”

  “I’ve never known you to even talk about money, Jessica. I want you to repeat what you said,” he added, adjusting both his hearing aids, “just to make sure I heard it right.”

  Herb had been my accountant for almost as long as I’d had Lane Barfield as a publisher. His office was downtown, a fifteen-minute cab ride away. He’d had his own shop for years before he gave up the space and rented an office inside a larger firm on the occasion of his seventy-fifth birthday a few years back. A few of us, I guess, are meant to work forever. Like Herb Mason—and me, for that matter.

  Lane had given me a tote bag, culled from his endless collection of bags given out at writers’ conferences, to haul the manuscript around. I couldn’t blame him for how he felt about Rudd’s passing, given how much he had tied up in the manuscript on the flash drive that Rudd had swiped and the disaster that would have resulted if Rudd had leaked the book around town to gain a measure of revenge. Swiping the flash drive had been a clear act of desperation by a man who’d turned to alcohol to numb all the torment he was feeling from his failed career.

  No surprise, I guess, given the type of character Thomas Rudd excelled at writing. Men with sallow souls who loved to inflict pain on others. They populated tough, hard books that provided no hope for the world, a world without redemption. Bad men wiped away like bugs on a windshield by men who were not quite as bad. You’d read his work and know it could only have been written by an angry man.

  Except I’ve never really believed that. I don’t think characters come from the dark pits of our souls; I think they come from the bright proving grounds of our imaginations. Thomas Rudd had lost control of himself and, in the process, had lost control of his characters. They became living embodiments of his own frustrations and inadequacies, his own id running rampant and roughshod over his life. He’d never been happy, even while enjoying a modicum of both commercial and critical success. He won awards, was invited to speak at conferences, but I once heard he’d passed out drunk before a packed audience that had waited in line for hours to see him. Part of his mystique, his tough-guy aura, and an act that had ultimately consumed him.

  Thomas Rudd had died friendless. Hard to envision who might attend his funeral, save for Lane Barfield and me, and I wasn’t so sure about Lane anymore. Come to think of it, who exactly was going to make the funeral arrangements, given Rudd’s estrangement from whatever family he had? He’d shut himself off from the world and now the world would neither miss nor remember him. I didn’t know if there was a sadder story to tell, and I resolved to make the funeral arrangements myself if there was no one else to do it.

  I had no reason to suspect foul play in the case of Thomas Rudd’s death, but I couldn’t get his claims of being robbed out of my head. And while I had no reason to suspect Lane Barfield of such malfeasance, I felt I owed it to Thomas to at least look into it. Call it lingering guilt over being relieved, even happy, he hadn’t shown up for breakfast that morning and then learning it was because he was dead.

  If I were back home in Cabot Cove, I’d meet up with Seth Hazlitt at Mara’s Luncheonette to sort through all this. Smell the sea air while cruising the streets on my bicycle. Today I would be missing the monthly meeting of the Friends of the Cabot Cove Library, something that shouldn’t have bothered me but suddenly left me wondering if there was any chance I could get there in time by plane. I’d already called our librarian, Doris Ann, three times to remind her of things that needed to be placed on the agenda, learning they already had on each occasion.

  Cabot Cove, I supposed, was one of the main things that separated me from Thomas Rudd. Who was it who said home was the place that, when you go there, they have to take you in? Rudd had lost any semblance of a place like that. But I had this bucolic town where, except during the cluttered summer months, people smiled and addressed you by name. I was Jessica Fletcher, a resident who happened to be a mystery writer, instead of a mystery writer who happened to be a resident. Whenever I went back there, they took me in, even Sheriff Mort Metzger, no matter how much my pushing my nose into this crime or that left him questioning his decision to seek a quieter life in Cabot Cove.

  “You believe,” Herb was saying, behind his gray steel desk, “that your publisher may be stealing from you by skimming some of the royalties.”

  “It’s what another writer believes and made known to me. I have no evidence beyond that.”

  “If you had nothing beyond that, Jessica, you wouldn’t have bothered to stop by.”

  “Well, my statements have been showing less income.”

  “I imagine that’s the case for almost all writers, and I’ve never noticed anything awry in your statements.”

  “How closely have you looked at them?”

  “Not very,” Herb admitted with a shrug. “Not at all, really, other than to make sure your taxes are prepared properly. To be honest, my interest hasn’t extended beyond the bottom line.”

  “And if it did?”

  “What do you mean?” Herb asked me.

  I eased aside the tote bag containing The Affair to push my chair closer to his desk. “If a publisher wanted to skim off an author’s royalty income, how might they do it?”

  “Any number of ways, but the process is all computerized now. It’s not like the old days when someone like me would hammer out typed statements to accompany the checks.”

  “I don’t recall anyone complaining about such things in the old days. Writers complained about not being paid enough, not about being cheated.”

  “And there are plenty of ways writers are being cheated today, all of them legal. Like holding back reserves against returns, even when no more returns can possibly come in. I can go on, if you like.”

  I sighed. “Not necessary. You made your point.”

  His expression grew even more serious. “Then let me make another, Jessica. The only way to have a chance at finding something specific, provable, and actionable would be to commission a forensic audit of the publisher’s books. No one does them anymore because a publisher that’s corrupt enough to steal their authors’ money would be smart enough to hide it. And, while a good forensic audit can reveal where all the bodies are buried, they’re prohibitively expensive and come with no guarantees and no decent upshot.”

  “What about peace of mind? And since his imprint was bought out, Lane
’s insisted on generating his own financial statements instead of trusting the conglomerate owners to handle them.”

  “Because he was looking out for his authors’ best interests, you once told me.” Herb nodded. “Because he was trying to avoid exactly what Thomas Rudd was accusing him of. The height of irony, Jessica.”

  “Or hypocrisy. Can you take a look at my statements for the last few years and see what you can find, just to allay my fears?”

  Herb frowned, his cheeks and jowls seeming to expand from the gesture. “I’ll probably find nothing.”

  “Then I’ll be satisfied.”

  “And if I do find something, it probably won’t lead very far.”

  “A chance I’m willing to take. And please, Herb, bill me at your regular rate.”

  The man who’d been my accountant since I earned my first dollar as a writer grinned at that. “I don’t have a regular rate. Last time I did, and worked in an office like this, I think it was something like seventy cents per hour. But I date myself.”

  “You’re dating both of us, Herb.”

  He nodded, still looking none too happy about what I was asking him to do. “Another thing about such detailed audits is that they tend to ruin relationships. It would be a shame to savage those thirty years you’ve been with Lane Barfield because of the claims of an old drunk.”

  “Who was once a great writer.”

  “I know.” Herb nodded. “It’s the books that got smaller.”

  “Actually, it’s the marketplace that shrank, as well as changed, and it left Thomas Rudd behind.”

  “Sad.”

  “I’ll say.”

  Herb gazed about his cramped, windowless office, seeming to genuinely appreciate his surroundings. “I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t work anymore. Even if it’s only for a few hours a day, it still helps define who I am.”

  “Rudd got hit by a double whammy: Not only could he not write anymore; his backlist was only paying pennies.”

  “Not exactly a persuasive argument for him being ripped off by a major publisher. Publishers already have a whole other name for stealing: They call it accounting.”

  I was about to respond when my cell phone rang. I drew it from my bag, hoping it was Cabot Cove librarian Doris Ann calling to conference me into the Friends meeting.

  “Are you still in New York, Jessica?” Detective Artie Gelber’s voice greeted me.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Are you free? I need to see you.”

  “Does this have something to do with the fire, Artie?”

  “Let’s talk in person.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I’m no stranger to crime scenes, having examined more than my share either as research for my books or during the course of the real-life investigations that seemed to follow me around like a stray cat. Most of the time, the process started with me trying to help somebody out, and things proceeded to get out of hand from there. You’d think I’d learn my lesson.

  That is, if I wanted to.

  When it comes to crime scenes, fires tend to be the worst. Fire destroys not only lives but also pretty much everything those lives held dear. And I could never get used to the stench of smoldering refuse, burned-up walls, and even the mold and mildew already rising from soaked upholstery or carpeting where the water firefighters had used to douse the flames collected.

  Thomas Rudd’s apartment building made for no exception there. The smell of scorched, charred wood hit me first when Artie Gelber led me through the front door, followed by the stink of the rancid water that had soaked the walls, pooled on the lobby carpeting, and dripped down from the first-floor ceiling. Based on the absence of the armada of police and rescue vehicles outside, I assumed Rudd’s body had been taken away, and that at least the preliminary stages of the investigation were likely wrapping up.

  Although I was right about that much, I cringed as soon as Artie led me inside Thomas Rudd’s apartment. The combination of bitter, acrid odors was overbearing. It always amazed me how powerful scents can cling to the air over ridiculously long periods, as if that air itself can’t vanquish the memories of what transpired.

  Artie led me to the remnants of the kitchen, ground zero for the original gas explosion and fire that had turned much of the building into an inferno. All that remained of the walls were peeled, blackened swaths of wallpaper. The major appliances I could still recognize were charred black. The refrigerator was missing its door and the explosion had shattered every bottle and jar stored inside it, leaving a mixture of glass and unrecognizable liquids. What I’d first taken for blood staining the walls in patches was actually some kind of preserve or jelly.

  “We were able to get a DNA match on the remains of the corpse and confirmed it was Thomas Rudd,” Artie reported. “Now, tell me what you see, Detective.”

  Artie handed me a pair of plastic evidence gloves I promptly squeezed over my hands.

  “Look around and tell me what’s amiss.”

  “I’m not a detective,” I told him instead, “which explains why I’m not seeing anything.”

  “Really? This coming from a woman who’s solved almost as many crimes as she’s made up.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  Artie pointed to his eyes, sign language for “Get on with it.” I gazed about the stench-riddled refuse, the waterlogged floor still marred with puddles, and the walls shredded or burned through to expose the building’s hidden hodgepodge of wiring, which looked as if Thomas Edison may have installed it himself. The floor was an obstacle of yet-to-be-collected evidence that was innocuous at first glance.

  On second glance, something drew my eye to what looked like the wooden arm of a chair that likely went with the room’s small kitchen table, the laminated top of which seemed to have melted in the heat of the fire. The finish on the object I took to be a chair arm wasn’t in great shape, either, but something caught my attention down where someone might lay their hand, if I had my bearings right.

  “The discoloration in the wood isn’t consistent,” I said, tracing a fingernail along the length of the chair arm through the plastic glove Artie Gelber had provided.

  “Okay.” Artie nodded as if he had noticed the same thing and was waiting for me to explain further.

  “Why are you asking me, if you’ve already formed your own opinion?”

  “Because I want to see if another professional sees it the same way I do.”

  “Now I’m a pro?”

  “You’ve solved more murders than any detective on my squad, Jessica. Now, how would you explain this apparent discoloration?”

  I turned my attention back to the charred wood. “Well, Thomas Rudd’s arms being tied to the chair arms would explain it. But you’d already figured that out before you called me back here.”

  “I needed a second pair of eyes. And what does that second pair of eyes think?”

  “This wasn’t an accident, Artie. Thomas Rudd was murdered.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Until that moment, those words were the last thing I ever expected to say. I ran the fingers contained in that plastic glove about the contours of the chair arm.

  “The scoring pattern’s entirely different on the side here that looks like the top of the arm,” I told Artie. “Picture a man’s arm tied to it. The initial blast would have burned the exposed underside, but not the top side covered by Rudd’s arm in anywhere near the same pattern. But you already knew that, right?”

  “Like I said—”

  “I know what you said. But even though we’re friends, since when do NYPD homicide detectives consult with mystery authors?”

  “Author, singular, Jessica,” Artie corrected.

  “Any way of determining whether Rudd was already dead when the explosion happened?”

 
“You think someone rigged the gas explosion to cover up the fact they’d murdered him.”

  “I think someone wanted to make it look like an accident.”

  “Well,” Artie said, “once the autopsy results reveal the condition of the lungs, we’ll know a lot more than we do now on that subject. Pity the poor fools for not realizing America’s favorite mystery writer would end up on the case.”

  “I’m far from that and I’m just helping out a friend here.”

  That comment got Artie’s attention. “Me or the victim?”

  “Could I get away with saying both?”

  Artie looked at me as if I’d finally figured out the substance of something. “That’s why you’re here, Jessica. If this was in fact murder, do you have any idea why someone would want to kill a failed writer?”

  “He wasn’t always a failed writer, Artie,” I reminded him, persisting with the need to defend Thomas Rudd for reasons I didn’t understand. “But he was, by all accounts, having serious financial problems.”

  “In my experience, financial problems are always serious.”

  I decided to come clean, didn’t see that I had much choice or reason, really, not to. “Rudd thought our publisher was stealing from him. He’d recently confronted Lane Barfield in his office about that.”

  Artie was jotting in his endless memo pad again. “Barfield’s office would be over on Fifth Avenue?”

  “Yes. And there’s something else,” I added, trying to choose my next words carefully. “I was wondering if any of the crime scene technicians found a flash drive.”

  “Flash drive? I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen the full inventory yet and something like that could easily have escaped being recovered and logged. Any idea what this flash drive may have contained, or where it came from?”

  “It wasn’t Rudd’s property. Let’s say he ‘borrowed’ it from Lane Barfield.”

  “Care to tell me what makes this flash drive so important?” Artie asked, sounding just like Mort Metzger.