So the next instance that the rope’s swing brought us over the deck, I cried out, “Now! Now!”
Maddie and I let go in the same motion, falling a total of less than ten feet and just catching the lip of the bow atop the very edge of the decking. We went down hard, landing in a jumble of limbs that twisted us into each other. The rubble continued to plummet, the side walls of the Portland Head Lighthouse giving way now as I pulled Maddie to her feet and dragged her across the freighter’s deck back outside into the storm.
The deluge instantly soaked us to the bone, one flash of lightning after another revealing the collapse of what remained of the lighthouse, the massive lens and lamp bulb exploding on impact and sending a shower of sparks hurtling into the air in rhythm with the thunder that crackled overhead. I glimpsed Mort, his deputies, and the MSP officers rushing our way through the storm. I caught him shaking his head when his gaze locked on me waving to him from the freighter’s deck.
He came all the way around to the aft side, shaking his head again as he looked up at me. “And I thought you hated boats, Jess.”
“I do now,” I told him, glancing again at the rubble that had entombed Lisa Joy Reavis.
Chapter Twenty-seven
You’re not going to like this, Jessica,” Mort said, joining Seth and me at our usual table at Mara’s Luncheonette the next day. “I just heard from the MSP. They haven’t been able to find Jen Sweeney’s body.”
“You mean Lisa Joy Reavis’s.”
“Same body, last time I checked. Either way, she’s gone.”
“She couldn’t have survived that, Mort. I watched her get buried alive.”
“Well, she must’ve dug herself out, because they haven’t found a single trace of her besides some torn swatches of clothing.”
“You plan on ordering pie?” Seth prodded when our server came back to the table.
“Just coffee, please,” Mort said.
“Good—more for me,” Seth said, apparently prepared to give up on his diet. “I’ll have my usual. Same for the lady here.”
“What happened to your diet?” I asked him.
“If the past week has taught me anything, it’s that life is too short to deny yourself the pleasure of pie, especially strawberry-rhubarb.”
Mort leaned back, after our server took her leave. “Well, that was a strange one even for you, Mrs. F. Murders twenty-five years in the making.”
“Hmmmmmm . . .”
“What?”
“‘Murder in the Making’—can I steal that for a title?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“I’ll pass, if you don’t mind, Mort. Came too close to that happening, literally, yesterday.”
“You saved that woman’s life,” he told me. “I hope she’s thankful enough to make the most of the years now.”
“Only time will tell. If nothing else, she’s going to have to relocate.”
Seth shook his head. “Well, I can’t imagine one of my kids killing another one, ayuh.”
“That’s because you have no kids, Doc,” Mort noted.
“No,” Seth said, patting my arm, “I have Jessica here instead.”
I looked toward Mort. “He bandaged up all the scrapes and cuts last night left me with.”
“Two required stitches. That’s why I’m celebrating with pie. I still have the touch. I’ll bet they don’t even leave a scar.”
Mort looked toward me. “Maybe somebody stitched up Jen Sweeney, too. On the other hand, there’s still plenty more rubble to sort through. Jen Sweeney’s body might turn up yet. Or maybe it got washed out to sea, something like that.”
“Maybe,” I echoed.
“But you don’t think so.”
“She’s a survivor, Mort. And if she lived, more murders will follow wherever she goes.”
“I’d better put a man on your room at Hill House,” he said. “You know, just in case she decides to pay you a visit.”
“Save the overtime,” I told him. “I’ve got Joe and Nails.”
“They’re still around?”
“I’m starting to wonder if they’re ever going to leave.”
“In that case,” Mort said, letting himself smile, “I hope Jen Sweeney shows up.”
“You know, Mort, you just gave me an idea.”
* * *
* * *
Two days later, Seth drove me to the New Hampshire State Prison for Men because I didn’t want Mort to know I was making the trip.
“Does this mean I’m sworn to secrecy?” he asked me when we got there.
I nodded. “We can take a blood oath later,” I said, holding up my hand.
Seth cringed. “As a licensed physician, I can tell you that’s not a safe practice.”
The door to his old Volvo opened with a lingering creak, and I climbed out. “You don’t have to come inside with me, Seth.”
“That’s good, because I wasn’t planning on it.”
* * *
* * *
Vic Genaway sat across from me at the same table as on my other two visits to see him.
“Thank you for all those books you sent down to the library, Fletch. Not just yours, but all those others.”
“Overflow from the Cabot Cove Library. I’ll make sure to send more down here regularly. And thank you, too, by the way, for Joe and Nails.”
“Least I can do for a friend. You got the woman who killed my Ginny.” He shook his head, looking suddenly vulnerable. “Her own sister. You ever hear of such a thing?”
“All too often, unfortunately.”
“Yeah? Well, not in my world. We may not be angels, but at least we don’t eat our own. Anyway, if nothing else comes out of this, at least I got to meet you,” Genaway said. “That almost makes it worth it—not losing Ginny for good, but everything else.”
“It’s not finished yet, Vic.”
“Come again?”
“They still haven’t found Jen Sweeney’s body.”
“You mean Lisa Joy Reavis’s body,” he corrected me.
“I do, yes. I think she got away. I think she’s still out there, and it’ll be time for her to murder again before you know it. And I don’t think the police have any chance of finding her.”
“Yeah?”
“I was thinking you might know a few people who are better at such things, the kind of people she’d go to to buy a new identity for herself.”
“I just might, Fletch.” He looked down at the steel table, then back at me. “You’ll come to see me again, right?”
“I’ll deliver the next batch of books in person.”
“I’d like that. New books aren’t in the prison budget, but thanks to you, the library shelves are overflowing. You made me a star in here among all these cons and killers.”
“There’s still another killer out there who needs to be brought to justice.”
“Yeah,” Vic Genaway said, his expression chiseled in cold stone now. “I was thinking the same thing.”
* * *
* * *
My landline rang five weeks later while I was doing edits on my latest book.
“Hey, Fletch.”
“Hello, Mr. Genaway. What can I do for you?”
“It’s what I can do for you. Since you’re a writer, I’m sure you have a pen handy, so get ready to write down the address where you can find Lisa Joy Reavis.”
* * *
* * *
“Portland?” Mort quizzed, after I’d relayed the information to him.
“As in Oregon, not Maine.”
“I’ll make a few calls, Mrs. F., and bring the FBI in, too. You got this from Vic Genaway?”
“Yes, I did. And by the way, don’t call me ‘Mrs. F.’ anymore. I’ve warmed up to a new nickname.”
“What’s that?”
“Fletch, Mort.”
* * *
* * *
I placed another call as soon as I’d hung up with Mort.
“That you, Mrs. Fletcher?” Amos Tupper’s voice greeted me.
“See, you really still are a great detective, Amos.”
“Nah, it’s just that nobody else calls me, especially from the good old two-oh-seven area code.”
“I’ve got some news,” I told him. “That case we solved together twenty-five years ago, the murder of Walter Reavis, has finally come full circle.”
“Really? You got the latest killer you were looking for?” he asked in a way that made me wonder whether he recalled the details.
“I did,” I said, and proceeded to lay them all out for him, the former Appleton detective and Cabot Cove sheriff hanging on my every word.
“Wow,” Amos said when I’d finished, “that’s really something, isn’t it? I appreciate you letting me know, Mrs. Fletcher. Makes me feel like we’re still a team, putting the bad guys away. I miss those days. I miss them real bad.”
“You need to come for a visit, Amos. You can stay with me. I could use the company.”
“Really? I’d love to.” His voice sank just slightly. “Though it might be best for me to stay at Hill House so people don’t get to talking about us. We don’t want that, do we?”
“Let them talk,” I told him. “‘Rumor is a pipe blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures, and of so easy and so plain a stop that the blunt monster with uncounted heads, the still-discordant wavering multitude, can play upon it.’”
“Hey, that’s Shakespeare, isn’t it?”
“I’m impressed,” I told him.
“I told you I’ve been reading him, didn’t I? I remember his quote that ‘Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.’”
“Oh my . . .”
“What is it?”
“The Valiant was the name of the freighter that crashed through the Portland Head Lighthouse.”
“Small world, isn’t it, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“It is, indeed, Amos. It is, indeed.”
About the Authors
Jessica Fletcher is a bestselling mystery writer who has a knack for stumbling upon real-life mysteries in her various travels. Jon Land, author of more than fifty books, coauthors this bestselling series.
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Murder, She Wrote--A Time for Murder Page 25