Rum and Razors (10 page)

Somehow, it came out as more of an order than a request. I said, “I’ll be here for as long as Mrs. Marschalk needs me.”

“Fine. In the meantime, try to relax and enjoy our island. It’s a shame this incident intrudes upon your vacation. If I can be of any service, please don’t hesitate to call upon me.” He dropped his card on a small table next to the door and left, his assistant close behind.

I
’d been strangely calm during my questioning by Detective Calid and his young associate. But now that they were gone, I suffered a case of nerves. My hand trembled as I poured a glass of bottled water from the villa’s mini-bar, and my heart’s tempo increased to a spirited march beat. I went to the terrace, leaned on the railing, and looked down on Lover’s Lagoon, where policeman raked and sifted sand through screening held taut by a wooden frame.

It was real. It had happened. Walter Marschalk had been murdered, his throat slit, his dream of owning a Caribbean inn pilfered from him with one swift movement of a sharp instrument. The manner in which he’d been killed made it all the more horrific. What fiend would do such a thing to another human being? Too many people was the depressing answer I gave to my rhetorical question.

I was about to go inside to change into something fresh when Thomas appeared. “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.

“Good morning,” I said. Strange how we automatically say “good morning” no matter what mayhem goes on about us.

“Might I get you something for breakfast?” he asked.

“Thank you, no. I—well, I suppose I should eat something. The usual? Croissant and coffee?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, and could I please have the newspapers?” The inn had stateside papers flown in each day. You didn’t always get them the day they were published, but it was nice to have the news even twenty-four hours late.

“Of course,” he said in his sweet way.

I’d changed by the time he returned, pulling white slacks, scoop-neck red cotton shirt, and sandals from the closet without much thought or conviction. Wardrobe had been rendered irrelevant by the grisly event of the previous evening. Thomas set the table on the terrace. I waited for him to mention Walter’s death. That he didn’t was no surprise. Thomas was a man who knew his place, as it were. His purpose was to serve, not to raise an unpleasant issue. So I raised it. “Terrible what happened last night to Mr. Marschalk,” I said.

He replied without turning from his task, “I would certainly agree with that, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Do you—do you have any ideas who might have done it?” I asked.

“Me?” His smile was small. “Oh, no, ma’am. I would have no idea about that. That’s what I told the police.”

“Did they question you last night?”

“First thing this morning when I came on duty. Five o’clock.”

“Is that the first you’d heard about it?” I asked.

His smile was now gone. Replacing it was a furrowed brow and lips pursed tightly together. He did not respond.

“Thank you,” I said when he’d finished setting up breakfast.

“Yes, ma’am.” He left quickly.

I took a few halfhearted nibbles of the croissant, sipped my coffee, and focused on what had happened, and what might be in store. It occurred to me that the wisest thing I could do was leave St. Thomas. But I’d meant what I’d told Detective Calid. I would be available to help Laurie in any way I could, and until she no longer needed me. Packing up would be to abandon a dear friend in dire need. But the temptation was there. The vacation was over, no matter how many days I stayed on what had been an idyllic Caribbean island. Nothing idyllic about it anymore. Murder tends to do that to otherwise pleasant places.

It was too soon for any mention of Walter’s death in the papers. But I was curious to see if the local press had followed up on the investigation into Walter’s ownership of Lover’s Lagoon Inn. It hadn’t. Of course, the local papers were weeklies. It would take time for them to develop the story and to publish it. At least Laurie wouldn’t have to deal with that this day.

I’d just about finished going through the newspapers when the phone rang. It was Laurie. “Holding up?” I asked.

“What’s the alternative? Every time I’m about to give in, I think of what Walter would say. He wouldn’t like it, so I don’t.”

“I understand. I’m showered, dressed, and have had breakfast. What can I do?”

“Nothing at the moment, but I would enjoy lunch together. By then most of the guests will have checked out. They’re already starting to leave. Some are asking for refunds. I suppose I can’t blame them. We don’t promise murders in our brochure. Just relaxation in the sun and gourmet meals. By lunch I’ll need a solid shoulder and clear head to lean on. How about my office? I couldn’t bear the dining room. Enough of the ‘I’m so sorrys’ already.”

“Wherever you say. Noon?”

“Noon.” She gave forth a bitter laugh. “Here you are asking what you can do for me. You’re a guest. What can we do for you?”

“Make me useful. I’ll be in the villa all morning. Call if you need me. Otherwise I’ll stay out of your way.”

I brought a pad of paper and a pen to the terrace and started making notes. I’m an inveterate list maker. I can’t function without lists. I suppose I sometimes go overboard, creating lists of lists, much to the amusement of certain friends back in Cabot Cove. The psychologists claim that those who need lists have an untidy mind, and use lists to keep the mental clutter in-check. If they’re right, so be it. All I know is that making lists provides me with a certain comfort level, which is all that matters.

I jotted down in my own brand of shorthand everything that had happened leading up to my discovery of Walter’s body:

 

I started a second list, this one headed “To Do.”

 

It occurred to me as I wrote that I was injecting myself into the mystery surrounding Walter’s murder as an unofficial investigator. It’s happened too many times in the past to come as a surprise. Maybe it’s genes. Maybe it’s the result of having plotted and written too many murder mystery novels during my career. Maybe it’s because a close friend had been brutally slain, and I wouldn’t rest until I knew the how and why of it. My reasons were as obscure as my compulsion was strong.

Before I knew it, the morning was about to become afternoon and I was minutes away from lunch with Laurie. I literally had one foot out the door when the phone rang. I hurried back inside and answered it. “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher? Jessica?”

“Yes, this is Jessica Fletcher.”

“Hi. This is Jennifer Fletcher. We met last night at the Diamond Reef.”

“Of course,” I said. “Hard to forget someone with your own name.” I was glad she’d called. It’s always satisfying to be able to cross an item off a “To Do” list.

“I just heard what happened last night, Mrs. Fletcher. Do you have a minute?”

I didn’t but said, “Yes.”

“Actually, I need more than a minute. Could we possibly get together later today. This afternoon?”

“Yes, I think we could do that. Four o’clock?”

“I’m supposed to be attending a conference on tourism, but considering the circumstances—”

“Why don’t you come to my room at Lover’s Lagoon. I’m in Villa Number Ten.”

“No,” she said. “I mean, I’d rather not come to—would you please come to my room at Diamond Reef? I’m in twelve-oh-two.”

“I’ll be there at four.”

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Fletcher. I have to go.” She was whispering now, and I heard a male voice in the background. She abruptly hung up.

I assumed the male voice belonged to Mr. Pleasant, Fred Capehart. I hoped he wouldn’t be with her at four. Then again, maybe I’d learn more from him than from her. No sense pondering it now. I’d find out when I got there.

I left my room and headed for the main building, which housed both Laurie and Walter’s offices. The door to Laurie’s office was closed. I knocked. No one answered. I knocked again. “Laurie? It’s Jessica.”

Still no response.

I walked into the small lobby where Laurie was behind the desk. Couples milled about. I saw what she’d meant. They were checking out, and some of them were vocal and loud. “I don’t want a check sent to me,” a man said. “I want my refund now.” A woman, whose leathery skin attested to a sunbathing addiction—her face looked like a purse—said loudly, “To allow someone to have his throat slit within yards of our room is disgraceful.” Her husband added, “You’ll hear from our attorney.”

Laurie glanced at me and forced a weak smile. My heart went out to her. Surely, these people knew it had been her husband who’d been murdered. The insensitivity of some people never ceases to amaze, and disgust me. “A few minutes,” Laurie mouthed to me.

“Take your time,” I said, wandering from the lobby and down a narrow corridor off which Walter’s office opened. A bronze plaque with his name testified that he’d once been vibrant—and alive.

As I approached, a tall, young black man in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie was knocking at the office door. He held an envelope in one hand. He sensed my presence and turned. “May I help you with something?” I asked.

“Not unless you’re related to this guy.” He shoved a Polaroid photo of Walter at me. “His name is Walter Marschalk.”

“No, I’m not related to him. But I am a close friend.”

“I have papers to serve on him. I’m a process server. Do you know where he is?”

What now? I wondered. Poor Walter. Even death didn’t guarantee him peace. Who could be suing him? The Diamond Reef? I knew one thing. I was going to do my best to get ahold of those papers before Laurie did. That’s all she needed at this moment. I wasn’t sure what the laws for serving people were in St. Thomas, but no one would arrest me for a momentary indiscretion. Would they?

“Look,” I said, “I’ll make sure Mr. Marschalk gets this.” I pointed to the envelope the young man held firmly in a clenched hand. “As I told you, I’m a very close friend. We’re practically related.” I wished I’d stretched the truth in the first place and claimed that we were.

I expected to have to press the argument, but I didn’t. He simply said, “All right,” and handed the envelope to me. “Sign there,” he said. I suppose he didn’t get paid until he’d delivered the papers and had a signature to prove it. I signed at the X. He walked away.

I examined the envelope but its contents were securely sealed inside. I was about to hold it up to the light when Laurie came up behind. “Jessica, sorry for the delay.” I quickly shoved the envelope into my straw bag, turned, and gave her a hug. “What a mess,” she said.

“I saw,” I said. “Some people are so rude.”

“I know. In a way I’m glad to see them go. I got tired of answering questions. Let them have their damn money back.”

“I know how you feel.”

“Well, let’s have that lunch I promised.” She led me back through the lobby and to her office. “My chef couldn’t get out of bed this morning,” she said over her shoulder. “Not that there’s anyone left to cook for except me, and you. That old saying, ‘Good help is hard to find,’ is the national anthem in the Caribbean. Doesn’t matter. I took care of things in the kitchen.”

She unlocked her office door, and we went in. “Sit down, Jess. I’ll be just a minute.” She pointed to a red wooden straight-back chair next to her desk, and left.

Her office was small but tastefully decorated. Framed photographs and drawings of food rivaled rows of cookbooks for wall space. Two huge color photos dominated the wall behind her desk. One was of several bulbous, ripe tomatoes and brilliant green scallions. The other featured an immense, red freshly cooked lobster sitting in a vivid yellow pool of drawn butter. I wished I’d finished my croissant.

She returned. “Sorry. Lunch will be up in a minute.” She sat behind her desk, removed the baseball cap she wore, and directed a stream of air at a strand of hair that had fallen over her forehead.

“You amaze me,” I said. “You just seem to keep going, like that battery bunny on TV.”