Rum and Razors (13 page)

“Yes. Please tell Detective Calid that Jessica Fletcher called.”

“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher. I heard you were a guest on the island. My daughter reads your books. She—please hold for Detective Calid.”

Calid, who must have been sitting next to the officer, came on the line. “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.

“Hello, Detective. Sorry to bother you. I’m actually calling for two reasons. First, to satisfy my curiosity about how the case is coming along. Second, I understand Mrs. Marschalk is with you.”

“To answer your first question, Mrs. Fletcher, things are progressing nicely with the case, thank you.” His voice was pleasant, but I detected a hint of annoyance. I wouldn’t be deterred by that. After all, I’d been the one to discover the body. That gave me certain rights, I felt, the least of which was the freedom to ask a few questions about the status of the investigation.

“As for your second question,” he said, “Mrs. Marschalk left our offices fifteen minutes ago. She’s en route to Lover’s Lagoon as we speak.”

I was relieved. I had visions of the police finding a bloody straight razor in Laurie’s purse, and wringing a confession from her that she killed Walter not only because he wouldn’t agree to a divorce, but also because he’d been a busy philanderer. I suppose that’s the problem with being a writer of fiction, especially on the subject of murder. I never have any problem conjuring scenarios.

“She was escorted home by one of our officers,” Calid said.

“Was she with you for further questioning?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Perhaps you’d best ask her about that, Mrs. Fletcher. I will tell you that she will be under twenty-four hour protection for the duration of the investigation.”

“You feel she’s in danger?” I asked.

“Simply precaution. I was sorry to hear that you’ll be leaving us.”

“I am?” “Mrs. Marschalk said that because she’s closing Lover’s Lagoon, you’d be going home.”

“That’s news to me,” I said. “I haven’t been told this, but I’ll ask her about that, too.”

“Have
you
received any death threats, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Heavens, no. Why would anyone want to kill me?”

“The same question I had about the Marschalks.”

“Marschalks? Both of them?”

“Yes.”

“I take it you know about the threatening note Walter received.”

“Yes. We found it in his possessions. Frankly, I’m surprised that you knew about it but failed to mention it when we talked.”

“It slipped my mind. Mrs. Marschalk has also received one?”

“The reason for providing security for her.”

“A prudent decision.”

“I thought so.”

“Well, thank you for your time,” I said. “I’m sure you’re very busy.”

“Nothing unusual. You know, Mrs. Fletcher, going home might be a prudent decision on your part.”

“Am I in danger?”

“Of course not. But with the inn closed, it will be lonely for you there.”

“I’ll give it serious consideration,” I said. “Again, thank you.”

“My pleasure. And rest assured that should we come up with Mr. Marschalk’s murderer, you’ll be among the first to know.” He laughed. “Enjoy your evening.” The sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable, but I forgave him. The last thing he needed was a nosy writer of murder mysteries calling for answers he didn’t have.

I dialed Laurie’s private office number at the main house and was taken aback when Walter answered—on the answering machine:
“Hello. Sorry Laurie and 1 can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave a brief message following the tone, we’ll be happy to return your call.”

I’d suggest to Laurie that she change the message on the answering machine (had she forgotten to, or did Walter’s recorded voice provide comfort?). But I’d wait to tell her in person. The beep sounded and I spoke, albeit uncomfortably. I detest answering machines. “Laurie, it’s Jessica. Just calling to see how you were and to suggest we have—” I sensed someone watching me, turned, and saw Thomas standing in the doorway, my drink on a tray. “Just a moment,” I said to him, my hand over the mouthpiece. A dial tone pierced my ear. The machine had cut me off. Undoubtedly one of those voice-activated models. Keep talking or your time is up.

I took the drink from Thomas, went to the terrace, sat in a chair, and enjoyed the cold, sweet coconut-flavored liquid in my throat and mouth. I was glad I hadn’t been able to complete my message on the machine. I didn’t have dinner plans with Laurie, which suited me. I’d decided while talking to Detective Calid that I would take Mark Dobson up on his standing invitation to join the travel writers at Diamond Reef. Somehow, I felt the answers to some of my questions about Walter—and perhaps about his murder—might come from that group.

I dialed the inn’s desk. “This is Mrs. Fletcher in Number Ten. Please leave a message for Mrs. Marschalk that I’ll be having dinner this evening with friends who arrived unexpectedly on St. Thomas. I’ll call her this evening when I return.”

I pulled Mark Dobson’s card from my purse and called him. “Sorry to hear about your friend’s untimely demise,” he said, not sounding especially sorry. I’d give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Thank you,” I said.

“I understand the inn is closing tomorrow. Will you be leaving along with the other guests?”

Everyone seemed to know Lover’s Lagoon Inn was closing except me. But I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. “I’m not sure what my plans are at this time,” I said. “But I think it might be my final opportunity to take you up on your very generous dinner invitation.”

“We’d be honored to have you grace our dining room with your presence.” He was smooth. I’d give him that. And crass. He added, “I don’t imagine the food’s so gourmet these days over there.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said. “Will the travel writers be having dinner together tonight?”

“Absolutely. Tonight is a theme dinner. Reggae night.”

Exactly what I wasn’t in the mood for. But I’d make a go of it. I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to meet with people who had known Walter a lot better than I thought I had.

“Sounds nice,” I said. “What time?”

“Cocktails at seven on the patio. Dinner at eight.” I checked my watch. Five-thirty. “We all look forward to having you as our guest this evening, Jessica.”

I hung up, settled on the terrace, and indulged in the orderly, pleasant task of making notes. As I wrote, my thoughts became clearer and more focused, as usually happens.

Laurie also receives death threat.

 

I wondered what form it had taken. A written note? Threatening phone call? A crudely drawn symbol representing death?

I allowed my thoughts to roam freely. Laurie receiving a threat was, of course, ominous and cause for concern. On the other hand—and I’m capable of brutal honesty when discussing things with myself—I had to admit (only to me, of course) that my overactive writer’s imagination that sprung to life when Laurie was taken to police headquarters was more than fanciful fictitious plotting. Learning that she’d filed for divorce prior to Walter’s murder had caused me to wonder whether
she
might have been glad to see him dead. But if she, too, had been threatened, that scenario was unlikely.

 

Provided threat was legitimate.

Divorce. Who knew?

 

Had Laurie told anyone else that she was taking action to end her marriage to Walter? Did
their
partner in Lover’s Lagoon Inn, Chris Webb, know? Bobby Jensen? The inn’s staff?

 

Jennifer Fletcher?

 

If Walter knew that his wife was instituting divorce proceedings—and
if
my assumption that the affair between Jennifer and Walter had been ongoing up until the time of his death was correct, he might have told his paramour about this complication in his life. Or lessening of complications, depending upon how he viewed it.

 

Money.

 

I’d been thinking all along that if Walter had balked at granting Laurie a divorce, that might have been motive for her to want him dead (forgive me, Laurie, for even thinking such a thing.) In fact, I’d focused almost exclusively on someone having a personal grudge against him.

But money has always ranked high on the motive-for-murder list, certainly as high as such staples as jealousy and envy, pride, anger, and blackmail. Greed twists people every day into irrational states. And what is more irrational than murder?

I’d observed that Walter and Chris Webb did not have what might be termed a copacetic business partnership. There was tension there. And I was aware that money pressures on Walter and Laurie were considerable. Had they bribed Bobby Jensen in order to buy Lover’s Lagoon Inn? If so, had Jensen become dissatisfied with the financial arrangement and pushed for a bigger payoff? Possible.

 

Jealousy?

 

Jennifer didn’t strike me as the sort of woman who would put undue pressure on a married man to leave his wife. But I hardly knew her. If Walter had promised to leave Laurie for Jennifer, but reneged on the promise,
it
could result in a very angry young woman. Angry enough to kill? Not likely. But it wouldn’t be the first time. And how ironic if Walter had decided to stay with Laurie, not knowing
she
was about to end the marriage, but Jennifer didn’t know?

So many suppositions, questions, what-ifs, and whys.

A couple sauntered in the direction of the lagoon. I assumed they were the new guests, the Simses, that Thomas had mentioned. The man was considerably older than the woman; at least twenty years in my judgment. He struck me as the sort of man who didn’t like growing older. Thinning gray hair had been combed up from just above his right ear and up over his bald pate. He walked with a swagger, as though it took effort to keep his stomach sucked in. She was trim, deeply tanned, and had silver-blond hair. She wore a tiny white bikini. He was dressed in red bathing trunks and a flowered shirt. A point-and-shoot camera on a strap dangled from his neck.

Were they aware that a murder had taken place on the now pristine white sand of the lagoon? Maybe that was why they were going down there, to see the murder scene, photograph it, add it to their St. Thomas vacation photo album.

They passed from my view, then reemerged in the water where they embraced and kissed. Don’t be so cynical, Jess, I told myself as I went inside to dress for dinner. Walter Marschalk’s murder wasn’t consuming everyone’s hearts and minds.

I washed my face and applied makeup carefully, something I hadn’t done since arriving at the inn. I put on a gold, raw silk pantsuit to which I’d treated myself on a winter shopping excursion to Bangor in anticipation of trading in Maine’s long, bone-chilling winter for balmy, Caribbean evenings sipping piña coladas beneath the palms. I studied myself in the full-length mirror. I like the way I looked in the pantsuit. Its cut was flattering, and the heat of the day had naturally shaped my hair in a pleasing way that I never could have achieved myself.

Had Walter looked in the mirror yesterday morning and felt good about the way he looked?

Our fragile, tenuous hold on life was very much on my mind as I left the villa and headed for Diamond Reef.

T
he first familiar face I spotted on the patio at Diamond Reef was Jennifer Fletcher. She wore a striking white dress that hugged her thighs, and a narrow-brimmed white straw hat. Her tan had deepened over the past few hours to the shade of coffee dark, no sugar. Maybe it was an illusion brought about by the stark contrast of copper skin against white clothing. Or the application of one of those fake tan creams. Whatever the reason, she was stunning, a perfect model for a Caribbean travel ad.

She was flanked by two men—an older man who looked to me like a stand-in for Detective Colombo of TV fame, and a much younger man with hair bleached blond by the sun, aided and abetted perhaps by a drugstore concoction. Each held an exotic tropical drink in a tall glass topped with fruit and a tiny umbrella. Did the drinks glow in the dark? I wondered. They were enjoying a good laugh when Jennifer spotted me and headed my way.

“You look lovely,” I said.

“So do you,” she replied. “I’m so glad you’ll be having dinner with us. Everyone is excited.” She leaned closer and whispered over the rolling sound of a steel drum band, “Mark Dobson called each of us in our rooms to tell us you’d be joining us.”

“How embarrassing,” I said.

She whispered again. “By the way, Jessica, my friend, Fred, has resurfaced. He called me a little while ago.”

“Where was he?”

“He wouldn’t tell me, but it was long-distance. I know that.”

I was about to ask another question about Fred Capehart’s whereabouts when the resort’s general manager, Mark Dobson, joined us. “Hello, Jessica,” he said, extending his hand. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to be your host this evening. A drink? We’re all enjoying a Lover’s Lagoon. It’s made with dark and light rums, coconut milk, pineapple, and kahlua.” He smiled broadly.

I’d already learned from Thomas what was in a Lover’s Lagoon cocktail. My prior knowledge aside, the lack of good taste in offering me a Lover’s Lagoon cocktail on the heels of Walter’s brutal murder was enough reason to turn down his offer. I expected him to add “blood” to the list of ingredients. “White wine would be fine,” I said.

“White wine it is.” He waved for a half-naked waitress to take my order, grasped my elbow with one hand, and with his other hand steadying his crutch led me in the direction of a knot of people I assumed were the travel writers.

“Can I have everyone’s attention please,” he announced. “Allow me to introduce Diamond Reef’s very special guest for dinner this evening, the world’s most renowned writer of murder mysteries, Jessica Fletcher.”