Rum and Razors (20 page)

It took him a few minutes to find the file. When he had, he led me back to his office where we took our respective chairs again. I opened the file folder on my lap. After flipping through a few pages, I asked, “May I take this with me overnight?”

“No.”

“Then you won’t mind if I sit here and go through it? You don’t have to stay with me. I promise I won’t steal any of the papers.”

“If I thought you were capable of that, Mrs. Fletcher, you wouldn’t be sitting here in the first place. By the way, someone’s throat was slit in your last novel.”

I looked up at him. “You read it?”

“Yes. Damn good, up to your usual level of performance. What has Detective Calid told you about the Marschalk murder?”

“Very little, except that he is convinced Jacob Austin is the murderer, and that he expects a confession soon. I doubt if he’ll get it. Jacob has an alibi that—” I was instantly sorry I’d begun to mention it. Woodhouse immediately jumped on it.

“What’s his alibi?” he asked.

“I think I’ve spoken out of turn,” I said, making a show of going back to reading the papers on my lap.

“But you want
me
to speak out of turn, don’t you? What’s his alibi?”

“He was in touch with a doctor the night Walter was murdered. He had a sick child, and placed a call to the doctor from his home at approximately the time the murder took place.”

“Who’s the doctor?”

I couldn’t back out now, so I gave him the name of Dr. Silber, which Woodhouse dutifully noted on a yellow pad. “I know Doc Silber,” he said. “Has the alibi been checked out by Calid?”

“Probably not. But I think Jacob’s public defender, Luther Jackson, was going to follow it up. Do you know him?”

“Jackson? Sure I know him. Good attorney, too good for the public defender’s office.”

“You look somewhat alike,” I said.

“Jackson and me? Why, because we’re both too damn fat?”

“Because—oh, just because you do. Sure I can’t take this file with me? I promise to guard it with my life, and have it back to you first thing in the morning.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher. It doesn’t leave this office.”

I quietly resumed my reading. Woodhouse took a few phone calls as I did, and turned to a story he was writing on the computer next to his desk.

I found nothing as I went through the file that had significance regarding Walter’s murder.

Until I came across a copy of a letter that had been written to Caleb Mesreau from a law firm in Miami—the law firm of Karczmit and Bonner. The date on the letter was less than a week before Mesreau had been found floating in the bay, his throat slashed, his body tied to an empty oil drum.

In the letter, the attorneys suggested that a fair and equitable price could be arrived at for the purchase of Mesreau’s plot of land. They went on to say that the client they represented, who wished to purchase the land, would remain nameless until a deal had been finalized.

Karczmit and Bonner.
The law firm representing Laurie Marschalk in her divorce action against Walter.

Woodhouse must have sensed I’d come across something of interest because he asked.

I turned to the next page and shook my head. “No, nothing interesting.”

I stayed in Adrian Woodhouse’s office for almost another hour. I didn’t care whether he was annoyed at my presence or not, although he didn’t indicate that he was. He went about his work, leaving the office on occasion, which, I must admit, tempted me to stick in my purse the letter from the Miami law firm. But I didn’t succumb. Finally, when I’d gone through every page in the file and had made notes on a small pad, I handed the file back, thanked him, and said I had to be going.

“But I didn’t finish my interview with you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Another time? I’ll make myself available,” I said.

“How long will you be staying on St. Thomas?” he asked as he walked me to the front door.

“Another week.”

“By the way, I need a photo of you. For the story.”

“I don’t travel with photos of myself,” I said pleasantly. “After all, I came to St. Thomas strictly for a vacation.”

“And found yourself knee-deep in murder. I understand that isn’t unusual for you.”

“You’re absolutely right, Mr. Woodhouse. It happens with far too frequent regularity. I’ll look forward to reading what you write about me. Again, thank you for your courtesy.”

I felt him watching me as I went down the stairs and out to the street where I hailed a cab that had just dropped off another passenger. As we drove away, I looked back at the newspaper building and saw Woodhouse still standing in the doorway, filling the door frame actually, hands on hips, his face set in a bulldog expression that would have done J. Edgar Hoover proud.

Somehow, I knew I hadn’t seen the last of Mr. Adrian Woodhouse.

B
y the time I arrived back at the inn, a powerful wave of fatigue had swept over me, and I planned a fast nap before Seth’s six-thirty arrival.

But a flashing light on my answering machine indicated I had two messages. One would be Adrian Woodhouse requesting an interview. I pressed “PLAY,” heard Woodhouse’s voice asking for the interview, and then the voice of Cabot Cove’s sheriff, Morton Metzger, came from the tiny speaker: “Hello, Jessica. Mort Metzger here. Been trying to reach Seth at that resort, Diamond Reef, all day, but they keep tellin’ me he’s not there. ’Preciate a call when you get a moment.”

I returned the call immediately. After initial greetings, I suggested that Seth had probably been out all day sightseeing. “How are you?” I asked.

“Been better, Jess. Joe, my deputy, smashed up the patrol car he was drivin’. Hit a patch of ice, tore through a fence, damn near ran over Billy Cotton’s favorite horse, and came to a stop against a big boulder.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mort. Was Joe hurt?”

“Nah. But you should see that car. Going to take a heap of explaining down at the Town Council. Sure you don’t know where Seth is?”

“Yes, I’m sure. But I know where he’ll be at six-thirty.”

“Where?”

“Right here with me. We’re going to a dinner party hosted by Laurie Marschalk.”

“A dinner party? Hasn’t been but a few days since Walter got himself killed.”

“Yes, I know,” I said, “but don’t judge her harshly. She’s juggling a dozen problems at once, and is handling them quite well. Want me to give Seth a message?”

“Ayah. Tell him Mrs. Markey had the baby at the hospital. I drove her there myself. Husband’s out ’a town on business. Mother and son doin’ fine.”

“Seth will be delighted to hear that,” I said. I knew that Elaine Markey had been going through a difficult pregnancy, which added to my surprise that Seth had chosen to take a vacation. In all the years I’ve known him, he’s seldom left Cabot Cove when a patient was in need. Evidently, he felt Elaine was in good enough hands with a new obstetrician who’d moved to town a year ago, his faith justified by Mort’s news.

After Mort and I finished our conversation, I slipped into the Indonesian batik wrap that came with the room, poured myself a glass of pineapple juice from an icy pitcher placed in the room during my absence, and went to my favorite resting spot, the terrace. I stood at the edge and looked out at Lover’s Lagoon, expecting to see the police barge still there. It was gone. Had they found the weapon used to kill Walter? I hoped so, and made a mental note to call Detective Calid first thing in the morning to find out.

It was still brutally hot, and the sun was beating down on the terrace. I returned to the room and, for the first time, closed windows and doors and flipped on the air-conditioning. More comfortable now, I sat in a chair and attempted to get back into the book I’d started a half dozen times since arriving on the island. But my mind wandered again; I couldn’t focus on the words.

It was five o’clock. I sat at the desk, used my international calling card, and after some static and a delay, reached Buckley House, my publisher in New York. “Vaughan Buckley, please,” I said.

Vaughan’s secretary of many years, Rhea, a woman I’d grown to like very much, greeted me, asked how my vacation was going, and put me through to her boss.

“Jessica,” Vaughan said in his customary ebullient manner. “What are you doing calling your publisher? You’re on vacation.”

“Yes, I know, but I couldn’t help wondering what reactions have been to the manuscript I delivered before taking off for St. Thomas.”

“We’ve only had it for about a week,” he said.

“I know, and I suppose I’m growing impatient in my old age but—”

“But—I read the entire manuscript the night I got it. It’s wonderful. First-rate. Another winner from Jessica Fletcher.”

I sighed. No matter how many books I’d written, and no matter how successful they’d been, I’m always nervous about how people will respond to my latest effort. I suppose all writers feel that way. You pour your heart and soul into a manuscript, and you do it assuming you haven’t lost your touch. But you never rest easy until there is confirmation from those you trust, in this case a wonderful publisher, and an astute editorial staff that is always quick to respond, and honest in its responses.

“Enjoying St. Thomas?” Buckley asked.

“I think so, although I’ve been busier than I would have liked.”

“Nothing new there. I was thinking about you when I got the news about Walter Marschalk’s murder. I’ve been on the road at sales conferences since the middle of last week and only caught snippets of news about it.”

“I’m staying at their inn,” I said. “I was the one who discovered his body.”

“You what? Discovered his body?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re staying at Walter’s inn? What’s it called?”

“Lover’s Lagoon Inn.”

“Right. How are things there? How are
you
?”

“I’m fine. Things are chaotic, as to be expected. I had lunch with Laurie Marschalk today. She mentioned she’d tried to call you concerning royalties that might be due on Walter’s books.” There was silence.

“Vaughan?”

“Yes. Sorry. Mentioning Laurie Marschalk and her husband’s books brought back some unpleasant, diverting memories.”

It was my turn to be silent. As far as I was aware, each of Walter’s travel books had sold smashingly well for Buckley House. Unpleasant memories? I asked what he meant.

“Oh, I don’t know, Jess. Walter was an incredibly difficult human being. I know I shouldn’t be speaking this way about a dead author, but—”

I thought back to when Laurie had made a similar comment about not bad-mouthing the dead. I asked, “Was he that difficult?”

Vaughan chuckled. “In all my years publishing books, I’ve dealt with some of the most frustrating, self-centered, demanding, infuriating authors around. May I just say that Walter Marschalk tops the list.”

Another condemnation of my Cabot Cove friend, whom I’d always assumed was a pretty nice guy. The axiom that you can’t tell a book by its cover came to mind, appropriate to the moment but too much the pun to be said. “I thought his books were best-sellers,” I said.

“They were. They are. Walter had a way of describing a place like nobody else in the business. He could write about a monastery in Tibet, a saloon in Budapest, a Japanese geisha house, or a diner in Des Moines and, by God, you were there. His descriptive powers were without peer.”

“So? What difficulties did you have with him? Money? Royalties?”

“All the above, and more. I used to cringe when he called, or stopped by the office. It was as though Buckley House was in business just to serve him. That was the aura he gave off.” A soft laugh announced he’d decided to soften his condemnation of Walter Marschalk. “I suppose I’m being unduly harsh,” he said. “I had a couple of lunches with Walter that were relatively pleasant. I suppose my view is jaded by that scene I went through six months ago concerning his books.”

“Scene? With Walter?”

“As a matter of fact, no. It was with a young writer. You know something, Jess, it just occurred to me that she had your name. Fletcher. Let’s see. Her first name even began with J.”

“Jennifer Fletcher.”

“Good guess.”

“No guess involved. I’ve met Jennifer Fletcher. In fact, she’s staying next door to Walter and Laurie Marschalk’s inn. It’s a resort called Diamond Reef. She’s a travel writer attending a conference there.”

“Small world. Has she made the claim to you that she wrote Walter Marschalk’s last two books?”

“No. Wrote Walter’s books? Why would he need someone to ghost his books? You said he was a wonderful writer.”

“Let me put it a different way, Jess. Walter’s travel books were superb, and I
assume
the words in them came from him—his thoughts, his style, his mind. But according to this young woman—and by the way, Jess, she created quite a scene in my office, threatened to sue, demanded money, was going to the press, a nasty confrontation. At any rate, she claimed she had written Walter’s books, every word of them, using material he provided.”

“Do you think—?”

“Let me correct that,” he said. “She said she and another writer had ghosted his books.”

It just came out of my mouth. “Fred Capehart,” I said.

“I don’t believe this. What have you become, some sort of mystic?”

“Hardly. But Mr. Capehart is attending the conference, too. Evidently there’s a relationship between them. What was the thrust of Jennifer’s upset, Vaughan? That she and Capehart had written Walter’s books but were never paid?”

“Exactly. She claims they had a verbal financial arrangement with him, but that he reneged.”

“If that was true, it could make someone pretty mad. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Sure.”

“Mad enough to kill? Was she that angry?”

I could picture Vaughan sitting back in his chair and holding up his hands. “Nobody should be mad enough to kill anybody” was what he said. “Are you suggesting that this attractive and talented young woman, and her boyfriend, murdered Walter Marschalk to get even for having been stiffed?”