Rum and Razors (23 page)

“Speaking of the medical profession,” I said, “ready to visit Doctor Silber?”

“Yes. I’ll call his office the minute we leave here. Still not sure what you want me to find out.”

“Just whether he did, or didn‘t, keep a record of Jacob’s call that night. And if he didn’t, why can’t he at least remember it? I won’t rest until I know for certain that Jacob made that call.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“And Silber is, according to Jacob’s public defender, St. Thomas’s medical examiner. Sort of an honorary title, according to Jackson, but Silber would be the one to sign Jacob’s death certificate. I’d like to learn more about that from him, too.”

“All right. What’s on your agenda today, Jessica?”

“See Detective Calid to learn more about Jacob Austin’s death from his perspective. I also want to visit Jacob’s family.”

“Why?”

“To offer my sympathy.”

“Hardly seems necessary. You don’t even know them.”

“True. But I did meet him. I reached out to him. I saw him cry, first out of depression, then with joy when he remembered having called the doctor about his child. If nothing else, Seth, I think the family would appreciate a visit from someone who believed in his innocence.”

“I suppose you’re right. I heard you ask the detective last night whether they’d found the murder weapon. Take it he said they hadn’t.”

“That’s right.”

He slid half glasses lower on his nose and fixed me like a professor. “You know, Jessica,” he said, “I’m goin’ along with you because I happen to be here, and because you’re one of my favorite people, to say nothing of my favorite author. But don’t consider my willingness to collaborate to mean I agree with what you’re doing.”

“What in the world am I doing?” I asked, my attempt to sound startled falling flat.

“Tryin’ to solve Walter Marschalk’s murder. That’s police business. None ’a yours.”

“And I shall remember that,” I said as breakfast was served.

We left the coffee shop and stood in the lobby, prepared to go our separate ways. “Excuse me,” I said. “I have to check for messages.”

“Here? At Diamond Reef?”

He followed me to a bank of house phones. “Jessica, why are you using the phone? Just go on over to the desk and—”

I shushed him with a finger to my lips, and he stepped away. The message operator came on the line. “J.B. Fletcher here,” I said. “Room twelve-oh-two. Any messages?”

“Yes, Ms. Fletcher. There’s one from Mr. Capehart.”

“Oh, What is it?”

“He left an envelope for you.”

“Oh, my,” I said. “I’m at a public phone and won’t be back all day. Would you be good enough to open it and read what’s in the envelope?”

“Sure.”

From my vantage point, I could see her across the lobby as she plucked the envelope from a honeycomb of boxes and tore it open. “Here’s what the note says, Ms. Fletcher:
‘Jenn—Set for Pettyklip at three; provisions arranged; don’t be late; Fred.’
”

“Set for
where
at three?”

“Pettyklip.” She spelled it for me. “I assume he means Pettyklip Point. On the east end, near Red Hook. Where the ferries leave for St. John.”

“Of course. Would you please leave a message for Mr. Capehart and Ms. Fletcher.”

“Mr. Capehart and—Ms. Fletcher?”

“Yes. Fletcher. My niece, J. Fletcher.” I laughed. “We’re always being confused for each other. Please tell both my niece and Mr. Capehart that the razor used to murder Walter Marschalk, the owner of Lover’s Lagoon Inn, has been found by the police.”

“It has? Where?”

“I really shouldn’t say, but they found it in Lover’s Lagoon, just a few feet into the water from where the body was discovered.”

“Wow!”

“You will see that they each get that message.”

“Of course.”

I hung up and faced Seth, who stood a few feet away with arms folded across his chest. “What was that all about?” he asked.

“Nothing. Just something I had to do. Tell you what. Let’s meet at my villa at one. You’ll have seen Dr. Silber, and I’ll have made my rounds. We’ll order lunch in.”

“All right.”

“Oh, one other favor, Seth. Before we meet, would you call the message desk here at Diamond Reef, say you’re Fred Capehart, and ask for your messages?”

“I don’t believe in that sort ’a thing, Jess.”

“Just this once? After all, you’re on vacation.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I can’t ask for more than that. See you at one.”

I stopped at my villa before heading off for the morning. To my surprise, Laurie was waiting there for me. She’d let herself in and sat in the living room.

“Good morning,” I said.

“I’ll get right to the point, Jess. I’m a patient person. I accept human foibles, quirks, obsessions. But I’ve run out of patience with you.”

“Why?”

“Your snooping. I resent you peering around corners, asking questions, playing sleuth.”

“I’m sorry, Laurie, but that’s certainly not what I’ve been doing. If you’re upset about last night, my coming into the kitchen and finding you and—”

“You found nothing, saw nothing.”

“Fine. But know that I came into the kitchen simply to say good night. I wasn’t snooping.”

She raised her hands in a gesture of frustration, then slapped them sharply on the top of her thighs. It sounded like a bullwhip being snapped. “All right. I’m sorry,” she said. “But I’ve been under an immense strain, as you can imagine. This alliance with Diamond Reef is vitally important to me. Bobby—Senator Jensen and I were in the kitchen discussing a very sensitive issue that must be resolved to insure the deal going forward.”

“Of course. I understand.”

She came to me, smiled, and placed her hands on my arms. “Maybe when all the dust has settled, we can sit down like old times, schmooze, drink coffee, laugh, swap stories.”

“I’d enjoy that,” I said.

“In fact, Jess, when this is over, I think I’ll make a trip to Cabot Cove just to get together with all the old friends. Beginning with you, of course.”

“I’d like that. Have you been told that Jacob Austin hung himself last night in his cell?”

“No.”

“It’s true,” I said. “I’m on my way to find out more about it.”

“Then he
was
guilty,” she said.

“I don’t think there’s necessarily a cause and effect at play. I still don’t think he killed Walter.”

“What else can you take from his killing himself? God, Jess, apply a little logic.”

Rather than debate it, I asked, “Had you been told anything by Walter, or others, that the young couple at dinner last night—Jennifer Fletcher and Fred Capehart—claim to have ghostwritten Walter’s books and weren’t paid for their efforts?”

“Wow!” She raised her arms to the heavens and vigorously shook her head. “You are something else, Jessica Fletcher. Any other gossip I should know about?”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“You are not one bit sorry, and you know it. What a preposterous statement to make. Walter’s books ghostwritten? My God, he must be turning in his grave—or will once he’s in it. Where did you hear such garbage?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, it certainly does, Jess. If someone is slandering Walter and the work he left behind, I want to put a stop to it. Jennifer and Fred, you say? They’re making such claims?”

“Yes.”

“They
told you that?”

“Not directly. I spoke with Vaughan Buckley at Buckley House. Jennifer and Fred made that claim to him six months ago.”

Her overt, physical display of shock and dismay had vanished. Now, she went to the entrance to the terrace and looked out.

“I know you’re upset, Laurie,” I said, coming up behind her. “And as hard as it might be for you to believe, I’m not meddling. I didn’t call Vaughan in search of such information. It just came out during our conversation.”

“I think Mr. Vaughan Buckley and I had better have a little talk,” she said.

“Yes. I think that would be in order.”

“Well, I suppose there’s nothing more to talk about. Have you thought about going home, Jess?”

“Many times.”

“I think you should. I’m closing the inn until all the details are ironed out with Diamond Reef. Sorry your vacation coincided with this mess.”

“I am, too,” I said. “I’ll talk to Seth later today about heading back to Cabot Cove. If he isn’t ready, maybe I’ll stay the rest of my vacation next door.”

“As you wish.”

“I would enjoy a final lunch or dinner with you, Laurie. Could we do that? Today? Tomorrow?”

“Today’s out of the question. I have some business on St. John. Why don’t we save it for when I come to Maine.”

“That’s a fine idea. I’ll let you know what I’ve decided.”

“I have to run. Again, Jess, I’m sorry things turned out this way.”

“No apologies necessary. Have a nice trip to St. John.”

I was pleasantly surprised when my taxi driver turned out to be Peter, who’d driven me to Charlotte Amalie my first full day on St. Thomas. He was as unfailingly pleasant and courteous as he had been that first day. “Where to today, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked after I’d gotten into the front passenger seat of his Jeep.

“Charlotte Amalie. Police headquarters.”

“You enjoy that sort of thing, don’t you?” he said as he pulled away.

“What sort of thing?”

“Government. Last time, it was the Senate building.”

“Yes, I suppose I do. Have you heard anything about a young man named Jacob Austin killing himself last night in jail?”

“Oh, yes. On the radio this morning.”

“Did you know him?”

“Yes. We went to school together.”

“They say he murdered Walter Marschalk.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think he was the killer?”

“No, ma’am, although I don’t have any specific reason for saying that. Just that Jacob wouldn’t kill somebody. Not in my opinion. He had a temper for certain, and I know he told many people how much he hated Mr. Marschalk. But kill him? I don’t think so.”

As we passed the house in which Peter had been born, he slowed down and honked the horn, which brought a few people onto the porch to wave.

“My momma’s been sick,” he said.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Peter. Nothing serious, I hope.”

“No. Just a flu.”

“Has she seen a doctor?”

“Momma?” He laughed. “Last person she’d go see is a doctor. Like she always says, if you want to stay healthy, stay away from doctors.”

I laughed, too. “I suppose that’s a good rule to follow—with certain doctors. By the way, do you know a physician on the island named Silber?”

His laugh was more sinister this time. “Ol’ Doc Silber? Sure, I know him. Everybody does.”

“Is he a doctor your mother would stay away from—in the interest of good health?”

“Yes, ma’am, that he is.”

“He doesn’t sound like a very good doctor.”

“He was once, I hear. ”Til the rum caught up with him.”

“He’s an alcoholic?”

A knowing laugh came from Peter. “That is what you would call an understatement,” he said.

“And he’s still allowed to practice medicine?”

“He hasn’t killed anyone as far as I know,” Peter said, negotiating a sharp turn and barely avoiding a head-on collision with a van. “People still go to him—poor people—’cause they’ve been going to him for years.”

“How old is Dr. Silber?” I asked.

“Oh, must be seventy, I guess.”

St. Thomas’s medical examiner is a seventy-year-old physician with a drinking problem. Small wonder a midnight telephone call might be forgotten. Seth was in for a challenging morning.

I asked Peter to wait for me as I went into police headquarters in search of Detective Calid.

“He’s at the jail,” I was told.

Which was our next stop. As I walked through the front door, I spotted Luther Z. Jackson, attorney-at-law, bantering with the pretty young female officer at the desk.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” Jackson said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know. I should have called. Detective Calid called me last night with the news about Jacob.”

“Dreadful what happened to him. Hard to fathom.”

“He must have been extremely despondent,” I said. “Which is hard for me to accept. When I left him yesterday, he was upbeat after remembering his call to Dr. Silber.”

“Yes,” Jackson muttered.

“I assume you called Dr. Silber,” I said.

“I—I meant to.” He focused on his shoe tops.

Somehow, I knew he hadn’t made that call, and there was nothing to be gained by berating him. Chances are he would have met with the same alcoholic memory loss as had Calid.

“Is Detective Calid here?” I asked.

He was happy I changed the subject. “I saw him a few minutes ago,” he said. “He’s in with the warden.”

“Any ideas about this?” I asked.

“Ideas? No. Jacob was obviously distraught and took his own life.”

“No qualms, no reservations?” I asked.

“I don’t think so.” He frowned, touched my elbow and guided me from the desk to a corner where we wouldn’t be overheard. “What are you suggesting, Mrs. Fletcher, that there might have been foul play?”

“That hasn’t crossed your mind?”

“Why should it? I haven’t seen or heard anything to lead me to that conclusion.”

“I haven’t either,” I said. “But it certainly is convenient, isn’t it? Jacob dies, and everyone views it as an admission of guilt. That gets whomever did kill Walter Marschalk off the hook. Case closed. Very neat.”

Jackson looked over his shoulder, leaned closer, and asked, “Who are you accusing, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Whoever benefits most from Walter’s death.”

He shook his head. “That doesn’t hold up for me,” he said. “Few people would have had access to Jacob’s cell. Someone off the street, someone in his family, business associates wouldn’t be able to enter the building, the cell, and physically hang him up by a bedsheet.”