Rum and Razors (24 page)

“I agree,” I said. “But what if someone had the clout to
arrange
for this to happen?”

“Arrange for it to happen?”

“Yes. A guard is paid off to slip something into Jacob’s food or drink. While he’s unconscious, he’s strangled, then propped up with a sheet around his neck.”

“No offense, Mrs. Fletcher, but are you sure you aren’t plotting your next novel?”

“I hope not,” I responded. “By the way, a friend of mine from back home, Doctor Hazlitt, is on St. Thomas. He’s visiting with Dr. Silber as we speak.”

“A little late, I’m afraid,” Jackson said.

“For Jacob? Yes. But I can’t help but feel that Dr. Silber
did
receive that call from Jacob. And if he did, at least Jacob’s name can be cleared posthumously, for his family’s sake.”

“All I can say, Mrs. Fletcher, is that I wish you well. Frankly, your friend will probably come up empty-handed. Doc Silber is—well, let’s just say his best days are behind him.”

I smiled. “Old demon rum will do it every time.”

“You know about Doc’s drinking?”

“Yes.”

Detective Calid suddenly appeared from the recesses of the jail. He saw me and quickened his stride in the direction of the front door.

I caught up with him. “Might I have a few minutes with you?” I asked.

“Not now, Mrs. Fletcher. I told you to call the office for an appointment.”

“Just one question, Detective. Just one.”

“Okay. One question.”

I asked, “Who killed Jacob Austin?”

His expression said he hadn’t heard me, or hadn’t understood the question. But I knew he had—heard me and understood. “Jacob did,” he said.

I shook my head.

“As you wish.” He started to walk away, stopped, turned, glared at me, and closed the gap between us. “I’ve been very patient with you, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve told you things about this case that you had no business knowing. I called you with the news about the kid’s suicide. But I’d be less than honest if I didn’t say you have become a stone in my shoe.”

“Better than rocks in your bed,” I said.

“What?”

“An old song.”

“I’m not interested in songs, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m interested in doing my job. I’m leaving. I have other more promising appointments. But I have one question for you.”

“Yes?”

“Why are you spreading rumors that we found the murder weapon?”

“I wasn’t aware that I had.”

“You have. I heard.”

“From whom? Who told you that?”

“That’s a second question. You promised to ask only one. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Detective Calid. Thank you for your time.”

“And stop spreading rumors, Mrs. Fletcher. I don’t need it.”

I watched him leave the building, then looked to where Luther Jackson and I had been talking. He, too, was gone.

Peter stood next to his Jeep as I left the jail. He opened the door for me and climbed behind the wheel.

“Have you heard a rumor that the police had found the weapon used to murder Walter Marschalk?” I asked.

“No.”

“I’m surprised. It seems to be all over St. Thomas.”

“Where to next?”

“Jacob Austin’s home. Do you know where his family lives?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then that’s where I want to go.”

And, I silently mused, I wanted to know who had called Detective Calid with my planted rumor that the weapon had been found. Jennifer Fletcher or Fred Capehart? I wasn’t aware they would know whom to call.

If it wasn’t either of them, to whom had they passed the rumor?

Laurie Marschalk?

Senator Bobby Jensen?

The Marschalks’ partner, Chris Webb?

Newspaper owner Adrian Woodhouse?

Other travel writers staying at Diamond Reef?

Diamond Reefs general manager Mark Dobson?

I wanted to know because, somehow, my instincts told me that Walter’s murderer was the same person.

J
acob Austin’s widow and three children lived in a small, neatly kept house on a busy road in a town called Fortuna, on the western side of St. Thomas. The house was, like most houses on the island, made of white stone and had a red tile roof. A jungle gym and slide dominated the tiny front yard.

A number of cars lined the narrow street on both sides. Grieving family members and friends, I assumed. My resolve to visit had weakened. Would the unannounced presence of an unfamiliar tourist be viewed as presumptuous, even rude? I hoped not as I took a deep breath, got out of the Jeep, and approached the front door. The dog lifted its head, gave me a tentative bark, and went back to sleep.

Voices came from inside the house. I knocked; a small child responded. “Hello,” I said. “Is your mother home?”

She ran from the door yelling, “Mommy! Mommy!” A moment later her mother faced me. “Yes?” she asked. She was a pretty, slender young woman with brown hair that fell softly to the shoulders of a simple green-and-white cotton dress. “I’m sorry to intrude at a time like this,” I said, “but I wanted to express my sorrow at what happened to your husband.”

“I don’t understand. You knew Jacob?”

I started to explain, but the moment I mentioned my name, she smiled and said, “Yes, Mrs. Fletcher. Jacob told me about you when he was allowed to call yesterday afternoon. He said—” Her smile broke into a tearful grimace. “He said you were trying to help him.”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t very successful,” I said.

“Please, come in.”

The interior of the house was as neat as the outside. The furniture wasn’t expensive, but had obviously been chosen with care to fit the small confines of the living and dining rooms. One thing was certain. Jacob Austin’s wife was a meticulous housekeeper, and mother. The three children, even the one-year-old, were dressed in pristinely ironed clothes.

A dozen people milled about the living room, where Mrs. Austin—I realized I hadn’t learned her first name—had set a table with fruits, cookies, and a large coffeepot. One visitor wore a clergy-man’s collar, another the white garb of a hospital worker.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Austin,” I said. “I don’t know your first name.”

“Vera,” she said. And then she introduced me to her family and friends: “Mrs. Fletcher is the woman who visited Jacob in jail and tried to help him.”

I was warmly welcomed. After a cup of strong, spice-flavored coffee was handed me, the clergy-man, Father Wallingford, asked about my visit with Jacob in the jail. “Did he seem especially despondent to you?” he asked.

“No,” I answered. “But I saw him in the morning. Perhaps—”

He shook his head. “I visited with Jacob right after dinner,” he said. “He seemed in fine spirits, thanks to you pointing out that Doctor Silber might be able to provide him with an alibi.”

“But I understand the doctor didn’t provide the alibi,” I said.

“Exactly right, Mrs. Fletcher. Unfortunately, he was unable to.”

Vera Austin joined us. I said to her, “Jacob told me you took the sick child to Doctor Silber the next morning, and that he prescribed an antibiotic.”

“I did take Clarise to him, but he didn’t prescribe the drug. He gave us some from his own supply. Doctor Silber usually does that to save his patients money. He gets them from the big drug companies, I think.”

I sipped my coffee as others joined us. “A friend of mine from home, a doctor, is on St. Thomas,” I said. “He’s gone to talk with Doctor Silber this morning to find out whether—”

“He won’t find the doctor there this morning,” a stout woman, who’d been introduced as Vera’s aunt, said.

“He won’t?”

“No. Doctor Silber is my neighbor. He left bright and early this morning for the States.”

My frown reflected my confusion. “Was this a sudden departure?” I asked.

The stout woman laughed. “Oh, yes. A sudden retirement, too.”

“Retirement?” I said incredulously.

“Doctor said he’s going to live with relatives in the States. Having things packed up and shipped for him. That’s what he told me. Gave me his cat, Swizzle Stick, to keep. I have two of my own, but what’s one more, I say?”

“Yes, what’s one more,” I repeated, my voice now heavy with defeat.

I looked at Vera Austin. “Jacob did make that call the night Walter Marschalk was murdered?” I said.

“Of course. I stood next to him when he called the doctor.”

“And now the doctor has vanished. Just like that. Sudden. Permanent. I wonder who got to him.”

“Pardon?” the stout woman said.

“Just thinking out loud,” I said.

“I don’t know what we’ll do for a doctor now,” Vera said. “The children loved him. He made them laugh.”

I walked away and looked through a window into the front yard where the two older children now climbed on the jungle gym. Vera came to my side, saw them, and yelled for them to come in and change their clothes if they were going to play outdoors.

“I really must be going,” I said. “Again, I am so sorry about Jacob. If it’s any solace, at least you and your family know he did not commit any crime.”

It was the first time a hint of bitterness crept into her voice. “Yes, Mrs. Fletcher,
we
know he didn’t. But everyone else on St. Thomas believes he did, and that his suicide confirms it.” She began to cry. “At least he left us insurance. Strange, isn’t it, that the man they say he killed, Walter Marschalk, is responsible for us receiving enough money to live on for the rest of our lives.”

“I don’t follow,” I said.

“Jacob’s life insurance policy at the inn. Mr. Marschalk paid for the policy.”

“But Jacob was fired, I heard Mr. Marschalk fire him.”

“I don’t know how those things work,” Vera said, wiping tears from her cheeks. “I just know that Mrs. Marschalk called and told me about the policy. I never even knew Jacob had it.”

“Well, I’m glad there is at least that for you,” I said.

“I’d better get the children,” Vera said.

I had nothing else to say, no comforting words, no perspicacious thoughts to help ease the pain. I left the house, climbed into Peter’s Jeep, wiped away a tear that slowly ran down my cheek, and said, “Let’s go back to the inn.”

“You okay, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“No, I am not okay, but that isn’t your problem. Please. I just want to go home.”

I
heard the knocking but couldn’t relate to it. It was from a faraway place, someone else’s door. I forced my legs over the side of the chaise lounge, rose unsteadily to my feet, crossed the living room to the door, and asked, “Who is it?”

“Seth.”

“Seth.” I looked at my watch. Three past one. He undoubtedly had arrived at one sharp, and had been knocking for three minutes. I unlocked the door.

“Gorry, Jessica, you look terrible,” he said when he was inside.

“Thank you very much. I fell asleep on the terrace and—it doesn’t matter. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“I was beginning to worry.” He followed me to the terrace.

“Have a seat,” I said, changing direction toward the bathroom. “I need to wake up.”

When I returned, Seth was looking down over Lover’s Lagoon. “A beautiful sight,” he said into the air.

“Yes, it is. Get you a drink?”

“Thought we were havin’ lunch. I’m a mite hungry.”

“That’s right. I forgot. I’ll try to get something brought up, but I doubt if I can. Laurie told me she’s closing the inn until details of the merger are worked out with Diamond Reef. There’s probably no one in the kitchen.”

“Let’s go next door.”

“That’s one of many things I love about you, Seth. You’re a clear and decisive thinker.”

We ordered club sandwiches and iced coffees at the same table at which we’d had breakfast. Neither of us was very talkative. Since I knew all about Dr. Silber skipping town—and that’s exactly what I considered his abrupt departure to be—there was no need for Seth to explain his lack of success in ferreting out the imbibing physician.

I, of course, espoused my theory on why he’d left St. Thomas, summing it up with, “He was bought off.”

“Serious charge” was Seth’s reply. “Who?”

“Whoever is comfortable having the world think that Jacob Austin is a killer. Show me that person, and I’ll show you the real killer.”

“Reasonable to assume, I suppose, that whoever paid the doctor to leave town is the same person who paid to have the young fella murdered in prison.
Providing,
’a course, that either event happened the way you think it did.”

“You’re right on both counts,” I said.

It dawned on me as we sipped the chilled coffee that I’d never told Seth of the furtive meeting that night in Charlotte Amalie between Chris Webb, Jennifer Fletcher, and Fred Capehart. And so I did.

Seth pointed to a window that looked out over the coffee shop’s outdoor dining area. I followed the direction of his finger, adjusted my vision to compensate for glare on the glass, and saw what he was pointing at. Chris Webb, Jennifer Fletcher, Fred Capehart, and Laurie Marschalk sat at a table. Standing over them was Diamond Reef general manager Mark Dobson.

“Looks like they’re doin’ business in the daylight these days,” Seth said.

“Looks like it.”

“I knew they’d be havin’ lunch together.”

“Oh?”

“Ayah. I did what you asked me to do, against my better judgment, I might add.”

“What did you do?”

“Called the desk and asked for Fred Capehart’s messages.”

“And?”

“He had two. One was that the murder weapon was found in Lover’s Lagoon. The other was from Laurie. Said she had to talk with him immediately, and set up the lunch they’re havin’ here today.”

“I think we should go out and say hello,” I said.

The sun had been shining brightly when we arrived for lunch. Now, as we stepped outside, the sun was obscured by metallic gray clouds that had begun to settle low over the island. A brisk breeze whipped in from the east; umbrellas over the outdoor tables flapped.