Rum and Razors (27 page)

“I think that’s an accurate assessment,” I said, savoring a crouton from the salad and smacking my lips. “But you can’t let Laurie off the hook that easy. She’s been as ambitious and greedy as the rest. They were all consumed by greed. Capehart, Jennifer, Webb, and Senator Jensen. I spoke with Adrian Woodhouse at the newspaper. He says he’s going to call for a new investigation into the whole sordid mess, including the three-year-old murder of that old man, Caleb Meseau.”

“From what I saw at Laurie’s dinner party, Mr. Woodhouse was in pretty tight with the rest ’a them.”

“I asked him about that. He claims he pretended to be friendly with Laurie and the others in order to get close and find out more. Whether that’s true or not is conjecture. I just hope he follows through and exposes all the shenanigans that have gone on, including Jensen’s involvement.”

“I second that.”

“He’ll have plenty to write about. Do you know what Laurie told me, Seth?”

“I’m listenin’.”

“This deal with Diamond Reef is a lot bigger than simply having the inn taken over by the resort. It’s a true merger, with big stakes. Laurie will end up part owner of Diamond Reef, along with Webb and Jensen. That’s what’s really behind everything that’s happened.”

“Go on.”

“Jennifer—poor thing—came here to confront Walter about the money he owed her for helping write his travel books. Capehart originally declined to come with her, but changed his mind. He held the key to everything. Even Jennifer didn’t know that Walter had signed an agreement with Capehart giving him a percentage of any resort Walter opened. Of course, that was before Lover’s Lagoon Inn became a reality.

“Capehart decided to pull out his trump card. He rung Jennifer in, and she agreed to be with him when he laid that card on the table for Walter.

“They met with Walter that night at the lagoon. Things got nasty. Unfortunately, Capehart had found a straight razor that afternoon on the grounds, the one Jacob had bought as a gift for his grandfather, and then lost. Things got out of hand, and Capehart lashed out with the razor. That was it for Walter.”

“How do you know all this, Jess?”

“From my conversation with Laurie. Jennifer, who was there when it happened, was horrified. She didn’t know what to do, so she turned to Laurie and confided in her. Told her every intimate detail of what had happened, and the background that led to it. It must have been difficult for Laurie to throw in with Jennifer. After all, Jennifer had been one of Walter’s many mistresses. But when money this big is involved, those other niceties go by the wayside.”

Our waitress took our order for main courses—a rack of lamb for Seth, Caribbean lobster for me despite Seth’s suggestion that I wait until getting back to Maine before having lobster.

“Let me see if I understand this,” Seth said. “Capehart was an unwelcome partner in the inn by virtue of the written agreement he had with Walter.”

“Exactly. That was Walter’s way of avoiding having to pay Capehart for the work he’d done on his books. Jennifer was in the same position of having been stiffed, as they say, only Walter hadn’t promised her anything like he promised Capehart.”

“So Capehart kills Walter, then plays that trump card you mentioned to get off the hook.”

“Right again, Seth. He—and Jennifer—got Laurie to go along with Capehart’s scheme to have the murder pinned on someone else, namely Jacob Austin, who was known to harbor dislike for Walter. Don’t forget, Walter had fired Jacob that morning, and everyone knew it. And, Capehart had used Jacob’s razor to kill Walter.”

A trio of musicians began playing soft Caribbean music, adding to the restaurant’s genteel, tranquil ambiance. “Are you up to a swing around the dance floor?” I asked.

“Will be, Jessica, soon as you answer a couple of more questions.”

“Shoot.”

“Walter’s murder was blamed on Jacob Austin. He’s in jail. This Doctor Silber turns out to be no help at all. Capehart and his colleagues even have the murder weapon, a razor belonging to Jacob.”

“Yes?”

“So why decide to concoct a story that he killed himself, and then try to spirit him off the island?”

“Because they couldn’t be sure he’d be convicted, Seth. Not only that—and I’ll take some credit for this—my being here and—well, let’s call it snooping, as Laurie has been saying—put a certain pressure on them. If Jacob was believed to be dead, the authorities would consider the Marschalk case closed. It really wasn’t hard to put that plan into action. Senator Jensen had the clout, and the money to buy off Doctor Silber, first to ‘forget’ Jacob’s call to him the night of the murder, and then as medical examiner to sign Jacob’s death certificate. He also bought the guard, Butch, and anyone else necessary to make it work.”

“Only they didn’t figure on havin’ Jessica Fletcher on the case,” Seth said.

I laughed. “I wasn’t ‘on the case,’ as you put it. I just happened to come to St. Thomas on a vacation. They had a case of bad timing.”

We enjoyed our entrées, and topped off dinner with heavenly chocolate soufflés.

“Ready for that spin on the dance floor?” Seth asked, standing and holding out my chair.

“Well, my dance card is pretty full, but I think I can squeeze in one more. After all, I am on vacation.”

Come back to Cabot Cove with Jessica!

 

Don’t miss the next
Murder, She Wrote
mystery novel:
Brandy and Blood
by Jessica Fletcher and Donald Bain
Available from Signet

Chapter One

“The usual, Jess?”

“Not today, Mara. Spring has sprung and I’ve sworn off blueberry pancakes. Bikini season’s just around the corner.”

“You
wear a bikini?” Mara asked over her shoulder as she drew coffee from a stainless-steel urn behind the counter.

“No. My girlish figure has never been girlish enough to run the risk. But this summer I would like to be able to fit into what bathing suits I do own.”

“Aw, come on, honey,” said Mara in her usual upbeat voice. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. You look fabulous. Me? I’m another story. I only eat broken cookies because the broken ones don’t have calories. Doesn’t work. The hips keep getting bigger, the shoulders smaller. Sure about the pancakes?”

“Yes, I’m sure. But thanks for the compliment. One egg. Over easy. English muffin, dry. Coffee. Skim milk. Sweet ’n Low.”

“Gorry, Jess,” said Seth Hazlitt, Cabot Cove’s senior and most popular physician, and my dear friend. “You sound like the girl in that movie—what was it?—
When Henry Met Sweetie?”

Cabot Cove’s sheriff, Morton Metzger, another good friend, sat up straight and grinned with satisfaction at having come up with the right title. “It’s Harry and Sally, Seth. Where’d you get Henry and Sweetie, for cryin’ out loud? It’s Harry and Sally. Everybody knows that.”

There was laughter up and down the counter of Mara’s postage-stamp-sized luncheonette. Cabot Cove had other larger, and certainly more elegant eating places, but none with the waterfront charm and down-home comfort of Mara’s. Somehow, the ripped vinyl chairs, and cigar burns on the edge of the counter and tables made the simple, good food taste even better. But probably the most palatable aspect of the small luncheonette was the spirited conversation. Every table, and every stool at the counter held an opinion—on everything. Including movies.

“I loved
When Harry Met Sally,”
Kurt Jones, our local pharmacist with his faded movie-star looks of another era, chimed in. “That was some scene. The two of them were sitting in a restaurant and the girl faked—”

“Yes, that’s the same movie, Kurt,” I quickly said, hoping to kill the topic. But my attempt breached one of the many unwritten rules of debate in Mara’s. Nothing was off-limits. If you dared step in for breakfast, you went with the flow.

“That was some funny business,” said a lobster fisherman who, until now, had been content to silently attack his overflowing plate of corned beef hash. His partner, whose weatherbeaten face and ink-black fingers defined Maine fishermen, sat next to him. He gave out with a knowing laugh and launched into his critique of the movie’s most memorable scene.

I again tried to change the subject. Mara giggled. She’d been serving breakfast to the town’s fishermen for almost seventeen years, seven days a week, the doors open at five A.M., the grill fired up by 5:30. She’d heard it all. And thrived on it.

The men at the counter continued to eat their substantial breakfasts as they launched into a series of risque comments, punctuated by winks, elbows in the ribs, and explosive laughter. It was obviously more fun talking about Harry and Sally than the hard, cold day they faced out on the Atlantic.

“Finally, a real spring day,” I said as Mara served my breakfast. “I saw a robin out my kitchen window this morning.”

“Don’t get too used to it,” said Seth. “Just a tease. You know full well, Jessica, that spring doesn’t come to Maine until July.”

“July? Try, August,” said Kurt, as he put on his coat.

“Another day it’ll be colder’n a moose yard,” one of the fishermen said.

Kurt bumped into a small table, sending menus to the floor.

“Gawmy SOB, ain’t he,” came from the fishing contingent at the counter.

Kurt winced at the downeast reference to his clumsiness and left.

“I suppose I’m just the eternal optimist,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned, spring is here to stay.”

“To optimism,” said Mort, lifting his glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

I returned his toast with my coffee cup.

“Goin’ to the press conference tomorrow?” Seth asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said.

“Should be interesting to see what this Worrell fella has up his sleeve,” said Mort. “Somethin’ scandalous most likely. Seems nobody holds a press conference lest there’s a scandal to hush up. Last time Cabot Cove had one was what, ten years ago? When the padre announced his resignation after that boy accused him of sexual misconduct.”

“We had one more recently than that,” said Seth. “Remember? Martha called a conference to announce she was pregnant and was takin’ maternity leave from bein’ mayor.”

“I certainly do,” Mort replied, dabbing a moistened corner of his napkin at egg yolk that had slid down his chin and onto his brown uniform tie. “Sorry,” he said. “What about you, Jess? Got any inside information on what Worrell’s up to?”

“Afraid not. At least nothing official. But I think you rumormongers are going to be disappointed.”

“How so?”

“Because from what I hear—and it’s strictly hearsay—there’s not going to be any scandal involved. My information is what Mr. Worrell is simply going to announce that he’s donating Worrell Mansion to Cabot Cove.”

“That would be terrific,” one of the town’s sanitation workers said. He’d been listening to our conversation from a table behind us. “It’s some big place. What’ll the town do with it?”

I shrugged. “Probably what it’s always done with it. Use the grounds for picnics and ball games. The difference will be the town will own it, instead of just having access to it.”

“I heard he was going to propose that the town turn it into a nature preserve and museum,” another customer offered.

“I didn’t hear that,” Mara said from where she turned a batch of home fries. “We already have enough nature preserves.” She leaned on the counter, and using the greasy spatula for emphasis, said in a conspiratorial voice, “I hear the mansion is going to become a school for the deaf and the blind. Seems that the young Mr. Worrell and his wife have a baby who’s hearing impaired.”

“What a shame,” I said. “Just goes to show money can’t buy everything. Here he is with more money than Ross Perot, good looking, young—couldn’t be more than forty—and the only living heir to the Worrell fortune. You’d think he had it all. Then you hear something like this and you realize that tragedy can hit anyone.” I took the napkin from my lap and placed it on the counter. “Breakfast was delicious as usual, Mara.”

“Leaving us so soon?” Mort asked.

“Yes. Have to run. Literally. A slow jog or fast walk through Monroe Park. Maybe I’ll spot more robins celebrating this lovely day.”

“Playing hooky, huh?” Seth said, laughing.

“Yes. I finished the latest book this past weekend and intend to take off some time before starting the next. Taking a breather, as they say. Sound good, Doc?”

“Therapeutic, Jess. That’s for certain. Like I always say, if I could write prescriptions for vacations and sabbaticals, I would. Far as this doctor’s concerned, stress kills more people than everything else combined.”

“Shame health insurance plans don’t cover prescriptions for vacations,” I said.

“Nothing preventative ever is,” Seth added with solemnity.

“That’s what’s wrong with this new health plan comin’ outta Washington,” Mort said.

“It’s got its good points,” said Seth.

“Hell, it does,” the sanitation man said.

Sensing the beginning of a heated debate, I stood. “Have a wonderful day,” I said.

Mort handed me the five-dollar bill I’d left on the counter. “My treat,” he said. “Happy spring!”

“Why, thank you, Mort. That’s very kind. And yes. Happy spring!”