Rum and Razors (7 page)

I downed a cup of ice-cold mango juice purchased from a street vendor and checked my watch. It was time to meet Peter in front of the pink building. I would pass Lover’s Lagoon Fine Jewelry on the way. I wouldn’t have gone in it except that I saw Peter through the window. He greeted me warmly and introduced me to his cousin, the owner.

“I have something ’specially picked out for you, Mrs. Fletcher,” said the cousin. He placed a felt pad on the counter. Displayed on it was gold pendant in the shape of Lover’s Lagoon.

“It’s lovely,” I said.

“I designed it myself,” Peter’s cousin said. “For you, a very special price.”

And so I bought it, as well as a gold chain on which to hang it. While he attached the chain, he waxed poetic about the real Lover’s Lagoon. “The most beautiful spot in the world,” he said. I thought I detected a Boston accent.

“Undoubtedly true,” I said, “provided you don’t count the beaches of Cape Cod.”

That caused him to laugh. He had grown up in Boston but returned to St. Thomas ten years ago. “You know, Mrs. Fletcher, wearing this pendant will always ensure your good fortune,” he said. “It has the same mystical powers as the lagoon itself. ‘Kiss her once in Lover’s Lagoon, and she will be yours forever.’ ”

“Does it work the other way around?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “Kiss him once—”

“I really must be going,” I said. I was enjoying the conversation but the newspaper and its accusatory article weighed heavy in my bag. “Thank you. You’ve been very kind and generous. I’ll wear it with pride.”

The minute we got into Peter’s Jeep, I pulled the paper from my bag and began to read.

“Where to?” Peter asked.

“What? Oh, sorry. Have you seen the paper today?”

“Yes, ma’am. You’re referring to the story about the Marschalks.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what to believe,” he said sadly. “Still want to go to the Legislature Building?”

“More than ever,” I answered, going back to my reading.

The article was filled with unsubstantiated charges and unattributed sources. Basically, it accused Walter and Laurie of acquiring Lover’s Lagoon by virtue of having bribed Bobby Jensen to take the property off the government roll of protected land. That was nothing new. Walter had freely mentioned those charges to me at dinner.

But the writer of the piece, Adrian Woodhouse, went further. He painted Walter as an unscrupulous travel writer who was “widely known” in the travel industry to have accepted payoffs for favorable reviews.

And then the real bombshell appeared.

 

According to the article, Caleb Mesreau had owned a tiny portion of the land on which Lover’s Lagoon Inn is now situated. Mesreau refused to sell what he owned to Walter Marschalk, or to the government. He was found murdered, his throat slit, his body jammed into a rusted oil drum and weighted to make it sink. The weights eventually came loose, and the drum and Caleb Mesreau floated to the surface. Following his disappearance, and before the discovery of his body, a deed to his land “mysteriously surfaced” and was produced by Bobby Jensen, who claimed that Mesreau’s small lot had been sold to the government before his death. Because the deceased was without next of kin, and died without a will, the property clearly belonged to the government of St. Thomas, and would be included in the tract sold to the Marschalks.

Although the article did not come straight out and accuse Walter or Jensen of having killed Mesreau, the inference was strong.

“All this because of a body of water,” I muttered.

“A very special body of water, Mrs. Fletcher,” Peter said. “Here we are.”

We were in front of the pale green building that housed the islands’ Legislature. I asked Peter to give me an hour. “Care to come with me?” I asked.

“No, ma’am. I stay away from anything government unless I’m arrested.”

I smiled. “You’re a wise man, Peter.”

“Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Yes?”

“Are you going in there because you enjoy that sort of thing, or because of the story in the newspaper?”

“Good question. Originally, just because I enjoy ‘that sort of thing.’ But now—well, I admit I’ve become curious. What do you know about this Bobby Jensen?”

“Powerful man, Mrs. Fletcher. Keeps getting elected because he knows where to spread the money around. Not a very nice man, I hear, but I don’t know from my own experience. I don’t vote for him.”

“He doesn’t give you money?”

“No, he doesn’t. I’ll be waiting.”

A tall, lanky guard stood at the front entrance. I asked him about access to whatever government business might be going on at the moment. He shrugged his shoulders, which looked like suit hangers beneath his shoulder pads, and suggested I check in with the public affairs office.

Once inside, I decided I’d bypass Public Affairs and simply try a few of the massive mahogany doors that opened off the wide hallway. It was eerily quiet in the building. I saw no one. I was about to choose the first door to open when I heard footsteps on the hard marble floor. A man, followed by three other men, walked quickly toward me. I recognized him immediately. It was Senator Bobby Jensen.

“Senator Jensen,” I said. “My name is Jessica Fletcher. I’m a close personal friend of Walter and Laurie Marschalk.” He stopped as if someone had pulled on his reins, and smiled a politician’s smile. If I’d had a baby in my arms, he would have planted a kiss on it.

“Yes, Mrs. Fletcher. Welcome to sunny St. Thomas. Walter Marschalk told me you’d be visiting, and I fully intend to make it over to Lover’s Lagoon before you leave.”

“I’d look forward to that.”

“What brings you here?” he asked, indicating the building with a nod of his head.

“I always enjoy—well, to be honest, I’ve just read the paper. It’s a shocking series of allegations they’ve made about you and the Marschalks.”

His face turned hard. It was a youthful face, far younger than his age. He was light-skinned, almost Caucasian. His hair was reddish blond. His clothing was expensively cut.

“We have to go,” one of his aides said.

“In a minute,” Jensen responded. He looked me squarely in the eye. “Are you down here writing a book about this?” he asked.

“About this? This scandal? Heavens, no. I’m on vacation, pure and simple.”

“Come here,” he said, taking my arm and leading me to a corner where the others wouldn’t hear. “Let me tell you something, Mrs. Fletcher, that you probably already know. Walter and Laurie Marschalk are two of the nicest people in the world. I treasure their friendship. Now let me tell you something you don’t know. My colleagues who are calling for this absurd probe into Walter’s purchase are whores. They’re on Diamond Reefs pad and have been for a long time. Until today they’ve snuck around trying to dig up evidence to support their claims. Now, they think they have. But you read the paper. Nothing but rumors and innuendo designed to ruin innocent people like the Marschalks—and me. It’s all political. Greed. Jealousy.”

“I’m certainly happy to hear there’s no substance to the story,” I said, not quite sure what the proper response was.

“Senator!” an aide said sharply.

“Have to run, Mrs. Fletcher. Have to catch a flight to Miami. Nice meeting you. Say hello to Walter and Laurie for me.”

“They’re in Miami,” I said. “They’re due back tomorrow. What about this Mesreau character I read about?”

“Just a crazy old coot who got his throat slit by assailants unknown. I’ll get over to buy you a drink before you leave the inn. That’s a promise.” With that he was gone, saying over his shoulder, “I’ve read some of your books. They’re good. I like them a lot.” He stopped, added, “If you need anything, anything at all, see my secretary. Room Seven. Tell her I said to give you carte blanche.”

I left the building and climbed into Peter’s Jeep.

“Just heard the news on the radio,” he said as he started the engine.

“What news?”

“Senator Bobby Jensen resigned this afternoon over the investigation.”

“I just—I just spoke with him.”

“Bet it’s the last we’ll ever see of him on St. Thomas,” said Peter. “They say he’s got millions stashed away in Miami. Probably go back there and be a big-shot lawyer. Where to?”

“Home,” I said, thinking of Cabot Cove.

I considered walking down to the lagoon, but a typical late afternoon rainstorm seemed imminent. The air was uncomfortably close. I went to my room, stretched out on the bed, and closed my eyes. For some reason I was hungry, famished. The sandwich at Blackbeard’s Castle had been tasty but small. I got up, took a banana from the fruit basket on the wicker table, and sat on the terrace. Music by a steel drum band at Diamond Reef drifted to where I sat. They seemed to have music twenty-four hours a day. I pondered what I was about to do, which meant chewing my cheek, a bad habit that sometimes gets out of hand. Why not? I was free for dinner. I’d be dining at the inn for the rest of my stay once Walter and Laurie returned.

I found Mark Dobson’s card in my purse and poised to call him, thought better of it, got Diamond Reefs number from the operator and called its restaurant directly. “I’d like to make a dinner reservation for eight this evening,” I said.

“Of course. What is your room number?”

“I’m not staying at Diamond Reef. Is that a problem?”

“Not at all. How many for dinner?”

“Just myself.”

“Your name?”

“Fletcher. Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Splendid, Mrs. Fletcher. See you at eight.”

I
dislike people who aren’t on time, and make it a habit—no, it’s really more of an obsession-to be where I’m supposed to be when scheduled. It has long been my contention that people who are chronically late are simply attention seekers; others are always waiting anxiously for the “arrival,” or hovering around a tardy person whose slowness keeps a group from leaving.

That’s why I was upset with myself when I arrived late for my dinner reservation at Diamond Reef. Just ten minutes late, but late is late. My excuse was that the navy blue blazer I’d chosen to wear with an aquamarine-and-white sheath was lacking a button, which I discovered on my way out the door. Ordinarily, I would have checked the evening’s wardrobe well in advance. But as had become a pattern since arriving on St. Thomas, I’d fallen asleep on the terrace while reading and awoke with a start. I obviously needed an alarm clock on the terrace more than in the bedroom.

“Good evening,” a petite young black woman with a cameo face asked as I stepped up to the restaurant’s podium.

“I’m Mrs. Fletcher. I’m a few minutes late. My reservation was for eight.”

She anxiously glanced down at the reservation book, looked at me and smiled, then scanned the book more hurriedly.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

“Yes, there appears to be.” Her voice said she was nervous. First day on a new job? “Mrs. Fletcher has already arrived,” she said.

“Really?” I couldn’t help but smile.

“What I mean is that Mrs. Fletcher has already—” She pointed to a table set for two in a far corner of the large, nautically appointed room, where a young woman perused a menu.

“Well,” I said, “there obviously are two Mrs. Fletchers dining here this evening.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have—” She was interrupted by a man with skin the color of ink. He carried his white tuxedo with an air of royalty, his handsomely sculpted head held at a slight angle that gave the impression he questioned everything, and everyone. “Is there a problem?” he asked in a deep voice that did not clash with his physical bearing.

The young woman, whose nerves were now very much on edge, explained the situation.

“I see,” the man said. He surveyed the dining room. Every table was taken, with the exception of a few large ones set for six and eight persons. “Unfortunately, we have only tables reserved for large parties,” he said. “Would you be averse to sharing the table with your namesake?”

It wasn’t what I had in mind, and I thought about returning to the inn for a solitary dinner. “I think you’d better ask the other Fletcher how she would feel about that,” I said.

The maitre d’ strode across the room, conferred with the woman, looked back at me, and motioned. The hostess escorted me to the table. “Mrs. Fletcher, meet Mrs. Fletcher,” the maitre d’ said. We smiled at each other and shook hands. There was a look of recognition on her face. “The Jessica Fletcher?” she said.

“C’est
moi,”
I said, out of character. I wasn’t very good in situations in which I was recognized and usually said something silly when confronted with them. Like using a foreign phrase. I never end a conversation with
“Ciao.”

“I thought it was you standing there,” the younger woman said. The maître d’ held out my chair.

“I hope you don’t mind my joining you,” I said. “There was a mix-up. Having the same name and all.”

She introduced herself as Jennifer Fletcher. Even the same first initial, I thought. “There is a difference between us,” she said. “You’re Mrs. Fletcher. Afraid I’m a Ms.”

I smiled. “Actually, I am, too. My husband is deceased, but I carry my Mrs. designation. You’re allowed to do that, I’m told.”

“I would hope so,” she said.

Jennifer Fletcher had sun-washed shoulder-length blond hair, a tan that was copper in tone, and a dusting of freckles on her cheeks. A pretty young woman, wholesome and nicely chiseled. At first glance I’d pegged her to be in her late twenties. But closer up I reevaluated. Thirty-five, I guessed. A girlish thirty-five. I assumed she was tall, although I couldn’t tell as long as she remained seated.