“We were hoping that something she said while in your store would provide a clue to her whereabouts,” I said.
“I really can’t believe that she would simply vanish like this,” he said, wringing his hands and shaking his head. “A lovely woman. Truly lovely. So cultured and full of life. You don’t think that . . . ?”
He’d obviously spent more time with her than simply as a salesman.
“We don’t know what happened to her,” Kathy said. “Did she say why she wanted the recorder and microphone?”
“Yes. She chose a top-of-the-line recorder and a small external microphone. I’ll show you what she bought.”
I was surprised at the small size of the recorder and microphone he withdrew from a display case. The minicassette recorder I always travel with seemed huge by comparison. I mentioned it.
“The technology has evolved so quickly,” he explained.“No more tapes. It’s all digital these days, memory chips.”
“You could hide this recorder and microphone in a shirt pocket,” I said, “and no one would ever know it was there.”
“Precisely,” the owner said. He glanced around the otherwise empty store as though to ensure our privacy, then leaned closer and said in a voice slightly above a whisper, “She told me that she wanted to record people without their knowing it. I suppose it was because so much gold was involved and—”
“She told you about the gold?” Kathy asked.
“Yes. It was such an exciting story. You say you’re her sister. Is what she said true, that you have a distant relation who had all that gold?”
“I, ah—evidently,” Kathy responded.
“You say there’s no tape in this recorder,” I said, turning the tiny device over in my hand.
“Exactly,” he said. “No need for a tape.” He stepped back and cocked his head. “You look familiar to me,” he said.
“Oh?”
“I know. You’re the writer, Jessica—Jessica— Jessica—” He started snapping his fingers.
“Fletcher,” I provided.
“Of course. I’ve read some of your books. In fact, Wilimena mentioned at dinner that her sister lived in the same town in Maine as Jessica Fletcher.”
“Dinner?”
“Why, yes. We enjoyed a wonderful evening together at Ray’s Boathouse. It’s a landmark restaurant in Seattle.” He chuckled. “They say that a visit to Seattle without visiting Ray’s Boathouse is like going to Paris without seeing the Eiffel Tower. An overstatement, of course, but it is a very fine seafood house, with splendid views of Puget Sound.”
“It is nice,” I said. “I’ve eaten there a few times. What else did you talk about at dinner, Mr.—?”
“John Casale,” he said, extending his hand. “A pleasure meeting you.”
“Thank you. About dinner,” I said.
“Oh, right. Let me see. We talked about many things. Willie—that’s her nickname—Willie did most of the talking. I hung on every word. She’s so worldly, been to so many fascinating places.” He became somewhat conspiratorial again. “We made another date for dinner when she returns from Alaska. You don’t think that—?”
“I’m sure everything will turn out just fine,” I said, “and that you’ll enjoy that second dinner together.”
“I certainly hope so,” he said. He handed us his business card. “Please keep me informed.”
“Of course,” Kathy said.
I couldn’t help but laugh once we were outside the store. “Your sister is—well, your sister is quite an operator, Kathy.”
“I always knew that, Jess, but I had no idea just how much of an operator she really is. No wonder she’s had so many husbands. It seems that every man is fair game.”
I grew pensive as we walked slowly in the direction of Pioneer Square, where my book signing at the Seattle Mystery Bookshop was scheduled for noon.
“What are you thinking?” Kathy asked.
“I’m thinking—no, more like I’m hoping that Willie’s penchant for attracting men isn’t at the root of her disappearance.”
“You don’t think—?”
“She seems willing to become involved with men she barely even knows. That sort of indiscretion can get a woman in trouble, especially with her compulsion to tell every man she meets that she’s about to become a wealthy woman.”
Kathy said nothing in response, but I knew she agreed with me.
The Seattle Mystery Bookshop used to be located below street level on Cherry Street, which cut down on foot traffic. But it had recently moved down the block to a more advantageous aboveground spot. I reminded myself as we approached it that Bill Farley was no longer the store’s official owner. He’d written to tell me that he’d sold it to his longtime manager, J. B. Dickey, although he assured me he would remain active in the shop’s daily activities. I was happy to hear that because Bill is a walking encyclopedia when it comes to murder mysteries.
Cherry Street is just off Pioneer Square, Seattle’s oldest neighborhood. After World War II, the area fell into disrepair and disrepute, becoming home to cheap hotels, street drunks, and prostitution (the term “skid row” originated there; logs were skidded down the steep Yesler Way to the city’s first lumber mill). But as often happens with such districts, the artistic community, in search of affordable living and studio space, began moving in and displacing the less desirable elements until Pioneer Square was restored to its previous glory. These days, the twenty-square-block historic district is home to myriad galleries, bookstores, quaint bars and restaurants, and assorted gift shops.
“Look, Jess, there’s your picture,” Kathy exclaimed as we stood in front of the store. A large poster with my photograph, the cover of my latest book, and information about the signing dominated one of the windows. I stepped closer to get a better look and peered past the poster into the store. A dozen people, mostly women, milled about, presumably waiting for the signing to begin.
“We’d better get inside,” I said.
As I reached for the door handle, a man who’d been standing alone twenty feet away approached. “Jessica Fletcher,” he said, sounding as though we were old friends.
“Yes?” I said, turning.
“I’m here for the signing,” he said, extending a large hand.
I couldn’t help but notice what he wore. His yellow and green sweater had seen better days and had numerous pulls and small holes, a few of which looked like cigarette burns. His khaki pants were in equally rough shape, badly wrinkled and stained. He wore black high-top sneakers and carried a large canvas bag that appeared to be filled to capacity.
“I’ve read every one of your books,” he said. His voice was raspy and low, his eyes black and sunken in a long, gaunt face. He needed a shave.
“Well, I hope you enjoy the new one as much as you’ve liked the others,” I said. “See you inside?”
Until that moment he’d had a semblance of a smile on his face. But my ending the conversation caused a change in his expression to what I read as anger.
As we entered the store, Bill Farley came from behind a small counter and warmly greeted us. I introduced Kathy to him. Two clerks whom I recognized from my previous signings there also came to us. I sighed. “I feel like I’m home,” I said.
“We’ve set you up over there in your usual spot,” Bill said, indicating a long table to our right. Multiple copies of most of my books were artfully laid out on it, dominated by my most recent hardcover. Behind the table stood a tall, narrow rack on which more copies were displayed.
“You’re early,” Bill said.
“I always try to be,” I said. “I see I’m not the only one.” I indicated the people perusing books in the shop’s maze of narrow aisles.
Bill looked through the window to the man who’d approached me outside. “Ever seen him before?” he asked.
“No. Why?”
“He’s a little strange, Jessica. He showed up yesterday thinking the signing was then. When I told him it was today, he became angry
. Started swearing under his breath.”
“I suppose he was inconvenienced by getting the date wrong. Is he a regular at the shop?”
“No. Never saw him before yesterday.”
“He probably lives locally,” I said, “since he’s comingback again today. Either that or he’s a tourist with plenty of time to spare.”
His laugh was gentle. “Fans of murder mysteries come in all shapes and sizes,” he mused. “I’m aware of that every time I attend Bouchercon.”
Bill was referring to the annual Bouchercon gathering, the world’s largest convention of mystery writers, editors, publishers, agents, and fans of the genre. It was named after the late beloved mystery writer, editor, critic, reviewer, and fan Anthony Boucher. I’d attended a few of the gatherings myself and enjoyed them.
“He’s been here for at least an hour,” Bill said. “In and out of the store. He already has your new novel. Must have bought it someplace else. Don’t you just love people who buy a book at another store and come to this one to have it autographed?”
“Nothing new,” I said, going to the table and settling in for the signing, which was scheduled to run for an hour and a half. Some of the customers already in the shop gravitated to me as others came through the door. I know writers who dread signings, but I’m not among them. I receive, and reply to, hundreds of e-mails each month, but I especially treasure the opportunity to actually meet the men and women who buy and read—and, I hope, enjoy—my books. They represent a diverse cross section of people, old and young (I especially like it that many teenagers write to tell me how much they enjoyed a particular book of mine), rich and not so rich, men and women (although women account for the largest percentage of book buyers, not only of mine but of books in general), gregarious and shy, talkative and quiet. Often their comments provide me insights into my works that I hadn’t recognized when writing them. All in all, book signings provide an author the sort of direct feedback that is not only gratifying but helpful, too, when working on the next book.
I invited Kathy to sit next to me at the table and asked her to help me by gathering from each person the name of the individual to whom the book should be addressed and any special messages to be included— happy birthday to a family member or friend, or something else personal. Soon we were engaged in a spirited conversation with some of the women who’d approached, and I started the signing process. As I fulfilled my reason for being there, more people entered the shop, which pleased me. The only book signings I’ve not enjoyed were those when very few people showed up. I always feel bad for the store owners when that occurs.
The line of book buyers continued to grow, to my satisfaction, and I chatted with customers and signed copies of the book. Every once in a while I looked for the man whom I’d met outside the shop. He hadn’t come inside as far as I could tell, and I wondered why. Had he decided not to bother having his book signed? That was a possibility, of course. Perhaps the number of people in line had discouraged him.
I excused myself and took a brief break to rest my hand, which had begun to cramp. Kathy and I went to the window and looked outside. No sign of the disgruntled gentleman.
“I’m going to get some air,” Kathy said. “Can you do without me?”
“Of course.”
She left the shop, and I resumed my seat at the table.
“Where do you get all your ideas?” a woman asked.
“I really don’t know,” I said. “Sometimes from something I’ve read in a newspaper or magazine. At other times, a plot just comes to me at odd hours. Usually, I play the ‘What if?’ game.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I ask myself that question. ‘What if someone were to—?’ ”
A commotion at the front door caused everyone, including me, to stop what we were doing and look in that direction. I saw Kathy come through the door, followed closely by the disheveled man from outside. The look on my friend’s face was sheer panic. The man shoved her ahead of him, propelling her into a group of people who’d already had their books signed and were chatting. Then I saw what the man carried besides his canvas bag. It was a lethal-looking hunting knife with a very long blade.
Someone else who also saw the weapon screamed. Bill Farley came around the counter and shouted, “What are you doing?”
“Shut up!” the man said, waving the knife above his head, which sent people scurrying down the aisles in search of a safe haven.
I didn’t know what to do. I stood frozen in place. I saw that Kathy was all right. I considered trying to reach an aisle or ducking beneath the table. But before I could do anything, the man came to me, parting those who were still standing there with their books for me to sign. He held the knife in one hand, the canvas bag in the other. The blade was pointed straight at me.
“Sir,” I said, “why don’t you put down that knife and—”
“Shut up!”
I obeyed.
He slammed the canvas bag down on the table, sending copies of my books flying in all directions. The hand holding the knife began to shake as he reached inside the bag, withdrew a copy of my new book, and slapped it down in front of me.
I know it sounds silly, but the only thing I could think of to say at that moment was, “Would you like me to sign that?”
He seemed as surprised at what I’d said as I was. His eyes darted back and forth, and he started to say something, but no words emerged.
“Please, put down the knife,” I said, taking advantage of the momentary emotional lull.
“You stole it,” he managed to say.
“What?”
He pointed to my book. “You stole it from me.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“I gave you the idea for it,” he said in a voice that sounded on the verge of breaking.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“I sent you the idea,” he said. “You stole it from me.”
My mind raced. He was clearly demented. I searched my memory for having had some contact with him in the past, something to make sense out of what he’d just charged.
“The whole story was mine,” he said. “I told you about it, and you said it was a good idea but that you were already writing something just like it.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t remember anything like that. You must be mistaken.”
The moment I said it, I was hit with a recollection of an e-mail exchange I’d had almost two years ago with someone who’d suggested an idea for one of my books. In the hundreds of e-mails I receive each month on my Web site, there is occasionally one that offers an idea for a plot or a setting. The people who send them mean well and are trying to be helpful and to interact with the writer’s creative process. Every writer who receives such suggestions is aware, of course, of the possibility that one day a novel might parallel in some small way an idea put forward by a fan, and that that fan could decide that his or her idea was “stolen.” It simply doesn’t happen. Successful writers don’t have any need or inclination to steal the ideas of others.
The man brandishing a knife in front of me obviously didn’t believe that.
“California,” the man said. “It was my idea to set the book in California.”
My recollection of the e-mail exchange was clearer now. I’d received a message through my Web site from someone who thought that I should set one of my novels in California. Obviously, this was that person. As I recalled, he wasn’t more specific than that. Just California. Had I replied to him? I was sure that I had. I personally answer every e-mail. What had I said in my reply? I’d undoubtedly thanked him for the suggestion and indicated that I was already at work on a book set in California.
Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote) Page 4
