Manhattans & Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Awful early to be callin’, isn’t it, Jess?”

  “I know, and I apologize, but I had to. Seth, have you heard what happened to me yesterday?”

  “Happened to you? Haven’t heard a thing.”

  “There hasn’t been news there about the murder I witnessed?”

  He was now fully awake. “Run that by me again,” he said.

  I told him as succinctly as possible what had happened to me on Fifth Avenue, and its aftermath. When I finished my capsulized tale, I was met with silence. “Seth? Are you there?”

  “Ayuh, I’m here. Waldo Morse? Sure, I remember him. I remember even better him gettin’ involved with drug pushers from down south. You sure it was him?”

  “Positive.”

  “You say they claim you took pictures of it?”

  “Yes. Because I did. I have the roll of film in my camera.”

  He groaned. “Don’t talk about things like that on the phone, Jess. You should know better.”

  “You asked, Seth and ...”

  “Let’s get off that subject,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing. No, not true. I received a mysterious message. It came through my publisher. The caller, who didn’t give his name, said that Joe Charles would know.”

  “Know what?”

  “I don’t know, but the name is familiar. Maybe it has something to do with Waldo’s murder. Maybe not. Does the name Joe Charles mean anything to you?”

  “Nope, but I’ll give it some good thought once I’m showered and garbed up. Got plenty of time to do that this particular mornin’.”

  I didn’t apologize again because there was an unmistakable chuckle in his voice. I said, “I really would appreciate that, Seth. I’ll be out all morning, but I’ll be back here this afternoon. I might check into a hotel.”

  “Don’t do that, Jess. Better to be with friends at a time like this.”

  “Yes, I know but ...”

  “You listen to me, Jessica Fletcher. I’ve never steered you wrong. You stay away from those New York City hotels. Heah?”

  I smiled. “Yes, I hear. I’m signing books this morning at a store that specializes in murder mysteries, and I have a radio interview at eleven. I don’t think I have a lunch appointment, so I’ll be back here at noon, maybe a little later. If you come up with anything about Joe Charles, call me. If you get the answering machine, leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

  “I hate those answering machines, and you know it. I always hang up on ’em.”

  “Don’t hang up on this one. Thank you, Seth. You’re a dear.”

  Talking to him had a medicinal effect on me. I quickly fell asleep, only to be awakened at six by Olga’s rap on my door. I wasn’t due at the store until nine-thirty. “Sorry to get you up so early, Jess, but the number of calls that came in during the night is overwhelming. The doorman says there are at least thirty members of the press downstairs and an even bigger crowd watching them.”

  “Oh, goodness, what have I gotten me—and you—into?”

  She smiled broadly. “Don’t worry about it. Things were getting dull around here anyway. Come, have some breakfast.”

  The limousine provided by Buckley House was waiting in front of the Dakota. Ruth Lazzara, more ebullient than she’d been on the previous day—if that were possible—sat inside. On her lap were a half-dozen copies of the Post. She said before I even had a chance to fully enter the limo, “Fantastic! You are amazing, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “I didn’t do anything except have the misfortune of witnessing a murder.”

  “But how perfect. The world’s most famous mystery writer being the key witness in a sensational killing.”

  I wanted to debate the issue but decided not to bother. Each person has his or her private prism through which events are refracted. This young woman was charged by her publisher with getting maximum publicity for its authors. The fact that this bonanza was the result of a tragic circumstance meant little. As the old saying goes, “Say what you want, but spell my name right.”

  If I’d been impressed by the line of people waiting for my previous book signing, this. morning’s crowd was staggering. Hundreds of people milled about outside Dastardly Acts, a small bookstore specializing in books about murder and other antisocial behavior. Joining them was a caravan of media vehicles that followed us from the Dakota, including a car containing the Post reporter who had started all the hoopla, Bobby Johnson. He’d shaved, and wore a suit and tie this morning. His celebrity status had obviously risen along with mine.

  Ruth and I were ushered into the store by the owner, Winston Whitlock, and two uniformed private security guards. Once safely inside, Mr. Whitlock, a tall, skeletal man with white hair and gray cheeks, and wearing a string tie whose clip was a copper disc on which was etched “MURDER PAYS,” said anxiously, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to cancel this, Mrs. Fletcher. The crowd is too big. There’s no way we can assure your safety and the security of our customers.”

  “I hope you realize this was not my intention,” I said. “I looked forward to a quiet book signing in this lovely shop.”

  “I know, but that’s all a thing of the past.” Ruth said, “Why cancel? This is the best thing that could ever happen to this store. How many copies of Mrs. Fletcher’s new book do you have?”

  The manager shrugged. “Fifty, I think.”

  “Where’s the phone?” Ruth asked. Whitlock pointed to his desk. She dialed a number and said in a semi-hysterical voice, “We need two hundred copies of Fletcher’s book for the signing at Dastardly Acts. Get a messenger. Bring them yourself. Just get them here.”

  “I think Mr. Whitlock is right,” I said.

  Ruth hung up. ‘I’ll make that decision, Mrs. Fletcher.“ Before I could respond, she said to Whitlock, “If you’re concerned about security, hire more guards. Buckley House will pay for them.”

  Whitlock looked at me in confusion, then told an assistant to call the security firm and order more men.

  “Perhaps I should just leave and ...”

  Ruth responded by taking my elbow and moving me to a table that had been set up for the autographing. “Why don’t you just sit down, Mrs. Fletcher, and start signing books.”

  My expression reminded her that I didn’t sign books ahead of time. “All right, sit and make yourself comfortable.” To the manager, she said, “Could you get Mrs. Fletcher coffee, maybe some Danish.”

  I said I wasn’t hungry.

  One of the guards stationed at the front door came to where Whitlock was perched on the edge of the table next to me. “Sir, the police are here.”

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Whitlock said, his voice flighty, his hands flapping in the air as though he wanted to fly south.

  “It’s a detective named Rizzi. He wants to talk to Mrs. Fletcher.”

  I looked up at him. “Detective Rizzi. I intended to speak with him today. This would be as good a time as any.”

  The guard ignored my words and looked to the man who was paying him. “Let him in,” Whitlock said, abject despair in his voice.

  Rizzi came through the door with another man, a much taller and more corpulent detective wearing a green raincoat. I stood. “Good morning, Detective Rizzi.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. This is Detective Ryan.”

  “Good morning to you, Detective Ryan. Would you like coffee?”

  Ms. Lazzara interjected, looking at her watch, “Could we make this quick? We’re due to start autographing in ten minutes.”

  “Who are you?” Rizzi asked.

  “This is Ms. Lazzara. She’s in charge of publicity for my new book.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think there’s going to be any autographing today.” Rizzi looked directly at me. “Mrs. Fletcher, we want you to come downtown with us.”

  “I intended to do that later in the day. I have a number of questions I’d like answered.”

  Rizzi and Ryan looked at each other. “You hav
e questions to ask us. I think it’s the other way around, Mrs. Fletcher. You’re a material witness to a murder.”

  I suppose my face mirrored everything I was thinking. His expression didn’t change, however, nor did that of his colleague. I said haughtily, “I am well aware that I was a witness to a murder. I came forward, which is more than I can say for anyone else who was there. I actually had to pursue you in order to give you my name and where I was staying. You were totally disinterested. Now you come in here and announce to me that I am a material witness, as though you had to track me down. Are you about to arrest me?”

  Rizzi winced. “Calm down, Mrs. Fletcher. It was a busy day, people getting zipped all over town. Anyway, I didn’t know who you were. I don’t read much, but my wife, Emily, reads all the time. She saw the Post story and got excited. She says you’re one of the best mystery writers in the world.”

  “That’s flattering, Detective, but I don’t know what it has to do with your change in attitude about my being a witness.”

  “It has nothing to do with it. Just come with us.”

  I shrugged at Ruth and Whitlock.

  “The signing will only take an hour,” Ruth said. “Surely, you can allow her that.”

  “I got my orders,” Rizzi said.

  I said to the others, “Sorry, but I think I have to go with the gentlemen.”

  “This is outrageous!” Ruth said. “Give me your name and badge number.”

  Rizzi winced again, an expression I was to see often over the ensuing days. “You, too?” he said to Ruth. He mumbled his name and number.

  As I started to put on my coat, Rizzi said, “Before we go, maybe you could sign one of your books to Emily. Make it to Emily and her mother, Mrs. Wilson.”

  “The nerve,” Ruth said.

  “You certainly do have a different approach to things, Detective,” I said, picking up a copy of my book, opening it, and writing: “To Emily and Mrs. Wilson.” Under it I scribbled, “It must be very exciting having a New York City detective in the family.” I signed and handed it to him. He muttered a form of thanks and led me from the store.

  The crowds had swelled outside. Bobby Johnson, the Post reporter, was right up front. “Mrs. Fletcher. Where are you going?” he yelled.

  “To police headquarters, I think I’m being detained, if not arrested.” I added, “Thanks to you and your story.”

  Johnson ignored my comment and asked the detectives where they were taking me. They didn’t answer. Ryan held open the back door of an unmarked car.

  Ruth came running from the store and shouted, “Don’t forget the interview at eleven.” She shoved a piece of paper with the address of the radio station through the partially opened rear window. I dropped it to the floor. Somehow, I knew that particular radio show would be minus one guest that morning. Hopefully, the host was comfortable with soliloquizing.

  Chapter Eight

  The few individuals who end up in Morton Metzger’s Cabot Cove police headquarters are usually impressed with how clean and cheerful it is. Of course, it doesn’t get a great deal of use—an occasional drunk given a cell in which to sleep it off, an out-of-state motorist speeding through town and demonstrating too much big-city bravado for Morton’s taste, or occasionally someone who’s committed a more serious crime like poaching blueberries. Or murder.

  The police headquarters to which I was taken by detectives Rizzi and Ryan looked as though it had been created by a Hollywood set designer for a documentary on poverty. Pea green walls hadn’t been painted in years, and what paint was left hung in flaky sheets. The furniture was battered and scarred, and the windows were dirty to the extent that I couldn’t see through them. A heavy, pungent cloud of tobacco, body odor, and urine hung palpably over everything. Most disconcerting, at least for me, was the noise level. Back home, Sheriff Metzger plays tapes he’s made from his collection of Kostelanetz and Montovani recordings, which he claims is the largest in Maine. But there was no music in this New York City precinct. Dozens of people milled about, all yelling at each other. A long wooden bench was crammed with men and women under arrest and waiting to be processed. They looked as though the predicament wasn’t new to them or, in some cases, even unpleasant.

  I wished I were somewhere else.

  “Come on, Mrs. Fletcher, we can talk better in one of the interview rooms.”

  Interview? Interesting genteel euphemism for interrogation, or grilling. No matter. I was relieved to enter the room and have the door close behind me; the outside din was muffled by half.

  “Have a seat, Mrs. Fletcher,” Rizzi said. He picked up the phone and said, “Get in here!” Minutes later a young female uniformed officer appeared carrying a courtroom stenographer’s machine. She didn’t acknowledge me, nor I her.

  “Make yourself at home,” Rizzi said to me.

  Make myself at home, I thought. Not easy to do in such surroundings. I pulled out a wooden chair with one arm missing and sat in it. It was uncomfortable not because the arm was missing, or because the seat was hard, but because it seemed to lean forward. “I think the legs on this chair are broken,” I said.

  Rizzi uttered what might be characterized as a laugh. “The front legs are cut off an inch, Mrs. Fletcher. Keeps suspects leaning forward and off-balance.”

  “Am I sitting in this chair because I am a suspect ?” I asked.

  “You didn’t whack Santa Claus.”

  “You’re quite right, Detective Rizzi. I did not ‘whack’ Santa Claus. Now, could we get to the point of bringing me here? I intended to call you today and arrange for a time to meet, but you usurped that prerogative.”

  “Whatever you say, Mrs. Fletcher.” Rizzi sat in his own shaky chair across the table from me. “Let’s see the pictures.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The pictures, Mrs. Fletcher. I can read. The Post says you took pictures of the murder. I’d like to have them.” I started to say something but he quickly added, “Strike that, Mrs. Fletcher. I want them.”

  He sounded like he meant it. I still didn’t want to turn over the roll of film until I’d had a chance to have it developed, which I intended to do that day. I’d pushed a little button on my camera that allowed met to rewind the film before the roll was finished and had placed it in my purse. I smiled. “Detective Rizzi, I’m surprised that someone in your position would believe everything they read in the press, especially a paper like the Post.”

  “Nothin’ wrong with the Post, Mrs. Fletcher. I suppose you’re the Times and Wall Street Journal type.”

  “I read those papers, but I wouldn’t classify myself as a ‘type.’ ” I waited. The stenographer looked up and waited, too. Rizzi was slumped in his chair, his chin on his breastbone, his dark eyes looking at me from beneath heavy brows. He said in a gruff voice without raising his chin, “Mrs. Fletcher, finita la commedia.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” I said.

  “It means the game is up. The farce is over. You don’t speak Italian?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yeah, well, I forget a lot of it because I’m not married to an Italian woman, but when I visit my mother, she talks Italian and some of it sticks. By the way, thanks for the book for Emily. She’ll really appreciate it, probably send you a note. She likes writing notes to people.”

  “That’s a nice trait.”

  “Yeah, I suppose it is. The film, Mrs. Fletcher. Where is it?”

  While the sparring had been almost enjoyable, I also knew that the time for bantering was over. As much as I wanted to have the film developed myself, I decided I was asking for big trouble by continuing to withhold it. “All right,” I said. “I never intended to not give you the prints. I wanted a chance to see them first. Obviously,! won’t be able to do that.” I opened my purse and reached in. The roll of film did not immediately fall under my fingers, and I began to rummage. When that didn’t produce a result, I opened the bag wide and used my eyes, as well as my fingers. Nothing. It wasn’t there.


  “Something wrong, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Yes. I put the film in this purse last night. It seems to be missing.”

  “Missing? What did it do, develop itself and take a walk?”

  “No, I don’t think it did that. I can’t explain it, but I did take the roll of film from my camera last night and put it in this purse. I could not be mistaken about that.”

  He narrowed his eyes and snorted.

  I shrugged and extended my hands. “I’m not lying to you. The film was here. Now it isn’t, and I am as distressed as you are.”

  “Don’t count on it, Mrs. Fletcher. This is a serious matter. I could charge you with withholding state’s evidence.”

  “But I didn’t do anything with the evidence. I’m trying to be cooperative, but the film simply isn’t here.”

  He expelled an impatient, exaggerated sigh. “Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, we’ll skip the photographs for now and get a statement from you about what you saw yesterday.”

  My personal debate over telling the police of what I knew about Waldo Morse now turned into an internal shouting match. I was on thin ice and knew it. Rizzi had been pleasant enough, but I didn’t harbor any illusions that he couldn’t—wouldn’t—turn tougher if he thought I was playing games. I had to be honest.

  “Detective Rizzi, I knew the man in the Santa Claus costume who was killed.”

  I’d gotten his attention. He sat up straight, leaned forward, elbows on the table, and opened his eyes wide. “Is that so, Mrs. Fletcher? Suppose you tell me more about that.”

  It was my turn to sigh. I sat back as best I could and collected my thoughts. “The victim’s name was Waldo Morse.”

  “Morse? That’s not what his ID said.”

  “No, I’m sure it didn’t. You see, Waldo Morse grew up in Cabot Cove, the town in Maine where I’ve lived for a long time. He was a lobster fisherman in Ogunquit until he was accused of using his boat to help smuggle drugs into New England. He became a witness for federal authorities in return for being taken into the witness protection program. I hadn’t seen or heard of him since that happened, which is at least ten years ago. Then, as I was walking down Fifth Avenue, I thought I recognized the Santa Claus. I was right. It was Waldo. What name was he carrying on his identification?”