Manhattans & Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked.

  “If you want to continue this conversation, Mrs. Fletcher, come out there tomorrow for lunch. I’ll feel more comfortable there.”

  I started to protest. My schedule was full through Christmas. More book signings. Interviews. A Christmas Eve party at the Buckleys’. And, of course, spending time with my Cabot Cove friends, Seth and Morton.

  “Waldo, I really can’t leave the city. Why not continue the conversation right here? No one knows I’m here. I certainly didn’t tell anyone. In fact, I lied about where I was going this afternoon.”

  His response was, “I’ll be at Gallagher’s at noon tomorrow.”

  I watched him disappear down the stairs, sat back, and sighed, staring at the tabletop. My good intentions of removing myself from Waldo’s twisted life now seemed distant and feeble. I looked around the reading room. I’ve never considered myself a paranoid person but at that moment, every person, every thing looked suspicious, posed a threat. Waldo had rubbed off on me. That cold realization prompted me to leave the library and to slowly wander back to the hotel, the holiday street scenes and festive windows obscured by the black, murky thoughts that enveloped me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  By the time I completed the short walk back to the hotel, my somber mood had been replaced by fiery determination. Things had gone far enough —the furtive meetings, the disguises (including my own comical getup), people supposedly dead and then showing up alive, the shadowy world of the witness protection program and everything else that intruded upon what was supposed to have been a pleasant bit of book promoting, and deck the halls with boughs of holly in New York City.

  The minute I got to my suite, I called the room shared by Seth and Morton. Morton answered. He sounded groggy. He had obviously been taking a nap, although he would never admit that. He was one of those people who considered midday naps to be, at best, a sign of weakness and sloth.

  “Wake you?” I asked pleasantly.

  “No. It’s the middle of the day.”

  “Yes. Well, Mort, I want you to do me a big favor.”

  “Anything you say, Jess.”

  “Did you notice the name of the moving company that was at Nancy Morse’s house the day we were there?”

  “Can’t say that I did,” he replied. “But I did take note it was from Portland.”

  “Splendid. Would you be a dear and call every moving company in Portland?”

  “Might be quite a few, Jess.”

  “I know, but this is important. Even urgent. I seem to remember seeing North American Van Lines on the truck. It must be a Portland mover licensed to represent that national company.”

  “That’d narrow it down some,” he said.

  “Use your law enforcement credentials to find out where the movers took Nancy. And by the way, Mort, don’t worry about long-distance charges on your room bill. Buckley House will pay for it.”

  I was about to make the second call on my mental list when the phone rang. “Jessica Fletcher?” The operator had a distinctly British accent. I confirmed. “Please hold for Inspector Sutherland.” Moments later, a delightful Scottish brogue said, “Jessica, George Sutherland here.”

  “How wonderful to hear your voice, George. What time is it in London?”

  “Bedtime.”

  “How in the world did you find me? I mean, I’m in New York publicizing my latest book—things distinctly not literary have been happening—”

  He laughed knowingly. “So I’ve been reading. From what I gather, you’re up to your neck in nasty business again. Murder, they say.”

  “Make that plural. I could use a distinguished Scotland Yard inspector at my side to help sort things out. But how did you—?”

  “Find you? Elementary, my dear Jessica. You told me that whenever you visit New York you stay at this Sheraton-Park Avenue Hotel. A jewel in Manhattan, you said.”

  “You have a good memory. Actually, I started out staying with my publisher and his wife but moved here when the fur started to fly, as the saying goes.”

  “Wish I could accommodate you, Jessica. Being at your side. But that’s out of the question.” I hurriedly indicated that I was engaging only in wishful thinking. He said, “I’m leaving first thing in the morning for home. The holidays and all.”

  Home for George Sutherland was a tiny village at the northernmost tip of Scotland, a town called Wick. He’d been born there and, as he explained when we first met in London, his family had left him a castle of sorts overlooking a body of water called Pentland Firth. “Barren and desolate,” he’d told me over tea at Brown’s Hotel, but equally beautiful and inspiring. “Time Jessica Fletcher planned a visit to Wick,” he’d written on a few occasions. The temptation was great, the time impossible to find. But one day ...

  “Can I be of any long-distance help?” he asked.

  “Not unless you know something about our witness protection program.”

  “Afraid I can’t help you there. Oh, now, wait a sec. Let me back up a minute. I met a chap when attending your FBI’s international conference on criminal investigative techniques. As I recall, his area of expertise was that witness program. Want his name?”

  “Please.” I wrote “William Tomic” on a pad. George even had his direct dial number in Washington.

  I thanked him for the information.

  “When are you visiting us again, Jessica?”

  “Just as soon as my schedule permits.”

  “Much too vague. We Scots have a saying. Don’t gie me the gunk.”

  “Translation needed.”

  “Don’t disappoint me, Jessica. I be keen o.”

  I smiled. “Yes, I’m fond of you, too.” My eyes became moist. “It was sweet of you to call, George. Have a splendid Christmas at home. We’ll keep in touch.”

  “That we will. And you be careful. Sounds to me like you’re dealing with loutish people. Merry Christmas.”

  I called William Tomic in Washington. After being shunted between operators, he came on the line. “What a pleasure receiving a call from Jessica Fletcher,” he said. “I’ve read all your books. At least I think I have.”

  “Including the new one?” I asked.

  “Not yet. But now that you’ve called, I’ll hightail it to my nearest bookstore.”

  “No need,” I said. “I’ll be happy to send you one.”

  “Autographed?”

  “Of course.”

  With that bit of business out of the way, I told him I was doing research for my next work and needed to know a little about how the Federal Witness Protection Program worked.

  “Shoot,” he said.

  “Is it possible for someone in that program to decide to leave it?”

  “Sure, but only if the person is crazy enough to surface after having turned state’s evidence. Not an especially healthy thing to do.”

  “I would imagine,” I said. “I’m creating a plot in which someone in the program decides to leave, and then becomes an informant for local police. Is that reasonable?”

  He paused. “Yes. I’ve personally known a few who’ve done that.”

  “Why would anyone do that?” I asked.

  “A couple of reasons. Tired of the clandestine life and wanting to get back into the mainstream. Family considerations. But mostly, money is the motivator.”

  “Uh-huh. When someone goes into the witness protection program, is he paid enough to live well, to support a family?”

  “No. Well, I suppose it depends upon your definition of ‘living well.’ Nobody gets rich in the program, that’s for certain.”

  “But could a person get rich by coming out of the program and turning informant for some law enforcement agency, say the New York City police?” I realized the minute I asked the question that I’d tipped my hand. Tomic’s change of tone confirmed it.

  “You know, Mrs. Fletcher, I’ve been following your escapades since your arrival in New York. Are you sure you’re researching a book,
or trying to get some answers to the murders you’ve witnessed?”

  I had to smile. He didn’t miss much. “Let’s just say a little of both,” I said.

  “Okay. A little of both. To answer your question. Yes, a good informant can make a lot more money than what the Federal Government pays in the program. I’ve known snitches who’ve become millionaires. Of course, that depends upon the quality of the information they provide.”

  “I see. I don’t have any other questions at the moment, but I would appreciate being able to get back to you.”

  “Any time, Mrs. Fletcher.” I took down mailing information to send the book, thanked him again, and hung up.

  I was glad I’d made the call. Obviously, Waldo was being straight with me, at least concerning having left the program and becoming an undercover informant for the New York City police. That was comforting considering all the lies (disinformation is the politically correct term these days) I’d received since this whole affair started.

  The phone rang again. It was the hotel operator informing me that Ms. Lazzara was on her way up to the suite. I was scheduled to be interviewed in twenty minutes by a writer doing an article for Parade. I quickly herded Miss Hiss into the bathroom, gave her a fresh supply of food and water, closed the door, and awaited Ruth’s arrival.

  She was in her usual state of high anxiety, talking fast, hands fluttering like birds in search of a perch. “Parade wants to focus on the Marjorie Ainsworth murder you were involved with in London. Why, I don’t know, but that’s what the writer wants, so we’d better give it to her.”

  “Goodness,” I said, “I’d better spend a few minutes remembering the details of that.”

  “Talk in generalities,” Ruth said, fluffing pillows on the couch. “By the way, Oprah still wants you, and I think I can get Donohue to go with it. Sure you won’t change your mind?”

  I sighed. She certainly was tenacious. “No, I really would prefer not to.”

  “Suit yourself.” As she started to straighten magazines on a glass table next to the couch, I noticed she was poised to toss scraps of paper on which I’d made notes into a basket. “Oh, no,” I said, taking them from her. Included were pages from the yellow legal pad I’d confiscated from Nancy Morse’s house in Cabot Cove. “You don’t happen to have a pencil, do you?” I asked.

  She quickly pulled a ballpoint pen from her purse.

  “No, I need a pencil. An old-fashioned number two lead pencil.”

  “Can’t help you.”

  The phone rang; the writer from Parade had arrived. I put the papers in my purse, placed it in my bedroom closet, and returned to the living room as Ruth opened the door for the writer, Carolyn Dobkin, an older woman wearing a gray suit as severely cut as her gray hair. The interview, which took an hour, was pleasant and went smoothly. But answering questions about the murder of the world’s greatest mystery writer, Marjorie Ainsworth, whom I was privileged to have befriended and in whose English manor house I was unfortunate to have been a guest the night she was murdered, was both pleasurable and painful. It turned out Ms. Dobkin had written a book analyzing Ainsworth’s writings. Small wonder she wanted to focus upon that.

  After Dobkin had left, Ruth went over my schedule for that evening and the following day. I was to be a guest at an agent-author cocktail party at the Mercantile Library hosted by the New York chapter of the Mystery Writers of America. Immediately following that was another party for Buckley House’s sales force, which, Vaughan had impressed upon me, was perhaps the most useful group I would meet while in New York. And then there was dinner— another dinner—this one with the head of a German publishing conglomerate that had recently purchased a major stake in Buckley House.

  The following day, Christmas Eve, was no less hectic. A morning book signing, lunch with the head buyer from Bames & Noble, a couple of interviews in the afternoon, and then Christmas Eve with the Buckleys at their Dakota apartment.

  “You’ll have to cancel the lunch,” I said.

  “I can’t do that, Jessica.”

  “Sorry, but if I don’t spend a couple of hours finishing up Christmas shopping, I’m going to have some very disappointed people back home. As it is, I can’t get the gifts to them in time for Christmas, but at least I can call with conviction to tell them presents are on their way. Please, I’ve been cooperative, I think. Do me this favor.”

  Ruth exhibited a rare smile, nodded, put her hand on my shoulder, and said, “Of course. I’ve dealt with a lot of authors. You are undoubtedly the best I’ve ever worked with. Do your shopping.”

  Her words warmed me. Of course, I wasn’t being truthful about my reason for canceling the luncheon. I’d decided to head for the small town on Long Island to meet Waldo Morse. Call it throwing good money after bad. Call it an obsession. Call it what you will. He’d asked for my help in finding Nancy and the children. If anything happened to them and I hadn’t expended every effort, I’d have trouble living with myself.

  “Ready for the mystery writers’ party?” Ruth asked.

  “I will be in a few minutes. I brought a special red dress with me to wear over the holidays. I think it would be perfect for tonight, provided it still fits after all these meals you’ve insisted I eat. Give me ten minutes.”

  I rejoined her in the living room wearing the dress which, strangely, seemed to have shrunk an inch.

  “You look lovely,” Ruth said. “Come on, time to head out.”

  I was closing the door behind me when I heard the phone ring. We looked at each other. “Should I?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “They’ll take a message. We’re running late.”

  I decided on the ride down in the elevator to stop at the desk to see who the most recent caller had been. But by the time we reached the lobby, I’d forgotten about it. Had I stopped, I would have been handed this message written by the operator:

  Nancy Morse called.

  Urgent she speak with you.

  Will call again.

  Left no number.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I’d never been so disappointed in my life,” said one of the hundreds of guests at the Mystery Writers of America’s cocktail party. “Marjorie had promised to personally accept her Edgar Award. It was the best-attended awards dinner we’d ever had. And then she sent that telegram at absolutely the final, last minute expressing her regrets. Did she ever tell you, Jessica, the real reason she didn’t attend? I mean, after all, you were so close to her.”

  “No. I don’t recall her saying anything about it,” I replied.

  I’d been on the receiving end of countless questions about Marjorie Ainworth, the acknowledged grande dame of the murder mystery genre unless, of course, you belonged to the Agatha Christie school.

  “At least Agatha shared herself with her public,” said one of those.

  I was surrounded by a dozen people, most of them authors, a few agents. Discerning the difference didn’t depend upon the different-colored badges they wore. The variation in dress was sufficient. The agents tended to wear business suits. The writers dressed like—well, like writers.

  “Marjorie was a quintessential recluse,” I said, slightly annoyed that I’d been put in the position of having to defend my dear departed friend. “Excuse me,” I said.

  My agent, Russ Checkett, had just arrived. I was delighted, relieved, and somewhat surprised to see him. He’d returned that afternoon from an extended stay in Czechoslovakia where he’d conferred with his newest client, a Nobel Prize—winning novelist. The fatigue on his face testified to his lack of sleep. “Russ,” I said above the drone of party blatherskite.

  He gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Holding up?” he asked.

  “Better than you, I would say. You look exhausted.”

  “Getting a little too old for this kind of frenetic globe-trotting,” he said. “Buy you a drink?”

  “A little white wine.”

  He returned from the bar with my wine and a large, amber Black Lab
el on-the-rocks for himself.

  “Frankly, you’ve arrived in the nick of time,” I said. “Like the cavalry. If people aren’t asking me about Marjorie Ainsworth, they all seem to have ideas for a locked-room mystery to out-Poe Poe.”

  Russ laughed and clinked his glass against mine. “I’ve been out of touch, but the office has kept me up-to-speed about what’s been going on with you. My secretary says you’ve single-handedly boosted the Manhattan murder rate above the national average.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t put it that way,” I said. “But yes, it has been an interesting visit. Vaughan and his people are delighted, I suppose, at the publicity. I could do without it.”

  “Could we grab a couple of quiet minutes?” Russ asked. “I need to talk to you, but don’t know how long I’ll last.”

  “You’re a real trouper, Russ, to be here after being on an airplane all night.”

  “All part of the service to my favorite author.” He led me by the elbow to a relatively quiet corner of the room. “So, tell me about this new book of yours,” he said.

  My face reflected my puzzlement. “What new book? I haven’t started it yet. I don’t even have a plot.”

  His was a skeptical smile. “As I understand it, the plot has already been written for you.”

  “What are you saying to me?” I asked.

  “That I think it’s a wonderful idea for you to do a true-crime book based on your experiences in New York.”

  “But I—”

  “It could be a blockbuster, Jessica. The world’s most famous mystery writer turns to solving real crime. I love it.”

  Bobby Johnson!

  Russ confirmed it. “My only concern is to what extent this Bobby Johnson from the Post can contribute to the work. It’s your name that will sell the book. But we can’t brush him off. After all, he did contact the office. And the proposal was pretty good.”

  “Proposal?”

  “Yes. Surely you’ve seen it. I was impressed with its thoroughness. He’s a good writer.”

  “And the proposal is for a book by Mr. Johnson and me, sharing authorship?”