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.”
Chapter 6
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.
She giggled. “I’m expecting someone to say, ‘Smile. You’re on Candid Camera.’ ”
I took her seriously for a moment and glanced over my shoulder.
“I can’t believe I’m having dinner with Jessica Fletcher,” she said. “I’ve read some of your books. In fact, I’m reading one now. She pulled a paperback edition of one of my earlier works from her handbag. ”I travel a lot. That’s why I always buy paperbacks. Lighter to carry.” She said it apologetically, as though there was something sinful about not buying hardcover editions of my books.
“I prefer paperbacks, too, when traveling,” I said.
She became outwardly more formal, and sat erect in her chair. “I love your writing. I aspire to write like you. I can’t believe we’ll be having dinner together. This is a wonderful surprise.”
“Consider the privilege mine. It’s not every night I get to dine with a relative.”
We both laughed.
“Are you on vacation?” I asked.
“No. I’m here as part of a travel writers’ press trip to cover a conference sponsored by the Tourism Board. The conference doesn’t kick off until tomorrow. Most of the other writers won’t arrive until then. I decided to come a day early to give myself time to explore a little. And, between you and me, to find some time to relax. Press trips can be grueling. They schedule activities every minute of the day. The better ones try to work in some free time, but that’s usually taken up returning phone calls back to the office, and going over my notes.”
“A grind that probably seems like nothing but pure fun to onlookers,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“Sounds like a fascinating job to me. Do you work for a particular magazine or newspaper?”
“I’m senior editor at a trade magazine called Travel Agent Magazine back in New York. It’s written for travel agents and travel consortiums. I usually write about hotels, but they sent me down here to cover the conference. I suppose I’ll do a story on Diamond Reef as well. Actually, I’d like to do a story on Lover’s Lagoon Inn next door. We get the word there’s an investigation going on. I know the man who owns it, Walter Marschalk. He used to be a travel writer. A big-time one. I’ve been on a lot of press trips with him.”
Although I count promptness among my virtues, I also admit to my failings. One of them is a tendency to not be completely truthful when wanting to learn something from a stranger. Not that I lie outright. It’s just that I withhold certain information in order to gain the confidence of the other person, and to promote candor. That’s why I didn’t mention, at least at that moment, that I was Walter and Laurie Marschalk’s personal friend. But I would tell Jennifer I was staying at Lover’s Lagoon Inn, and did.
“How is it?” she asked.
“Extraordinary. Everything about it is exceptional.”
“That’s some endorsement.”
We both looked up at a young man belonging to a voice that said, “Hello, Jennifer.”
“Fred!” She was obviously surprised to see him. “I thought you weren’t making this trip. When did you arrive?”
“I changed my mind. A few minutes ago. You could invite me to sit down.”
Jennifer didn’t respond. She didn’t seem overly pleased at seeing
this young man. I would have thought she’d have been delighted. She might have been initially impressed with my celebrity, but I assumed would prefer the company of a handsome man her age.
Or younger. Fred was no older than thirty. He was beach-bum blond, handsome, tanned, and well-built, with watery pale blue eyes. Most striking to me, however, was the cruelty in those eyes. If not cruelty, a discernable lack of compassion and spark. Like so many young men these days, always brooding, pondering Lord knows what. Closed and guarded, as though to openly express emotion might prove fatal.
“Fred Capehart, this is Jessica Fletcher,” Jennifer said.
“Hi,” he said. “Fletcher? Same name as Jennifer.”
“Yes. It caused some confusion when I—” I knew he wouldn’t be interested and didn’t bother finishing the story. “Been next door yet?” he asked Jennifer.
Next door? Lover’s Lagoon Inn?
“No,” she said coldly.
“I’m impressed. How could you stay away from him so long?”
Jennifer’s tightly pursed lips testified to her anger. She turned and stared at the ceiling.
I surmised the “him” to which Fred Capehart had referred was Walter Marschalk, but I didn’t indicate that. I simply said, “Jennifer and I were discussing Lover’s Lagoon when you arrived, Fred. Have you been there?”
He’d ignored me until I asked the question. Now, he turned and said to me, “I wouldn’t waste my time.”
“It’s very nice. I’m staying there.”
He turned to Jennifer. “Let’s get out of here.”
“You’re being rude, Fred.”
“Perhaps I should—” I started to say.
“This is Jessica Fletcher, the famous mystery writer,” Jennifer said.
His response was to glance at me, then return his attention to Jennifer.
“I think I’ll leave you two alone for the evening,” I said, picking up my bag from the floor.
“Please don’t go,” Jennifer said.
“No, I’m in the mood for something light from room service. A good book and early to bed. It was nice meeting you, Jennifer. I hope to see you again.”
Fred reacted to my standing by getting up, too. “It was nice meeting you.”
“Have a nice evening.”
I paused at the manager’s podium on my way out and looked back at the table. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but their body language shouted that they weren’t exchanging words of endearment. “What a boring young man,” I mumbled to myself as I went to the patio where dozens of couples danced to that evening’s musical entertainment. It was a brilliantly clear night. The moon was full; it appeared to be ten times larger than when viewed in Cabot Cove.
I was disappointed that Jennifer and I had been interrupted. I liked her, and had looked forward to a pleasant conversation. Perhaps an illuminating conversation, too. She obviously knew Walter Marschalk pretty well, and was aware of the controversy that had erupted over his inn. I’d meant what I’d said when leaving the table. I did want to speak with her again, and would make a point of seeking her out.
I was about to leave the patio and head for my villa when Diamond Reefs general manager, Mark Dobson, called my name and approached on his crutches. “Good evening, Mr. Dobson.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher. Decided to visit us again?”
To seek asylum from Lover’s Lagoon Inn? I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. “Just taking a stroll,” I said.
“Feel like dinner? My treat.”
“Thank you, no. I was just—no, I’m planning a quiet night in my villa. I’ll have something sent up.»
“The invitation’s always there, Mrs. Fletcher. Read the paper today?”
“About Walter Marschalk and the charges against him? Yes, I did.”
“He’s in a lot of trouble.”
“He’s been accused of something, that’s all,” I said. “Accusations are easy. Proving them is something else.”
Dobson laughed. “Oh, they’ll prove it, Mrs. Fletcher, because the accusations are true. Trust me.”
“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” I said.
“Just your typical, run-of-the-mill St. Thomas night,” he said. “A drink? At least let me buy you a drink.”
“Thanks, but not tonight. Have a nice evening.”
I returned to my villa and ordered a Caesar salad, rolls, and tea. A pervasive, free-floating anxiety settled over me. I was as fidgety as an ant, couldn’t sit still. I tried reading but lost interest in the book, a first novel by a young woman from Maine who delved into her heroine’s passage into adulthood too deeply for my taste. I’d started another when dinner arrived. Thomas, as unfailingly pleasant and courteous as ever, set me up on the terrace where I ate to the accompaniment of steel drums from Diamond Reef, with vocals provided by my resident tree frogs.
I thought the food and hot tea might relax me sufficiently to induce a sound sleep. It didn’t happen. My body was tired from all the walking that day in Charlotte Amalie, but my mind was racing. I reread the article about Walter and the charges he’d bribed island Senator Bobby Jensen to acquire Lover’s Lagoon. I didn’t want to believe it. Walter was a good friend, and I counted Laurie among my favorite people. Still, otherwise nice people sometimes do not do very nice things, especially when driven in pursuit of a goal, in this case the splendiferous lagoon that was only a hundred yards from where I sat.
And I hadn’t been to it yet. I went to the edge of the terrace and looked down to where it shimmered in the moonlight like black plastic. I checked my watch. It was a few minutes before midnight. A long day. Maybe it would be better to visit the lagoon in the morning, in the daylight, take my coffee there and enjoy a relaxing hour on the beach. But I couldn’t resist.
I slipped into my sandals, draped a light sweater over my shoulders, and stepped outside, inhaling the lush scent of pink oleanders, whose hedges defined the small plot of grass in front of my villa. I found the beginning of a narrow dirt path lined with coconut palms and started down. It wasn’t lighted very well but didn’t have to be. The moon provided ample illumination.
I looked back. Everything was quiet at the main house, and in the villas; the only sign that I was not alone outside was a couple holding hands as they crossed the restaurant terrace and entered the inn.
I continued down the gentle slope in the direction of the lagoon, pausing at a point where the dirt path became an equally narrow brick walkway. It was so quiet and peaceful that I could have suffered sensory deprivation. The feeling of isolation was delicious. We all have a need to be alone at times, but find so few opportunities. Most times, we think we’re alone but aren’t. People may be absent, but the world is always there to intrude.
This was different. I was alone. And I reveled in it.
I reached the slender strip of beach and looked out over the glassy black water. A bird screeched and flew from a tree, its graceful form a fluid silhouette against a sky graced with millions of stars. It had startled me, and I let out an involuntary whoosh of air. I smiled. You never are really alone.
I took off my shoes and wiggled my toes in the talcum powder sand. The water looked inviting, but I wouldn’t have ventured in for a dip even if I had worn my bathing suit. Who knew what lurked below? I’ve always had a reputation for being adventurous, but I pick my adventures carefully. Swimming in strange water, and without a companion, was not one for which I would opt.
I went to the water’s edge and stepped in far enough to cover my bare feet. It was considerably warmer than I’d expected. Still it was refreshing. I slowly meandered the length of the beach, keeping my feet in the water. I felt childlike. And then lonely. What a perfect spot to share with someone. With a lover. Lover’s Lagoon. “Kiss in it, and you’ll enjoy a long and happy life together.” A lovely thought. My thoughts went to George Sutherland, my friend with Scotland Yard in London. We hadn’t had the time in London to get to know each other well. But he had expressed, with awkward charm, warm
feelings for me before I left England for home, and our correspondence had been relatively frequent and personal.
As I continued my aimless stroll, I also thought of my deceased husband. We’d shared many loving moments together in beautiful, exotic places like Lover’s Lagoon. I missed him as strongly at that moment as I did the day he died. I guess that’s what happens when you spend so many happy years with a man. You never stop missing. And hurting, although the hurt finds places to hide as time goes by.
I stopped, looked up at the sky, and said to whomever might be up there, “Thank you for this wonderful life of mine.” I felt a chill, but not because of the temperature. I was chilled with pleasure. The problem of Walter and the charges against him hadn’t accompanied me to the lagoon.
There weren’t any problems down here. I decided I would end each evening on St. Thomas with a walk on this tiny beach because I knew that if I did that, no matter what else might happen, my vacation would be a success.
I had to stop because the beach ended at a bank of trees, beneath which was a low cover of prickly shrubbery. I sensed that another beach continued on the other side but wasn’t accessible except by swimming. I turned to retrace my steps, stopped, lifted my right foot, and examined its sole. I’d stepped on something soft. A jellyfish? Seaweed? Laurie had cautioned me to not step on, or touch certain things on the beach. “They sting,” she’d said. “A few can make you sick.”
I turned my body so as to not block light from the moon, and leaned over to see what had been beneath my foot. It couldn’t be. A hand? A human hand?
And then I saw the body to which the hand was attached. It was half in the water, its lower extremities covered by the low growth. The face was partially submerged, the eyes open wide and looking up. A pool of blood lay on top of the lagoon’s water, the crimson mixture running in and out of the open mouth.
Rum and Razors Page 6
