Rum and Razors

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I would never have thought to put mango in cocktail sauce,” I said. “It adds an unusual flavor. Delicious.”

  “Thanks. That’s what cooking is all about for me. Experimentation. Walter was my best guinea pig. He has—had a good palate. And he was honest. If he didn’t like something I’d concocted, he told me.”

  She told whomever was knocking to come in. It was the assistant manager, a young man named Howard whose light skin testified to mixed parentage. “I really need you, Mrs. Marschalk,” he said after greeting me. “I don’t know how to handle all the calls from the press. New York is on the line, and I have a London journalist on hold.”

  “Looks like I’d better get back in the saddle, Jess.” She got up and dialed for Thomas to remove the lunch table.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “Mind if I stay here awhile and browse your cookbooks?”

  “Be my guest. Take them with you to your room.”

  “I might do that. And remember, Laurie, as long as I’m here I want to be of help.”

  “I certainly won’t forget,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “Funny, but I wish the funeral would take place. Sort of put him, and it to rest in a sense. The police won’t release the body until they’re done investigating.”

  “Will the funeral be back in Cabot Cove?” I asked.

  “No. Walter wanted to be buried right here, near Lover’s Lagoon. I’m checking local ordinances now.”

  She was about to leave when I asked, “What about Mr. Webb, your partner? I understand he flew back to the States early this morning.”

  “Yes, he did.” She opened the door and was gone.

  I was left in the office with thoughts of the day my husband died, a growing list of questions about Walter’s murder, and, of course, the legal papers in my straw bag. I had no business accepting them from the process server. My temptation was to simply lay the envelope on the desk and forget I’d ever seen it. But that would put Laurie in an awkward position. I’d legally taken possession of it, and for a dead man to boot. I had an obligation to do something with the papers. I was being too protective of Laurie, I decided. She appeared to be capable of juggling myriad problems at once. Some silly lawsuit against Walter probably wouldn’t amount to much, not in the overall scope of things.

  I’ve never enjoyed placing myself in moral and ethical quandaries. It can happen so fast. You take a simple action—in this case accepting the envelope from the process server without thinking—and you’re then faced with the ramifications of that simple, well-meaning action.

  I took Maine Cooking down from the shelf, opened it on my lap so that there would be a prop of sorts should Laurie suddenly reappear, removed the envelope from my bag, carefully unsealed it (which was easy since it had come partially open on its own), and removed the papers it contained. I read the first couple of lines twice to make sure I had read them right. I had. My assumption was correct. Walter was being sued.

  By Laurie.

  For a divorce.

  Chapter 9

  I avoided the lobby on the way back to my villa because I didn’t want to confront Laurie. I wasn’t sure I could look her in the eye.

  She obviously knew divorce papers were about to be served upon Walter. Yet she’d made a point of telling me that the marriage was solid, and that it was only business that was suffering. Not that she had any obligation to share with me her marital problems. But considering the circumstances, a modicum of candor would have been appreciated.

  Why hadn’t she put a stop to the service of the papers the minute she knew of Walter’s murder? Probably too late. Even more probable was that she simply never thought of it in the confusion that reigned during the twenty-four hours following the discovery of his body.

  The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me as I poured myself a glass of mango juice from an icy pitcher that had been placed in my room. Whatever Laurie had to pay to institute divorce proceedings against her husband was wasted money. No need for a divorce now. Walter’s death saw to that.

  I also realized that I no longer needed to worry about having intercepted the papers from the process server. Walter’s death saw to that, too.

  I placed the envelope beneath a neat pile of clothing in a dresser drawer. I wasn’t sure what I would eventually do with the envelope and its contents. Probably throw them away. But I didn’t want to do it just yet. There was always the possibility that Laurie would find out I was the one who’d signed for them, and would want them back. In the meantime, they would remain securely in the drawer.

  I was in the midst of changing clothes for my four-o’clock meeting with Jennifer Fletcher at Diamond Reef when the phone rang. “Long distance for you, Mrs. Fletcher,” the inn’s switchboard operator said. “Please hold.” A moment later the familiar voice of Dr. Seth Hazlitt came on the line. “Jessica. Seth here.”

  “Hello, Seth. What a nice surprise.” There was a slight delay on the line, which had us stepping on each others’ words.

  “I just got the news about Walter Marschalk,” he said.

  “Yes,” I sighed. “I should have called you but it’s been hectic here, as you can imagine.”

  “Stories about it everywhere. You were the one who discovered his body?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Throat slit?”

  “Yes.”

  “A razor, they say.”

  “They’re not sure.”

  “And you’re still there.”

  “Of course I’m still here.”

  “Don’t you think, bein’ the smart lady that you are, that it’d be best to scoot right back home here?”

  “I considered that, Seth. But Laurie needs me. Needs someone. She’s trying to cope with her grief, run the inn, handle calls from the press—she needs my help.”

  His silence said much.

  “Seth, are you there?” I asked.

  “Ayah, I’m here. You know, Jessica, I never steered you wrong, did I? Got you through that bad case ’a pneumonia last wintah.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, seems to me you’ve got yourself smack dab in the middle of a dangerous situation. Got a madman with a razor runnin’ about slittin’ people’s throats. Won’t matter to a madman with a razor whether you’re a man or woman. Seems to me you and Laurie oughta nip off back here.”

  “I’ll be coming home the minute I feel Laurie doesn’t need me any longer. Until then—”

  “Jessica, you are some jo-jeezly.”

  “I may be stubborn, Seth, but I am also faithful to my friends. Now stop worrying. What’s new in Cabot Cove?”

  “Been blessed with a bit of a thaw. Spring’s in the air. That’s for sure.”

  “I’m glad. I have an appointment. Got to run. Thanks for calling. Best to everyone.”

  “Jessica.”

  “Yes?”

  “You take care. Heah?”

  “I ‘heah’ loud-and-clear. Bye, Seth. Miss you.”

  Having talked to Seth stabbed me with nostalgia. What had been a welcome respite from the cold winter of Maine, from sickness and from a tight deadline, had turned into a grim nightmare. I was aware, of course, that what he hadn’t said represented a certain truth about me. I was staying at Lover’s Lagoon Inn and on St. Thomas not only because I wished to be of help to Laurie, but because I had a need to be involved in sorting out Walter’s murder. I hadn’t been thrust involuntarily into that role. I could have packed up and left at any time, once questioned by the police. But the desire to help Laurie aside, to walk away without having satisfied my own intellectual curiosity, if nothing else, would be anathema to me. There were questions I wanted answered.

  I was a few minutes early for my date with Jennifer Fletcher and used the time to explore other areas of Diamond Reef. It was even larger than I’d realized. There were two Olympic-size pools, one freshwater, one saltwater, tennis courts with lights for night play, shuffleboard, basketball hoops, and bronzed bodies everywhere. Everyone seemed
happy and contented; hard to conceive of all the strife that existed between this and Lover’s Lagoon Inn. Hard to conceive that less than twenty-four hours ago I’d stepped on Walter Marschalk’s very dead hand. The thought sent a chill through me.

  I was relieved to see that Jennifer was alone in Room 1202. Her angry friend, Mr. Capehart, was nowhere in sight. Jennifer looked lovely, and perfectly Caribbean in a loose, yellow-and-green sun-dress, and sandals. “I ordered a pitcher of iced tea and some desserts from room service,” she said, pointing to a small balcony reached through a sliding glass door. She led me to it. It overlooked the back of the property where a golf course beckoned.

  “Everyone at the conference is in shock about Walter,” she said.

  “I would imagine,” I said. “Such a sick act.”

  “Do the police have any motives, suspects?”

  “Not that I know of. Have you been interviewed yet by the police?”

  “I received a call from a Detective Calish. I couldn’t imagine why they wanted to talk to me. But then he told me you’d mentioned that we had dinner together last night, and that you’d found the body.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “And his name is Calid. Detective Calid.”

  “Calid, Calish, whatever. He’s coming by tonight to interview me. I told him I was busy with the conference but—I guess murder takes precedence.”

  “It usually does. Let me ask you why, if you’re so busy, you wanted to see me?”

  “I really don’t know,” she replied, taking a miniature margarita pie from a tray and popping it into her mouth. She poured two glasses of iced tea and handed one to me. She was overtly nervous and did what nervous people usually do, make an inappropriate gesture. She held up her glass in a misguided toast. I tipped my glass toward her and sipped.

  “Have one?” she said, offering me the tray. “The butterscotch brownies are delicious. I’ve become addicted.”

  “Thank you, no. It never would have occurred to me to contact you with the intention of asking personal questions. But since you’ve asked me here, there are a few.”

  “Personal questions?”

  “Yes. I had the distinct feeling at dinner the other night that your friend, Fred, was jealous of you and—well, to be candid, jealous of you and Walter Marschalk.”

  Her increased nervousness was heralded by a thin, high-pitched, forced laugh. “Jealous of me and Walter?” she said.

  “That was my impression.”

  “Why would he be jealous of Walter? He’s—he’s dead.”

  “He wasn’t then,” I said.

  She took a strand of hair she’d been twirling and put it into her mouth, swiveled her head 180 degrees. “A lot of people were jealous of Walter,” she said, her gaze directed out over the golf course. “Other travel writers envied him. He was the best-known travel writer in the business. Every one of his books were best-sellers. He wrote for all the major magazines, and the most luxurious hotels around the world wooed him.” She now looked at me. “And then he ends up fulfilling every travel writer’s dream, to own a beautiful inn on a beautiful island.”

  That she’d shifted focus from personal jealousy to one of professional envy wasn’t lost on me. I patiently heard her out. When she was finished, I asked, “Were any of these envious travel writers jealous enough to want him dead?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be sure?” I asked.

  “Just because—Look, Mrs. Fletcher—it sounds funny calling someone else ‘Fletcher’—being envious of another writer doesn’t usually translate into murder. Forget envy. Lots of people just plain didn’t like Walter. He’s—he was a very difficult man, cantankerous, pompous, sometimes mean-spirited. We have a writer at the conference who’s known Walter for a long time. Larry Lippman. Larry detests Walter and never tries to hide it. But kill him? Larry’s the sweetest guy in the business, loved by everyone. Don’t you have somebody you dislike? Does that mean you’d kill that person?”

  “Of course not. What about Fred Capehart?” I asked.

  She got up and disappeared into the room. When she returned, I could see that she’d been crying and had wiped her eyes. Smeared makeup said that to me. She sat and said, “I’m ashamed of saying bad things about Walter. He’s dead. A lot of the writers have been saying nasty things about him today. They say they’re sorry he was killed, but then go right on making sarcastic comments, even sick jokes.”

  My response was twofold. First, that she was right. It seems to me that when you’re dead, all bets should be off, as they say.

  Second, what she’d said about Walter’s reputation had had a mildly shocking effect upon me. I realized how little I knew about him, his career, his relationships, and his stature within his industry. I had no idea he was the icon she represented him to be. Or that he was disliked by so many colleagues.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?” Jennifer said. Her voice had taken on a surly tone, as though annoyed with my presence. But she’d been the one who’d asked that we meet. Why? The only logical answer was that she wanted to find out what I knew about Walter’s murder, and perhaps about the situation at Lover’s Lagoon Inn.

  I decided to not linger any longer. I asked directly, “Was your friend, Fred Capehart, justified in exhibiting jealousy of you and Walter?”

  “If you mean did he know that Walter and I were—”

  “Were lovers?”

  “Fred is a very jealous person. Of everyone. We used to be boyfriend-girlfriend but it’s been over for six months, maybe longer. His jealousy ruined it for us. It’s a sickness. He sees men behind every tree.”

  “Yes, jealousy taken to the extreme is a sickness,” I offered.

  “It wouldn’t be so bad if it really were over. But he’s obsessed with me. Like those stalkers you read about, and see on TV. He calls me constantly, and keeps tabs on all my trips. It’s easy for him to do that because we’re in the same business. Not full-time for him. He shifted into writing about things other than travel. But he still freelances for travel magazines, and receives invitations to a lot of the same press trips. He knows where and when all the big travel conferences are. He knew I was coming to St. Thomas for this one and said he was turning down his invitation. And then he shows up. You know why?”

  “Because you were here at a resort next door to the one owned by Walter Marschalk.”

  “Yes. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “I didn’t want to know anything,” I said, comfortable with my lie. I had at the top of my “To Do” list to call Jennifer and arrange to get together. She’d beat me to it. A minor point, one not worth bringing up.

  She ignored my comment and said, “I was shocked when he showed up here on St. Thomas. The night you and I met—at dinner—he was abusive and rude. I don’t have to tell you that. After you left the table, he lashed into me about Walter. He was beside himself. He—”

  “Were you and Walter lovers?” I again asked.

  “Is that why you came here?” she asked. “To snoop on my private life?”

  “You invited me for this little chat, Jennifer.”

  “You’re a very snoopy lady, aren’t you, Jessica?”

  “Am I curious? Yes. Especially when a very dear friend has had his throat slit.”

  “Very dear friend?” Her expression was as animated as her voice.

  “Yes. We were neighbors for years in my hometown in Maine.”

  “I wish you’d told me that.”

  “It really shouldn’t matter. Walter Marschalk is dead. I’d like to find out why, and who did it.”

  “Walter and I had an affair.” She said it as though she’d just announced that the sun had risen, or that her car needed an oil change.

  But then her posture and demeanor changed. She slumped in her chair and tears rolled down her cheeks. She dabbed at them with a hanky, drew deep breaths, and looked directly at me, her eyes searching for some sign that it was okay that she
and Walter had been intimate. She didn’t need my approval. This wasn’t a confessional, at least in any religious sense. What two people decide to do with their lives is their choice, as long as it doesn’t hurt, or cost others.

  What I didn’t express was that I was upset to have learned that Walter had been unfaithful to his wife, Laurie. No morality involved. I’d been his friend. More important, especially since his death, I was the only “old” friend upon which his widow could lean.

  Did Laurie Marschalk know about her husband’s affair with this attractive younger woman?

  And the bigger question: Was this an isolated incident, or did it represent a pattern with him?

  “Jennifer, how long ago did you and Walter have this affair?”

  “Two years ago. It’s been—it’s been on and off over the years.”

  “Still going on?” I asked. “Until his death?”

  “Not really.”

  I’ve always hated the answer, “not really.” It screams, at least to me, that there’s truth to whatever has been raised. Either something is, or it isn’t.

  “And Fred knew that you and Walter were still seeing each other?”

  “I didn’t say that we were.”

  “I think you did.”

  “It was more than that.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning—nothing.”

  “Did you work together?” I asked.

  “Why do you ask that? We were in the same business.”

  I didn’t understand her defensiveness but didn’t probe. I decided it was time to leave. “I’d best be going,” I said, standing. “I know it hasn’t been easy talking about your relationship with Walter, nor has it been easy for me to hear.”

  “Walter’s wife is your friend, too?” she asked.

  “Yes. I had lunch with her today. Naturally, she’s very upset.” I thought of the divorce papers and couldn’t help but wonder just how upset Laurie really was.

  “You won’t mention any of this to her.”

  “Of course not.”