Rum and Razors

by Jessica Fletcher

  The only person whose name was familiar was Larry Lippman, whom Jennifer had mentioned earlier that day. He may have disliked Walter Marschalk, but his kindly face and self-effacing demeanor told me he was no killer. Still, I’d make it a point to speak with him before the evening was over. He must have disliked Walter for a reason, and I wanted to know what that reason was, what all the reasons were for harboring ill-feelings for my murdered host.

  I thought the introduction “ceremony” was over. But after I’d been introduced to the last person in the group, Dobson said, “Let’s all give Jessica Fletcher a warm Diamond Reef welcome.”

  This can’t be happening, I thought, as they applauded.

  Jennifer said into my ear, “Jessica, I’d like to introduce you to a few special friends of mine.” She pointed to the two men with whom she’d been talking when I arrived. The minute we walked away from the larger group she said, chuckling, “I saved you. Mark can be so overbearing at times.”

  “This was certainly one of them,” I said.

  “Stick with me,” Jennifer said. “I know the clowns to stay away from and the ones who are okay. I’ll make sure you have a good time.”

  Somehow, I had the feeling Jennifer always saw to it that she, and whomever she was with had a good time. Maybe to a fault.

  The Colombo look-alike’s name was Joe Spinosa. He stood out from everyone else at Diamond Reef the way a woman in a bikini would stand out at a Wall Street board meeting. He wore a rumpled greenish suit, white shirt with ring-around-the-collar and with collar points that curled up like flowers seeking water, a skinny black tie, and heavy black shoes. He needed a shave; his hair needed washing. Other than that, he had a craggy, infectious smile and quick wit.

  The younger blond man, who wore red-and-white swim trunks, rubber thongs, and a white T-shirt with a slightly risque message, was Zachary Alexander. “Zach does the Caribbean section for some of the top guidebooks,” Jennifer said.

  “Top guidebooks, but not top pay,” he said without any inflection of dissatisfaction. He laughed, in fact. Alexander and Spinosa were extreme opposites, but shared a likability. I silently hoped I’d get to sit near them at dinner, especially Spinosa, who made me laugh with caustic comments that slid out of the side of his mouth—where a cigar should be.

  As it turned out, Jennifer sat to my right, Spinosa to my left, with Lippman directly across from me. Mark Dobson was at the head of the table, not only because he was the dinner’s host, but because he needed room for his cast, which he propped on an empty chair.

  After we’d taken our seats in what was billed as an “authentic British pub”—one of Diamond Reefs seven restaurants—Jennifer leaned close and said, “Joe and I rearranged the seating chart so we could sit next to you. Hope you don’t mind. Believe me, you’re better off. The writer Dobson had next to you is weird. A real space cadet. She hasn’t even shown up tonight. Sometimes she shows up for things, sometimes she doesn’t.”

  I had trouble hearing Jennifer because the soft, lilting strains of the steel drum band on the terrace had been replaced by the pub’s stereo system, whose volume control had evidently been altered to exclude all but its highest setting. Fortunately, the waiter complained he couldn’t take our orders because he couldn’t hear over the music. Dobson instructed the bartender to turn it down. The relative silence was blissful.

  We ordered from a strangely eclectic menu— British pub fare such as kidney pie or cottage pie, a baked mix of ground beef topped with mashed potato—and Caribbean dishes, most featuring conch served as fritters, chowder, salad, or standalone (conch) with various sauces. I yearned for something out of Laurie Marschalk’s kitchen. Would she ever cook again at Lover’s Lagoon Inn? She’d have to prepare some semblance of meals for her two guests, the Simses. And for me, although I wouldn’t expect her to create meals on my account. What a mess, I thought as my attention returned to Mark Dobson, who held court at the table, a large mug of ale in his hand. He was in the middle of a long tale about Diamond Reef having hosted a “Born Again and Loving It” convention when the waiter brought him a cordless phone.

  “Not now,” Dobson said.

  “It’s Senator Jensen. Long distance. He says it’s important.”

  I cocked an ear in Dobson’s direction. He surveyed the table, handed the phone back to the waiter, struggled to his feet, and said, “I’ll take it in my office.”

  I watched him move across the pub and out the door. Why would he be receiving a long distance call from island Senator Bobby Jensen? Jensen supposedly was a close friend of Laurie and Walter. I could understand a call from another senator, the one Jensen told me was on Diamond Reefs payroll and who’d initiated the investigation into the purchase of Lover’s Lagoon by the Marschalks.

  I didn’t have time to ponder it because Joe Spinosa said loudly to the table, “Maybe Walter Marschalk will attend next year’s Born Again and Loving It convention.”

  I winced. Everyone, except Jennifer, broke into raucous laughter. “Sorry,” she whispered to me. I shrugged. Spinosa didn’t know of my relationship with the Marschalks, probably never even realized I would know the name. His comment generated a succession of nasty comments about Walter, each intended to be funny. And then individuals started telling “Walter stories,” few of which were flattering. If I’d decided to attend the dinner in the hope of gaining insight into why Walter was disliked by his professional colleagues, I’d made the right decision. Although these specific words weren’t used, I got the impression that Walter was considered by the people at the table to be egotistical, greedy, cruel, dishonest, insensitive, conniving, paranoid, schizophrenic, lustful, and foul. The only redeeming value mentioned was “boring.”

  Hardly the Walter Marschalk I’d known and loved back in Cabot Cove. If there was even a modicum of truth to what they said about him, Laurie hadn’t been nearly as astute in choosing him as a mate as when choosing ingredients for her gourmet dishes.

  Lippman said, “I’ll tell you one thing about Marschalk. He sure as hell knew how to run an inn.”

  “Bull,” another writer said. “His wife knows how to run an inn.”

  “That’s right,” someone else chimed in. “The only thing Walter knew was how to steal the money to buy it.”

  “So what?” Spinosa said. “That’s important. Getting the money. I mean, hell, that’s all a Broadway or Hollywood producer does, get the money. Without it, you got bubkes.” His words were slurred; too much rum will do it every time.

  A middle-aged woman said, “That inn of Walter’s is gorgeous. I haven’t been in the rooms, but—well, Jennifer can probably tell you about them.”

  “Especially the beds,” Spinosa said.

  More loud laughter. Jennifer’s affair with Walter was obviously public knowledge, at least with this group. She tossed a visual dagger at Spinosa, excused herself, and headed for the rest rooms.

  “Geez, I’m in trouble now,” Spinosa said. He started to follow her but I put my hand on his arm. “She’ll be fine,” I said. “I’ll check on her if she isn’t back in a few minutes.”

  He grinned. “Guess I couldn’t follow her in where she’s going anyway,” he said.

  Lippman said from across the table, “I love your books, Mrs. Fletcher. Got any new ones coming out?”

  “As a matter of fact, I just finished my latest before coming to St. Thomas. Sort of a reward for myself.”

  “How long does it take you to write a book?” he asked.

  “Depends. If the plot is worked out, it goes rather quickly.”

  “Is that the toughest part? Coming up with a plot?”

  “Usually.”

  “You could do your next novel based on what happened next door,” Spinosa said. “Wouldn’t have to make up anything.”

  I gave him my best quizzical look.

  “Maybe you don’t know about the murder.”

  “Oh, I certainly heard about it,” I said. “Walter Marschalk is the one you’ve been talking about.�
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  “That’s right,” said Lippman.

  “Not an especially popular fellow, I take it.”

  There was laughter around the table. “An understatement, Mrs. Fletcher,” Spinosa said.

  “Someone as unpopular as this Marschalk must have had many enemies,” I said.

  “As many enemies as people he met,” a woman said.

  “That’s quite a condemnation,” I said.

  “Am I wrong?” she asked her colleagues, none of whom demurred.

  “What was it about him that—?”

  My question was interrupted by Mark Dobson’s return. His face lacked its earlier sparkle. In fact, he looked downright distraught. But after settling in his place, leg resting on the empty chair beside him, he smiled broadly. “Everyone having a good time?” he asked.

  “Terrific,” Lippman replied.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear that you got a call from—” I started to say to Dobson but, as if on cue, Jennifer came back to the table. Joe Spinosa put his arm around her and whispered in her ear, an apology I assumed for his ill-considered remark. I examined her pretty face. She’d obviously been crying but had sufficiently pulled herself together to announce with a smile, “Sorry, gang, but I have to run.” She waved off protests and said, “Catch you all at breakfast. ’Bye!”

  “Sorry you have to leave,” I said when she came around the table to personally bid me good night.

  “Me, too, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m not feeling well. I think I need an early-to-bed night.”

  “Please. Make it Jessica. Sounds appealing. An early-to-bed night.”

  “Jessica.” Her smile was wan. “Maybe we’ll get a chance to talk again—just the two of us.”

  “Let’s make a point of it,” I said. “Good night.”

  I wanted to go with her as much as I wanted to ask Mark Dobson about his call from Senator Bobby Jensen. But Jennifer hadn’t invited me, and I didn’t want to be too blatant in asking Dobson about the call. Dinner was served, and the conversation was dominated by tales of the travel writer’s life. Everyone at the table was a fountain of stories, many of them insider yarns that kept the laughter going, fueled by the uninterrupted flow of rum drinks. I tried on a few occasions to slip in questions about Walter Marschalk, but they got lost in the barrage of jokes and confessions.

  I eventually decided to sit back and enjoy the banter, take it all in. I sat quietly and ate my dinner, laughed a lot, answered the few questions asked of me about my writing career and habits, and went with the flow, as they say.

  Actually, I enjoyed myself more than I thought I would. A stilted crowd this was not. A spirited argument broke out on the merits of a recent movie everyone had seen except me, and then about a New York Times article on the subject of traveling alone that I had read just days before leaving for St. Thomas.

  “It was a dumb article,” Lippman said. “Bring a book to dinner with you,” he said in a whiny, exaggerated voice. “I mean, come on. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure that out. If you need to get that piece of advice from an article in the Times, you deserve to travel alone.”

  There was a momentary lull as dessert was served. “It sounds like such an exciting life,” I said, “the life of a travel writer. Do you all enjoy it as much as you seem to?”

  Lippman smiled, looked at his colleagues, laughed loudly, and said, “Yeah, it’s fun, but it can be grueling. The constant travel can be hard on a family, which takes its toll on you.”

  A man, whose nickname was Sully, added, “I’ve been home one weekend all month. I’ll get to take my wife and kids with me next week to Jamaica.”

  “You’re bringing your kids to Jamaica?” Spinosa said. “Think I’ll cancel my plans.”

  “It’s a single person’s game,” Zachary Alexander said. He’d had little to say all evening, his attention focused on a pretty young woman who, I recalled, worked for a travel newsletter.

  “Yes, I can see how it would be,” I said.

  “Ask Marschalk,” a woman said.

  The mention of his name brought forth a fresh round of comments about Walter, including tasteless jokes, a few of them provided by Mark Dobson. I decided I’d had enough. “This was a wonderful evening,” I said. “Thank you for allowing me to join you.”

  “Hey, the night’s still young, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Spinosa.

  “But I’m not,” I said. I stood and extended my hand to Dobson. “No need to get up, not with that cast,” I said.

  “I insist,” he said. “Back in a few minutes,” he said to the group. He waved for the waiter to take a new round of drink orders, and walked me to the main lobby. “Hope they weren’t too raucous,” he said.

  “No, not at all. I enjoyed myself.”

  “I understand things are pretty bad next door. She’s closing the inn.”

  “I don’t think so. New guests checked in only this morning.”

  His smirk was annoying. “There’s a suite reserved for you any time you want it,” he said.

  “I appreciate that, Mark, but I won’t be needing it. Thank you again for a lovely evening.”

  I was about to leave Diamond Reef but remembered that the tube of toothpaste I’d brought with me to St. Thomas had only one final squeeze left in it. A notions shop off the lobby was still open. I went into it, purchased a new tube at a price that would have bought four tubes back home, perused the magazines, newspapers, and paperback books (two copies of mine were there), and walked across the lobby toward the main entrance. I reached the door, started to open it, stopped, and stepped back behind potted foliage. I parted fronds in the best tradition of a hotel detective and narrowed my eyes. What I thought I’d seen was accurate. Jennifer Fletcher was getting into the passenger seat of a long black Mercedes parked at the curb. The man who’d held the door open for her now came around the front of the vehicle, paused, looked left and right, then got behind the wheel, closed his door, and started the engine. It was Chris Webb, the Marschalk’s partner in Lover’s Lagoon Inn.

  I didn’t hesitate. The moment the Mercedes had pulled away, I walked quickly to a waiting taxi, got in, and said, “Follow that car.”

  Chapter 12

  “Could you go a little faster?” I asked my driver, an older black man wearing a Chicago Cubs baseball cap backward, who sang along with calypso music that oozed from his radio. A dozen furry little figures dangling from the visors bobbed to the rhythms.

  “No good to rush, ma’am,” he said, his head moving up and down as though conducting the furry dancers. “Not good for the blood pressure.”

  “But I don’t want to lose that car,” I said. The Mercedes was leaving us in the dust, figuratively and literally.

  “Not likely we’d lose him, ma’am,” he said. “He’s heading for Charlotte Amalie, that’s for certain. He can’t drive very fast over the mountains.”

  I continued to lean on the back of his seat and attempted to catch a glimpse of Webb’s taillights. They came and went, suddenly flashing as red beacons at the top of a hill, then disappearing over the crest. Eventually, they were not to be seen again, and my heart pounded with frustration. But then, after coming down a final twisting, narrow mountain road, I saw the black Mercedes as it slowed to enter the crowded streets of Charlotte Amalie. My driver turned and grinned. “See, ma’am? Not to worry.”

  Webb maneuvered the Mercedes onto Norre Gade, otherwise known as Main Street, and parked in front of a church. I instructed my driver to also park, leaving plenty of distance between us and the Mercedes. I watched as Jennifer stepped from the passenger side, stretched, yawned, and waited for Webb to join her. When he got out, he slowly walked around the car to ascertain whether he’d parked too far out into the street. He had, but evidently didn’t care.

  “What is that church?” I asked my driver.

  “Frederick Lutheran, ma’am. Second oldest Lutheran church in Western Hemisphere.”

  “And that building?” I asked, pointing across the street at a buildi
ng to which Webb and Jennifer were headed.

  “Fort Christian. Our oldest building. Completed in 1687. A United States landmark, ma’am. Was once a jail, among other things. Our history museum is located in its dungeons.”

  “Oh.” I felt a chill in the heavy, warm night air as I envisioned the dungeons, sans museum—dark and dank, with chains on the walls and the blood of prisoners on the dirt floors. I’ve never been fond of jails, and avoid them at all costs, although I’ve found myself visiting enough of them over the years.

  Jennifer and Chris Webb paused in front of the old fort, glanced about, then disappeared around the side of the building.

  “Is the museum open this late at night?” I asked my driver.

  “Oh, no, ma’am. Closes each day at four-thirty, except for Saturday and Sunday when it closes at four.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. He was a living, breathing St. Thomas guidebook. If I decided to take another tour of the island, I’d make a point of looking him up.

  “Where to now, ma’am?”

  “I’m—not quite sure. Can we just sit here for a few minutes? With the meter running, of course.”

  “As you wish.” He increased the volume on the radio slightly, turned his hat around and pulled the bill down over his eyes, leaned back and hummed softly along with the music while I sat back to contemplate my next move.

  My choices were simple. Sit there and see what happens next, which was likely to be the return of Jennifer and Webb to the Mercedes. Or, get out, follow their path, and see what I could see. The latter course of action made the most sense, at least from the standpoint of accomplishing something. Sitting in a darkened taxi listening to island music, as infectious as it might be, was destined to accomplish nothing except a lofty figure on the meter. On the other hand, following them carried with it certifiable risk. I had no idea where they’d gone after having rounded the comer of the building. For all I knew, they were standing just out of sight. “Hi,” I pictured myself saying. “What a coincidence seeing you here in the dark.”