Rum and Razors

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I’ll be right back,” I said.

  The driver sat up and turned to me. “You’re taking a walk?” he asked.

  “In a manner of speaking,” I replied, sliding across the seat and opening the door. “You’ll wait?”

  “For as long as you wish.” We both looked at the meter, its silent, glowing green digital readout keeping tabs of how long we’d been together.

  “Careful, ma’am.” he said.

  I paused halfway out the door. “Of what?” I asked.

  “Not the safest thing to be doing, a woman alone downtown at night.”

  “But this is Main Street,” I said, observing a number of people walking. “But yes, I’ll be careful.”

  I slowly walked along the sidewalk in front of the church until reaching a point where I could see the side of the fort where Jennifer and Webb had gone. When I did, I slowed to almost a complete stop and narrowed my eyes. All was dark. I saw no one.

  But then a flash of light appeared in a window of a small, one-story building in an alley that ran alongside the fort. The light was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Someone had pulled a curtain across the window.

  I looked back at the taxi. A single, low-wattage street lamp cast just enough light through the windshield for me to see my driver sitting up straight and looking in my direction. That was comforting. At least someone knew where I was. If something untoward were to happen, he could come to my rescue. If he was so inclined, and it was between songs.

  I crossed the street and paused in front of the fort. A car passed, too fast for the narrow street, its driver leaning on his horn to warn pedestrians crossing to get out of his way. A disheveled young man approached and held out three wristwatches he held in his hand. “Cheap,” he said. “Thank you, no,” I said. For a moment, I thought he would become aggressive but he didn’t, just shuffled away in search of another buyer.

  It seemed to have become degrees hotter, and the air took on weight; I had trouble breathing. I walked slowly toward the building in which I’d seen light before curtains blotted it out. It was one-story and small, no more than twelve-by-twelve. Peeling green shutters framed the only window. The door was also green, and short. Anyone over six feet would have to stoop to pass through.

  Time for another decision. I’d come this far. Should I knock? That was out of the question. If Jennifer Fletcher and Chris Webb were inside—and it was only an assumption on my part—they would be annoyed, at best, at my deliberate intrusion. If they were behind that short green door, it wasn’t for the purpose of a party. People don’t meet behind closed doors in a dark alley unless there’s a reason for secrecy. At least they don’t in my books.

  As I came closer to the door, gravel crunched beneath my feet, the sound magnified by the stillness of the night. I was only a few feet from the door. I heard voices. The man’s was low and unidentified. The woman’s voice belonged to Jennifer. I was certain of that.

  I stepped right up to the door and pressed my ear to it. The voices were more distinct now. Jennifer said, “He thought he could get away with it.” The man, who I was now certain was Webb, although I hadn’t heard enough of his voice to make a positive ID, said, “What goes around comes around.”

  I strained to hear more. The sound of an automobile came from the street, but I paid little attention. Had it passed, or had it stopped?

  “Who could blame him?” Jennifer asked.

  “Sure—” Webb’s words faded.

  Who were they talking about? I wondered.

  Someone coughed. Webb? No. It came from—

  I looked in the direction of the street. A man had turned into the alley and was approaching. He stopped to light a cigarette, which gave me time to step back into the shadows behind a gnarled tree. Cigarette lighted, the man continued toward the small building. I could now see that he wore a pale blue seersucker suit, white shirt, and muted tie. He knocked twice. The door opened, and Jennifer Fletcher greeted him. He tossed his cigarette on to the ground, said “Hi,” and stepped inside. The door closed behind him.

  Now there were three people inside.

  The Marschalks’ partner, Chris Webb.

  Travel writer and my namesake, Jennifer Fletcher.

  And Jennifer’s brooding, ardent suitor, Fred Capehart.

  Chapter 13

  My friends back in Cabot Cove sometimes joke about my ability to sleep no matter what chaos erupts about me. Some would say it represents a clear conscience, although I doubt that my conscience is any clearer than most people’s. Whatever the reason, it’s always been a blessing. I don’t function well without adequate sleep, at least not when faced with writing. Routine chores yes, those things we do by rote. But not where thought is demanded.

  And so not being able to sleep after returning from my expensive surveillance trip to Charlotte Amalie only compounded my confusion when the phone rang in my villa at six-thirty the next morning. I’d fallen asleep about four; there was still a few hours of dreams due me.

  It was turning into the most exhausting vacation of my life.

  “Hello,” I mumbled, sounding angry and annoyed. I wasn’t either of those things. I may not function well without sleep, but I’m never nasty because of it. I simply could not get my mouth to work the way it usually does.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher.” Detective Calid sounded spry and alert. As though he’d had nine hours of blissful sleep. “Did I wake you?”

  “No.” I sat up against the headboard and tried to force myself awake, to sound as though I’d been up for hours and had already accomplished a day’s work. I failed. Another lost Oscar nomination.

  If he thought he’d awakened me, he didn’t dwell upon the notion. He said cheerily, “I told you you’d be one of the first to know if there was a break in the Marschalk murder case. I wouldn’t want to renege on my promise.”

  Okay, I thought. You’ve got my attention. The cobwebs are gone, and my eyes are wide-open.

  “We’ve arrested a suspect.”

  Who needs sleep? I reached for pen and paper I keep on my nighttable. “I’m listening,” I said.

  “His name is Jacob Austin. He worked at Lover’s Lagoon. Walter Marschalk fired him the day before he was killed.”

  The young man I’d heard arguing with Walter my first morning in the villa, the same one I’d seen while walking with Walter after dinner that night.

  “Has he confessed?” I asked.

  “Not yet, but we’re close to getting one out of him. Actually, we don’t need it. We have sufficient evidence.”

  “Evidence?”

  “Yes. To begin with, motive. He’d been fired by Marschalk. Besides, he was known to express his hatred for your friend to anyone who would listen.”

  “Just motive?”

  “Weapon. He’d purchased a straight razor two days before the murder.”

  “It was the one used to”—I couldn’t bring myself to say slash Walter’s throat—“to kill Walter?”

  “We believe so.”

  “Was there blood on it? Walter Marschalk’s blood?”

  The detective laughed, said, “Slow down, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve already told you more than I intended. I just thought you’d want to know that it looks like this case will be resolved faster than anticipated.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. The young gardener was a likely suspect considering the confrontation he’d had with Walter over being dismissed. As I listened to the detective speak, I could hear Jacob’s words to Walter just outside my villa that morning—“You’ll be sorry’s all I can say.”

  “I appreciate your call, Detective Calid. Where is this Jacob Austin being held?”

  “Our jail in Charlotte Amalie. He was arraigned late last night. No bail. He won’t be going anywhere.”

  I hesitated, then asked, “Would you object to my visiting him?”

  “For what purpose, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  I knew he would ask why I wanted to visit the accused in jail, and had at-the-ready an answ
er I’ve used before when making such a request. “Research for my next book. I’ve never visited a Caribbean jail before.”

  “You can accomplish that without seeing the accused,” he said. “I’ll be happy to take you on a personal tour.”

  Time for Reason Number Two. “I would like to speak with him for Mrs. Marschalk’s sake. It would comfort her if he would tell me, in personal terms, about having murdered her husband.”

  “Perhaps she’d like to hear that with her own ears,” Calid said. His joviality had vanished. He sounded impatient.

  “Does Mrs. Marschalk know this young man has been arrested?” I asked.

  “Yes. I phoned her just before calling you.”

  “Was this Jacob Austin the one who’d sent her a threatening note?”

  “He won’t admit to that, but we’re confident he wrote the note.”

  “She must be relieved,” I said. “Mrs. Marschalk.”

  “Extremely.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “May I visit the accused?”

  “If his attorney agrees, I suppose there’s no reason not to grant you that request.”

  “Who is his attorney?”

  “Luther Z. Jackson.”

  “He has offices in town?”

  “Public defender’s office.” He gave me the number.

  “Thank you for the courtesy of your call,” I said. “It was thoughtful of you.”

  I hung up and stretched out on my bed. It was tempting to fall back to sleep, but I forced myself to get up, splash cold water on my face and wrists, and take to the terrace with my notebook. I scribbled some notes but my mind wandered. I checked my watch. It was probably too early to call this attorney, Luther Z. Jackson. Then again, he wasn’t in private practice. As a public defender, he undoubtedly spent many nights up and working.

  I paced the terrace, thoughts coming and going like zaps of electrical current. “Patience is a virtue,” my mother often told me, a philosophy I’ve always had trouble embracing.

  But then a favorite saying of my father came to mind. “Always go with your instincts, Jessica,” he would say. I liked that advice a lot better than having to exhibit patience.

  I dialed the number given me by Detective Calid. “Luther Z. Jackson,” a man answered.

  “I’m so glad you’re there,” I said. “My name is Jessica Fletcher.”

  For years I’ve enjoyed trying to match physical appearance with voices heard on the radio, or during a telephone conversation. I’m invariably wrong. Someone who sounds on the air like a big person always turns out to be short and skinny. Blondes prove to be brunets. Baldness usually ends up a full head of hair.

  It was no different with attorney Luther Z. Jackson. I had him pegged as a tall, slender man with a long, angular face, rimless glasses, and a slash for a mouth. Instead, he could have been the brother of portly New York TV weatherman Al Roker, my favorite of all television weather pundits. I told Mr. Jackson that he looked like Al Roker.

  “I’m mistaken for him all the time when I go back to New York,” he said pleasantly as we introduced ourselves to each other in front of the jailhouse. “I have family there. Some days when I’m back there, I get asked more about the weather than about law.”

  “How are you at weather forecasting?” I asked.

  “Better than Al Roker,” he replied, “although I suppose there are days he knows more about the law than I do. Come in, Mrs. Fletcher. My client is waiting.”

  The St. Thomas jail was a long, rectangular building that might have been a military barracks at one time. I imagined its original color to have been pea soup green, or gray; it was now seashell pink, with a gleaming white tile roof. Large baskets of island flowers lined the few steps leading up to the door. Jackson opened it for me, and I stepped into a reception area that shared the same look and feel as the St. Thomas airport. The only difference was the music. Instead of calypso or steel drums, it was the sort of music you hear in elevators in Manhattan, or supermarket aisles in Cabot Cove.

  A young woman in uniform sat behind a highly polished desk that contained nothing, not a scrap of paper, pencil, telephone, or calendar. Jackson stepped up to the desk and told her she looked especially lovely this morning. She beamed, said she wished she could say the same about him. They laughed in concert. He was obviously a frequent visitor to the jail, as one would expect of a public defender.

  “This is Jessica Fletcher,” he said, motioning for me to come to his side. “She’s a writer of mystery books, and quite famous.”

  “You’re too kind,” I said, accepting the female officer’s outstretched hand.

  “She’s here to spend a little time with my client, Mr. Austin.”

  “I see.” The officer pulled a logbook from beneath the desk and asked me to sign it.

  “How is he?” Jackson asked.

  “Upset. The night officer says he didn’t sleep a wink. Just pacing and shouting that he’s innocent.”

  “Which he is,” said Jackson.

  “And you’re paid to say that,” the woman retorted.

  “Right you are,” Jackson said, “but not enough to ask you on a proper date.”

  “It’s nothing to do with money,” she said, standing and leading us to a door marked “OFFICIAL PERSONNEL ONLY.” “It’s your wife who might be a problem.”

  Jackson looked at me, grinned, and shrugged. “Sometimes I forget about her,” he said as the door was opened and we stepped into a corridor lined with individual cells. The first few were empty. If they were any barometer, the crime rate on St. Thomas was low.

  But then we passed cells that housed prisoners. Some sat sullenly on their bunks, their eyes silently watching as we passed. One inmate came to the bars, grasped them, and shouted sexual obscenities at me. Jackson took my arm and spirited me past that cell as quickly as possible.

  Jacob Austin was in a cell at the far end of the corridor. He appeared to be asleep. Jackson said loudly, “Wake up, Jacob.”

  The young prisoner opened one eye, then the other, but never moved his head.

  “Mrs. Fletcher is here. The lady I told you was coming.”

  “Go away,” Austin said.

  “Not on your life,” said Jackson. “You’re in enough trouble without insulting a famous writer who’s come here to help you.”

  Austin pushed up on his elbows and looked at me. “Hello, Jacob,” I said. “I remember you from the inn.”

  He swung his legs off the cot, stood, stretched, and slowly approached the bars. “Help me?” he said. “You and Marschalk were good friends. Why would you want to help me?”

  “Because—” I wasn’t prepared for what the attorney had said about my being there to help. I hadn’t told him that, nor was I sure it represented what I truly felt. But I suddenly was consumed with exactly that—a belief that this young man had not murdered Walter Marschalk. Don’t ask me why, at least not at that juncture. But that’s how I felt. I said, “I don’t believe you killed my friend, Walter Marschalk.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  I’d hoped he wouldn’t ask that question. But now that he had, I said, “Because you don’t appear to me to be the sort of person who would kill anyone. Am I right?”

  Jacob didn’t respond. The uniformed female officer, who stood slightly behind us, asked, “Going in?”

  “Jacob?” Jackson said.

  “All right.”

  We entered the small cell. “Sit on the bed,” Austin said. He took a spindly, wobbly chair and sat backwards on it, his arms resting on its back. The officer left, locked us in the cell, and disappeared up the hallway.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” I said.

  He said nothing.

  “Jacob, I’d like to hear your side of the story. I’m not with the police, so you don’t have to worry about what you say to me.” I looked to Jackson to confirm that to his client, which he did by a solemn nod
of the head, adding, “They’ve only granted us twenty minutes, Jacob. I suggest you make the most of it.”

  Then, something unexpected happened. This surly, noncommunicative, seemingly hardened young man who’d threatened his employer, and who’d been charged with the brutal murder of that employer, began to cry. Tears ran freely down his cheeks. His chest heaved, and he pressed his lips together in an attempt to regain control. Was it jail and its unique ability to soften some men that had brought about this display of human vulnerability? Or was it a window into what Jacob Austin was really like? I didn’t ponder the answer, simply handed him a Kleenex from my purse, which he used to dry his eyes and to blow his nose.

  “Jacob, I understand if you don’t want to talk. But if you do, I’m all ears. As your attorney said, we don’t have much time.”

  Jacob looked at me, his face still wet, his bottom lip trembling. “I didn’t do it,” he said. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “I heard you threaten Mr. Marschalk,” I said. “The morning he fired you.”

  “I shouldn’t have said it. He took the comment as an affirmation of my status as his enemy. But that doesn’t mean—”

  He cut me off. No more crying. He sat up straight. His mouth and eyes returned to their prior defiant state. “So what if I threatened him?” he said. “I hated him, but so does everybody else who works for him. Maybe I shouldn’t have said it, but I did. But I didn’t kill him. I swear it.”

  “Give me a chance to believe you Jacob. I want to believe you.”

  “I don’t know what else to say except that I wasn’t even near the inn or Lover’s Lagoon that night. I was taking care of my baby. She had a hundred-and-four fever. An ear infection in both ears. She gets them a lot.”

  “Was there anyone else with you?”

  “Sure. My wife and two other kids. I told the cops my wife was there with me but they said she couldn’t be an alibi. Because she was my wife. They didn’t even question her.”