Rum and Razors

by Jessica Fletcher

  I looked over her shoulder and saw Woodhouse and Jensen sharing a hearty laugh. Incestuous little group, I thought as I carried my drink to where Seth had stationed himself near the guitarist. A waiter passed carrying hors d’oeuvres, and Seth had stacked a half dozen of them on a small plate.

  “Enjoying yourself?” I asked.

  “As well as can be expected,” he replied. “Fill me in on these people. Some of the names I recognize from what you told me back at your room.”

  I quickly outlined relationships, and mentioned that Adrian Woodhouse was the one who had written the damning article about the Marschalks and the inn.

  “Laurie’s pretty friendly with a fella who wrote bad things about her.”

  “So is former Senator Jensen,” I said.

  I was about to approach Woodhouse when Laurie announced, “I think it’s time we sat down. Otherwise, we’ll all be too drunk to enjoy dinner.”

  Name cards were at each place setting. I was to sit between Jennifer Fletcher and former Senator Bobby Jensen. Jensen’s wife, Pamela, was to his right; Fred Capehart was to Jennifer’s left. Laurie took her place at the head of the table, with Seth on her right hand, Chris Webb on her left.

  I wasn’t keeping count, but it seemed a great deal of liquor had been consumed during the cocktail hour. Thomas had been perpetually busy concocting a variety of island drinks, although I noted that Chris Webb, Adrian Woodhouse, and Bobby Jensen eschewed such fancy creations for glasses of amber or white liquor on the rocks.

  No matter what the form of alcohol, tongues had been noticeably loosened, with the exception of Jennifer Fletcher and Fred Capehart, who said little. I attempted to initiate conversation with her but she responded only with one word answers, and ignored me for the entire dinner. There was a festive air in the room, and much laughter. When had Walter died? Monday night at about midnight. It had been less than forty-eight hours since his death. His cold body still sat in a police morgue pending the investigation of his murder. Yet, a lighthearted, spirited party was in full swing, hosted by his widow. I glanced over at Seth and gathered he was thinking the same thing.

  When Mort Metzger had questioned a dinner party so soon after Walter’s demise, I’d defended Laurie. But now, as I sat at the elaborately set table and heard the tinkle of ice cubes in drinks and hearty laughter, the soft strum of the guitar and the buzz of happy conversation, I knew I’d have difficulty mounting such a defense again.

  As though Laurie sensed what both Seth and I were thinking, she tapped her water glass with a fork, stood, wineglass in hand, and asked for our attention. It took a few moments for conversation to die down. Once it had, she held up the glass and said, “Lest anyone wonder at my having this party so soon after Walter’s death, let me say that I’ve always been someone who believes in celebrating life, not death. In fact, Walter and I had an agreement. A party such as this, with dear friends, would be held as soon as possible after the death of either of us. Somehow, I know he’s listening in on us—and approving.” She turned to where Thomas stood erect behind the small bar. “Please,” she said.

  He came to Laurie’s side carrying a glass of liquid. Laurie took it from him, held it up to the light, smiled, and said, “I can almost see Walter’s smiling face in it. This was his favorite drink, the Lover’s Lagoon cocktail. Each of you has one. Please join me in a toast to a remarkable man, world traveler, best-selling author, devoted husband, and innkeeper without peer.”

  “Here, here,” Chris Webb said, slurring the words.

  We all lifted our glasses. I, of course, knew that Walter was hardly a “devoted husband,” and that the only reason he hadn’t been served with divorce papers was because he’d died. I suppose I should have admired Laurie for putting on such a facade for her guests. In fact, I did feel a certain admiration. But she’d laid it on a little thick for my taste.

  Seth, who also knew the real situation between the Marschalks because I’d told him, looked as though he’d bitten on a sour candy. I’d checked Jennifer and Fred Capehart’s reaction when Laurie mentioned Walter’s status as a best-selling author. Their expressions were blank, noncommittal.

  Laurie had remained standing, thrusting her Lover’s Lagoon drink at each person who offered his or her own response to the toast. She tapped her glass again and waited until she had everyone’s attention. “Now,” she said, “I have an important announcement to make.” She looked at Mark Dobson, whose satisfied smile indicated he already knew what she was about to say. “Mark, would you help me make the announcement?”

  He joined her at the head of the table. “In fact,” Laurie said, “maybe it’s more appropriate for Mark to be the one to tell you this wonderful piece of news.”

  He looked at each of us before saying, “I suppose we can consider this a wedding announcement. At least an engagement notice.”

  There were puzzled looks and a few gasps, me included. Wedding announcement? An engagement? Mark Dobson and Laurie Marschalk?

  “Now that I have your attention,” he said, laughing at what he considered his clever opening, “let me explain. Just about all of you here know that over the past three years, Diamond Reef and Lover’s Lagoon Inn have not been on what you’d call friendly terms. All-out war more accurately sums it up. But I’m here tonight to announce a truce, a cease-fire. Hostilities have been concluded.”

  I must admit that a wave of satisfaction, even happiness swept over me. Some people applauded. Chris Webb, who by now was overtly drunk, knocked over his wineglass as he extended his hands to clap. Newspaperman Adrian Woodhouse nodded in obvious satisfaction at what he’d just heard.

  The only two people at the table who did not openly display pleasure at the announcement were Jennifer Fletcher and Fred Capehart.

  It was Laurie’s turn. “Diamond Reef and Lover’s Lagoon Inn will soon be one,” she said. “It will take a while”—she laughed—“for the lawyers to sort things out. But when all is said and done, and the tees have been crossed, and the eyes dotted, the lagoon, which Walter always said was the most beautiful small body of water in the world, will be available to all who stay at Diamond Reef and its exclusive private resort, Lover’s Lagoon Inn.”

  There were more toasts and congratulations. Laurie’s final comment was directed at Adrian Woodhouse: “I told you it would be worth your while to come here this evening, Adrian. You have a scoop. Dinner is served.”

  It certainly was. The lobster was baked and stuffed with a “five-spice stuffing” that perfectly complemented the rich, succulent lobster meat. The salad was almost too pretty to disturb by eating it. Sourdough bread was served with red pepper jelly that I thought I wouldn’t like, but did—to the tune of two slices. And the watermelon sorbet was augmented by what Laurie announced was “Magen’s Bay mocha mousse pie” that defined decadence. All in all, a Lucullan feast from the hands of a highly skilled chef, Laurie Marschalk, aided no doubt by her “mentor,” Nadine Kodner, who I learned during dinner lived in New York, had a house on St. Thomas where she spent her winters, and taught cooking classes in Switzerland, France, and Spain.

  After dinner was cleared, Thomas served a variety of brandies from a small serving cart. I’d decided to make a point of speaking with Jennifer Fletcher and Fred Capehart before the evening was out. They’d been obvious in their desire to avoid conversation with me, but I was not about to be put off, not after the conversation I’d had with Vaughan Buckley.

  But that plan was thwarted because the minute they got up from the table, they announced to Laurie that they had to leave. I observed the three of them as they chatted near the door. If Laurie was aware that Jennifer had been one of the other women in Walter’s life—or knew she and Capehart had ghostwritten his books and hadn’t been paid for their efforts—she displayed nothing to indicate it. They talked and laughed freely, good old friends ending a pleasant evening.

  I looked for Seth. He’d left the room, probably in search of the rest rooms. Jennifer and Fred kissed Laurie on the cheek
, and they, too, were gone. A minute later, Seth returned through the same door through which Jennifer and Fred had exited.

  “Did you see where the young couple went?” I asked.

  “The other Fletcher lady and her boyfriend? Ayah.”

  “Where? I mean, did they get into a car out front?”

  “She did, but not until they had some harsh words for each other.”

  “They argued? What did they say?”

  “Couldn’t quite hear everything they said, Jess. I didn’t want them to know I was listenin’ so I stayed around a corner after coming out ‘a the men’s room. It had something to do with plans for tomorrow. She didn’t seem keen on what he was suggestin’.”

  “What was he suggesting?”

  “I never did catch that. All I know is that he’s goin’ to leave a message for her back at Diamond Reef.”

  “I see.” I looked at the other guests who’d stayed. One other person was missing. Chris Webb, the Marschalks’ partner. “Did Jennifer get into a taxi?” I asked Seth.

  “Nope. A big black Mercedes driven by that Webb fella.”

  Another clandestine meeting in Charlotte Amalie? I’d almost forgotten about that. Should I suggest to Seth that we head for town for a little pub crawling? Or to browse a museum that was closed? I almost did, but Adrian Woodhouse came to where we stood and launched into a monologue on the problems of modern medicine. It was for Seth’s benefit, I assumed, and I was proud of my friend for not engaging in what could easily have become a quarrel over his profession.

  “More brandy, Mrs. Fletcher?” Thomas asked.

  “Thank you, no,” I said.

  “I will,” Woodhouse said.

  “I believe I will, too,” Seth said. His expression told me he felt he needed it to ride out Woodhouse’s increasingly strident condemnation of medicine.

  “Excuse me,” I said, leaving them alone with the subject. I looked for Laurie but didn’t see her. A few minutes ago I’d seen her talking with Nadine Kodner, who was now engaged in a conversation with Mark Dobson and Pamela Jensen. I joined them.

  “Quite a surprise you announced,” I said to him. “I think it’s wonderful.”

  “About time,” he said.

  “I agree,” said Nadine. “So silly having two such wonderful places at war with each other.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” said Dobson. “Lover’s Lagoon is a special place on this earth. Now, more people will be free to enjoy it.”

  “Where’s Laurie?” I asked.

  “In the kitchen, I think,” answered Nadine.

  “Time for us to leave,” I said. “I wanted to say good-bye.”

  “I’ll get her,” Nadine offered.

  “Don’t bother. I know my way around the kitchen.” I laughed. “At least in a directional sense. Excuse me.”

  I pushed open the swinging doors and stepped into the kitchen. The staff had cleaned up and was gone. Two small lights cast tentative illumination over the large room. I saw no one and was about to return to the dining room when I heard a noise from a narrow corner created by a wall, and the side of a huge walk-in refrigerator. I took a few steps in that direction. The noise was louder this time. It was a woman’s breathy, passionate voice that whispered, “I love you.”

  Before I could turn and beat a hasty retreat, Laurie Marschalk and Bobby Jensen stepped into the light. He quickly wiped lipstick from his mouth with a towel that was folded on a stainless-steel preparation table. Laurie pulled down her silky black dress that was up to her hips.

  And then they saw me.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Seth and I are leaving.”

  I disengaged Seth from Adrian Woodhouse, said good-bye to the others, and we were on our way out the dining room door when Laurie emerged from the kitchen. She glared at me across the room.

  “Let’s go,” I told Seth, fairly pulling him from the room.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Tell you later.”

  As we headed for my villa, Bobby Jensen emerged from a back door to the kitchen and circled around in the direction of the inn’s main entrance.

  “Somethin’ wrong, Jess?” Seth asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “You know I don’t believe in ghosts,” I said. “But I do believe in justice. Come on. We have some things to do.”

  “We?”

  “Absolutely. If I can work on my vacation, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t work, too.”

  Chapter 18

  The answering machine was flashing when Seth and I entered my villa.

  “Meant to ask you about that before,” he said as I pushed “PLAY.” “Unusual for a hotel to provide answering machines to the guests.”

  “Very unusual,” I said. “Listen.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher. Detective Calid here. I would appreciate it if you would call me when you return. No matter the hour.” He left his home number.

  “Who’s he?” Seth asked.

  “The detective in charge of Walter’s murder investigation,” I said. “Sit and relax while I call him.”

  He answered on the first ring.

  “I hope I haven’t woken you,” I said.

  “No chance of that, Mrs. Fletcher. I assume you haven’t heard the news about Jacob Austin.”

  “No, I haven’t. I’ve been out all evening, just returned. I trust it’s good news.”

  “Only that it were, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said through a deep, pained sigh.

  “I’m listening,” I said, tossing a quick glance at Seth, who’d settled his body in a chair, his attention upon me.

  “Your friend, Jacob—”

  I interrupted. “My friend? What makes you say that? I’d hardly call him my friend.”

  “I understand you were quite friendly with him during your jailhouse visit.”

  “Does visiting someone in jail automatically bond them as friends?” I asked, aware that this banter was keeping him from delivering what was obviously more important news.

  “Well, Mrs. Fletcher, that you weren’t friends might make what I have to say a little easier to accept. Austin committed suicide tonight in his cell. Wrapped a sheet around his neck and hung himself.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “But he had an alibi. Did you check with Dr. Silber about the call Jacob made to him the night of the murder?”

  “Yes, I did, Mrs. Fletcher. Unfortunately, Dr. Silber had no record of that call.”

  “No record? A medical doctor has no record of a patient’s call?”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I know you’re upset, and I apologize for being the bearer of this news. Whether Dr. Silber should have kept a record of the young man’s call—and whether that call was actually made—is beyond the scope of this conversation. I am simply extending the courtesy of letting you know.”

  He was right, of course. He had no obligation to call me with the news. I thanked him, then asked, “Might I come see you in the morning? At your office?”

  “Well, I—I have meetings all morning.”

  “Afternoon? At your convenience.”

  “Perhaps it would be best to call in the morning. I’m sure time can be arranged.”

  “Thank you. I will. By the way, Detective Calid, did your divers find what they were looking for today in Lover’s Lagoon? The murder weapon?”

  “No. Might I be so bold as to suggest something to you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “I’m always open to suggestions, Detective.”

  “Try to resist the temptation to become further involved in this murder. Go home. Come back to St. Thomas another time, another year when it will live up to its reputation as a vacation paradise.”

  I looked to Seth again, who hadn’t taken his eyes off me. He’d suggested the same thing. Go home.

  “I may do just that,” I told Calid.

  “Fine. As for me, it’s been a trying and tiring day, as you can imagine. Good night, Mrs. Fl
etcher.”

  “Good night.”

  “Bad news, I take it,” Seth said when I hung up.

  “Shocking is more like it. Jacob Austin, the young man accused of murdering Walter, has hung himself in jail.”

  “Maybe you were wrong,” said Seth. “Maybe he did kill Walter.”

  “I suppose that’s always a possibility. But if I were a betting woman, I’d wager he didn’t.”

  I filled him in on Calid’s claim that Dr. Silber had not kept any record of a call from Jacob. “Does that sound reasonable to you, Seth. You’re a doctor. If a patient called you at midnight concerning a sick child, would you not have kept a record of it?”

  “Possible. Sometimes you get so many calls like that you forget to note it in the records. ’Course, I wouldn’t forget such a call. When did you say it was made? Monday night? That’s only two days ago. Unless this Dr. Silber is losin’ his memory, he sure would have remembered such a call.”

  “Of course.”

  “Did he prescribe anything for the child? Antibiotic? Cough medicine?”

  “Let me see. Jacob told me his wife took the child to see Dr. Silber the next morning, and she was put on an antibiotic.”

  “That’s easy enough to check. Why don’t you—?”

  “I have a better idea. Why don’t you stop in and see Dr. Silber tomorrow morning? You know, a little doctor-to-doctor talk.”

  “Ayah. I’ll do it. You said you had work to do.”

  “Tomorrow. Right now I need to sort out my thoughts, get them on paper, and grab some rest. I suggest you do the same.”

  “I get the distinct feeling I’m being told to leave.”

  “Nothing of the sort. It’s just that I’ll be occupied and—and if you hurry, you might not miss the limbo contest at Diamond Reef.”

  His first expression was that I was being serious. Then he broke into a smile, and I joined in it. “Good night, Seth,” I said, kissing him on the cheek. “Let’s meet for breakfast in the morning at Diamond Reef.”