Rum and Razors

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Better than rocks in your bed,” I said.

  “What?”

  “An old song.”

  “I’m not interested in songs, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m interested in doing my job. I’m leaving. I have other more promising appointments. But I have one question for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why are you spreading rumors that we found the murder weapon?”

  “I wasn’t aware that I had.”

  “You have. I heard.”

  “From whom? Who told you that?”

  “That’s a second question. You promised to ask only one. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Detective Calid. Thank you for your time.”

  “And stop spreading rumors, Mrs. Fletcher. I don’t need it.”

  I watched him leave the building, then looked to where Luther Jackson and I had been talking. He, too, was gone.

  Peter stood next to his Jeep as I left the jail. He opened the door for me and climbed behind the wheel.

  “Have you heard a rumor that the police had found the weapon used to murder Walter Marschalk?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “I’m surprised. It seems to be all over St. Thomas.”

  “Where to next?”

  “Jacob Austin’s home. Do you know where his family lives?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then that’s where I want to go.”

  And, I silently mused, I wanted to know who had called Detective Calid with my planted rumor that the weapon had been found. Jennifer Fletcher or Fred Capehart? I wasn’t aware they would know whom to call.

  If it wasn’t either of them, to whom had they passed the rumor?

  Laurie Marschalk?

  Senator Bobby Jensen?

  The Marschalks’ partner, Chris Webb?

  Newspaper owner Adrian Woodhouse?

  Other travel writers staying at Diamond Reef?

  Diamond Reefs general manager Mark Dobson?

  I wanted to know because, somehow, my instincts told me that Walter’s murderer was the same person.

  Chapter 20

  Jacob Austin’s widow and three children lived in a small, neatly kept house on a busy road in a town called Fortuna, on the western side of St. Thomas. The house was, like most houses on the island, made of white stone and had a red tile roof. A jungle gym and slide dominated the tiny front yard.

  A number of cars lined the narrow street on both sides. Grieving family members and friends, I assumed. My resolve to visit had weakened. Would the unannounced presence of an unfamiliar tourist be viewed as presumptuous, even rude? I hoped not as I took a deep breath, got out of the Jeep, and approached the front door. The dog lifted its head, gave me a tentative bark, and went back to sleep.

  Voices came from inside the house. I knocked; a small child responded. “Hello,” I said. “Is your mother home?”

  She ran from the door yelling, “Mommy! Mommy!” A moment later her mother faced me. “Yes?” she asked. She was a pretty, slender young woman with brown hair that fell softly to the shoulders of a simple green-and-white cotton dress. “I’m sorry to intrude at a time like this,” I said, “but I wanted to express my sorrow at what happened to your husband.”

  “I don’t understand. You knew Jacob?”

  I started to explain, but the moment I mentioned my name, she smiled and said, “Yes, Mrs. Fletcher. Jacob told me about you when he was allowed to call yesterday afternoon. He said—” Her smile broke into a tearful grimace. “He said you were trying to help him.”

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t very successful,” I said.

  “Please, come in.”

  The interior of the house was as neat as the outside. The furniture wasn’t expensive, but had obviously been chosen with care to fit the small confines of the living and dining rooms. One thing was certain. Jacob Austin’s wife was a meticulous housekeeper, and mother. The three children, even the one-year-old, were dressed in pristinely ironed clothes.

  A dozen people milled about the living room, where Mrs. Austin—I realized I hadn’t learned her first name—had set a table with fruits, cookies, and a large coffeepot. One visitor wore a clergy-man’s collar, another the white garb of a hospital worker.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Austin,” I said. “I don’t know your first name.”

  “Vera,” she said. And then she introduced me to her family and friends: “Mrs. Fletcher is the woman who visited Jacob in jail and tried to help him.”

  I was warmly welcomed. After a cup of strong, spice-flavored coffee was handed me, the clergy-man, Father Wallingford, asked about my visit with Jacob in the jail. “Did he seem especially despondent to you?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered. “But I saw him in the morning. Perhaps—”

  He shook his head. “I visited with Jacob right after dinner,” he said. “He seemed in fine spirits, thanks to you pointing out that Doctor Silber might be able to provide him with an alibi.”

  “But I understand the doctor didn’t provide the alibi,” I said.

  “Exactly right, Mrs. Fletcher. Unfortunately, he was unable to.”

  Vera Austin joined us. I said to her, “Jacob told me you took the sick child to Doctor Silber the next morning, and that he prescribed an antibiotic.”

  “I did take Clarise to him, but he didn’t prescribe the drug. He gave us some from his own supply. Doctor Silber usually does that to save his patients money. He gets them from the big drug companies, I think.”

  I sipped my coffee as others joined us. “A friend of mine from home, a doctor, is on St. Thomas,” I said. “He’s gone to talk with Doctor Silber this morning to find out whether—”

  “He won’t find the doctor there this morning,” a stout woman, who’d been introduced as Vera’s aunt, said.

  “He won’t?”

  “No. Doctor Silber is my neighbor. He left bright and early this morning for the States.”

  My frown reflected my confusion. “Was this a sudden departure?” I asked.

  The stout woman laughed. “Oh, yes. A sudden retirement, too.”

  “Retirement?” I said incredulously.

  “Doctor said he’s going to live with relatives in the States. Having things packed up and shipped for him. That’s what he told me. Gave me his cat, Swizzle Stick, to keep. I have two of my own, but what’s one more, I say?”

  “Yes, what’s one more,” I repeated, my voice now heavy with defeat.

  I looked at Vera Austin. “Jacob did make that call the night Walter Marschalk was murdered?” I said.

  “Of course. I stood next to him when he called the doctor.”

  “And now the doctor has vanished. Just like that. Sudden. Permanent. I wonder who got to him.”

  “Pardon?” the stout woman said.

  “Just thinking out loud,” I said.

  “I don’t know what we’ll do for a doctor now,” Vera said. “The children loved him. He made them laugh.”

  I walked away and looked through a window into the front yard where the two older children now climbed on the jungle gym. Vera came to my side, saw them, and yelled for them to come in and change their clothes if they were going to play outdoors.

  “I really must be going,” I said. “Again, I am so sorry about Jacob. If it’s any solace, at least you and your family know he did not commit any crime.”

  It was the first time a hint of bitterness crept into her voice. “Yes, Mrs. Fletcher, we know he didn’t. But everyone else on St. Thomas believes he did, and that his suicide confirms it.” She began to cry. “At least he left us insurance. Strange, isn’t it, that the man they say he killed, Walter Marschalk, is responsible for us receiving enough money to live on for the rest of our lives.”

  “I don’t follow,” I said.

  “Jacob’s life insurance policy at the inn. Mr. Marschalk paid for the policy.”

  “But Jacob was fired, I heard Mr. Marschalk fire him.”

  “I don’t know how those things work,” Vera said, wiping tears from her cheeks.
“I just know that Mrs. Marschalk called and told me about the policy. I never even knew Jacob had it.”

  “Well, I’m glad there is at least that for you,” I said.

  “I’d better get the children,” Vera said.

  I had nothing else to say, no comforting words, no perspicacious thoughts to help ease the pain. I left the house, climbed into Peter’s Jeep, wiped away a tear that slowly ran down my cheek, and said, “Let’s go back to the inn.”

  “You okay, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “No, I am not okay, but that isn’t your problem. Please. I just want to go home.”

  Chapter 21

  I heard the knocking but couldn’t relate to it. It was from a faraway place, someone else’s door. I forced my legs over the side of the chaise lounge, rose unsteadily to my feet, crossed the living room to the door, and asked, “Who is it?”

  “Seth.”

  “Seth.” I looked at my watch. Three past one. He undoubtedly had arrived at one sharp, and had been knocking for three minutes. I unlocked the door.

  “Gorry, Jessica, you look terrible,” he said when he was inside.

  “Thank you very much. I fell asleep on the terrace and—it doesn’t matter. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “I was beginning to worry.” He followed me to the terrace.

  “Have a seat,” I said, changing direction toward the bathroom. “I need to wake up.”

  When I returned, Seth was looking down over Lover’s Lagoon. “A beautiful sight,” he said into the air.

  “Yes, it is. Get you a drink?”

  “Thought we were havin’ lunch. I’m a mite hungry.”

  “That’s right. I forgot. I’ll try to get something brought up, but I doubt if I can. Laurie told me she’s closing the inn until details of the merger are worked out with Diamond Reef. There’s probably no one in the kitchen.”

  “Let’s go next door.”

  “That’s one of many things I love about you, Seth. You’re a clear and decisive thinker.”

  We ordered club sandwiches and iced coffees at the same table at which we’d had breakfast. Neither of us was very talkative. Since I knew all about Dr. Silber skipping town—and that’s exactly what I considered his abrupt departure to be—there was no need for Seth to explain his lack of success in ferreting out the imbibing physician.

  I, of course, espoused my theory on why he’d left St. Thomas, summing it up with, “He was bought off.”

  “Serious charge” was Seth’s reply. “Who?”

  “Whoever is comfortable having the world think that Jacob Austin is a killer. Show me that person, and I’ll show you the real killer.”

  “Reasonable to assume, I suppose, that whoever paid the doctor to leave town is the same person who paid to have the young fella murdered in prison. Providing, ’a course, that either event happened the way you think it did.”

  “You’re right on both counts,” I said.

  It dawned on me as we sipped the chilled coffee that I’d never told Seth of the furtive meeting that night in Charlotte Amalie between Chris Webb, Jennifer Fletcher, and Fred Capehart. And so I did.

  Seth pointed to a window that looked out over the coffee shop’s outdoor dining area. I followed the direction of his finger, adjusted my vision to compensate for glare on the glass, and saw what he was pointing at. Chris Webb, Jennifer Fletcher, Fred Capehart, and Laurie Marschalk sat at a table. Standing over them was Diamond Reef general manager Mark Dobson.

  “Looks like they’re doin’ business in the daylight these days,” Seth said.

  “Looks like it.”

  “I knew they’d be havin’ lunch together.”

  “Oh?”

  “Ayah. I did what you asked me to do, against my better judgment, I might add.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Called the desk and asked for Fred Capehart’s messages.”

  “And?”

  “He had two. One was that the murder weapon was found in Lover’s Lagoon. The other was from Laurie. Said she had to talk with him immediately, and set up the lunch they’re havin’ here today.”

  “I think we should go out and say hello,” I said.

  The sun had been shining brightly when we arrived for lunch. Now, as we stepped outside, the sun was obscured by metallic gray clouds that had begun to settle low over the island. A brisk breeze whipped in from the east; umbrellas over the outdoor tables flapped.

  Laurie and the others saw us approaching and abruptly ceased their conversation. Mark Dobson, a broad, professional smile on his face, greeted us a few feet from the table. “Hello, Jessica,” he said. “Dr. Hazlitt.” He extended his hand to Seth.

  “We just finished lunch inside,” I said, “and thought we’d stop by to say hello.”

  “Hello, everyone,” I said when we reached the table.

  My greeting was halfheartedly returned.

  “Looks like a live storm brewin’ up,” said Seth.

  “They’re forecasting a norte,” said Dobson.

  “Norte?” I said.

  “Norther,” he explained. “We get them occasionally in winter. They blow down from North America and can get pretty nasty.”

  “Like a hurricane?” I asked.

  “Different,” Dobson said. “But equally destructive at times.”

  “Good thing they found the murder weapon before the storm hits,” I said lightly, looking at Laurie.

  Her answer was a smirk, and a barely discernible shake of her head.

  “You don’t agree?” I asked.

  “You’ve been reading too many of your own murder mysteries, Jess,” she said.

  “Maybe I have,” I said, laughing.

  “They didn’t find the weapon,” Laurie said. “I spoke with Detective Calid.”

  “We have to go,” Jennifer said. She stood and told Capehart with hard eyes that he, too, was expected to leave. He got the message and walked away with her.

  “On your way to St. John?” I asked Laurie.

  “Yes.”

  “You look especially lovely today, Mrs. Fletcher,” Webb said. “The vacation must be agreeing with you.”

  “It’s beginning to,” I said. “Well, we’re off for the afternoon.”

  Webb looked to the sky, which had lowered even more as the wind increased. “Hope your plans aren’t for a picnic,” he said, smiling.

  “No,” I said. “Just some sightseeing. A little rain won’t bother us.”

  “Enjoy yourselves,” Webb said. He took Laurie’s arm and they, too walked away, leaving Seth and me standing alone at the now vacant table. We looked at each other. “Nervous crew,” he said.

  “You noticed.”

  “What’s this business about the weapon bein’ found? The detective told you last night it hadn’t been.”

  “You know how rumors get started.”

  His grin was all-knowing. “I think I know how this one got started,” he said. “Where to next? Are we really going sightseeing?”

  “Absolutely. I thought an afternoon on St. John would be a pleasant choice. I’ve been reading about it in my guidebook. Small—only nine miles long—peaceful, quiet, a nature-lover’s paradise. You with me?”

  “Not the sort ’a weather for nature walking,” he said.

  “Nonsense. I predict the sun will be shining by the time we get there. Game?”

  He winced against raindrops that fell on his face. “Just hope you’re as good a weather forecaster as you are a writer, Jessica.”

  Chapter 22

  The taxi driver who responded to our call from the inn was an older woman with orange hair, and who wore a crimson dress adorned with a dozen strands of pearls. Her name was Olive, she said.

  “Pettyklip Point,” I said after we’d settled in her yellow Toyota van.

  “Thought we were going to St. John,” Seth said.

  “We are. After we check out something at Pettyklip Point.”

  “Not much to check out there,” Olive said over her shoulder. “
If you’re going to St. John, the ferry leaves from Red Hook.”

  “That’s close to Pettyklip Point,” I said.

  “That it is.” She boosted her windshield wipers to their fastest speed to keep up with the ever-increasing rain that made visibility difficult.

  “Understand there’s a norte on the way,” Seth said. I smiled. When in Rome—or St. Thomas—speak like the natives.

  “That’s right,” said Olive. “The brunt of it’s supposed to be here around six.”

  “Not a good day to be out on the water,” Seth offered.

  Olive laughed. “All the shipwrecks around the islands attest to that,” she said. I silently wondered how many automobile wrecks on St. Thomas attest to the mistake of driving in a “norte.”

  As we came down the north coast on Route 30, it became increasingly narrow, hilly, and winding. The view to our left, I knew from previous rides, was beautiful—in good weather. This day, all was shrouded in a gray mist, and further obscured by the downpour.

  Eventually, Route 30 became Route 32, and after passing such landmarks as Benner Bay, East End Lagoon, and Compass Point, a sign said we were now on Red Hook Road. I breathed a sigh of relief. I’d cracked open the window in search of fresh air. I’d begun to feel nauseous; a few more minutes on the road and I might have been very sick.

  We reached Pettyklip Point, and Olive parked in front of a building whose sign announced the rental of water sports equipment. Business was nonexistent. To the right was a dock to which a dozen craft of varying sizes and shapes were secured.

  “Looks like you’re lucky,” said Olive as Seth paid her. “Skies are brightening.”

  Seth and I looked up. Sure enough, the cloud cover had lifted somewhat, and the rain had diminished to a steady drizzle.

  We stepped beneath an overhang on the aquatic rental building. “What are we doin’ here?” Seth asked. “The ferry to St. John leaves from Red Hook.”

  “I just want to stand here a few minutes,” I said. I looked at my watch. It was two-forty five. According to Capehart’s message to Jennifer, they were to meet at three.

  “All right,” Seth said, “but there doesn’t seem much to linger for. Just some tied-up boats and—”

  “Wait,” I said, urging him back against the building. He followed my gaze to the black Mercedes that had come around a corner a hundred yards away and that slowly approached the dock.