Trouble at High Tide

by Jessica Fletcher Donald Bain

  “You’ve got plenty of those already,” Madeline told him. “Anyway, you get to see the Devils all the time.”

  “Where?” Margo asked, looking at her.

  Madeline smirked. “At the Meadowlands, of course. They named the hockey team after the Jersey Devil. The New Jersey Devils. You’ve heard of them, right?”

  “Oh. I thought you were serious for a change,” Margo said. Her face was flushed.

  Stephen winked at his sister and smothered a smile. His right hand was no longer bandaged, but when he gestured, the angry red mark on his palm was visible. He noticed me looking at it and tucked his hand in his lap.

  “When do you think you might hear about the nomination?” I asked, raising the topic of Tom’s hopes for a seat on the Court of Appeals.

  “Don’t know. Don’t know,” Tom said, drawing in a breath between his teeth. “These things are so delicate; the least little thing can derail it.”

  Like the murder of your niece, I thought but didn’t say, although her death was certainly not “the least little thing.”

  “A fortuitously placed leak in the press could do wonders for your book,” Godfrey said, his eyes alight. “Might push it onto the bestseller list. Wouldn’t that be a pip? I’d have to up the press run, then. We haven’t printed that many volumes yet.”

  “No. No,” Tom said, a worried look passing over his face. “Can’t take that chance.” Then he seemed to change his mind. “If it happens, well, I’m not responsible. But it can’t come from anyone I know.”

  “There are ways to clue in the press without revealing the source,” Godfrey said. “Why don’t you let me run it by my public relations fellows in London and New York, see what they think. You want your name out there, don’t you? Nothing like a book to boost your Q score.”

  “What’s a Q score?” Margo said.

  “It’s a measure of familiarity and approval,” I said, “but it’s more commonly used to rate television shows and celebrities.”

  “Yes. And while Tom is neither a sports personality nor an actor, he is an author,” Godfrey said. “Authors are celebrities. Politicians who’ve written a book always want to know their Q scores. Want to be a celebrity, Tom?”

  “My reputation as a jurist is the most important element influencing those in power,” Tom said, then added, “But it might be fun to be a celebrity.”

  “That would mean more paparazzi,” Stephen said, cocking his head toward the front of the house. “We can do without that.”

  “God, yes!”

  Tom’s good mood lasted until dessert. When Norlene brought out her cassava pie, the air seemed to go out of him. Perhaps it was one of Alicia’s favorites. No one else noticed, or at least they pretended not to. Godfrey held forth on how the “dreadful London weather” actually benefited his business. “Our distributor cheers when it rains,” he said. “Means stronger book sales. Well, that’s something, at least.”

  Daisy began to speak about the wonderful artist from whom she and Godfrey had purchased a painting, then stopped abruptly. My hunch is that she felt she shouldn’t talk about another artist with Stephen sitting at the table and was hesitant to praise Stephen’s work without mentioning the portrait of Alicia. She covered the awkward moment by choking on her coffee, at which her husband pounded on her back, and the dinner broke up soon afterward.

  The next morning, with directions to Agnes’s home in my pocket, I walked along the beach to the base of the stairs leading to Daniel and Lillian Jamison’s house. Without stopping to reexamine the scene of the crime, I climbed up their steps to the top and walked across their expansive yard and the one next door. I saw no one and exited on Tucker’s Town Road a quarter mile down from the Betterton property and its complement of press and security. From there it was less than a mile to the house of Agnes Chudleigh-Stubbs. I’d called ahead, of course, and she’d said she’d be delighted if I would stop by. She would be home all morning—all afternoon, too, in fact.

  The day was warm, but not hot, and I relished the solitary walk. A few motorbikers rode past me, their owners giving me a friendly toot and a wave, but otherwise I was alone. Most of the homes I passed were hidden behind limestone walls, some with cascading flowers hanging over them. At one vine bearing red flowers, I spotted a ruby-throated hummingbird, the same kind that frequents the bird feeder at my neighbor’s house back in Maine. Tina Treyz has put out homemade hummingbird nectar every year for as long as she’s lived in Cabot Cove, and she’s been rewarded by return visitors each spring. She swears they’re the same birds she saw the year before, although I have no idea how she can tell.

  Agnes’s house was down a narrow lane off the main road, across the way from a pair of mini-mansions that might have been designed by the same architect, and landscaped by the same designer. A small car was parked on the grass in front. Her home, a modest two-story aqua rectangle with the classic white-terraced clay roof, was tucked away at the back of a garden behind a pink trumpet tree. The path to the house was lined with scattered flowering plants amid what looked like foot-high grasses with tiny blue flowers, which I later learned are called bermudiana. The wooden front door stood open and I knocked on the trim of the screen door. I could hear voices coming from the rear of the house, but my knuckles would take a beating before anyone would know I was there. Instead, I called out for Agnes.

  “Just a minute,” came a singsong woman’s voice. “There you are. I thought I heard someone calling. We were out back. I’m sorry; the doorbell is broken.” A tall woman in a tennis outfit with a white cap and dark sunglasses pulled open the screen door.

  “I didn’t even see a bell,” I said, looking around the doorjamb in case I had missed something.

  “No, of course you didn’t. It’s attached to the door, which is open. How do you do? You must be Jessica Fletcher. Agnes was telling me about you. We didn’t meet the other night. I’m Claudia Betterton.”

  “How do you do,” I replied.

  She crunched my outstretched hand, turned around and trotted down a long hall to a screened porch in the back without waiting to see if I followed.

  “Agnes, your guest is here,” she sang out.

  “Jessica, how good of you to come. I love company. Claudia has made some iced tea. Would you like a glass?”

  “I would love one,” I said.

  “Claudia, would you be a dear?”

  “Of course.”

  Agnes, who sat in an upholstered wing chair, waved me into a rattan settee with a flowered cushion, while Claudia poured me a drink from a pitcher on a white-painted sideboard. The porch was screened on three sides under a green plastic corrugated roof that protected it from the weather. The brick flooring continued under the screens to an outside patio, a short distance from a stone wall that marked the end of the property. The garden was all in front of the house.

  “Here you go,” Claudia said, handing me a glass and a paper napkin. “So how are things in the Betterton household, aside from the obvious? Margo having fun playing house?”

  “Oh, you are bad, Claudia,” Agnes said.

  Claudia gave out with a bark of laughter. “I can’t help it. I can’t believe Tom is actually thinking about marrying her. She’s dumb as a post.”

  “Well, some men like to be in charge,” Agnes said, winking at me. “He tried a smart one; it didn’t work out.” She giggled at her own joke.

  “He certainly went in the opposite direction from me, didn’t he?” Claudia said. She folded her tall frame into an egg-shaped chair that hung from a rafter, and used one long tanned leg and sneakered foot to keep it from swinging. She turned her gaze on me. “Did Adam drop you off?” she asked.

  “No. Actually, I walked here.”

  “You did? You’re very brave. Those tourists on their scooters would just as soon knock you down as not. Isn’t that right, Agnes? They’re not used to driving on the left. My cousin visited from the States and got a doozy of a case of Bermuda road rash when some idiot on a cell phone ran in
to her bike and she toppled off. Her left arm and leg were scraped raw. You’d better be careful on your way back.”

  “Thank you for the warning,” I said.

  “Claudia was just telling me about the beautiful Scotland Yard inspector,” Agnes interjected. “Have you met her yet?”

  “I haven’t,” I replied, “but I expect to later this afternoon.” I turned to Claudia. “Did she ask you what time you left the party?”

  “Everyone has asked that. I left at one, and if you don’t believe me you can ask the Jamisons. I gave them a lift home.”

  “But they live next door,” I said. “Why would they need a ride?”

  “Dan was so drunk, he could hardly stand. Lil begged me to drive them, promising that she would pay for the cleaning if he got sick in the car. Fortunately, he waited until he got out.”

  “Did you go home right away after that?”

  “You’re sounding like the Scotland Yard inspector.”

  “Sorry. I do ask a lot of questions,” I said. “Must be the mystery writer in me. Did she ask you about the knives?”

  Claudia laughed. “You mean my knives, the ones given to me as a gift, the ones I took from my own kitchen?”

  “I thought the house was Tom’s,” I said.

  She got a sour look on her face. “I redid that kitchen myself. You should have seen what a disaster it was before. Wasn’t it, Agnes?”

  “Yes, dear, and you tried very hard to keep it.”

  “I left some items there, fully expecting to be able to retrieve them whenever I wanted, but Tom has made it difficult. Well, no one is going to tell me I can’t take what’s mine.”

  “Did Scotland Yard confiscate them?” Agnes asked.

  “No. The constables did. They said I could get them back at the end of the case, but who knows how long that will be.”

  “I guess the timing was unfortunate,” I said.

  She snorted. “You mean Alicia? I would never bother to slit her throat, the little witch. She wasn’t worth my time. I knew what to do with her.”

  “Claudia, you should be careful what you say,” Agnes said.

  “Why? I never was before. I don’t see starting now.”

  “I understand you sent Alicia off to boarding school,” I said.

  Claudia’s smile reappeared. “I did. And everyone in that house was really grateful. But did I get a thank you from anyone? I did not. All I got were complaints.”

  “From Tom?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “From Stephen, who still doesn’t know what to do with his life. And his sister, Madeline, who could win the laziest-girl-in-the-world contest if she got off her butt to enter.”

  “Is there such a thing, Claudia?” Agnes asked.

  “No, hon, it was just a figure of speech.”

  “I liked it, though. I’ll have to remember that.” Agnes repeated softly, “laziest-girl-in-the-world contest.” She chuckled.

  I imagined the old woman telling the story to others, making the phrase her own.

  Claudia raised her brows at Agnes, then looked at me. “Anyway, Tom’s method of disciplining his children is to give them whatever they want. He calls it ‘the path of least resistance.’ I call it spoiling them. Look how they ended up. And the worst of them was Alicia.”

  “She wasn’t that bad,” Agnes put in.

  “You only say that because your nephew Charles had a thing for her. Poor deluded boy. I’m telling you, she would have made him miserable. He could never have afforded her, for one thing.”

  “Probably not,” Agnes said.

  “A couple of months ago,” Claudia continued, apparently happy to have an audience for her complaints, “Tom told me that Alicia asked him to buy her an apartment in New York City. She wanted to be an independent woman. Can you believe it? How is she independent if Tom is still paying her way? I told him he was a fool if he wasted his money that way. I heard he finally turned her down. At least he did one thing right.”

  She must have read my expression because she quickly added, “Of course, I’m sorry that she’s dead. No one would wish that on their worst enemy. But it didn’t surprise me. She was always asking for trouble. And this time she got it and couldn’t get away from it.”

  Claudia, despite her disclaimer, seemed pleased that Alicia had been murdered. I’d never encountered someone so self-satisfied over the death of another person.

  “Did you express these feelings to the police?” I asked.

  “I’m not that stupid. But you’re not the police, are you?”

  I smiled. “No, I’m not.”

  “Are my feelings about Alicia safe with you, Agnes?”

  “I’ve already been interviewed and I don’t think they’re coming back. Your secret is safe with me, although it’s hardly a secret, Claudia. Everyone knew you didn’t like Alicia.”

  I saw an opportunity and took it. “By any chance, do you know where Alicia was the last couple of years?”

  Claudia shrugged. “Why do you ask?”

  “Tom mentioned that she lived at home with him except when she was away at boarding school, and again the last few years. I wondered where she might have been. Did she go away to college?”

  “That one? No way!” She shot a glance at Agnes and I got the feeling she was reluctant to discuss Alicia’s whereabouts with our hostess. Agnes’s nephew Charles had said his aunt lived for gossip. Perhaps Claudia wasn’t eager to have Agnes know something more that might reflect poorly on Tom’s family, or more important, on her.

  Claudia consulted her watch, climbed out of her chair, and stretched. “I have to leave,” she said. “I’m having lunch at the tennis club in half an hour.”

  “Thank you so much for visiting,” Agnes said. She pressed a button on a remote control, and a motor started to hum.

  “No need to get up,” Claudia said.

  “Nonsense! I can’t stay glued to my seat all day. Do me good to walk you out.”

  The seat of Agnes’s chair slowly rose and tilted on an angle until her feet touched the floor. She pushed off the arms and stood straight for a moment, letting her body adjust to the new position.

  I stood as well. “It was nice to meet you,” I said to Claudia, but I didn’t offer my hand again; I didn’t want my fingers crushed in her grip.

  “I’ll have to invite you over,” Claudia said, but I was sure that she didn’t mean it.

  Agnes took her arm and they walked down the hall to the front door. I wondered if I should follow to help Agnes back to her chair, but she didn’t ask, and I didn’t want to offend her by making the suggestion. From what I gathered, she lived in the house alone except when Charles visited, and was able to manage on her own.

  Agnes was gone for a while, and just when I began to be concerned she returned with a plateful of cookies. “Made these myself yesterday,” she said. “Lost the recipe a while back, but I think I remembered it well enough. Been baking them for sixty or seventy years.” She put the plate on a table between us and backed up to her chair.

  “Nifty device, isn’t it?” she said, holding up the remote. “It’s a power lift seat.” She leaned into the seat cushion, pressed a button, and the seat lowered back into the chair. “It’s made a big difference in my life.”

  I took a cookie and offered the plate to Agnes. “They’re delicious,” I said.

  She nodded. “Nice to know the brain still functions.” She looked at me. “So, Jessica, do you think Claudia killed Tom’s niece?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Adam let me off at police headquarters with a promise to pick me up when my meeting was finished. I gave the duty officer my name, showed my ID, and told him I had an appointment with the inspectors from Scotland Yard.

  “What is it in reference to?” he asked.

  I lowered my voice and said, “It’s in reference to the murder of Miss Alicia Betterton.” I evidently hadn’t lowered it enough because a man who’d been leaning against a nearby wall strolled over while I waited to be ad
mitted.

  “Larry Terhaar, Associated Press,” he said, holding up his media pass. “May I ask you a few questions, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” I replied. “I really have nothing to say.”

  “You found one of the bodies. That’s hardly nothing.”

  I opened my bag and pulled out my cell phone, pretending I had a call. “Excuse me,” I said as I put the phone to my ear and turned my back to him. “Hello?”

  “This is a very important case, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, pulling on my arm. “The public wants to know what’s going on.”

  “Hold on a moment,” I said into the phone. I turned to the reporter. “I’ll be happy to share anything I have to contribute with the authorities, not the press. Please excuse me. I have to take this call.”

  He chased around to confront me. “Your phony phone call won’t cut it, Mrs. Fletcher. Don’t you think the people have a right to know?” he said in a loud, confrontational voice. “This isn’t one of your made-up stories. Real people are dying out there.”

  “And if I knew who the killer was, I would alert the police immediately,” I said in my sternest voice. “But that’s not the situation, and I don’t care to speculate on so important a case. As you say, the public has a right to know, to know the facts, which they can get from their police department and their elected officials, not from someone who makes up stories, as you so nicely put it.”

  I saw a door open out of the corner of my eye and recognized Inspector Veronica Macdonald standing in the doorway. I snapped my phone closed, dropped it in my bag, and waved at her. “You’ll have to excuse me,” I said to Terhaar as I slipped past the inspector into the vestibule.

  “Were you doing an interview?” she asked without introduction.

  “I was trying not to do an interview,” I replied, straightening up and trying to put my anger behind me. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. You are Inspector Macdonald, I believe.”

  She gave me a big smile and put out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve heard so much about you from George. He has only wonderful things to say.”