Dying to Retire

by Jessica Fletcher

  Sam jumped up. “I want to say something about that. If DeWitt Wainscott—”

  Minnie interrupted. “I didn’t call on you, Sam.”

  “So call on me then.”

  “Sam Lewis has the floor.”

  Sam tugged on the belt of his shorts and took a deep breath. “If Mr. DeWitt Wainscott thinks he can intimidate us from demonstrating by closing the beach and siccing his lawyers on us, he’s got another think coming. I know my rights as a citizen. This is a freedom-of-speech issue. I say we file a class-action suit.”

  “We’re on the first item, Sam,” Minnie said, “the memorial for Portia.”

  “This is more important, Minnie. We can do something for Portia another time. This is affecting not only the quality of our lives, but the value of our properties, too. There are too many empty units as it is.”

  There was a rumble of agreement, punctuated by a sharp bark from Snowy.

  “Sam’s right,” said a voice from the rear doorway. It was Clarence. “The best memorial for Portia would be to reopen the beach.”

  The rumble turned into a full-fledged roar as everyone craned to see Clarence. “He must have made bail,” Mort said to me.

  “Good for him,” I replied, thinking it was very courageous of Clarence to brave the meeting and the scrutiny of those who believed him guilty.

  Minnie pounded her gavel until order was restored.

  Clarence came halfway up an aisle and stopped. “For the sake of what few friends I may have here,” he said, “I loved my wife and I did not kill her, either accidentally or on purpose. Portia died in the place that she loved the best—on the beach. It was an important part of her life and she wanted desperately to preserve it for you and everyone else in Foreverglades. If you want a memorial to Portia, get Wainscott to reopen the beach.”

  Sam started applauding, and the Simmons twins joined him. But the rest refrained, perhaps uncomfortable with the idea of supporting anything said by a man accused of murder.

  I reached out and touched his arm. “Come sit down and let the meeting continue, Clarence,” I said.

  “I’ve said my piece,” he said, turning to leave.

  “No, please stay,” I said. “You may want to see this to its conclusion.”

  He thought for a moment, then reluctantly sat down beside me.

  Sam Lewis, who’d remained standing, took a few steps in Marina Rodiguez’s direction. He moved up and down on his toes as he asked her, “So, Mrs. Rodriguez, what does your boss have to say for himself?”

  Marina jumped to her feet and dropped the pad and pen on her seat. “Mr. Wainscott does not have to make any excuses to anyone,” she said. “We’ve been over all this before. Your contracts say access to the beach is at the discretion of the owner. The beach is his private property. The fact that he has generously allowed the residents here to use it for all these years doesn’t entitle you to beach rights forever. Not only that, he’s protecting you. There have been several alligator sightings—”

  “He probably put them there himself,” Miles Davison called out.

  “Mr. Wainscott cares about all of you,” Marina concluded. “He doesn’t want anyone here to get hurt.”

  “How come he never cared about us before?” Sam shouted. “Alligators, my foot!”

  Olga Piper stood. “What about the brochures? When I bought my unit here, the brochures showed people walking on the beach.” There was a chorus of agreement, and Olga continued. “We were promised a beach. You can’t take it away now.”

  “What do you expect me to do, draw in the towers on the brochures?” Marina responded angrily. “Of course the pictures show the beach, because that’s the way it is now. Besides, how do you know your view will be blocked? It’s possible you’ll be able to see the water from some of the buildings.”

  “It’s not the same thing,” Olga said.

  “No. No,” a chorus erupted. “It’s not the same thing.” Snowy started barking again until Monica wrapped her hand around his snout and whispered in his ear.

  “We won’t see the water unless Wainscott’s sky-scrapers are transported,” Sam said.

  “You mean ‘transparent,’ Sam,” Minnie said.

  “That, too.”

  Marina crossed her arms. “The beach belongs to Mr. Wainscott. He can do whatever he wants with it.”

  “That’s right!” boomed a voice from the back of the room.

  DeWitt Wainscott filled the doorway, his face angry and red. “It’s my property,” he bellowed. “If you step on the beach, I’ll have you arrested. And I’d like to remind you I still own the majority of the units in Foreverglades. If you don’t like it, you can sell. Or you can take it up with my lawyers. I’ll sue anyone who tries to stand in the way of Wainscott Towers.” He stalked into the room, followed by Mark Rosner, who was no longer dressed like the manager of the complex—no button-down shirt, no bow tie. He wore faded black jeans, a T-shirt, and heavy work boots, looking more like a bodyguard or a construction worker.

  “You can’t stop us from protesting,” Sam shouted.

  “You’ll shut up if you know what’s good for you,” Wainscott growled.

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I don’t need to threaten you. I have other ways I slap down fleas who pester me.”

  The room fell silent, as though everyone was fearful of drawing Wainscott’s wrath. Snowy growled softly from the safety of Monica’s lap. Earl and Burl grabbed for each other’s hands.

  I stood. “Like murder, Mr. Wainscott?” I said. “Is that the way you slap down people who get in your way?”

  “You again? You don’t even live here. You have nothing to say that interests me.” He turned to Marina. “Get out of here,” he told her. “You have more important things to do than waste time with these people.”

  “I’d like to hear what Mrs. Fletcher has to say.” All eyes turned to Tony Colombo. “I recommend you listen to her, too, Mr. Wainscott.”

  “I don’t give a damn what she or anybody else has to say,” Wainscott said, grabbing Marina by the wrist and pulling her toward the front door.

  “Sit down, Mr. Wainscott,” Colombo said, authority in his voice. “This meeting isn’t over yet.”

  Wainscott, his fingers gripping Marina’s wrist, glared at Colombo. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he shouted. “Stick to making pizzas and keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you.”

  “I think you might be surprised who I am, sir,” Colombo said, reaching into his back pocket.

  Amelia gasped. “Ah, Dios mío. He’s got a gun.”

  “I knew it. I knew it,” Sam shouted, fairly jumping up and down. “I knew there was something fishy about this guy.”

  Colombo smiled. “It’s not what you think, Sam,” he said. He pulled out his wallet and held up a badge for everyone to see. “Anthony Colombo, FBI.”

  A ripple of murmurs moved across the audience. That explains it, I thought. I’d known Colombo had another purpose for being in Foreverglades. Now it was becoming clearer.

  I watched Wainscott as he dropped Marina’s hand; she backed away from him. He stiffened his spine and scowled at Colombo, fists clenched, the picture of fury aroused. But a tiny muscle spasm on the side of his cheek betrayed his nervousness.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Mr. Wainscott,” Colombo said. “This concerns you.”

  I wondered if Wainscott would try to bolt, and what I should do if he did. But Mort came to my rescue. He stood and held up his badge, too, turning in a slow circle. “Mort Metzger, sheriff, Cabot Cove, Maine,” he said, going to the door nearest Wainscott and positioning himself in front of it. “I’ll see that no one leaves.”

  “I knew it,” Sam said. “Sure, he’s FBI. I knew it all along.”

  “You said he was with the Mafia, Sam,” Miles Davison reminded him.

  Colombo ignored the debate and pocketed his badge. “Now, Mrs. Fletcher, you were saying?”

  Marina, who’d been inching he
r way toward the guarded door, finally reached it. “Sorry,” Mort told her, “but nobody leaves until we say so.” He looked at Colombo: “Right?”

  “Right, Sheriff,” Colombo said.

  “I don’t blame you for wanting to leave, Marina,” I said. “I’d be uncomfortable, too, if I’d poisoned a beloved member of this group.”

  Everyone started talking at once. Colombo raised a hand in the air. “Please, let’s have some order so that we can hear what Mrs. Fletcher has to say.”

  “How dare you accuse me of such a thing,” Marina shouted at me. The color had drained from her cheeks.

  “I’m certainly not happy making such an accusation,” I said, “but I think it’s true. You arranged it very neatly, in fact. I almost believed you. But you went one step too far when you tried to frame Clarence.”

  The front door of the room opened softly, and Detective Zach Shippee slipped in. His entrance went unnoticed by most of the people, who were twisted in their seats, burning to see the next scene in the drama unfolding at the back of the room.

  “He did it!” Marina said in a shaky voice, pointing at Clarence. “It wasn’t me. He’s the guilty one. He killed his wife so he could be with her.” This time her finger was aimed at Monica Kotansky.

  “That’s not true.” Monica shrieked. “We’re friends, that’s all.” She started to sob. Snowy whined. He stood on his hind paws, frantically licking her chin. Carrie put her arm around her sister.

  “He told the police he was home all night, but he was lying,” Marina said, looking around the room for confirmation.

  Earl and Burl nodded in unison. “We saw him,” Earl said.

  “That night,” added Burl. They looked at Clarence, their expressions regretful.

  “We’re sorry, Mr. Shelby. We had to tell the police,” Earl said to Clarence.

  “They asked us,” added Burl.

  “That’s okay, boys,” Clarence said.

  “I saw them together the night Portia Shelby died,” Marina said, encouraged now that she’d gotten some support. “He was giving her the pills to kill his wife.”

  “How do you know what Clarence gave Monica?” I asked.

  “She threw away the box the pills came in. I found it in the garbage in the rec hall,” Marina said. “The box had contained diet pills. I saw it on the slip myself.”

  “And what time was this, Marina?” I asked.

  “It was ten-thirty, right after our meeting.”

  I remembered that the coroner’s report had estimated Portia’s time of death at ten P.M. “Portia was already dead on the beach when you say you saw Clarence give Monica the pills,” I said. “They couldn’t have been used to kill Portia that night.”

  Marina fumbled before coming up with an explanation. “Monica must have had them before,” she said, “and put them in Portia’s pillbox.”

  “But you were taking diet pills, too, weren’t you?” I said.

  “Never!” she shouted back, a triumphant look in her eye.

  “You never took the diet drug ephedra?”

  “I’ve never been anywhere near it.”

  “You knew that Portia Shelby’s heart attack was brought on by diet pills, didn’t you?”

  “Everyone knows it. It’s common knowledge here.” Her confidence was growing.

  “But you had nothing to do with that?”

  She shook her head.

  “Not even when Mr. Wainscott gave the pills to you?”

  “He . . . he never gave me any drugs.”

  “You’re saying you’ve never even seen these pills. Am I right?”

  She nodded, a smug expression on her face.

  Relief washed over me. She had fallen into my trap. “Then why, Marina, did I hear you say yesterday that it was amazing what a little blue pill can do?”

  Amelia squeaked, “La madre de Dios! She did say that.”

  “Everyone knew they were blue,” Marina said, her voice displaying less assuredness now. “Ask them down at the beauty parlor. They probably all know the pills were blue.”

  “This is the first I’m hearing that,” Helen said. Other women in the room echoed what she’d said.

  “I didn’t know the pills were blue, Marina,” said Amelia. “And I forgot you even said it, so I sure couldn’t have told anyone.”

  “So what?” Marina snapped. “It doesn’t mean anything.” She looked to Wainscott for support, but his back was to her, a disgusted expression on his face.

  “Yes, it does,” Minnie shouted. “You were the one who found Portia’s handbag when it went missing. Is that when you put the pills in her pillbox?”

  Marina ignored Minnie’s question and pointed at Clarence. “I . . . I . . . I heard him,” she said. “I heard him threaten her. I told it to the police. I even put it on the calendar.”

  “That’s right, Marina, you did,” I said, careful not to show my growing excitement. “And what date was it you gave the police? I believe you said it was three days before Portia died. Am I correct?”

  “That’s right, and the police know it. I . . . I heard him threaten to kill her.”

  “You must have very good ears,” I said, “because Clarence was up north visiting relatives that week. He only returned on the day Portia died.”

  The room exploded with voices.

  “I told you that, Jessica,” Helen called out. “I’d forgotten all about it.”

  “You poisoned Portia,” I said to Marina, “and then you tried to put the blame on Clarence. You must have been delighted to find the box that had contained the diet pills he’d ordered for Monica. So delighted, in fact, you planted it as evidence down at the beach.”

  Marina’s bravado deserted her. Tears began streaming down her face as she confronted Wainscott. “I did it for you,” she said.

  “For me?” he said. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

  “I thought . . .” She fought to control her voice through her sobs. “I thought that if I took care of your problem here at Foreverglades, you would take care of me the way you did Mark.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Rosner said, jumping up from where he’d been sitting in a nearby chair. He looked at the crowd that now stared at him. “She’s nuts,” he said. “Don’t listen to her.”

  Marina was not to be deterred. She said to Wainscott, “When that construction worker in Key West threatened to expose you, Mark arranged the accident with the crane. I knew he’d done it for you. You promoted him, made him manager here, took care of him, treated him with respect. That’s all I ever wanted from you—respect.”

  “I’m outta here,” Rosner said, heading for the door.

  But Zach Shippee blocked his way. “Calm down, Mr. Rosner,” the detective said. “You’re going nowhere at the moment.”

  Wainscott, a satisfied smile on his face, announced, “There’s no reason to detain me any longer. As you’ve heard, this demented woman acted on her own.” To her: “I’ll get you a good lawyer, Marina. That’s the best I can do.” He looked at Mark Rosner and said, “If you killed that guy in Key West, you did it for your own reasons. I never asked you to do it. Good luck.”

  “You son of a—” Rosner lunged at Wainscott, but Shippee wrestled him into a chair.

  Wainscott made moves to leave, but I signaled Mort to block him. “You can’t get off the hook that easily, Mr. Wainscott,” I said. “You gave Marina the pills, which makes you an accessory to murder.”

  “I don’t know anything about any pills,” he said.

  “Oh, but I think you do.”

  “So do I,” Seth Hazlitt said, standing. “My friend down in the Keys, Dr. Truman Buckley, prescribed the tablets for you, Mr. Wainscott, because you told him you wanted to lose weight.”

  “But you never intended to take the drug,” I said. “You have diabetes, don’t you? You knew that Dr.

  Buckley would never have given you the pills if you admitted that. So you lied to him and claimed you were in perfect health, except for the excess pounds.
”

  “Your blood tests would show up as being perfectly normal as long as you were taking your insulin regularly,” Seth added.

  “Mrs. Fletcher?” Detective Zach Shippee asked from where he stood at the door, “How do you know that Mr. Wainscott here has diabetes?”

  “I know because he sent Marina to pick up his insulin from Weinstein’s Pharmacy, and we happened to be there when she did. The prescription was filed under W, which I wondered about, but didn’t give any more thought to until other things became evident.”

  “What does it matter?” Wainscott said, his irritation rising again. “So what if I gave her the pills? I didn’t tell her to kill anybody with them.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, “but I’m sure the police will want to dig a little further into it with you.”

  “My lawyers will handle that. Are you finished now?” He looked around as if concluding the end of a particularly tiresome meeting.

  “I’m not finished with you, Mr. Wainscott,” Colombo said.

  Wainscott turned and faced the FBI special agent.

  “There’s a little matter of investors who’ve been scammed by you,” Colombo said. “DeWitt Wainscott, I’m placing you under arrest. You are charged with interstate felony fraud, conspiracy to commit fraud, and violations of the federal statutes on wire and mail fraud in the Securities Exchange Act of 1934.” He pulled a set of handcuffs from under his apron, snapped them on Wainscott’s wrists behind his back, and read him his rights.

  Zach Shippee motioned to unseen people in the hallway, and three uniformed officers joined him in the room. “Take these two people into custody on suspicion of murder,” he instructed them, pointing to Marina Rodriguez and Mark Rosner.

  “You’re never getting away with this,” Wainscott shouted. “You’ll have to deal with my lawyers.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” I asked Colombo, once he’d secured his prisoner.

  “Yes, ma’am. My cousin here owns the restaurant all by himself. I’ve been using it as a front while I built a federal case against Mr. Wainscott. He’s bilked investors in several states. I came here this morning with a warrant for his arrest on those charges, but I sure didn’t count on a couple of murders being solved, too.”