Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
A Bump in the Night ...
It was a sound that had awakened me, and it seemed to come from Marjorie’s room.
I came into the hallway, stepping gingerly as the ancient floorboards creaked beneath my feet, a sound I hadn’t heard since waking.
I stood outside Marjorie’s bedroom door. It was ajar, not enough so that you could see through the opening, but certainly not closed tight.
I placed my fingertips against the door and pushed. It was heavy and did not swing open, had to be pushed more. I did that and peered into the room. Marjorie’s bed was a king-size four-poster. The room was dark except for a sharp shaft of moonlight that poured through an opening in the drapes.
I stepped into the room and walked over to the side of the bed, like a moth drawn to a summer candle. A whole arsenal of grotesque sounds rose up inside me, but stopped at my throat—sounds of protest, of outrage, of shock and horror. Yet not a sound came from me as I looked down at the body of Marjorie Ainsworth, the grande dame of murder mystery fiction, sprawled on her back, arms and legs flung out, a long dagger protruding from her chest like a graveyard marker....
Other Murder, She Wrote mysteries
Knock ’Em Dead
Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch
A Little Yuletide Murder
Murder in Moscow
Murder on the QE2
The Highland Fling Murders
A Palette for Murder
A Deadly Judgment
Martinis & Mayhem
Brandy & Bullets
Rum & Razors
Manhattans & Murder
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Dedicated to the memory
of Richard Levinson
1934-1987
To my daughters, Laurie and Pamela, who are, on occasion, delightful mysteries to me; and my wife Renée, who keeps me honest.
And special gratitude to an editor’s editor, Ellen Edwards; agent and friend for thirty-five years, Ted Chichak; treasured friends Phyllis James, Rosemary Goad, and Craig and Jill Thomas; the ebullient Sally Bulloch of London’s superb Athenaeum Hotel & Apartments; the entire crew of that grand lady, the QE2; and, of course, my collaborator, Jessica Fletcher.
Chapter One
“Care to take a closer look, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Well, I suppose so,” I said.
“Hold on, then, here we go.”
My heart, which had been nestled securely in its usual place, now moved up to my throat and lodged there, beating as though a crazed bass drum player were doing a paradiddle on it. I reached over and touched him on the arm. “Please, maybe we shouldn’t ...”
He banked the Cessna 310 into a tight turn, forcing me back against my seat. “There it is, Mrs. Fletcher, right down there in that clump o’ trees.”
My eyes were closed. I forced them open and looked in the direction his finger was pointed until I spotted my home in Cabot Cove.
“There’s the firehouse,” he said, guiding the small aircraft down closer to the trees. His name was Jed Richardson, and he operated Jed’s Flying Service out of our small airport.
“Yes, I see. But maybe we should land now, Jed. I have an appointment.”
“Right you are, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, laughing and bringing the aircraft back to a straight-and-level attitude.
Jed had flown me to Bangor, where I’d been interviewed on a local television station about the publication of my latest novel. I’d offered to drive, but the station had insisted upon flying me in.
Seth Hazlitt, my good friend from Cabot Cove, was waiting for me at the airport.
“You all right, Jess?” he asked as we walked away from the plane.
“Yes, I think so.”
“You look a little green.”<
br />
“It must be the light.” He didn’t know how rubbery my legs were.
“Mort’s at the house waitin’ for you. He says he’s come up with some new clues.”
“Really? I hope they make more sense than the last batch. Do we really have to get into it now?”
“Won’t take long, Jess. He’s pretty eager to wrap it up.”
“How did you identify the murderer so fast, Jessica?” Mort asked as we sat in Seth’s living room.
“Elementary, my dear Metzger. The initial clues pointed clearly—too clearly, I think—to the Oriental woman who owned the shop, but then I learned—and it really was made too easy for me—that the letter opener used to kill Marc Silbert was missing from the ornate holder in which it usually sat. The art collector certainly had a motive, too, but it had to be the brother, and that’s the problem with the whole case.”
Seth patted our sheriff and friend, Morton Metzger, on the back. “It just needs some more refinement, Mort, that’s all.”
“I’ve been refinin’ it forever.” Mort looked at me. “Maybe you’re not the best one to make a judgment about it, Jess. You write murder mysteries, and solve ’em, too. You’re a professional. This here game is for people who don’t know anything about murder mysteries.”
I smiled at him; he looked dejected. “Maybe you’re right, Mort, maybe I’m being too picky. I think you’ve invented an absolutely wonderful murder mystery board game. You just need to iron out a few wrinkles.”
“Maybe if I figure a way to use dice,” he said. “People like to roll dice in games.”
“Yes, that might be a good idea,” I said. “I have to run home now. See you both tonight at the church supper?”
“We’ll be there,” Seth said.
I returned to my house and sat at my kitchen table. It was a little past noon; crisp, cool air sent my white curtains fluttering and heralded the coming of fall to Maine in all its peacock splendor. I looked through the open window to a clump of white pine trees that had always given me particular pleasure. They stood majestically, and every time I looked at them I felt, at once, gratitude for their beauty and sadness at knowing the state’s powerful lumber interests were methodically seeing to it that there would be fewer of them in coming years.
I forced myself out of my reverie and went to work on a speech I was to give in London to the International Society of Mystery Writers. I was making good progress when Josh, the mailman, approached the house. I knew when he was coming because he whistled, always the same tune—“Tea for Two”—and always off-key. I jumped from my desk and met him at the door.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Good morning, Josh. Lovely day. Like fall.”
“Seems that way.”
“I love the fall,” I said. “October is my favorite month.”
“Not mine, Mrs. Fletcher. October means December and January are comin’, and that means snow.”
I nodded. “Yes, I suppose the seasons mean different things to different people, depending upon how you make a living. How’s your wife?”
“Feelin’ better. The new medicine Doc Hazlitt put her on seems to be working, although sometimes I think the gout got to her brain.”
“Really?” Could gout go to the brain?
“Seems like she gets more testy every day, but I suppose that’s what naturally happens with women.”
I was tempted to argue, but I had learned long ago that arguing with anyone so committed to a preconceived notion of male and female behavior was an exercise in futility. I smiled and accepted the letters and magazines he handed me.
“Got one all the way from London, England,” he said.
“Really? How wonderful. I’m going there next week.”
“Yes, Mrs. Fletcher, I know that. Everybody’s talkin’ about it.”
“They are? Oh well, of course they are.” In a town the size of Cabot Cove, there was very little that remained private, including what over-the-counter drugs you bought at the local pharmacy.
Josh resumed whistling as he went down the walk, same song, same out-of-tune rendition of it. I returned to my desk and immediately opened the letter from England; the bills and junk mail could wait. Just seeing the return address on the envelope filled me with excitement. The letter was from Marjorie Ainsworth, the world’s most famous and successful writer of murder mysteries. We’d become friends years ago when I was introduced to her in London by P. D. James, and we’d kept in touch by letter ever since. Not that we communicated with great frequency; I wrote her only two or three times a year, but the number of letters didn’t matter. Just being in touch with someone as talented as Marjorie Ainsworth was sufficient for me.
Marjorie Ainsworth’s books sold in the millions and were translated into virtually every language on earth. She defined the genre, and all murder mysteries written by others were judged against hers.
The letter was typewritten, which had been the case for the last three or four. I knew the typing had been done by Marjorie’s faithful niece, Jane Portelaine, the daughter of Marjorie’s older brother, now deceased. Earlier letters had been handwritten, but Marjorie was in failing health and had taken to dictating her correspondence.
My dear Jessica,
You mentioned in one of your recent letters that you had a friend in Cabot Cove, a Dr. Seth Hazlitt. By coincidence, I recently found myself reading something by another Hazlitt, William Hazlitt, no relation, I’m sure, but perhaps I’m wrong.
At any rate, I’ve been reading Hazlitt’s “On Living to One’s Self,” and something struck me as being relevent to my present level of existence. He wrote, “What I mean by living to one’s self is living in the world, as in it, not of it ... It is to be a silent spectator of the mighty scene of things; ... to take a thoughtful, anxious interest or curiosity in what is passing in the world, but not to feel the slightest inclination to make or meddle with it.”
I have always taken perverse pleasure in meddling in the world through my books, but would never dream to do it in real lives. Alas, my current frail condition invites meddling by those around me, and I abhor it (as I speak this to dear, devoted Jane, I see the sourness in her face because, of course, she is one of the prime intruders in my life). Please, do not misunderstand. If I have said it once, I have said it countless times that were it not for Jane over the years, my life would be in considerably worse shambles than it presently is. I adore her but I cannot help protesting my plight, and what it has spawned. Still, this headstrong lady (the head is strong, the body less so) manages to prevail at times.
The weekend we’ve planned here at the house is still on, and I look forward with great anticipation to your arrival and the chance to spend time with my American colleague. What I am hoping, Jessica, is that you can come a day earlier than the others. This will give us time to leisurely explore our lives of the moment, and to thoroughly trash all those who will be arriving later.
I warn you: I am not the woman you last saw. I always recall a line from the play Twigs,. a line that rings with great truth: “Men get better looking as they get older, and women get to look more like men.” You will see for yourself the wisdom of that dialogue when you arrive.
Safe journey, Jessica, and bring your woollens. The winds are brisk this time of year at Ainsworth Manor, and I would be devastated should the keynote speaker at this year’s confab of mystery writers come down with a cold that would render her words gratingly nasal.
Affectionately,
Marjorie
P.S. An autographed copy of Gin and Daggers awaits you.
I placed the letter on the desk, sat back, and shook my head, a smile upon my face. What a remarkable woman. No wonder the world adores her.
I went to the bedroom and took from a shelf in a cedar closet the sweaters I would bring to protect against the brisk winds of Ainsworth Manor. As I stood kneading the wool, a jet aircraft passed overhead, and I realized I’d be on such a plane in two days—destination, London.
I
couldn’t wait to return to England, to spend time with Marjorie Ainsworth, and to join my colleagues at the annual meeting of the International Society of Mystery Writers, or ISMW, as it was commonly referred to. As much as I adopted a toe-in-the-sand response to people in town when they congratulated me on being chosen to be the speaker this year, inside—deep inside-I was proud as could be.
Chapter Two
“Enjoy your stay,” the passport inspector at London’s Heathrow Airport said as he handed me back my passport.
“Thank you. I certainly hope to.”
I went to the baggage area, where my luggage had already arrived on the carousel. I loaded it onto one of hundreds of available trolleys, the existence of which always confirmed for me London’s heroic attempt to remain civilized. Because I had nothing to declare, I went through the Customs area marked in green, and immediately spotted Lucas Darling, who was with a crowd of people behind portable barriers.
Lucas was the unpaid secretary of ISMW; a sizable family inheritance allowed him to indulge himself. He was a cherubic little man of fifty, with pink cheeks and gossamer blond-gray hair that he allowed to grow just oh-so-long, giving him what he considered to be a literary look. He was fond of bow ties, and wore a large, floppy red one with white polka dots this day, along with a double-breasted blue blazer with large brass buttons, and gray slacks. A long, slender black umbrella dangled from his wrist. He was virtually hopping up and down as he called, “Jessica, Jessica, over here!”
“Hello, Lucas,” I said.
“Oh, Jessica, how good to see you again,” he said, shaking my hand.
“It’s good to see you, too, Lucas, and wonderful to be back in London.”
Murder, She Wrote: Gin and Daggers Page 1
