Manhattans & Murder
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
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
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Come to the Caribbean with Jess—
Chapter One
POINT-AND-SHOOT
I instinctively reached into my purse and pulled out a small point-and-shoot camera that I always carried with me. For a moment—and it lasted no more than that—I questioned the propriety of taking a picture of Waldo. But it wasn’t a decision I had to make. I simply raised the camera to my eye, waited for a break in the foot traffic and took the photo. He still didn’t seem to notice me. I heard the film automatically advance in the tiny technological marvel in my hands and was about to take another frame when it happened. It was instantaneous: a flash point of time. Sound. Motion. Horror. And a scream from a woman who saw Waldo slump to the ground, his fake beard turning pink from blood....
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,
Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,
Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,
New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632,
New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
Published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a Signet edition.
First Obsidian Printing, November 2007
20 19
Copyright © 1994 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All Rights Reserved.
OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
eISBN : 978-1-440-67354-2
http://us.penguingroup.com
Chapter One
It was his eyes.
Not that his eyes caused me to stop and look at him. The red Santa Claus suit, shiny black boots and fake, grizzled white beard did that. But it was his eyes that sparked recognition in me.
He was one of a dozen solicitors of charitable contributions on Fifth Avenue that crisp, sunny day in December. Some employed loud musical accompaniment as they attempted to woo hordes of pedestrians passing each hour, a few hopefully imbued with the Christmas spirit of giving. The Santa Claus I stopped to observe had only a small, cheap bell, whose tintinnabulation could barely be heard over the blaring, out-of-tune brass ensemble of an adjacent Salvation Army unit.
He didn’t seem to notice me as I stood in front of Saks Fifth Avenue’s festive holiday windows. Why would he? I was only one of countless faces on the street at that hour. Besides, it had been at least ten years since Waldo Morse and I had last seen each other. It probably wasn’t even Waldo.
Still, I couldn’t resist having a closer look. I pulled a dollar bill from my purse, navigated the stream of foot traffic at the risk of being bowled over, and dropped the money into a cardboard box decorated with shimmering red and green paper that sat at his feet.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, his eyes looking beyond me.
“Merry Christmas,” I said loud and clear. I didn’t move, and my presence compelled him to acknowledge me. He stopped ringing the bell and frowned. “Waldo?” I said.
The mention of his name seemed to rattle him. He glanced away, rang his bell one more time, then looked at me again. “Jessica Fletcher.” He said it in a hoarse whisper as though trying to keep others from hearing.
“Yes, it’s me, Waldo. What an incredible surprise. No, shock is more like it.”
It suddenly occurred to me—too late, as is usually the case—that I’d been imprudent in openly approaching him. His expression confirmed it. He was overtly uncomfortable, and I wished I could reverse my actions of the past few minutes, run the movie backward.
I was now as awkward as he was uncomfortable. I said cheerily, “Well, Waldo, they say you always bump into someone you know in this big city. I guess they’re right. Nice to have seen you.” I was about to rejoin the stream of pedestrians moving uptown when he said, “Mrs. Fletcher. Wait.”
I turned. Was he smiling beneath the white beard? Hard to tell, but I felt better thinking he was. I moved closer as he said in that same whisper, “I’d like to talk to you.”
He looked left and right; he seemed anxious to keep our conversation private. No need to worry about that, not with the Salvation Army brass orchestra groaning loudly through Adeste Fideles.
“Come back tomorrow,” he said. “Meet me here at two.”
“Two? Oh my, I’m afraid I—” I stopped myself. The plans I’d made for the next afternoon could be juggled, even shelved. I would not, could not, pass up the chance to talk to Waldo Morse. “I’ll be here at two sharp,” I said.
I walked to the comer of Fiftieth Street, stopped, and looked back over my shoulder. As I did, a priest who’d come from the direction of St. Patrick’s Cathedral approached Waldo. The transaction didn’t go the way I assumed it would. Instead of the priest’s putting money into the box at Waldo’s feet, Santa Claus handed the priest something.
The priest quickly disappeared into the crowd. Waldo snapped his head in my direction and saw that I’d observed what had taken place. I rounded the comer and headed east. Somehow, I felt I should not have witnessed the exchange between them. Why? I wasn’t sure. Maybe because of who Waldo Morse was, and the reason he’d departed Cabot Cove.
Tomorrow at two. I’d be there.
Chapter Two
Well, Jessica, how was your first full day in Gotham?”
“I’d forgotten how exhausting walking around Manhattan can be,” I replied to my publisher of many years, Vaughan Buckley, in whose spacious apartment I sat, stockinged feet propped up on a blessed ottoman, a glass of sparkling mineral water with lime in my hand. Vaughan’s wife, Olga, was in the kitchen making canapés. Their dogs, Sadie and Rose, were curled up together on a cushioned window seat.
“Accomplish all your shopping?” Buckley asked as he pulled a tufted red leather chair to the other side of a glass coffee table.
I laughed. “Heavens, no. I haven’t even begun my own shopping. When friends in Cabot Cove knew I’d be in New York this Christmas, they all wanted me to bring something special back to them. I told them I was staying through New Year’s Eve, but that didn’t deter them. They said a gift bought in a fancy New York shop would make up for giving it late.”
“And, there’s also the panache of having the world’s most famous mystery writer personally buy it for them.”
“No, I don’t think so,” I said, sipping my drink. “I just hope my feet hold up.”
Olga Buckley came from the kitchen carrying our snacks on a blue-and-white Daum serving plate. Antiques and gourmet cooking were her passions; she was well versed in both subjects. Their apartment, all twelve rooms of it, was as handsomely turned out as its owners. Vaughan and Olga Buckley were attractive people, Nautilus-thin, beautifully groomed, and impeccably dressed on all occasions. She’d been a successful model when she’d met the young editor who would go on to found one of publishing’s most respected houses.
The apartment was on the ninth floor of the Dakota on West Seventy-second Street, famous for all the artistic community’s leading lights who’d called it home since it was built in 1884. It had been the setting for the horror movie Rosemary’s Baby, and rendered infamous when former Beatle John Lennon was murdered in its courtyard by a deranged fan in December of 1980.
I’d been to the apartment before as a dinner guest, but had never stayed there, although I had a standing invitation whenever I visited New York. This time, they’d been especially persuasive. Olga said she would not hear of me staying in a hotel, and Vaughan even threatened (in jest, I assume and hope) to shortchange me on royalties the next time they came due. I was glad they’d prevailed. Although our relationship was the result of my writing books for Buckley House, they’d become what: I considered good, dependable friends.
Olga sat next to her husband. “So, Jessica, tell us what you did today,” she said.
My first thought was of having bumped into Waldo Morse. I wanted to share that with them, along with the strange circumstances of Waldo’s life, but thought better of it. Maybe after meeting with him the next day, but not now. Practicing discretion seemed the best thing I could do for Waldo at this point.
Instead, I told them of shops I’d visited in search of items on my Cabot Cove shopping list. I’d barely made a dent. “Our sheriff, Morton Metzger, collects toy soldiers,” I said. “I think I’ve mentioned him to you before. He asked me to go to a shop with a funny name and buy him a certain soldier that’s missing from one of his regiments.” I picked up my purse from the floor in search of the card I’d been given at the shop, but Olga quickly said “Funchies, Bunkers, Gaks and Gleeks.”
“You know it.”
“Yes. The owner and I are friends. I love the shop. Did you find the soldier?”
“I certainly did. One item checked off my list.”
“Always a good feeling,” Buckley said. “Want to nap before dinner, Jess? Our reservation is at seven, and doing the Larry King show will turn this into a very long day for you.”
I stretched and let out a contented sigh. “A nap sounds lovely. Sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” said Olga. “I think I’ll take one myself.”
I knew I wouldn’t sleep, but an hour of solitude and quiet was appealing. My room was large and faced the central courtyard. Through my window I could see the balconies of other apartments, all the lovely oriel windows, turrets, gables, finials and flag-poles. The Dakota was a mix of architectural styles, some German, a little French, certainly English Victorian. It was now dark; patches of yellow light from other windows were warm and inviting.
My room looked much as it probably had when the building went up. It was furnished with a handsome selection of antiques to go with the carved marble mantel above my fireplace, walls of mahogany paneling and marble floor. A large, rich red-and-gold Oriental rug covered the center of the room. My king-size bed was canopied. I love the look but can never stop wondering how much dust has accumulated on top.
I slipped out of my clothes, put on a robe, and sat at an antique French desk near the window. I tried to focus upon all the wonderful aspects of this trip to Manhattan, but found it difficult. I’d always wanted to spend a Christmas in bustling New York City—although Cabot Cove, as small as it was, generated its own sense of holiday urgency and pace. I usually celebrated Christmas and the passage into a new year at home. But this year the early November publication of my latest murder mystery triggered an intense publicity effort by Buckley House. Vaughan Buckley saw the book as a perfect Christmas gift and prevailed upon me to head south for media appearances, newspaper interviews, and autographing sessions at bookstores. I was absolutely shocked, of course, when they told me I would be a guest on the Larry King Show. I’d always been a fan of Mr. King, but never thought he would be interested in having a mystery writer as a guest. I was wrong. Tonight, I would meet the talented TV host and do my best to sound intelligent.
I’d originally intended to return to Cabot Cove the day after Christmas, but the persuasive Mr. Buckley, along with other friends in Manhattan, had convinced me to celebrate New Year’s Eve with them. This didn’t set well with my friends in Maine.
“New Year’s Eve won’t be the same without‘cha,” Seth Hazlitt, my physician friend, said when I announced my plans. “Trudy promised to make a batch of her Chicken Roly-Poly, Ms. Haines’s been promisin’ a big round ’a molasses taffy, and the club says it saved enough over the year to bring up a real band from Portland. We never had real live music before.”
It wasn’t easy for me to break tradition and to disappoint Seth, but I was committed. My concession was a promise to call the Cabot Cove Citizen Center at midnight to wish my friends a happy new year.
I looked at the list of presents I was asked to buy while in New York but couldn’t concentrate on that, either. The chance meeting with Waldo Morse dominated my thoughts. In a way, I was sorry I’d seen him. Better to let unpleasant episodes from the past stay just that—in the past. On the other hand, my natural curiosity, which friends have occasionally characterized as putting cats to shame, made me want the hours between now and two o’clock the next day to pass quickly. What would he tell me? What had his life been like all these years?
Oh, well, I thought, as I headed for the large marble bathroom. One thing at a time, Jess. Shower, dinner, the TV show, a good night’s sleep, sign books at B. Dalton in the morning, lunch with a reporter from Newsday, and then back to Fifth Avenue.
My curiosity about Waldo Morse would be sated soon enough.
Chapter Three
“Say something in Maine,” instructed one of the last callers to me on the Larry King Show.
“Pardon?”
“You know, talk funny like people in Maine do.”
“People in Maine don’t talk funny,” I said. “People in New York talk funny.”
Larry King giggled. “Come on,” he said. “You know what
the caller means, Jessica. Put the cah in the garage.”
I laughed. “What a strange thing that would be, putting a car—or a cah as you pronounce it—in a garage. In Maine, a car is a big underwater crate where lobsters are stored live until they’re shipped.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” I didn’t want to be combative, or a spoil-sport, and so I was about to politely continue the conversation when the caller suddenly identified himself as Cabot Cove sheriff Morton Metzger. “Jess,” he said, “I figured if Bill Clinton’s mother could call in when Clinton was a guest, I could, too.”
“But you’re not my mother,” I replied. King laughed. Morton wanted to continue talking but the smooth, adept talk show host nicely and quickly put an end to Morton’s fifteen minutes of fame. I was pleased to know that my friends in Cabot Cove were watching, and was glad Morton had called.
When the show was over, Vaughan, Olga, and the publisher’s publicity director, Ruth Lazzara, assured me I’d been “a smash.” I wasn’t so sure they were right. It had gone by so quickly, I had trouble remembering anything that happened on the set.
I got to bed at midnight and slept fitfully. I didn’t know whether it was the remnants of the heavy dinner we’d had, the tension of being a guest on a national television show, or lingering thoughts about my scheduled rendezvous the next day with Waldo Morse. No matter what the cause, a sound sleep evaded me that night.
I was up earlier than my host and hostess, quietly made a cup of coffee, and read the New York Times they told me would be at the door.
They joined me an hour later. Eventually Ruth Lazzara, a vivacious young redhead with a seemingly bottomless reservoir of energy, picked me up at the appointed time and took me to B. Dalton, where I was amazed to see a hundred people lined up in anticipation of my appearance, many of whom said they’d seen me on the Larry King Show. There were tall stacks of my book on a table, and I was to autograph one for each person in line who purchased a copy. Ruth whispered to me before we started, “While you have a minute, Jessica, try and sign them all. The store can’t send back signed books.”