Manhattans & Murder Page 7

  She asked about my plans for the evening.

  “A hot bath, a drink, a light dinner, and early to bed with a good murder mystery,” I said.

  “See you in the morning, then, Jessica.”

  “Yes, I have tomorrow’s itinerary. Have a nice evening.”

  Vaughan and Olga were at the apartment when I arrived. I changed into comfortable clothing, and we enjoyed a drink in the living room, Sadie and Rose flanking my chair. “I’ve made a decision,” I said. “I’m moving to a hotel tonight.”

  They expressed their usual reasons why they didn’t want me to do that, but I persisted. I’d stopped at a phone booth during the day and made a reservation at the Sheraton-Park Avenue, a small, European-style jewel at Park and Thirty-seventh Street that was my favorite whenever I visited New York. Eventually, the Buckleys accepted my decision. Vaughan said he would drive me.

  As I packed, the phone rang several times, each a call from a reporter. Bobby Johnson of the Post called twice; Vaughan said Johnson had left several messages on the machine during the day.

  “See?” I said. “At least the phone might stop ringing, and you can have some peace. All I ask is that you tell no one where I’m staying.”

  “Of course,” Olga said.

  “I’ll have to inform certain people at the office,” Vaughan said.

  “I realize that, but please keep the list to a minimum and ask them to be discreet. I’d like to consider myself purely altruistic in leaving you, but I think being in a neutral space will be good for me, too. You do understand?”

  “Yes,” Vaughan said. “Just as long as you promise you’ll be at our Christmas Eve party.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.” It was Wednesday, December eighteenth. Christmas was a week away.

  “Well,” Vaughan said with a sigh, “if you’re set on going to the hotel, let’s do it.”

  We left the Dakota by a back entrance and went to a garage where Vaughan housed his Lincoln Town Car. A short time later I checked into the hotel. I explained my need for privacy to a clerk at the desk, who assured me that all calls would be screened, messages taken, and that no calls would be put through with the exception of the people I’d listed—Vaughan and Olga, and Ruth Lazzara.

  Instead of a single room, I was given a small suite. It was lovely, decorated in antique reproductions chosen to complement the muted hues of the walls and thick carpeting. I unpacked my bags, carefully hung clothing in the closet, took a Manhattan Yellow Pages directory from the nightstand, and found the listings under “LIMOUSINES”. I chose the one with the largest display ad and asked to be picked up at ten.

  After an invigorating hot shower, I went to the hotel dining room where, at a partially obscured table, I satisfied my hunger with a cold lobster salad preceded by hot consumme, and indulged myself in a glass of white wine. I felt two things: First, I was more relaxed then I had been since arriving in New York. And, second, I would go through with my plan for the evening.

  I returned to my suite and changed from the cosmopolitan, conservative clothing I’d worn to dinner into a pair of black slacks and black turtleneck sweater. I carefully adjusted the wig in front of the bathroom mirror, applied makeup heavier than usual, and put on the oversize sunglasses that had tiny silver chips in the upper comers. I leaned closer to the mirror: “Is that you, Jessica?” I asked. I shook my head. If I couldn’t tell it was me, no one else would.

  Roy, my driver, was a handsome young black man in a black uniform, white shirt, black tie, and black peaked cap. Had he looked at me strangely when opening the door? Of course he had. I looked like a fool, at least in the genteel lobby of the Sheraton-Park Avenue. Hopefully, I would just be one of the crowd where I was going.

  We headed for Crosby Street, near the comer of Bleecker, which was as much of a surprise to Roy as my appearance had been. But he was too much the courteous professional to overtly indicate his reaction, and drove slowly and skillfully down Park Avenue, sitting ramrod straight as the derelicts of the Bowery tried to solicit money from us. We finally pulled up to the curb at the designated spot. Roy waited a few moments before turning and asking, “Ma’am?”

  I leaned forward. “I’d just like to sit here awhile if you don’t mind.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “I’m waiting for someone to come out of that doorway.” I pointed to the entrance to Joe Charles’s building. “If he does, I would like to follow him, but I don’t want him to know it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I suppose this represents an unusual assignment,” I said. “I assure you we aren’t breaking the law.”

  His laugh was low and warm. “Never entered my mind,” he said.

  As I sat in the backseat and waited for Joe Charles to exit the building, I had trouble concentrating. How difficult it must be for law enforcement officers to conduct a stakeout hours on end. It’s brain-numbing, to say nothing of the numbness that invaded other parts of my anatomy. I played all sorts of mind games to stay alert and to make sure no one came through that door without my knowing it.

  My patience paid off. At twenty minutes to eleven, Joe Charles came through the door. He was accompanied by the young woman I’d seen going into his apartment. They got into a battered tan Honda Civic parked in front of the building. They had trouble starting the car. I hadn’t wanted to alert them that we were there, so I waited until they’d finally managed to get the Honda up and running and had pulled away. “That’s the car I want to follow,” I told Roy. We fell into a comfortable distance behind them.

  “I’ve never done this before,” Roy said over his shoulder. “I mean, never followed a car.”

  “You’re doing just fine,” I said.

  We eventually ended up on a very busy street in what looked to me to be Greenwich Village. Roy confirmed that’s where we were. We hadn’t traveled far. We were on Seventh Avenue South, between Bleecker and Grove streets.

  The tan Honda pulled up to a vacant parking meter in front of a restaurant whose sign read “SWEET BASIL”. “What an interesting name,” I said.

  “A good jazz club,” Roy said. “They book only top musicians.”

  I watched Charles and his female friend get out of the car and stand together on the sidewalk as though unsure of their next move. He had a manila envelope beneath his arm. We’d parked at a hydrant at the end of the block, far enough so to not be seen by them, but close enough to observe their actions. They seemed to be arguing; I wished I had one of those exotic microphones to point at them and hear their words. Finally, after much debate, they entered Sweet Basil.

  I had a real decision to make now. It was easy following them from the backseat of a chauffeured car. But that wasn’t good enough. If I left it at that, it would have been a wasted exercise, to say nothing of expensive. I had to enter the club. Would my costume, wig, and uncharacteristic makeup keep them from recognizing me? I had a feeling it would. I said to Roy, “I’m going inside. I probably won’t be more than a hour. Will you wait for me?”

  “Of course,” he said. “If the police make me move, I’ll be in the vicinity. Look for me.”

  “I certainly will,” I said, touching his shoulder. “Thank you for being so indulgent.”

  “Indulgence is what I’m paid for,” he said. “Enjoy the music.”

  “I hadn’t even thought about music,” I said, laughing. “I’ll finally get to hear some New York jazz.”

  The music, loud and vibrating, hit me in the face as I opened the door. There were horns and drums, and the musicians playing them attacked their mission with zeal. A sign outside said the group was known as the Harper Brothers. I’d never heard of them, but I was certainly hearing them now.

  One of my suppositions was correct. I did not seem out of place in my garb and wig. No one looked askance at me. An attractive young man asked if I wished a table in the music room. I said I preferred to sit at the bar, and he led me to a vacant stool at the far end of it, which gave me a perfect view of the music r
oom that was at the rear of the club. The only problem was I couldn’t see very much through my dark glasses. I lowered them. Joe Charles and his female companion had taken a table in the barroom, next to the music room entrance. I’d been right about the voice on Charles’s answering machine. Seated at their table was Detective Alphonse Rizzi.

  I tried to analyze the overall mood at the table. It wasn’t anger, but it wasn’t a backslapping get-together either. Rizzi did most of the talking, and Joe Charles listened intently, seeming to agree with what the detective was saying. The girl’s dour, angry expression indicated something else.

  It had become unbearably hot. Sweet Basil’s heating system would have handled the entire State of Maine outdoors. I sipped from the Pink Lady I’d ordered, and dabbed at perspiration on my forehead and nose with a bar napkin. What made the heat even worse was the wig. It was like being under a hair dryer, and I had this driving obsession to rip it off my head. The collar of my black turtleneck seemed to have shrunk three sizes. All in all, I was uncomfortable, and considered getting up and leaving. There was nothing more to be gained by staying because I couldn’t hear what they were saying. But my mission had been accomplished; Joe Charles and Detective Rizzi knew each other, and obviously had some sort of business between them.

  Rizzi waved the waitress over and handed her money. Good. They were leaving, which meant I could, too.

  “Hey baby, what’s happening?”

  The questioner was a gaunt, older man on my left wearing glasses even darker than mine. His smile revealed a dentist’s pension. “Pardon?” I said.

  “What’s happenin’, baby,” he repeated. “I haven’t seen you here before. You dig the scene?”

  “Dig this scene? Do I like it? Oh, yes, very much. Do you?”

  “It wigs me, baby.”

  “Wigs you?” For a moment, I thought he was referring to my wig. Then I realized it must be a jazz lover’s expression that meant he liked it.

  “Yeah, it’s bad. Real bad.”

  I fought my confusion and looked to where Charles, Rizzi, and the girl were making their way toward the door. I quickly put money on the bar and stood. Now, from a higher vantage point, I could see beneath the vacant table. The envelope Joe Charles had carried into the club was on the floor next to his chair. Did I dare scoop it up, examine its contents, maybe learn something more about him that might relate to his relationship with Rizzi, perhaps even to Waldo Morse’s murder?

  “Excuse me,” I said to the gentleman to my left.

  “Bags is at the Blue Note,” he said, grasping my wrist. “What say we make it over there?”

  I removed his hand from my wrist, headed for the empty table, and sat in one of the chairs. I took off my sunglasses and wig, shoved them into my purse, reached down and picked up the envelope. It was sealed with tape. Open it there or take it with me? I decided on the latter and was about to head for the natural air conditioning outside when Joe Charles burst through the door and came directly to the table. He looked at me, his eyes wide, his expression angry. I didn’t know what else to do, so I smiled. He snatched the envelope from my hands.

  “Hello,” I said.

  He seemed to want to say something, but words didn’t come. He pressed his lips together, his eyes turned hard and he left, almost knocking over other tables on his way.

  “Nicely done, Jessica,” I said aloud. “Smooth. Real smooth.”

  Chapter Eleven

  After a jittery night’s sleep at the hotel—one recurring dream had me naked, except for my wig and sunglasses, standing in front of a large audience that laughed long and loud—I awoke with a start at six. “How could you have been so stupid?” were my first words as I went to the window and drew open the drapes. It was dark, not because dawn hadn’t broken, but because the sky was heavy and low. It looked like snow; if were outside, I knew I would smell it.

  I called the hotel operator for messages.

  “I have seven for you, Mrs. Fletcher, and there are a lot of reporters in the lobby. They all keep asking me to call your room, but I told them I wouldn’t.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.” She gave me the seven messages, two of which were from Seth Hazlitt in Cabot Cove, and two from Post reporter Bobby Johnson. How did they know I’d moved to a hotel? How did anybody know aside from the Buckleys, and Ruth Lazzara? I thought the Cabot Cove gossip mill was a threat to personal privacy, but I’d never seen anything like this. People say that the best place to lose yourself is in a large city. You couldn’t get me to testify to it.

  I showered and dressed, then ordered half a grapefruit, an English muffin, and a pot of tea from room service. While I waited for it to be delivered, I called Seth. “Seth, it’s Jessica. How in the world did you know I was here at this hotel?”

  “I called the Buckleys. They said you were out, but after I said it was important that I talk to you, they told me where you were. I guess they know you and I are pretty good friends.”

  “I talk about you often. What’s so important?”

  “Gettin’ you to come home. I keep hearin’ news reports about Waldo’s murder and how you witnessed it. ‘Course, they don’t say his name, keep sayin’ the Santa Claus was an unidentified drifter sort ’a fella, but I know. They say he was killed by a bunch of drug runners, and you know what they’re like, Jess. They don’t care that you’re a nice woman and a famous writer. I want you to pack up your bags and get home here.” Before I could respond, he added, “It’s one thing for Jessica Fletcher not to be here for New Year’s Eve, but it don’t seem right you won’t be here for Christmas, either.”

  The timing of Seth’s request was perfect. One of the things I’d contemplated while showering was going to Cabot Cove to see whether Nancy Morse knew about her husband’s death. If not, I’d break the news.

  There was more than altruism behind my decision, however. Nancy might be able to fill some holes, answer questions I’d been formulating since witnessing the murder. I wanted a chance to speak with her face-to-face. Informing her of Waldo’s death would be as good an excuse as any.

  “I am coming home sooner than planned,” I told Seth.

  “Good to hear you talkin’ sense again, Jessica.” He’d adopted a fatherly tone, as he often did when dismayed at something I was doing, or not doing. I loved him for it, but it could also be annoying.

  “I won’t be there for Christmas, Seth, but I am coming home tomorrow. Here’s what I’d like you to do. I’ll grab the first shuttle in the morning and fly to Boston. Would you be good enough to have Jed Richardson pick me up at Logan Airport and fly me home?” Jed Richardson owned Jed’s Flying Service in Cabot Cove. I hate small planes. Come to think about it, I don’t like big ones much, either. But I trusted Jed. And because I was trying to compress time, having him pick me up in Boston would save many hours.

  “Ayuh,” Seth said. “I’ll call Jed as soon as I get off the phone. You say you’ll take the first shuttle tomorrow morning. That’d be Friday. What time does the first shuttle arrive?”

  “Friday? No, I’m coming on Saturday.”

  “But you said tomorrow. Today’s Thursday. Tomorrow’s Friday.”

  “God, I’m losing days already. Make it Saturday morning. I’ll check what time the first shuttle leaves and get back to you.”

  “You are stubborn, Jessica.”

  “I know.”

  He sighed. “How long will you be stayin’?”

  “It won’t be long. Be a dear and be at Jed’s hangar when we arrive.”

  “You don’t have to ask. I already made a note to pick you up. Now, about how long you’re stayin’. My advice is to pack all your belongin’s and have them with you when you honk on up here on Saturday. Heah?”

  “Yes, I hear you, Seth.”

  I was happy to get off the phone. Seth had a tenacious side that dictated not letting go when he was adamant about something, especially when it concerned me. On the other hand, as I dwelled on his advice, the thought of leaving New York
and being in Cabot Cove for the holidays was fiercely appealing.

  I didn’t have a lot of time to think about it, however. I was due to be picked up by Ruth Lazzara within the hour for a television talk show. I ate breakfast and read the New York Times that came with it. Unlike the Post, the Times had covered Waldo’s murder as a small item deep inside. I didn’t see any mention of it this morning, for which I was grateful.

  The first face I saw as I stepped out of the elevator into the lobby was Bobby Johnson.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher.” He immediately grabbed my arm and propelled me away from the other reporters, said in urgent, whispered tones, “We have to talk.”

  “I think that’s the last thing we have to do, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Yeah?” He carried that morning’s edition of the Daily News folded under his arm. He snapped it open and held it in front of my face. There, on Page One, blown up to gigantic proportions, was a picture of Waldo Morse in his Santa Claus costume at the moment he was shot. I stared at the picture. “Where did they get this?” I asked.

  “That’s one of the pictures you took, isn’t it?” he said.

  “I don’t know. It looks like ...”

  “It has to be. I told you I could make a great deal for you with those pictures. I really feel betrayed, Mrs. Fletcher. I mean, I was the one who originally broke the story. I figured you owed me something.”

  “Owed you?” I was poised to argue the point but a more important question came to mind. It had to be one of the photographs I’d taken, which meant the person who removed the roll of film from my purse had given it, or sold it, to the News. Who would have done such a thing?

  Now, other reporters pressed close, and Ruth tried to appease them. “I’m sure Mrs. Fletcher will be happy to talk to all of you at some point,” she said, “but she’s due for a television show and we’re running late.” Johnson took one of my arms, Ruth the other, and they virtually lifted me off the ground and headed for the exit to Park Avenue and a waiting limousine. Johnson started to get in the back with us, but I said in a voice that came as close to a growl as I could muster, “Leave this minute, Mr. Johnson. I don’t know who gave that photograph to the Daily News, but I intend to find out who stole it from me. Leave me alone!”