Gin and Daggers (2 page)

“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.

 

 

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.

“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.”

“You bought a brolly, I hope. It’s been raining here for days.” Before I could say anything, he added, “No matter, I brought one for you.” He handed me the umbrella he was carrying.

Lucas took over wheeling the baggage trolley and led us to a taxi stand, where a young man graciously loaded my luggage into the space next to him in the front, held open the door for us, and, once we were settled in the spacious rear compartment (more blessed civilization, those London cabs), headed for the city.

“Everything shaping up for the conference?” I asked.

Lucas’s face soured. “I wish that were the case, Jessica, but I’m afraid it’s not.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“So many last minute details. I can’t trust them to anyone else anymore. The members keep promising to do things and then don’t, which means I have to do them myself—although, Lord knows, I don’t mind. Sometimes I think I’m the only one who takes these yearly conferences seriously.”

I laughed and patted his arm. “That isn’t true at all, Lucas.
I
take them seriously.”

“You’re a pleasant exception, Jessica Fletcher. By the way, have you read Marjorie’s new book,
Gin and Daggers?”

“No, I haven’t, but there’s a good reason for it. You do know I’ll be spending the weekend with her before the conference starts.”

He pouted. “Yes, and I was terribly disappointed that you wouldn’t be in London over the weekend. I had some splendid social outings planned for us.”

“I’m sure there’ll be lots of time during the conference for socializing, Lucas. The point I was making was that Marjorie told me in a recent letter that she had a copy of
Gin and Daggers
waiting for me at the manor, and wanted personally to give it to me. You can imagine the willpower it took for me not to buy a copy back in the States. From everything I hear, it’s her finest work, a masterpiece.”

Lucas shifted on the seat so that he was facing me. He said earnestly, “There’s no debate about that, Jessica. The only question has to do with the book’s authorship.”

My laugh this time was one of dismissal.

“You may laugh, Jessica, but the rumors are getting serious.”

“That’s preposterous,” I said. “If there is one person in this world who does not need a ghostwriter, it’s Marjorie Ainsworth.” As I said it, I realized my protest was probably overblown. Reports of Marjorie’s ill health were consistent and compelling. The letter to me just before I left Cabot Cove gave credence to the fact that she was obviously not well, although the condition of a writer’s body, unless in chronic pain, needn’t influence the quality of writing. Her letter to me was lucid enough. Her mind was sharp. If she had to dictate, that didn’t mean less direct involvement in the book. I said this to Lucas.

“I hope you’re right,” he said. “As you know, ISMW is still carrying the fight to break through that pretentious barrier between genre fiction and what they love to term ‘serious literary works.’ If any book is destined to do that, it’s
Gin and Daggers.”

“The more you talk, the harder I have to fight the urge to have the driver stop at the nearest bookstore so I can get a copy. It’s that good, Lucas?”

“Even better than that, Jessica, it’s a tour de force, but it doesn’t read consistently like Marjorie Ainsworth. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not implying that the rumors might be right. It’s just that ...”

“Not like her at
all
?
”

He smiled sheepishly. “There I go again, my penchant for overstating things. Of course it’s filled with classic Ainsworth plotting, insight into the human dilemma, things like that, but there’s a philosophical depth that isn’t evident in her previous books. Do you know what I mean?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know; I always found quite a bit of depth to Marjorie’s writing.”

He sighed and looked out though raindrops on his window. We’d entered central London now; sprawling industrial complexes and blue-collar housing had given way to the more genteel architecture of the West End. He turned to me. “Ignore everything I’ve said, Jessica, until you’ve had a chance to read
Gin and Daggers.
Then we’ll sit down over a long, leisurely dinner and discuss it, like two matrons at a literary luncheon.”

“You have a deal, Lucas. I look forward to it.”

The driver turned off the Strand and into a broad courtyard, at the end of which was the main entrance to the Savoy Hotel. Until the driver made that turn, I’d managed to avoid thinking about previous arrivals at the Savoy with my late husband, Frank. Now, as the splendidly uniformed doorman stood waiting to assist us, those feelings threatened to overflow. I turned away from Lucas in case my eyes had misted.

“Here we are, Jessica,” Lucas said brightly. “I would have opted for a more intimate setting for the conference, but the site selection committee, God bless them, insisted upon the Savoy.” When I didn’t turn to acknowledge his comment, he said, “Jessica, are you all right?”

I drew a breath and smiled at him. “Yes, of course. I’m just overwhelmed at being back in this wonderful city.”

We were graciously whisked through the elegant Thames Foyer, where tea would be served in the afternoon—and where theatergoers would snack before curtain time—and went to the reception desk. I was warmly greeted by name. Then, in the tow of a handsome, gregarious porter dressed in pinstripes, we were led to my room.

Room? It was a magnificent suite, spacious and airy, a fireplace on one wall, fine paintings on another establishing the Victorian panache for which the Savoy was famous.

I went to a window and looked out over the leafy embankment of the river Thames.

“Is everything to your satisfaction, Mrs. Fletcher?” the porter asked.

I turned. “Yes, it’s splendid. I didn’t expect to be in a suite, especially one with such opulence.”

Lucas Darling laughed. “Nothing but the best for the famous Jessica Fletcher. Do you realize, Jessica, that ... ?”

I cocked my head. “Realize what, Lucas?”

“Well, I hate to sound maudlin, but when Marjorie Ainsworth passes away, Jessica Fletcher will become, without doubt, the world’s most revered writer of the murder mystery.”

I couldn’t help the guffaw that came from me. “Don’t be silly, Lucas. I am firmly entrenched in a wonderful and large group of good writers. Then there are the Marjorie Ainsworths of this world. But thank you. You’ve always had an ability to flatter.”

After the porter left, tipped handsomely by Lucas, he asked if I would join him for a drink downstairs.

“Oh, thank you, Lucas, but I really need some time to straighten out my circadian rhythms. The flight was long.”