Gin and Daggers (7 page)

“Hard to say, hard to say. I’d say it’s vital evidence, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t see why, although I won’t argue with you. By the way, Inspector Coots, will there be an ... investigation by a body ... well, how can I say it, a body of greater authority than your agency here in Crumpsworth?”

“No need for that. Scotland Yard, you mean? A waste of time, if you ask me. The yardies won’t bother coming in on this one, I can assure you. They know my reputation. No, it will remain a local matter right here in Crumpsworth where it belongs.”

His little speech caused my heart to sink. Surely, I reasoned, the brutal murder of the world’s leading mystery writer could not be left to a local inspector in a town the size of Crumpsworth. At least, I fervently hoped that it wouldn’t.

Wilfred, Marjorie’s chauffeur, drove what could be called the American contingent back to London. I shared the Morgan with the Perrys and Bruce Herbert. We said little during the hour’s drive. Now that phase one of the investigation was over, the profound sadness of the event had settled in, and I found myself crying for the first time since discovering the body. Perry, who sat next to me, put his arm over my shoulder and said, “Yes, Jessica, it is a dreadful blow to all of us. It must be even more horrible for you since you shared the same talent as that wonderful woman. You do realize, of course, what ramifications this will have for you as a writer.”

I pulled a handkerchief from my purse and dabbed at my eyes. “No, I’m afraid I don’t have any idea what you mean.”

“Well, it seems to me that Jessica Fletcher must now accept the torch.”

“The torch?”

“Yes, professionally speaking, of course. I would say that Jessica Fletcher, by virtue of Marjorie Ainsworth’s death, is now the world’s leading writer of the murder mystery.”

“Oh, I think that’s overstating it,” I said. “No one could ever ...”

“Clayton is right,” Bruce Herbert said. “Think about it, Jessica. You not only sell millions of copies of your books worldwide, it was you who discovered the body of your dear friend and colleague. You might need some good advice on how to handle the media attention.”

He pulled a business card from his breast pocket and handed it to me. I took it, the insensitivity of the act beyond my comprehension, so much so that I could say nothing critical of it. My only words were “Thank you. I can’t believe this has happened.”

 

 

If I had trouble believing the events at Ainsworth Manor, the next day’s edition of the London
Times,
as well as a barrage of news items over the BBC, made a believer of me. Not only was the murder front-page news—as expected—Inspector Coots was quoted at length:

 

 

The lovely, old, and gentle Savoy Hotel now became a buzzsaw of activity. The press waited outside for me to show my face, and my phone kept ringing. I stopped answering it and had all calls impounded by the hotel operators, calling down hourly to have them relayed to me. I sat in my suite for the rest of the day, exhausted but unable to entertain even the thought of sleep, my throat dry, tears flowing and ebbing, leaving a salty taste on my lips.

After hours of this nightmarish existence, I was informed of a call that had been made to me that I immediately returned. Amazing, today’s satellite systems; my call to Cabot Cove, Maine, went through in seconds, and I was hearing a familiar and welcome voice, my good friend, Dr. Seth Hazlitt. “Seth, it’s Jessica.”

“Jessica, how are you? We’ve heard. We’ve
all
heard. It’s the lead item on every television newscast, and on every front page in the country, I suspect. Are you all right, Jessica? It must have been dreadful, what you’ve gone through.”

“Yes, Seth, it’s been a very difficult time. There are dozens of strangers wanting to talk to me. I hear strange voices and see strange faces on the television. There are words being written about me that I hate, that bear no relationship to reality at all. It’s so wonderful to ... to touch base with something I know, something real.” I broke down completely, the sounds of my anguish transmitted thousands of miles from the Savoy Hotel in London to a small, modest home in the small, modest town of Cabot Cove, Maine.

“The press has been all over town, Jessica, dubbin’ around lookin’ for dirt.”

“They’re all over the hotel here, too, Seth. I hate it. I’d give anything to be in Cabot Cove.”

“Why don’t you come on home then?”

“I can’t. I have to make my speech, and there are other things I’m involved with at the conference.”

I could almost see him shaking his head at me. He said, “Ginny made up a big batch o’ Bakewell Cream biscuits today, Jessica, and delivered me some. I wish you were here to share them.”

I smiled. “Save me some, Seth. I’ll be home the end of the week.”

“I wish you’d make it sooner, though I know you well enough, Jessica, to know your stubborn side’ll dictate things. Most important, you take care of yourself, and you call if you need anything, anything at all, you heah me?”

“Yes, I hear you loud and clear, Seth. Thank you. I’ll call again. I promise.”

“Be sure and do that, Jessica. By the way, before we get off, any ideas on who killed Ms. Ainsworth?”

“No. The prime suspect seems to be me, but that will change. Frankly, Seth, I haven’t given it much thought.”

“But you will, won’t you?”

“I’m trying not to.”

“Whatever you do, do it carefully. ’Bye, Jessica. Everybody’s askin’ for you here.”

I didn’t want the call to end, but it did. I returned a few calls to friends from ISMW and tried to concentrate on the notes I’d been making for my speech. It was a losing battle, and I allowed fatigue—emotional and physical—to win out. I fell asleep in my chair, the taste of Bakewell Cream biscuits very real in my mouth.

I managed a few hours of sleep after talking to Seth, then called down to get the latest batch of messages. There were dozens, virtually all from the media, and two placed by a woman named Maria Giacona. The operator said that she had not stated her business, only that it was urgent she speak with me.

I asked the operator to connect me with the assistant manager, a pleasant young man who’d been gracious from the moment I arrived. When he came on the line, I asked whether it would be possible for me to have dinner downstairs without confronting members of the press.

“Of course, Mrs. Fletcher. There’s still an assortment of them about, but we’re keeping them in a designated area. Just let me know what time you wish to dine and I’ll come to personally escort you.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather dine in your room?”

“No, I’m beginning to develop a case of cabin fever.”

“Pardon?”

I laughed, and it felt good. “An American term meaning I’ve been in one confined space too long. No, I think I would enjoy dining in the restaurant.”

“Then, that’s what it shall be. Do you prefer the Grill or the River Room?”

As much as I loved the River Room, this was not the night to step back into a world of memories, as pleasant as they might be. I opted for the Grill, and he made a reservation for me an hour from then.

I picked up the phone and returned Lucas Darling’s calls. He answered on the first ring. “Jessica, Jessica, good Lord, Jessica, what a dreadful thing you’ve been put through. Bad enough someone murdered Marjorie, but to be the one who discovered the body. You must be shaken to your very core.”

“I was, Lucas, but I’m feeling better now. You had suggested in the taxi that we sit down and have a long, leisurely dinner and discuss
Gin and Daggers.
I’d like that very much.” Before he could say anything else, I added, “I’ve made a reservation downstairs in the Grill. Will you join me?”

“Of course.”

“Fine. The assistant manager is bringing me downstairs in case there’s a reporter lurking in an alcove. I’ll tell him I’m being joined by someone and you can meet me in the restaurant.”

“Count on my being there, Jessica, and don’t you worry. This will all subside.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Jessica.”

“What?”

“This business about your gold pendant. Are they actually accusing you of ... ?”

“We can discuss that at dinner, Lucas.” I quickly hung up.

I was given a prime corner table, for which I was grateful. Members of the press were not the only ones I had to avoid; my picture had been large enough in the papers for three-quarters of London to recognize me. I hoped that wouldn’t happen, and shifted in my chair so that I offered my profile to people at adjacent tables. There were only a handful; it was early for the main dinner crowd.

Lucas arrived a few minutes after I’d been served a glass of white wine. He wore a dark gray suit and black bow tie. “I got here as fast as I could, Jessica. The things people are saying are despicable.”

“You look as though you’re in mourning, Lucas,” I said.

He crossed his hands on his chest and adopted a horrified expression. “Hardly,” he said, “and I would suggest you not make light of it, either. The murder of Marjorie Ainsworth, and you being the one who found the body, is the biggest news here since the Profumo scandal.”

I laughed away his comparison, even though I knew he was probably right.

We ordered smoked salmon as an appetizer. After it was served, and Lucas had had his Pimm’s Cup, he asked me to fill him in on what had happened at Ainsworth Manor. I accommodated him in exquisite and probably unnecessary detail. He hung on every word, his face a succession of overblown expressions. Finally I sat back and asked him what he thought.

“I would say, Jessica, that we have to look for a motive.”

“Lucas, I’m not asking your thoughts on solving the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth. That’s for the authorities. I’m asking what your advice would be concerning me. Should I stay and deliver the speech?” I realized how academic that question was. I was prohibited from leaving Great Britain by Inspector Coots. Still, there was the possibility of canceling any public appearances and hiding until my name had been struck from the suspect list. No, I knew myself too well. I could never bear that sort of existence.

“Of course you’ll give your speech. The press coverage will be incredible.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, Lucas.”

“Don’t be. The society can use the exposure.”

My expression of shock was genuine. “Lucas, how can you say something like that at a time like this? Marjorie Ainsworth has been murdered, in cold blood.”

He slumped back in his chair and pinched his nose. “I know, I know, so dreadful, but I am a realist.” He sat forward again, elbows on the table and said earnestly, “Jessica, do you remember my book
Poison Alley?”

“Yes, of course. You gave me an autographed copy.” He’d written his one and only murder mystery over ten years ago. It wasn’t very good, and once the critics were finished panning it, it took all the starch out of him. He’d never written another word, contenting himself to rub elbows with mystery writers through ISMW.

“The key clue in
Poison Alley
came out of the deceased’s will, remember?”

“Yes.”

“That’s where I’d start if I were investigating this case. Marjorie must have had a will. Maybe she cut somebody out of it.”

I almost welcomed the diversion of the attractive young woman standing just inside the entrance to the Grill. I’d heard Lucas go off on tangents like this, and I found them trying. He saw me staring across the room—which was now filling up—and turned in the direction of my gaze. He snapped his head back at me and said, “Who’s she?”

“I don’t know, but she certainly knows who I am.”

He again looked in the direction of the young woman. Then, to me: “She’s carrying a large handbag. I don’t like this.”

I took my eyes off her and asked him what he meant.

“Do you realize that half of London probably thinks you murdered Marjorie Ainsworth? It’s like murdering the Queen Mother, for God’s sake. Someone might want revenge.”

I again looked at the young woman, who was slowly heading in our direction. “Oh no,” I muttered under my breath, my eyes on the large, cheaply embroidered purse she held against her stomach. Maybe Lucas was right. I braced myself. When she reached the table, I had a chance to get a better look at her. She was absolutely beautiful, olive skin framed by long, thick black hair that fell casually to her shoulders. Her features were Middle Eastern, Lebanese perhaps, or possibly Spanish or Italian. No matter; her face was out of a beauty magazine. She wore a mauve dress that reached her ankles. It was cut moderately low and, whatever fabric it was made of, followed every contour of her lithe young body with military precision.

I smiled at her.

“Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes.” I looked across the table. Lucas was poised to attack. “May I help you?”

“I hope so. No, I’m sure you can. That’s why I’ve been trying to call you. My name is Maria Giacona.” So much for guessing at her national origin. Her father, if the name meant anything, was Italian.

“I’m afraid this is not a good time, Ms. Giacona. I’m having an important conversation with my colleague.”