Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote) (20 page)

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Authors: Jessica Fletcher

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote)
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“The world is full of bad people,” Bill said. “Look what the cop had to say about the deceased. Can you imagine all the people he’d swindled who’d be glad to see him dead?”
 
 
“If that’s the reason he was killed,” I offered.
 
 
Kathy and Bill looked at me.
 
 
“I still can’t help but believe that Mr. Quarlé had something to do with Wilimena’s disappearance,” I said.
 
 
“Are you saying that he might have been killed because of a connection with Willie?” Kathy asked.
 
 
“I don’t know,” I answered, “but it is a possibility.”
 
 
I slipped into my what-if mode of thinking.
 
 
What if Quarlé had learned from Willie about the gold and had decided to befriend her in the hope of getting his hands on it? And what if he’d shared that aspiration with someone else? It wouldn’t have been very smart of him to do that, but it wasn’t smart of Willie to blab about it, either. According to what McQuesten had said about Quarlé, he was the sort of person who wouldn’t be comfortable keeping things to himself. What if he had brought someone else into his confidence in the hope of getting money up front by promising a piece of the action? Had he gotten the money and reneged? Was that why he was killed?
 
 
Of course, this was all pure speculation on my part, my sometimes overworked imagination shifting into high gear. That’s usually the way I come up with plots for my novels, playing the what-if game with myself. But I’ve also had good results applying it to real-life crime, and I saw no reason to put the brakes on where the murder of Maurice Quarlé was concerned.
 
 
It became evident to Kathy and Bill that I had drifted into a reverie of sorts, because they asked in unison, “Are you all right?”
 
 
“What? Oh, my mind was elsewhere. Don’t mind me. It happens from time to time.”
 
 
Trooper McQuesten came from the house, followed by another trooper. “We have a coroner on his way, and a crime scene technician,” he said. “I’m leaving one of my men here until they arrive. In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you folks would come back to my office so I can take a formal statement about what happened here.”
 
 
“Do we have to?” Kathy asked.
 
 
“This has been quite a shock for her, Officer,” Bill said.
 
 
“Yes, I imagine it has been,” the trooper said. “Tell you what. I’ll have Trooper Jenkins take a statement from you here at the house. But I would like Mrs. Fletcher to come with me. I want to take her statement in a more formal setting, and I also want to discuss with her the death that occurred on the ship in Glacier Bay.” He turned to me. “Is that all right with you, Mrs. Fletcher?”
 
 
“Yes, of course,” I said, surprised at how easily he’d agreed to excuse Kathy and Bill.
 
 
“Will you be okay?” I asked Kathy.
 
 
“Sure,” she said.
 
 
“Don’t worry about her, Mrs. Fletcher,” Bill said, pulling her close to him. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to my favorite lady.”
 
 
Kathy said she wasn’t up for another trip on the tram, so Trooper McQuesten drove the three of us back down to the dock and dropped Kathy and Bill off there. We agreed to meet in the Crow’s Nest, where Kathy was scheduled to be interviewed by David Johansen.
 
 
“Well,” McQuesten said once we were settled in his small office in a building used by both the Juneau police and the Alaska State Troopers, “I didn’t expect to end up meeting you at the scene of a murder.”
 
 
“I’m as surprised as you are,” I said. “Frankly, I prefer the fictitious murders in my books to real ones.”
 
 
“I can’t say that I blame you,” he said. “I’ll be candid, Mrs. Fletcher. I preferred that you come back here with me without your friends.”
 
 
“Why is that?”
 
 
He pulled a photograph from a drawer and slid it across the desk.
 
 
If he meant to shock me, he succeeded. The color photograph was of a smiling Kathy Copeland.
 
 
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
 
 
“From a dead man’s room.”
 
 
“Mr. Quarlé?”
 
 
“No, from the cabin of the man who went over the side of the
Glacial Queen
yesterday.”
 
 
I tried to formulate a question, but he saved me the trouble. “I have no idea why he had this photograph, Mrs. Fletcher, nor did I know the identity of the person in the picture until I saw your friend—Ms. Copeland.”
 
 
“But why would that man have Kathy’s picture?” I asked, despite knowing that he didn’t have an answer.
 
 
“Maybe you have an idea about that, Mrs. Fletcher.”
 
 
“I can certainly speculate,” I said. “The fact that he had her photo confirms for me that he was, in some way, interested in her sister’s disappearance. The question I have is why he seemed to be following me and not her.”
 
 
“Maybe this will answer that,” he said, retrieving something else from the drawer. It was the hardcover version of one of my earlier books; my photograph took up the entire back cover. A sticker indicated that it had come from the
Glacial Queen
’s library.
 
 
“Somehow,” I said, “he didn’t strike me as a man who enjoyed reading.”
 
 
“I’m sure he wasn’t. He wanted that picture of you, not the words you wrote.”
 
 
“I should be disappointed.”
 
 
“I sense that you aren’t.”
 
 
“You sense right. What else did you find in his cabin?”
 
 
A third item emerged from the desk drawer, a passport. I opened it and stared at the photo of the man. The name on it was John Smith.
 
 
“The passport is a phony, just like his name,” McQuesten said.
 
 
“John Smith,” I said absently. “Any idea what his real name is?”
 
 
McQuesten shook his head. “We’re working on it. He evidently was from New York.”
 
 
“So I understand. Would I be wrong in assuming that there’s more in that desk drawer that might interest me?”
 
 
He smiled and rubbed his eyes. “I’m afraid that’s all that’s in my goody bag for the moment,” he said.
 
 
“I’d say that’s quite enough for one day. I think I’ll head back to the ship. This has all been very fatiguing.”
 
 
“I’ll drive you.”
 
 
“Thank you. I appreciate that. You will let me know if anything comes out of the Maurice Quarlé investigation that has bearing on Wilimena Copeland’s disappearance?”
 
 
“Of course. By the way, I spoke with Detective Flowers this morning. He’s in Ketchikan following up on possible leads.”
 
 
My expression asked the obvious question.
 
 
“Nothing tangible so far,” McQuesten said. “It’s really strange that she’s disappeared so completely without leaving a trace. It makes me think perhaps she doesn’t want to be found.”
 
 
Which, I knew, was a possibility with Willie Copeland. I didn’t say it. I also knew that Alaska was a huge wilderness, with hundreds of thousands of untamed acres in which a body could disappear, never to be seen again. I didn’t say that, either.
 
 
I followed him to his car, and we drove back to the pier. As I was about to get out, I saw the ship’s security officer, Officer Kale, come onto the pier and head for the gangway leading up to the ship. He was dressed in civilian clothes—jeans, a blue sweater over a white shirt, and sneakers. He carried a small plastic shopping bag and was obviously in a rush. He ran past groups of passengers, dashed up the gangway, and vanished into the ship.
 
 
“That’s Officer Kale,” I told Trooper McQuesten. “He’s the ship’s security officer.”
 
 
“Yes, I know Officer Kale,” said McQuesten. “I’ve had the occasion to speak with him a few times.”
 
 
“He’s terribly concerned that Kathy and I not disturb other passengers while we look for an answer to Wilimena’s disappearance.”
 
 
“You can’t blame him,” McQuesten said. “He and the rest of the crew have an obligation to all those people enjoying themselves on their ship.”
 
 
I agreed with him, of course, and said so, adding, “Has he been at all helpful in trying to find Kathy’s sister?”
 
 
“I haven’t had that much interaction with him about that case, Mrs. Fletcher. Detective Flowers is the lead investigator. Have you found him uncooperative?”
 
 
“Oh, no, but not anxious to help, either. I was just wondering. Thank you for everything, including driving me back to the ship.”
 
 
“My pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher. I assure you I’ll stay in touch if I have any news of interest.”
 
 
I went directly to my cabin, then kicked off my shoes, removed the outer layers of clothing I’d worn, wrapped myself in the terry-cloth robe provided by the cruise line, and went out onto the balcony. The sun had broken through the gunmetal gray sky, although its light was fleeting as fast-moving clouds came and went, obscuring it from view.
 
 
My goal of taking an idyllic cruise to relax and immerse myself in the wildlife of Alaska had certainly turned into something I hadn’t bargained for. Of course, I’d known when I invited Kathy to accompany me that the cruise would take on a different dimension. Searching for a missing person didn’t qualify as a relaxing pursuit.
 
 
But murder? Two violent deaths within a few days of each other, one definitely a murder, the other a distinct possibility of being murder.
 
 
I sat in the chair and allowed my eyes to close. I didn’t need for them to be open for me to see, in vivid color, Maurice Quarlé sprawled in that yellow chair, his eyes and mouth open, a knife rammed into his chest. That vision sent a shudder through me, and I decided to go back inside. Once there, I had a sudden urge for a cup of steaming-hot tea. Call for room service? I decided instead to go to a public room. Somehow the spacious cabin now felt claustrophobic.
 
 
I knew from the daily newsletter that tea was served every afternoon in the Lower Vista dining room. As I walked in, I immediately spotted Gladys Montgomery sitting by herself at a window table. I didn’t intend to disturb her—she seemed engrossed in a magazine— but she looked up, smiled, and waved for me to come to her table.
 
 
“I didn’t expect to see you back on the ship so early,” she said, placing the magazine on the table. It was the new issue of
Vanity Fair
.
 
 
“I see that you keep up with the latest publications,” I said after taking the chair next to her.
 
 
“Maynard always sees to it that I have a selection of reading material,” she said.
 
 
“He takes good care of you,” I commented.
 
 
“He’s a sweet young man. I’ve grown very fond of him. So, Jessica, tell me about your day in Juneau.”
 
 
I was tempted to tell her about the murder of the man she’d met and for whom she had such disdain, Maurice Quarlé, but thought better of it. “Uneventful,” I said. “Kathy and I and Mr. Henderson walked around a bit and had lunch at a very pleasant restaurant. Frankly, there doesn’t seem to be much to see in Juneau, unless you’re interested in buying jewelry.”
 
 
She laughed. “I know exactly what you mean,” she said. “I spent about an hour there the first time the ship visited, but I don’t bother getting off anymore. I suppose there are interesting things to do, but I prefer to stay on board the ship.”

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