Rum and Razors (11 page)

“Like I said, the alternative is worse.”

“I’ve been admiring the photographs, Laurie. They’re beautiful. I guess I never stopped to think of food as being worthy of art. I was wrong.”

“The photographer is a good friend of ours. Of mine now, I suppose. He’s world famous for his food photography.” She idly picked up a stack of mail from her desk and perused it.

I got up and looked at a bookshelf on which antique cookbooks were displayed. One caught my eye:
Maine Cooking.
I was about to pull it from the shelf when there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Laurie said. Thomas wheeled in a cart with our lunch. “Hope you don’t mind I ordered for both of us,” Laurie said, still examining her mail. “Shrimp salads and vichyssoise. The shrimp is absolutely the freshest. And the cocktail sauce is special, my own spicy mango sauce. I know you’ll like it.”

I sat at the table and waited for Laurie to join me. She was still involved with the mail, and seemed strangely detached from everything, everyone at that moment. A defense against the intense pain I knew she must be suffering? What other answer could there be for her enigmatic calm, her seeming oblivion to the fact that her husband had just been brutally murdered, her guests were exiting en masse, and the inn that represented their life’s dream was under pressure from many fronts: political, legal, and certainly financial.

She dropped a fistful of mail, looked at me, and smiled. “I’m sorry, Jess. My mind keeps betraying me.” She joined me at the table where Thomas stood stoically. “Thank you, Thomas,” Laurie said. “I’ll call you when we’re done.”

“Yes, ma’am. Are we expecting any arrivals today?”

Laurie frowned. “Two couples scheduled to check in, I think.
If
they haven’t heard about the additional recreation we’re providing these days.” She laughed ruefully. “Murder mystery weekends. I understand they’re quite popular now,” she said. “Well, Jess, let’s eat.” Thomas backed from the office and closed the door.

Her demeanor had me on edge. If she’d been one thing only—sad, depressed, angry—I would have felt more comfortable. But she was mercurial, shifting rapidly from mood to mood. I wasn’t being judgmental. When I lost my husband, I, too, found myself being pulled by conflicting moods and needs. And, of course, I hadn’t had the additional pressure of attempting to salvage a failing business that was buffeted from all sides. I decided that I was being selfish. I wanted her to behave in a way that suited me. I wanted her to be tearful and morose, which would have made my task easier.

I remembered the legal notice in my bag, forced it from my mind, tasted my vichyssoise, smiled, and said, “It’s excellent, Laurie.”

“Glad you approve,” she said. “I made it myself. Therapy. I can get lost in cooking. The world and all its nastiness disappears.”

“Writing does it for me. When I’m into an especially challenging murder scene, I—” Laurie glanced at me and smiled. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Sometimes my mind goes on vacation but my mouth works overtime.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, Jess. Walter’s murder is a fact. Reality. I’m beginning to be able to view it that way and concentrate on what needs to get done. The biggest problem at the moment is handling the press queries. They’re starting to come in. I think the public relations people call it ‘damage control.’ Putting a positive spin on a very negative story.”

“I suppose you have to deal with that,” I said. “Judging from the people I saw in the lobby, business is already suffering.”

“And bound to get worse.” She took a few spoons of vichyssoise, sat back, raised her thin arms above her shoulders, and rested her hands on top of her head. The bags under her eyes, and a hasty job of applying makeup revealed her fatigue.

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” she said, looking up at the ceiling. “I know it’s a fact, as I said. I accept that. But part of me doesn’t. A bad dream. I expect Walter to come through the door any time now. Only I know he won’t.” She closed her eyes tightly against tears.

“You never get over that,” I said. “Expecting someone you love to walk through the door even when—anything new with the investigation?”

She shook her head. “No. I doubt if they’ll come up with Walter’s murderer. Not that the police here are any less efficient than anywhere else. Detective Calid has quite a reputation. He’s studied all over the world, even with the FBI in the States. It’s just that a random killing like this makes it impossible to resolve. No motive. Just a mentally unbalanced native.”

“Are you sure about that?” I asked.

“What else? Neither Walter nor I know anyone capable of such brutality. It had to be a local.”

“It wasn’t robbery,” I offered. “Detective Calid said Walter had a lot of cash in his pocket.”

“I’d feel better if it had been a robbery. At least some poor person would have a few bucks for his trouble.”

Since I couldn’t suggest that Laurie eat her vichyssoise before it got cold, I ignored the food and said, “I find it interesting that the weapon was probably a straight razor. Walter was one of the few men I knew who still used such an old-fashioned type of razor to shave. It was sort of a running gag in Cabot Cove. Remember? Seth and Mort always gave him such a ribbing about it.”

Laurie grinned. I was glad I’d reminded her of something amusing from yesteryear. “Walter swore by that razor,” she said. “He always said to me, ‘Old-fashioned or not, it’s the best way to get the job done.’ Ironic, isn’t it?”

I remembered a time as we sat there when Walter arrived at a party wearing a bandage on his chin. When I asked what had happened, he told me he’d slipped while shaving. “I’ll probably end up slitting my own throat one of these days,” he’d said, laughing. It was a grim recollection that I chose not to share with Laurie.

Nor did I mention the use of a razor as a murder weapon in my last novel, whose paperback copies were prominently displayed in Justin Wall’s bookstore in Charlotte Amalie.

“Well, enough of this,” Laurie said. “We have to eat, and I intend to.” We finished our soup and the plump, juicy shrimp. During our meal, and the conversation that accompanied it, the phone rang numerous times. Laurie ignored the calls, said they were being answered by the assistant manager at the desk. An answering machine in her office went into action when the assistant was slow to pick up, its faint outgoing message, and the beginnings of incoming ones barely audible. “I told him not to disturb us,” she said.

“I would never have thought to put mango in cocktail sauce,” I said. “It adds an unusual flavor. Delicious.”

“Thanks. That’s what cooking is all about for me. Experimentation. Walter was my best guinea pig. He has—had a good palate. And he was honest. If he didn’t like something I’d concocted, he told me.”

She told whomever was knocking to come in. It was the assistant manager, a young man named Howard whose light skin testified to mixed parentage. “I really need you, Mrs. Marschalk,” he said after greeting me. “I don’t know how to handle all the calls from the press. New York is on the line, and I have a London journalist on hold.”

“Looks like I’d better get back in the saddle, Jess.” She got up and dialed for Thomas to remove the lunch table.

“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “Mind if I stay here awhile and browse your cookbooks?”

“Be my guest. Take them with you to your room.”

“I might do that. And remember, Laurie, as long as I’m here I want to be of help.”

“I certainly won’t forget,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “Funny, but I wish the funeral would take place. Sort of put him, and it to rest in a sense. The police won’t release the body until they’re done investigating.”

“Will the funeral be back in Cabot Cove?” I asked.

“No. Walter wanted to be buried right here, near Lover’s Lagoon. I’m checking local ordinances now.”

She was about to leave when I asked, “What about Mr. Webb, your partner? I understand he flew back to the States early this morning.”

“Yes, he did.” She opened the door and was gone.

I was left in the office with thoughts of the day my husband died, a growing list of questions about Walter’s murder, and, of course, the legal papers in my straw bag. I had no business accepting them from the process server. My temptation was to simply lay the envelope on the desk and forget I’d ever seen it. But that would put Laurie in an awkward position. I’d legally taken possession of it, and for a dead man to boot. I had an obligation to do something with the papers. I was being too protective of Laurie, I decided. She appeared to be capable of juggling myriad problems at once. Some silly lawsuit against Walter probably wouldn’t amount to much, not in the overall scope of things.

I’ve never enjoyed placing myself in moral and ethical quandaries. It can happen so fast. You take a simple action—in this case accepting the envelope from the process server without thinking—and you’re then faced with the ramifications of that simple, well-meaning action.

I took
Maine Cooking
down from the shelf, opened it on my lap so that there would be a prop of sorts should Laurie suddenly reappear, removed the envelope from my bag, carefully unsealed it (which was easy since it had come partially open on its own), and removed the papers it contained. I read the first couple of lines twice to make sure I had read them right. I had. My assumption was correct. Walter was being sued.

By Laurie.

For a divorce.

I
avoided the lobby on the way back to my villa because I didn’t want to confront Laurie. I wasn’t sure I could look her in the eye.

She obviously knew divorce papers were about to be served upon Walter. Yet she’d made a point of telling me that the marriage was solid, and that it was only business that was suffering. Not that she had any obligation to share with me her marital problems. But considering the circumstances, a modicum of candor would have been appreciated.

Why hadn’t she put a stop to the service of the papers the minute she knew of Walter’s murder? Probably too late. Even more probable was that she simply never thought of it in the confusion that reigned during the twenty-four hours following the discovery of his body.

The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me as I poured myself a glass of mango juice from an icy pitcher that had been placed in my room. Whatever Laurie had to pay to institute divorce proceedings against her husband was wasted money. No need for a divorce now. Walter’s death saw to that.

I also realized that I no longer needed to worry about having intercepted the papers from the process server. Walter’s death saw to that, too.

I placed the envelope beneath a neat pile of clothing in a dresser drawer. I wasn’t sure what I would eventually do with the envelope and its contents. Probably throw them away. But I didn’t want to do it just yet. There was always the possibility that Laurie would find out I was the one who’d signed for them, and would want them back. In the meantime, they would remain securely in the drawer.

I was in the midst of changing clothes for my four-o’clock meeting with Jennifer Fletcher at Diamond Reef when the phone rang. “Long distance for you, Mrs. Fletcher,” the inn’s switchboard operator said. “Please hold.” A moment later the familiar voice of Dr. Seth Hazlitt came on the line. “Jessica. Seth here.”

“Hello, Seth. What a nice surprise.” There was a slight delay on the line, which had us stepping on each others’ words.

“I just got the news about Walter Marschalk,” he said.

“Yes,” I sighed. “I should have called you but it’s been hectic here, as you can imagine.”

“Stories about it everywhere. You were the one who discovered his body?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Throat slit?”

“Yes.”

“A razor, they say.”

“They’re not sure.”

“And you’re still there.”

“Of course I’m still here.”

“Don’t you think, bein’ the smart lady that you are, that it’d be best to scoot right back home here?”

“I considered that, Seth. But Laurie needs me. Needs someone. She’s trying to cope with her grief, run the inn, handle calls from the press—she needs my help.”

His silence said much.

“Seth, are you there?” I asked.

“Ayah, I’m here. You know, Jessica, I never steered you wrong, did I? Got you through that bad case ’a pneumonia last wintah.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, seems to me you’ve got yourself smack dab in the middle of a dangerous situation. Got a madman with a razor runnin’ about slittin’ people’s throats. Won’t matter to a madman with a razor whether you’re a man or woman. Seems to me you
and
Laurie oughta nip off back here.”

“I’ll be coming home the minute I feel Laurie doesn’t need me any longer. Until then—”

“Jessica, you are some jo-jeezly.”

“I may be stubborn, Seth, but I am also faithful to my friends. Now stop worrying. What’s new in Cabot Cove?”

“Been blessed with a bit of a thaw. Spring’s in the air. That’s for sure.”

“I’m glad. I have an appointment. Got to run. Thanks for calling. Best to everyone.”

“Jessica.”

“Yes?”

“You take care. Heah?”

“I ‘heah’ loud-and-clear. Bye, Seth. Miss you.”

Having talked to Seth stabbed me with nostalgia. What had been a welcome respite from the cold winter of Maine, from sickness and from a tight deadline, had turned into a grim nightmare. I was aware, of course, that what he
hadn’t
said represented a certain truth about me. I was staying at Lover’s Lagoon Inn and on St. Thomas not only because I wished to be of help to Laurie, but because I had a need to be involved in sorting out Walter’s murder. I hadn’t been thrust involuntarily into that role. I could have packed up and left at any time, once questioned by the police. But the desire to help Laurie aside, to walk away without having satisfied my own intellectual curiosity, if nothing else, would be anathema to me. There were questions I wanted answered.