Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote) (21 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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A waiter brought my tea and a selection of finger sandwiches and pastries.
“Have you seen Kathy or Mr. Henderson?” I asked.
“No, I have not,” she replied. “I have the feeling that your friend Ms. Copeland is smitten with the handsome Mr. Henderson.”
“I have the same impression,” I said, “although I haven’t asked her about it. She seems very happy when she’s with him. That’s all that matters.”
“I agree with you, considering the mental turmoil she must be going through, having lost a sister. I have lost a sister
and
a brother. It’s always terribly sad when you lose a beloved sibling. Have you ever suffered such an event?”
and
a brother. It’s always terribly sad when you lose a beloved sibling. Have you ever suffered such an event?”
“Not a sibling. My parents, of course, and my husband.”
She drew a deep breath, and her lip trembled. “I finished your book,” she said, without preamble. “I enjoyed it very much. You are a very elegant writer, unlike too many younger writers these days. I did identify the killer quite early in the story, however.”
I chuckled. “I must be losing my touch. I always hope that readers can’t figure out who did it until the very end.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” she said.
“Oh, no, you haven’t. This tea hits the spot.”
“There is nothing more refreshing than a properly made pot of tea,” she said. “Is there anything new about the unfortunate accident that occurred yesterday in Glacier Bay?”
There certainly was something new. The question was whether I should mention what I learned from Trooper McQuesten. As with the murder of Maurice Quarlé, I decided it would be prudent not to tell her that John Smith’s name was not John Smith, that he was traveling with a bogus passport, and that he had in his possession a photograph of Kathy and a copy of one of my earlier books, taken from the ship’s library shelves.
“No, nothing new as far as I know,” I said.
“Why do I have the feeling you aren’t telling me the truth?” she asked, not at all confrontational.
Her hand, deeply veined and covered with brown age spots, rested on the arm of her chair. I placed my hand on top of it, gave it a little squeeze, and said, “I have no doubt, Gladys, that you very quickly solved the mystery in my novel. You’re very astute.”
“At my age, I have nothing but time to observe and be astute. You’ll share with me what you wish at the appropriate time, I’m sure. But for now, it’s time for my nap before dinner. Maynard will have turned down my bed and placed a small glass of Metaxa brandy at bedside. My husband was Greek, you know, and he loved his Metaxa. You will excuse me.”
“Of course. Enjoy your nap. I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Salmon or duck on the menu tonight,” she said, standing, using the chair’s arm for support, and walking away somewhat unsteadily. The maître d’ quickly came to her side and escorted her from the room.
I really like you, Gladys Montgomery
, I thought.
You’re one classy lady
.
, I thought.
You’re one classy lady
.
I lingered over my tea and finger food, enjoying that moment of solace, as well as the sense of well-being provided by the nourishment. Gladys’s mention of a nap before dinner sounded good. Although it had not been a physically strenuous day, it had been mentally challenging. Of course, I wouldn’t have a snifter of Metaxa brandy. I could do without that.
I was about to leave when the maître d’ who’d escorted Gladys came to me. “Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“There is a gentleman wishing to see you at the front office on the main deck.”
“Who is it?” I asked.
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
I thanked him, left the room, and went down one deck. Standing there was Trooper McQuesten.
“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” I said.
“I didn’t plan on it,” he said, “but I came across something I wanted to share with you as soon as possible.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “Why don’t we find a place where we can be more comfortable? The Vista Lounge is on this deck, at the front of the ship.”
We found a secluded table in the large lounge. “I just had tea,” I said. “Would you like something?”
“A soft drink would be fine. I’m still on duty.”
“And what do you enjoy when you’re off duty?” I asked.
He grinned. “I’m partial to good single-barrel bourbon, Mrs. Fletcher, although I also enjoy some of our better microbreweries.”
“I’ll be happy to treat you to some of each whenever you’re off duty. Now, what is this information you have that couldn’t wait?”
“I had a chance to go through things we found in Quarlé’s room,” he said. “Take a look at this.” He withdrew some papers from his inside breast pocket and handed them to me. I motioned for a waiter, who took the trooper’s order for a Coke, and unfolded the sheets of paper. There was a lot of writing on them, scribbling actually, and some of it was hard to read. But the message that came through from these random jottings wasn’t difficult to understand.
“I was right,” I said. “Quarlé was after Willie’s gold.”
“I would say that you were,” McQuesten said.
I placed the scraps of papers I had been reading on the table and looked at a final sheet. On it was a series of names and numbers, some of which were followed by numbers preceded by a dollar sign.
“What do these mean?” I asked.
“I called Charlie Flowers in Ketchikan to see if he could make any sense out of it.”
“And?”
“Those are the names of various floatplane operators in the Ketchikan area,” McQuesten said. “I assume the numbers represent how much it would cost to hire one.”
I sat back and chewed my cheek, as I sometimes do when trying to sort out my thoughts. “Why would he want to hire a floatplane?” I asked.
McQuesten shrugged his large shoulders. “That’s something we’ll have to find out, Mrs. Fletcher.”
After silently trying to process what I had just read and learned, I asked, “Who is this Joey he mentions?”
“I can’t be sure,” McQuesten replied, “but it might be another local grifter like Quarlé. Joey Casone. I have my people out looking for him as we speak.”
I shook my head and smiled.
“We’re making progress, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Almost too much, too fast,” I said.
“If you’d rather I—”
I sat up straight, came forward, and said, “No, I take that back. The more information, the better.”
“All right,” he said, draining his Coke in one long, continuous swallow. “I’d better get back.”
I walked him to the ship’s exit, and he showed his badge to the crew member on duty. “A word of advice?” he said.
“Please.”
“Watch your step for the rest of the cruise.”
He held me in a hard stare.
“I will,” I said.
Chapter Ten
Without the little man in shorts following me at every turn, the evening turned out to be considerably more relaxing than previous ones had been. I joined Kathy and Bill Henderson in the Crow’s Nest, where she’d been telling David Johansen what she knew about Dolly Arthur and how she was related to the former brothel owner.
“This has been great,” David said after he’d turned off his tiny digital recorder.
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about my heritage,” Kathy said, “at least that aspect of it.”
“You remember more than you think,” David said. “I always enjoy getting firsthand accounts. They fill in the gaps for me in the courses I teach. Of course, I loved the story about the pretzel lady and your father.”
Johansen left to get ready for dinner, and I spirited Kathy away to a secluded corner, where I filled her in on what Trooper McQuesten had told me. She listened intently, her eyes wide, her head shaking back and forth in disbelief. When I’d finished, she said, “Something terrible has happened to Willie.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “We mustn’t give up hope.”
“With such dreadful people involved, how can I think anything else, Jess?”
“The important thing,” I said, “is to keep digging. I’m sure we’ll have the answer eventually.”
I wasn’t sure I believed that, but I felt a need to boost her lagging spirits.
“I’m afraid of what the answer will be,” she said. “The man who went over the side had my picture
and
your book?”
and
your book?”
“Yes.”
“I feel so—so violated,” she said.
“I know what you mean. Look, let’s enjoy the ship this evening, and in the morning when we arrive in Sitka, I’ll call Trooper McQuesten and Detective Flowers, too. We’ll stay on top of it.”
“I’ll give it my best,” she replied.
Which she did during dinner, although I didn’t harbor any illusions that it was because of my pep talk. The perpetually upbeat Bill Henderson was clearly responsible for Kathy’s elevation of mood. He was unfailingly flattering and solicitous, and she responded appropriately, actually becoming girlish at times.
Gladys Montgomery was in an especially good mood as well. She laughed easily and was fully engaged in the conversation at the table.
“Do you ever tire of being on a ship?” Henderson asked her.
“Heavens, no. There’s always something to do, a class to take, a lecture to attend, fascinating people to meet. I consider myself blessed to be living here. Are you happy living in Seattle?”
He seemed puzzled at the question.
“I ask,” she said, “because I am a true believer in where we live determining how happy we will be. I assume that Mrs. Fletcher and Ms. Copeland are satisfied with being residents of their town in Maine.”
“I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else,” Kathy said.
“Too much snow for me,” Bill said.
“You get used to it,” I said. “In fact, I actually look forward to it once winter has arrived. As long as it’s going to be cold, there might as well be a white blanket on the ground to enjoy.”
“Mr. Henderson,” Gladys asked again, “are you happy living in Seattle?”
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