13 - Knock'em Dead (23 page)

Jill and Arnold Factor were convicted of the murders of Harry Schrumm and Vic Righetti and sentenced to life in prison. Jenny was remanded to a psychiatric institution; the prognosis was that she’d never be cured of her insanity and would remain there for the rest of her natural life.

I kept in touch with everyone involved with
Knock ’Em Dead,
especially Detective Henry Hayes and Linda Amsted. I’d learned that Henry was divorced, and thought he and Linda might make a nice couple. The last I heard from either of them, it hadn’t happened.

I saw the play a few more times, sitting anonymously in the packed theater and enjoying the audiences’ reaction. No matter what had gone before, seeing and hearing my words presented by live actors was a heady experience.

Wendell Watson became a rookie cop in Mort Metzger’s police department. I attended his swearing-in ceremony with his mother, Gloria, and shared in her pride.

And I wrote another book.

“Want me to pitch it as another play?” Matt Miller asked during a phone conversation. “With
Knock ’Em Dead
playing to sold-out audiences, you’re a hot Broadway commodity.”

“Thanks for the thought, Matt, but please don’t. One play in any writer’s life is enough.”

I left it at that.

Things turn decidedly uncozy
when Jessica travels to
England in the
Murder, She Wrote
mystery
Gin & Daggers
Available from Signet

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.

I couldn’t wait to return to England, to spend time with Marjorie, 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.

 

 

I watched the English countryside slide by—gently rolling hills, idyllic herds of cows grazing on rich grass, fancy sports cars passing us at grand prix speed, tiny villages with women sweeping their sidewalks. How I loved this place, and once again questioned why I’d never followed my instincts to move here. I knew why, of course. Cabot Cove, my home in Maine, was too precious to me to pull up stakes.

Wilfred, the chauffeur, drove with caution until we were abreast of Ainsworth Manor. It stood high on the slope of a hill, gothic in aura, although its architecture was not precisely that. I remembered the last time I approached it and thinking there should be streaks of lightning on a dark scrim behind it. Moviemakers would undoubtedly agree.

We turned onto an access road that was lined with poplar trees and a minute later we were in front of Ainsworth Manor.

“Mrs. Fletcher, how nice to see you again,” Jane Portelaine, Marjorie Ainsworth’s niece, said to me as I stepped through massive oak doors into a stone-floored foyer.

“It’s good to be back,” I said, meaning it, although I thought to myself that Jane’s presence did not necessarily add to my pleasure. She was obviously a good person, as evidenced by the devotion she’d demonstrated to Marjorie for so many years. The problem with Jane Portelaine was that her severe appearance, coupled with an enigmatic personality, tended to be off putting, at best.

“I’ll check on my aunt now,” said Jane. “If she’s awake, I’ll see if she’s well enough to come down.”

“Perhaps she’d prefer I come to the bedroom.”

“I think not.” Jane’s long, lanky frame disappeared through a doorway.

A few minutes later she reappeared and said, “She’s coming down. Marshall will wheel her.”

“Wheel ... ? I didn’t realize she was in a wheelchair.”

“Only recently, and not always. It depends on the day. We’ve had an elevator installed in the rear of the house.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” I said, a flush of excitement coming over me as I awaited Marjorie’s arrival. Then anticipation became reality as the young butler wheeled his mistress through the door and to the center of the study.

“Jessica, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. Welcome.”

I got up and took the hand she offered in both of mine. “How wonderful to see you again, Marjorie. I must say you look a lot better than your last letter indicated you would.”

“Bull! I look like the wrath of God, probably because I am closer to him than I have ever been before. But, my dear poppet, thank you for being the kind of friend you have always been.”

I took my chair again and closely observed Marjorie Ainsworth. She had grown old and feeble. Her hand, when I took it, seemed nothing but bone and veins covered loosely by leathery skin. Her hair was completely white and appeared not to have been washed and brushed in too long a time. She wore a Black Watch plaid dress that was stained on the bosom. An old, handmade shawl covered her legs. Most telling of her advanced age, however, were her eyes. I don’t think I’d ever met anyone in my life whose eyes sparkled with such mischief. Now that sparkle was evident only in fleeting bursts, replaced by dark eyes that had sunk into the bony structure of her face like fresh soil sinking after a heavy rain; dark circles around them gave her skin a puttied appearance. This dose scrutiny by me was, at first, upsetting, but then I reminded myself that she was indeed an old woman growing older, and had every right to look it.

The thing that stayed in my mind after the first few minutes was her unkempt condition, and I wondered at the competence and interest of whatever household staff served her these days.

“Jane!” Marjorie shouted in a surprisingly strong and vibrant voice. A moment later Jane Portelaine stood in the doorway. “I’d like a gin,” said Marjorie, “and fetch the book for Jessica.”

When Jane returned, she carried a glass filled with gin and a copy of
Gin and Daggers.
She handed the drink to Marjorie, the book to me.

“Thank you, I’ve been looking forward to this ever since it was published.” I eagerly opened to the first page and saw that it had been inscribed to me in Marjorie’s own handwriting. I was sincerely touched.

 

 

“But that’s one of Dorothy’s enduring traits, Clayton,” William Strayhorn, London’s most respected book critic, said to Marjorie Ainsworth’s American publisher, Clayton Perry. “Read a Dorothy Sayers mystery and you’ll always learn something.”

“Yes, readers love to learn something while being entertained,” Archibald Semple, Marjorie’s British publisher, chimed in. “But that doesn’t make her better than a writer who doesn’t give a tinker’s damn about educating readers.”

It was Friday night, and we’d been at the dinner table for two hours. The chief topic of discussion throughout the meal had been the relative merits of mystery writers, past and present. The quality of the debates ranged from intently interesting to snide and gossipy. No matter what level they took, however, the presence of the invited guests and their conversation seemed to buoy Marjorie Ainsworth’s spirits. She’d spent most of the day with us and, aside from an occasional lapse of concentration and a few brief naps in her wheelchair, had been an active participant.

I’d been more of an observer than an involved member of these spirited discussions. I’ve always preferred to listen; you learn so much more that way than being compelled to verbalize what you already know. I’d drifted from group to group, enjoying some more than others, laughing at myriad witty lines that erupted from time to time, and generally enjoyed the ambiance of Ainsworth Manor and its weekend visitors.

Marjorie sat at the head of the table. The long day had taken its toll on her; she looked exhausted and was obviously fighting to remain with the group until the last possible minute.

Next to Jane Portelaine sat Bruce Herbert, Marjorie’s New York agent. They made an interesting couple. Herbert was as outgoing as Jane was taciturn. It was he who’d proposed the toast at the beginning of dinner:

“To the world’s finest crime novelist, Marjorie Ainsworth, who has given millions of people supreme joy through her books, who has set the standard for all writers of the genre. May
Gin and Daggers
be only the latest of your wonderful writings.”

“Hear, hear,” Archibald Semple had said, his words slurred.

“I have a toast,” Marjorie had said.

We’d all looked at her as she raised her glass and said:

 

 

 

“Bravo,” Bruce Herbert said.

“Did you write that?” I asked her.

“Heavens, no, and I have no idea who did.”

Now, late in the evening, Count Antonio Zara, Marjorie’s brother-in-law, suddenly stood and gave a speech in a heavy accent, after which there was polite applause and Marshall, the servant, supervised the serving of dessert.

“Can we trust this?” Bruce Herbert asked.

Marjorie, who’d been dozing, jerked awake and said in a strong voice, “Trust it? What in heaven’s name, do you mean by that?”

Herbert laughed and said, “I’ve read at least a thousand murder mysteries, Marjorie, in which victims are poisoned by dishes that look like this.”

There was laughter at the table. Strayhorn, the critic, said, “I’d debate you on that, Mr. Herbert. I’d say the whiskey decanter had done more people in than syllabub.”

“Syllabub?” I said. “What’s that?”

Mrs. Horton, the cook, who stood at the door to the kitchen, said, “Whipped cream, sherry, and lemon juice. They used to make it with warm cow’s milk.”

I looked at my hostess and said lightly, “You haven’t decided to poison us all with your syllabub, have you, Marjorie?”

She raised her head and moved her nose, as though a disagreeable odor had reached it. A tiny smile came to her lips as she said, “My dear Jessica, I must be slipping not to have thought of that. What a wonderful way to dear my decks before leaving.”

Laughter quickly dissipated as her final words sunk in.

“Whatever do you mean by saying ’leaving’” asked Archibald Semple.

“You know only too well what I mean, Archie.

I don’t expect this dicky body to support me much longer.‌”

Clayton Perry laughed. “You’ll probably outlive us all,” he said.

“I doubt that,” remarked Jane Portelaine, sounding as though she meant it. No one challenged her.

A short while later, Marjorie announced she was going to bed. Her departure broke up the gathering. I then walked upstairs, closed the door behind me, and prepared for bed.

 

 

I sat bolt upright. I didn’t know what time it was. Had I been asleep ten minutes, an hour, four hours?

It was a sound that had awakened me, and it seemed to come from Marjorie’s room, next to mine. How to describe it? A cry for help? Not really. Sounds from someone engaged in a struggle? More like it, but hardly accurate. Whatever it was, it had been loud enough to awaken me and sinister enough to cause me to get out of bed, slip into my robe and slippers, and open my door.

I entered the hallway, stepping gingerly as the ancient floorboards creaked beneath my feet, a sound I hadn’t heard since awakening.

I placed my fingertips against Marjorie’s door and pushed. It was heavy and did not swing open, and had to be pushed more. I did that and peered into the room. Marjorie’s bed was king-size and covered with a canopy. The room was dark except for a sharp shaft of moonlight that poured through an opening in the drapes. It was perfectly aimed, as though a theater lighting technician had highlighted a section of a stage where major action would occur.

I stepped over the threshold and walked to the side of the bed, like a moth drawn to a summer candle. A whole arsenal of grotesque sounds rose up inside me, but stopped at my throat—sounds of protest, of outrage, of shock and horror. Yet not a sound came from me as I looked down at the body of Marjorie Ainsworth, the grande dame of murder mystery fiction, sprawled on her back, arms and legs flung out, a long dagger protruding from her chest like a graveyard marker.

All I managed to say—and it was in a whisper—was “Oh my God.” As I turned to leave, my slippered foot hit a metal object and propelled it under the bed. I didn’t stop to see what it was.

I returned to the hallway and stood at the railing, my hands gripping it as I drew a deep breath to fill my lungs. I shouted, “Help! Please come quickly! There’s been a murder!”