Rum and Razors (12 page)

I was a few minutes early for my date with Jennifer Fletcher and used the time to explore other areas of Diamond Reef. It was even larger than I’d realized. There were two Olympic-size pools, one freshwater, one saltwater, tennis courts with lights for night play, shuffleboard, basketball hoops, and bronzed bodies everywhere. Everyone seemed happy and contented; hard to conceive of all the strife that existed between this and Lover’s Lagoon Inn. Hard to conceive that less than twenty-four hours ago I’d stepped on Walter Marschalk’s very dead hand. The thought sent a chill through me.

I was relieved to see that Jennifer was alone in Room 1202. Her angry friend, Mr. Capehart, was nowhere in sight. Jennifer looked lovely, and perfectly Caribbean in a loose, yellow-and-green sun-dress, and sandals. “I ordered a pitcher of iced tea and some desserts from room service,” she said, pointing to a small balcony reached through a sliding glass door. She led me to it. It overlooked the back of the property where a golf course beckoned.

“Everyone at the conference is in shock about Walter,” she said.

“I would imagine,” I said. “Such a sick act.”

“Do the police have any motives, suspects?”

“Not that I know of. Have you been interviewed yet by the police?”

“I received a call from a Detective Calish. I couldn’t imagine why they wanted to talk to me. But then he told me you’d mentioned that we had dinner together last night, and that you’d found the body.”

“That’s right,” I said. “And his name is Calid. Detective Calid.”

“Calid, Calish, whatever. He’s coming by tonight to interview me. I told him I was busy with the conference but—I guess murder takes precedence.”

“It usually does. Let me ask you why, if you’re so busy, you wanted to see me?”

“I really don’t know,” she replied, taking a miniature margarita pie from a tray and popping it into her mouth. She poured two glasses of iced tea and handed one to me. She was overtly nervous and did what nervous people usually do, make an inappropriate gesture. She held up her glass in a misguided toast. I tipped my glass toward her and sipped.

“Have one?” she said, offering me the tray. “The butterscotch brownies are delicious. I’ve become addicted.”

“Thank you, no. It never would have occurred to me to contact you with the intention of asking personal questions. But since you’ve asked me here, there are a few.”

“Personal questions?”

“Yes. I had the distinct feeling at dinner the other night that your friend, Fred, was jealous of you and—well, to be candid, jealous of you and Walter Marschalk.”

Her increased nervousness was heralded by a thin, high-pitched, forced laugh. “Jealous of me and Walter?” she said.

“That was my impression.”

“Why would he be jealous of Walter? He’s—he’s dead.”

“He wasn’t then,” I said.

She took a strand of hair she’d been twirling and put it into her mouth, swiveled her head 180 degrees. “A lot of people were jealous of Walter,” she said, her gaze directed out over the golf course. “Other travel writers envied him. He was the best-known travel writer in the business. Every one of his books were best-sellers. He wrote for all the major magazines, and the most luxurious hotels around the world wooed him.” She now looked at me. “And then he ends up fulfilling every travel writer’s dream, to own a beautiful inn on a beautiful island.”

That she’d shifted focus from personal jealousy to one of professional envy wasn’t lost on me. I patiently heard her out. When she was finished, I asked, “Were any of these envious travel writers jealous enough to want him dead?”

“No.”

“How can you be sure?” I asked.

“Just because—Look, Mrs. Fletcher—it sounds funny calling someone else ‘Fletcher’—being envious of another writer doesn’t usually translate into murder. Forget envy. Lots of people just plain didn’t like Walter. He’s—he was a very difficult man, cantankerous, pompous, sometimes mean-spirited. We have a writer at the conference who’s known Walter for a long time. Larry Lippman. Larry detests Walter and never tries to hide it. But
kill
him? Larry’s the sweetest guy in the business, loved by everyone. Don’t you have somebody you dislike? Does that mean you’d kill that person?”

“Of course not. What about Fred Capehart?” I asked.

She got up and disappeared into the room. When she returned, I could see that she’d been crying and had wiped her eyes. Smeared makeup said that to me. She sat and said, “I’m ashamed of saying bad things about Walter. He’s dead. A lot of the writers have been saying nasty things about him today. They say they’re sorry he was killed, but then go right on making sarcastic comments, even sick jokes.”

My response was twofold. First, that she was right. It seems to me that when you’re dead, all bets should be off, as they say.

Second, what she’d said about Walter’s reputation had had a mildly shocking effect upon me. I realized how little I knew about him, his career, his relationships, and his stature within his industry. I had no idea he was the icon she represented him to be. Or that he was disliked by so many colleagues.

“Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?” Jennifer said. Her voice had taken on a surly tone, as though annoyed with my presence. But she’d been the one who’d asked that we meet. Why? The only logical answer was that she wanted to find out what I knew about Walter’s murder, and perhaps about the situation at Lover’s Lagoon Inn.

I decided to not linger any longer. I asked directly, “Was your friend, Fred Capehart, justified in exhibiting jealousy of you and Walter?”

“If you mean did he know that Walter and I were—”

“Were lovers?”

“Fred is a very jealous person. Of
everyone.
We used to be boyfriend-girlfriend but it’s been over for six months, maybe longer. His jealousy ruined it for us. It’s a sickness. He sees men behind every tree.”

“Yes, jealousy taken to the extreme is a sickness,” I offered.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if it really were over. But he’s obsessed with me. Like those stalkers you read about, and see on TV. He calls me constantly, and keeps tabs on all my trips. It’s easy for him to do that because we’re in the same business. Not full-time for him. He shifted into writing about things other than travel. But he still freelances for travel magazines, and receives invitations to a lot of the same press trips. He knows where and when all the big travel conferences are. He knew I was coming to St. Thomas for this one and said he was turning down his invitation. And then he shows up. You know why?”

“Because you were here at a resort next door to the one owned by Walter Marschalk.”

“Yes. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “I didn’t want to know anything,” I said, comfortable with my lie. I had at the top of my “To Do” list to call Jennifer and arrange to get together. She’d beat me to it. A minor point, one not worth bringing up.

She ignored my comment and said, “I was shocked when he showed up here on St. Thomas. The night you and I met—at dinner—he was abusive and rude. I don’t have to tell you that. After you left the table, he lashed into me about Walter. He was beside himself. He—”

“Were you and Walter lovers?” I again asked.

“Is that why you came here?” she asked. “To snoop on my private life?”

“You invited me for this little chat, Jennifer.”

“You’re a very snoopy lady, aren’t you, Jessica?”

“Am I curious? Yes. Especially when a very dear friend has had his throat slit.”

“Very dear friend?”
Her expression was as animated as her voice.

“Yes. We were neighbors for years in my hometown in Maine.”

“I wish you’d told me that.”

“It really shouldn’t matter. Walter Marschalk is dead. I’d like to find out why, and who did it.”

“Walter and I had an affair.” She said it as though she’d just announced that the sun had risen, or that her car needed an oil change.

But then her posture and demeanor changed. She slumped in her chair and tears rolled down her cheeks. She dabbed at them with a hanky, drew deep breaths, and looked directly at me, her eyes searching for some sign that it was okay that she and Walter had been intimate. She didn’t need my approval. This wasn’t a confessional, at least in any religious sense. What two people decide to do with their lives is their choice, as long as it doesn’t hurt, or cost others.

What I didn’t express was that I was upset to have learned that Walter had been unfaithful to his wife, Laurie. No morality involved. I’d been his friend. More important, especially since his death, I was the only “old” friend upon which his widow could lean.

Did Laurie Marschalk know about her husband’s affair with this attractive younger woman?

And the bigger question: Was this an isolated incident, or did it represent a pattern with him?

“Jennifer, how long ago did you and Walter have this affair?”

“Two years ago. It’s been—it’s been on and off over the years.”

“Still going on?” I asked. “Until his death?”

“Not really.”

I’ve always hated the answer, “not really.” It screams, at least to me, that there’s truth to whatever has been raised. Either something is, or it isn’t.

“And Fred knew that you and Walter were still seeing each other?”

“I didn’t say that we were.”

“I think you did.”

“It was more than that.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning—nothing.”

“Did you work together?” I asked.

“Why do you ask that? We were in the same business.”

I didn’t understand her defensiveness but didn’t probe. I decided it was time to leave. “I’d best be going,” I said, standing. “I know it hasn’t been easy talking about your relationship with Walter, nor has it been easy for me to hear.”

“Walter’s wife is your friend, too?” she asked.

“Yes. I had lunch with her today. Naturally, she’s very upset.” I thought of the divorce papers and couldn’t help but wonder just how upset Laurie really was.

“You won’t mention any of this to her.”

“Of course not.”

“Good, because I wasn’t the only one.”

“Oh?”

“Walter had plenty of women. Everywhere he went.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

She put on a large red straw hat, picked up her bag, and accompanied me down to the sprawling, rococo lobby that was all glittering gold and red. As we prepared to part at the main entrance—she was on her way to a meeting—she said, “Jessica, there’s something else.”

“Yes?”

“My jealous friend, Fred Capehart?”

“Yes?”

“He’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“I wish I knew. He hasn’t shown up at any of the meetings today.”

“Have you checked his room?”

“Sure. I checked everywhere. He’s disappeared.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” I asked.

“Dinner last night. We argued and he left.”

“What time was that?”

“About eleven-thirty. He said he needed to think, was going to take a walk. He wanted me to come with him but I was angry. He went alone.”

“A walk. Any idea where he walked?”

She paused, looked down at the floor, then up at me. “Lover’s Lagoon. He said he was going down to the lagoon.”

A
sizable contingent of people with a possible motive for killing Walter Marschalk was suddenly gone. I say “motive” not because they were suspects; that was up to Detective Calid and his St. Thomas police department. But they were “connected” to Walter in ways that too often result in a rationale to murder.

Two people who were involved with Walter in Lover’s Lagoon Inn—his partner Chris Webb, and his connection in the St. Thomas Legislature, Bobby Jensen—had left the island. Now, according to Jennifer Fletcher, a young travel writer, Fred Capehart, who evidently harbored a deep dislike for Walter, was nowhere to be found.

Thomas was at the door when I arrived at my villa. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.

“Hello, Thomas.” I looked past him to the other villas, and beyond to the main house. There wasn’t a soul to be seen. “Have
all
the guests checked out?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am. A new couple checked in today, however. Mr. and Mrs. Sims. Mrs. Marschalk considered closing the inn, but with guests to serve—”

“Yes, I suppose she has an obligation, even to one couple. Not very cost-effective, but necessary.”

“Actually, Mrs. Marschalk wanted me to speak with you about something.”

“Oh?”

“If you intend to stay, she wonders whether you might be more—more comfortable in the main house. There are rooms there. Empty rooms. I can move your things there now.”

I was certain he meant I’d be more
secure.
“No,” I said, smiling. “I’m perfectly—comfortable—right here in Villa Number Ten. But thank you for suggesting it.”

“As you wish. Would you care for a drink?”

“One of your frosty island concoctions would be nice,” I said. “Is Mrs. Marschalk in her office?”

“No, ma’am. She left two hours ago to go into town.”

“Shopping?”

“I don’t think so. She was taken by the police.”

“By the police? Detective Calid?”

“No, ma’am. Uniformed officers. I’ll get that drink for you now.”

The moment he was gone, I bypassed the inn’s switchboard and dialed an outside operator. “St. Thomas police, please. In Charlotte Amalie.”

It seemed an eternity before the call went through. “Detective Calid, please.”

“Sorry. Detective Calid is not available.”

“May I speak then with someone else working on the Marschalk murder?”

“Sorry. No one assigned to that case is available right now. They’re all out in the field. May I ask who’s calling? I’ll leave a message for Detective Calid.”