Rum and Razors (15 page)

I didn’t hesitate. The moment the Mercedes had pulled away, I walked quickly to a waiting taxi, got in, and said, “Follow that car.”

“
C
ould you go a little faster?” I asked my driver, an older black man wearing a Chicago Cubs baseball cap backward, who sang along with calypso music that oozed from his radio. A dozen furry little figures dangling from the visors bobbed to the rhythms.

“No good to rush, ma’am,” he said, his head moving up and down as though conducting the furry dancers. “Not good for the blood pressure.”

“But I don’t want to lose that car,” I said. The Mercedes was leaving us in the dust, figuratively and literally.

“Not likely we’d lose him, ma’am,” he said. “He’s heading for Charlotte Amalie, that’s for certain. He can’t drive very fast over the mountains.”

I continued to lean on the back of his seat and attempted to catch a glimpse of Webb’s taillights. They came and went, suddenly flashing as red beacons at the top of a hill, then disappearing over the crest. Eventually, they were not to be seen again, and my heart pounded with frustration. But then, after coming down a final twisting, narrow mountain road, I saw the black Mercedes as it slowed to enter the crowded streets of Charlotte Amalie. My driver turned and grinned. “See, ma’am? Not to worry.”

Webb maneuvered the Mercedes onto Norre Gade, otherwise known as Main Street, and parked in front of a church. I instructed my driver to also park, leaving plenty of distance between us and the Mercedes. I watched as Jennifer stepped from the passenger side, stretched, yawned, and waited for Webb to join her. When he got out, he slowly walked around the car to ascertain whether he’d parked too far out into the street. He had, but evidently didn’t care.

“What is that church?” I asked my driver.

“Frederick Lutheran, ma’am. Second oldest Lutheran church in Western Hemisphere.”

“And that building?” I asked, pointing across the street at a building to which Webb and Jennifer were headed.

“Fort Christian. Our oldest building. Completed in 1687. A United States landmark, ma’am. Was once a jail, among other things. Our history museum is located in its dungeons.”

“Oh.” I felt a chill in the heavy, warm night air as I envisioned the dungeons, sans museum—dark and dank, with chains on the walls and the blood of prisoners on the dirt floors. I’ve never been fond of jails, and avoid them at all costs, although I’ve found myself visiting enough of them over the years.

Jennifer and Chris Webb paused in front of the old fort, glanced about, then disappeared around the side of the building.

“Is the museum open this late at night?” I asked my driver.

“Oh, no, ma’am. Closes each day at four-thirty, except for Saturday and Sunday when it closes at four.”

I couldn’t help but smile. He was a living, breathing St. Thomas guidebook. If I decided to take another tour of the island, I’d make a point of looking him up.

“Where to now, ma’am?”

“I’m—not quite sure. Can we just sit here for a few minutes? With the meter running, of course.”

“As you wish.” He increased the volume on the radio slightly, turned his hat around and pulled the bill down over his eyes, leaned back and hummed softly along with the music while I sat back to contemplate my next move.

My choices were simple. Sit there and see what happens next, which was likely to be the return of Jennifer and Webb to the Mercedes. Or, get out, follow their path, and see what I could see. The latter course of action made the most sense, at least from the standpoint of accomplishing something. Sitting in a darkened taxi listening to island music, as infectious as it might be, was destined to accomplish nothing except a lofty figure on the meter. On the other hand, following them carried with it certifiable risk. I had no idea where they’d gone after having rounded the comer of the building. For all I knew, they were standing just out of sight. “Hi,” I pictured myself saying. “What a coincidence seeing you here in the dark.”

“I’ll be right back,” I said.

The driver sat up and turned to me. “You’re taking a walk?” he asked.

“In a manner of speaking,” I replied, sliding across the seat and opening the door. “You’ll wait?”

“For as long as you wish.” We both looked at the meter, its silent, glowing green digital readout keeping tabs of how long we’d been together.

“Careful, ma’am.” he said.

I paused halfway out the door. “Of what?” I asked.

“Not the safest thing to be doing, a woman alone downtown at night.”

“But this is Main Street,” I said, observing a number of people walking. “But yes, I’ll be careful.”

I slowly walked along the sidewalk in front of the church until reaching a point where I could see the side of the fort where Jennifer and Webb had gone. When I did, I slowed to almost a complete stop and narrowed my eyes. All was dark. I saw no one.

But then a flash of light appeared in a window of a small, one-story building in an alley that ran alongside the fort. The light was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Someone had pulled a curtain across the window.

I looked back at the taxi. A single, low-wattage street lamp cast just enough light through the windshield for me to see my driver sitting up straight and looking in my direction. That was comforting. At least someone knew where I was. If something untoward were to happen, he could come to my rescue. If he was so inclined, and it was between songs.

I crossed the street and paused in front of the fort. A car passed, too fast for the narrow street, its driver leaning on his horn to warn pedestrians crossing to get out of his way. A disheveled young man approached and held out three wristwatches he held in his hand. “Cheap,” he said. “Thank you, no,” I said. For a moment, I thought he would become aggressive but he didn’t, just shuffled away in search of another buyer.

It seemed to have become degrees hotter, and the air took on weight; I had trouble breathing. I walked slowly toward the building in which I’d seen light before curtains blotted it out. It was one-story and small, no more than twelve-by-twelve. Peeling green shutters framed the only window. The door was also green, and short. Anyone over six feet would have to stoop to pass through.

Time for another decision. I’d come this far. Should I knock? That was out of the question. If Jennifer Fletcher and Chris Webb were inside—and it was only an assumption on my part—they would be annoyed, at best, at my deliberate intrusion. If they were behind that short green door, it wasn’t for the purpose of a party. People don’t meet behind closed doors in a dark alley unless there’s a reason for secrecy. At least they don’t in my books.

As I came closer to the door, gravel crunched beneath my feet, the sound magnified by the stillness of the night. I was only a few feet from the door. I heard voices. The man’s was low and unidentified. The woman’s voice belonged to Jennifer. I was certain of that.

I stepped right up to the door and pressed my ear to it. The voices were more distinct now. Jennifer said, “He thought he could get away with it.” The man, who I was now certain was Webb, although I hadn’t heard enough of his voice to make a positive ID, said, “What goes around comes around.”

I strained to hear more. The sound of an automobile came from the street, but I paid little attention. Had it passed, or had it stopped?

“Who could blame him?” Jennifer asked.

“Sure—” Webb’s words faded.

Who were they talking about? I wondered.

Someone coughed. Webb? No. It came from—

I looked in the direction of the street. A man had turned into the alley and was approaching. He stopped to light a cigarette, which gave me time to step back into the shadows behind a gnarled tree. Cigarette lighted, the man continued toward the small building. I could now see that he wore a pale blue seersucker suit, white shirt, and muted tie. He knocked twice. The door opened, and Jennifer Fletcher greeted him. He tossed his cigarette on to the ground, said “Hi,” and stepped inside. The door closed behind him.

Now there were three people inside.

The Marschalks’ partner, Chris Webb.

Travel writer and my namesake, Jennifer Fletcher.

And Jennifer’s brooding, ardent suitor, Fred Capehart.

M
y friends back in Cabot Cove sometimes joke about my ability to sleep no matter what chaos erupts about me. Some would say it represents a clear conscience, although I doubt that my conscience is any clearer than most people’s. Whatever the reason, it’s always been a blessing. I don’t function well without adequate sleep, at least not when faced with writing. Routine chores yes, those things we do by rote. But not where thought is demanded.

And so not being able to sleep after returning from my expensive surveillance trip to Charlotte Amalie only compounded my confusion when the phone rang in my villa at six-thirty the next morning. I’d fallen asleep about four; there was still a few hours of dreams due me.

It was turning into the most exhausting vacation of my life.

“Hello,” I mumbled, sounding angry and annoyed. I wasn’t either of those things. I may not function well without sleep, but I’m never nasty because of it. I simply could not get my mouth to work the way it usually does.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher.” Detective Calid sounded spry and alert. As though he’d had nine hours of blissful sleep. “Did I wake you?”

“No.” I sat up against the headboard and tried to force myself awake, to sound as though I’d been up for hours and had already accomplished a day’s work. I failed. Another lost Oscar nomination.

If he thought he’d awakened me, he didn’t dwell upon the notion. He said cheerily, “I told you you’d be one of the first to know if there was a break in the Marschalk murder case. I wouldn’t want to renege on my promise.”

Okay, I thought. You’ve got my attention. The cobwebs are gone, and my eyes are wide-open.

“We’ve arrested a suspect.”

Who needs sleep? I reached for pen and paper I keep on my nighttable. “I’m listening,” I said.

“His name is Jacob Austin. He worked at Lover’s Lagoon. Walter Marschalk fired him the day before he was killed.”

The young man I’d heard arguing with Walter my first morning in the villa, the same one I’d seen while walking with Walter after dinner that night.

“Has he confessed?” I asked.

“Not yet, but we’re close to getting one out of him. Actually, we don’t need it. We have sufficient evidence.”

“Evidence?”

“Yes. To begin with, motive. He’d been fired by Marschalk. Besides, he was known to express his hatred for your friend to anyone who would listen.”

“Just motive?”

“Weapon. He’d purchased a straight razor two days before the murder.”

“It was the one used to”—I couldn’t bring myself to say slash Walter’s throat—“to kill Walter?”

“We believe so.”

“Was there blood on it? Walter Marschalk’s blood?”

The detective laughed, said, “Slow down, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve already told you more than I intended. I just thought you’d want to know that it looks like this case will be resolved faster than anticipated.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. The young gardener was a likely suspect considering the confrontation he’d had with Walter over being dismissed. As I listened to the detective speak, I could hear Jacob’s words to Walter just outside my villa that morning—
“You’ll be sorry’s all I can say.”

“I appreciate your call, Detective Calid. Where is this Jacob Austin being held?”

“Our jail in Charlotte Amalie. He was arraigned late last night. No bail. He won’t be going anywhere.”

I hesitated, then asked, “Would you object to my visiting him?”

“For what purpose, Mrs. Fletcher?”

I knew he would ask why I wanted to visit the accused in jail, and had at-the-ready an answer I’ve used before when making such a request. “Research for my next book. I’ve never visited a Caribbean jail before.”

“You can accomplish that without seeing the accused,” he said. “I’ll be happy to take you on a personal tour.”

Time for Reason Number Two. “I would like to speak with him for Mrs. Marschalk’s sake. It would comfort her if he would tell me, in personal terms, about having murdered her husband.”

“Perhaps she’d like to hear that with her own ears,” Calid said. His joviality had vanished. He sounded impatient.

“Does Mrs. Marschalk know this young man has been arrested?” I asked.

“Yes. I phoned her just before calling you.”

“Was this Jacob Austin the one who’d sent her a threatening note?”

“He won’t admit to that, but we’re confident he wrote the note.”

“She must be relieved,” I said. “Mrs. Marschalk.”

“Extremely.”

“Well?”

“Well what, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“May I visit the accused?”

“If his attorney agrees, I suppose there’s no reason not to grant you that request.”

“Who is his attorney?”

“Luther Z. Jackson.”

“He has offices in town?”

“Public defender’s office.” He gave me the number.

“Thank you for the courtesy of your call,” I said. “It was thoughtful of you.”

I hung up and stretched out on my bed. It was tempting to fall back to sleep, but I forced myself to get up, splash cold water on my face and wrists, and take to the terrace with my notebook. I scribbled some notes but my mind wandered. I checked my watch. It was probably too early to call this attorney, Luther Z. Jackson. Then again, he wasn’t in private practice. As a public defender, he undoubtedly spent many nights up and working.

I paced the terrace, thoughts coming and going like zaps of electrical current. “Patience is a virtue,” my mother often told me, a philosophy I’ve always had trouble embracing.

But then a favorite saying of my father came to mind. “Always go with your instincts, Jessica,” he would say. I liked that advice a lot better than having to exhibit patience.