Rum and Razors (2 page)

But she’d shelved that project, according to a recent letter I’d received from her, because she’d fallen in love with Caribbean cooking and had signed a publishing contract to write a book on that subject. “I admit, I experiment on my guests,” she wrote me, “but so far no fatalities. Can’t wait to tickle your palate, Jess.”

“GLOTCOYB.”

I picked up the folder and examined its contents again. What could this be about? Maybe I should be more concerned, even frightened with so many crazies running around these days. Cabot Cove was a peaceful little community, virtually crime free. But there were the requisite “unusual people” who didn’t always act quite normal, at least when judged against the town’s norms.

I tried to get back to my writing, but “GLOTCOYB” dominated my thoughts. I had to put it to rest if I were to complete the manuscript, get it off to New York by Federal Express, pack for my trip, and do a zillion other things.

I dialed Cabot Cove’s sheriff and my good friend, Morton Metzger. It was time to ring someone else in on what was going on. As silly as the whole thing probably was, a little prudence might be in order.

Mort was out of the office according to his deputy. “Just tell him I called,” I said. I then tried a friend with the FBI in Bangor, but he was “out of the country.”

A sudden thought caused me to smile. This whole “GLOTCOYB” business had probably been brainstormed by somebody who’s read too many mystery books, possibly a fledgling mystery writer looking for a break. I pictured my friendly Federal Express driver arriving at my door with a manuscript titled, “GLOTCOYB.” The letters were a misguided attempt to capture my attention and whet my appetite. Maybe not so misguided. If that was the scenario behind the mailings, my attention had certainly been captured. Much to my chagrin.

I’d just returned to my manuscript when the phone rang. I picked it up. “Hello?”

“Glot-coyb.”
It was a female. Or a man with a high voice.

Click.

I knew one thing. If it
was
a writer looking for my help, he—or she—would get a scathing review from this author.

 

It wasn’t until seven that evening that I typed, with a profound sense of relief and pride, THE END. I’d called my publisher in New York, Vaughan Buckley, whose Buckley House had been my publisher for years, to inform him that the manuscript would be a day late. He laughed. “The way most writers work, Jessica, being one day late is like being two months early. Don’t worry about it, and have a great vacation. I envy you.”

I looked out the kitchen window. It had rained late in the afternoon but had now stopped. Hopefully the skies would clear for my flight. I was nervous enough in planes, but my knuckles turn especially white when I can’t see the wingtips.

Time to pack.

I went to a closet in which I stored my summer wardrobe and started the process. I’d gotten packing down to a science after years of touring to promote my books, using a long typewritten list as my guide. For short trips, I found that saying out loud each day that I would be away, and selecting a day and nighttime wardrobe for each was a helpful supplement to my list. A traveling bag of toiletries was always packed and ready to go.

With packing behind me, dinner loomed large. The cupboard was relatively bare; no sense having food sit around for the two weeks I’d be away.

I opened the freezer door and took out one of two low-calorie frozen dinners that remained there. I placed it in the microwave, set the timer, and returned to my office to prepare the package for pickup in the morning by Federal Express. As I sat at my desk filling out the form, a flash of light from outside caught my eye. Strange, I thought, a bolt of lightning in the middle of winter? I went to the window, held my hand above my eyes, and peered through the glass. The front yard was illuminated by dozens of flashlights. Police? A search party in search of a fugitive? Then I saw it, a long white banner held aloft by a row of people. On the banner were big, bold black letters: GLOTCOYB.

The doorbell rang. I tensed. My hands became fists. I glanced about the office in search of a weapon. I thought of the fireplace tools in the living room. The doorbell sounded again, longer this time, sustained ringing.

I walked quickly to the living room, picked up a fireplace poker and approached the front door, the poker raised. All right, I thought. I don’t know who you are, or what you’re doing here, but you won’t get what you want without a fight.

I drew a deep breath, reached for the doorknob, and turned it. I slowly pulled the door open and was face-to-face with—Dr. Seth Hazlitt, Sheriff Morton Metzger, schoolboy grins on their faces, satisfaction in their eyes. Behind them stood a crowd of other familiar faces, the banner held aloft with one hand, their other hands clutching bottles of champagne or baskets of food.

“GLOTCOYB,” they shouted. “Good luck on the completion of your book.”

“I don’t believe this,” I said.

“Put the poker down, Jess,” Morton said. “You could kill a fella with that thing.”

Tears began to collect in my eyes, but I managed to control them. A loose cough formed in my chest as the frigid night air reached my lungs. “Come in,” I said, standing back to allow them to enter.

Once everyone was inside, and corks popped on the champagne bottles and food was in the oven, Mort asked, “Well, Jess, what’d you think of all those crazy letters you’ve been gettin’?” A silly grin was still painted all over his broad face.

Should I admit to him that I’d become fearful, and had even called the FBI?

“To tell you the truth, Mort, I really didn’t give them much thought. I knew they were the work of some silly prankster—or pranksters. A lot of good it would have done me to be concerned and call
you.”
Everyone laughed.

Clam pies, pork and beans, a hearty meat stew, and bowls of fresh salads miraculously appeared on my dining room table. They’d even brought plastic plates and utensils, and plastic glasses for the champagne. “To your good health, safe, pleasant trip and to the completion of another best-seller,” Seth said, raising his glass. “GlotcoyP!”

“GlotcoyP?” I said. “You mean glotcoyB, don’t you?”

“No, I mean GlotcoyP,” he said, enunciating the P. “Good luck on the completion of your pneumonia.

“That
I’ll drink to,” I said, sipping my bubbly.

“Here, here,” the crowd chanted, joining me in the toast.

Someone had brought a tape of Calypso music to get me in the mood for my trip, and the party soon became a festive gathering of dear friends who I knew had meant well with their Glotcoyb game. I still harbored a certain anger at having been put through the series of mysterious mailings, but I didn’t express it. It was not the time, nor the place. But when I returned from my vacation, I would bring it up with Seth and Morton. It might have truly frightened another person.

As the party wound down, Jed Richardson, a former Pan Am pilot who now owned and operated his own small airline out of Cabot Cove, took me aside. “Sure you don’t want me to fly you down to Bangor to catch your plane to St. Thomas?” he asked.

“Not this time, Jed,” I said. “Seth really wants to drive me. Besides, he has some shopping to do in Bangor.” I didn’t add that I would feel more secure in a car. Not that Jed wasn’t an excellent pilot. I’d flown often with him, and he had my complete trust despite a few harrowing experiences that had nothing to do with his piloting skill. It was just that considering everything I’d been through this winter, I wasn’t up for a cold, bumpy ride in a small, single-engine plane no matter who piloted it.

My guests cleaned up and started to leave. Lots of kisses on the cheek and hugs. “Have a ball in St. Thomas,” I was told. “Don’t get sunburned,” another person told me. “That island sun can gettcha.” And, “Not too much demon rum, Jess. It sneaks up on yah.”

Seth and Morton were the last to leave. No surprise there. I said to them, “When I return, I expect a welcoming party with another banner.”

“Fair enough, Jessica, but what should that banner say?”

“Simply, ‘Welcome Home.’ But just the banner. No letters. Good night, gentlemen. This lady has a busy day tomorrow. And thanks for being so thoughtful. I’m very fortunate to have friends like you.”

I
hadn’t been to the Caribbean in many years. Come to think of it, I hadn’t taken a vacation anywhere in a long time. My travels always seem to have a business purpose, with an occasional day or two thrown in for rest and sightseeing. Some of my friends from Cabot Cove make a yearly trip to the Caribbean, or to the Bahamas as a respite from the numbing cold of Maine winters. For me, if I’m lucky, there have been occasional business trips to California or Arizona to warm these bones when the snow falls and the winds howl back home.

But here I was heading for a sunny Caribbean isle for no other purpose than to relax, no manuscript to edit, no twisted plot point to unravel, no talk show on which to sell my wares—nothing except personal pleasure.

It made me nervous.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain. We should be touching down in St. Thomas in about twenty minutes. Hope you’ve enjoyed flying with us today and that we’ll see you again soon.”

I looked out my window. The sky was cobalt blue. Thin white gauzy clouds floated above. Below, the water was a medley of blue and green, the sun playing off what looked like millions of emeralds. The plane’s dark shadow on the water was an alien intruder.

The captain banked the aircraft hard-left, giving me the proverbial bird’s-eye view of the island that would be home for the next two weeks. It seemed to float in the azure sea. It was so perfect it didn’t look real, the contrasting colors of verdant green foliage, pastel houses with vivid red roofs, salt-white beaches and aquamarine sea as unnatural as colored contact lenses displayed in optometry shops. The visual splendor of it made me wonder if someone—some
one—
had drafted a blueprint of the most beautiful spot on earth and decided to build it directly below me. Maybe that was how it happened. I never argue those things.

As we maneuvered into our final approach, the reflection off countless pockets of water and beaches dazzled the eye. The beaches seemed deserted; I saw only an occasional person or two wading in the water, or strolling the sand. If privacy was high on anyone’s priority list, this was the place. At least it appeared that way from the air.

Then, suddenly, St. Thomas’s mountains loomed large and menacing as we made our final approach to Cyril E. King International Airport. The runway appeared to me to be hopelessly short and narrow for the plane. We continued our rapid descent, rugged hills on each side threatening to encapsulate us. I gripped my armrests and braced, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The wheels momentarily touched the concrete strip, bounced off it, then hugged it for good as the captain reversed the engines to help stop the aircraft before running out of runway. Applause exploded from the other passengers, and there were whoops of glee. I joined in. I was as glad as anyone to again be on terra firma.

The airport did not mirror the idyllic, deserted picture of St. Thomas I had gotten from the air. Although there was a discernible laissez-faire in the way people moved and interacted, there was a corresponding, yet subtle sense of urgency and quiet efficiency. A spirited steel drum band sent bubbling melodies through the terminal as we were briskly herded toward Customs where uniformed men and women prepared to process us. I’d just gotten in line when I heard, “Jess. Jessica. Over here.”

Laurie Marschalk waved to me from behind a metal barrier. “Hello,” I said loudly. She pointed to the luggage area. “Meet you there.”

“The purpose of your visit?” I was asked by a smiling, plump native woman in uniform. She spoke English, of course; St. Thomas is part of the U.S. Virgin Islands. But there was a delightful lilt to her voice, Creole, or West Indian.

I started to say “business” but stopped myself. I returned her smile. “Vacation,” I said, surprised at how foreign the word sounded coming from my mouth. “Just a vacation.”

She stamped my passport. A valid driver’s license would have sufficed, but I don’t drive. I passed through her position and soon joined Laurie where baggage from our flight was being unloaded. We hugged, stepped back to observe each other, and hugged again.

“Welcome to St. Thomas,” she said.

“Happy to be here. It’s like a picture postcard from the air.”

“Even nicer close up. See your bags?”

I did, and an eager young man carried them for me to where Laurie had parked her fire engine-red Range Rover beneath a “NO PARKING” sign. A ramrod-straight policeman saw us approach and slowly shook his head. Laurie smiled sweetly. “I didn’t see the sign,” she said.

“Don’t be conning me, Mrs. Marschalk,” said the officer.

“Would I lie to you?” she replied. “How’s your wife?”

“Just fine. And don’t be parking where you shouldn’t be.”

“I promise,” Laurie said, opening the tailgate to allow the porter to load my bags. I looked up into the midday sun and remembered Seth’s warnings about not suffering sunburn. My fair skin and the sun have never been friends. I’m meticulous about using sunscreens and covering up. A rivulet of perspiration ran from my forehead into my eyes. “Wheh!” I said. “It’s hot.”

“Standing here is,” Laurie replied. “Come on. It’s a lot cooler at the inn. We’re up high on the north coast. Always a breeze.”

“That policeman seemed to know you pretty well,” I said as Laurie navigated traffic and aimed for the airport exit.

“I’m notorious,” she said. “Well, at least the car is. Hard to miss.”

“Yes. You really didn’t have to pick me up. You must be busy running the inn.”

“An understatement.”

“I could have taken a taxi.”

She guffawed. “All the cabdrivers delight in taking tourists on a tour. Doesn’t matter what your destination, you get a tour. We wouldn’t have seen you for hours.”