Rum and Razors (21 page)

“Nothing of the sort. I’m simply free-associating.”

“And your free-associating is pretty damned provocative. What’s new with the murder? I assume you’re keeping tabs on things in your inimitable fashion.”

“Worse than that, Vaughan. I’m determined to get to the bottom of it before I leave this island.”

His tone turned markedly more somber. “Mind some advice from an old friend?” he asked.

“When have I ever turned down advice from the erudite and occasionally brilliant Vaughan Buckley?”

He laughed modestly. “Stay out of it, Jess. Move to another hotel on the island, get a little sun—not too much to mar that beautiful fair complexion of yours—and let others solve Walter Marschalk’s murder.”

“Advice received and under serious consideration,” I said, sounding like an airline pilot making an official PA announcement.

“Good,” Buckley said. “The next time you see Laurie Marschalk, tell her I’ll get a breakdown from the accounting department on royalties that might be coming due on Walter’s books. They aren’t scheduled to be paid out until spring, as you well know, but if Laurie is in serious financial trouble, maybe I can speed up the process.”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate that, Vaughan. Call you when I’m back in Cabot Cove.”

I sat on the terrace and chewed on what Vaughan had told me about Jennifer Fletcher and Fred Capehart claiming to have written Walter Marschalk’s books. If they had—and if Walter had failed to compensate them as had been agreed—it cast a different light on them regarding his murder.

Was Laurie aware of these claims of authorship?

Did she know Walter had had an affair with Jennifer?

If so, it promised to be a very interesting dinner party.

 

Seth Hazlitt was characteristically on time. After a friendly hug and kiss on the cheek, we went to my terrace where I’d put out a chilled bottle of white wine and some snacks from the mini-bar.

“You look splendid,” I said. “But a little formal for the Caribbean?” He wore a dark blue vested suit, white shirt, muted red paisley tie, and black wingtip shoes.

“It might be a dinner party, Jess,” he replied, “but considering that Walter’s been dead only a few days, I thought something a little more conservative might be in order. This is a mourning period, isn’t it?”

I looked down at my outfit for the evening—a festive, floral cotton skirt and crinkly orange blouse. “Frankly,” I said, “you wouldn’t know anyone was in mourning. I suppose they do things different here on St. Thomas.”

“Good taste doesn’t know geographic boundaries,” he said sternly, pouring us each a glass of wine and holding his up in a toast. “Here’s to seeing you again.”

I laughed. “I’ve only been away a few days.”

“Ayah, but when you sit back home hearing and reading about you bein’ involved in a murder, it makes it seem a mite longer. Anything new on findin’ Walter’s murderer?”

“Sit down, Seth. I’ll bring you up-to-date.”

Which I did, using notes to jog my memory, including a few I’d made immediately following my conversation with Vaughan Buckley.

Seth said nothing as I recounted what had occurred since my arrival on the island the previous Sunday. When I was finished, he rubbed his chin and said, “Sounds to me like it could have been any one of a number of folks who did Walter in.”

His conclusion was hardly revelatory. I’d already reached that conclusion myself. “What keeps gnawing at me, Seth, is how many people disliked Walter. He seems to have alienated virtually everyone with whom he came into contact.”

“Hardly the Walter Marschalk I remember from Cabot Cove.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” I said. “But then again, Walter wasn’t there very much. He was always away on a trip. The only time we got together was when he’d come home to do his laundry and pack to leave again. Hard to get to know someone under those circumstances. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, I would agree with that. You say Laurie was about to divorce him, and that he threatened to fight her. Maybe we didn’t know Laurie that well, either.”

“I keep dismissing that thought, Seth. There may have been tension between them, but Laurie Marschalk is no murderer.”

“But what if there was someone else who’d be affected by Walter’s refusal to grant her the divorce?”

“Another man in her life?”

“Ayah.”

“She denies being involved with anyone.”

“Except you say there’s this partner, Webb, and these attorneys up in Miami who tried to buy the property from that fella they found dead three years ago.”

“The same attorneys that were handling her divorce.”

“Seems possible to me that this fella, Webb, might have had something to lose if Walter didn’t agree to the divorce.”

“Such as?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Just thinking out loud.” He checked his watch; it was a few minutes before seven. “Time for us to get movin’?” he said.

“Give me a minute to freshen up.” I checked my makeup in the bathroom mirror, then pulled my blue blazer from the closet but realized I hadn’t bothered to sew the missing button back on. I tossed a white scarf around my neck, received a nod of approval from my Cabot Cove friend, and we headed off.

 

I was certain Seth would be out of place in his dark suit. But it turned out that I was the one inappropriately dressed. Everyone was in black or navy. Laurie wore a floor-length black silk dress that clung to her every curve. Pamela Jensen, Senator Bobby Jensen’s wife, a pretty woman tottering on the verge of overweight, wore a black suit, frilly white blouse, and abundant jewelry. Even Jennifer Fletcher, whom I assumed traveled light with clothes appropriate only to the destination, was in slacks and a cotton sweater of a somber gray color.

The men were in suits—gray or blue. Only Chris Webb tipped his hat to the island culture by wearing white shoes, and a wide, vividly colored tie on which flamingos of varying hues played on his chest.

When Laurie greeted Seth and I at the door to the dining room, I noticed Fred Capehart huddled in a corner with Jennifer Fletcher. The minute he saw me, he quickly left her side and disappeared through doors leading to the kitchen.

“What a sight for sore eyes,” Laurie said, taking in Seth from head to toe, then hugging him.

“Bet you didn’t expect to see me here,” he said.

“No, I certainly did not. When Jess told me you’d arrived on St. Thomas, I was thrilled. Now we can have a proper party, just like back home in Cabot Cove.”

Laurie had transformed the dining room into an elegant setting. Individual tables had been placed together in the center of the room to form one long one at which a dozen places had been set. Thomas, wearing a white shirt, starched white jacket, and black bow tie, manned a small bar in one corner. A young man sat on a stool in another corner cradling an acoustic guitar as though it were a living thing, and played familiar classical melodies.

The ambiance was as refined and pleasant as one might expect when attending an intimate state dinner party at the White House, or Buckingham Palace.

Laurie surveyed the room, said, “Let me see. I know you have met some of these people, Jess, but they’re all strangers to you, Seth. Come. Let me introduce you.”

And so we made the rounds. I’d met everyone, including a couple of guests whose presence was a surprise, to put it mildly—Mark Dobson, Diamond Reefs general manager, who no longer wore a cast on his leg, and who greeted me like a long-lost family member; and the hulking, imposing owner of the St. Thomas newspaper, Adrian Woodhouse. I’d had the feeling I’d see him again, but never dreamed it would be this soon, or in this circumstance.

The only person in the room I’d not met was a tall, strikingly attractive woman who Laurie introduced as Nadine Kodner. “My mentor,” she said. Nadine had shoulder-length gray hair, and I judged her to be about forty-five. She and Laurie might have been sisters. “Nadine has written several cookbooks,” Laurie said. “Not only is she a wonderful writer, she can cook rings around me.”

Nadine shook off the compliment. “Don’t you believe it,” she said. “Nobody can hold a spatula to Laurie Marschalk.”

Introductions completed, Seth settled into a conversation with Bobby Jensen and his wife, and I accompanied Laurie to the bar. “I didn’t know you were that friendly with Mr. Woodhouse, the newspaper owner.”

“Adrian? A marvelous man.” I suppose my face reflected my puzzlement over her view of Woodhouse. After all, he’d written a scathing article that all but accused Walter Marschalk and Senator Bobby Jensen of having illegally conspired to buy the Lover’s Lagoon land, and perhaps to have even arranged the murder of an old man in order to bring that about.

“You’re thinking about the article he wrote,” Laurie said, reading me perfectly. “He’s already apologized for it, and is planning to do another piece exonerating us of any collusion or conspiracy.”

I looked over her shoulder and saw Woodhouse and Jensen sharing a hearty laugh. Incestuous little group, I thought as I carried my drink to where Seth had stationed himself near the guitarist. A waiter passed carrying hors d’oeuvres, and Seth had stacked a half dozen of them on a small plate.

“Enjoying yourself?” I asked.

“As well as can be expected,” he replied. “Fill me in on these people. Some of the names I recognize from what you told me back at your room.”

I quickly outlined relationships, and mentioned that Adrian Woodhouse was the one who had written the damning article about the Marschalks and the inn.

“Laurie’s pretty friendly with a fella who wrote bad things about her.”

“So is former Senator Jensen,” I said.

I was about to approach Woodhouse when Laurie announced, “I think it’s time we sat down. Otherwise, we’ll all be too drunk to enjoy dinner.”

Name cards were at each place setting. I was to sit between Jennifer Fletcher and former Senator Bobby Jensen. Jensen’s wife, Pamela, was to his right; Fred Capehart was to Jennifer’s left. Laurie took her place at the head of the table, with Seth on her right hand, Chris Webb on her left.

I wasn’t keeping count, but it seemed a great deal of liquor had been consumed during the cocktail hour. Thomas had been perpetually busy concocting a variety of island drinks, although I noted that Chris Webb, Adrian Woodhouse, and Bobby Jensen eschewed such fancy creations for glasses of amber or white liquor on the rocks.

No matter what the form of alcohol, tongues had been noticeably loosened, with the exception of Jennifer Fletcher and Fred Capehart, who said little. I attempted to initiate conversation with her but she responded only with one word answers, and ignored me for the entire dinner. There was a festive air in the room, and much laughter. When had Walter died? Monday night at about midnight. It had been less than forty-eight hours since his death. His cold body still sat in a police morgue pending the investigation of his murder. Yet, a lighthearted, spirited party was in full swing, hosted by his widow. I glanced over at Seth and gathered he was thinking the same thing.

When Mort Metzger had questioned a dinner party so soon after Walter’s demise, I’d defended Laurie. But now, as I sat at the elaborately set table and heard the tinkle of ice cubes in drinks and hearty laughter, the soft strum of the guitar and the buzz of happy conversation, I knew I’d have difficulty mounting such a defense again.

As though Laurie sensed what both Seth and I were thinking, she tapped her water glass with a fork, stood, wineglass in hand, and asked for our attention. It took a few moments for conversation to die down. Once it had, she held up the glass and said, “Lest anyone wonder at my having this party so soon after Walter’s death, let me say that I’ve always been someone who believes in celebrating life, not death. In fact, Walter and I had an agreement. A party such as this, with dear friends, would be held as soon as possible after the death of either of us. Somehow, I know he’s listening in on us—and approving.” She turned to where Thomas stood erect behind the small bar. “Please,” she said.

He came to Laurie’s side carrying a glass of liquid. Laurie took it from him, held it up to the light, smiled, and said, “I can almost see Walter’s smiling face in it. This was his favorite drink, the Lover’s Lagoon cocktail. Each of you has one. Please join me in a toast to a remarkable man, world traveler, best-selling author, devoted husband, and innkeeper without peer.”

“Here, here,” Chris Webb said, slurring the words.

We all lifted our glasses. I, of course, knew that Walter was hardly a “devoted husband,” and that the only reason he hadn’t been served with divorce papers was because he’d died. I suppose I should have admired Laurie for putting on such a facade for her guests. In fact, I did feel a certain admiration. But she’d laid it on a little thick for my taste.

Seth, who also knew the real situation between the Marschalks because I’d told him, looked as though he’d bitten on a sour candy. I’d checked Jennifer and Fred Capehart’s reaction when Laurie mentioned Walter’s status as a best-selling author. Their expressions were blank, noncommittal.

Laurie had remained standing, thrusting her Lover’s Lagoon drink at each person who offered his or her own response to the toast. She tapped her glass again and waited until she had everyone’s attention. “Now,” she said, “I have an important announcement to make.” She looked at Mark Dobson, whose satisfied smile indicated he already knew what she was about to say. “Mark, would you help me make the announcement?”

He joined her at the head of the table. “In fact,” Laurie said, “maybe it’s more appropriate for Mark to be the one to tell you this wonderful piece of news.”

He looked at each of us before saying, “I suppose we can consider this a wedding announcement. At least an engagement notice.”

There were puzzled looks and a few gasps, me included. Wedding announcement? An engagement? Mark Dobson and Laurie Marschalk?