Donald Bain, Jessica Fletcher
Gin and Daggers
The first book in the Murder, She Wrote series, 1989
Dedicated to the memory
of Richard Levinson
1934-1987
To my daughters, Laurie and Pamela, who are, on occasion, delightful mysteries to me; and my wife Renée, who keeps me honest.
And special gratitude to an editor’s editor, Ellen Edwards; agent and friend for thirty-five years, Ted Chichak; treasured friends Phyllis James, Rosemary Goad, and Craig and Jill Thomas; the ebullient Sally Bulloch of London’s superb Athenaeum Hotel & Apartments; the entire crew of that grand lady, the QE2; and, of course, my collaborator, Jessica Fletcher.
Chapter One
“Care to take a closer look, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Well, I suppose so,” I said.
“Hold on, then, here we go.”
My heart, which had been nestled securely in its usual place, now moved up to my throat and lodged there, beating as though a crazed bass drum player were doing a paradiddle on it. I reached over and touched him on the arm. “Please, maybe we shouldn’t…”
He banked the Cessna 310 into a tight turn, forcing me back against my seat. “There it is, Mrs. Fletcher, right down there in that clump o’ trees.”
My eyes were closed. I forced them open and looked in the direction his finger was pointed until I spotted my home in Cabot Cove.
“There’s the firehouse,” he said, guiding the small aircraft down closer to the trees. His name was Jed Richardson, and he operated Jed’s Flying Service out of our small airport.
“Yes, I see. But maybe we should land now, Jed. I have an appointment.”
“Right you are, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, laughing and bringing the aircraft back to a straight-and-level attitude.
Jed had flown me to Bangor, where I’d been interviewed on a local television station about the publication of my latest novel. I’d offered to drive, but the station had insisted upon flying me in.
Seth Hazlitt, my good friend from Cabot Cove, was waiting for me at the airport.
“You all right, Jess?” he asked as we walked away from the plane.
“Yes, I think so.”
“You look a little green.”
“It must be the light.” He didn’t know how rubbery my legs were.
“Mort’s at the house waitin’ for you. He says he’s come up with some new clues.”
“Really? I hope they make more sense than the last batch. Do we really have to get into it now?”
“Won’t take long, Jess. He’s pretty eager to wrap it up.”
“How did you identify the murderer so fast, Jessica?” Mort asked as we sat in Seth’s living room.
“Elementary, my dear Metzger. The initial clues pointed clearly-too clearly, I think-to the Oriental woman who owned the shop, but then I learned-and it really was made too easy for me-that the letter opener used to kill Marc Silbert was missing from the ornate holder in which it usually sat. The art collector certainly had a motive, too, but it had to be the brother, and that’s the problem with the whole case.”
Seth patted our sheriff and friend, Morton Metzger, on the back. “It just needs some more refinement, Mort, that’s all.”
“I’ve been refinin’ it forever.” Mort looked at me. “Maybe you’re not the best one to make a judgment about it, Jess. You write murder mysteries, and solve ’em, too. You’re a professional. This here game is for people who don’t know anything about murder mysteries.”
I smiled at him; he looked dejected. “Maybe you’re right, Mort, maybe I’m being too picky. I think you’ve invented an absolutely wonderful murder mystery board game. You just need to iron out a few wrinkles.”
“Maybe if I figure a way to use dice,” he said. “People like to roll dice in games.”
“Yes, that might be a good idea,” I said. “I have to run home now. See you both tonight at the church supper?”
“We’ll be there,” Seth said.
I returned to my house and sat at my kitchen table. It was a little past noon; crisp, cool air sent my white curtains fluttering and heralded the coming of fall to Maine in all its peacock splendor. I looked through the open window to a clump of white pine trees that had always given me particular pleasure. They stood majestically, and every time I looked at them I felt, at once, gratitude for their beauty and sadness at knowing the state’s powerful lumber interests were methodically seeing to it that there would be fewer of them in coming years.
I forced myself out of my reverie and went to work on a speech I was to give in London to the International Society of Mystery Writers. I was making good progress when Josh, the mailman, approached the house. I knew when he was coming because he whistled, always the same tune-“Tea for Two”-and always off-key. I jumped from my desk and met him at the door.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Good morning, Josh. Lovely day. Like fall.”
“Seems that way.”
“I love the fall,” I said. “October is my favorite month.”
“Not mine, Mrs. Fletcher. October means December and January are comin’, and that means snow.”
I nodded. “Yes, I suppose the seasons mean different things to different people, depending upon how you make a living. How’s your wife?”
“Feelin’ better. The new medicine Doc Hazlitt put her on seems to be working, although sometimes I think the gout got to her brain.”
“Really?” Could gout go to the brain?
“Seems like she gets more testy every day, but I suppose that’s what naturally happens with women.”
I was tempted to argue, but I had learned long ago that arguing with anyone so committed to a preconceived notion of male and female behavior was an exercise in futility. I smiled and accepted the letters and magazines he handed me.
“Got one all the way from London, England,” he said.
“Really? How wonderful. I’m going there next week.”
“Yes, Mrs. Fletcher, I know that. Everybody’s talkin’ about it.”
“They are? Oh well, of course they are.” In a town the size of Cabot Cove, there was very little that remained private, including what over-the-counter drugs you bought at the local pharmacy.
Josh resumed whistling as he went down the walk, same song, same out-of-tune rendition of it. I returned to my desk and immediately opened the letter from England; the bills and junk mail could wait. 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.
The letter was typewritten, which had been the case for the last three or four. I knew the typing had been done by Marjorie’s faithful niece, Jane Portelaine, the daughter of Marjorie’s older brother, now deceased. Earlier letters had been handwritten, but Marjorie was in failing health and had taken to dictating her correspondence.
My dear Jessica,
You mentioned in one of your recent letters that you had a friend in Cabot Cove, a Dr. Seth Hazlitt. By coincidence, I recently found myself reading something by another Hazlitt, William Hazlitt, no relation, I’m sure, but perhaps I’m wrong.
At any rate, I’ve been reading Hazlitt’s “On Living to One’s Self,” and something struck me as being relevent to my present level of existence. He wrote, “What I mean by living to one’s self is living in the world, as in it, not of it… It is to be a silent spectator of the mighty scene of things;… to take a thoughtful, anxious interest or curiosity in what is passing in the world, but not to feel the slightest inclination to make or meddle with it.”