“No, I haven’t. I know you went to the funeral. He wasn’t there, was he?”
“No, he wasn’t. Are you at his flat now?”
“No, but I’m about to go there. I thought I’d tidy up in anticipation of his return.”
Apparently she’d brought her emotions under control. “You will call me if he comes home?” I said.
“Yes, of course. Mrs. Fletcher, when Jason does come home-and I know he will-I hope you and I can resurrect our plan to sit down together and discuss the work he did on Gin and Daggers.”
“Of course, provided I’m still here in London. I plan to be here only through this week.”
She laughed. “If he isn’t back by then, I will really worry.” Not that she hadn’t already. “Sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Fletcher. You are obviously a good person, and I appreciate the interest you’ve shown.”
“That’s quite all right, Ms. Giacona. Thank you for calling.”
The weapons display was fascinating, although I have always tended to look for less violent methods of doing away with victims in my books. Guns and knives certainly have their place in murder mystery fiction, and I’m sure there is a legion of readers who prefer some gore in their reading, but I’ve always been more comfortable with a more genteel approach. Very much like Marjorie Ainsworth, I thought. Still, there were times when a piece of destructive hardware was much needed, and I browsed the display with interest-and horror at what the real weapons could do to real people.
More interesting to me, however, was an array of methods to do away with someone that had nothing to do with triggers and bullets and blades. A London pharmacist who’d been a member of ISMW for many years, and who’d been a consultant to many British mystery writers, had not only created a remarkable display of poisons but, in conjunction with a leading cookbook author, had developed a series of recipes perfect for delivering these lethal chemicals to intended victims-only in books, of course.
I listened to a heated debate between a German psychologist turned mystery writer and a stout Canadian woman who’d written dozens of novels featuring a disgraced Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman, over the reasons that food often plays such a large role in mystery novels. She: “Having a fascination with, and skill at preparing food gives a hero or heroine a worldly sophistication.” He: “Unsinn! It all has to do with sex. There is no sex in murder mysteries. Food is the substitute. For each missing kiss or embrace, there will be an extra Brathandl!”
I noticed as the day wore on that fewer members of the press hung around the hotel, and I enjoyed an accompanying feeling of freedom. But, as when one jinxes a trip by commenting on how smoothly it’s gone just before a tire blows out, and the engine suddenly seizes, my pleasure was short-lived.
It happened at five o’clock as I sat in the lobby with other American writers attending the conference. I was in the process of retelling the German writer’s analysis of food and murder mysteries when Lucas came up to us. “Jessica, I must speak with you immediately.”
Lucas was always so dramatic, and most times it stemmed from his personality, rather than from an event he was about to report. Still, you never knew. I followed him to a corner.
“You haven’t heard?” he said.
“I suppose not. What haven’t I heard?”
“Marjorie’s last will and testament. It’s to be officially read and released tomorrow, but a few reporters were tipped off about its major provisions.”
“And?”
“She left a fortune, millions of pounds.”
“I don’t wonder.”
“The report didn’t mention specific numbers. Most of her estate, as I understand it, is to be used to establish Ainsworth Manor as an international research facility for mystery writers.”
“How wonderful,” I said.
“Her niece, Jane, gets some.”
“I would certainly hope so.”
“Household staff is in for a share.”
“I wouldn’t expect less of Marjorie than to reward them.”
“And, according to the report, she left a sizable portion to you.”
I was speechless.
“Did you hear me, Jessica?”
“Yes, I think so. Me?”
“You.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“It doesn’t matter, Jessica. Do you realize what that means?”
“It means… I would never accept it. I don’t need money. I’ll simply donate my share to the study center that obviously meant so much to her.”
“Jessica.”
“What?”
“Her will. Motive. They’ll say you had a motive to kill her.”
I guffawed.
His face was dour. “I’m serious, Jessica.”
“Well, I’m certainly not, and I-”
Six reporters, followed by a camera crew from the BBC, entered the lobby and headed straight for me. “See you later, Lucas,” I said, walking quickly to the elevators while Lucas shouted for calm. Ten minutes after I’d reached my suite, Lucas arrived.
“I took care of them,” he said. “I gave them a statement.”
“What did you say?”
“You’ll see on the telly.”
An hour later, a BBC anchorman said in a deep voice: “The contents of the late Marjorie Ainsworth’s last will and testament were revealed today, twenty-four hours in advance of the formal reading of it.” He went on to say what Lucas had told me downstairs.
Then Lucas’s face filled the screen. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is only fitting that this news be announced on the second day of the annual meeting of the International Society of Mystery Writers.” He’d gotten in the plug; he was beaming as we watched the newscast together.
“The world-famous writer, Jessica Fletcher, who delivered our keynote speech last night, and was the target of a madman’s attack, has no comment at this time about having been named in Marjorie Ainsworth’s will. She is overcome with shock and gratitude to her dear and departed friend and will make a statement later.”
“Lucas,” I said, “this is-”
“Sssssh,” he said, holding his finger to his lips.
Montgomery Coots’s face replaced Lucas on the screen. He’d been videotaped on the road in front of Ainsworth Manor.
“First, I wish to announce that the foreign gardener arrested for attempting to sell a watch belonging to Marjorie Ainsworth has been released. He has an ironclad alibi, which I personally confirmed. Of course, with the release of the deceased’s will, focus must be on those who benefited financially from her death. I make no accusations, but the British people have my word that this heinous crime will be solved.”
“This is dreadful,” I said when the report was over.
“Don’t worry, Jess, I’ll make sure this is handled properly,” said Lucas.
“Lucas.”
“What?”
“Play cribbage with me.”
“Cribbage? At a time like this?”
“Especially at a time like this.” I removed a small cribbage board from my briefcase and set it up.
“Jessica, this is… mad.”
“No, Lucas, what’s going on downstairs and on television is madness. Cribbage is sanity, my kind of sanity. When Frank was alive, and when there was pressure in our lives, we played cribbage, or some other game. I nearly always won, and felt better. Sit down and cut the cards to see who goes first, and not another word about anything except the game.”
Chapter Twelve
“You’re in uniform,” I said to Morton Metzger, sheriff of Cabot Cove. He and Seth Hazlitt had called my room upon their arrival, and I’d suggested we meet in the bar.
“Yes, Jess, I am. This is no vacation. I’m here on official business.”
I turned to Seth, a familiar warm smile on his face. “Seth, how wonderful to see you.” I kissed him on the cheek, did the same to Morton.
“Well, Jess, Mort and I spent considerable time chewin’ it over, and it seemed like the only sensible thing to do was to climb on an airplane and get here as fast as possible. We’ve been hearin’ terrible things back home, includin’ about that fella who went hay-wire and tried to kill you. Never heard of anything so lackin’.”