“Yes, I’m sure that’s true. Evidence? You really did consider this evidence?”
“I overlook nothing, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m well known for that.”
I smiled pleasantly. “Anything else you wish to give me, or discuss with me?”
“As a matter of fact, there is. I don’t like having inquiry agents the likes of Jimmy Biggers-whom, I must say, you’ve been spending a lot of time with-snoopin’ into my business.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Come now, Mrs. Fletcher, let’s not beat round bushes. Biggers has been poking around Crumpsworth, asking questions about Miss Ainsworth and the young writer who got his throat slit.” He paused a moment to gauge my reaction. “Are you aware, Mrs. Fletcher, of the reputation of Jimmy Biggers?”
“I’ve heard some stories about him although, I must admit, I’ve found him to be nothing but pleasant, straightforward and helpful.”
Coots narrowed his eyes and started his up-and-down motion again. “Mrs. Fletcher, you write about murders, I solve ’em. I suggest we keep it that way.”
“I assure you, Inspector Coots, that I have no intention of stepping on your toes, but I have lost a very dear friend under tragic circumstances, and there are questions I want answered. Frankly, I don’t think those questions will be answered by you.”
Anger flashed across his face, and I quickly added, “Not because of any lack of competence on your part, but because some of the questions involve literary matters quite aside from murder.”
“What might those ‘literary matters’ be?”
“I really don’t think you’d be interested in them.”
“Better to let me be the judge of that, Mrs. Fletcher. Like I said, I leave no stone unturned when I’m out to knock off a killer.”
“Well, Inspector Coots, I can only assure you that my inquiries, in concert with Mr. Biggers, have nothing whatsoever to do with your investigation of the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth. Now I really must run, in a literal sense. We can continue this conversation if you’ll join me, or we can make an appointment to continue it later on.” I looked at him; he obviously wasn’t about to join me, so I took off at a trot, looking back only once to see him glaring at me from where I’d left him.
I returned to my room after an hour or so, showered, and called Bruce Herbert’s room. He answered, and I asked whether he was free to meet for a cocktail later that afternoon.
“Anything special on your mind, Jessica?”
“No, I just thought it might be fun as long as we’re at a writers’ convention to talk books. We really haven’t had much of a chance to do that.”
I figured he would think that I wanted to discuss his non-fiction book idea about Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder, and I was obviously right. He not only accepted the invitation, he was gleeful about it.
Dressed as impeccably as ever, Herbert conducted himself with the easy aplomb I was accustomed to seeing. He ordered scotch on the rocks, white wine for me.
“So, Jessica Fletcher, let’s talk books. Are you in the midst of writing another novel?”
“No, the last one was difficult to resolve and took more time than I’d anticipated. Actually, it worked out nicely. I was able to make this trip while ‘between books,’ as they say.”
“Have you plotted your next one yet?”
“No. I decided to give my brain a much needed rest for a while. I am very much at liberty these days, and loving every minute of it.”
He raised his handsome face and studied me. “Am I wrong, Jessica, in having the feeling that you might want to reconsider my suggestion about writing an account of what’s happened this week?”
“Yes, and no. I dismissed the suggestion out of hand, which, I should be old enough to know, is never a good idea. I wouldn’t mind discussing it further with you, although I admit that while I no longer rule it out, I have no real intention of doing it. You might say I’m in a state of ambivalence.”
He smiled and visibly settled a little deeper into his chair. “Wonderful,” he said. “Let me tell you what my ideas are about the book.”
He presented an eloquent description of how he saw such a book taking shape. “Well, what do you think?” he asked when he was finished.
“I certainly agree with you, Bruce, that if such a book were done, the approach you suggest makes sense.”
“Not only does the approach make sense; having Jessica Fletcher do it guarantees a runaway bestseller.”
I smiled. “I’ve had a few best-sellers in my career.”
“But nothing of the magnitude this would be.”
I told him I would give it further thought, and sipped my wine before changing subjects. “Let me bounce an idea off you that I’ve had.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I’ve been thinking about developing a series of murder mysteries. As you might know, each of my books stands on its own. There are very few running characters, which, I always felt, made sense. On the other hand, I know how successful a well-crafted series can be, and I’ve been toying with it.”
“Sounds like a dynamite idea, Jessica.”
I laughed and took another sip of wine. “What got me thinking about this was Gin and Daggers.”
“How so?”
“What a marvelous series it could turn into, using a gimmick similar to John D. MacDonald’s-you know, the way he used color in each of his titles. We have Gin and Daggers, which takes place in England, of course. Now we could go on to Rum and Razors, set in the Caribbean. There could be Beer and Bullets, with Germany the location, Bourbon and Bodies would be another, with Kentucky as the setting. Bourbon is so American. The list is endless. What do you think?”
A certain amount of his ebullience drained from him. As I listed the title possibilities, he made a point of looking around the bar. I knew he wasn’t searching for anything or anyone; he was trying to avoid looking directly at me. I kept my smile as I asked his reaction.
“It’s… it’s not a very good idea, in my opinion, Jessica.”
“It worked for John D.”
He shook his head. “No, that wouldn’t interest me.” He checked his watch. “I really have to run. I did enjoy this, though. If you’d like to put a proposal together for the non-fiction work, and give it to me, I’ll be happy to submit it to publishers.”
“That would make you my agent,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“I’ve never had an agent.”
“It’s about time you did.” He reached for money, but I told him I would put it on my room tab. He was obviously anxious to get away from me, and I didn’t do anything to prolong his discomfort.
As I walked back to my room, I knew I had learned something. Judging from Bruce Herbert’s response, Renée Perry might have been right about his possessing an unpublished Marjorie Ainsworth novel called Brandy and Blood.
Jimmy Biggers called me at five-thirty.
“I understand you’ve been getting into Inspector Coots’s hair,” I said.
He laughed. “I have been spending some time in Crumpsworth lately.”
“And?”
“It’s a depressing little burg, if you ask me. Learned nothing except that your chum, Marjorie Ainsworth, was on the cheap, she was.”
I smiled. “Yes, Marjorie was known as a frugal woman.”
“She wasn’t much liked in Crumpsworth.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that, too, but that seems to have little meaning where her murder is concerned.”
“Not necessarily true, Jessica. Some of the people I talked to didn’t just dislike the lady, they hated her.”
“That sounds unnecessarily harsh. Marjorie might have been a difficult person, but she wasn’t deserving of hate.”
“Your interpretation, ducks, not mine. No matter, that’s what I found out.”
“Well, what about David Simpson?” I asked. “Have you found out anything on him yet?”
“As a matter of fact, Jessica, I paid him a visit this afternoon. My timing was perfect. I walked in, told that grizzling receptionist of his who I was, and that I was working for you. She started to give me a bit of her lip, she did, but all of a sudden Simpson comes to the door and greets me like I was a long-lost rich brother.”