Manhattans & Murder by Jessica Fletcher & Donald Bain

Author:Jessica Fletcher & Donald Bain [Fletcher, Jessica & Bain, Donald]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9780451181428
Publisher: Signet
Published: 1989-12-31T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

“Hard for me to believe, Mrs. Fletcher, but that’s what they say. You’re a suspect in the murder of the Kale girl.”

The voice delivering this weighty message was Sergeant Dennis Murphy, one of New York’s saintly Irish cops who would have made a far better Santa Claus than Waldo Morse had. He’d been assigned to me the minute I was spirited into the precinct by my two bounty hunters, and we sat in a small holding cell just beyond the booking area.

“Am I officially a suspect?” I asked, attempting to sound unconcerned.

“No. Just what I hear, ma’am. A shocker, I’d say. You, the world’s most famous mystery writer—and obviously a fine lady, too—dragged into this tawdry affair. Must be a mistake is all I can figure.”

“Yes, there must be. It’s preposterous. I found her. I didn’t kill her.”

“I’m sure it will all be straightened out in short order. Sometimes when they don’t have any leads, they …”

“ … They accuse the closest, easiest person?” I said, finishing his thought. “I have a problem with that logic.”

Murphy shrugged. I poised to deliver a speech about the absurdity of that approach to crime solving, but didn’t. It would have been lost on him. Besides, he’d been extremely courteous and solicitous, even allowing me to use the phone before entering my confines. I’d made two calls, the first to Vaughan Buckley. My timing was good, considering it was Saturday night; I caught him as he and Olga were preparing to leave for dinner. He told me to sit tight and that he’d be there as soon as he could, hopefully with a lawyer named Winter, who, he claimed, was the city’s best criminal attorney.

My second call was collect to Seth Hazlitt in Cabot Cove to let him know I’d arrived safely. My timing was good with that call, too. He and Mort Metzger were waiting to be picked up by Jed Richardson, who would fly them to Boston where they would catch the next available flight to New York.

“Please don’t, Seth. I’m fine. I spoke with Vaughan Buckley, and he said—”

“Save your breath, Jessica. Mort and I had a meeting soon’s those gorillas took you away. We decided our place was at your side.”

“But if you come, you’ll have to ….”

“Not another word. We’ll head straight for that Park Avenue Hotel you’re stayin’ in. Be there as soon as we can.”

I stopped trying to dissuade them. They’d show up whether I wanted them to or not. Seeing them would be comforting, of course. But they could also add another complication, as had happened a year ago when they flew to London to “comfort me” during the investigation of Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder. Neither of these dear friends was at home in large cities, and their penchant for getting into trouble when away from their familiar, secure Cabot Cove was only slightly less than astounding.

But I should be the last one to talk about finding trouble in strange big cities. There I was sitting in a holding cell in N.

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