Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

“No, of course not. He wants us-him and me-to solve Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder together.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Morton.

“I told him I would give him an answer as soon as I could. Frankly, I’m tempted. He seems to be a veritable fount of information, and I’d like to be on the receiving end of it.”

“Jess…” Seth said, placing his hand on mine.

“Let’s face it,” I said, “I’ve already been sticking my nose into Marjorie’s murder: one, because she was a good friend, and two, because I have been a suspect all along, and three, because obviously I was born with an extra gene that makes me the way I am.” I quickly changed the subject and asked what their plans were. They said they intended to take it easy that day, which didn’t surprise me, considering the way they looked after their boys’ night out.

As I stood to leave, Seth asked me about the reading of Marjorie’s will.

“It was fascinating.”

“And she did leave you something?”

“Left me quite a bit, although I am donating it back to the study center she created. I’ll fill you in on the details later. Have to run. Enjoy your day of leisure.”

I went up to my suite and picked up the telephone. There was no answer at Jimmy Biggers’s office-apartment above the Red Feather, so I found the number of the pub itself and called it. He was still there; the owner put him on the line.

“You’ve got yourself a client, Mr. Biggers.”

“Good girl, Jess. You’ve made a very wise decision.”

“That will be determined when this is over. In the meantime, I’d like you to do two things for me. First, see if you can find Maria Giacona. Second, learn everything you can about the relationship between Jason Harris and David Simpson.”

“Whoa now, slow down, I’m not sure I like havin’ a woman give me orders like this.”

“I thought you wanted me to be your client.”

“That’s right, but-”

“Well, as I’ve always been taught, clients tell those working for them what to do.”

“Behind that pleasant, feminine facade, you are a tough duck, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Only when I’m a client, Jimmy. Will you do those things for me?”

“You bet. Just testing, seein’ how far I can go. Where will you be later in the day?”

“I don’t know, but you can leave a message with the hotel and I’ll get back to you. Thanks again for breakfast. It was excellent.”

I changed into a sweat suit and running shoes I’d brought with me and went downstairs with the intention of finding a pleasant jogging path along the Victoria Embankment on the river.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” a familiar male voice said. It was Montgomery Coots, the Crumpsworth inspector.

“Yes, Inspector?”

“On your way for a run, are you?” he asked, moving up and down on his toes.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I was. Would you care to join me?”

He looked down at the suit and leather shoes he wore and said, “Afraid I’m not quite dressed for such activity. Would you spare me a few minutes before you go?”

“Of course. Perhaps you’d like to walk with me. I feel an overwhelming need to be out of doors.”

We made our way around back of the hotel and headed down toward the Embankment. We stopped at a wooden bench beneath a clump of trees. Coots pulled out my gold pendant from his breast pocket and handed it to me.

“Thank you, Inspector. I was wondering whether I would ever see this again.”

“Never any fear of that with me, Mrs. Fletcher. I don’t lose evidence like some others do.”

“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.