Free Rum and Razors by Jessica Fletcher

said.
    “Hi,” he said. “Fletcher? Same name as Jennifer.”
    “Yes. It caused some confusion when I—” I knew he wouldn’t be interested and didn’t bother finishing the story. “Been next door yet?” he asked Jennifer.
    Next door? Lover’s Lagoon Inn?
    “No,” she said coldly.
    “I’m impressed. How could you stay away from him so long?”
    Jennifer’s tightly pursed lips testified to her anger. She turned and stared at the ceiling.
    I surmised the “him” to which Fred Capehart had referred was Walter Marschalk, but I didn’t indicate that. I simply said, “Jennifer and I were discussing Lover’s Lagoon when you arrived, Fred. Have you been there?”
    He’d ignored me until I asked the question. Now, he turned and said to me, “I wouldn’t waste my time.”
    “It’s very nice. I’m staying there.”
    He turned to Jennifer. “Let’s get out of here.”
    “You’re being rude, Fred.”
    “Perhaps I should—” I started to say.
    “This is Jessica Fletcher, the famous mystery writer,” Jennifer said.
    His response was to glance at me, then return his attention to Jennifer.
    “I think I’ll leave you two alone for the evening,” I said, picking up my bag from the floor.
    “Please don’t go,” Jennifer said.
    “No, I’m in the mood for something light from room service. A good book and early to bed. It was nice meeting you, Jennifer. I hope to see you again.”
    Fred reacted to my standing by getting up, too. “It was nice meeting you.”
    “Have a nice evening.”
    I paused at the manager’s podium on my way out and looked back at the table. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but their body language shouted that they weren’t exchanging words of endearment. “What a boring young man,” I mumbled to myself as I went to the patio where dozens of couples danced to that evening’s musical entertainment. It was a brilliantly clear night. The moon was full; it appeared to be ten times larger than when viewed in Cabot Cove.
    I was disappointed that Jennifer and I had been interrupted. I liked her, and had looked forward to a pleasant conversation. Perhaps an illuminating conversation, too. She obviously knew Walter Marschalk pretty well, and was aware of the controversy that had erupted over his inn. I’d meant what I’d said when leaving the table. I did want to speak with her again, and would make a point of seeking her out.
    I was about to leave the patio and head for my villa when Diamond Reefs general manager, Mark Dobson, called my name and approached on his crutches. “Good evening, Mr. Dobson.”
    “Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher. Decided to visit us again?”
    To seek asylum from Lover’s Lagoon Inn? I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. “Just taking a stroll,” I said.
    “Feel like dinner? My treat.”
    “Thank you, no. I was just—no, I’m planning a quiet night in my villa. I’ll have something sent up. »
    “The invitation’s always there, Mrs. Fletcher. Read the paper today?”
    “About Walter Marschalk and the charges against him? Yes, I did.”
    “He’s in a lot of trouble.”
    “He’s been accused of something, that’s all,” I said. “Accusations are easy. Proving them is something else.”
    Dobson laughed. “Oh, they’ll prove it, Mrs. Fletcher, because the accusations are true. Trust me.”
    “Lovely evening, isn’t it?” I said.
    “Just your typical, run-of-the-mill St. Thomas night,” he said. “A drink? At least let me buy you a drink.”
    “Thanks, but not tonight. Have a nice evening.”
    I returned to my villa and ordered a Caesar salad, rolls, and tea. A pervasive, free-floating anxiety settled over me. I was as fidgety as an ant, couldn’t sit still. I tried reading but lost interest in the book, a first novel by a young woman from Maine who delved into her heroine’s passage into adulthood too deeply for my taste. I’d started another when dinner arrived. Thomas, as unfailingly pleasant and courteous as ever, set me