Free Rum and Razors by Jessica Fletcher Page B

finds places to hide as time goes by.
    I stopped, looked up at the sky, and said to whomever might be up there, “Thank you for this wonderful life of mine.” I felt a chill, but not because of the temperature. I was chilled with pleasure. The problem of Walter and the charges against him hadn’t accompanied me to the lagoon.
    There weren’t any problems down here. I decided I would end each evening on St. Thomas with a walk on this tiny beach because I knew that if I did that, no matter what else might happen, my vacation would be a success.
    I had to stop because the beach ended at a bank of trees, beneath which was a low cover of prickly shrubbery. I sensed that another beach continued on the other side but wasn’t accessible except by swimming. I turned to retrace my steps, stopped, lifted my right foot, and examined its sole. I’d stepped on something soft. A jellyfish? Seaweed? Laurie had cautioned me to not step on, or touch certain things on the beach. “They sting,” she’d said. “A few can make you sick.”
    I turned my body so as to not block light from the moon, and leaned over to see what had been beneath my foot. It couldn’t be. A hand? A human hand?
    And then I saw the body to which the hand was attached. It was half in the water, its lower extremities covered by the low growth. The face was partially submerged, the eyes open wide and looking up. A pool of blood lay on top of the lagoon’s water, the crimson mixture running in and out of the open mouth.
    “Oh, my God,” I whispered. I bent further to reaffirm the identity of the body, and almost lost my balance in the process. The hand, the face, the lifeless body belonged to Walter Marschalk. And then I saw the gaping, oozing gash across his throat that reached from ear to ear.
    I straightened up and jammed my fist against my mouth to stifle a scream that threatened to come out. It took me a few moments to gather enough composure to leave the beach in search of someone to tell. I no longer felt childlike. I felt disgustingly grown-up.
    Yes, Walter, I would take any death threat seriously.

Chapter 7
    “ G ood morning, Mrs. Fletcher. Sorry to be calling so early.” It was six-fifteen. Another morning of beating the birds out of bed. “This is Detective Calid. We talked last night.”
    “Last night” was only a few hours ago. I’d given a brief statement to the detective after having reported Walter’s murder, and asked if I might get a few hours’ sleep before undergoing any questioning. He readily agreed, and as traumatic as my discovery had been, I was asleep in minutes.
    “I need to talk to you, Mrs. Fletcher. May we come to your room?”
    What I wanted to do was pull the sheets over my head and suggest we get together twelve hours from now. But that was obviously out of the question. I sat up in bed, rubbed my eyes, and prepared to begin another vacation day. “Can you give me fifteen minutes?” I asked. “Enough time for a fast shower and to get dressed?”
    “Of course. I appreciate your cooperation.”
    I stood under the shower and tried to pull together my thoughts, especially the sequence of events from the time I’d found Walter’s body. I’d awoken the inn’s assistant manager and asked him to call the police. They seemed to take forever to arrive, although I suppose it always seems that way when you desperately want them to be there. Eventually, two vehicles pulled up in the driveway, one a marked patrol car, the other without any official indications. There were four policemen, including Detective Calid.
    Calid had been extremely courteous and sensitive. He realized how shaken I was and didn’t probe for, nor give any gruesome descriptions. I waited in the dining room while he and his colleagues went down to Lover’s Lagoon to examine the body. Calid returned a half hour later, confirmed that Walter was, indeed, dead, and commented that it was his guess that the weapon had been a straight razor. “Could be