Rum and Razors

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Authors: Jessica Fletcher
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although I couldn’t tell as long as she remained seated.
    She giggled. “I’m expecting someone to say, ‘Smile. You’re on Candid Camera.’ ”
    I took her seriously for a moment and glanced over my shoulder.
    “I can’t believe I’m having dinner with Jessica Fletcher,” she said. “I’ve read some of your books. In fact, I’m reading one now. She pulled a paperback edition of one of my earlier works from her handbag. ”I travel a lot. That’s why I always buy paperbacks. Lighter to carry.” She said it apologetically, as though there was something sinful about not buying hardcover editions of my books.
    “I prefer paperbacks, too, when traveling,” I said.
    She became outwardly more formal, and sat erect in her chair. “I love your writing. I aspire to write like you. I can’t believe we’ll be having dinner together. This is a wonderful surprise.”
    “Consider the privilege mine. It’s not every night I get to dine with a relative.”
    We both laughed.
    “Are you on vacation?” I asked.
    “No. I’m here as part of a travel writers’ press trip to cover a conference sponsored by the Tourism Board. The conference doesn’t kick off until tomorrow. Most of the other writers won’t arrive until then. I decided to come a day early to give myself time to explore a little. And, between you and me, to find some time to relax. Press trips can be grueling. They schedule activities every minute of the day. The better ones try to work in some free time, but that’s usually taken up returning phone calls back to the office, and going over my notes.”
    “A grind that probably seems like nothing but pure fun to onlookers,” I said.
    “Exactly.”
    “Sounds like a fascinating job to me. Do you work for a particular magazine or newspaper?”
    “I’m senior editor at a trade magazine called Travel Agent Magazine back in New York. It’s written for travel agents and travel consortiums. I usually write about hotels, but they sent me down here to cover the conference. I suppose I’ll do a story on Diamond Reef as well. Actually, I’d like to do a story on Lover’s Lagoon Inn next door. We get the word there’s an investigation going on. I know the man who owns it, Walter Marschalk. He used to be a travel writer. A big-time one. I’ve been on a lot of press trips with him.”
    Although I count promptness among my virtues, I also admit to my failings. One of them is a tendency to not be completely truthful when wanting to learn something from a stranger. Not that I lie outright. It’s just that I withhold certain information in order to gain the confidence of the other person, and to promote candor. That’s why I didn’t mention, at least at that moment, that I was Walter and Laurie Marschalk’s personal friend. But I would tell Jennifer I was staying at Lover’s Lagoon Inn, and did.
    “How is it?” she asked.
    “Extraordinary. Everything about it is exceptional.”
    “That’s some endorsement.”
    We both looked up at a young man belonging to a voice that said, “Hello, Jennifer.”
    “Fred!” She was obviously surprised to see him. “I thought you weren’t making this trip. When did you arrive?”
    “I changed my mind. A few minutes ago. You could invite me to sit down.”
    Jennifer didn’t respond. She didn’t seem overly pleased at seeing this young man. I would have thought she’d have been delighted. She might have been initially impressed with my celebrity, but I assumed would prefer the company of a handsome man her age.
    Or younger. Fred was no older than thirty. He was beach-bum blond, handsome, tanned, and well-built, with watery pale blue eyes. Most striking to me, however, was the cruelty in those eyes. If not cruelty, a discernable lack of compassion and spark. Like so many young men these days, always brooding, pondering Lord knows what. Closed and guarded, as though to openly express emotion might prove fatal.
    “Fred Capehart, this is Jessica Fletcher,” Jennifer

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