Murder, She Wrote: A Body in Boston

Chapter One

One of the great joys of living in Cabot Cove, Maine, is that there are so many excellent options for me to get an hour of fresh air and exercise riding my ancient but still trusty bicycle. This morning I'd spent time pedaling on the outskirts of town along the path of a high ridge that never fails to offer spectacular views in every direction. When I reached the flagpole, my usual turnaround spot, I stopped to watch a fishing boat make its way out of the harbor, enter the cove that gave our town its name, and head out to the Atlantic. I took a few deep breaths, filled my lungs with fresh country air, and then set out for home.

As I made a left onto Candlewood Lane, I saw the mail truck parked at the top of the next block, so I suspected that Lindy, our new mail carrier, had already been to my mailbox and, with any luck, had left me a letter from a friend, although I knew it was more likely that she'd deposited a few of this month's bills, or perhaps passed on by, leaving my mailbox empty.

I hopped off my bike and pushed it up the walkway toward my front door. When I got to the mailbox, I could see the banner of the latest issue of National Geographic pushing the lid just high enough that the magazine appeared to be peeping at me. I pulled it out along with several envelopes and a flyer advertising a housewares sale at Charles Department Store.

The first two envelopes were the usual household bills, but the third looked interesting. A medium-sized square envelope made of high-quality cream-colored paper, it was addressed to me in delicate handwritten calligraphy. I guessed it was an invitation of some sort. A wedding, perhaps?

I flipped the envelope, and the return address was a pleasant surprise.

The Boston Public Library

Inside was a printed invitation that I found to be quite extraordinary.

YOU ARE CORDIALL Y INVITED TO ATTEND

AN AFTERNOON WITH MYSTERY WRITER J. B. FLETCHER

AT THE BOSTON CENTRAL LIBRARY

COPLEY SQUARE

That was all. No date and no RSVP phone number. Fortunately I knew exactly who was behind this intriguing invitation. I stashed my bicycle in the shed and went into the house, tossed National Geographic and my bills on the kitchen table, opened my address book to the S page, and dialed the cell phone number of my old friend Marshall Stryback, the director of the Boston Public Library.

When Marshall answered and heard it was me on the line, he began to snort merrily, then said, "My dear Jessica, it is so good to hear from you. I suppose this means you received my invitation." I could almost see him raise his bushy gray eyebrows as he mentally congratulated himself for getting my undivided attention.

"I received an invitation of sorts-one that invites me, Jessica Fletcher, to meet the writer J. B. Fletcher. Neat trick there." I tried to sound as serious as I could manage given the silliness of the circumstances.

Marshall laughed out loud. "It certainly caught your eye and got you to dial the phone. I was afraid you'd be on deadline or so immersed in research that a letter from me might go unnoticed, whereas a formal-looking invitation . . ."

"Would be something I'd have a hard time resisting." After finishing his sentence, I gave a chuckle of my own. "The first thing I noticed is there is no date for the presentation."

"And that, my dear Jessica, is because we are desperately anxious to have you come to Boston and speak with your adoring fans, so I want to personally accommodate your availability. If you are at all interested, and I sincerely hope that you are, I have a list of dates we here at the library think would be superb. None of them have major sports or entertainment events scheduled, so whatever date you choose should belong to you and you alone."

An ancient memory flashed through my mind. When my first published novel, The Corpse Danced at Midnight, was released and I was invited to speaking engagements, I had an exaggerated fear of standing in a bookshop or library talking to row upon row of empty chairs. The thought flashed through my mind that it would be extraordinarily kind of the library to check Boston's entertainment calendars for newly published authors rather than for old hands like me.

I listened as Marshall rattled off the dates, and I instantly noted several conflicts with my personal life but was pleased to find a nice ten-day window that had three different opportunities for me to speak at the library. Marshall was delighted when I acknowledged I was definitely interested and would get back to him in a day or so with a firm date.

After a few pleasantries, we said good-bye, and I reheated a cup of coffee from the potful I'd made earlier in the morning and popped a slice of whole grain bread into the toaster. Once the toast was up and I'd drizzled some honey on it and set it next to my coffee, I sat down with my calendar. It took me hardly any time at all to select the only Wednesday among the dates Marshall had proffered. A midweek commitment would allow my travel plans to be flexible and I could include time to visit old friends or perhaps take in a show on either side of my presentation date.

Experience had taught me that before I confirmed with Marshall and marked it on my calendar, I should call Nancy Pollard, my energetic and always enthusiastic publicist. She was bound to have an idea or two about how I should spend at least some of my spare time in Boston.

"Jessica, it is so great to hear from you. Are you ready for me to set up a book tour for your next release?" I could almost see her bright blue eyes twinkling at the thought of sending me off to live out of a suitcase for weeks on end. I often suspected the client of Nancy's dreams would be the writer who was willing to hit all seven continents in the space of a month's time.

I couldn't help but smile. "Not exactly, although I am calling with travel news. I've received an invitation to speak about my work, and I am sure you will be delighted to hear that I have accepted."

"With an intro like that, you know I'm all ears."

"I have been invited to the Boston Central Library on Copley Square."

"Boston Central! That is a big deal. I know publicists who angle for years and can't get their clients an invitation, and here, with no help from me, you manage to get asked to the ball, Cinderella. What is your secret?" Happy as she was for me, her curiosity won out. If I had a tried-and-true technique to get an author invited to Boston Central, Nancy wanted to know what it was.

I was sorry to disappoint her. "There's no secret, I'm afraid. Some years ago, I met Marshall Stryback when he and I both volunteered in a program to support innovative reading curricula in the Boston public school system. We have been friends ever since. Marshall has invited me to speak in the library quite often, but my schedule is so tight that I rarely can honor his request. Fortunately, this is one time I am not buried with work or personal commitments, so I gleefully said yes."

"And I am so glad you did," Nancy answered, then immediately turned to the business at hand. "How much time are you planning to spend in Boston? And when exactly will you be presenting at Central?"

When I told her the date I was scheduled to speak, as well as my approximate departure and return dates, Nancy continued to probe. "And do you have any social engagements?"

"Not as yet, but I certainly plan to visit some of my Boston friends and roam around a bit. It has been quite a while since I spent time in Boston, and I do enjoy the city."

Still all business, Nancy said, "Promise me that as you confirm your plans, you will keep me informed so that I can plug in a bookshop or reading club without conflicting with your social life."

Nancy was clearly determined to ensure that my personal plans would not become a roadblock to my professional success. I found it amusing but recognized that she took her job seriously, and who was I to get in her way? I agreed and we ended the call.

My next call was to Susan Shevlin, our local travel agent and wife of Cabot Cove mayor Jim Shevlin. No matter where I traveled or how often I had to change plans midtrip, Susan was an absolute gem in arranging or rearranging my itinerary at a moment's notice with no fuss, no muss.

I gave her a brief outline of my loosely formed thoughts, and as always, Susan had valuable suggestions. "I'll check with Jed Richardson and see what his schedule looks like around the time of your probable coming and going. Boston is such a short flight, I'm sure once your plans are firmed up, Jed will be able to oblige. Now, as far as accommodations, if you don't have any specific hotel in mind, I recommend the Revere Hotel since it is so close to Boston Common, and I know how you enjoy your outdoor exercise wherever you may be. Not to mention it's in the theater district in case you decide to catch a show or two while you're there."

I agreed that the Revere was an excellent choice, and just as Nancy had done, Susan asked that I keep her informed as my plans became more certain.

By the time the call ended, I was quite pleased with myself for contacting both Nancy and Susan so quickly. Now I could get on with my plan for the day, which was to straighten out my gardening shed and decide which tools and supplies needed to be replaced now that spring was so close at hand.

The next morning was cloudy but didn't appear to be threatening rain, so I pulled my trusty bicycle out to the street and pedaled toward the wharf. I stopped at the rack at the edge of the shops above the wharf, bumped my bicycle over the lower rung, and secured it.

I stood for a minute, taking deep breaths of the fresh salty air while I marveled at the view below me. I never tired of it. Waves were breaking softly against the boats docked along the harbor. A couple of fishermen getting a late start were casting off a nifty-looking skiff painted an unusual light green. After a few more deep breaths, I headed to Mara's Luncheonette, where I hoped to enjoy a relaxing breakfast with dear friends.

As soon as I opened the door, the tantalizing aromas of coffee, eggs, pancakes, bacon, and sausage caused my stomach to growl ever so slightly. Cabot Cove's sheriff, Mort Metzger, saw me enter and waved me over to our usual table. Dan Andrews, editor of the Cabot Cove Gazette, and my dear friend and everyone's favorite doctor Seth Hazlitt were already seated.

I hurried toward them and was barely in my seat and still saying good morning when Mara was at my elbow with a pot of coffee. She filled the empty cup at my place setting and then made a slight circle with the coffeepot, offering it to my friends. Seth held his cup toward Mara for a refill, and while she was pouring, she said, "I'm so glad you got here when you did, Jessica. These boys were arguing about whether to order or to give you a few more minutes. Now the problem is solved. What'll it be, folks?"

In a few seconds, we'd ordered four short stacks of Mara's famous blueberry pancakes. Dan and Mort opted for sides of sausage, and Seth surprised me by ordering ham. And of course Mara couldn't escape before Seth reminded her, as he always did, that his pancakes would require extra butter.

Mara retorted, "And don't I always bring the extra butter especially for you?" and turned on her heel to place our orders without giving Seth a chance to respond.

Seth looked at the three of us and justified his perpetual request by saying, "Busy morning like this, she could easily forget, now, couldn't she?"

While Dan nodded politely, Mort ignored Seth entirely and turned to me. "How've you been, Mrs. F.? Maureen was just saying last night that we haven't seen you for a while."

Mort's second wife, Maureen, is a sweet person who takes every friend and neighbor under her wing at the least sign that they have a problem or need a sympathetic ear.

I shook my head. "I know. I have been a bit housebound, or should I say yardbound. Spring is coming, and the part of my garden that isn't overrun with weeds is covered with bare patches. My entire property is in need of some serious attention. It has been keeping me busy the past few days, and I suspect that will continue for the next few as well. But I do have exciting news."

Dan gave me a shy smile. "Is it the kind of news that the readers of the Gazette will want to know?"

"They might, and I am hoping that the readers of the Boston Globe will find it interesting as well." I grinned at him and said no more.

"Boston Globe? That's a top newspaper. Are you being interviewed about your books?" Dan leaned toward me, genuinely interested in my answer.

"Well, nothing is scheduled as yet . . ." I gave him what I hoped was a mysterious smile.

Before Dan could ask another question, Seth, in a voice louder than I thought was necessary, said, "Woman, stop speaking in riddles. Why does the Boston Globe want to interview you?"

"I don't know that they do, but they may wish to schedule an interview when they find out that I have been asked to make a presentation in the Boston Central Library." I looked around for my friends' reactions.

"Why didn't you say so?" Seth asked. "When is all this happening? As it turns out, I might be going to Boston myself in the not too distant future. My old med school buddy Jason Lancaster has been invited to give a lecture about the advances in geriatric care that the research center he is affiliated with has been developing. He'll be speaking at Brigham and Women's Hospital. If your book talk and his speech are anywhere near each other, we could travel down together and maybe visit some museums. We might even sneak in an evening to hear the Boston Symphony Orchestra or the Boston Pops, whichever has a performance that fits with our trip."