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Authors: Jessica Fletcher

Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote) (34 page)

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote)

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“Thanks for the compliment,” I said, “but I think I’ll stick to writing about murders. It’s a lot safer.”

I looked over the crowd and saw Gladys Montgomery standing with the Johansens.

“Well, it seems you’ve been on quite an adventure today,” Gladys said in her controlled, patrician voice.

“I’m surprised to see you out here,” I said. “You said you seldom leave the ship.”

“I wouldn’t have missed your arrival for the world,” she said. “Word spread so quickly. But I think I will get back on board. I’ve arranged a special dinner for you and your friend Ms. Copeland. The ship leaves in two hours.”

“That’s thoughtful of you, Gladys, but I think Kathy and I won’t be taking the ship to Vancouver. She’ll want to be with her sister at the hospital, and I promised these gentlemen we’d have dinner together on terra firma.”

“I understand,” she said. “You will stay in touch.”

“Of course. How do I reach you?”

“By e-mail, of course. Here’s my address. My, how my husband would have enjoyed all this excitement. I certainly have.”

I watched her walk away, erect, stately, a woman in command of her surroundings—and of her life. She could count on hearing from me.

The ship’s security chief, First Officer Kale, suddenly appeared from out of the crowd.

“Glad to see that you and Ms. Copeland are all right,” he said, his face set in its usual somber, weight-of-the-world-on-his-shoulders expression.

“Yes, we’re fine,” I said. “Ms. Copeland and I won’t be sailing with you tonight, though, and we will need assistance getting our belongings off the ship.”

“That’s awfully short notice,” he said. “I don’t think that—”

“Officer Kale,” I said, “I think you’ll be able to manage it just fine. Look at it this way. You won’t have us snooping around your ship and disturbing other passengers.”

His face brightened.

“Have their luggage taken to police headquarters,” Trooper McQuesten told Kale in a tone that left little room for debate. “You’ll see that it’s done right, I’m sure.”

“Yes, of course,” Kale said. “I’ll have the cabin steward pack everything up and deliver it all to police headquarters.”

“Good,” said McQuesten.

“And might I offer a word of advice, Officer Kale?” I said.

He stared blankly at me.

“I know that you have your passengers’ best interests at heart, but you really should try and be a little more—how shall I say it—?”

“Loosen up,” Kathy provided.

“Yes,” I said. “Loosen up. Yes, that’s it precisely. You should try to loosen up.”

Kale walked away. McQuesten said, “Come on. I’ll take you to the hospital, get that bag of gold put in a safe place, and find you a nice place to stay.” He turned to Kathy. “By the way, Ms. Copeland, do you always walk around with a can of chili in your hand?”

Kathy looked at the can she’d clutched during the entire flight. She blushed, laughed, and handed it to McQuesten. “I’ll bet it’s pretty good,” she said. “Enjoy!”

“Any preferences for dinner?” McQuesten asked. “Aside from chili?”

Kathy and I shook our heads.

“Like moose meat?”

We shook our heads again.

“I didn’t think so. I’ll make a reservation at Bar Harbor. Best food in Ketchikan as far as I’m concerned. Really fresh seafood.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Kathy.

I started to laugh.

“What’s funny?” Kathy asked.

“I just realized that we can
all
loosen up now. It’s over! We found your sister.”

“And Aunt Dolly’s gold.”

“Yes, that, too. Aunt Dolly’s gold.”

Chapter Seventeen

Wilimena and Kathy Copeland stood side by side at the entrance to the newly renovated Cabot Cove senior citizen center. Mayor Jim Shevlin and a few other local politicians joined a hundred townspeople at the dedication. The sun shone brightly, and the air was ripe with the first hints of spring.

It had been a year since my Alaskan adventure. While the passage of time had put distance between me and those tumultuous days, the memories were never far from my consciousness.

Kathy had stayed in Ketchikan for six weeks while her sister healed. After two operations on her leg, Willie was cleared to leave the hospital and fly with Kathy back to the East Coast, where she went through months of difficult rehabilitation at a physical therapy center just outside of Cabot Cove. Although the doctors in Alaska and the therapists in Maine had done a splendid job, she would walk with a limp for the rest of her life, and often used a cane. I’m not sure she really needed it, but it gave her a modicum of confidence whenever she ventured out—like on this day in early May.

I’d kept in touch with Trooper McQuesten by phone and through e-mails. Howard Winslow, aka Bill Henderson, had been indicted for the murder of the man who’d gone overboard, whom we knew as John Smith (his real name was Jerry Quincy). He’d also been charged in the murder of Maurice Quarlé, although McQuesten told me that the evidence in that case was weak. And, of course, there was an indictment for attempted armed robbery of Wilimena’s gold. A trial was set to begin any day in Juneau.

I’d also had communication with Bobby Borosky, our crusty pilot who’d been wounded by Howard Winslow. A doctor told me that it had been touch and go for a couple of days. Borosky had lost a considerable amount of blood and had gone into shock; they’d twice given him last rites. But he’d eventually pulled through. However, the damage to his right shoulder was extensive, and the best he could hope for was minimal use of it—not a good thing for a bush pilot. Wilimena had used a portion of the money generated by the gold to pay all his medical expenses and to set up a fund to supplement the disability payments he would draw for the rest of his life. I had nothing but fond memories of the man, and of my impromptu flying lesson in his vintage DeHavilland Beaver.

Speaking of fond memories—I corresponded with Gladys Montgomery for the first three months after I’d returned to Cabot Cove. Her e-mails were witty and profound. Although I doubted whether we would ever see each other again, I felt close to her and was greatly saddened when, after not hearing from her for a month, I received an e-mail from a daughter informingme that her mother had succumbed to a massive heart attack while on the
Glacial Queen
. I was glad it had happened aboard the ship. It was what she would have wanted.

“Ready?” Mayor Shevlin asked Wilimena.

“I think so,” she said.

“Then go ahead and cut it!”

Wilimena used an oversized ceremonial pair of scissors to cut the yellow ribbon stretched across the senior center’s doorway. As the two ends of the ribbon fluttered to the ground, a loud, sustained round of applause erupted, causing Willie to wave a hand back and forth. “No, no,” she said, grabbing her sister’s hand and raising it into the air like a prizefighter who’d just defeated an opponent in the ring. “If it wasn’t for my courageous big sister,” she shouted to the crowd, “none of this would have been possible.”

I stood to the side with Seth Hazlitt, Mort Metzger and his wife, the mayor’s wife, Susan, and Kathy’s attorney, Michael Cunniff.

“It’s a wonderful thing Wilimena and Kathy have done,” Mort said.

“Very generous,” said Seth. “Sets a good example for our youngsters.”

“And benefits our seniors,” Susan said.

Wilimena’s gold had been converted into a sizable amount of cash, almost a million dollars. She’d followed through on her promises to some of the
Glacial Queen
’s crew members to send them gifts once she’d found the gold. While undergoing rehab for her leg, she’d asked me what Kathy and she might do to benefit the community. She’d decided to settle in Cabot Cove to be near her sister and had purchased a small condominium in a new complex that had been built on Lake Cabot.

“I think just having you two live here is good enough,” I said.

“No,” she said. “We want to do something tangible for Cabot Cove. What’s needed? We have all this money and—well, frankly, I won’t be needing most of my half. My globe-trotting days are over. I’ve lived a fool’s life for far too long. All I want to do is settle down here and be—what should I say?—settle down here and be
normal
.”

A week later, I brought up her question at a meeting of the town planning commission. Its members suggested that an abandoned office building be renovated and converted into a much-needed new senior center, and that’s what was done, thanks to Wilimena and Kathy’s generosity. The Copeland Senior Center was now open for business.

Following the opening ceremony, a luncheon was held to celebrate the new addition to our growing town.

“Maybe it should have been named Aunt Dolly’s Senior Center,” Willie quipped to those at the head table.

“I still say it should have had your name on it,” Kathy said.

“It does,” Willie said. “Copeland. You and me, Kathy.” She gave her older sister a hug. “I’ve been such a fool.”

“No, you haven’t,” Kathy said. “You’ve lived your life the way you wanted to live it. I admire that. Don’t you, Jessica?”

I had to laugh. “I admire the fact that you survived it,” I said. “I had my doubts about that until we found you in that cabin.”

We all went our separate ways after lunch. Seth drove me home. I pulled the day’s mail out of my mailbox and went inside to peruse it. One envelope caught my eye. It was from my publisher in New York City. Inside was a smaller envelope that had been addressed to Buckley House. It was handwritten, with a Seattle, Washington, postmark. I opened it and removed a note written in neat, precise handwriting.

Dear Mrs. Fletcher: I hope you get this. I write from a psychiatric hospital outside of Seattle. You may remember me. I was the one who accused you of stealing my book idea and attacked you at the Seattle Mystery Bookshop. They gave me permission to write this note to you because they thought it should be part of my treatment, acknowledging my behavior and asking forgiveness. I am doing well, and hope you are, too. I use my time here to write a novel of my own. When I finish, I would like to send it to you. I am sorry for what I did.

Sincerely,
Walter Munro

It was good of him to write, I thought as I sat in a recliner, extended my legs, and closed my eyes. Mr. Munro’s note reminded me that I was due to submit an outline for my next novel to Vaughan Buckley, my publisher. Maybe I could use a historical setting in Alaska. Maybe it could take place at Dolly Arthur’s bordello.

Maybe I could pattern a character after Bobby Borosky and use Trooper McQuesten as inspiration for my cop hero. Maybe . . . maybe . . .

My final thought before drifting off was—
it’s good to be home.

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peek at the next
Murder, She Wrote
original mystery,

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote)

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