Read Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote) Online

Authors: Jessica Fletcher

Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote) (5 page)

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

5.48Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

ads

It was Kathy’s turn to laugh. “Willie is never at a loss for words,” she said.

“Did she say why she felt a need to buy these self-protection devices?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact, she did,” Bill replied. “She started kidding about how women can’t be too careful these days with men hitting on them. I didn’t argue with her. I mean, she was—is—a nice-looking woman who I imagine gets lots of male attention. Whether she needed a stun gun and Mace is another question. But if she felt more secure having those things with her, who was I to question it? She also said she was heading for Alaska to stake her claim in a gold mine.”

“Gold mine?” I said.

“I think that’s what she said. Maybe it wasn’t a mine, but it had to do with gold.”

I mentally dismissed Wilimena’s claim that she needed the devices to stave off unwanted male attention and asked Bill to expand on what she might have said about the gold.

“All I recall,” he said, “was that she claimed there was some distant relative in Alaska who came into a potful of gold and that she was on her way to claim it. Is it true?”

“I don’t know,” Kathy replied. “I’m hoping that we’ll find out.”

“Anything else you can remember, Bill, that might help us?” I asked.

He shook his head and smiled. “No offense,” he said to Kathy, “but your sister is quite a flirt.”

“I didn’t know,” Kathy said, not altogether successful in keeping amusement out of her voice.

“Yeah,” Bill said. “She started coming on to me, even asked me to join her for a drink after I finished work. Ah—well, no offense, but she was a little old for me.” He looked at us to judge how offended we were. “I mean,” he quickly added, “she’s a very attractive woman and all but—”

“No need to explain,” I said. “And thank you for being so forthright. It’s been a help.”

He walked us to the door. “I hope you find her,” he said. “If you do, swing back by here with her and I’ll buy you
all
a drink.”

“We may just do that,” I said, silently adding to myself,
if we find her.

Kathy and I stood outside the store and pondered our next move. Kathy had further arranged the receipts and notes left by Wilimena in order of their occurrence, with the earliest ones on top. Next in line was a receipt from an electronics store for a digital recorder and assorted add-ons.

“It’s a shame we don’t have it,” I said. “When you picked up her things from the cruise line, no one mentioned a recorder?”

“No. Willie sometimes carried one with her to make notes about her various trips. I suppose she intended to do the same on the cruise.”

“And probably did,” I suggested. “Let’s see what impression she left behind with this store owner.”

The gentleman at the electronics store was in his late fifties or early sixties, dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, and red tie, markedly more formal than is the norm in Seattle, a pleasantly relaxed and informal city. He seemed sincerely upset when we told him that Wilimena had disappeared. “What dreadful news,” he said. “I’m so sorry to hear it.”

“We were hoping that something she said while in your store would provide a clue to her whereabouts,” I said.

“I really can’t believe that she would simply vanish like this,” he said, wringing his hands and shaking his head. “A lovely woman. Truly lovely. So cultured and full of life. You don’t think that . . . ?”

He’d obviously spent more time with her than simply as a salesman.

“We don’t know what happened to her,” Kathy said. “Did she say why she wanted the recorder and microphone?”

“Yes. She chose a top-of-the-line recorder and a small external microphone. I’ll show you what she bought.”

I was surprised at the small size of the recorder and microphone he withdrew from a display case. The minicassette recorder I always travel with seemed huge by comparison. I mentioned it.

“The technology has evolved so quickly,” he explained.“No more tapes. It’s all digital these days, memory chips.”

“You could hide this recorder and microphone in a shirt pocket,” I said, “and no one would ever know it was there.”

“Precisely,” the owner said. He glanced around the otherwise empty store as though to ensure our privacy, then leaned closer and said in a voice slightly above a whisper, “She told me that she wanted to record people without their knowing it. I suppose it was because so much gold was involved and—”

“She told
you
about the gold?” Kathy asked.

“Yes. It was such an exciting story. You say you’re her sister. Is what she said true, that you have a distant relation who had all that gold?”

“I, ah—evidently,” Kathy responded.

“You say there’s no tape in this recorder,” I said, turning the tiny device over in my hand.

“Exactly,” he said. “No need for a tape.” He stepped back and cocked his head. “You look familiar to me,” he said.

“Oh?”

“I know. You’re the writer, Jessica—Jessica— Jessica—” He started snapping his fingers.

“Fletcher,” I provided.

“Of course. I’ve read some of your books. In fact, Wilimena mentioned at dinner that her sister lived in the same town in Maine as Jessica Fletcher.”

“Dinner?”

“Why, yes. We enjoyed a wonderful evening together at Ray’s Boathouse. It’s a landmark restaurant in Seattle.” He chuckled. “They say that a visit to Seattle without visiting Ray’s Boathouse is like going to Paris without seeing the Eiffel Tower. An overstatement, of course, but it is a very fine seafood house, with splendid views of Puget Sound.”

“It is nice,” I said. “I’ve eaten there a few times. What else did you talk about at dinner, Mr.—?”

“John Casale,” he said, extending his hand. “A pleasure meeting you.”

“Thank you. About dinner,” I said.

“Oh, right. Let me see. We talked about many things. Willie—that’s her nickname—Willie did most of the talking. I hung on every word. She’s so worldly, been to so many fascinating places.” He became somewhat conspiratorial again. “We made another date for dinner when she returns from Alaska. You don’t think that—?”

“I’m sure everything will turn out just fine,” I said, “and that you’ll enjoy that second dinner together.”

“I certainly hope so,” he said. He handed us his business card. “Please keep me informed.”

“Of course,” Kathy said.

I couldn’t help but laugh once we were outside the store. “Your sister is—well, your sister is quite an operator, Kathy.”

“I always knew that, Jess, but I had no idea just how much of an operator she really is. No wonder she’s had so many husbands. It seems that every man is fair game.”

I grew pensive as we walked slowly in the direction of Pioneer Square, where my book signing at the Seattle Mystery Bookshop was scheduled for noon.

“What are you thinking?” Kathy asked.

“I’m thinking—no, more like I’m hoping that Willie’s penchant for attracting men isn’t at the root of her disappearance.”

“You don’t think—?”

“She seems willing to become involved with men she barely even knows. That sort of indiscretion can get a woman in trouble, especially with her compulsion to tell every man she meets that she’s about to become a wealthy woman.”

Kathy said nothing in response, but I knew she agreed with me.

The Seattle Mystery Bookshop used to be located below street level on Cherry Street, which cut down on foot traffic. But it had recently moved down the block to a more advantageous aboveground spot. I reminded myself as we approached it that Bill Farley was no longer the store’s official owner. He’d written to tell me that he’d sold it to his longtime manager, J. B. Dickey, although he assured me he would remain active in the shop’s daily activities. I was happy to hear that because Bill is a walking encyclopedia when it comes to murder mysteries.

Cherry Street is just off Pioneer Square, Seattle’s oldest neighborhood. After World War II, the area fell into disrepair and disrepute, becoming home to cheap hotels, street drunks, and prostitution (the term “skid row” originated there; logs were skidded down the steep Yesler Way to the city’s first lumber mill). But as often happens with such districts, the artistic community, in search of affordable living and studio space, began moving in and displacing the less desirable elements until Pioneer Square was restored to its previous glory. These days, the twenty-square-block historic district is home to myriad galleries, bookstores, quaint bars and restaurants, and assorted gift shops.

“Look, Jess, there’s your picture,” Kathy exclaimed as we stood in front of the store. A large poster with my photograph, the cover of my latest book, and information about the signing dominated one of the windows. I stepped closer to get a better look and peered past the poster into the store. A dozen people, mostly women, milled about, presumably waiting for the signing to begin.

“We’d better get inside,” I said.

As I reached for the door handle, a man who’d been standing alone twenty feet away approached. “Jessica Fletcher,” he said, sounding as though we were old friends.

“Yes?” I said, turning.

“I’m here for the signing,” he said, extending a large hand.

I couldn’t help but notice what he wore. His yellow and green sweater had seen better days and had numerous pulls and small holes, a few of which looked like cigarette burns. His khaki pants were in equally rough shape, badly wrinkled and stained. He wore black high-top sneakers and carried a large canvas bag that appeared to be filled to capacity.

“I’ve read every one of your books,” he said. His voice was raspy and low, his eyes black and sunken in a long, gaunt face. He needed a shave.

“Well, I hope you enjoy the new one as much as you’ve liked the others,” I said. “See you inside?”

Until that moment he’d had a semblance of a smile on his face. But my ending the conversation caused a change in his expression to what I read as anger.

As we entered the store, Bill Farley came from behind a small counter and warmly greeted us. I introduced Kathy to him. Two clerks whom I recognized from my previous signings there also came to us. I sighed. “I feel like I’m home,” I said.

“We’ve set you up over there in your usual spot,” Bill said, indicating a long table to our right. Multiple copies of most of my books were artfully laid out on it, dominated by my most recent hardcover. Behind the table stood a tall, narrow rack on which more copies were displayed.

“You’re early,” Bill said.

“I always try to be,” I said. “I see I’m not the only one.” I indicated the people perusing books in the shop’s maze of narrow aisles.

Bill looked through the window to the man who’d approached me outside. “Ever seen him before?” he asked.

“No. Why?”

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

5.48Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

ads