Murder, She Wrote: the Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher, by Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain, Renée Paley-Bain
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Murder, She Wrote: the Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher, by Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain, Renée Paley-Bain
Free Ebook Online Murder, She Wrote: the Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher, by Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain, Renée Paley-Bain
In the USA Today bestselling Murder, She Wrote series—make room for Jessica Fletcher as she cleans house to catch a killer who hasn’t got a ghost of a chance.
Jessica’s friend, Eve Simpson is the town’s premier real estate agent and has recently taken on the task of selling one of Cabot Cove’s oldest properties—the Spencer Percy House, built in 1805 by a sea captain for his young wife. Its current occupant, Cliff Cooper, a crusty former carpenter, is convinced he’s about to die and wants the house sold so he can give the proceeds to his grandson, who spent much of his youth there. But Eve’s got quite a challenge on her hands. Not only is the building in deplorable physical condition, it is also rumored to be haunted. When Cliff’s deadly premonition becomes a reality, Dr. Seth Hazlitt is not so sure the man died of natural causes. As Jessica tries to get to the bottom of Cliff Cooper’s death, a medium hired by Eve attempts to rid the house of the alleged apparition. But if Jessica isn’t careful, she may be the one who joins the ranks of the dearly departed.
Murder, She Wrote: the Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher, by Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain, Renée Paley-Bain - Amazon Sales Rank: #185950 in Books
- Published on: 2015-10-06
- Released on: 2015-10-06
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.50" h x .87" w x 5.75" l, 1.00 pounds
- Binding: Hardcover
- 272 pages
Murder, She Wrote: the Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher, by Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain, Renée Paley-Bain About the Author Jessica Fletcher is a bestselling mystery writer who has a knack for stumbling upon real-life mysteries in her various travels. Donald Bain, the author of more than 120 books, collaborates, with Renée Paley-Bain on this best-selling series..
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
“I’m dying and I know it.” Cliff Cooper stretched out a hand to me. “Will you help me, Jessica?”
“Of course, Cliff,” I said, taking his hand in both of mine. “But Seth Hazlitt says you still have plenty of good years ahead of you.”
Cliff pulled back his hand and shook his head. “I know the truth.” He pressed his body forward and coughed into the pillow he’d been hugging. His pale face turned crimson with the exertion. “See?” he said, falling back against the raised mattress. “Dr. Hazlitt’s a crazy optimist.”
“Can’t say as I’ve ever been called that before, Cliff,” Cabot Cove’s favorite physician said as he folded the stethoscope he’d just used to listen to Cliff’s chest. “If you’d take the medicines the nurses give you instead of tossing the pills in the flowerpot, you’d feel a lot better, and so would that plant.” Seth gestured toward a drooping geranium next to vases of flowers lined up on the windowsill.
“You can’t fool an old carpenter. I know when my sanding days are over.”
Seth tucked his stethoscope into his black medical bag. “Probably breathing in all that sawdust instead of wearing a mask—which, by the way, I suggested to you years ago—landed you where you are. Too late to fix all the damage, but with your cooperation, we’d stand a chance of getting you out of here and back home into your recliner.”
“Sounds nice.” Cliff sighed. “Thanks, Doc.”
Seth closed his medical bag and gave Cliff a pat on the arm. “I’ll stop by later. In the meantime, try to be a good patient.”
“I’ll try.” Cliff gave Seth a wan smile.
I accompanied Seth into the hall. “Is there really a chance for him to be able to return home?”
“I wish I could say for sure. There was a good chance when he was first admitted, but he’s refused to follow medical orders, rejected all the therapies we’ve recommended. And the longer he stays here lying on his back, the farther away his chances are of getting better. He’s becoming weaker, getting frail. You have to use your muscles, or they atrophy.”
“That cough sounds terrible. It must take a lot out of him.”
“He has a bad cough, yes, but there’s no underlying malignancy. In his case, getting well looks to be as dependent on willpower as it is on medicine. I hate to say that he’s giving up, Jessica, but that’s how it appears to me.”
“Oh, Seth, that’s terrible. What can I do to help?”
“Maybe you can talk some sense into him. He’s turned away most of his visitors. Far as I know, you’re among the few he’s agreed to see.”
“I am? I can’t imagine why. We’re only casual friends. Haven’t Lettie and Lucy been here to call on him?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“That’s odd. They’ve been friends for years. In fact, I heard a rumor that he was about to ask Lucy to marry him.”
“Mebbe so, but now he says he just wants to be left alone in the dark.”
I returned to Cliff’s room and took the chair next to his bed. A whiteboard hanging on the wall facing his bed said his nurse’s name was Carolyn and the aide was Theresa. Cliff was a patient in the new one-story rehabilitation wing of Cabot Cove Hospital. Seth would never have put him there if he hadn’t expected Cliff to get better. Hospice services were provided on another floor, or at home. The new wing had private rooms looking out onto the woods behind the hospital. A brochure extolling its amenities was on Cliff’s bedside table.
“Each patient is afforded a prospect of Mother Nature’s panorama,” the brochure stated, adding, “Taking in nature’s bountiful beauty each day—our unspoiled forest combined with delightful glimpses of wildlife—is conducive to the healing process.”
Its flowery language aside, the brochure was correct that the view of the woods would be a pleasant sight if Cliff’s nurse hadn’t adjusted the blinds to keep out any light.
Cliff’s eyes had closed, and he appeared to be sleeping. Once a strapping man, he looked as if his body had melted into the hospital bed, his shoulders no longer broad, his arms withered to half their previous size, his strong features softened with time. His large hands, now knurled with age, were the only evidence of his youthful vigor. I remembered how handsome he’d been, and how, after his wife died, so many of the single women in town brought him casseroles and cakes, hoping to impress Cliff Cooper. But he’d allowed only two people into his inner circle in those days and ever since: Lucy Conrad, his neighbor, and Lettie, her twin sister.
I waited for a few more minutes before deciding not to disturb Cliff’s rest. I had begun gathering my things, intent upon leaving, when he called out to me in a rusty voice.
“Don’t go yet, Jessica. I need to talk to you.”
“I’m here, Cliff. What can I do for you? Are you in pain? Would you like me to call the nurse?”
He shook his head and cleared his throat. “Bunch of pill pushers in this place.”
I laughed softly. “Most hospitals and nursing homes are like that. But if the pills will help you get better, don’t you think you should take them?”
“Too late for me. But I want you to do me a favor.”
“Anything that’s in my power,” I replied.
“I want Miss Simpson to sell the house before I die and give the money to my grandson. She knows. I called her. She said she’d get on it right away.”
“Didn’t you already provide for him in your will, Cliff?”
“Never got around to making one.”
“Well, it’s not too late. Would you like me to arrange a visit by your lawyer?”
“Don’t have one of those either. Just put it down on a piece of paper, if you would.”
I rummaged through my shoulder bag for a notebook and pen, scooted my chair closer to Cliff’s nightstand, and used the book I’d brought for him to lean on as I took his dictation. “Okay, I’ll write down what you say for now, but I’m bringing Fred Kramer with me tomorrow. He specializes in family law and estate planning. He probably has a simple form you can fill out with your instructions.”
“Do I know him?”
“He was a colleague of Cyrus O’Connor Senior and took over his law practice when Cy’s son gave it up to move to New York.”
“Junior was a foul ball if I remember correctly.”
“You do. But Fred Kramer is as upstanding as Cy Senior was. Will you talk with him if I can get him to come with me?”
“I suppose. I don’t want anyone making a claim on my property. I promised it to Elliot.”
“If you promised the house to Elliot, why do you want to sell it? Your grandson might like to inherit the home he grew up in.”
“He’s young and eager for adventure. The house would only tie him down. Knowing him, I figure he might feel guilty about getting rid of it, even if he wanted to. I don’t buy the whole business about it being the family home for generations. I don’t want anyone to put Elliot’s head in a bucket and trick him into keepin’ it.”
“Who would do that?”
“You never know. I want the decision out of his hands.”
“All right, but—”
“Don’t argue with me, Jessica.”
“No one’s arguing with you, Cliff. I only meant you might want to think about the legal—”
“It’s my house,” he said, raising his voice, “and I can do with it what I want, can’t I?”
He inhaled deeply, setting off a paroxysm of coughing. He ducked his head and hunched his shoulders, curling into the pillow as he attempted to muffle his spasm.
A nurse in a green uniform bustled into the room. I got out of her way and stood by the window. She roughly pulled my chair aside and made soothing noises as she began patting Cliff, making circles on his back with her hand. “Take it slow, Cliff. No deep breaths at first, just little soft ones. In through the nose, out through the mouth. That’s better, sweetheart. Didn’t I tell you what happens when you get excited? I could hear you yelling all the way down at the nurses’ station.” She aimed a stern look at me. “I’ve told him before that excitement isn’t good for him,” she said. “Maybe it’s time to wind up your visit, and tell the others to stay away, too.”
“Not her fault,” Cliff managed to squeeze out between coughs. He took a few short breaths and knocked the nurse’s arm away. “She stays.”
“Only if you calm down,” the nurse said, taking a step back and scowling, her gaze darting back and forth between Cliff and me.
Cliff made a circle with his finger, gesturing for me to take the chair again, and batted his hand at the nurse. “You can go now,” he told her.
“If you insist, but if I have to come in again, she leaves.” She walked out the door, rubbing her arm where Cliff’s slap had connected.
“Yeah, yeah,” Cliff said under his breath.
I couldn’t tell if the nurse heard him.
“Always too bossy, that one.”
I sat in the chair again.
“Where was I?” he asked.
“You were telling me you want Eve Simpson to sell your house and give Elliot the funds from it. There are going to be fees taken out for her commission, and taxes and other expenses. You know that, don’t you?”
“That’s okay. This way, he gets a lump sum and the freedom to do what he wants with it. No one can challenge him.”
“Who could challenge him?”
“No one. That’s the point. Did you write it down?”
“Yes. Is there more?”
“Yes.” He leaned back against the mattress, his eyes searching the ceiling for the right words.
“I want Lucy to have whatever she wants of my things, not that there’s anything valuable there. There are some bowls and such that my wife had. Glass things, I think. Or maybe they’re crystal. Don’t even remember when we got them. Might even’ve been wedding gifts. I never used ’em. Lucy can have them if she wants.” He closed his eyes and lay quietly for a while.
“Why won’t you let her visit you?” I asked softly.
Tears welled up under his closed lids. He wiped the moisture away. “I don’t want her to see me like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like this.” He looked down at the sheet that covered his body. “Like a beached striper, flopping and gasping for breath. She don’t need to remember me this way. I’d rather she remember me in better days. Now, let me autograph that thing.”
I gave him the paper I’d used to write down his bequests. He grabbed my pen with his right hand and signed his name.
“You give that to your lawyer friend. If he needs to get paid, there’s some cash in a hollowed-out book of poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. It’s on a bottom shelf in the library.”
“I didn’t know you read poetry,” I said.
“I don’t, and no one I know does either. That’s why I put my stash in there. If I’da used a Stephen King book, someone mighta borrowed it and I’d be out the money.”
“I’ll give this to Fred Kramer, but it may be wise to execute a more legal document. It’ll be much better if he comes to see you. Will you agree to see him?”
He nodded wearily. “If I’m still here. Give his name to the nurse. I’m not acceptin’ too many visitors. Takes too much outta me.” He heaved a sigh, then froze, his body stiffening.
“What is it?” I asked.
He let out a stream of air. “Whew! Was afraid I’d start it up again.”
“The cough?”
He nodded. “Ever’ time I try to take a deep breath. Doc is right. It’s all them years of wood dust in the air. It’s killing me now.”
“Seth says if you worked at getting better, you might be able to get well enough to go home. Why won’t you listen to him?”
“Not to say the doc don’t know his business, but a man knows when he’s dying, and I’m knockin’ at death’s door.”
“In that case, you may not be up to reading my new book,” I said, holding up the novel I’d brought as a gift. “Should I offer it to the nurse instead?”
“Put that back on the nightstand where you found it,” he said, scowling. “I’ll read it tonight. Good-bye, Jessica.”
“Good-bye, Cliff. I’ll be back. With the lawyer. You need a formal will, even though I expect you’re going to live a lot longer than you think.”
But I was wrong.
Chapter Two
1805 HOUSE FOR SALE
Charming historic colonial built by a sea captain for his young wife
• Spectacular water views
• 8 bedrooms, 3 baths, kitchen, dining room, laundry, library
• Lots of period details
• Separate barn on the property
• Price on request
• An Eve Simpson exclusive
“If Cliff Cooper knew what we’re doing, he would spin in his grave—that is, if he’d already been buried,” I said to Eve Simpson.
To Seth’s consternation and contrary to my prediction, Cliff had succumbed within a few days of my visit, and I was never able to arrange for him to execute a more formal will than the makeshift one he’d dictated to me. Attorney Fred Kramer said Cliff’s will would likely stand up in probate court, but he wished he could have made one with another witness’s signature on it.
“I have to get rid of those books, Jessica. No one wants to buy a house where the bookshelves are overflowing. They’re everywhere—on the floor, chairs, and on the steps going upstairs.”
“That may be, Eve, but just throwing away all these books would be a crime.”
“That’s why I asked you to look through them. If there’s anything of great value, I figured you’d recognize it.”
Eve steadied the library ladder, on which I was perched five steps up, while I inspected one of the multiple shelves of books in Cliff’s big seaside house, which she had recently advertised as on the market. With Cliff’s encouragement, Eve had started the sales process right away, putting a notice in the local newspaper and planning improvements to the huge house. She billed herself as Cabot Cove’s premier real estate agent, and I didn’t doubt that she was. She didn’t have a lot of competition. Even so, Cliff’s home was the historic Spencer Percy House, the oldest house in Cabot Cove. Selling it would provide considerable bragging rights, plus a sizable commission, if Eve could find a buyer. But that was a big “if.”
The house was much larger than the average family was likely to want. Cliff Cooper had been a widower with little interest in keeping it up, and with a tendency to save rather than throw things away. He was a hoarder, Cabot Cove’s version of the compulsive Collyer brothers, who collected tons of items in their New York town house in the first half of the twentieth century. Thank goodness Cliff hadn’t gone to the extremes of those famous siblings.
But he almost had.
Apart from two furnished bedrooms, other rooms in the Spencer Percy House had been repositories of cast-off furniture, old luggage, and piles of household items that were saved even though they no longer had a function in the lives of the occupants. Whether much of this had already been here when Cliff and his wife, Nanette, first moved in, or whether Cliff filled the empty spaces himself after her death, neither Eve nor I knew.
“Fred Kramer said he’s officially the lawyer for the estate. I assume that means he’s found Elliot,” Eve said.
“Yes, but don’t ask me how he discovered his whereabouts. He said Elliot was camping in Alaska with a friend who’s a bush pilot. He’s coming home, but he’s coming by motorcycle, of all things. We’ll have to hold off the funeral until he arrives.”
“When was the last time he was in Cabot Cove?”
“No idea. I never saw Elliot after Cliff sent him off to boarding school.”
“Well, at least Fred assured me that I’m free to do as I please with these books. What do you have there?”
“I’m no expert in antiquarian books,” I said, pulling out a large cloth-covered volume missing its dust jacket, “but I have to say that most of Cliff’s collection seems to be a combination of popular novels, outdated texts, old travel guides, and”—I flipped through the pages—“reference books from the last century. Hawaii isn’t even a state in this 1956 atlas.”
“Maybe I should call the junk man again,” Eve said. “Herb carted away at least a ton of magazines and newspapers before Cliff died.” She looked down at the faded carpeting. “That’s how I found out that this is an oriental rug. You couldn’t see the pattern with all the papers piled up on it. I didn’t dare bring Cecil here. He’s barely paper trained as it is.”
Eve’s Chihuahua, Cecil, was a canine senior citizen with dental problems and an occasionally weak bladder who’d belonged to an actress making a film in Cabot Cove. The actress had the misfortune of being killed on the set by someone with a grudge, and her grieving family wasn’t willing or able to adopt the dog. But Eve generously took him in, much to my relief, because he’d been a temporary boarder at my home.
“You don’t think Cliff’s grandson will want any of the books as a keepsake?” I asked.
“Fred says to do what I want with them, and that’s good enough for me.”
“Did you ask at the library?”
“They don’t want anything published before the year 2000, and Doris Ann said that was stretching it. She said the library can’t afford to hire the staff needed to sort through all the books people want to donate.”
I returned the atlas to the shelf and stepped back down the ladder. “Well, that’s a shame, but I doubt there’s much of value here to salvage. If there is, it’ll take greater expertise than I possess.” I tried to shake the cobwebs and dust off my hands but only succeeded in smearing the dirt even more. “If I’d known I’d be scrambling around in this grimy house, I’d have worn my old painting clothes. Those shelves look like they haven’t seen a vacuum or dust cloth in decades.”
“I’m sorry, Jessica. I didn’t realize it would be so bad.”
Eve, of course, was pristine in a taupe suit with a silk scarf in a navy check artfully arranged around her neck, not a wave out of place on her carefully coiffed head. I, on the other hand, was afraid to use my grubby fingers to replace the lock of hair that had fallen down on my forehead.
“Well, what’s done is done,” I said. “Where’s the nearest sink?”
“In the kitchen. Follow me.”
Eve led me through the library’s archway, down the main hall, and into a kitchen that had last been updated in the same decade as the atlas. Faded wallpaper with teapots on a yellow gingham background covered most of the walls, except where someone had pulled a section away to reveal even older wallpaper with stylized blue leaves surrounding bunches of cherries. The cast-iron sink was full of rust stains, but the cold tap worked, although it gave a loud groan before the water trickled out. I rinsed my hands, and Eve handed me a paper towel from a roll standing on the counter.
“If Fred Kramer said you’re free to remove the books, what do you think about putting on a secondhand book sale?” I suggested. “If nothing else, you’ll get a lot of people coming to see the house and perhaps attract a buyer. You might even sell as much as half the collection that way.”
A soft thud sounded from somewhere in the house.
“What was that?”
“Oh, these old houses are full of random noises,” Eve said.
“You’re sure it’s not Cliff Cooper back to haunt the place?” I said.
“Very funny, Jessica, but you’re not the first to suggest that.”
“That the house is haunted?”
“So rumor has it, but you can’t prove it by me, even though every time I’m here, I hear something new. Yesterday, I was sure I heard someone walking around on the second floor. I raced upstairs, ready to threaten to call the police on the trespasser, but no one was there.”
“I hope you don’t have raccoons or squirrels,” I said. “They’re difficult to remove.”
“Not according to the home inspector, but he found plenty of other things to repair, which is why, while I like the idea of a book sale, c’est impossible. I’m way too busy. There are a gazillion things to do before we’re ready for the open house. The place is falling down.”
We heard another loud thud, and Eve and I looked at each other in alarm. Then a voice called out a long, “Halloo?” and we heard footsteps approach the kitchen. We turned to see our sheriff’s head peeking around the corner. He had a big grin on his face. “Hello, ladies. Am I interrupting anything?”
“Good heavens, Mort, you gave us quite a start,” I said.
“Sheriff Metzger, you’re not to do that again,” Eve said. “You must’ve taken ten—or maybe five—years off my life.” She fanned her face with her hand.
“The front door was open,” he said, coming into the room. “I’ve never been in here. Thought I’d take a look around before someone buys it. Pretty big, huh? My wife would love this kitchen, although I wouldn’t love all the work it’ll take to fix it up.”
“It’s reasonably priced,” Eve said, recognizing a potential customer in Cabot Cove’s top law enforcement officer. “If you’re really interested, I’m sure we can work out a deal.”
“Whoa! Slow down. I’m not in the market to move. I’ve already given up two weekends painting the bathroom at home. With a project this size, I’d never see another football game again.”
“Well, if you change your mind, here’s my card.”
Mort tucked it in his pocket.
“Eve and I were just discussing what to do with Cliff Cooper’s books,” I said.
“Yeah? The guy must’ve been some brain. Did he really read all those books out there?” He gestured toward the hallway.
“I believe so,” I said. “The trouble was he didn’t know what to do with a book once he finished it.”
“But I do,” Eve said, making shoveling gestures.
A crackle of static and a tinny voice on a police radio reached our ears. “Come in, Sheriff Metzger. This is Deputy Chip. You got a ten-twenty-one B—that’s a ten-twenty-one B. Do you copy?”
“Oops! Gotta go,” Mort said.
“What’s a ten-twenty-one B?” Eve asked.
“It’s police radio code for ‘call your home,’” I said.
“I hope it’s not an emergency, Sheriff,” Eve said.
“It’ll be a ten-forty-five if I don’t bring my wife the bottle of vinegar she asked me to pick up. She’s practicing making an apple onion pie to enter in the Harvest Festival. See you, ladies.”
“What’s a ten-forty-five?” Eve whispered to me.
“A domestic dispute,” I whispered back. “Send our best to Maureen,” I called as he raced down the hall and out the door.
“He’s such a nice man,” Eve said.
“And a good sheriff,” I added as he left the house.
Eve sighed. “Too bad there’s no radio code for ‘Who wants a book?’ It will be impossible to stage the house for prospective buyers with all these dusty tomes cluttering up the place.”
“Since there’s so much on your calendar, why don’t you wait a little before making a decision on the books?” I said. “I know a gentleman in New York who runs a secondhand bookstore. He might be interested in taking a look at what’s here. He would know if Cliff had a gem buried among his odds and ends.”
“That would be absolument merveilleux, Jessica,” Eve said, clapping her hands. “I knew you would come up with a solution.”
“I’m not promising anything. His shop’s bookshelves are overflowing as it is. But even if he finds a prize or two, that doesn’t solve your problem of getting rid of thousands of other books, most of them probably worthless. A book sale is really your best bet.”
Eve pouted and cocked her head at me with a bright smile. “If you’d like to organize it, I’d split the profits with you, sixty-forty.”
“I wasn’t volunteering, Eve. I’m busy, too.”
“I’ll make it fifty-fifty.”
“It’s not the money,” I said, laughing, “but I tell you what. If you agree to run a sale as a fund-raiser for the library, I’ll help you make plans for it.”
“These books have to go. I suppose it’s better to make a little something on them than pay to have them hauled away.”
“Make a little something for the library, you mean.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Jessica Fletcher, but okay, I’ll give the library my half, after I pay Herb to cart off whatever we don’t sell.”
“In that case, I recommend that you get in a cleaning service to dust first.”
“They’re coming tomorrow, along with the painters and the roofers. I’m thinking carpenters may be next.”
“Who’s going to pay for the work that’s needed?” I asked.
“Fred Kramer said he’d allow me a small budget to fix up the place. He said he can do that as the lawyer for the estate. It’s a nice idea, but it’ll never be enough.”
“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” I said. “Cliff must have done repair work on half the homes in Cabot Cove, but he didn’t take the time to work on his own.”
“It’s like the shoemaker’s children going barefoot,” Eve said. “He told me the only place he did any carpentry in this house was in the basement. You’ll never believe what’s stored down there.”
“I can guess. More books.”
Eve sighed and nodded.
We paused at the entrance to the library and took a last look at the spacious room. The drapery had been pulled aside many years ago, and I suspected it might fall apart if anyone tried to close the panels now. The once-red oriental carpeting had darker patches where mounds of papers had kept it from fading. The few pieces of furniture included a well-worn leather recliner next to the fireplace, a round library table with stacks of books covering its surface, and two sturdy wooden chairs with frayed cushions.
Seeing that two books had fallen off the table, I crossed the room to pick them up.
“Oh, don’t bother, Jessica. You can spend your life here picking things up.”
“It’s no trouble. I didn’t notice them before.” I leaned down to retrieve the first book, a paperback with a lurid cover showing a woman in the grip of a knife-wielding assailant. The title was Betrayal!
Meanwhile, Eve had picked up the other book. “I didn’t realize Cliff went in for this sort of thing,” she said, handing it to me so I could see the cover illustration.
“I guess he was a fan of noir mysteries.” I grimaced at the picture of blood dripping down a shattered door over which black letters spelled out Taking My Revenge.
“Do you know the author?” she asked.
“Graham P. Hobart. No. His name is not familiar.” I placed both books on the shortest stack on the table.
Eve shivered. “That’s some imagination. I wouldn’t want to meet Mr. Hobart in a dark alley,” she said as we exited the room. “Do you really think anyone would want to buy books like that?”
“Cliff Cooper did. There are readers for all kind of books.”
Eve opened the front door and drew a ring of keys from her pocket. “I’ll drop you at home first, and you can call your friend about the books. If he’s not interested, I guess we’ll have to put on the book sale. Either way, the quicker we get rid of them, the happier I’ll be.”
As she pulled the door closed to lock it, I thought I heard another thud from inside the house. I cocked my head; the sound didn’t repeat itself. I thought about the rumor that the Spencer Percy House was haunted. How silly, I thought as we walked to where she’d parked her car on the gravel driveway. I love a good ghost story as much as the next person, but that’s what they are: stories—the inventions of fiction writers and people with vivid imaginations. I looked back at the imposing house, smiled, got in Eve’s car, and she drove us toward town.
Chapter Three
“Arthur’s Selected Works, secondhand but never second-class. May I help you?”
“Arthur? It’s Jessica Fletcher. Am I getting you at a bad time?”
“Jessica Fletcher! How delightful to hear your voice again.”
He yelled to someone in his shop, “Roger, put those Shirley Jacksons over in the horror section, and bring me the stepladder.”
“I can call you back if you’re too busy,” I said.
“No! No! I may be up to my elbows in first editions, but I always have time for you, my dear. Just need to get off my feet so we can chat. There. That’s better.”
“Thank you, Arthur. It’s been quite a while.”
“Can’t believe you abandoned the Big Apple for the boondocks. How do you like it up there in the backwoods of Maine?”
“Actually, Cabot Cove is on the coast, and I like it just fine. Love it, in fact. How have you been?”
“Oh, toddling along. The city is being bought up by foreigners who don’t read. The neighborhood streets are clogged with stroller pushers who won’t touch a pre-owned Dr. Seuss unless it’s guaranteed to have been sanitized. Do they think Barnes and Noble disinfects the children’s section every night? Thank goodness for the tourists, who’ll accept any souvenir so long as it has a ‘New York’ label. I’ve made up a thousand bookplates with the shop’s name and added ‘The favorite bookstore of knowing New Yorkers.’ ‘Knowing New Yorkers.’ I like the subtle alliteration, don’t you? They only get a bookplate if they buy a book.”
“Clever marketing,” I said. “Is it working?”
“Occasionally. I could make more money selling the bookplates, but unfortunately that’s not my business. Well, you do what you have to do to survive.” He called out to the other person with him. “Roger, the Higgins Clark books go on the cozy shelf, not the hard-boiled. Yes, I know Clark is close to Chandler alphabetically, but that isn’t the point.” His sigh was exaggerated. “Sorry, Jessica. He’s a new employee. Still there?”
“Yes, Arthur, but if you’d rather I call at another time—”
“This time is as good as any. The book business is never going to make me a millionaire. I can spare a few minutes out of the workday for an old friend. I tell you, Jessica, it gets worse every year. The landlord threatened to raise my rent again. He said his taxes are going up. Whose aren’t? But when I told him I’d walk away and let him get rid of my inventory himself, he had a change of heart. Thank goodness for that.”
“Yes, thank goodness. It would be a great loss to the city if you closed. And speaking of inventory,” I said, hoping to stop Arthur’s rant before he tired of talking or was pulled away.
“The books, you mean?”
“Yes, of course the books. That’s why I’m calling.”
“If you’re looking for any first editions of your own work, Jessica, I’m sad to say I’m all out. Well, maybe ‘sad’ isn’t the right word. Selling the books is what the shop is all about even if I’m loath to give up my old favorites.”
“Oh, no, I have plenty of copies of my own books,” I said. “I have boxes of them stored in the attic.”
“You do know that if you ever want to sell any of them, you have only to call. We don’t have to wait until you’re at death’s door. Brrrr. How did we get on this grim subject?”
“Thank you for the offer, Arthur, but I’m not ready to part with them just yet. Actually, I’m calling to ask you if you’d be interested in reviewing someone else’s books—”
“Look out, Roger! That pile is about to teeter over!”
“Arthur?” I said. “Are you there?”
“Yes, unfortunately. You were saying?”
“That I’ve come across a collection of books—the owner passed away recently—and before we put them up—”
“No! No! No!”
“I understand if you’re too busy to come up here. I just thought—”
“I wasn’t talking to you, Jessica. Roger is going to be the death of me. I’m sorry to ring off, but we’ve got a near disaster here. So good talking with you, my dear. Let’s do it again soon. Ciao.”
Click!
I looked down at the phone and shook my head. I knew that it would be a long shot calling Arthur Bannister. After all, despite his complaints, there are many avid readers in New York City, and his shop was a mecca for them in four languages. Arthur was a linguist along with being a bookseller—he spoke Spanish, Italian, and French as well as English—and kept track of every New Yorker with an important book collection. By combing through the daily obituaries, he also knew when they died. That was how he’d built his inventory, helping bereaved families dispose of their dearly departeds’ books. Not that Cliff Cooper’s book collection was important, but I hadn’t even gotten around to presenting my case. I decided to send Arthur a letter—old-fashioned, yes, but I knew if my message was on paper, it would get his attention.
I typed up my request on the computer, printed it out, and signed it, adding a handwritten P.S. that it had been nice speaking with him.
Cliff Cooper’s book collection numbered in the thousands, between those on the shelves in his library, scattered throughout the house, and even more stashed away in the cellar at the Spencer Percy House. What were the chances that Arthur Bannister could find a valuable first edition among them? I didn’t know. But I was hoping to coax him to bring his expertise to Cabot Cove, perhaps even to give a lecture at the library about collecting books. I was sure that his presence would stimulate a lot of interest in Cliff Cooper’s books and would spur sales. It would also shine a light on the library.
As a member of the Friends of Cabot Cove Library, I was well aware of that institution’s budget shortfalls, and I always contributed to the annual appeal. But now an opportunity had presented itself to do more, and if my hometown library needed my help, I wanted to be the first to raise my hand.
Where would we authors be without libraries?
I’d participated for many years in programs at libraries around the country to talk about writing and to promote my books. It was how many of my fans first came to know about the mysteries of J. B. Fletcher. Eve’s casual comment about the library needing more staff had inspired my offer to help her with the book sale. It would benefit everyone. Book lovers could find bargains. Eve would clear the shelves at the Spencer Percy House. And the library would make money, maybe even enough to hire extra help.
I tucked my letter to Arthur in my shoulder bag, locked the house, and wheeled my trusty bicycle to the road. I intended to stop at the post office first and then visit the library. I hoped that Doris Ann, our librarian, would like the idea of a book sale. It wasn’t as if the library hadn’t held one before, but this time there would be a good many more books than usual. If Eve and I were to be successful in our quest to raise a substantial amount of money, we would need the cooperation of the library and its friends.
As usual, the post office was crowded. Charlene Sassi was juggling two cartons and trying to open the door when I arrived. I rushed forward. “Can I help you with those?”
She turned to me. “If you would take the top one, Jessica, I’d be eternally grateful. It keeps slipping to the side. I’m afraid it’s going to slide off.”
I picked up the top carton as a man exited the post office and held the door open for us. We found the last person in line and took our places behind him.
“Thanks, Jessica. You’re a lifesaver. You can put the box back on top now.”
“It’s no trouble to hold it, Charlene.” I lifted the box and sniffed it. “Sending some lucky person baked goods from Cabot Cove’s best bakery?”
“Cabot Cove’s only bakery, you mean.” Charlene chuckled. She was being modest, though; her shop was one of the most popular spots in town. In addition to a variety of fresh breads and pastries, Charlene served coffee, tea, and hot chocolate for those who simply couldn’t wait to sample her goods. Many an evening’s dessert was consumed in the morning at the picnic tables outside the bakery, resulting in duplicate sales with no one the wiser at home.
“I made cookies for my niece and nephew in Ohio, but if you can smell them, I didn’t wrap them properly.”
“It’s probably just my imagination,” I said. “Whenever I see you, the wonderful aromas in your shop reach my nose. But as long as I have your attention, may I run an idea by you?”
“Of course.”
I told Charlene about the book sale that Eve and I were hoping to arrange, and asked if she’d be willing to hang a flyer in her store to help promote the event.
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll bring cookies to the sale and contribute the proceeds to the library.”
“That’s so generous. Thank you.”
“No thanks needed, Jessica. This is a community event, and we’re all part of the community. Once you set a date, I’ll announce it at the Chamber of Commerce meeting. I’m sure every store in town will post your flyer and want to help out in any way they can.”
By the time Charlene mailed off her cookies and it was my turn at the counter, we had worked out a plan for local merchants to sponsor a table of books in exchange for a sign at the event and a mention in the Cabot Cove Gazette. I stepped forward, pleased that arrangements for the book sale were already starting to take shape.
The postal clerk greeted me. “How can I help you today, Jessica?”
“I just need some stamps, Debbie. What have you got that’s cheerful?”
Debbie pointed to a poster showing the post office’s current offerings, including stamps celebrating the circus, the War of 1812, Harry Potter books, and the Battle of Lake Erie. I bought a panel of Forever stamps depicting American songbirds, and stepped aside so the next person could approach the counter. The colorful stamps were charming, and I was delighted to see that some visitors to my bird feeder were among them. I peeled off the evening grosbeak, affixed it to my envelope, and slipped my letter to Arthur Bannister into the mail slot.
“That reminds me—I need to buy birdseed,” I murmured to myself.
Where to Download Murder, She Wrote: the Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher, by Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain, Renée Paley-Bain
Most helpful customer reviews
10 of 11 people found the following review helpful. A Wonderful Change of Pace in the Series, a Spooky, Fun Ride By Miss Monograms Is there anything better than a cozy mystery on a cool fall night? Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain, and (finally receiving the credit she deserves) Renee Paley-Bain, bring us the latest glimpse into the life of my favorite faux-mystery writer and the idyllic town of Cabot Cove (which also happens to lead the country in murders per square mile). I'm not this book's target audience, being in my mid-twenties, I never saw an episode of Murder She Wrote during it's original run, but fell in love with the spunky and sweet J.B. through Netflix. Since finishing all the episodes last year, these books have become my dirty little secret. They bring back the warmth (weird to say even though a murder taking place is a given) of the show, while adding an additional layer to the characters.This particular novel is set in Cabet Cove in October and begins with the death of an old friend of Jessica's. Not someone I remember from the show or previous books, this death gets the story rolling, but isn't emotionally taxing. Jessica is tasked with weeding through and organizing the massive collection of books in her departed friend's old home, while Eve Simpson is trying to ready the old, unmaintained home for sale. A mysterious grandson, the change from a natural death to homicide, and a handyman that disapears and reappears at a whim are all causes of concern for Jess.The Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher has a slightly different feel than the last few Murder She Wrote releases and I really enjoyed the story. So much so, that it was absolutely impossible to put down. The timing couldn't have been more perfect. I love how it aligned to the story (the story and the book release taking place in October) and I'm feeling much more into the Halloween mood after finishing the book. I recommend picking it up, grabbing a blanket, and curling up in front of the fireplace.
7 of 7 people found the following review helpful. Another relaxing read. By Maili GMa Enjoyable book. Let go of the stresses in you life and return to Cabot Cove. I always seem a little lighter and smile a little more after reading her books. This one was no exception. Some people may complain they knew certain things early on, but for me i didn't let it interfere with my enjoyment. Then again maybe you are destined to be the next Mrs. Fletcher!!
5 of 5 people found the following review helpful. 5 Stars for Jessica, Again By Ellie If you're a Murder, She Wrote fan, you will definitely enjoy, "The Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher." I always seem to enjoy the books based on her home town of Cabot Cove a little more than the ones that take place in other states / countries. This one is no exception. From cover to cover it is pure enjoyment. Nice to read books that are not based on sex.
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Murder, She Wrote: the Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher, by Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain, Renée Paley-Bain
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Murder, She Wrote: the Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher, by Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain, Renée Paley-Bain
