Fletch's Fortune Part 36

"Dead battery."

Gillis shook his head, just as Fletch had.

"I don't know," Gillis said. "This guy... did he murder old man March, or did he think Junior murdered him? Or was he just plain jealous of Junior, now that Molinaro's dream of being recognized by his father was over?"

Fletch walked along quietly a moment, before saying, "You'll have to ask Captain Neale, I guess."

"You know," Gillis said, "everyone thought an attempt was being made on the Vice-President's life."

"Yeah."

"I did, too, at first, until I realized this was another March who was dead. Who'd ever want to kill the Vice-President of the United States? One could have a greater effect upon national policy by killing the White House cook."

"Who was in the helicopter?" Fletch asked.

"Oh, that." Gillis' chins were quivering with mirth. "Some Marine Corps General. He was here for some ceremony or other, a presentation of some kind, pin a medal on someone. And while the General was making this big entrance, landing in a helicopter on the back lawn, the Vice-President of the United States was arriving at the front of the hotel in an economy-size car-completely ignored."

They were both laughing, and Molinaro was still unconscious.

"As soon as everyone realized what had happened, that Junior had been shot, the Secret Service hustled the Vice-President back into his car, and back to Washington, and the General climbed aboard his helicopter and took off. The only thing the Vice-President was heard to say, during his stay at Hendricks Plantation, was, 'My! The military live well!' "

They came onto the back lawns of Hendricks Plantation.

Indeed, the helicopter was gone.

People were playing golf on the rolling greens the other side of the plantation house.

"You want to carry the rifle?" Fletch asked.

"No, no. I wouldn't take from your moment of glory."

Fletch said, "This isn't glory."

Captain Neale saw them from the terrace, and came down to the lawn to meet them.

A couple of uniformed State Policemen followed him.

Neale indicated the man across the saddle of Fletch's horse.

"Who's that?" he asked.

Fletch said, "Joseph Molinaro."

"Can't be," Neale said. "Molinaro's only about thirty. Younger."

Still on his horse, Gillis said, "Look at his face."

Neale lifted Molinaro's head by the hair.

"My, my," Neale said.

Fletch handed his reins to one of the uniformed policemen.

Neale asked Fletch, "Did Molinaro kill young March?"

Fletch handed Neale the rifle. "Easy to prove. This is the weapon he was carrying."

Over Neale's shoulder, Fletch saw Eleanor Earles appear on the terrace.

"Did you speak to Lydia March?" Fletch asked Neale.

"No."

"No?"

Neale said, "She's dead. Overdose. Seconal."

Eleanor Earles was approaching them.

Even at a distance, Fletch could see the set of her face. It seemed frozen.

"She left a note," Neale said. "To Junior. Saying she wouldn't say why, but she had murdered her husband. The key thing is, she said the night they arrived she went back downstairs to the reception desk to order flowers for the suite, and stole the scissors she had seen on the desk when they'd checked in. Now that he's reminded of it, the desk clerk says he was puzzled at the time why she hadn't telephoned the order down. He had also been slightly insulted, because flowers had been put in all the suites, and Mrs. March had said the flowers in Suite 3 were simply inadequate."

Eleanor Earles was standing near them, staring at the man slung over the saddle.

Neale noticed her.

"Hey," he said to the uniformed policemen, "let's get this guy off the horse."

Gillis got off his horse, to help.

Eleanor Earles watched them take Molinaro off the horse and put him on the ground.

In a moment, her face still frozen, she turned and walked back toward the hotel.

From what Fletch had seen, there was no way Eleanor Earles could have known, from that distance, whether her son was dead or alive.

Thirty-six.

"Good afternoon. The Boston Star Star."

"Jack Saunders, please."

Fletch had gone directly to Room 102-Crystal Faoni's room-and banged on the door.

Tired and teary, she opened the door.

Fletch guessed that, badly upset by her experience of trying to breathe life into a dead man-into a dead Walter March, Junior-Crystal had been napping fully clad on her bed in the dark room.

"Wake up," Fletch said. "Cheer up."

"Really, Fletch, at this moment I'm not sure I can stand your relentless cheer."

He entered her room while she still held onto the doork.n.o.b.

He pulled the drapes open.

"Close the door," he said.

She sighed. And closed the door.

"What's the best way to get a job in the newspaper business?" he asked.

She thought a moment. "I suppose have a story no one else has. A real scoop. Is this another game?"

"I've got a story for you," he said. "A real scoop. And, maybe, if we work it right, a job in Boston with Jack Saunders."

"A job for me?"

"Yes. Sit down while I explain."

"Fletch, I don't need a story from you. I can get my own story. Amusing lad though you are, I sort of resent the idea I need to get a story from you or from anyone else."

"You're talking like a woman."

"You noticed."

"Why are you talking like a woman?"

"Because you're talking like a man? You come bounding in here, offering to give me a story, arrange a job for me, as if I were someone who has to be taken care of, as if you, The Big He, are the source of The Power and The Glory Forever and Ever. Ah, men!"

"Golly, you speak well," Fletch said. "You just make that up?"

"Just occasionally, Fletch, you have problems with male chauvinism. I've mentioned it to you."

"Yes, you have."

"I know you try hard to correct yourself and better yourself but, Fletcher, darling, remember there can be no end to the self-improvement bit."

"Thank you. Now may we get on to the matter at hand?"

"No."

"No?"

"No. I'm not accepting a story from you. I'm not accepting a job from you. I wouldn't even accept dinner from you."

"What?"

"Well. Maybe I'd accept dinner."

After his ride into the hills to find Joseph Molinaro and his long walk back, Fletch was feeling distinctly chilled by Crystal's air conditioner.

"Crystal, do you think this is the way Bob McConnell would respond to such an offer from me?"

"No."

"Stuart Poynton?"

"Of course not."

"Tim Shields?"

"They're not women."

"They're also not friends."

He popped his eyes at her.

She looked away.

Neither of them had sat down.

He said, "Do you mind if I turn down your air-conditioning?"

"Go ahead."

"Can a man and woman be friends?" he asked.

He found the air conditioner controls. They had been set to HIGH. He turned them to LOW.

"Are friends people who consider each other?" he asked.

She said, "I can get my own story."

"Do you know Lydia March killed herself?" he asked.

"No."

"Do you know she killed her husband?"

"No."