Fletch’s Moxie

13

Fletch pushed open the door with his foot and carried the tray into his mid-day darkened bed-room. On the tray were a few cut sandwiches, a pitcher of orange juice and a glass. He placed the tray on the bedside table.

Moxie was an X on the bed. She had removed her bikini top.

“I didn’t kill Steve,” she said.

“We have to find who did, Moxie. You’re seriously implicated. Or, you’re going to be. Once the facts come out. I mean, about your funny financial dealings with Peterman.”

“‘Financial dealings’. I didn’t even understand them. I trusted the bastard, Fletch.” She groaned. “Millions of dollars in debt.”

“I know you didn’t understand them. I under-stand you had to trust someone. Either you had to be a creative person, or a business person. You had an opportunity to throw yourself one hundred percent into your creative life, and it was good for everybody that you did.”

“Don’t judges and people like the I.R.S. understand that sort of thing? It’s not hard to understand.”

“Not in this country, anyway. In this country, everything is a business. Being creative is a business. Except you don’t have any executive staff, board of directors, business training or experience to fall back on. That’s all your fault, you see, because being creative here is really being nothing. In America, a creative person is only as good as his income. When you sign something, it signifies you understand what you’re signing. And you’re solely responsible for what you’ve signed.”

“But Goddamn it, it happens all the time. You read about it—”

“So you have to protect yourself.”

“So Steve Peterman was supposed to protect me.”

“So maybe he screwed you.”

“And that’s what happens all the time. Jeez, Fletch.”

“Ignorance is no defense in the law, they say. More to the point, it’s almost impossible to prove you didn’t know what you didn’t know. Playing dumb is a courtroom cliche.”

“Courtroom! O-oh. You had to use that word, didn’t you?”

“Sorry.” He sat on the bed. “Trouble is, you see, you did understand something. You arrived in Steve Peterman’s office, during his absence, and went through his books. Two weeks later, sitting next to you, he gets stabbed to death.”

There was a long silence in the darkened room. Her eyes roamed the ceiling. She sighed. “Looks bad.”

“Moxie, I have a friend in New York, a good friend, who is both a lawyer and a Certified Public Accountant. I believe in this person. He’ll need your written permission, but I’d like him to review your books in Steve Peterman’s office. So we’ll know how much financial trouble you’re really in.”

“What does it matter? They’re going to try me for murder.”

“There’s a chance—a small chance—you read the books all wrong. That Steve represented you well. That you have no complaints. That you had no motive to murder him.”

“Fat chance.”

“It’s worth a shot. And if the news is bad, it’s proven you did have a motive to murder him—”

“Don’t tell me. Just lead me to the execution chamber.”

“—then at least we’ll know that. We have to move fast on this. I expect the authorities will want a look at those books, too. We want to beat them to it.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Sign this piece of paper.” He took a paper from the pocket of his shorts and unfolded it. “Giving my friend, Marty Satterlee, permission to review your financial accounts.” He took a pen from another pocket.

“Okay.” She sat up and signed the paper on his knee.

“I’ll call him immediately and send a messenger up to New York with your written permission.”

“Send a messenger to New York?”

“There must be someone in Key West who wouldn’t mind a free ride to the big city and back.”

“Wow. Sounds like you’re in the movie business.”

“No,” Fletch said. “This is serious business.”

She lay back on the bed. The back of her hand was on her brow. “Bunch of savages downstairs,” she said.

“You seemed glad enough to see them.”

“I never thought—until Edith gave me those pastoral eyes—they’d all think I murdered Steve. If they think I murdered someone, why are they so eager to come stay in the same house with me?”

“I don’t know,” Fletch said. “Maybe because they’re friends.” Moxie snorted. “Well, their being here is a gesture of support.”

“When I want support,” Moxie said, “I’ll buy a girdle.”

“No need for that yet, old thing.” His hand passed over her breasts and stomach and hips. “But you might work on it.” He picked up the plate of sandwiches. “Cream cheese and olive?”

“No. I just want a nap.”

He put down the plate. “Orange juice?”

“No.”

“Want company?”

“Just want to sleep. Stop thinkin’. Stop painin’.”

“Okay. Hey, Moxie, that Roz Nachman—re-member who she is?”

“Yeah. The Chief of Detectives.”

“She’s one smart, tough woman, I think. I expect we can have some faith in her.”

“Okay,” Moxie said. “If you say so.”

Before Fletch opened the door, Moxie said, “Fletch?”

“Yeah?”

“What do I do about the funeral? I should go to Steve’s funeral.”

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t stand the thought of it.”

“Send flowers. Poison ivy. That will look good in court.”

“I’m thinking of Marge.”

“Moxie, darlin’, in case you haven’t got the point of all my fancy-dancin’ the last twenty-four hours, right now you have to think about yourself.”

There was a moment’s silence from the bed. Then she said. “Just now I’d like to stop thinkin’.”

“Oh, and Moxie, hate to hit you when you’re down, but, one more thing…” There was complete silence from the bed. “… You just signed a piece of paper in a dark room. You didn’t even try to read it.” The silence from the bed continued. “You ought to stop doing things like that, Marilyn. Sleep well.”