Fletch’s Moxie

22

After a long silence, while Fletch waited, the man’s voice drawled over the phone, “Sorry. Chief Nachman says she can’t come to the phone now.”

“Please,” said Fletch, with as much dignity as he could enlist. “Tell her it’s her earwig calling.”

“Earwig? You mean that little no-see-’um bug?”

“Right.” Alone in the study at the back of The Blue House Fletch smiled. “Earwig.”

There was another long silence before Chief of Detectives Roz Nachman picked up. “Yes, Fletcher?”

“Thank you for answering, Chief. You’re working late.”

“Has one of your house guests become overwhelmed with remorse and confessed to murder?”

“It’s a classier crime than that.”

“I know it is.”

“I have a line of investigation for you, though. Just a suggestion, really.”

“Suggest away.”

“Steve Peterman must have had some kind of a car. A rented car or something. Everyone was up and down that Route 41 so much, between the two beaches.”

“I suppose so.”

“I suggest you check Peterman’s car to see if it’s been in an accident. A hit-and-run accident.”

Nachman did not pause long. “You talking about McKensie’s wife?”

“Just a thought. Wouldn’t take much to check it out.”

“I see.”

“For what it’s worth,” Fletch said. “All right.”

“Is there still nothing showing up on all that film?”

“Nothing.”

“And the experts aren’t discovering anything funny about the set?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a real significant fact in itself.”

“Good night, Irwin. I’m busy.”