here this morning?”

“Yes.”

“You had the opportunity to kill him?”

“I suppose so. Lydia said the door to the suite was open when she found him. Anyone could have walked in and scissored him.”

“What else do you know about the murder, Crystal?”

“That it’s going to be the best reported crime in history. There are more star reporters at Hendricks Plantation at this moment than have ever been gathered under one roof before. In fact, I suspect more are showing up unexpectedly, simply because of the murder. Do you realize what it would be worth to a person’s career to scoop the murder of Walter March—with all this competition around?”

“Yeah.”

“It would be worth more than a handful of Pulitzer Prizes.”

“Whose scissors was it? Do you know?”

“Someone took it from the hotel desk. The reception desk.”

“Oh.”

“You thought you had the murder solved already, eh, Fletcher?”

“Well, I was thinking. Not many people carry scissors with them when they travel—at least ones big enough to stab someone—and anyone who would carry scissors that big most likely would be a woman.…”

“Fletcher, you must get rid of this chauvinism of yours. I’ve talked to you before about this.”

“It’s a moot point now anyway, if the scissors came from the hotel desk, where anybody could palm them.”

“Anyway,” Crystal said. “It’s hilarious. All the reporters are running around, pumping everybody. The switchboard is all jammed up with outgoing calls. I doubt there’s a keyhole in the whole hotel without an ear to it.”

“Yeah,” Fletch said. “Funny.”

“You go have your rub, sybarite. Will I see you at the Welcoming Cocktail Party?”

“You bet,” Fletch said. “I wouldn’t miss it for all the juleps in Virginia.”

“You’ll be able to recognize me,” Crystal said. “I’ll be wearing my fat.”

Seven

“Another one,” the masseuse said.

Fletch was lying on his back on the massage table.

She was working on the muscles in his right leg.

He had been told he would have to wait more than an hour for the masseur to be free.

The masseuse was a big blond in her fifties. She looked Scandinavian, but her name was Mrs. Leary.

He had waited until she was finished with his right arm before mentioning Walter March.

His question was: “Did Walter March come in for a massage last night?”

The masseuse said, “I’m beginning to understand just how you reporters operate. How you get what you write. What do you call ’em? Sources. Sources for what you write. You’re always quoting some big expert or other. ‘Sources.’ Huh! Now I see you all just rush to some little old lady rubbin’ bones in the basement and ask her about everything. I’m no expert, Mister, on anything. And I’m no source.”

Fletch looked down the length of himself at the muscles in her arms.

“Experts,” he said, “are the sources of opinions. People are the sources of facts.”

“Uh.” She dug her fingers into his thigh. “Well, I’m no source of either facts or opinions. I’ll tell you one thing. I’ve never been so busy. You’re the ninth reporter I’ve massaged today, every one of ’em wanting me to talk about Mister March. I suppose I should make somethin’ up. Satisfy everybody. It’s good for business. But I’m near wore out.”

Having worked for him, Fletch knew Walter March had massages frequently. Apparently at least eight other reporters knew that too.

“If you want a massage, I’ll give you a massage.” She took her hands off him, and looked up and down his body. “If you want me to talk, I’ll talk. I’ll just charge you for the massage. Either way.”

Fletch looked into a corner of the ceiling.

He said, “I tip.”

“Okay.”

Her fingers went into his leg again.

“Your body don’t look like the other reporters’.”

Fletch said, “Walter March.”

“He had a good body. Very good body for an old gentleman. Slim. Good skin tone, you know what I mean?”

“You mean you massaged him?”

“Sure.”

“Not the masseur?”

“What’s surprising about that? I’m rubbing you.”

“Walter March was sort of puritanical.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

She was working her way up his left leg.

Fletch said, “Oh, boy.”

“That feel good?”

Fletch said, “Life is hard.”

“Walter March was a pretty important man?”

“Yes.”

“He ran a newspaper or something?”

“He owned a lot of them.”

“He was very courteous,” she said. “Courtly. Tipped good.”

“I’ve got it about the tip,” Fletch said.

She finished his left arm.

Suspending her breasts over his face, she rubbed his stomach and chest muscles vigorously.

“Oh, God,” he said.

“What?”

“These are not ideal working conditions.”

“I’m the one who’s doing the work. Turn over.”

Face down, nose in the massage table’s nose hole, Fletch said, “Walter March.” He couldn’t get himself up