Fletch's Moxie Read Online Free PDF Page A

Murdered?”
    Fletch thought. “No. I don’t think she said anything more than I’ve told you.”
    “‘Don’t think’?”
    “I know. I know she didn’t say anything more.” On the foot of the leg crossed over his knee, the moccasin was half off. “Except to identify herself to me as Marge Peterman.”
    “In response to a question?”
    “I had asked her if she was Peterman’s wife.”
    “You saw roughly the same thing Marjory Peterman saw, Mister Fletcher. What did you think had happened to Peterman?”
    “I was trying to think what could have happened to him. I guess I was thinking he had suffered some kind of an internal hemorrhage. To account for the blood on his lips.”
    “You did not consider the possibility of murder?”
    “No way. The son of a bitch was on television. I hadn’t heard a gunshot. Who’d think of anyone sticking a knife into someone else on an open, daylit stage, with three cameras running?”
    “That, Mister Fletcher,” said Nachman looking down at her blotter, “is why I’ve called this meeting. So.” She swiveled her chair sideways to the desk. “You had never seen Marjory Peterman before. But you did know Steven Peterman?”
    “Ah.” Fletch felt color come to his cheeks. “You say that because I called the son of a bitch a son of a bitch.”
    “Yes,” Nachman nodded. “I could characterize that as a clue of your having a previous, personal opinion of the deceased.”
    “I knew him slightly.”
    “How’s that?” She turned her head and smiled at him. “I think it’s time for another one of your concise statements, Mister Reporter.”
    “About nine months ago, he spent a longish weekend at my home in Italy. Cagna, Italy.”
    “Italy? Are you Italian?”
    “I’m a citizen of the United States. Voting age, too.”
    “Is Italy where you got those shorts?”
    Fletch looked down at his shorts and lifted the hands in his pockets. “They have good pockets. You can carry books in them, notebooks, sandwiches…”
    “Or a knife,” she said simply. “In most of the clothes these film people are wearing you couldn’t conceal a vulgar thought. So. Are you going to tell me why Peterman visited you in Italy?”
    “Of course.”
    “Tell me first why you have a house in Italy. I mean, a struggling young reporter, no matter how precise you are… Cagna’s on the Italian Riviera, isn’t it?”
    “I have a little extra money.”
    “Must be nice to be born rich.”
    “Must be,” Fletch said. “I wasn’t.”
    She waited for a further explanation, but Fletch offered none.
    “Now, I’d like to know why Peterman visited you at your Italian palace.”
    “He was travelling with Moxie Mooney. She was on a press tour of Europe. Moxie visited me. At my little villa. He was with her.”
    Her eyebrows rose. “So? You knew Moxie Mooney before?”
    “I’ve always known Moxie Mooney. We were in school together.”
    “Some humble reporter,” Nachman commented. “Entertain big movie stars and film producers at his Italian estate. Wait until I tell the guys and gals on the local police beat. They can’t even afford to go to the movies twice a week. You must spell better than they do.”
    “Never mind,” Fletch said. “They don’t like me already.”
    “So on that weekend at your little villa’ in Italy, who slept with whom?”
    “What a question.”
    “Yes,” Nachman said. “It’s a question. Were Moxie Mooney and Steven Peterman intimate?”
    “No.”
    “You’re making me ask every question, aren’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Were you and Ms Mooney intimate?”
    “Sure.”
    “Why ‘sure’? Are you and Ms Mooney lovers?”
    “Off and on.”
    “‘Off and on’.” Chin on hand, elbow on deskblotter, Roz Nachman contemplated what
off and on
could mean. Finally, she shook her head. “I think you should explain.”
    “Not sure I can.”
    “Try,” she said. “So the hems of Justice will be neat.”
    “You see.” Fletch looked at the ceiling. “Each