Murder, She Wrote

Tonight on Murder, She Wrote.

And all of this gaudy jewelry makes you a target for the thief?

Hey!

Who are you? What are you doing on this island?

Mrs. Eric Brahm, at your service, world.

And so she decides that she's gonna kill all of his mistresses, one by one.

My loyalty stops at two dead bodies.

Went to the old buzzard's funeral four years ago.

We are dealing with a professional thief, who kills his victims to keep them quiet.

No.

The robbery was a cover for another motive.

Good morning, Madame. Welcome to the Brittany Bay.

Thank you, young man. Will you see to my luggage?

It consists of five matched pieces, unmarked.

Please see that I leave with them in the same condition.

Yes, Madame.

Mrs. Marguerite Canfield, Lincoln, Nebraska.

Oh, yes, Mrs. Canfield.

My wire specified your largest and finest suite.

I'm afraid, Madame, that the King Louis is already occupied,

but I'm sure you'll find the Bonaparte quite acceptable.

Young woman, I have never found

that little Corsican even barely tolerable.

Mrs. Canfield?

So nice to have you at the Brittany.

Myrna Montclair. I'm delighted to meet you.

- Have we met? - No.

I've seen you somewhere before.

Perhaps the movies, my previous career.

Well, I rarely attend the cinema.

Perhaps I've seen your face staring at me from some magazine cover.

Well, I do hope you enjoy your stay.

I'm sure I will, miss Montclair, or it will be a short one.

"Jessica, I'm in trouble."

Desperately need your help and advice.

I sense a terrible danger, but I can't leave the island.

Will explain when you arrive.

"Antoinette."

Madame Fletcher.

It is Madame Fletcher, isn't it?

I don't know who you are, Sir, but my name is...

My name is Chief Inspector Claude Rensselaer, Island Police.

We spoke on the phone.

Oh, yes.

I believe I warned you not to come here.

Well, Madame, not only do you appear,

but you come dressed in a manner that can only invite trouble.

Inspector, Antoinette Farnsworth was a very dear friend of mine.

Her last act, before she was brutally murdered,

was to write a letter to me, asking for my help.

Now, I do not intend to ignore that request.

Now, if you'll excuse me.

Madame Fletcher,

I truly understand your feelings.

Do you? You didn't know her, inspector.

We were like sisters

until her husband died five years ago, and then

she tried to lose herself in travel and parties,

love affairs... and drink.

And now she's dead.

Killed by a thief.

But the letter, the one that you asked me to read to you over the telephone,

that indicated something different.

Madame Fletcher,

we had a similar incident no less than two weeks ago.

Same forced entry, the early hours of the morning.

Man dressed in black.

But this time, the victim was lucky.

She screamed,

not only saving her jewels, but saving her life as well.

I'm sorry, I... I cannot accept the idea

that Antoinette's death was that simple.

Madame, you are being doubly foolish.

Now, it's no secret

that she wrote you a letter shortly before she died,

and that fact might put you into a great deal of danger.

It would endanger Jessica Fletcher.

That's why I registered as Marguerite Canfield.

The famous recluse.

Madame, do you realize that your assumed identity

and all of this gaudy jewelry

makes you a target for the thief?

Well, I most certainly hope so.

Exactly what have you found out?

Hey, we have no physical evidence,

and those who knew her best all have alibis.

Who did know her best?

Well, over the past few weeks,

she had been seen with a half a dozen gentlemen,

some young and some not so young.

Yes, I understand.

But we are very curious about Mr. Eric Brahm,

the hotel manager.

A charming ladies' man.

He was very attentive to the victim.

But then again, that may not mean anything at all,

because he was very attentive

to all the unattached females in the hotel.

There is another young woman from the United States,

a schoolteacher.

I think her name is Veronica Harrold.

Vingt-deux, noir.

Ah, Mrs. Canfield.

I am delighted to meet you at last.

Eric Brahm, at your service.

Perhaps you'd do me the honor of joining me later for a cocktail.

A hotel can be so lonely for a woman unattached.

Well, ask me later, after I've had a fling at your wheel.

Oh, yes. And I only drink Rothschild '61.

If you don't have it, Mr. Brahm,

get it.

Four, black. Quatre, noir.

Place your bets.

Cinq, rouge.

What's running?

Not my luck, honey.

That little ball and me have developed a deep seated animosity for one another.

You just arrive at this paradise?

This afternoon.

Oh, stay away from the crab cakes unless you have a strong liver.

Alva Crane.

Maggie Canfield.

Whoops. That's pill time.

Oh, uh, Pierre?

Send in that boy in the tight pants.

I need a glass of water.

Yep, blood pressure. Oh, nothing serious.

My... Oh...

My doctor was sure it would kill me before I was 60.

Went to the old buzzard's funeral four years ago.

Hell of an affair.

All of his patients were there.

Thanks, Sonny.

Hello!

Hello! Hi.

How's 17 doing?

Hiding out, as I recall.

Let's go, darling. Don't waste your money.

But 17 is the number on my classroom door.

It's the third door on the right, just past the cafeteria.

Custis Road Elementary School in Davenport, Iowa.

"Good morning, miss Harrold."

"Good morning, children."

Seventeen, on the nose, Mr. Croupier.

Champagne.

Vingt-deux, noir. Twenty-two, black.

Twenty-two? Darn.

Oh, well. Just one

I think it's bedtime, darling.

Is this a hunk?

I mean, can you imagine this beautiful man with me?

Ladies, eat your hearts out.

My apologies. Have a good evening.

Come on.

You know, I never cared for tall men, but for him, I could make an exception.

Excuse me.

Mrs. Canfield?

- Yes. - Michael Haggerty.

Have we been introduced, Mr. Haggerty?

I believe I just accomplished that formality.

Would you join me for a drink?

The view from the terrace is beautiful this evening.

Grab that invitation, Maggie.

I've been waiting for this Irishman to hit on me for two weeks.

A tragic error on my part, Mrs. Crane.

Perhaps tomorrow?

Mrs. Canfield?

Cash me in.

It's been many years since I've been picked up,

Mr. Haggerty.

Michael, remember? And you're Maggie.

It's a pity you're so shy.

God cursed me with a natural gift of the gab

and an unnatural interest in my fellow man.

Now, you, for example.

A handsome woman by any standard,

and yet it's well known

you've kept yourself hidden away for years.

You're not by chance a reporter?

You mean work for a living? No, no, no, no.

Life's too short to endure the drudgery of steady employment.

Oh.

A man of independent means.

In a manner of speaking.

The British police suspected a few of the lads and I

liberated the Bank of England of a million pounds,

and I'd be the last one to disagree

with such a distinguished body as the British Constabulary.

That handsome young man with the American schoolteacher...

Sven Torvald.

I've seen him before.

Indeed you have, Maggie.

A few years back, he won two Olympic gold medals for skiing.

These days, he's, uh,

pretty much a part of the international jet set,

but there was a time

when he could fly down a slope like the wind.

But what is this now?

You walking in the moonlight with the likes of me

and talking about a young stud fifteen years my junior.