Remember You Must Die

By Marc D. Hasbrouck

1953: On a trans-Atlantic flight from London to New York City, Devon Stone, best-selling author of murder mysteries, strikes up a friendly chat with a fellow passenger in first-class. A murder in a Manhattan hotel later that evening connects Devon to the victim.
Out of idle curiosity, Billy Bennett, Veronica Barron, and Peyton Chase, friends of Devon Stone, get themselves embroiled in nefarious doings involving the murder.
A soldier who was involved in a highly classified operation during World War II has been missing for seven years and is now drawn into the plot.
An old oil painting with contentious beginnings (and meanings) brings the story into sharper focus.

Along with deceit, truths, lies, chance meetings, happenstance, humor, and a hint of romance we will also discover that one murder wasn’t enough.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781663243676

Marc D. Hasbrouck

Marc Derry Hasbrouck was born and raised in New Jersey. He majored in Graphic Design & Advertising at the prestigious Parsons School of Design in NYC. Following graduation he worked as an award-winning packaging designer and art director in Manhattan, Boston, and Atlanta, where he now resides. He and his wife, Gaylin, are parents, grandparents, world travelers and avid readers. Marc loves trivia and he sprinkles it liberally throughout the books that he writes. Some of it is actually true.

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Copyright © 2022 Marc D. Hasbrouck.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Author’s Photo Credit: Gaylin E. Hasbrouck

ISBN: 978-1-6632-4368-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-4367-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022915607

iUniverse rev. date: 08/19/2022

Contents

A Brief Word From The Author

Part 1: Fasten Your Seatbelts

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part 2: A Ghost Story

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Epilogue

Author’s Notes

Acknowledgements

                Vita brevis breviter in brevi finietur,

                Mors venit velociter quae neminem veretur,

                Omnia mors perimit et nulli miseretur.

                Ad mortem festinamus peccare desistamus.

                Life is short, and shortly it will end;

                Death comes quickly and respects no one,

                Death destroys everything and takes pity on no one.

                To death we are hastening, let us refrain from sinning.

From the virelai ad mortem festinamus

of the Llibre Vermell de Montserrat, 1399

A Brief Word from the Author

I had so much fun creating and writing about the fictitious London-based author Devon Stone in my previous book, Murder On The Street Of Years, that I decided to pay him and some of his friends a return visit. Along with Devon, we find that Veronica Barron, Billy Bennett, and Peyton Chase get themselves wrapped up in another perilous tale and soon discover that murder is an art. Murder On The Street Of Years dealt with the hatred remaining following World War II and some of its ramifications. All the murders within that book were revenge murders, justified or otherwise. That decision of justification I shall leave to my readers.

As if it were written during the mid-1950s, I have approached the storyline in this book from a different angle. A highly classified mission during World War II is a mere bit player, playing a supporting role in this drama…but a pivotal one. This is a story about coincidences, happenstance, and serendipity, if you will. What happens with chance encounters and their consequences have always intrigued me. Being in the wrong place at the right time, or being in the right place at the wrong time. Or being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I take this theme to the extreme here. Some people might think that there are no such things as coincidences. Everything happens for a reason. Perhaps. Again, I leave that for my readers to decide.

But in this case, happenstance just happens to lead to murder. Several of them.

And, as in my previous book, Devon Stone’s hyperthymesia comes into play within the following pages. This syndrome is a very real one and was only diagnosed as recently as 2006. The actress Marilu Henner is one of only twelve people currently worldwide who have been diagnosed with it. It is also known as Superior Autobiographical Memory.

There will be factual historical information relating to my story at the end of this book in the Author’s Notes. Aside from learning a little tidbit about World War II, you might be surprised to learn about a section of New York City with a tragic and deadly history.

I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Let’s begin!

PART ONE

FASTEN YOUR

SEATBELTS

"Flying might not be all plain sailing, but

the fun of it is worth the price."

AMELIA EARHART

Prologue

June 2, 1953

The Contract Expires

Don’t come any closer, she said, almost trembling.

As he made a step toward her, she raised the pistol. That action made no difference. He smiled and took another step. He couldn’t ever imagine that she would actually shoot him.

He was mistaken.

He reached out toward her and she fired. She watched in horror as the red blotch grew on his chest, oozing through his thin shirt. He staggered, shocked, backward out the open door. The railing to the balcony behind him didn’t stop his movement. He couldn’t stop the momentum and he disappeared over it, falling the three flights to the floor of the lobby below where his skull cracked open, splattering blood and brain matter.

She ran to the railing, looked down, and saw him lying there, contorted, motionless on the white marble floor surrounded by a widening pool of blood. Not believing that she had really and truly shot him, still brandishing her gun she blindly ran down the spiraling steps of the four-sided stairwell stopping only when she breathlessly reached the last step. She burst through the door into the lobby and stood there in shock and confusion.

A gun was pointed squarely at her chest.

1

Two Months Earlier

Following the announcement by the stewardess, Devon Stone brought his seat back to the full upright position and made sure his seatbelt was securely fastened. He glanced out of his first-class window as the BOAC Lockheed Constellation made a wide circle making its final descent into Idlewild Airport in New York. In the distance he saw the lights of the Manhattan skyscrapers start to come on and twinkle in the early spring evening. Despite the comfort of first-class, and several walks up and down the aisle over the past few hours, Devon was eager to stretch his six-foot, two frame. Upon takeoff from London, he had been pleasantly surprised when he realized that the seat next to him would remain empty for the flight. He had been even more surprised when he saw that there were only five other passengers in first-class. Three men and two women.

Less than one hour after their departure from London nearly half a day earlier, a fellow passenger in the first-class cabin made a discovery. She was reading the latest murder mystery from her favorite author. The Fallen was a somewhat vivid and, at times, violent story about revenge. She didn’t necessarily buy into revenge as a justifiable reason for murder. She closed the book and turned it over in her lap. She glanced at the full color photograph of the very handsome Devon Stone on the back cover and gasped. She turned to look at that very same gentleman sitting across the aisle from her just as the stewardess was handing him a gin and tonic. He raised the glass as in silent toast, winked at the stewardess, and sensed that he was being watched. He turned and caught the eye of the reader across the aisle.

He glanced at the book that was still overturned on her lap. He raised his glass once again and winked at her.

Are you flirting with me, young man? chuckled the woman. She was only slightly overweight, dressed in the latest of fashions, and probably no younger than seventy.

I was just admiring your reading material, answered Devon Stone. Shocking, isn’t it? he laughed.

Well, she replied, "I am a bit shocked, honestly, by the murders for revenge. Goes against my nature. I’m assuming it must go against yours as well. But, as the author, you write what sells, don’t you?" as she winked right back at him.

Devon Stone chuckled to himself. One must never assume.

Please excuse my brazenness, Mr. Stone, she said as she stretched her hand across the aisle, I’m Brenda Barratt. I guess I wasn’t paying attention when I boarded and I never even noticed you sitting there. I do need new glasses, though. Can hardly see anything more than five feet in front of me. Well, that’s a slight exaggeration. But only slight. It never dawned on me that I’d have such an esteemed author practically in my lap, so to speak.

Devon Stone shook her hand and hers was a firm handshake at that. A pleasure to meet you, Brenda, he replied.

All my friends call me B.B., she said with a chuckle, just like the gun. I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to autograph my book…well, your book…for me, would you?

I thought you’d never ask, Devon responded with a wide smile. He reached into his jacket pocket for a pen as she handed the book to him. He thought about it for a second, and then inscribed the title page to her.

Dearest B.B.

Revenge can be sweet

Devon Stone

2/4/1953

He handed the book back to her and she glanced at the inscription, shaking her head and smiling as she did so. She glanced at the photograph on the back cover again and then, holding it up, she compared the photo with the real person.

"I must say that the photograph doesn’t do you justice, Mr. Stone. You’re much better-looking…and younger looking, as well. You certainly have that Cary Grant thing going, don’t you?"

"Are you flirting with me, young lady?" Devon chuckled.

Perhaps. A little. Old ladies have that privilege. If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Stone, what brings you to the States?

A bit of business and a smattering of research for my next book. I’m nearly ready to send one to the publisher now and I’ve started on yet another that will be partly set in Manhattan. Actually I’m here to meet with my American publisher to set up a book tour. And I have to meet with some of their lawyers.

Oh, be wary of our American lawyers, said B.B. with a sigh. They can be a shady, shrewd lot, can’t they? My beloved father once told me to keep skunks, bankers, and lawyers at a distance. He encountered all three unfortunately. I, too, will be meeting with one of those shady lawyers in a couple days. Some ugly old family business to attend to. I wish my husband were still alive to handle the ordeal. Nasty. Oh, well. On a different note, where will you be staying?

Not that I come to the States that often anymore, answered Devon Stone, but I always stay at the old renowned Algonquin. Love that old place. I keep hoping to encounter the ghosts from the infamous Round Table. Fellow writers, you know.

Oh, yes, I remember reading about that group, B.B. said. I would have loved being a fly on the wall with that motley bunch. Critics, writers, and actors with rapier wits. And all of them probably drunk, at that!

Oh, I have no doubt, responded Devon Stone. That would have been half the fun!

They both chuckled.

And you, B.B.? I assume that you’re heading home now, right? asked Devon.

"I’ve been visiting some old friends and my sister in your beautiful city, Mr. Stone. Some of it was pleasant. Some of it was definitely not, sadly. Yes, I’m heading home. I live in New Jersey but I’m staying a couple nights in Manhattan. I’m meeting someone for a late dinner this evening at the Plaza, where I’ll be staying. Then I’ll see a couple shows on Broadway for the next few nights and I do need to stop in at the Museum of Modern Art."

I have a couple of acquaintances who live in New Jersey, replied Devon. I don’t know if I’ll have the chance to see them or not. Do you know of a town called Dover?

B.B. laughed.

Goodness, small world, isn’t it? Yes, I know Dover very well. My family has lived there for generations. I actually live not too far from there now, in Morristown. The reason I’m meeting with a lawyer has to do with some dealings in Dover. I won’t bother you with the details. Too boring.

She closed her eyes and leaned back in her seat, inhaling deeply. Devon thought she might be getting ill or on the verge of passing out.

I’m sorry to have disturbed your flight, Mr. Stone. I have a tendency to get airsick when I fly and I guess the Dramamine is finally kicking in. It’s making me quite drowsy. I enjoyed our little chat and thank you, so much, for your autograph. I shall cherish it forever. Good luck with your lawyers and book tour.

Devon was momentarily concerned but the lady seemed to drift off into a peaceful sleep. When the stewardess came along with the food cart for a mid-flight luncheon, Brenda Barratt politely declined, covered her lap with a blanket, and resumed her slumber. Devon also declined the meal, but enjoyed two more gin and tonics before nodding off himself. He was awakened by the announcement regarding the imminent arrival at their destination.

As the plane steadied itself for the final approach to landing, Devon glanced across the aisle to see that Brenda Barratt was alert once again and gathering her things. He watched as she scribbled a short note and stuck it into the book, The Fallen, which Devon had signed.

Devon’s ears popped as the plane descended faster while making a shallow 90-degree turn and aligning with the runway. Swooping in over Jamaica Bay, the wheels touched down to a smattering of applause from the passengers in coach.

The propellers slowed and the plane almost silently taxied to their awaiting gate. Devon reached down to put his shoes back on and tie them. The Fasten Seatbelt sign dinged off and he turned to say goodbye to B.B. but by then the aisle was filled with passengers eager to deplane following the long flight and she was already gone. Retrieving his attaché case from the overhead compartment, he joined the other travelers as they headed into the terminal and to the international arrivals baggage claim. He looked for her as they slowly moved through customs. She must have beaten him there obviously and had been swiftly cleared.

Spry old lady, he thought to himself, shrugging his shoulders. Passport stamped, he collected his small piece of luggage and headed to the taxi stands outside, ready to head into the city.

2

Brenda Barratt tipped the bellhop handsomely as he placed her suitcase on the folding stand just inside her hotel room door.

Welcome to the Plaza, ma’am, he said. We hope you enjoy your stay.

He bowed slightly as he thanked her and handed her the room key. She turned and noticed an unusually large bouquet of yellow roses almost overpowering a small table in the middle of the room. How odd, she thought, what are those for and from whom?

Brenda Barratt loved roses and knew the meaning behind each color. Yellow roses, for example, are the color of friendship. But, on the other hand, she also knew that in the Victorian era yellow roses actually represented jealousy. So which were these?

There was a business-sized envelope propped up against the base of the vase holding the flowers. She put on her reading glasses and picked up the envelope, turning it over to see if there was anything written on either side. There was not. She carefully tore it open and extracted the single sheet of beautiful onionskin paper. Centered on the page, halfway between the top and bottom, were two typewritten words.

She was instantly seething. Those bastards, she said letting the words hiss through her teeth.

After unpacking a few things, she pulled open a drawer on the small desk in her room. Finding some hotel stationery, she wrote a note, sealed the envelope and called down to the front desk. A few moments later the same bellhop knocked on her door and she handed him the envelope along with a request and a ten-dollar bill.

Twenty minutes later there was a slight knock on her door, which startled her. Perhaps the bellhop again with a question, she thought. She certainly wasn’t expecting anyone. Although she had told Devon Stone that she was meeting a friend for dinner, she remembered on the taxi ride from the airport that the dinner date was for tomorrow night, not tonight. Oh, well, she thought, Devon Stone has probably forgotten all about it anyway. Nor would he even care.

Brenda Barratt set Devon Stone’s book with her brief scribbled note tucked inside it on the table next to the roses. She looked through the peephole in her door and then stood back, confused and conflicted. Opening her hotel room door, she glared at who was standing there.

But… she said.

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Devon Stone checked into the Algonquin and was ushered up to his spacious one-bedroom suite by a somewhat annoying and talkative bellhop. The bloke is obviously hoping for a decent tip, thought Devon, listening patiently as they entered his room.

Here long, are ya, Mr. Stone? asked the bellhop as he placed Devon’s suitcase on a folding stand by the entryway. "Do ya like shows? If you’re interested, my kid brother is a singer and dancer in that great show Wonderful Town and I can get ya some good seats. I seen it three times already and it’s a hoot, I ain’t kiddin’ ya!"

Devon rolled his eyes at the grammar and tried to be as polite as possible.

"I appreciate the offer, my good man, but musicals, hoot or otherwise, curdle my blood. No offense, I hope, to your brother or anyone else involved. But, on the other hand, if someone gets murdered in it, I might change my mind. Anyone get their