A Deadly Judgment (15 page)

Malcolm sat back, laced his fingers over his belly, and closed his eyes. I wasn’t sure whether I should tiptoe of the room, or sit and hold my breath. He opened his eyes and said, “Jessica, I haven’t heard a word of this conversation. Have you?”

“No.”

“Then I suggest you go off and enjoy the afternoon on Cape Cod. Breathe in that good fresh ocean air. Get yourself a lobster dinner. And do whatever else it is you want to do. Take an extra day if you want. I think we can do without you in court tomorrow.”

I headed for the door, turned and said, “Thanks, boss. I’ll be in touch.”

My second trip to the Cape that day took longer than the first. There was more traffic, and a bottleneck had developed on the Bourne Bridge.

But eventually we pulled up in front of the police building. I went inside and was immediately greeted by Chief McPartland. “I had a feeling I’d see you again,” he said pleasantly.

“Well, you knew more than I did,” I said. “Coming back this afternoon was strictly a last-minute decision.”

“I suppose you want to go back to Ms. Warren’s house.”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all. Nothing much happening here, except after you left we did investigate some stolen lobster pots.”

I smiled. “Sounds like where I come from,” I said. “Did you find the thief?”

He chuckled. “No, and probably won‘t, although you never know. Liable to turn up somewhere in a day or two. Chances are whoever took them wanted a souvenir. Never can figure tourists, ’specially those from New York. Come on, Mrs. Fletcher. Hope you get to stay this time.”

I stifled a smile at his rush to judgment about who’d stolen the lobster pots and went with him in his marked car, Cathie following in the Town Car. The chief and I entered the house where the white couch and white rug stained with Ms. Warren’s blood had been removed. Other than that, and aside from some residue of fingerprint dust, the house looked as though nothing unusual had taken place there.

“Anything special you’re looking for, Mrs. Fletcher?” McPartland asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Did you, or any of your men see a bank deposit slip on Ms. Warren’s desk the day her body was discovered?”

“Can’t say that I did. It wasn’t in any of the reports.”

“Mind if I take a look where I first saw it?”

“Please do.”

I entered the den and went to the desk. There it was, in roughly the same position as when I’d first seen it. I pulled a small decorative handkerchief from the breast pocket of my blue blazer and used it to pick up the slip. Chief McPartland peered over my shoulder. “Ten thousand dollars,” he muttered. “That’s a pretty good sum of money.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed. “I’m curious where she got such a sum.”

“I’d be curious too, Mrs. Fletcher. As far as I know, Ms. Warren didn’t work.”

“When someone gets a lump sum of money like this,” I offered, “it immediately makes me think that she was involved in some consulting business. Or was a writer, or artist. Any of those jibe with what you know about her?”

“Nope. I asked her mother what Ms. Warren did for a living. She said she wasn’t sure. I guess they didn’t talk much.”

“Chief, would you be willing to come with me to the bank where this was deposited?”

“I suppose so.”

“I don’t think the bank would release a photocopy of the check to me. But they might to you as part of your official investigation.”

“Happy to oblige, Mrs. Fletcher.”

It was a few minutes past three when we arrived at the bank. The door was locked. McPartland banged on it. A young man inside recognized the chief and opened the door. “Hello, Chief McPartland,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“This is Mrs. Jessica Fletcher, the famous mystery writer,” McPartland said.

The young man broke into a grin. “Yes, I’ve seen you on television, and I’ve read some of your books. You’re terrific.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind.”

McPartland said, “I have a deposit slip from Ms. Warren’s house. Ten thousand dollars, deposited here the day before she was murdered.”

“What a terrible thing. You move to someplace like the Cape and you just don’t expect things like this to happen. Not like in the city, anyway.” He took the slip from McPartland and examined it. “She deposited a check,” he said. “Not cash.”

“I assume you photocopy checks that are deposited,” I said.

“Yes, we do. Are you asking to see a copy of this particular check?”

I looked to Chief McPartland, who nodded.

“Come in,” the young man said. “By the way, I’m Joe Richer. I’m the manager.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said.

He led us through the bank to his office in the rear, invited us to sit, and said he would be gone for just a minute.

When he returned, he carried with him a sheet of paper on which both sides of the check had been copied. He handed it to McPartland, who in turn handed it to me.

The check had been made out to cash. On the back of the check, Cynthia Warren had written “For Deposit Only,” and had signed it. The front of the check had the word “Cash” on it, the amount, and the signature of the person issuing it to her. That person, according to the printed name and address in the top left comer, was Harry LeClaire. The address was a street in Boston.

I stared at the photocopy long enough to cause McPartland to ask, “Anything wrong, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes, I think there might be.” To Mr. Richer: “May I take this photocopy with me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful.”

Once outside the bank, McPartland asked what I’d reacted to in the manager’s office.

I responded lightly, “Oh, nothing, really. I thought I recognized the name on the top of the check, but I now realize I don’t.”

“Well, glad I could be of help. Can I guy you a cup of coffee?”

“‘That’s very kind of you, Chief, but I really must get back to Boston.”

“Okay,” he said, “but I do have a favor to ask.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“Would you take a minute to stop back at my office and sign a book to me and the wife?”

“I’d be delighted. By the way, how’s Ms. Warren’s old dog?”

“Just fine. Gets along with my old-timer like they grew up together. I figured I might keep her, provided Ms. Warren’s family agrees.”

“I’m sure they will,” I said. “And I’m glad she’s found a good home.”

I used the cellular phone in the Town Car to call Malcolm’s office as we headed for Boston. This time, I connected with the answering machine, which informed me that no one was there to take my call.

“Where to?” Cathie asked as we entered the city.

“My hotel, if you don’t mind.”

“Hey, I’m at your disposal,” she said, heading for the Ritz-Carlton.

“I’ll wait,” she said as I was getting out of the car.

“No need, Cathie. Get an early start on your evening. I won’t need you until tomorrow morning.”

“Sure?”

“Positive. And thank you. Two round trips to the Cape is quite enough for one day.”

I freshened up in my suite, then tried Malcolm McLoon at home. No luck. Rachel Cohen answered her phone on the first ring.

“Rachel, it’s Jessica.”

“Oh, good to hear from you,” she said. I heard two children fighting in the background, and a dog barking. Rachel yelled for them to be quiet. “Jessica, Malcolm told us before he left the office that if we heard from you, you should join him at Jimmy’s Harborside.”

It was a good thing she couldn’t see my facial reaction. It wasn’t because Jimmy’s Harborside isn’t a splendid restaurant. But the thought of being present while Malcolm again pontificated was simply too painful to contemplate.

“I probably won’t be able to do that, Rachel. I have plans this evening.”

“I’m not going either. Ashley is in a school play tonight.”

“Tell her to break a leg,” I said. “No, don’t tell her that. You know how children can take things literally. What’s the schedule for tomorrow?”

“Court convenes at nine.”

“I’ll see you there,” I said.

“Malcolm said you went back to the Cape this afternoon to check up on something. Anything new?”

“No. A wasted trip. Enjoy the play, Rachel. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I was about to leave when the phone rang. It was Seth Hazlitt calling from Cabot Cove. “Jessica, how are you?”

“Just fine, Seth. How are you?”

“I’d be a lot better if I didn’t read reports about jurors on that trial of yours being run down.”

“A terrible accident.”

“Comin’ on the heels of that young lady down on Cape Cod being murdered—the one who was supposed to provide an alibi for your client—I’d say there’s a good possibility it wasn’t an accident.”

“Well, Seth, I must admit I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

“My suggestion would be for you to pack your bags and get back home here. You already helped select the jury. Nothing else for you to do there, it seems to me.”

“Oh, no, Malcolm McLoon has me doing other things. It’s exciting being part of the defense team.”

“Exciting, and maybe a little dangerous.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m just fine. Enjoying Boston, and making lots of notes for my next book. I really do have to run. Thanks for calling.”

“I thought I might head over to Boston in a day or two. Could use some shirts and ties from Filene’s. Got a sale going on this week.”

“Well, then, I think you should come. Be sure and let me know ahead of time so I can clear my schedule.”

“Ayuh, I’ll do that. You said you had to run. Where to?”

“I’m going to see the family of that woman from the jury who was killed by the hit-and-run driver.”

“Doesn’t sound like a very pleasant thing to do.”

“No, it isn’t, but I feel I must. Hate to be rude, Seth but I have to go. Call me when you’re coming to Boston. We’ll have lunch, or dinner.”

I hung up the phone and went to the window, looked down over the splendor of the Public Garden.

Should I go? Was it my place to visit the grieving family of Ms. Montrone? Would I be violating Judge Wilson’s admonition about not contacting jurors?

For a moment, I considered scrapping the idea and enjoying some quiet time by myself in the suite, perhaps have dinner sent up to the room, or seek out a pleasant restaurant I hadn’t enjoyed before.

But once the idea of visiting Ms. Montrone’s family had entered my mind, there was no way of making it go away. I made sure I had the slip of paper in my pocket with her address, and left.

Marie Montrone, known to the world on Court TV as Juror Number Seven, had been a attractively plain thirty-four-year-old woman with two children, a sickly mother-in-law for whom she cared, and a husband who worked as a construction foreman. She enjoyed painting-by-the-numbers, baking, and collecting seashells. I remember liking her the moment she started answering questions during voir dire, that phase of the trial where the attorneys from each side questioned prospective jurors to ferret out hidden prejudices, veiled biases, or life circumstances creating a conflict of interest. She’d been straightforward in her answers, someone who would take her duties as a juror seriously, especially where the accused faced the rest of his life in prison. I hadn’t hesitated in telling Malcolm that in my judgment, she was the sort of fair-minded person we wanted on the jury.

Marie Montrone and her family lived in Boston’s North End, home to Boston’s sizable Italian-American population.

When I arrived at their modest row house, her husband had just returned from the church and funeral home where he’d made arrangements for the service and burial. Gino Mantrone was a broad, beefy man with a workman’s hands and large, sad brown eyes. His suit was too small for him, probably bought many pounds ago, and he appeared to be distinctly uncomfortable wearing it. His mother sat stoically in a wheelchair, rosary beads clutched tightly in her gnarled fingers.

“I’m sorry to intrude at such a sad time,” I said to Mr. Mantrone when he responded to my knocking at their front door. “My name is Jessica Fletcher.”

He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “The mystery writer?”

“Yes. I’m also a consultant to Billy Brannigan’s defense team.”

“I know that,” he said. He had the slightest trace of an Italian accent. “We read about you. My wife said ...” He turned away as his eyes moistened.

“I’m so sorry about what happened,” I said. “I didn’t know your wife, but I liked her the minute she started answering questions from the lawyers. I knew she’d make a fine and fair juror.”

He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. “Maybe if she hadn’t been on that damn jury, she’d still be alive,” he said.

“Do you think her death had something to do with being a juror?” I asked.

“All I know, Mrs. Fletcher, is that she was alive before the trial started. Now, she’s laid out, about to be put in the ground.”

“That’s why I’ve come,” I said. “I know she was killed by a hit-and-run driver. Is there anything to lead you to believe it was deliberate?”

“Seems to me it was,” he replied. “She was up on the curb when it happened. She’d gone to the convenience store down the block for milk, and ice cream for my mother. My mother likes a kind of ice cream they carry there. Marie was always doing things like that for her.” He looked down at his mother and smiled, then added, “Seems to me he had to aim for her to hit her on the curb.”

“Yes,” I said. “It does seem that way. Did you have any indication how she was leaning as a juror?”

He became angry. “Is that why you’re here, trying to find out whether she thought that Brannigan brat is guilty of murdering his own brother?”

“Only to see if what I’m thinking about your wife’s death might be true. If it was connected with her serving as a juror—if it wasn’t an accident—steps must be taken to get to the bottom of it, find who’s responsible.”