Murder, She Wrote (17 page)

A
n hour later, as I was in the process of preparing dinner for myself, the phone rang.

“Hello, Jessica. Jacob Borden here. Good time to talk?”

“Hello, Jacob. Yes, perfect timing. I just made a casserole for myself and put it in the oven. It won't start to burn for twenty minutes.”

He chuckled. “I'll set my timer,” he said. “Jessica, I've done some serious thinking about what you told me about Tiffany Parker, and the possibility that she's willing to offer testimony that might cause the Jenny Kipp case to be reopened.”

“I appreciate your looking into this.”

“I took a look at case law regarding someone giving false information to authorities, as Ms. Parker did with the defense attorney when she recanted what she told the private investigator.”

“And?”

“It's murky. On the one hand, by withdrawing her statement, she played a significant, if unwitting, role in seeing that Jenny Kipp was convicted of Judge Harris's murder. Although the investigator didn't have legal authority as, say, one of the lawyers in the case would have had—and she wasn't under oath—it still represents having provided false evidence in a felony case. The law doesn't look favorably on people who do that.”

“For good reason.”

“However, I called Joe Scott in the DA's office. Interestingly enough, he told me that the Kipp case has always bothered him. He wasn't the prosecutor in her trial—it was Oscar Whittle—but he's looked at the transcript from time to time. He didn't mince words, Jessica. He felt that Whittle bent over backward to thwart the defense's case, and that Judge Hammersmith went along with it.”

“Oooh,” I said, “that sounds ominous.”

“Nothing like that. I might not have ruled the way Judge Hammersmith did, but that's beside the point. The defense wanted to offer what Ms. Parker had originally told the investigator—namely, that Corday had said he wanted to get rid of his wife, and that Ms. Kipp wouldn't be a problem anymore once his wife was dead. But Whittle objected strenuously that it represented hearsay and Judge Hammersmith upheld that objection.”

“Did you tell Mr. Scott that Ms. Parker might now be willing to come forward and admit that her original statement to the private investigator was the truth?”

“Yes, I did.”

“How did he react?”

“Positively. He told me that if she would do that, and was willing to testify to the fact, he'd be willing to go to court and ask that the case be retried. He was confident that she would be given immunity in return for her testimony.”

“That's good to hear, Jacob. I'd like to get back in touch with Tiffany Parker and pass along what you've told me.”

“That sounds fine, Jessica. I should mention that Joe Scott was not a fan of either Oscar Whittle or Neil Corday. He had some rather nasty things to say about them.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” I said. “Many thanks, Jacob, for taking the time to look into this.”

“As I said, judges like to see justice done, especially when someone is serving time for a crime she might not have committed. Let me know what Ms. Parker says.”

I'd no sooner hung up when the phone rang.

“Mrs. Fletcher? This is Tiffany Parker.”

“Yes, Ms. Parker. I was about to call you.”

“You told me that creep Corday was in town? Is he still around?”

“I assume he is, although I haven't seen him in the past few days.”

“Well, I'd like to tell my story—my
real
story—to see that he gets what's coming to him, but only if there's no downside for me. I don't want to end up in jail making sure he gets his.”

Her vindictiveness toward Neil Corday was a little off-putting. It had been my experience that people with a deep-seated hatred for someone didn't necessarily make the most reliable of witnesses, since their accusations were likely fueled by their anger. But the fact that she'd made statements implicating Corday at an earlier time lent credence to what she would have to say today. At least that was how I saw it.

“I'd suggest that I come to see you,” I said, “but I don't drive and—”

She laughed. “You don't drive?”

“I'm afraid not. But I could—”

“I'm off tomorrow. I'll come to you,” she said. “I
do
drive.”

“That would be fine.”

“What about my chances of being in hot water legally?”

I explained how I'd received assurances that if she testified, and told the truth, she would be granted immunity. When she didn't respond, I added, “I can ask the legal expert I spoke with if he would be willing to meet with you, if that would put your mind at ease.”

“Yeah, I want to hear what he has to say. Corday's tricky. He's hurt me enough; I don't want to give him an opportunity to slip in some legal mumbo jumbo that lands me where
he
should be—in jail.”

“I'm certain that you don't have to worry about that, Ms. Parker,” I said. “But I will try to arrange for you to meet with Judge Borden.”

“A judge?”

“Yes, a very good friend and a wonderful man and jurist. When would be a good time for you to come?”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“That would be fine. I can't guarantee that he'll be available tomorrow, but I'll certainly ask.”

“Okay,” she said. I could almost see her rubbing her hands in glee as she said, “I only wish I could see Corday's face when he finds out what I'm doing.”

I had nothing to say in response, and after I gave her directions to my house, we ended the call.

Lorraine answered when I called Jacob Borden at home. He came on the phone, and I told him of my conversation with Tiffany Parker and asked whether he would be willing to meet with her the following day.

“Happy to,” was his reply. “I'm free for lunch if that works for you and Ms. Parker.”

“I'm not sure that going out to lunch is the best idea,” I offered. “Could we meet at your office at, say, twelve thirty? I'll bring sandwiches.”

“Sounds good to me,” he said. “See you then.”

My casserole did, in fact, burn, but it was salvageable. I ate it in fits and starts because my phone kept ringing.

Sheriff Mort Metzger called to complain that the film crew had backed a truck into Monte Cogan's car and bashed in the rear fender.

“You know Cogan, Mrs. F. He was threatening to sue everyone, including Mayor Shevlin, for allowing the crew to come to town.”

“He's a hothead, Mort, but I'm certain he'll change his mind. By the way, Lorraine Borden came up with the name of the movie the strip of film is from,” I said.

“Cogan wasn't the only problem,” Mort said, continuing his diatribe. “A truck delivering food supplies to Peppino's had to park two blocks away because of roped-off streets and refused to haul the supplies that distance. I took an earful from the restaurant owner.”

“Mort, did you hear me? The movie is called
Danger Comes Calling
. It was Vera Stockdale's first starring role.”

“He demanded that I open the street on which the restaurant is located. I can't do that unilaterally. The mayor gave the production company a permit to close the street temporarily.”

“Well, did you talk to Elovitz?” I asked, giving up on telling Mort about the movie for now.

“He told me ‘no way' in no uncertain terms. I'm telling you, that twerp thinks he's king of the world.”

“They're only here for a limited time, Mort . . .”

“I have another call, Mrs. F. Have a good night.”

Evelyn Phillips of the
Cabot Cove Gazette
called next to ask whether I'd heard a rumor that Lois Brannigan, the actress who'd replaced Vera Stockdale in the role of the Judge Harris character, was suspected of murdering the diva in order to get the part. I denied ever hearing any such thing, and Evelyn hung up, obviously disappointed.

And before I managed to get to the dishes, there were four other calls, all of which I ended as quickly—and politely—as possible. One was from a friend, photographer Richard Koser, who knew Neil Corday from when he practiced law in Cabot Cove, and he reported that he'd seen him early in the evening at the bar of a restaurant where he and his wife, Mary Jane, were having dinner. “He looked drunk as a skunk,” he reported, “and was raving about how Jessica Fletcher was a pain in his—”

“I get the picture, Richard.”

“Just letting you know he was bandying your name around, Jessica.”

Once in bed, I put together my thoughts on the upcoming day, the arrival of Tiffany Parker and our planned visit with Judge Borden. The hard shell that she wrapped herself in was obviously a defense mechanism against the hurt she'd experienced in her life. Her reputation for using men to get what she wanted certainly was a negative one, especially since it included married men like Neil Corday. In a sense, her decision—to come forward now—represented revenge, but also possibly a stab at atonement for the manipulative life she'd led . . . at least I hoped so.

Life is a series of choices. Hopefully we choose a path in a mostly positive direction, but sometimes we let ourselves be led astray. The murder mystery novels I write always include a character who takes the latter path, and suffers the consequences. Life! What a miraculous, complicated thing it is for everyone.

I was up early, anticipating Tiffany Parker's arrival. The van had already picked up Sunny, who, as promised, had walked and fed Cecil before she left for work. I was reading the paper when I heard a car with a loud engine pull up in the driveway—it obviously needed a muffler replacement. I opened the door and waved, scooping up Cecil before he scampered out to greet my visitor.

Tiffany Parker climbed out of her car and hesitantly patted her hair. She seemed unsure whether to come to me, but she decided to head my way eventually, and we shook hands on my front step.

“Somehow I didn't picture you with a little dog,” she said, giving Cecil a pat on the head.

“He's just a temporary visitor,” I said, hoping it was true. “I wondered whether you'd bring your daughter with you,” I said as I led her into the house.

“I thought about it, but—you know kids—they get antsy when there aren't toys around. I have a neighbor who babysits when I go to work. She has her. Some days it costs me as much for the sitter as I make.”

I'd prepared a carafe of coffee and had laid out a platter of small powdered doughnuts I'd picked up the day before from Sassi's Bakery. “Help yourself,” I said.

She took a chair at my kitchen table, put two doughnuts on her plate, and ate one before I had a chance to pour coffee into her cup. “These are good,” she said as she started on her second.

I joined her at the table. She was a tall woman, attractive if you discounted what could be described only as wear and tear on her long, slender face. She was thin, her arms sinewy. She had attempted to tame her thick hair by using a rubber band to pull it back into a chignon, but several locks were poking out, giving the bun a spiky look. Heavily applied makeup emphasized pretty blue eyes, but was not able to conceal the lines and ruddiness in her complexion. After finishing her third doughnut, she said, “So, where's Corday?”

“I don't know,” I said, “but I did hear that he was in a local restaurant last night, quite inebriated, according to the person who saw him.”

“Good,” she said. “I can't wait to see the creep squirm.” She grabbed two more doughnuts for her plate, and I began to wonder when she'd last had a good meal.

We drove to Judge Borden's office in Tiffany's car, an older tan Chevy with a great deal of rust on its body and a faulty muffler that made the car sound as though it was being driven by a teenager enamored of the noise. If I had hoped to keep my association with Tiffany quiet in order not to alert Corday to our acquaintance, riding in her car was going to make it difficult.

The upholstery was torn in multiple spots, and she had to toss a pile of items into the rear seat to make room for me in front. I asked that we stop at a deli a few doors down from the judge's office, where I bought sandwiches—egg salad, which I knew was one of Jacob's favorites, and, at Tiffany's request, roast beef, plus soft drinks. Jacob's wife, Lorraine, welcomed us and we settled in Jacob's office. He walked in a few minutes later, greeted Tiffany, and without wasting any time said, “So, tell me about what Neil Corday told you concerning his wife's murder.”

Tiffany was overtly nervous about speaking with a judge, and her false starts mirrored it. But Jacob was smooth and skillful in the way he drew her out, and after forty-five minutes the whole story had been told.

“You're very courageous to come forward like this,” he said.

“But what do we do now?” I asked.

Jacob laughed. “I suggest we enjoy our sandwiches. Lorraine set the table in the kitchen, if that's all right with you. When we're finished, I'll call Joe Scott in the DA's office and recommend that he arrange for Ms. Parker to go over there and give a formal statement.”

“I won't be in trouble?” she asked.

“No, you won't be in trouble,” Borden said. “But you should be represented by a lawyer, who can negotiate the immunity arrangement in exchange for your testimony.”

“Well, that pops it,” Tiffany said. “I can't afford a lawyer.”

“Joe will have a public defender available for you.”

The tension that had hung over us now abated, and we broke for lunch. When Jacob left to make his call, Lorraine refused to let us help clean up and shooed us out of the kitchen. We returned to Jacob's office. Needing a stretch, I strolled around the room, taking in the wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor bookcases that dominated the room.

“Those books contain centuries of law,” Jacob commented when he finished his call.