Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice (12 page)

“Yeah, I know, and I agree with you. But Dad could be persuasive. I was his only kid, and he’d envisioned me being in practice with him as far back as I can remember. Anyway, when I graduated from law school and passed the Maine bar, he didn’t leave any doubt that I’d join him here in Cabot Cove. He was very successful, as you know, had a crackerjack legal mind when it came to corporate and estate law. I broached the subject of wanting to practice criminal law someplace, maybe even open a criminal division within his practice, but he wouldn’t hear of it. When it came down to it, I knew that Dad needed help. He’d been slowing down ever since my mother died, and I couldn’t just walk away. Soooo—here I am.”

“So you gave up your dream,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t be offended.

“Until now.”

“And now you’re going to be a criminal lawyer?”

“Looks that way.”

“Which still leaves the question of why Mrs. Caldwell has retained you to defend her daughter.”

He started to reply, smiled instead of speaking, and then said, “That’s something you’ll have to ask her, Jessica.”

Which left me to continue pondering the same question. I certainly didn’t expect to be able to pose it to the formidable Mrs. Caldwell.

Over salads, I mentioned that he’d said he needed help from me and asked what he was seeking.

“I’m not sure how to put it,” he said. “I suppose you could call it running interference.”

“With?”

“With Myriam. You saw how her mother can pose a problem. She’s an extremely domineering woman, Jessica, wants to call the shots at every turn, make every decision concerning Myriam’s defense. I can’t let her do it.”

I wasn’t surprised to hear that. Although I couldn’t have known for sure, watching the staunch Mrs. Caldwell in action certainly didn’t butt heads with that evaluation of her. I was taken aback by the way she’d talked to O’Connor when she cut short our meeting with Myriam, and her daughter literally cowered in her presence.

Our entrees were served and we chatted about other things. I wanted to explore further why Cy’d agreed to represent Myriam. His desire to practice criminal law, one that had been thwarted by his father, explained his decision only up to a point, but there had to be another dynamic at play. Was it money? Myriam had speculated that gain might have been influencing him, and although he didn’t seem like the sort of young man who would sell out for a payday, I had to consider the possibility.

I reintroduced the topic of Josh Wolcott’s murder after coffee had been served, along with rice pudding that O’Connor claimed was a specialty of the club. “What did you mean by running interference?” I asked.

“I need someone to keep Myriam in check, to keep her on an even keel, and to understand that the legal moves I make on her behalf are necessary.” He signaled to the waiter for our check.

“Has she questioned your moves so far?”

“You were there when she challenged me today. I keep telling her she can change lawyers. I want her to understand the choice is hers, but she never takes me up on it. Look, let me be straight with you. The problem is that . . .”

We both looked up at Richard Mauser, who’d come up to the table and was hovering over us. He slapped O’Connor on the back and said, “Looking for Mrs. Fletcher here to write a best seller about how you defended Wolcott’s killer?”

O’Connor and I looked at him quizzically. Mauser’s face was florid, and he was perspiring despite the cool air in the room. His tight shirt collar forced his naturally fleshy face to puff out, giving him the look of a red toad.

“Hello, Richard,” O’Connor said.

Mauser looked down at me. “Haven’t seen you here before. Join me for a drink,” he asked, his alcohol-laced breath causing me to sit back.

“Thank you, no,” I said, managing to keep pique from my voice. “We were just leaving.”

Ignoring my reply, he dragged over a chair from an unoccupied table and plopped down next to me. He put his hand on top of mine, which I quickly withdrew.

“You ought to come here more often,” he crooned, “get a taste of real life instead of those murder mysteries you make up.” He said to O’Connor, “I bet you two are conjuring up a way to get the town’s favorite husband killer off.” He laughed at his own words.

“Cy, we really have to leave,” I said.

“Yes, of course,” said O’Connor, who pushed back his chair and stood.

“You seeing things differently now?” Mauser said, squinting at me. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

I ignored him, folded my napkin, and set it on the table.

He gripped my wrist, preventing me from standing. “Know what I’m going to do, Mrs. Fletcher?” Mauser asked. “I’m going to make the case at the town council that funding your damn women’s shelter has to stop. See what it did? Josh Wolcott’s wife gets herself in a snit, goes to your shelter, gets her head full of feminist nonsense, goes home, and shoots her hubby. How the hell can you and that woman Wilkerson sleep at night?”

I wrenched my arm away and stood. “We sleep very well, Mr. Mauser,” I said. “I might also suggest that you would do better to withhold your opinions until you are no longer drunk and obnoxious. Good evening.”

Mauser called after us, “Careful who you hang out with, Counselor. Your father wouldn’t put up with the likes of her.”

O’Connor spun around and was about to go back to the table, but I grabbed his sleeve and kept him moving in the direction of the door. We stood outside, both of us breathing heavily, our breath steaming into the chilled March night air.

“I apologize for him, Jessica,” he said as he handed the valet the parking ticket.

“You didn’t do anything,” I said. “He’s an insufferable boor to begin with, and the drinking only makes him worse.”

The ride home was awkward, with O’Connor continuously apologizing for Mauser’s behavior. When he pulled into my driveway, I said, “Please, let’s forget about Mr. Mauser. Up until his appearance, I had a lovely time.”

“He insulted you. And I’m offended on your behalf.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I’ve been insulted by better men than this one,” I said. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Wish it had turned out more pleasant.”

He came around and opened the door for me.

“About your deposition on Monday,” he said. “Swing by the office at nine thirty and we’ll go to the DA together.”

“Shall do,” I said. “Before I go in, you’d started to say something when he arrived at the table. You said you wanted to be straight with me. About what?”

“About Myriam and her mother. Mrs. Caldwell wants me to plead Myriam guilty and use a claim of self-defense to get her off.”

“I—I don’t understand,” I said. “Is she saying that Myriam actually killed Josh?”

His silence was chilling.

Chapter Thirteen

F
ollowing a Sunday spent worrying the day away, I arrived at Cy O’Connor’s office Monday morning at nine thirty, ready to beard the lion in his den. What could he be thinking having Myriam plead guilty? She had sworn up and down she was innocent, that she had not killed her husband, Josh. Now Cy was going to have her turn around and say she hadn’t told the truth, that she
had
killed him, but that it was in self-defense? Would those who’d believed her before still believe her now?

Cy’s indispensable aide, Sharon Bacon, intercepted me as I came through the door and ushered me back into the hallway.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I wish I knew. Ever since Mrs. Wolcott’s mother retained Cy, he—” She stopped as O’Connor poked his head through the open doorway. “Ready, Jessica?” he asked.

“I suppose I’d better be,” I replied.

He disappeared back into the reception area.

“Jessica, would you be free after the deposition so we can talk? Cy’s got a lunch appointment and we won’t be disturbed back here at the office.”

“I assume I’ll be. I hope it won’t take longer than an hour. Cy did say he wanted to get together with me today. But I can put him off until after lunch. How’s that?”

“I’d really appreciate it. I made an extra sandwich just in case you were available. You’re welcome to it. I didn’t want to intrude on your lunchtime without feeding you. Do you like chicken salad?”

“That was very thoughtful, Sharon. I love chicken salad.”

* * *

Cy and I drove to the DA’s office, where the district attorney, Diane Cirilli, and a stenographer waited. I’d met Ms. Cirilli a number of times before. She was a short, slender woman with a dusky complexion and a head full of tight blond curls, and she was dressed today in a nicely tailored gray suit and white blouse. She introduced me to the stenographer, who sat ready to repeat our conversation into a tape recorder through a mask that she would hold to her mouth.

“Thanks for being early,” the DA said. “I’m running a bit behind this morning.”

The deposition didn’t take very long. It focused on what had occurred that night at the women’s shelter’s office when Myriam Wolcott arrived and told us that she’d been attacked by her husband. After establishing that the meeting had, in fact, taken place, Ms. Cirilli prompted me to repeat what Myriam had said that night. I answered as best I could, recounting what had transpired between Myriam, Edwina Wilkerson, and me.

“And so you’re certain that Mrs. Wolcott said that her husband had physically injured her?”

“Yes. That’s why she came. She was shaken.”

“Did she indicate that this wasn’t the first time that he’d attacked her?”

“Yes, she did.”

“And what did she say about the Wolcott children?”

“Oh, she said a number of things. She eventually started talking about how well they did in school, how personable they were, things like that.”

“Had the children witnessed their father’s attack on her?”

“Yes. She said that their daughter—her name is Ruth; she’s twelve—became upset and ran upstairs. Their son, Mark, went to a friend’s house.”

After another fifteen minutes, the DA said, “We’re about ready to wrap this up, but one last question. Did Mrs. Wolcott say anything about weapons in the house?”

I nodded.

“You’ll have to speak your reply, Jessica,” she said, indicating at the stenographer.

“Oh, yes, of course. Sorry. Yes, she said that her husband was a hunter and that he had a collection of weapons. She also said that he’d lately been leaving a handgun in different rooms in the house.”

Ms. Cirilli paused and ran her teeth over her upper lip before asking, “Did she ever say during your meeting with her that night that she wanted to kill her husband?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t recall her saying anything like that. In fact, she said she loved her husband and that he loved her. She ended up excusing his behavior, which Ms. Wilkerson told me is common with abused spouses. They assign blame to themselves instead of where it’s due, the abusing spouse.”

“Is that it?” O’Connor asked.

“I think so,” the DA replied. “Thank you, Jessica. It was a pleasure seeing you again.”

“I assume that her interest in whether Myriam said that she wanted to kill her husband feeds into the motive they’re looking for,” I said as we left the building.

“Exactly.”

“But what if she
had
said that?” I asked. “People say things like that all the time about someone they’re angry at or fighting with. They don’t really mean it. It’s just a way of venting their emotions.”

“Tell that to a jury. Would you like to join me for lunch? I’ve hired a private investigator and I’d really like you to meet this guy,” he said.

“I’d be happy to meet him another time,” I said, walking with him to where he’d parked his car, “Before you go, I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“The other night you said that Mrs. Caldwell wants Myriam to plead guilty but claim self-defense. That kept me up half the night and had my mind churning all day yesterday.”

His laugh was boyish. “I shouldn’t have dropped that on you at the last second. Can we meet back at my office at, say, two? I’ll have the investigator with me, and we can talk about Mrs. Caldwell’s request.”

“Surely you aren’t considering doing it,” I said.

He patted me on the arm and said, “I really have to run, Jessica. See you at two.”

I took a taxi to his office building, where Sharon busily typed on her computer.

“I’m confused,” I said.

Her laugh was rueful. “Join the club,” she said.

“He intends to . . .” I stopped in midsentence in case she wasn’t aware that Mrs. Caldwell wanted to have her daughter plead guilty to murder.

“Listen,” Sharon said, taking some pages from the printer and sliding them into a manila envelope. “I have to deliver these to a client in the next building. Would you mind terribly waiting here for me? I promise I won’t be long.”

“Take your time,” I said, picking up a copy of
The Week
magazine from the coffee table and choosing a comfortable chair. “I’m free until two.” But I never opened the magazine’s cover. Instead I began thinking about Cy’s receptionist and wondering what she thought important enough to ask me for a private meeting.

Sharon Bacon had started working for Cy O’Connor’s father as a young woman and had remained with the law firm to this day. The elder O’Connor viewed his chunky, rosy-cheeked right-hand woman with Shirley Temple–like reddish curls as the daughter he’d never had and treated her with great deference and love. In return she was fiercely loyal to her employer and surrogate father, and ran his office as though it were her own home, paying meticulous attention to detail and creating a warm, welcoming atmosphere for his many clients.

She’d never married. “The law office is my spouse,” she often said. “It doesn’t talk back to me or leave dirty socks on the floor.” If she regretted not having married, it never showed in her demeanor. She was unfailingly upbeat and pleasant, with a hearty laugh to accompany a sometimes naughty sense of humor and keen mind.

I was well aware of her personality since I’d known her for all these years. That was why the dejected expression on her face when she returned from her errand and invited me into Cy’s conference room concerned me.