Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice (15 page)

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to do that, Harry. Pick me up?”

“Always at your service, Jessica. Shall I bring the town car or the stretch limo?”

“Bring a bike and we can pedal there together.”

“My stretch limo is in for service. Have to be my rented wreck. See ya.”

To my surprise, Seth had also invited Mort and Maureen Metzger. Seth pulled me aside in the kitchen right after I arrived at his house and said, “I managed to talk Maureen out of bringing some newfangled noodle dish she’s been experimenting with, but she insisted on providing dessert. Said she had to practice for the Blueberry Festival.”

“That’s months away,” I said, “but thanks for the warning.”

Seth had prepared a chateaubriand, fingerling potatoes, a salad, and French bread straight from Sassi’s Bakery. He’s an excellent cook when he finds the time, his menus usually treading heavily on beef, as well as dishes high in fat and calories. A dietician he’s not. We’d barely sat down when he raised the Wolcott murder.

“I understand you’re working for Mrs. Wolcott’s defense team,” he said to McGraw.

“That’s what they tell me,” Harry replied. “I’m looking for people to back up her story about being abused. She’d tried to keep it secret and she was pretty successful. No luck so far.”

“Must be awkward asking about such things,” Seth said.

“Not really,” was Harry’s response. “Everybody’s talking about the murder anyway, so I just say that I hear that the wife had been beaten up by her husband. Everybody knows the rumors, but nobody chimes in about having direct knowledge, at least not yet.”

“Did you get to speak with the Hanley family?” I asked.

“Oh, right. Almost forgot. Yeah, I found their house and stopped by. Nice folks. I got the husband aside and asked whether the Wolcott kid ever talked about his mother being abused by his father. The husband, he says that he and the missus knew things weren’t copacetic at the Wolcott house but that the kid never said anything directly. ‘You know how teenagers are,’ he says. ‘They don’t talk, just glue themselves to the computer.’ The wife says that Mark seemed upset sometimes and that she asked him what was wrong, but he always managed a smile, according to her, never used words like ‘abuse’ or ‘battering’ or anything like that.”

“I’m glad you tried,” I said.

“Nothing ventured . . .”

As the discussion of the Wolcott murder continued, I noticed that Mort Metzger remained uncharacteristically quiet. Our sheriff was someone who had opinions about many things and was seldom reticent about expressing them. But he offered little, listening to each person’s comments, nodding a few times, and looking as though he preferred to be elsewhere. I chalked it up to not wanting to say something about the case that might be inappropriate, and on a few occasions I tried to change the subject. But Seth, who’d been instrumental in getting the women’s shelter established, seemed anxious to hammer home the point that domestic abuse should not be swept under a rug; it was a serious matter that had to be given attention.

“Happens every day,” he said, “that somebody gets killed. Of course usually it’s the abused partner, but in this case the victim fought back.”

“Assuming that she did it,” I said.

“She said she did,” Maureen said. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“Yup,” said Mort. His laugh was forced. “I expected her lawyer, the young Mr. O’Connor, to claim her confession had been coerced, you know, beaten out of her with a rubber hose like on TV.”

“What caused her to confess?” I asked him.

Mort shrugged. “She just spat it out. She sat down, said, ‘I killed him,’ and started to cry. We asked her to give us the details, but she clammed up, wouldn’t say another word.”

“Had her mother been in to see her prior to that?” I asked.

“Mrs. Caldwell? Seems like she’s there all the time. Sure she was there. So was her brother.”

“I asked to visit Myriam this morning,” I said. “Cy O’Connor refused my request.”

“Not unusual,” Mort said. “Lawyers like to keep their clients, the guilty ones anyway, sequestered best as possible.”

“Except for her mother and brother,” I said.

“That’s family,” said Maureen.

“Besides,” Mort added, “you’re a writer. Maybe O’Connor’s afraid that you’ll write about her.”

“I still find it strange,” I said. “He wants me and Edwina Wilkerson to testify that Myriam was abused, supposedly to bolster her self-defense claim.”

“‘Supposedly?’” Seth said. “Sounds like you have reservations about Mr. O’Connor.”

“Forget I said that,” I muttered. “I’m not sure what I mean.”

We drifted into less serious topics and the mood lightened palpably. It was when coffee and Maureen’s dessert—a runny blueberry cobbler with a soggy topping—were served that Mort received a phone call, which he took in another room. We all looked up when he returned.

“That was Gladys at headquarters,” he said.

“And?” Seth asked, spooning a pile of whipped cream over his cobbler.

“Looks like Cabot Cove is finally on the map,” Mort said as he retook his chair.

“Meaning what?” Seth asked.

“Meaning that we’re about to have visitors from Bangor,” Mort replied.

“Stop playing games, Mort,” Seth said, pique in his tone. “
What
visitors from Bangor?”

“
The Hour
,” Mort said. “The Wolcott murder got somebody’s attention at that TV show that’s on Sundays. From what they told Gladys, they’re doing a report on domestic violence and how it can lead to murder.”

The Hour
was a Maine TV fixture. It was patterned after
60 Minutes
but specialized in stories unique to our state. It was always well-done and had broadcast some important exposés about misdeeds in government and industry.

“How did they know about the Wolcott murder?” Maureen asked.

“Those guys must scour all the local papers,” Mort replied. “All I know is that there’s a whole contingent arriving day after tomorrow. They want to interview me.”

“I wish it was
60 Minutes
,” Maureen said. “I’d love to meet Scott Pelley or Lesley Stahl or Anderson Cooper. Will they be interviewing you at the house, sweetheart?” she asked. “Maybe I could bake them something—”

Mort interrupted her. “I don’t think they’ll want to film at our house, hon.” He turned to me. “They’ll probably want to interview you, too, Mrs. F., you and Ms. Wilkerson, seeing how you two were the ones at the shelter the night Mrs. Wolcott came in all battered and bruised.”

“Myriam’s confidentiality has already been badly breached,” I said, pushing my spoon around the dessert plate to make it appear as if I’d eaten more. “I don’t want to be a party to contributing to that on TV. We’ll never get another victim—er, survivor—to come in again if we make such public appearances.”

The discussion moved on to a comparison of
The Hour
with
60 Minutes
and some of the wonderful programs they’d aired over the years. When that topic had been exhausted, we called it a night and McGraw drove me home. I invited him in for a nightcap, and we settled in my living room, a glass of single-barrel bourbon in his hand, pomegranate juice in mine.

“Tell me more about what you heard at the bar at Peppino’s,” I said.

“Just what I told you. Buddies of his were laughing about how Mauser wasn’t going to mourn the loss of Wolcott.”

“Did they indicate he’d lost money with Josh?”

“No. Who is this Mauser anyway?”

I explained.

“Sounds like a pain in the neck.”

“Yes, he is that. Cy O’Connor seemed angry that I asked you to look into other possible suspects.”

“Yeah, he was a little uptight about it.”

“Will you?”

“See if anybody lost enough money to have wanted to kill the guy? Sure. For you, Jess, anything.”

“I’ll be doing a little snooping of my own, too.”

Harry laughed. “Why am I not surprised?”

Chapter Seventeen

M
yriam Wolcott was arraigned the following morning at the courthouse, Judge Ralph Mackin, an old friend of mine, presiding. I’d debated attending but decided not to, although Harry McGraw did go and reported back to me.

According to Harry, Myriam was there with her attorney, her mother, and her brother. “She looked like an overcooked strand of spaghetti,” was the way Harry described her. “I thought she’d collapse any minute, but O’Connor and her brother were at her side and propped her up.”

“Did she say anything?” I asked.

“Just said ‘not guilty’ when the judge asked how she pleaded. That was it, not another word. The judge did bring up that she admitted to shooting her husband and asked O’Connor what the not-guilty plea was based on. O’Connor says that she acted in self-defense, that she’d been abused by the guy and shot him to protect herself and the kids.”

“What did Judge Mackin say to that?”

“Nothing. He just made a few notes. The DA and some of her people were there, too. O’Connor asked that the judge release her on bail, made the point that she had roots in the town, had two kids who needed her, wasn’t a flight risk, upstanding citizen, all the usual.”

“How did he respond?”

“He denied it but said that O’Connor could give him a written motion. I had the feeling that this judge is a pretty cool guy and might let her out on bail, house arrest, slap a monitor on her ankle.”

“That would be good for her and the children,” I said.

“I guess.”

“Did her mother or brother say anything to the judge?” I asked.

“Nope. That mother is one tough-looking lady.”

“So I’ve noticed. Harry, there’s a special town meeting this evening that I’ll be attending. The Richard Mauser you’ve heard about is a member of the town council. He’s called the meeting to try to stop funding of the women’s shelter. He’s been against it from the beginning, and the Wolcott murder has evidently gotten him fired up again. If you’re not doing anything tonight, you might be interested in coming with me to see the fireworks.”

“Sounds like a good way to kill an evening. There’s not a lot to do in this town. Not that I’m complaining. The money O’Connor’s paying is good, but I wish I had something to report back to him. Nobody seems to know firsthand that Mrs. Wolcott was abused by her old man. Sure I’ll come.”

“It’ll give you a chance to see Richard Mauser. I’d love to know what his connection to the Wolcotts is, and if he lost money by investing with Josh Wolcott.”

McGraw laughed and said, “What do you want me to do, get up during the meeting and ask him?”

“Nothing that direct, but you might have an opportunity to speak with him. You’ve always been good at getting people to say things they might not say to someone else. Besides, it’ll give you a chance to see how a small town council works.”

“Count me in.”

* * *

Harry and I drove into the town hall parking lot that evening and pulled into a parking space adjacent to the one occupied by Richard Mauser’s black Cadillac. On the rear was a bumper sticker that read “I’d Rather Be Hunting.” Mauser waved as he climbed out of his car, but when he realized who I was, his smile turned into a scowl and without a word he headed for the building.

“That’s Richard Mauser,” I told Harry as we exited the car.

“Big guy,” Harry commented.

“A heavy in several senses of the word,” I said. “You’ll get a better look once we’re inside.”

I expected a fairly sparse crowd that night because of the last-minute nature of the meeting, but I was wrong. People filed in one after another, and I wondered whether they were there out of a sincere interest in the fate of the women’s shelter or because the shelter, however tangentially, involved Josh Wolcott’s murder. No matter why, they kept arriving, and soon all the spectator seats were filled. Harry and I sat with Seth Hazlitt and Edwina Wilkerson. I saw Mort and Maureen Metzger on the opposite side of the room. That Mort was there surprised me. He seldom attended council meetings unless the sheriff’s department was on the agenda.

“Mauser’s the one on the left,” I told McGraw, nodding toward the florid-faced, heavyset man in a suit and tie at the council members’ table.

“Looks like a pet pig one of my ex-wives used to have.”

“Be nice, Harry,” I murmured.

“I am being nice. I loved that pig.”

There was a buzz in the room. I heard a woman behind us say, “She admitted she shot him. At least that’s what they’re saying.”

“I heard that Wolcott was a con man,” her companion, presumably her husband, replied.

“So what?” the woman said. “She killed him. She said she did.”

“Maybe she had a good reason.”

“There’s never a good reason to shoot someone.”

Their debate was interrupted by Mayor Shevlin, who tapped his gavel to start the proceedings, as other members of the council joined Mauser at the table.

“I’ve called this special meeting,” Shevlin said, donning his reading glasses, “because one of our members, Dick Mauser, is invoking a clause in our charter that allows for special meetings to be called when”—he read from the charter—“‘when a financial issue demanding immediate attention and that threatens to impact the city’s financial stability is brought to the council’s attention by a member.’” The mayor put down his papers and removed his glasses. “Dick has made the point that our funding for the women’s shelter falls under this clause. Now, I admit that although the amount we allocate to the shelter each year is only a small part of our overall budget, Dick has the right to bring it up again at this special meeting. Since we’re here because of him, he has the floor.”

Mauser got to his feet, ran his index finger beneath his restrictive shirt collar, and looked around the room with a satisfied smile. “First I want to thank you all for coming here tonight. Don’t you believe what the mayor says about this bein’ a small part of the budget. Every dollar counts in this economy, and to see even a tiny portion squandered on
unnecessary
services is gravel in my craw. It should be for you, too.

“There’s people in this country working hard, people who run businesses, businesses that support the economy. And are they asking for a government handout? They are not. And we’re giving more attention to a bunch of whiny women who can’t get along with their husbands. Well, tell them to grow up; tell them to work harder like the rest of us.