Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice (17 page)

“Tell me.”

“I’ve got this friend in Boston with the Better Business Bureau. I called her yesterday and she put me in touch with somebody in Bangor who handles Maine. I asked her for a list of people who filed complaints against Wolcott. She’s supposed to get back to me in an hour.”

“Please let me know, Harry. I’ll be here all morning.”

He called back a little after eleven.

“Did you get a list?”

“Yeah. Not many on it, just four, a guy named Quaid, a woman named Judson, and two other guys, a Peter Zeweski and somebody Caldwell, Robert Caldwell. No Mauser on the list, though. Of course, just because he didn’t go on record doesn’t mean he wasn’t taken for a ride.”

“Did you say one of the names was Caldwell?”

“Yeah. That mean something to you?”

“His first name was Robert?”

“Uh-huh.”

I was certain that Myriam’s mother had mentioned that Myriam’s brother’s first name was Robert.

“Do you have an address for Robert Caldwell?”

“Yeah. Some town called Gorbyville.”

“Gorbyville,” I repeated. “That’s about sixty miles from Cabot Cove.”

“Sounds like a place Stephen King would like. Take out the
b
and you’ve got Goryville. Why the interest in this guy?”

“Unless I’m mistaken, Robert Caldwell is Myriam Wolcott’s brother.”

“Caldwell. That’s the mother’s name?”

“Right.”

“So if this Robert Caldwell is Myriam Wolcott’s brother, it means the vic was fleecing his own brother-in-law.”

“It looks that way,” I said.

“I have to go in a minute; the guy with the tires just pulled in. One last thing. This gal at the Better Business Bureau told me that they checked with the organization that certifies financial planners, you know, gives them a bunch of letters to use after their names.”

“Certified Financial Planner,” I said. “Hold on.” I fetched the card that Josh Wolcott had given me and came back on the line. “Wolcott had the letters
CFP
after his name on his business card,” I told Harry.

“My best new old friend at the Better Business Bureau says that when they checked they found that Wolcott used to be certified,” McGraw said, “but after too many complaints the regulators took it away from him.”

“When?”

“Two years ago.”

Long before he gave me his card and was still representing himself as a CFP.

“This is all interesting, Harry. I’ll let you go to get your car fixed.”

“If you’re free, let me take you to lunch and we can bat this around.”

“I’m free. Pick me up at noon?”

“On the dot, provided this guy knows how to change a tire.”

As promised, Harry pulled up to my house at noon and we drove to the waterfront for lunch at Mara’s. Harry remembered it from his last visit to Cabot Cove.

“Like an office watercooler,” he said as we entered. “All the latest gossip.”

I laughed. “There are no secrets in Cabot Cove,” I said lightly, “especially not in Mara’s.”

Mara recognized Harry and gave him a hearty greeting as she escorted us to a booth at a window overlooking the harbor and dock. The temperature had managed to nudge above freezing, and much of the snow had melted.

“How’s that British friend of yours?” Harry asked after we’d been handed menus.

“George Sutherland? He’s fine. We don’t get to see much of each other.”

“He’s Scotland Yard, right?”

“Yes. A chief inspector.”

“I got the feeling that Doc Hazlitt isn’t his biggest fan.”

“Oh, that’s not true. Seth is—well, Seth is overly protective of me.”

“Or nuts about you.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Hey, don’t kid a kidder. I pick up on those things.”

Mara came to the table to take our order. She leaned closer to me and said, “Those folks from the Environmental Protection Agency are in town. They had breakfast here this morning.”

“So I’ve heard,” I said, “not about breakfast but that they were here.”

“Mr. O’Connor brought them in.”

“Cy did?” I said. “Is he involved with them in some way?”

“Beats me, Jessica. Nice that Mrs. Wolcott gets to go home, at least for a few months. Nice lady. He really must have pushed her to do what she—”

“Last time I was here I had blueberry pancakes,” McGraw said, interrupting her. “Best I ever had.”

“House specialty,” Mara said. “Served all day.”

Our orders delivered—the pancakes and a side of sausage for him, a salad and dry English muffin for me—McGraw became silent as he looked out the window.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

He turned to me. “The more I learn about this guy Wolcott and his shady business dealings, the more I agree with you, that maybe it was one of his victims who blew him away, not the wife.”

“My feelings about that are summarily dismissed,” I said, “because she’s admitted to the murder.”

“Yeah, except she wouldn’t be the first person to admit to a crime she didn’t commit. Maybe she’s shielding somebody else, like this brother-in-law who got taken to the cleaners by Wolcott.”

“Her brother was there the night of the shooting,” I said. “The newspaper said she’d called him right after she discovered the body and that he and his wife rushed there.”

“Maybe he was there earlier than that.”

“It would put another light on the case if it were true.”

“I got an idea. What say we take a ride over to this Goryville after lunch?”

“Gorbyville.”

“Whatever. Let’s take a look at this brother of hers up close.”

* * *

Gorbyville, Maine, is one of many towns that sprung up around the logging industry, one of the state’s major industries. Based upon what Myriam Wolcott’s mother had said, I had wondered if her son Robert held some sort of important executive position with one of the companies there, but it turned out that Robert Caldwell was the owner of an insurance agency in Gorbyville, with an office in a strip mall in the center of the small town. McGraw had also gotten the address of the house where Caldwell and his wife, Stephanie, resided. We decided to stop in at his office first.

“Is Mr. Caldwell in?” I asked the pretty young blond woman in the firm’s outer office.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, we don’t,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. This is Harry McGraw. He’s a private detective working for Myriam Wolcott’s attorney.”

The receptionist seemed unsure of what to say or do next.

“We won’t take much of his time,” McGraw said. “Just a coupla questions.”

She wrote down our names and with a “please wait here” disappeared into an office at the rear. We could hear her and a man’s voice but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Finally she emerged and said, “Mr. Caldwell is very busy, but he says he can see you for a few minutes.”

Caldwell appeared from the back office. He was a good-looking man, solidly built, with an old-fashioned crew cut. He wore a white shirt, no tie, gray slacks, and moccasins.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

After introducing ourselves, I said, “Mr. McGraw is working on behalf of your sister. Cyrus O’Connor has hired him to help in her defense.”

Caldwell ignored Harry and said to me, “And you’re Jessica Fletcher, the writer. My mother mentioned you to me.”

“I am a writer, Mr. Caldwell, but that’s not why I’m here.” I looked around before asking, “Could we sit down with you for a few minutes, somewhere more private?”

His receptionist looked annoyed but said nothing.

“Yeah, I suppose so,” Caldwell said, “but I can only give you a few minutes. It’s a very busy day. I have a lot of appointments.”

We followed him to his office, which was cramped and messy. File folders and papers were piled everywhere. I noticed that the yellow-and-brown shag rug was badly worn in spots. Color travel posters hung crookedly, more befitting a travel agency than an insurance firm. There were two photographs on the wall behind the desk. One depicted Caldwell dressed in camouflage clothing, holding a rifle, and standing proudly over the carcass of a deer he’d evidently just shot. The second was of him and a woman I assumed was his wife. It had been taken on a sunny beach, possibly in the Caribbean.

Caldwell stood with his hands on the back of the chair behind the desk and pointed to the only other available seat, which I declined.

“Okay,” he said, “why have you come to see me?”

I glanced at Harry before replying, “We’re trying—no,
I’m
the one who’s trying to determine whether someone else might have shot your brother-in-law.”

His expression was blank.

“I know your sister,” I continued. “I was at the Cabot Cove women’s shelter the night she came in, her face bruised, her self-esteem shattered. To cut to the chase, Mr. Caldwell, I have my doubts about what really happened that night in her driveway.”

He dismissed me with a crooked smile and a slow shaking of his head. “I don’t know whether you read the papers, Mrs. Fletcher, but my sister has confessed to killing Josh.”

“I’m well aware of that,” I said. “I also know that people confessing to crimes they haven’t committed isn’t as rare as you might think.”

“Why would she admit to killing Josh if she didn’t do it?” Caldwell asked.

“I thought you might have some thoughts on that subject,” I said. “You were the first one she called.”

“You think she’s crazy?” he said through a sneer.

“Hardly,” I said. “Is she protecting someone?”

“Like who?”

I didn’t respond, nor did Harry say anything.

Caldwell looked at his watch. “Time’s up,” he said, pointing to the door.

“You mind one more question?” Harry asked.

Caldwell sighed.

“Your brother-in-law, Josh, was quite an operator,” Harry said.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that he was a so-called financial adviser whose advice took some people to the cleaners.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Caldwell.

“Sure you would,” Harry countered. “How much did he fleece from you?”

For a moment I thought that Caldwell might physically lash out at Harry. His fists were clenched and his mouth drew into a tight, angry line.

I quickly said, “The point is, Mr. Caldwell, that the people your brother-in-law stole from might have had reason to want him dead. We know that you invested with him and that . . .”

Caldwell came around the desk, opened his door, and said, “I have nothing more to say to you.” He put on a forced smile. “Have a nice day.”

We walked past him and the receptionist’s desk and went outside.

“The guy’s got a temper, huh?” Harry commented.

“You did take him by surprise,” I said.

“Always the best way. We know one thing.”

“Which is?”

“His brother-in-law sure as the devil must’ve taken him for a bundle if Caldwell was willing to file a complaint. Not exactly good for family relations.”

“Neither is financial malfeasance,” I said.

“You see his face when I said he was fleeced?”

“I certainly did.”

“Let’s head back.”

We turned to see Caldwell climb into an older-model yellow Toyota in front of his office and drive away.

“I have a better idea,” I said. “As long as we’re already here, let’s go by his house before he calls his wife to warn her about us.”

McGraw smiled. “You’re on the scent, huh?” he said.

“I just hate to waste an opportunity, Harry. Game?”

“Always.”

I didn’t mention that not only did I want to take advantage of already being in Gorbyville; I wanted to make good use of the time I had with Harry. His official capacity as investigator for Myriam Wolcott’s defense gave me—us—an explainable reason for seeking out people and asking questions. As long as he was willing to join me in trying to find a different explanation for Josh Wolcott’s murder, I intended to benefit from it. He wasn’t being paid by Cy O’Connor to chase down my theory, however, and his doing so would probably anger the lawyer. He was being a good guy, which he’d always been.

The Caldwell home was only a mile or so from Robert Caldwell’s insurance office in a cluster of small houses on a lake. They might once have been summer vacation bungalows but now had been converted into year-round houses. A few teenagers played soccer in the street, and an elderly woman walked a dog on a leash. We parked across from the house and took it in.

“Hate to make judgments,” McGraw said, “but I’d say his company isn’t setting the insurance world on fire.”

“It is a little run-down,” I said. “Let’s see if she’s home. Her name is Stephanie.”

“I hope the guy didn’t call her from his car.”

“Nothing we can do about it if he did,” I said.

Stephanie Caldwell opened her front door as we approached and stepped outside onto a marred concrete slab that served as a front step. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, hip cocked, her posture and expression asking who we were and why we were there. She had a rough, somewhat crude look to her; her skin was sallow, features coarse—nose, lips, jaw—and beneath her tired eyes were faint dark circles. She struck me as a woman who’d gone through some rough times and had aged beyond her chronological years. Her clothing was nondescript, drab tan slacks and sweater that matched her hair.

“Mrs. Caldwell,” I said.

“Yes. Who are you?”

“I’m Jessica Fletcher. This is Harry McGraw, a private detective. We’re from Cabot Cove and . . .”

“What do you want?”

“Just a few minutes of your time, ma’am,” Harry replied.

“About what?”

“About Josh Wolcott’s murder.”

“Why do you want to talk to me? My husband and I weren’t anywhere near Cabot Cove when Josh was killed. We had nothing to do with it.”

“We understand that,” I said, “but we do have some questions, the answers to which might help your sister-in-law.”

It was impossible to tell whether the snort from her was directed at our reason for being there or at the mention of Myriam.

“I know we’re barging in,” I said, “but we would appreciate if you would grant us a few minutes.”

“Why don’t you talk to Robert?” she asked.

I hesitated admitting that we had, but Harry said, “We will but don’t want to bother him at work. Being in the insurance business must keep him busy.”