Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice (19 page)

Over dinner, Clay asked me to explain my doubts that Myriam Wolcott had shot her husband, and I filled him in on everything that had happened, as well as what was behind my reasoning. After I’d laid out all my arguments, I wasn’t sure if my theory was as strong as my hunch and said so.

Harry was quick to back me up, however. “I’ve worked cases with Jessica before, and her hunches were always on the money.”

“And money could well be the motive,” I added.

* * *

Clay called the following morning to report that he’d set up an interview with Edwina Wilkerson at eleven and with Richard Mauser at two. I agreed to come along for both tapings and asked McGraw to join us. He picked me up at ten thirty, and we drove to the women’s shelter, where Edwina waited. I’d seldom seen her in a dress, but the one she wore this day was lovely, and she’d obviously taken great pains with her makeup and hair. I complimented her.

“Wanted to look good for my adoring fans,” she joked.

“You look terrific,” I said as the cameraman situated her in a chair and the soundman attached a discreet microphone beneath the folds of her dress. Clay, who was also anchoring the interview, sat in a chair out of camera range and directly across from her. They started filming, and for the first half hour, everything went well. But when Clay raised a question about Richard Mauser and his antagonism toward the women’s shelter, I saw Edwina’s face turn red. She began talking about Mauser, and the more she talked, the angrier she became.

Clay seemed startled and sat back, amused. Fortunately, at that point the cameraman needed to insert a new disk. When Clay called for a break, I pulled Edwina aside and said, “I know how passionately you feel about the shelter, Edwina, and how upset Richard Mauser’s opposition makes you, but this is a good opportunity to extol the virtues of the services Cabot Cove provides for those who need them. You don’t want the television focus to be on Mauser’s arguments or to give him any more attention than he deserves.”

Edwina rolled her eyes. “Oh my goodness. Was I doing that? Thank you, Jessica. I do go off half-cocked when the subject of that man is raised. I promise I’ll stick to the topic at hand. Just the shelter. That’s all I’ll comment on.”

I smiled. “You were wonderful when you were doing that.”

My advice seemed to sober her, and for the rest of the session she hewed closely to the facts and the reasons why Cabot Cove’s shelter was such a boon for the community.

“That was terrific,” I told her as the crew began to break down their equipment.

“You were right to tell me to forget about you-know-who.” She shook her head. “It’s just that . . .”

“I know,” I said, patting her on the arm. I was not eager to generate another diatribe about the shelter’s avowed enemy. And later, as we stood on the sidewalk, I could have choked McGraw when he mentioned that we would be attending the interview with Mauser.

“
You’re
going to be there?” Edwina said to me.

“Yes. Clay Dawkins invited me, and—”

“I want to be there, too,” she said.

“I don’t think that would be wise, Edwina,” I said.

“If he’s going to slander me and the shelter, I want to be there to defend myself.”

“Edwina,” I said, “having you there will only complicate things for Clay and his crew. I’ll call you when it’s finished and tell you what he said.”

“As if I didn’t know all his false statements already,” she said angrily, and stalked away.

I was sorry to have upset her again.

McGraw shrugged. “You should have given me a good nudge or told me not to say anything.”

“Can’t be helped,” I said. “Edwina is so knowledgeable and calm and in control when clients come to the shelter office. She knows all the right things to say and all the wrong things to stay away from. Just her assured presence goes a long way to soothing the jitters of an abused woman struggling with problems at home. Nothing rattles Edwina there. But say the name ‘Richard Mauser,’ and it’s like waving a red cape in front of a bull. She puts her horns down and charges ahead.”

* * *

Before heading for Richard Mauser’s metal-fabricating plant, where his interview was scheduled to take place, Clay called a lunch break, and McGraw and I joined the crew for pizza at Peppino’s.

“How did your interview go with Mort Metzger yesterday?” I asked when our food was served. “Did you get what you need for the show?”

“I liked him,” Clay said. “I have a feeling that investigating a murder is not his favorite thing to do, but he seems on top of things. However, Jessica, I hate to disappoint you. As far as he’s concerned, the case is open-and-shut. No doubt in his mind that Mrs. Wolcott killed her husband.”

“Did he get specific about what he’s based that on?” I asked.

“What else could it be? I suppose her confession is the main thing,” Clay replied. “He said he didn’t want to try the case in the press but was willing to talk in general about motives. He said it’s not unusual for a battered wife to crack and strike back at her abuser. Oh, and he added that it’s a lot easier when guns are available—and apparently there were plenty of guns in the Wolcott house and the wife had access to them. That last is my interpretation.”

“They never did find the murder weapon,” I said.

“Yeah, I asked the sheriff about that and he confirmed it.” Clay finished the last bite of pizza on his plate. “And there are the Internet posts,” he added as he pushed back his chair. “That pizza was terrific.”

“What Internet posts?” I asked.

“From her computer. The sheriff mentioned that the forensic report on her computer found that she participated in some kind of message board for abused women and wrote a lot about her situation with her husband, how badly he treated her, her anger at him. According to the sheriff, she even said she wanted to kill him.” Clay gave a dismissive sniff. “You’d think people would realize how public the Internet is. They post things thinking it’s like an old-fashioned diary where you can reveal your most private thoughts in anonymity. It’s not private at all.”

I was surprised that Mort Metzger would have spoken so openly about evidence in the case on a television program. Clay evidently read my thoughts. “He told me this off-camera, Jessica,” he said. “We stuck to the subject of domestic abuse in general for the show.”

“What else did he say about the Internet posts?”

“Not much. Seems there were a number of people, mostly other women, he assumes, who sympathized with her. There is one person, though, that the sheriff is looking into.”

My eyebrows rose. “Who’s that?” I asked.

“He didn’t mention a name. According to him, some guy—oh, and he’s only assuming that it was a man—sent the accused a series of messages encouraging her to shoot her husband.”

“That’s—that’s horrible,” I said. “Is there a way they can trace back the origins of those messages?”

Clay grinned. “Everything is traceable, Jessica. In fact, my researchers tell me that Internet-savvy abusers keep track of their victims’ whereabouts by following their activity on the computer. Your sheriff says that the state forensic people are working on where the posts came from.”

* * *

I’d never been to Mauser’s place of business before and wondered whether the EPA inspectors would be on hand examining the plant and the river for signs of pollution. The parking lot overlooked the river, and McGraw and I walked to its banks while the crew unloaded gear from its rented van. No one was down near the water, and I went to the river’s edge and scooped up water with my hand, smelled it, touched it with my tongue, and dumped back what was left in my palm.

“Polluted?” McGraw asked.

I shrugged. “It doesn’t smell awful, but I’m not sure I’d drink a glass of it.”

We joined the others as they entered the building, a two-story concrete structure with a sign over the front door,
MAUSER INDUSTRIES
. A woman at the front desk greeted us and said, “Mr. Mauser is expecting you.”

We fell in line behind her as she went through a door leading to a stairway. “Sorry about the stairs,” she said, eyeing the equipment. “We don’t have an elevator.”

We went down a corridor at the top of the stairs to a large office at the end. Mauser was on the phone behind his desk and waved us in. Ceiling-to-floor windows behind him afforded a view of the factory, which took up most of the first floor. As I stepped inside, I was surprised to see Cy O’Connor seated at a small round table. His expression indicated that he was surprised to see me, too. Mauser hung up the phone and stood. Because I was behind the crew, he didn’t see me at first. But as he shook hands with Clay, I saw recognition bloom on his face and he growled, “What’s
she
doing here?”

Clay turned to me, then back to Mauser. “She’s helping me with the documentary, Mr. Mauser. We’ve worked together before.”

“And what about
him
?” Mauser said, indicating McGraw.

“He’s also helping us,” Clay replied.

“I don’t like this,” Mauser said. “I thought you were doing a fair and balanced story about this ridiculous women’s shelter, not stacking the deck in its favor. I’m not interested in participating in a whitewash.”

“I assure you we’re not stacking anyone’s deck,” Clay said. “We’re here to get your reasons for not wanting to fund the shelter. We like to present both sides, and I assure you that your views will be fully represented.”

Mauser cocked his head at O’Connor, who came to us. “Mr. Mauser just wants to be certain that his side will be fairly represented,” he said.

Was O’Connor there in an official capacity? I wondered.

I decided to ask.

“Yes, I’m Dick’s attorney,” he said.

Of course it was only my viewpoint to date, but as far as I was concerned, Mauser was a potential suspect in Josh Wolcott’s murder. Everyone who’d been fleeced by Josh was on my list of suspects. True, it was only speculation on my part, but since O’Connor was representing Myriam in her husband’s murder case, it seemed to me to be a potential conflict of interest for him to represent Mauser, even if the cases were not the same. Perhaps it wasn’t a literal conflict of interest, but it was enough to raise the issue in my mind.

“No offense, Jessica,” O’Connor said, “but my client prefers that you not be here during the taping. The same goes for you, Harry.” O’Connor didn’t try to mask his annoyance at seeing the private detective with me.

Clay started to defend our being there, but I said, “We’ll leave.”

McGraw and I exited the office and returned to the parking lot. I looked back at the factory. A young man, the same one who’d expressed his terse agreement with Mauser at the town meeting, stood there, arms folded across his chest, his gaze on us.

“That’s the guy who said he agreed with your Mr. Mauser,” Harry said.

“He’s not
my
Mr. Mauser, but yes, that’s the fellow who spoke.”

“And the same one who was eyeing my car that night.”

“Is he?”

“He must work for him.”

“Looks that way.”

The young man disappeared inside.

“I think I just lost my gig with O’Connor,” Harry said.

“Because of me,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

Besides regretting being responsible for his loss of a payday, it also meant that I’d be losing him, too.

“I suppose you’ll be heading back to Boston,” I said.

“Not right away,” he said. “I’d kind of like to see what happens.”

“But you won’t be getting paid,” I said.

“That’s okay, at least for a while. Hanging out with you is always interesting, Jessica. So what’s our next move?”

“I don’t know. You have ideas?”

“I’d like to find out more about this O’Connor. Something doesn’t set right with me. I liked his old man, a real straight shooter. Not sure the son is.”

“I think I can find out more about him,” I said, thinking of Sharon Bacon, O’Connor’s assistant. “The funny thing is that when I had dinner with Cy at his club, he and Mauser didn’t appear to get along well at all. Now he’s Mauser’s attorney.”

“Probably being paid a classic buck.”

Sharon had said that O’Connor had told people that he was looking for a big payday so that he could shut down the practice and move to a larger city. Was Mauser providing that payday, along with Myriam Wolcott’s mother? I was deep in that contemplation when Clay and his crew emerged from the building and came to the parking lot accompanied by Cy O’Connor, who came directly to me.

“My apologies if I offended you, Jessica,” he said tersely. “It’s just that Mr. Mauser was upset, and as his attorney I have an obligation to protect him.”

“I wasn’t aware that he had become your client.”

“He’s having a skirmish with the EPA,” Cy responded, “a typical example of big government interfering with an honest businessman’s ability to make a profit.”

O’Connor turned to McGraw. “I don’t think I’ll need you any longer,” he said. “You haven’t turned up anyone to corroborate that my client was abused by her husband. Stop by the office tomorrow and my assistant will give you a check for what’s owed.”

As O’Connor walked away, I called after him, “Is Myriam Wolcott home yet?”

He said over his shoulder, “As we speak.”

“I’d like to see her again.”

“No can do,” he called back at me as he climbed into his sports car and sped away.

McGraw looked at me, grinned, shrugged, and said, “McGraw and Fletcher. Nice name for a private detective agency.”

I laughed. “How about Fletcher and McGraw?”

“Whatever you say, Jessica. What say we find out what’s really going on in this peaceful little town of yours.”

Chapter Twenty

M
cGraw dropped me at home and said he had things to do for the rest of the afternoon and evening. I’d not responded to Mort Metzger’s dinner invitation, which was for that night, and called to see whether it was too late to accept.

“Of course not, Jessica,” Maureen said. “I always make enough for an army.”

Which was true. Maureen Metzger always cooked in great quantities. She was the eternal optimist, assuming that her culinary efforts would be so enjoyed by her guests that they’d ask for seconds, or even thirds. It didn’t always turn out that way: “Bad for my diet” or “I’m stuffed as it is” or “My stomach’s been acting up lately.” I’d heard all those reasons for declining second helpings, and I’d used a few myself. Maureen never seemed offended, and their freezer was undoubtedly packed with leftovers, probably to Mort’s chagrin.