Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice (21 page)

Apparently their messages also sparked heated discussions within the community, although I wasn’t privy to them because of my self-imposed isolation.

Aside from his onetime diatribe on the op-ed page, little else had been heard from Richard Mauser, although I was told by Sharon Bacon, who’d apparently made her own peace with young Cy’s ambitions, that O’Connor had successfully reached a deal with the EPA.

“Cy negotiated the charges down, provided Mauser makes upgrades to his equipment,” she’d confided in me. “He got Mauser off with a minimal fine. Of course, Cy’s fee made up for it. Between that and the bills I keep sending to Myriam’s mother, the firm is doing very well. Cy even hired an assistant for me.”

I did watch when
The Hour
aired its program in June. It was skillfully produced and presented a balanced look at the scope of domestic violence in America, and in Maine in particular. Josh Wolcott’s murder was highlighted as an example of how such abuse could, and often did, escalate with deadly results. Of course, it was on the air prior to Myriam’s trial, so it couldn’t provide an ending to that aspect of the story: “The trial of Myriam Wolcott is scheduled at a future date,” was Clay Dawkins’s final line to conclude his segment of the show. Before the next commercial break, the telephone number for the National Domestic Violence Hotline was flashed on the screen.

I just wanted the trial and everything having to do with it to be over.

I dug out blueberry pie recipes that I’d collected over the years and perused them. Some were appealing, but I knew that I’d have to come up with a special version of the classic favorite if I were to have an outside chance of winning a ribbon, not that I expected even to be in the running. Cabot Cove boasts a number of master bakers, mostly women but also a few men, who seemed to win every baking and cooking contest year after year. Mabel Atkins had been one of them, having won twice over the last five years. Even so, the blueberry-pie-baking contest was always great fun, although invariably there is an entrant or two who takes losing personally and becomes disgruntled, claiming that politics are behind some of the judges’ decisions. One gentleman whose wife failed to win a ribbon went so far as to claim that someone must have “spiked” her pie to alter the flavor. It was a silly charge, of course, but made for an amusing piece in the
Cabot Cove Gazette
.

A call from my publisher, Vaughan Buckley, concerning a planned September promotional tour to coincide with my most recently published murder mystery made me forget about baking for the moment. I find that touring to promote my books is at once exhausting and exhilarating. I enjoy meeting my fans and signing books for them. Writing is a solitary endeavor, and I often wonder who is buying my books once they come to market. Touring and doing book signings is the best way to answer that question.

I was fingering through my recipe box and had just found a card with the ingredients for a pie made with “whortleberries,” a close cousin to our bushes or perhaps just an old-fashioned name for blueberries, when Maureen Metzger called.

“I hear that you’re going to enter one of the blueberry contests. Are you making a pie?”

The Cabot Cove grapevine in full flower.

“I haven’t decided if it will be a pie or a tart,” I said. “I assume you’ll be entering.”

“Sure. You know me, Jessica, I’m a real foodie, love contests. That’s why I’m calling. Can we talk woman to woman and keep what I say a secret?”

“Oh my goodness. That sounds serious. I’ll do my best,” I said, tempted to add that if you want to keep a secret, don’t tell anyone.
Anyone.

“Great,” she said. “I’ve been going crazy trying to come up with a blueberry pie that’s really unusual, you know, something that will have everyone oohing and aahing.”

“Have you? Come up with one?”

“I have. The problem is I need someone, a trusted friend like you, to give me an honest evaluation.”

“Me?”

“Do you think it would be a conflict of interest?” she asked. “You know, with you and me entering the same division?”

I laughed. “Well, do you think you can trust me to be honest?”

“You’re always honest,” she said, making me regret all the times I’d given faint praise to some of her more disastrous culinary efforts.

“I’m always willing to help out, Maureen, but—sure, go ahead,” I said, wondering at the same time whether I had a good supply of Tums in the house.

“I’ve been experimenting using cream cheese and avocado in my pie.”

“Oh. That’s a—well, that’s an unusual combination, Maureen.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“I saw some recipes online for blueberry and avocado smoothies, and I’m adapting them for the pie. I don’t have the ratio of ingredients right yet, but I’m working on it. My third try is in the oven as we speak.”

“Maureen, maybe Mort would be a better choice as your taster.”

She laughed. “Oh, him. He wouldn’t know a prizewinning pie from a hot dog. Besides, he’s been on another diet lately, said he gains too much weight when I begin baking for the contest. I think he’s just avoiding having to eat my mistakes.”

I don’t doubt it,
I thought.

I finally agreed to taste her avocado–cream cheese–blueberry pie when she’d “perfected” the final version.

Having decided to reenter the world, at least the Cabot Cove world, I called Edwina and offered to return to volunteering one night a week at the shelter.

“How about tonight?” she said. “Barbara Hightower was scheduled but she’s come down with a stomach virus.”

“I’ll be there,” I said.

It felt good to be back in the swing of things. I’d missed my occasional evenings at the shelter and looked forward to becoming active again. During my hiatus, Edwina had told me that an increasing number of women had sought the shelter’s services and that two had been relocated with their children to escape a volatile situation at home.

Edwina was already there when I arrived. As usual she’d brought cookies to serve anyone who might show up and had already made a pot of coffee and had a teakettle on the burner.

“It’s good to be back,” I said.

“And it’s great to have you back, Jessica.”

“Anything new on the Dick Mauser front?” I asked.

“Just what he wrote in the
Gazette
. I assume you read that.”

“Yes, and your response.”

“Why would a man as successful as Mauser make a cause célèbre out of this shelter?” she asked. “Doesn’t he have better things to do with his time?”

I’d gotten up to pour myself another cup of tea when the doorbell sounded.

“Looks like we have a client,” Edwina said as she went to unlock the door. She returned with a frail young blonde whose swollen lip said everything about why she was there. She’d given Edwina her name at the door, and Edwina introduced her as Carol Cogan.

“I’m just making tea for myself,” I said. “Would you like some, or would you prefer coffee?”

“Just water,” she replied. “Please.”

I took her in as I drew a glass of water from the faucet. She reminded me of the time I’d rescued an abandoned puppy in a torrential rainstorm. Carol Cogan had the look of a lost dog. Her blond hair was stringy and needed a good shampooing. Her green eyes were vacant, the spark extinguished. She was thin; her gray sweatshirt and sweatpants hung loosely from her almost gaunt body. Despite the warm temperature outside, she had a wrinkled cotton scarf wound around her neck. And, of course, there was that swollen lip, which upon closer examination I saw was split in two places.

“We’re glad you came,” Edwina said. “You’re safe here.”

The young woman nodded and sipped her water.

“Would you like to talk about what happened tonight?” Edwina asked.

Carol started to answer but decided instead to sip again.

“You don’t have to tell us why you’re here,” said Edwina. “That’s completely up to you. We’ll help you in whatever way we can.”

The fingers that held her glass trembled, causing water to slosh over the side. Carol used two hands to place the glass on the table in front of her. After a false start in which she gulped in air, she cleared her throat and whispered, “I’m afraid.”

“Of what?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not of what,” she said. “Of—of him.”

“Who is it that you’re afraid of?”

“My—my husband, Joe.”

Edwina and I waited for her to continue. She coughed into her hand before saying, “He hit me something terrible tonight.”

“Your lip,” I said.

She ran her tongue over it. “He hit me so hard.”

“May I take a look at it?” Edwina offered. She waited for Carol to agree before moving closer to her and examining her lip. “It’s nasty. I think you might need a stitch. We can escort you to a doctor or the hospital if you like.”

She shook her head vehemently; a lock of hair caught on the corner of her mouth and she brushed it away, wincing as she did.

I glanced at Edwina before asking, “Has your husband, Joe, hit you before?”

Carol swallowed hard and began coughing. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Edwina said. “When you’re ready, try to tell us what happened tonight.”

It took her a minute to pull herself together. We waited patiently until she whispered, “I wouldn’t—I just wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t what?”

“I refused to go to bed with him. He was drunk. I wanted him to sleep on the couch. He swore at me—he always swears at me—I hate that language—he swore at me and threw me on the floor. I yelled at him to leave me alone. He wouldn’t. He kept pawing at me, so I took my pillow and went to sleep on the couch.”

I winced at her description of the abuse she’d suffered.

“He wanted me to come back to bed with him, but I said no.”

“Which you have a right to do,” said Edwina. “You have the right to say ‘no.’ ‘No’ is a complete sentence.”

Carol began coughing again and reached for her water glass. I picked it up and cradled her hands while she drew the glass to her lips. She nodded when she had taken a sip, and I returned the glass to the table. It was then I noticed that her scarf had slipped a little, showing red and blue bruises on her neck.

“I haven’t seen you around town,” I said gently. “Are you and your husband new to Cabot Cove?”

She nodded. “Eight months. We came from Chester. That’s near Bangor.”

“A small town?” I asked.

“Very small, not even a thousand people, I think.”

“Is it your hometown?” Edwina asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you and your husband work there?”

A nod. “I helped out in a fishing camp, waited tables. Joe worked at the paper mill, and he did some guiding.”

“Guiding?”

“Hunting and fishing. He guided sports in the summer.”

“Sports?” Edwina asked.

“The rich ones,” she explained. “Fishermen and hunters. Joe called them ‘sports.’”

She asked for a refill on her water and I got it for her.

“Children?” Edwina asked.

“No.”

That’s one good thing,
I thought, but didn’t say.

“Why did you move to Cabot Cove?” I asked.

“Joe got a job here. Said he’d make more money than in Chester.”

“Where does he work?” I asked.

“At the Mauser factory.”

Edwina and I looked at each other but said nothing.

“And what does he do?” I asked.

“I’m not sure, probably moving heavy stuff. Joe was a football player at school, always lifting weights, showing off his muscles. He’s not tall, but he’s real strong.”

The thought of this muscular young man beating up this fragile young woman was wrenching. My mind wandered back to the town council meeting, where a man whose appearance was similar to Carol’s description of her husband stood up and defended Mauser’s view of the shelter. He’d also been eyeing Harry McGraw’s car that same night, the night that Harry’s tires were slashed. We’d seen him again standing on the loading dock of Mauser’s factory. I had a powerful hunch that he was Carol’s husband.

“It must be difficult to leave your hometown to move somewhere unfamiliar,” I said. “It must have been lonely for you at first.”

Carol nodded sadly.

“Did your husband hit you before you moved to Cabot Cove, or is this new behavior?” Edwina asked.

“It’s nothing new,” she said.

“How long has he been hitting you?”

Carol sighed. “I didn’t pay attention the first time. I thought it wouldn’t happen again. He promised it wouldn’t happen again.”

“But it has. What happened tonight after you declined to return to bed with him?”

“Like I said, he was drunk.”

“Alcohol is no excuse for hitting someone or pressuring them to do something they don’t want to do,” Edwina said.

“He followed me into the living room. I told him no. I don’t feel good. I have a bug or something. That’s when he grabbed my neck and hit me and threw me back on the couch. I told him I wasn’t going to take it anymore, that I was leaving. He laughed and said I had nowhere to go. I told him I was going to the women’s shelter. I’d read about you in the paper. I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have come, but I didn’t know where else to go. I don’t know anybody here.”

“You came to exactly the right place,” Edwina said, putting her hand on Carol’s.

“But,” Carol said, her eyes even more woebegone than earlier, “but Joe said he’d—I can’t use the words he used—I hate those words—he said he’d burn the shelter down and kill everybody in it, kill me, too.”

Her comment was sobering. I had read of a women’s shelter being firebombed somewhere out west by an angry husband who’d accused the shelter of having broken up his marriage.

“Do you believe he would do that?” Edwina asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Does Joe keep any weapons in the house?” Edwina asked.

“Just hunting rifles. That’s all.”

“Do you have someplace else to stay if you didn’t want to go home tonight?” Edwina asked.

“I have to go home.”

“Why?”

“If I don’t go home, he’ll be even madder at me.”

“But he’s threatened to kill you,” I said. “He’s threatened to burn the shelter office and anyone in it. He’s a volatile man, Carol. You won’t be safe. You’ll be in danger of more beatings, or worse.”