Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice (23 page)

Due to the large crowds, Sheriff Metzger had canceled all days off and ordered his deputies to be on duty throughout the festival, augmented by a contingent of state police. He’d placed posters at strategic points throughout the town warning of the threat of pickpocketing and had told me on Friday that other festivals around the state had seen a sharp increase in the number of such incidents. Hopefully, it wouldn’t happen to us. I heeded his warning and carried a small purse with a secure clasp and a long strap that I looped over one shoulder, allowing the bag to nestle on my opposite hip.

I ran into Mort as I exited the theater production.

“All going well?” I asked.

“So far. Everybody seems to be having fun and behaving themselves.”

“Has Joe Cogan made his bail?” I asked. He’d been arraigned on a variety of charges, and Judge Mackin had set a high bail.

“Nope. That public defender assigned to him is screaming bloody murder over how high it is, but the judge is holding firm. I suppose you’d like to know that he was questioned about any connection to Dick Mauser, and he claims that Mauser had nothing to do with it. How’s Cogan’s wife?”

Edwina had told me that after a night in the shelter, and knowing that Joe was in jail, Carol Cogan had returned home and packed up her things. “She’s been relocated out of town,” I said. “She asked the shelter not to send her back to her hometown in Chester, for fear that’s where Cogan will look for her first. I don’t know where she is or what the future holds in store for her, but I think getting herself away from an abusive husband is a positive first step.”

A local restaurant had set up a food stand and was selling a Maine staple, “lobstah rolls.” Summer is when lobsters molt, shedding their shells. Cabot Covers know that “shedders,” or soft-shell lobsters, are sweeter than hard-shelled ones and no nutcracker is needed, but the trade-off is there’s less meat compared to the larger, hard-shelled lobsters. With my stomach rumbling in anticipation, I headed in the direction of the food stand and came upon Seth Hazlitt and Tim Purdy, who shared a bench, each enjoying a roll overflowing with lobster meat.

“Looks wonderful,” I said.

“Ayuh, very tasty, Jessica,” said Seth. “Everybody seems to make lobster rolls differently. This one is especially good, just the right amount of mayo.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“Please do,” Tim said, scooting over to make room.

Seth stood and handed me the paper plate on which his half-eaten roll rested. “Save our seats,” he said. “I’ll buy you one.”

“No need to do that, Seth.”

“Be my pleasure.”

Seth joined a long line of others waiting to be served. It seemed that all of a sudden people had collectively suffered a yen for a lobster roll and had descended in droves on the stand. I felt guilty for making Seth wait so long to buy me lunch, but my attention was soon diverted to another line, where local Girl Scouts were selling their cookies, and where Cy O’Connor’s right-hand lady, Sharon Bacon, stood in line.

I looked to see how Seth was progressing. He was now behind two other people waiting to place their orders, and a knot of people had formed behind him. I had to smile. Seth Hazlitt is one of the sweetest men I know. He can be crusty, even rude, at times, but he always means well. It would be a sad day in Cabot Cove when this self-proclaimed “chicken-soup doctor” decided to retire.

“Be back in a jiff,” I told Tim as I set Seth’s plate on the bench and fell in behind Sharon at the Girl Scout stand.

“Perfect day for the festival,” I said.

“Sometimes you get lucky,” she said.

“What’s new in the office?” I asked.

Her raised eyebrows said much. She looked to her left and pointed to where O’Connor and Richard Mauser were having a conversation with a strikingly attractive young redheaded woman dressed in a skintight pants suit.

“Mr. O’Connor’s latest hottie,” she said.

I laughed. “Is she from here?” I asked.

“New York. He’s been spending more time there than in Cabot Cove. She’s a model, or so he says.”

“She certainly is beautiful. Is he still representing Dick Mauser?”

“Sure. I never would have figured that they’d get along, but I suppose money talks, as they say.”

“You and your new assistant must be busy getting ready for the trial.”

It was her turn to laugh. “Judging from the time the boss has spent in the office, you’d never know that a murder trial was about to take place. Oh, don’t get me started, Jessica. Maybe I’m just old and out of touch with the way things are done these days.”

“Age has nothing to do with it,” I said. “Doing the right thing doesn’t change no matter how old we get.”

Our conversation ended as we reached the stand and bought our cookies.

“Enjoy the rest of your day,” she said, “and, hey, good luck in the blueberry pie contest.”

Sharon walked away and I felt a pang of sadness for her. She’d devoted herself to the O’Connor law firm and obviously knew that things were changing. I had thought she’d accommodated herself to the new circumstances, but apparently she felt she no longer fit in. Mauser had disappeared, but O’Connor and his model friend strolled by.

“Hello, Cy,” I called out.

“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher.” He introduced me to his date, Brigitte. “Taking in the fun?”

“Yes,” I said. “I suppose you’re up to your ears preparing for the trial.”

“Actually,” he said, “things are pretty much under control. I’m looking forward to it.”

Brigitte looked bored. “C’mon, Cy. I want to see the rock band.”

“Have to be going,” he said. “See you in court.”

A strange way to end the conversation,
I thought.

By the time I got back to the bench, Tim was finished with his lobster roll and Seth had reached the young man at the stand and was placing his order. I was eager for him to return. I was famished.

As I chatted with Tim about how his revised history of Cabot Cove was coming, a disruption suddenly ensued at the lobster-roll stand. I strained to see what had caused it and to see whether Seth was involved. He was.

I jumped up to see what had now become a full-fledged scuffle between a shabbily dressed middle-aged man and Seth.

“Give it to me,” Seth yelled.

“What happened?” someone asked as Seth grabbed the man by the shirt.

“Let me go,” the man said.

“You took my wallet,” Seth bellowed.

The man swung at Seth but missed. Seth now had the man in the grip of both hands. He yanked him to the side and the man fell to his knees. Seth released his hold. The man scrambled away, got up, and pushed his way through the crowd in my direction.

“Stop him!” Seth yelled. “He’s got my wallet.”

The man came directly at me. He was wide-eyed, his face contorted as he tried to make his escape. I stepped back to avoid having him run into me. As I did, and as he passed, I stuck out my foot. He tripped over it and went sprawling to the ground, the wallet he clutched flying from his hand and skidding across the pavement. Two men in the crowd that had gathered pounced on him while I retrieved Seth’s wallet.

I looked back to where the altercation had occurred. Seth was leaning back on a chair someone had thoughtfully provided, a group of people circling him. I ran there. His face was beet red and streaked with perspiration. I saw that he was breathing heavily, and I was afraid he was having a heart attack. I knelt at his side. “Seth,” I said. “Are you all right?”

He tried to respond, but his breathing swallowed his words.

I touched his cheek, looked up, and said to those surrounding us, “Somebody, please call nine-one-one. Get an ambulance.”

Seth managed to collect himself. He waved an arm in the air. “No, no ambulances,” he said. “I’ll be fine, just shaken up, that’s all.”

“No,” I said, “I think that you should . . .”

Now he was pushing on the seat with both hands. “Help me up,” he said.

Seth Hazlitt is no lightweight, and it took another person in the crowd and great effort on both our parts to help get my friend to his feet. The tan slacks that he wore were a bit grubby now, and his flowered Hawaiian shirt was dark with sweat.

“He got my money, the filthy bugger,” he said.

“No, he didn’t,” I said, producing his wallet and handing it to him.

“How’d you get it?” he asked.

“I tripped him.”

I looked back to where I’d upended the pickpocket. A uniformed deputy from Mort’s office had handcuffed the man and propped him against a tree, and the sheriff, who’d been enjoying a sausage sandwich at a nearby kiosk, walked over to join us.

“That hooligan gaffled my wallet,” Seth told Mort, his breathing now back to near normal.

“He did
what
?” Mort asked.

“Gaffled my wallet,” Seth said, not trying to disguise his annoyance. “You never will learn to speak like the rest of us do, will you, Sheriff? Gaffled. Stole my wallet. Ripped me off. Picked my pocket.”

“Sorry about that, Doc, but cool your jets. We’ve got the perp in custody, and you’ve got your cash and cards back. But you’ll have to come down to headquarters to file a complaint against him.”

“Which I will happily do. But first I’m going to buy this lady a lobster roll and get another one for myself. I deserve an extra treat after this kerfuffle. Then once I’ve gone home, showered, and changed out of my untidy outfit, I’ll present myself at your office.”

“Fair enough,” Mort said. “No rush.”

I watched them escort the pickpocket away, and while I was happy that he’d been caught and that Seth’s wallet had been returned, I felt a twinge of pity for the thief. He looked like a man who’d fallen on hard times, his eyes vacant, his posture one of abject defeat. That didn’t excuse his behavior, of course, and he’d undoubtedly broken the law many times before. Hopefully being apprehended and facing jail time would change his perspective and prompt him to go on to live an honest, productive life.

Seth returned from home wearing fresh clothing and rejoined a group of us at the pie-baking contest, which had attracted a standing-room crowd. The four judges included the owners of Peppino’s, a cookbook writer who’d been imported from a nearby town, and Charlene Sassi of Sassi’s Bakery. The pies were lined up on a long table with only numbers in front of them; the bakers would remain anonymous until the winners were announced. I frankly never have understood how judges in a pie-tasting contest could manage to consume so much, but they all dug in with enthusiasm. Meanwhile, those of us in the crowd who had an entry in the contest tried to ascertain the judges’ reactions based upon facial expression.

“I’m so excited I can hardly stand it,” Maureen Metzger said.

“Easy does it, hon,” Mort, who’d joined us, said.

“Easy for you to say,” Maureen said. “You haven’t spent half your life getting ready for the bake-off.”

Mort glanced at me but said nothing. I knew what he was thinking: that he’d be glad when it was over.

After the judges had tasted all the pies, they conferred for fifteen minutes before handing the results to Mayor Shevlin to read off the winners.

“We’ll start with our third-place winner. No need to prolong the
mystery
,” said the mayor, grinning. “Third place goes to Aunt Edna’s Whortleberry Pie, baked by our own mystery lady herself, Jessica Fletcher.”

“I don’t believe it,” I said, genuinely shocked. I looked at Maureen, who forced a wide smile and hugged me, then pushed me forward to accept my yellow ribbon. I thanked the mayor and judges before taking my place again standing next to my friends. “What a nice surprise,” I said.

“Who’s Aunt Edna?” Maureen asked.

“I have no idea,” I replied. “I found the recipe in my old card file. Someone must have given it to me years ago.”

The mayor rapped his gavel on the table. “Second place goes to Best Blueberry Pie Ever,” Mayor Shevlin drew out his announcement.

“Oh, that’s me,” I heard behind me.

“Nate Swisher. Where is Mr. Swisher?”

“Right here.”

The audience clapped politely. I was glad Mr. Swisher had won a ribbon. He was a retired senior citizen whose wife had died the previous year. As he accepted his second-place red ribbon, he told the crowd that his wife had taught him everything he knew about baking.

“Isn’t that sweet,” Maureen said.

“And now for our first-place finisher,” our mayor said. “Drumroll, please.”

Someone pounded on the table, imitating a drum. Next to me, Maureen bounced up and down in excitement.

“For baking Hurtleberry Magic, the blue ribbon goes to Barbara Franklin.”

Cheers went up as the first-prize winner, wiping away tears, stepped out of the crowd to collect her prize, a silver cup to go along with her blue ribbon.

“She’s a good baker,” Maureen said gamely, as Mort gave his wife’s shoulders a squeeze.

“You’ll be the big winner next year,” I told her.

“I must not have had the correct amount of avocado,” Maureen said. “Don’t you think? You liked it. Right?”

“Perfection takes a while to achieve,” I said, hugging her. “You’ll figure it out next time. Let’s watch the pie-eating contest.”

With the remains of the pies from the contest in front of them, the three contestants ate furiously during the allotted time. When the mayor hit the fire bell with his gavel, signaling the contestants to stop eating, last year’s winner, a chubby teenager with blueberries all over his round face, had prevailed again.

We gathered at Seth’s house that evening. Maureen had gotten over her lack of acknowledgment and spoke earnestly about how she’d do better next year. Everyone was in a good mood. Seth’s experience with a pickpocket was the only one that had been reported, and spirits were high as he recounted his battle royal with the thief, who had mysteriously grown in size and muscle in the ensuing hours. Aside from a few folks who had had too much to drink and made fools of themselves, the festival had been a rousing success.

By the time I got home that night, I was still buoyant from having been with my friends and actually had a ribbon to hang on my office wall. Things were good, very good.

Except that Cabot Cove, and yours truly, would no longer have a blueberry festival to occupy our collective thoughts.