Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice (27 page)

“Tell me, Harry.”

“She says that she pleaded with her husband not to do it.”

“Do
what
?”

“Take the rifle and put it in his car.”

“Whoa,” I said, looking around to make sure we were alone. “She actually said that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did she say what he did with the rifle after they left?”

“No. I suggested that maybe he tossed it in some pond or river, but she clammed up, ordered another drink. She wanted to dance.”

“Did you dance with her?”

“Me? Are you kidding? My dancing days are behind me. Besides, the only music the jukebox played was old country-and-western songs about dogs dying and husbands leaving home. My new friend, the waitress, was getting jealous, so . . .”

“I get the point,” I said.

“Yeah, well, now you know what happened to the weapon. What do you want to do about it?”

“We have to make it known to the court and to the attorneys.”

“O’Connor?”

“For starters.”

McGraw grunted.

“What?” I asked.

“I’d say that this takes everybody else off the hook. I mean, the people who Wolcott scammed. Looks like you guessed wrong, Jessica. Looks to me like the rifle was used by Mrs. Wolcott.”

“Or maybe her brother,” I said. “Certainly someone in that family. But I still stand by my conviction that Myriam didn’t shoot her husband.”

Harry looked at the closed double doors. “Trial’s still going on?”

“Yes. They’ll probably conclude in a few minutes. The judge seems to prefer ending the day at four. By the way, you missed the latest incident. Richard Mauser had a heart attack.”

“He’s dead?”

“He’s at the hospital. Hopefully he’ll pull through.”

Ten minutes later the doors opened and people filed out. I looked inside to where Myriam was speaking with her mother and children, and where Cy O’Connor and Sharon Bacon were returning papers to his briefcase.

“Let’s talk to him,” Harry said.

“I have a better idea,” I said.

We entered the courtroom and approached Judge Mackin’s law clerk, Gary Lauder, whom I’d known for years. “Got a minute?” I asked.

“Sure, Jessica.”

Gary and I went back a long way. When he wasn’t functioning as Ralph Mackin’s law clerk, he wrote poetry, which had developed a certain kinship between us. I’d edited a book of his poems that he’d self-published, and he and his wife were devoted fans of my books. “Gary,” I said, “this is Harry McGraw. He’s a private investigator who worked for Mr. O’Connor but who is now helping me.”

“Helping you? With what?”

“Helping me get to the bottom of the Wolcott murder.”

“I didn’t realize that you were involved,” he said, “aside from testifying.”

“I’m not involved—officially. Do you think Judge Mackin would grant us some time in chambers? Mr. McGraw has come up with new evidence that has a direct bearing on the case.”

Lauder looked quizzically at Harry, who shrugged and grinned.

“New evidence?” Lauder said. “You should take it to the DA or the sheriff’s office.”

“I know that would be the usual route, Gary, but I really would prefer that the judge be made aware of it. While this is an unusual imposition, I really think the judge will want to hear it. I assume that both attorneys will be present. Would you ask the judge if he’d grant my request?”

Gary grimaced before saying, “Sure, Jessica. Wait here.”

O’Connor and the prosecutor, Ms. Cirilli, were still in the courtroom, and O’Connor eyed me with suspicion, although he didn’t approach us. The law clerk reappeared. “Judge Mackin says he’ll see you in chambers provided the attorneys agree.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d see if they will agree,” I said.

He conferred with O’Connor and Cirilli, both of whom asked him questions. Finally, he returned and said, “I’ll take you to the judge’s chambers. The attorneys will be in shortly.”

Judge Mackin was in a good mood. He greeted us warmly and pointed to red leather armchairs across the desk from him. “I just finished your latest novel, Jessica,” he said. “A hell of a good story. I never saw the ending coming.”

Moments later, O’Connor and Cirilli arrived.

“What’s this all about?” the prosecutor asked.

“Mrs. Fletcher has asked for this meeting,” said the judge. “This gentleman is . . .”

“I know who he is,” O’Connor said sharply.

Harry stood and extended his hand to the prosecutor. “Harry McGraw, PI.”

She took his hand briefly and eyed me curiously.

“Okay,” the judge said. “Go ahead, Mr. McGraw. Tell the attorneys about this new evidence you say you’ve discovered.”

Being in the judge’s presence seemed to unnerve Harry. He cleared his throat a few times before saying, “I know this is unusual, Your Honor, but . . .”

“Get to the point,” Mackin said.

“Well, it’s like this, Your Honor. I was up in Gorbyville snooping around and I met this waitress in a bar where I stopped to . . .”

“Harry!” I said.

“Yeah, okay. Sorry. You see, there’s this Caldwell dame. She’s married to the brother and she lets it be known that her hubby took the murder weapon and put it in his car so the cops won’t find it. She says she begged him not to do it, but they’re pretty much on the outs, so he ignores her.”

Judge Mackin listened carefully to what McGraw said. When the private detective was finished, the judge said to Ms. Cirilli, “I’d say this is a valuable piece of evidence, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, it is,” she replied. “If what this gentleman says is true, the defendant’s brother is guilty of impeding a homicide investigation and lying to authorities.”

“Yeah, but what bearing does it have on the case we’re trying?” O’Connor said.

I turned to Ms. Cirilli and said, “Your witness, Dr. Weeks, testified that the only fingerprint he found on the weapon came from someone with a small hand. While Mrs. Wolcott is slender, she’s hardly what you would call ‘small.’ Wouldn’t that in itself cast doubt on her guilt?”

“Oh, come on, Jessica,” whined O’Connor, “the witness said he found fragments of other prints. One of them could be my client’s.”

“I hope you’re going somewhere productive, Mrs. Fletcher,” Judge Mackin said.

O’Connor addressed the judge: “Your Honor, the basic truth is that my client, Myriam Wolcott, has admitted that she shot her husband. The trial isn’t to refute that. We acknowledge that she pulled the trigger. The question is whether she had a right to defend herself against her abusive husband.”

“I’m sorry to disagree with you, Cy. I don’t believe and never have believed that Myriam Wolcott shot her husband. I think that she has pleaded guilty to protect someone else.”

All eyes focused on me.

“Are you suggesting this brother of hers?” the judge asked.

“No, Your Honor, I’m not, although it’s a possibility. What I
am
suggesting is that to go forward with the trial without exploring new possibilities would be—well, I don’t think justice is being served.”

“And do you have information about these ‘new possibilities’ you think the court should consider?” Mackin asked.

“I object to this, Your Honor,” O’Connor said. “Mrs. Fletcher is simply speculating without anything to back her up. I’m in the middle of my defense, and to interrupt proceedings at this juncture would be not only inappropriate; it could be the basis for a mistrial.”

Mackin sighed, sat back in his leather chair, laced his fingers on his chest, and said, “I don’t think it would be untoward to declare a one-day recess to give me time to sift through this new evidence, and to hear more of Mrs. Fletcher’s concerns—with you and Ms. Cirilli present, of course. I know, I know, it’s an unusual situation, but nobody ever said that the law is perfect. If it was, you wouldn’t need me.” He looked hard at Cy and added, “Do you want to declare a mistrial now, Counselor?” The way he said it left little doubt that he would not be pleased if O’Connor raised another objection. When he didn’t, Mackin summoned his clerk, Gary Lauder, and informed him that court would be dark the following day. “Please inform the principals of this change,” he directed Lauder. “But I’d like the defendant and other significant parties at the court at nine in the event I wish to speak with them.”

“Who does that include, Your Honor?” Lauder asked.

“The family.”

“The children, too?”

“Yes.”

To us he said, “I’ll see you here at nine sharp.” With that he rose and disappeared into another room.

O’Connor’s red face and tight lips testified to his anger. He glared at me, started to say something, got up, and stormed from chambers. The prosecutor was less dramatic with her exit. She smiled at me and said, “I’m looking forward to hearing what you have to say, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I appreciate that,” I said, “and I promise not to take too much of anyone’s time.”

I left the courthouse with McGraw feeling pretty good about myself. I’d never expected that the judge would go to the extent of canceling a day in court in order to hear me out and to ponder his next move.

But after Harry dropped me home and I had a chance to do some pondering myself over a cup of steaming green tea, I realized that I’d put myself in an extremely awkward position. All I had to present to the judge the following day was a series of suppositions with little to back them up. In effect I was now expected to present a case of my own, and I knew I’d better put my thoughts together overnight.

I’d started doing just that when the doorbell rang.

Chapter Twenty-eight

A
black Lexus sedan sat in the driveway. I opened my front door.

“Good evening, Mrs. Caldwell.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher. May I come in?”

“By all means.”

If she was at all concerned about having stopped by unannounced, she didn’t express it. She walked past me, stood in the middle of my living room, and said, “Charming little house. Have you been here long?”

“Yes, I have. Won’t you sit down?”

She hesitated as though debating whether to choose a chair or the couch. She opted for a chair, in which she sat ramrod straight, her knees pressed together, the same pose she’d adopted when Edwina and I had visited Myriam right after the murder.

“Would you like tea?” I asked.

“Thank you, no. This isn’t a social call.”

“Well, then,” I said, taking another chair, “the obvious question is
why
are you here?”

“I should think it would be obvious,” she said.

“Perhaps to you, Mrs. Caldwell. Please educate me.”

My air-conditioning was on, but I didn’t need it. She’d brought with her sufficient BTUs to cool an armory.

“I’ll get right to the point,” she said. “I’ve been informed that you have convinced the judge to delay my daughter’s trial.”

“I don’t think that I’ve convinced him of anything. He made a decision based upon his own judgment. By the way, you’re free to call me Jessica.”

If I expected her to suggest using her first name, I was mistaken. It would be Mrs. Caldwell.

“I also understand,” she said, “that this private investigator of yours has implicated my son in some minor aspect of the trial.”

I couldn’t help the laugh that came from me. “‘Minor aspect’?” I said. “I hardly think that removing a murder weapon from the scene of the crime is a ‘minor aspect.’”

“That information came from Robert’s wife, Stephanie,” she said with distaste, as though having sucked on a lemon wedge. “My soon to be former daughter-in-law is a common woman, Mrs. Fletcher. Nothing she says is to be believed.”

“I’m sure that the judge will come to his own conclusions.”

She relaxed slightly, leaned back, and exhaled an exaggerated sigh. “You don’t understand,” she said.

“Understand what?”

“Understand the need for a family to stand shoulder to shoulder in times of great need.”

“Please continue,” I said.

“You seem like an intelligent woman,” she said in a tone reserved for expressing exasperation at a slow child.

“Thank you,” I said.

She came forward. “It is imperative that Myriam take responsibility for Josh’s murder.”

“Why?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said, “for the good of the family. I can’t believe that you are blind to this.”

“Mrs. Caldwell,” I said, “I’m not blind to the need for justice to be done, fair justice, legal justice. Our judicial system isn’t something to be manipulated for an individual’s sake, or any family’s sake. No one is above the law.”

Her first smile of the evening was a dismissive smirk. “How lofty that sounds,” she said into the room. “How lofty—and naïve.”

I’m by nature a patient person, but my patience was running thin. “Mrs. Caldwell,” I said, “just what is the purpose of your visit?”

“I want you to stop your infernal snooping and intrusion into what is none of your business. I and my family have gone through a terrible ordeal. We don’t need you, or anyone like you, making it worse. I’ll be candid, Mrs. Fletcher.”

As though she hadn’t been.

“I’m sure that you have faced financial difficulties, as all writers do. I will pay you to stay away from my family. How much will it take?”

I managed to keep my anger in check as I stood and said, “I think our conversation is at an end, Mrs. Caldwell. Good evening.”

She, too, got up, straightened her skirt, and said, “You are a foolish woman, Mrs. Fletcher. A
very
foolish woman.”

She left, got in her car, and backed out of the driveway. I realized that I was trembling and urged myself to calm down. If she’d thought that her visit and insults would cause me to think twice about backing off, she was wrong.

I was certain that she had coerced Myriam to plead guilty in order to protect someone else, and I had a good idea who it was. Now I needed to gather my thoughts and make notes of them before meeting with Judge Mackin in the morning.

* * *

The two attorneys were in Judge Mackin’s chambers when I arrived after a fitful night. McGraw had wanted to be there but was tied up with business obligations he needed to attend to. However, he’d already informed the judge of what he’d discovered in Gorbyville, and while I would have greatly appreciated his moral support, his presence wasn’t strictly necessary.