Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice (4 page)

* * *

He had called out of the blue one morning. “Mrs. Fletcher?” he said. “This is Josh Wolcott. I wonder if you remember me.”

“Yes, of course, Josh. How are you?”

“Couldn’t be better, Mrs. Fletcher. May I call you Jessica?”

“Of course.”

“Great. I don’t know if you’re aware that I’m a financial planner right here in Cabot Cove.”

“Yes, I know that,” I replied.

“Well, it seemed to me that I’d be remiss if I didn’t make contact with you concerning your financial planning needs, and—”

“That’s good of you, Josh, but I already have a financial planner.”

“Do you mind if I ask who it is?”

“A firm in New York City.”

“New York City,” he repeated, enunciating each word as though to give them extra meaning. “You’re comfortable having someone that far away handling your financial affairs?”

“Yes, I am. It’s a very reputable firm. I’ve been with them a long time.”

His silence had meaning. After the pause, he said, “I know you’re busy writing your best-selling books, Jessica, but I really feel that I might have some sound ideas that would benefit you and your financial future. All I’m asking is that you give me a half hour of your time. I can meet with you whenever it’s convenient.”

“I appreciate the call, Josh, but I really have no intention of changing things where my finances are concerned.”

“I understand,” he said, “but I can’t urge you enough to at least become aware of some outstanding investment opportunities that are newly available.”

“I
am
busy, and—”

“You’d have nothing to lose by simply listening,” he said. “Look, I’m going to be on your street tomorrow. One of your neighbors—I won’t say who—has asked me to review his portfolio. I can ring your bell before I see him. Only take a little of your time. Just a half hour that could be
very
beneficial to you. No commitment on your part. Just let me tell you what I have to offer.”

It was obvious that he was not to be put off, so I agreed to have him come to the house the following day at eleven. He arrived dressed nicely in a navy blue suit, white shirt, and red-and-blue tie, and he was carrying a briefcase. He declined my offer of something to eat or drink, sat at my dining room table, opened his briefcase, spread out an assortment of papers, and said, “You won’t regret taking the time for me, Jessica.”

“As you said, I have nothing to lose by listening, although I must tell you that I have no intention of changing financial advisers.”

“I certainly understand your reluctance to change,” he countered, “but sometimes we become complacent and avoid change because it seems complicated. That’s not the case here. Your mortgage is paid off, I assume. It would help me if I could see the investments your financial adviser has you invested in.”

I shook my head. “I’d rather not do that,” I said.

He shrugged. “That’s your choice, of course. But I’m concerned that you’ve placed your trust in someone far away from here. There’s a big advantage in having your adviser close by, available to you twenty-four/seven, a neighbor who shares your values. I certainly know how successful you’ve been as a writer—I’ve read some of your books and they’re great.”

“Thank you.”

“And I’m sure you’ve been handsomely rewarded financially. But even if you don’t have ready cash, we can arrange, say, a refinancing on this house, for instance, to give you money to invest. What’s important is that the investments you make stay ahead of inflation and assure you a comfortable retirement when you’ve laid down your pen and decide to take it easy.”

I felt myself becoming impatient but didn’t want to be impolite. He was, after all, a member of the community with a family and someone about whom I’d never heard anything negative. But I was anxious to get back to the book I was writing. He saved me from having to cut the session short by saying, “I know that you don’t have time to waste, Jessica, so I’ll get right to the point.” He leaned closer and his tone became conspiratorial. “I have some very credible sources of information within the financial community that I share only with special clients. These sources—and I’m talking about top people—enable me to buy stocks for my clients before they become available to the general investing public. I don’t know what your investments currently earn—three, maybe four percent?—but the investments I’m able to put you into can earn as much as twenty, maybe even twenty-five percent. Think of that, Jessica. Instead of falling behind inflation, you can watch your hard-earned money grow into sizable figures, far more than what most people enjoy.
And
, as I’ve said, you’re dealing with someone close to home, a neighbor and friend.”

He sat back, a satisfied look on his handsome face, confident that he’d gotten across his point and had been persuasive. I don’t know whether my expression and body language reflected what I was thinking, nor did I express it. What struck me was what my late husband, Frank, always said that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

“I can put you into some of these sterling investment opportunities, Jessica, but we’d have to move fast. They come along only so often, and—”

“I don’t think so, Josh,” I said. “It was nice of you to drop by, but as I told you, I’m very satisfied with my current financial adviser. I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, but your services aren’t for me.”

He said that he understood, but his face testified to something different. He shuffled his papers back into his briefcase, stood, and thrust out his hand. I shook it.

“This may not be the right time for you,” he said heartily, “but I’ll check back in six months. I’ll let you know how these opportunities have panned out. I think you’ll be surprised how well they did and be sorry that you missed out on them. Thanks for your time, Jessica,” he said.

“Please give my best to your family. I’ve watched your son play baseball. He’s very good.”

* * *

I was glad he was gone, although I was sorry about his obvious disappointment. He seemed like a nice enough young man who was only doing what he did for a living, trying to sell someone something. Nothing wrong with that. But aside from my not being interested in changing financial advisers, I was taken aback by his promise of inflated profits through some unnamed sources in the financial community. It made me uncomfortable. It smacked of a possible pyramid scheme, at least to this relatively inexperienced investor. I hoped that wasn’t the case, for his sake and for anyone who might fall for such a pitch.

Chapter Four

B
een crying all day—can’t help it—have to stop—he hates it when I cry. I hear him in the driveway—hope his day at the office was okay—hope he isn’t angry—got to get supper going—he gets mad when it’s not ready on time. Thanks for listening, all of you—helps to vent with someone, whoever you are. —MW in Maine

MW in Maine—Listen to me. Your husband is dangerous. Kill him before he kills you! Make it look like an accident. He’ll kill you if you don’t. —Anonymous

* * *

I’d forgotten about my meeting with Josh Wolcott until Myriam’s arrival at the shelter the previous night. I saw him around town, of course, and we’d had a few short but pleasant chats. Josh is a member of the Rotary and Lions Clubs and we exchanged pleasantries when I spoke at those civic association luncheons. He seemed to be popular with his colleagues and never brought up our conversation about my finances again; nor did I raise the subject.

But seeing Myriam’s bruised face and hearing her story cast Josh Wolcott in an entirely different light. It’s true that he had come off as a bit of a hustler that morning he paid me a visit, perhaps involved in shady financial schemes, but I was shocked to learn that he was a wife batterer. You just never know about people who can hide who they really are.

These thoughts occupied me as I cleaned out a utility closet, a project I’d been promising myself to get to. I’d started right after breakfast and was halfway finished when the phone rang. It was Evelyn Phillips, the publisher and editor of the
Cabot Cove Gazette
, and a friend.

“Hope I’m not taking you from something important,” she said.

“If finding three different-sized mop heads is important, then you are.”

“Huh?”

“Just kidding, Evelyn. I’m cleaning out a closet. Happy for the break. What’s new in town?”

“Not a lot. The reason I’m calling is that Sheriff Metzger has sent me a press release. Seems that festivals and fairs around the state have seen an increase in pickpocketing incidents, and he’s come up with a list of things we can do to keep our possessions safe when in a crowd.”

“Good public service.”

“That it is. I wanted to spice up the piece a little and wondered whether you’ve ever used a pickpocket as a character in any of your books. You know, add a little color to the article.”

“I can’t say that I have,” I said. “My bad guys, or gals, are usually murderers.”

“Just thought I’d ask. What did you think of the council meeting the other night?”

I smiled. I knew that Evelyn must have had another reason for calling. “I was happy that funding for the shelter passed,” I said.

“And what did you think of Mr. Mauser?”

“Oh, he likes to let off steam and pontificate. Fortunately cooler heads prevail when it comes to voting.”

She lowered her voice. “Keep a secret, Jess?”

I sighed. It looked like this was another day of secrets. “I’ll do my best,” I said.

“Edwina may not have had any proof behind her accusations at the town council meeting, but I hear that the federal government, the EPA, is getting ready to launch an investigation into Mauser’s company and whether it’s polluting the river, a follow-up to the state’s investigation last year.”

“If he’s polluting the river, he should be investigated, but as I recall, the state decided that he wasn’t, at least beyond acceptable EPA guidelines.”

“Rumor has it that he bought off the state inspector.”

“Rumors aren’t fact, Evelyn, as you well know.”

“Of course. I can’t print it without a confirmation. Just thought you’d be interested.”

“I am, and thanks for sharing it with me.”

“Got to run,” she said. “The library is exhibiting Richard Koser’s photographs and there’s a luncheon.”

“Richard takes wonderful photos. I’ll make a point of stopping by later in the week.”

By the time I’d rearranged the closet and determined which mop head actually fit the handle, on top of finishing other chores around the house, the day was gone. I met up with Seth for a quick bite before attending a meeting of the Cabot Cove River Preservation Commission, which I’d been invited to join. It was obvious from the opening minutes that I wasn’t the only person in town sworn to secrecy by Evelyn Phillips about the possibility that the EPA might be poised to investigate Richard Mauser’s factory and its alleged role in polluting the river. Everyone on the commission knew about it, and a spirited discussion ensued. It was eventually agreed that the commission should do nothing until the EPA formally announced its intention, at which time they would do what they could to support the investigation.

I sat on my glassed-in porch after returning home from the meeting, sipping a tall glass of lemonade, and finished reading a novel I’d started days ago. It occurred to me as I closed the cover and headed inside that it was possible to become so involved in a community’s affairs that there was little room left for other things—like writing murder mystery novels—and that maybe it was time to start my next book. I’d been developing a plot for it, and its twists and turns kept me from falling asleep until long after I’d gotten into bed.

I would have slept a little longer the next morning were it not for the ringing phone. I glanced at my digital alarm clock: seven thirty. Who’d be calling at that hour?

I picked up the phone and heard Edwina Wilkerson say, “Jessica?”

“Hello, Edwina.”

“I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“It’s time that I was getting up anyway.”

“I have terrible news.”

I sat up straight and said, “What is it?”

“Josh Wolcott has been murdered!”

Chapter Five

I
t’s me again. I was the one who suggested that you kill your husband before he kills you. Have you done it yet? Of course not. You don’t even have the guts to leave him. —Anonymous

* * *

There’s nothing like being told that someone you know has been murdered to bring you fully awake and to get the blood flowing. Maybe “blood” is the wrong word to use. “Juices” would be more appropriate.

I sat on the edge of the bed. “How do you know?” I asked Edwina.

“My brother Alfred called me.” Her brother, who lived outside of town, was a ham radio fanatic who spent time when he wasn’t working tuned into police, fire, and aviation frequencies. “Alfred said that he heard a call go out to the police last night at about nine, nine thirty, for a possible gunshot victim at the Wolcott house. He stayed tuned and heard Sheriff Metzger call back to headquarters for the medical examiner and a crime scene unit to be dispatched. The sheriff said on his call that it
was
a homicide, and named Josh Wolcott.”

“Do they have any suspects?”

“Not that I know of, but, Jessica, do you think that—I hate to even consider it—do you think that Myriam might have shot him?”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions, Edwina.”

She was not the only one to call about the shooting.

By nine my phone was virtually jumping off its base. Every time I tried to squeeze in a shower, it rang, friends calling to ask whether I’d heard about Josh Wolcott. Each caller had information to impart, although it was obvious that just about everything they had to offer was based upon rumor and innuendo. They all wanted to know whether I had any information about the event, assuming, I suppose, that a writer of murder mysteries has some magical insight into real crime. I fended them off as politely as I could and finally grabbed a quick shower, dressed, and managed coffee and an English muffin before the next call.