Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice (6 page)

“I will if you need me,” I said. “I was debating whether or not to enter it myself.”

“You can enter one of the other competitions,” she said. “We’re going to be inundated with blueberry pies, and I’m desperate for good judges. I’ve got Charlene Sassi, but everyone else I’ve asked turned me down.”

“I’m sure Seth would help you out,” I said.

“Already called him and he declined.”

“He did?”

“He said he gained three pounds with last year’s contest and still hasn’t taken them off. He’s not willing to add to the total.”

“Well, that’s prudent of him,” I said. “He could stand to lose a pound or two.”

“Or three. So are you in?”

“Tell you what,” I said, not eager to add to my weight either. “If you can’t find anyone else, I’ll fill in, in a pinch. But I’d really rather not be a judge.”

“Fair enough. I’ll keep looking, but in the meantime, I’ll send you the judging instructions. By the way, did you see Richard’s picture of the river that runs behind Dick Mauser’s plant?”

“No. Which one is it?” I asked, scanning the top row of photographs.

“This one down here,” Tobé said, leading me to a photo of leaves floating on the water; the base of a brick building could be seen in the background. Richard had added color to the picture, tinting the rocks along the shore and several of the leaves spilling down the bank a bilious acid green.

“He’s making a political statement, wouldn’t you say?” I said to Tobé.

“No doubt about it, but it’s hardly undeserved,” she replied.

“Has anyone come up with any proof that Mauser’s plant is polluting the river?”

“We should have it soon,” Tobé said. “Jack says the team from the Environmental Protection Agency is expected to arrive any day.”

“Is that official?” I asked.

“He heard it this afternoon from a councilwoman who brought in her corgi to be spayed.”

“I wonder why the river preservation commission hasn’t been informed,” I said.

“You’ll probably get the word in the morning,” she replied. “Frankly, I hope they come up with a finding that really rakes Mauser over the coals, hits him with a hefty fine that torches his bottom line. And I’m not the only one to feel that way.”

I was surprised to hear Tobé wishing a harsh result on anyone. Her kindness to four-legged creatures usually extended to the two-legged kind as well. Clearly, Mauser had alienated many in the community.

But later that night after I’d gotten home, changed for bed, and started reading my new Molly MacRae novel,
Lawn Order
, I was struck with how dramatically and swiftly events had occurred that would impact the town. Only a few days earlier, the most exciting news stories in Cabot Cove were plans for the upcoming annual lobster and blueberry festivals, high school sports, an occasional case of teenage vandalism, and other less-than-monumental happenings.

Now Josh Wolcott’s murder, his history as a wife abuser should it ever come out, and a federal agency arriving to investigate Richard Mauser’s business would be splashed on the front pages of the
Cabot Cove Gazette
and would dominate conversation.

I know that the so-called good ol’ days weren’t necessarily as good as we like to think they were, but I silently wished for a return to them as I closed my book, and my eyes.

Chapter Six

Y
ou haven’t been posting anything lately and I wonder if you are OK. —Janet

* * *

I answered a call from Edwina Wilkerson the following morning as I was putting away the groceries I had ordered. “I just heard from Myriam Wolcott,” she said. “She’s asked me to visit her.”

“Did she say why?”

“She wants to speak with me about her visit to the shelter’s office. She asked whether you’d come.”

“I barely know her.”

“But you were there that night, Jessica. I know you’re busy, but I’d really be grateful if you would come with me.”

“When are you planning to go?”

“Later this morning, at eleven. I can pick you up.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll be waiting.”

* * *

Edwina drove the way she did everything else in life—fast! You got the feeling that she viewed each day as possibly her last and intended to cram a lifetime into it. But I didn’t comment as she sped along the road leading out of town and to the community where the Wolcott house was located.

It was a split-level, identical to all the other homes on the block, the lawn and small flower garden in front as perfectly maintained as the neighbors’ yards. We pulled up to the curb and I took note of a small yellow car parked across the street. The sun was in my eyes and I squinted to see if I recognized the driver who sat stoically behind the wheel. It was James Teller, from the
Gazette
. I waved and he returned the gesture.

But it was another vehicle that more fully captured my attention, a marked Cabot Cove police cruiser containing two officers, one a familiar face, a deputy sheriff who’d been with the department for a number of years, the second unfamiliar to me. There was also a black Lexus sedan with a Maine license plate parked in the driveway.

Edwina and I got out of her car. A white granular substance coated a spot in the driveway that I assumed was there to cover Josh Wolcott’s blood. Although the newspaper article had said that crime scene tape had been strung, it had been removed, a positive sign where Myriam was concerned. Teller had told me that she was considered a “suspect,” which I chalked up to his youthfulness. A “person of interest”—a more neutral designation and one meant to indicate that many people were being questioned—was the politically correct term these days and was more likely the way Myriam was being viewed at that juncture, unless evidence surfaced to make her an official suspect.

Two red bicycles—one a larger boy’s model, the other a smaller one meant for a female rider—were piled together in front of the two-car garage. While the lawn and garden were manicured, the house was starting to show some neglect; white paint on the garage door had started peeling, and the trim around the front door was doing the same. A screen on the front window was torn as if someone had put a fist through it.

Edwina rang the bell.

We heard movement before the inside door was cracked open by Myriam, who peered questioningly at us through the screen door.

“Hi, Myriam,” Edwina said.

“Yes, hello,” Myriam said as she unlatched the door. Warm air enveloped us as we entered. It was dark inside; no lights were on and the drapes were tightly drawn.

“I’m so sorry about Josh,” I said, giving her a brief hug.

“Yes,” Edwina said. “This is a terribly difficult time for you.”

“Thank you for coming,” Myriam said weakly. She wore tight-fitting jeans, a white blouse underneath an open brown cardigan, and running shoes.

Myriam led us into the living room. “Please sit down.” She flipped a wall switch, and two table lamps came to life. “I don’t have much in the house, haven’t had a chance to go shopping, but I do have some tea I can make, and there’s cookies.” She smiled. “My neighbor brought over a plate just now. She said there should always be cookies around with kids in the house.”

I was saddened to see how little support Myriam was getting from the community. Had Josh died of a disease or in an accident, the ladies of Cabot Cove would have dropped off more casseroles and cakes and other dishes for the grieving family than they could possibly consume. Thank goodness one neighbor had the compassion to bring something for the children.

The lack of provisions spoke to how ill at ease Myriam’s neighbors must be, given the circumstances of her husband’s death. But I was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps the presence of a squad car was keeping them away, and when it disappeared (along with Teller’s vehicle) the neighborhood would rise to the occasion. At least I hoped so.

“Nothing for me,” I said as Edwina and I took chairs on either side of a table on which books and magazines were piled high. Edwina also declined the offer of refreshments.

“Is it cold out?” Myriam asked, pulling her sweater closed. “I haven’t been out of the house today.”

“It’s pretty chilly,” I said, “but I tell myself I can smell a breath of spring in the air. Nice weather should be here soon.”

Myriam gazed around the room as if she didn’t know how to start, her eyes resting briefly on a small dent in the wall that might have been made by an object being thrown. Edwina asked about the children. “How are they doing? Are they here with you now?”

“They’re doing okay, I suppose,” she said, starting to pace. “I don’t think it’s really hit home with Ruth. She’s the youngest, just twelve. It’s hard to read Mark. He’s filled with anger. He’s over at his friend’s house. Thank goodness for that family; they’re so understanding.”

“Ruth is such a sweet old-fashioned name,” Edwina commented. “Is she named in honor of someone?”

Myriam chewed on the inside of her cheek. “She was named after Josh’s grandmother. I would have liked something a bit more modern, but Josh insisted, so Ruth it was. I call her Ruthie most of the time. She’s such a little girl for such a serious name.”

“Where is Ruthie?” I asked.

“She’s upstairs with my mother. She’ll be down in a moment.” She hesitated, then continued. “My mother arrived early this morning. She drove here from Bangor last night.”

“It’s good that she wasn’t too far away,” I offered.

Myriam didn’t respond.

“And how about you, Myriam?” Edwina asked. “How are you doing?”

Myriam plopped in a chair and exhaled loudly. “Me? What can I say? Josh is gone, shot dead by some crazy person.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how I’m doing. I don’t know what to feel. I still can’t believe it.”

“Do the police have any leads?” I asked.

“Not that I know of. Of course, there’s always me.” Her laugh was sardonic. “Our wonderful sheriff grilled me for hours. The kids were questioned, too. How unfair to subject them to such trauma. They’d just lost their father in a horrible way, but the sheriff didn’t seem concerned about that.”

“I understand how you feel,” I said, “but Sheriff Metzger has his job to do.”

“He’s an insensitive bully,” Myriam responded.

Of all the words I might come up with to describe Mort, “bully” wouldn’t be on the list. I fought an urge to defend him; it wasn’t the appropriate time or place.

“The shelter has a child advocate,” Edwina said. “We can arrange for the children to get some counseling, if you like. It would be helpful for them to talk with someone about their father, help them work through their feelings. Will you consider it?”

“I’ll think about it,” Myriam said.

Footsteps were heard on the stairs, and we all turned to see Myriam’s daughter, a thin girl enveloped in a heavy sweater, followed by an older woman. Myriam got to her feet and held her arms out for her daughter. Ruth ran to her embrace, hugging her mother tightly. Myriam turned her around. “This is Ruth,” she said to us. “Say hello to the ladies, Ruthie.”

Ruth murmured a greeting, never taking her eyes off the floor. She had a pale face with a pink nose, probably from crying. Her long brown hair had been fashioned into two tight braids, a hairstyle more suited to a younger child.

Myriam’s mother reached the bottom of the stairs and stood, hands on her hips, her head cocked as though to ask who we were. Myriam was a tall woman, about five feet seven inches, but her mother was taller, at least five-ten. She was immaculately dressed in a pale green sheath. She wore heels, and her jewelry was plentiful and looked expensive. Her hair and makeup had obviously been professionally tended to.

“This is my mother, Mrs. Warren Caldwell. Mother, this is Edwina Wilkerson and Jessica Fletcher. I told you about them.”

“Yes, you did,” Mrs. Caldwell said. “I know of Jessica Fletcher. She writes.”

My vocation had never been described quite so bluntly before. I smiled and nodded.

Myriam asked whether her mother wanted something to drink.

“Thank you, no,” Mrs. Caldwell said and took a seat on a small red-and-blue-flowered couch that showed wear; I envisioned the children jumping up and down on it.

“Ruthie,” Myriam said, “Mommy needs to have a conversation with your grandmother and our visitors. Please go down to the playroom. You can watch TV. I’ll call you when we’re finished.”

“She’s very sweet,” I said as the girl left the room.

“More important, she’s very smart,” Mrs. Caldwell added.

She perched on the edge of the couch as though to avoid contact with as much of the cushions as possible, her knees tightly pressed together, long, tapered, red-tipped fingers laced on her knees. “I understand that you had a conversation with my daughter a few nights ago,” she said, addressing both Edwina and me.

Edwina and I glanced at Myriam to see whether she was distressed by the question. Her privacy was being breached.

“It’s all right,” Myriam said. “I told her where I went.”

“You mean when Myriam visited the women’s shelter office?” Edwina said.

“Yes, that is what I’m referring to.”

“Myriam was upset,” Edwina offered. “She’d . . .”

“Let’s face facts. She came because of what her husband did to her,” Mrs. Caldwell said flatly.

Edwina nodded slowly.

“It was an ill-advised visit,” Myriam’s mother continued.

Edwina looked to me before responding, “I was pleased that she sought us out. She needed someone to talk to, someone who would understand what she’d just experienced and who could provide nonjudgmental comfort.”

Mrs. Caldwell smiled sweetly, although I suspected that it took effort to do so. “Comfort is what a family is for. She should have come to me,” she said.

I sensed Edwina tensing. “But you weren’t here and she came to us,” she said, working at keeping pique from her voice. “Do you have a problem with that, Mrs. Caldwell?”

“If I did, would it make any difference?” She turned to her daughter. “Would it, Myriam?”

Myriam started to say something but swallowed her words.