Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice (7 page)

“I’m sure that you both are aware that Myriam’s marital history with Joshua is an embarrassment.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” Edwina said. “Myriam is hardly the first wife to have been abused by her husband. Domestic violence is the greatest source of personal injury to women, causing more than three times as many medical visits as car accidents, more injuries than rapes, auto accidents, and muggings combined. Ten women a day are killed each year by their male partners or ex-partners. As many as four million American women are battered each year by their husbands or partners. That’s one every seven or eight seconds. There’s no reason at all for Myriam to be
embarrassed
.”

Mrs. Caldwell listened patiently as Edwina rattled off her data, a bemused smile on her face. When Edwina was finished, Mrs. Caldwell said, “That’s all well and good, but I’m not interested in seeing my daughter lumped into a bunch of statistics. The point is that both you and Mrs. Fletcher have been privy to what is a very private matter, and I insist that it remain just that, a private matter.”

I hadn’t said anything up to this point, but now I felt compelled to respond. “Mrs. Caldwell, as a volunteer, my only role is to lend an understanding and sensitive ear to a victim of domestic abuse,” I said. “Edwina has received considerable professional training in dealing with abused spouses, and in our volunteer classes she has stressed to all of us the importance of discretion and privacy. In fact, it’s only because Myriam has given approval that we’re discussing this with you. I assure you that all of us who work at the shelter, staff and volunteers alike, never discuss what goes on inside with anyone who isn’t specifically involved in the case.”

“My daughter is not a ‘case,’ Mrs. Fletcher,” Mrs. Caldwell said coldly.

Edwina jumped in with, “Jessica didn’t mean to offend you, Mrs. Caldwell, but her point is valid. What happens at the shelter stays there. I suggested to your daughter that she leave the house that night to avoid any further physical violence, advice she declined to follow—which I fully understood. Frankly, I’m surprised that you even feel the need to raise the privacy issue.”

Mrs. Caldwell straightened and lifted her chin as she retorted, “I’m protecting my daughter, who has the misfortune of being considered a suspect in her husband’s murder.”

There was silence in the room.

I broke it by asking, “Have the authorities used the term ‘suspect’ in regard to your daughter?”

“They questioned me as though I was,” Myriam said.

Her mother chimed in, “Of course she’s a suspect. They always consider a family member first.” She looked at me. “You must know that, Mrs. Fletcher. After all, you
do
write murder mysteries.”

I turned to Myriam. “You aren’t saying that Sheriff Metzger actually accused you of having killed your husband, are you?”

“Not in so many words, but he might as well have.”

“Did you ask for a lawyer?” I said.

Myriam turned pale. “No! Do . . . do I need one?”

“We’ll take care of that when the time comes,” Mrs. Caldwell said.

I was tempted to put in a good word for Mort, who was usually pretty sensitive when it came to interviewing recently bereaved family members. But I hadn’t been there, and defending him would serve no purpose at this time. Instead I said, “I understand that your brother and his wife were here, Myriam.”

Her expression said that she was surprised that I knew. “It was mentioned in the newspaper article,” I explained. “Have they left?”

“Yes,” Myriam muttered.

“Her brother, Robert, is a very responsible person,” Myriam’s mother said. “He had business obligations to get back to.”

I thought it was a shame that Myriam’s brother’s business responsibilities trumped his responsibilities as far as his sister was concerned. Given that she had just suffered such a shocking loss, I would have hoped that either he or his wife would have stayed behind to help. But perhaps Mrs. Caldwell had shooed them out, or, just as likely, they had left to escape her domineering rule.

“The press has no right to interfere or report on family matters,” Mrs. Caldwell said through a pronounced sneer. “I suppose they’ve asked for your expert opinion, Mrs. Fletcher.”

Although James Teller had called me for a comment, I didn’t mention it.

“There’s a reporter parked outside the house right now,” she said. “Those ghouls!”

“It’s not surprising,” I said. “There’s been a murder, and they have a job to do, too.”

She dismissed me with a pointed shake of her carefully coiffed head and addressed her next comment to Edwina. “Let me get to the point of why Myriam has asked you here today. She’s still in shock, as you might expect, and can’t be depended upon to think clearly.”

Myriam’s pained expression made me wince.

Her mother continued. “My daughter made a very big mistake going to this shelter that you run, airing her dirty family laundry, and contributing, I’m sure, to your town’s gossip mill.

“I . . .”

“Please stop right there,” Edwina said sternly, holding up her hand. “Your daughter came because she’d been physically abused by her husband, because she needed a refuge from him, and I’m very proud that Mrs. Fletcher and I were there to provide it. As for this so-called gossip mill, nothing that was said that night ends up in any mill. I apologize if I appear to be argumentative, Mrs. Caldwell, but it’s clear to me that you don’t understand how a women’s shelter operates and why it’s important to a community—especially to those who are being abused.”

Mrs. Caldwell stood, ran her hands over the front of her dress, and after a prolonged sigh said, “I can see you aren’t accustomed to being challenged, Mrs. Wilkerson. Let me leave it at this. If any mention of my daughter’s misguided visit to your shelter is made to anyone—and I stress
anyone
—you’ll hear from my lawyer.” She aimed a tight smile at us. “It was a pleasure meeting you both.”

Edwina and I watched her stride across the room and disappear down the stairs to join her granddaughter. Myriam continued to sit on the couch, legs tightly crossed, hands hugging her elbows, head bowed. She looked up and said, “My mother is, well, she’s a very intelligent and, I guess you could say, determined woman. Please don’t take offense at her way of speaking. It’s just that she loves me and the children and wants to protect our name. Reputation is very important to her. Try to understand.”

Myriam uncoiled her body and showed us out. She thanked us for coming and closed the door behind us, engaging the lock. I saw that Teller’s car was gone; the patrol car remained in place.

“Can you believe it?” Edwina said as her tires screeched away from the curb.

“Take it easy,” I said. “Slow down.”

“Sorry. Protect the family name and reputation, my foot. By the way, Jessica, mind a bit of advice?”

“Oh dear. Did I talk out of turn?”

“No. Of course not. I’m just steamed at that—that terrible woman.” She pulled the car to the curb, turned off the engine, and looked at me. “You referred to Myriam as a
victim
of domestic abuse.”

“Wrong word?”

“It’s accurate, of course, but women in that position dislike the term.
Survivor
of abuse is more acceptable, although they aren’t crazy about that either.”

“Lesson learned.”

“Thank you.”

Edwina started up the car. After admonishing her to ease up on the accelerator, I commented, “I believe there’s more to it than worrying about the family’s name and reputation.”

She shot a glance at me. “Like what?”

“Like not wanting the authorities to know that her husband was a batterer. If the police hear that, they’ll have the perfect motive to assign to Myriam: abused wife who’d taken enough and killed her attacker.”

“Won’t they find out anyway? The children might already have said something.”

“They might have,” I said. “And the family that Mark always sought solace with may have spoken with the police, too. And it probably wasn’t wise of Mrs. Caldwell to tell Myriam to invite you and me to the house together, given our connection with the shelter. She may have inadvertently informed the police and the press of exactly what she was trying to keep secret.”

Edwina stopped at a light. “Myriam’s mother is clearly an abusive personality,” she mused aloud. “Maybe that’s why Myriam chose Josh. It’s not an unusual pattern.”

The light turned green.

“Do you really think that Myriam might have shot Josh?” she asked.

“I have no idea what happened,” I replied, “but the police always first look for a motive, and then for proximity to the murder. Unfortunately, Myriam Wolcott provides both.”

Chapter Seven

A
fter years of abuse I left my husband and went to a women’s shelter in our hometown. It wasn’t an easy decision but it had to be done, otherwise I really think he would have killed me. The people at the shelter were terrific, put me up until they found a nice apartment for me, new phone number, driver’s license, everything to hide me from my husband. Do you have a shelter in your town in Maine? If so, check it out. It could save your life. —S.S. in Florida

* * *

Edwina and I had errands to run, so we parked in town and agreed to meet back at the car in an hour. It had started to snow and I was glad that I’d thought to wear a jacket with a hood. Hopefully it would be no more than a March snow shower, not enough to coat the roads and make driving treacherous.

I ducked into Charles Department Store, where I hoped to find a replacement plastic card insert for my wallet; the old one was torn and my credit cards threatened to fall out at any moment. The department store had just what I was looking for—they always seem to have what I need—and I was paying when Tim Purdy, Cabot Cove’s historian and president of the historical society, came up to me. A tall, distinguished fellow, he was dressed as he often is in a tweed jacket, brown slacks, and a floppy red-and-yellow bow tie. A tan trench coat was casually draped over one arm.

“Hello, Tim.”

“Good morning, Jessica.” He glanced at a clock on the wall that read a few minutes past noon. “‘Good afternoon’ is more appropriate. How are you?”

“Fine. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been hibernating, putting the final touches on the revised history, and you’re just the person I wanted to see.”

Tim is passionate about our town’s history and had written a wonderful book about it a few years ago, which he was in the process of updating.

“You’ve found me,” I said pleasantly. “What can I do for you?”

“Two things, Jessica. First, I’m thinking of expanding the section on the river and its meaning to Cabot Cove.”

“Oh? You think that’s necessary?”

“I wouldn’t have, but Dick Mauser’s plant and the controversy over whether he’s polluting the river change things.”

“Do you have any new information about it?” I asked.

“The EPA is sending a team.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“In that light, I fear that I shortchanged the river and its role in the town’s development in the first edition and want to beef it up.”

“That seems like a good idea, Tim, whether the EPA comes up with anything or not.”

“The library found some old photos of the river for me. They’re from the thirties. I’ll add them to the new edition.”

“How nice, but what’s that have to do with me?”

“Let’s go over there,” he said, motioning toward benches in the store’s shoe department. Once we were seated, he said in a low voice, “You heard about what happened to Josh Wolcott, of course.”

“Yes.”

“A terrible tragedy. But you know, Jessica, it started me thinking about the revision I’m working on. Updating the book to include more about the river’s impact on the town prompted my thinking about another update that should be considered.”

“Which is?”

“A chapter on murders that have taken place in Cabot Cove over the years.”

“That again? I thought we discussed that when you were about to write the original book and decided
not
to include
that
sort of history.”

“We did decide that at the time, yes, but it occurs to me that you can’t really do an honest history of a place without including its less savory aspects. New York had its Son of Sam, Boston the Boston Strangler, Los Angeles its Night Stalker and Hillside Strangler, and Chicago with all its Mafia killings, and—well, after all, Jessica, we have had murders here in Cabot Cove over the years.”

“Still . . .”

“And you were involved in them.”

I was afraid that he was going to bring that up.

“An unfortunate reality,” I said.

“I did mention in the original version that we have a distinguished writer of murder mysteries living in town, namely, one Jessica Fletcher.”

I sighed and responded, “Which is fine with me, provided it refers to me only as a
writer
of crime novels. My having played a role in solving a few cases doesn’t belong in a Cabot Cove history.”

“You’re being modest,” said Tim, “but the history would benefit from some—how shall I say it?—from including some provocative material. To be honest, I was sort of hoping that you’d agree to write a chapter about murder in Cabot Cove. Everyone views us as being an idyllic, crime-free, picturesque town that never has to deal with the sort of problems other communities have. But that’s a whitewashed version of the town’s history. The truth is that we’re a community of men and women, some of whom do bad things. I got to thinking about it at the council meeting the other night when the debate over the women’s shelter erupted. We have domestic violence, just like every other place, and maybe we should own up to it, the way you and Edwina and others are doing with the shelter.”

A family came into the store and started browsing shoes.

“I think we’d better let them have our seats,” I suggested. We walked outside and stood under a canopy to avoid the last remnants of the big, wet, white flakes.

“I understand what you’re saying, Tim, but I really don’t think that you should devote a chapter to murders that have occurred here. It isn’t as though we had a Lizzie Borden or Jack the Ripper. And as for me writing a chapter like that, I’m afraid the answer is no.”