Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice (8 page)

“I sort of figured you’d say that, Jessica,” he said, not trying to keep the disappointment from his voice, “but maybe you’ll think more about it. Will you?”

“Sure, but please don’t count on my changing my mind. Now, you must excuse me. I have a few more errands to run, and I’m meeting my ride home in a half hour. Great seeing you, Tim. Best to Ellen.”

I pulled up my hood and darted across the street into the dry cleaner’s to pick up a pair of slacks that I’d had altered.

“Hi, Jessica,” Jack Wilson said as he paid his bill. “Nasty day.”

“Looks like it’s already stopping,” I said. “How’re things with my favorite vet?”

“Busy as usual. I can’t believe what happened to Josh Wolcott.”

“The whole town’s in shock.”

“Except the person who killed him. Have you heard anything?”

“Nothing more than anyone else,” I said, fudging the truth a little.

“What I hear is that the sheriff and the state investigators are narrowing in on Myriam Wolcott.”

I thought of what Jim Teller had said, that Myriam was considered a suspect. At that early stage of the investigation, everyone who ever knew Josh would be under suspicion until the field was culled to those with the greatest motive and the means to have killed him. I just hoped that our sheriff, Mort Metzger, wouldn’t rush to judgment and prematurely accuse anyone of the crime, something he was known to have done on occasion.

My final stop was the law office of Cyrus O’Connor, Jr. Cy had moved back to Cabot Cove after graduating from law school and joined his father in a practice that the elder O’Connor had established years ago, a general law firm that handled virtually every legal problem anyone might have with the exception of felony criminal cases. Unfortunately, Cy’s father had died of a massive heart attack while representing a client in court, leaving Cy as the firm’s sole practitioner. He was a pleasant young man with a sharp mind and an obvious love of the law. I arrived at his office to pick up a codicil I’d had added to my will, and as I walked into the reception area, I was surprised to see Myriam Wolcott’s mother, Mrs. Warren Caldwell, seated and reading a magazine. She glanced up at me, gave forth the tiniest of smiles, and returned to her reading. My “hello” elicited another glance, another painful smile, and renewed interest in the magazine.

As I took a chair across the room from her, Cy O’Connor’s receptionist, Sharon Bacon, came from his office. Sharon was in her early sixties, a stout woman in all senses of the word. She was a round, resolute, and reliable assistant to her boss. She’d been Cy Senior’s receptionist and legal aide since her graduation from secretarial school, and although she possessed no degree, her knowledge of the law and her understanding of its arcane language had been of considerable help to both father and now son.

“Hi, Jessica. He’ll be with you in a minute.”

“I have time,” I replied, although I wondered how long it would be if Mrs. Caldwell met with him before I did. That question was answered when Cy poked his head into the waiting area and said, “Come on in, Jessica.” He said to Mrs. Caldwell, “Mrs. Fletcher and I will only be a few minutes.”

He shook my hand, closed the door, and went behind his desk, where he picked up a manila envelope. “Here it is, the codicil you wanted. I think it’s in perfect order.” He withdrew the paper from the envelope. “You can sign it now and I’ll notarize your signature.” He buzzed for Sharon, who entered the office. “Need you to witness Mrs. Fletcher’s signature,” he said.

With the formalities out of the way, O’Connor said, “I can’t believe what happened at the Wolcott house.”

“Everyone would prefer not to believe it,” I said. “I see that Myriam’s mother, Mrs. Caldwell, is in your waiting room.”

“You know her?”

“I met her this morning. She drove down from Bangor to be with her daughter and grandchildren.”

“She called earlier and said it was urgent that she speak with me. My father had done some legal work for the family years ago, although I can’t imagine what she’d want from me.”

I shrugged.

“Josh was a client of mine,” he said. “In fact, I met with him the day before he was killed.” He made a tsking noise. “What a thing. What’s the world coming to?”

“Did he seem upset?” I asked.

“No more than usual. He was a tightly strung sort of guy, a real type A.” He hesitated as though to decide whether to say what he was thinking. “You have any thoughts on what might have happened?”

I shook my head. “Obviously someone who was angry with him—very angry—let that anger dictate his or her need for revenge.”

“Do you know Josh’s wife, Myriam?”

“I’ve met her on a few occasions,” I said carefully.

“The poor kids. She has a son and a daughter.”

“So I understand.”

“Sharon’s cousin Beth had the boy in her biology class. Sharon said Beth told her Mark got into a lot of scuffles. Of course, that’s probably par for the course at his age.”

“I’d better be going, Cy, or I’ll miss my ride back home.”

“Oh, sure. Good seeing you.”

“Thanks for the good work on the codicil. Just send the bill.”

“Shall do.”

When I walked into the reception area, Mrs. Caldwell looked up and nodded. I returned the nonverbal gesture and left the building. Edwina was waiting in her car.

“Get everything done?” she asked.

“Yes. I just left Cy O’Connor’s office. Mrs. Caldwell was there waiting to see him.”

“Really?”

“He said that she’d called earlier today to set up an appointment.”

“Cy doesn’t handle criminal cases,” Edwina said as she revved the engine.

“I don’t know if that’s why she was there. He told me that his father had done legal work for the family and that Josh Wolcott had been a client. Maybe she’s there to talk about a will or other family matters.”

“Pretty quick to be doing that, isn’t it?” Edwina said as she headed for my house. “The body’s not even cold yet.”

“I have a feeling that when she decides to do something, Mrs. Caldwell doesn’t let anything get in her way, not even her son-in-law’s murder.”

“Cold as ice,” Edwina summed up.

As I was getting out of the car in my driveway, Edwina said, “I wish Myriam hadn’t come to the shelter.”

“Why?”

“It’s just that someone like Dick Mauser will use Josh’s murder to smear the shelter again.”

“How will he find out about Myriam’s visit?” I asked.

“You know Cabot Cove. I’m afraid someone will say something somewhere. And Mauser will pick it up.”

“If he does, it can’t be helped,” I said. I looked up into the pewter sky and smiled. “Looks like it might snow again. Thanks for the lift, Edwina. I have a sudden need to get lost in my kitchen and cook something to help get my mind off things like March snow squalls—and murder.”

Chapter Eight

W
e’re still here for you if you need to vent. All of us have walked in your shoes. Come back whenever you want. We’re here to help. —Elaine in Tucson

* * *

Two days after I’d visited Myriam’s house and been introduced to her overbearing mother, Evelyn Phillips called me and imparted the following information: The Wolcott family computer had been taken from the house by Sheriff Metzger and his deputies, its contents to be analyzed by a forensic computer expert from the state’s crime lab. I knew from an Authors Guild seminar I’d once attended how even files that have been deleted by the user can be resurrected. In this day and age, one’s private life is anything but private, and I hoped that Myriam hadn’t written anything on her computer that would prove embarrassing—or in this case injurious.

“The word about town is that Sheriff Metzger is getting closer to charging her with Josh’s murder.”

“Until he actually does, I’d prefer to think that he won’t,” I said.

“Well,” Evelyn said, “she
is
retaining Cy O’Connor as her attorney.”

“Retaining a lawyer is probably a wise move,” I said. “I’ve seen it too many times. Someone says the wrong thing and ends up being falsely accused. An attorney can head that off. But why Cy O’Connor? As far as I know, he doesn’t do criminal law.”

“I thought you might know of a reason.”

“I haven’t any idea, Evelyn. That’s a matter for Myriam to deal with.”

I’d no sooner hung up when Mort Metzger called.

“Morning, Mrs. F.”

“Good morning, Mort. Good hearing from you.”

“I’ve been all drove up lately, to use one of your Maine expressions, with the Josh Wolcott murder. Busy as a tire changer in the left lane of the West Side Highway.”

“Yes, I imagine you are, Mort. How is your investigation proceeding?”

“Making progress. I need to talk to you, Mrs. F.”

“That’s never been difficult.”

“I’d prefer not to talk on the phone. Think you can swing by headquarters later today?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Say right after lunch?”

“I’ll be there at one.”

I hung up and pondered the reason for his call. Not that it was unusual to hear from our sheriff. I’d become good friends with Mort and his wife, Maureen, and circumstances had led me to help him out on occasion. That he wanted me to come to his office indicated that it was something serious, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether it had to do with the murder of Josh Wolcott. I hoped not. I’d had my fill of becoming involved in real murders over the years, and each experience left me with a bad taste in my mouth, not to mention physically and emotionally drained.

Writing about murder is different. I’m able to sit at my computer, play out my fantasies, and give my imagination full rein. At the end I bring the bad guy to justice, ensure that good triumphs over evil, and establish a sense of order that we don’t always find in real life.

Until my conversation with Tim Purdy about including a chapter in the Cabot Cove history chronicling the town’s murderers, those nasty episodes had receded into my past, stashed away in a separate and secure compartment of my brain. But I’d been thinking about some of them ever since bumping into Tim at Charles Department Store, and as hard as I tried to stow them away again in my memory trunk, I couldn’t quite close the lid. The ones that coincided with holidays or special occasions were most vivid in my memory.

There was the Christmas when a popular citizen, Rory Brent, a jovial 250-pound man with flowing white hair and beard—he played Santa Claus every year at the town party—was shot to death, presumably by a neighbor known for his nasty temper. I ended up digging into the two families’ lives and staving off a miscarriage of justice.

One Thanksgiving, a drifter, Hubert Billups, arrived in town, and his constant presence on the road outside my house had set me on edge. I hosted a dinner that Thanksgiving; the guest list included my dear friend from London, Scotland Yard inspector George Sutherland, a number of friends from Cabot Cove, and at the last minute Mr. Billups. He was found stabbed to death a few hours after dessert, and because he had been a guest, I was drawn into the investigation, with George at my side.

Then there was the murder of a local lobster broker just prior to our annual lobster festival, when I was not only immersed in finding the killer, but also a target myself.

The most memorable murderous moment occurred leading up to Halloween. Tim Purdy conducted an annual Halloween ghost tour, the highlight of which was a recounting of the “Legend of Cabot Cove.” Her name was Hepzibah Cabot. Her husband, a sailor, who was away for extended periods, had had a fling with another woman while on a trip. Hepzibah learned about it, confronted him when he returned home, chopped off his head, and committed suicide by throwing herself into the sea. She became a legend because over the decades people reported seeing her in various places, Cabot Cove’s own resident witch. On this particular Halloween a strange woman, Matilda Swift, rented a cottage on an estate owned by a friend of mine, and her otherworldly behavior had tongues wagging. She was found murdered in her cottage while the annual Halloween costume ball at the estate was under way, and I ended up looking behind the costumes worn by the people at the party—and at their motives—to help identify the killer.

Maybe Tim was right. Maybe the town’s history should include its less illustrious moments, just as long as I wasn’t the one writing about them. Recalling them was unsettling enough.

The weather had cleared and the temperature had risen, a welcome harbinger of the spring that would follow. I rode my bike into town, parked it in front of police headquarters, and went to Mort’s office in the relatively new building. He was meeting with a deputy when I arrived and I waited out front until he was free.

“Thanks for stopping by, Mrs. F. Sorry I couldn’t send a car for you. All my deputies are out on the Wolcott case.”

“No problem, Mort. I enjoyed the ride into town.”

“One of these days you should get yourself a driver’s license.”

“Maybe I will,” I said, “but it isn’t high on my priority list.”

He chuckled and went to the coffee machine that sat on a shelf behind his desk. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Neither, thank you.”

He poured himself a coffee, resumed his seat behind the desk, leaned forward, and said, “So, you know all about the problems Mrs. Wolcott had with her husband.”

My raised eyebrows and cocked head reflected my surprise.

“The women’s shelter,” he said. “I’m told that you were there when she came in after her hubby beat her up.”

“Mind if I ask who told you that?”

“Don’t mind at all. In questioning a neighbor of the Wolcotts, one of my deputies picked up that she’d gone to the shelter. Not sure if it was the wife, Mrs. Wolcott, or one of the kids who told the neighbor. And I got it that you were there from someone else closer to the scene. But it’s true, right? You were there?”

I did a quick calculation about whether admitting I’d been present violated the rules of privacy at the shelter. I decided that even if it did, I couldn’t lie to the police, and said, “Yes, I was there, Mort. Why do you ask?”

“Well, Mrs. F., knowing that Wolcott beat up on his wife is kind of an important thing to know, wouldn’t you say?”