(11/40) A Little Yuletide Murder Page 10

  Now, on a dank, dark day, we stood at the gravesite as Rory’s coffin was about to be lowered into the hard earth.

  “... ashes to ashes, dust to dust...”

  “I still can’t believe this,” Richard Koser, the photographer, whispered into my ear.

  “I know,” I said.

  “It’s like ... well, it’s like burying Santa Claus. What will kids all over the world do now?”

  Richard’s comment caused me to smile. Somehow, there was something comforting about the Santa Claus connection to Rory Brent, even though that link would accompany him to the hereafter.

  The coffin was lowered. Father Shuttee said a few final words, and we returned to the cars that had brought us to the cemetery. As I stood chatting with friends, I saw a lonely figure approaching from the far reaches of the graveyard, growing increasingly larger as she neared.

  “Isn’t that Jill Walther?” someone asked.

  “Yes, I think it is,” I said.

  I wasn’t sure whether to close the gap between Jill and myself, or to simply let her reach us. I decided on the former course of action, and took purposeful strides in her direction. My concern was that the speculation that her father had murdered Rory might cause some of those gathered to take it out on her with an unpleasant comment—or worse. Even if Jake had murdered Rory, it was no reason to demonstrate antagonism toward another member of his family.

  “Hello, Jill,” I said when we were face-to-face on the long, narrow concrete road leading from the main entrance.

  “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “How wonderful to see you again. Are you home on your Christmas break?”

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes focused on her boots. “I left a few days early once I heard about Mr. Brent.”

  I didn’t know how much she knew about the accusation that her father was the murderer, and didn’t want to prompt her. I silently waited for her to say more.

  “I came home last night,” Jill said. “I guess you know that my father is in jail.”

  “Yes. I visited him yesterday with an attorney, Mr. Turco. I hope he’ll be successful in arranging for your father to be released, perhaps on bail, although when someone is charged with—”

  “Charged with murder,” she said, completing my sentence. Now she looked me straight in the eye and said, “My daddy could never have killed him.”

  “I know how you feel,” I said, not adding that no matter how much faith she might have, there was still the possibility that the rumors were true, that Jake Walther had, indeed, murdered Rory Brent.

  “You don’t think he killed him, do you?” she asked. Her eyes were moist, and her lips quivered.

  “I certainly don’t want to think he did,” I said, evading a direct reply to her question. No sense in feeding into her fears at that point.

  “Why did you come here today?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t want to stay home. Mom asked me to, but I said I needed a walk. I just headed in this direction. I knew Mr. Brent was being buried and wanted to—” Now she broke down completely, sobs racking her small, slender body. I wrapped my arms around her and pressed her face to my bosom.

  “Now, now,” I said, hugging her tighter. “I know this is a terrible thing that’s happened, but you have to have faith, Jill. If your father didn’t do it, he will be cleared in the proper way. Until that happens, you have to be strong. Your mother needs you at her side.”

  “I know,” Jill said, her voice so faint I could barely hear her.

  “How is your mother?” I asked.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  Someone called to me that the cars were ready to leave. I waved, then looked at Jill and asked, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure. That would be nice.”

  “Good. There’s a new coffee shop not far from here. We can walk there in just a few minutes. Give me a minute to tell my friends I won’t be joining them.”

  When I returned to the vehicles, I was asked whether it was, in fact, Jill Walther. I confirmed that it was. “I sponsored her as a scholarship student at NYU,” I said, “and she has some questions for me.”

  “Amazing how kids can turn out okay even when they have a father like Jake Walther,” one of our particularly crusty citizens muttered. I ignored his comment, returned to where Jill stood, and we headed in the direction of The Swan, a delicatessen with a few Formica tables at the rear. It was good to be out of the cold. We were the only people there, and settled in a comer far from the counter. Steaming mugs of coffee in front of us, I smiled and said, “You look wonderful, Jill. New York City must agree with you.”

  It was evidently the right thing to say. Jill hadn’t spoken a word during our walk from the cemetery. But my mention of Manhattan brought a glow to her face and animation to her voice. “I love it there, Mrs. Fletcher. New York City is so alive, so vibrant. It’s filled with talented people. I’ve met so many wonderful writers, and my professors are terrific. I don’t think I could ever thank you enough for helping me get the scholarship.”

  “It was my pleasure, Jill. Just seeing you so enthusiastic is all the thanks I need. Classes going well?”

  “Yes. I’m having some trouble with a sociology course, but I’ll get through it. I’m getting straight A’s in my creative writing courses. And do you know what? I love the history class I’m taking. I hated history in high school. It all seemed so ... well, so long ago.”

  I laughed.

  “But now I realize that what we are today is based upon what we were back then, so I’m really digging into it. Maybe some day I’ll write historical novels.”

  “One of my favorite types of book,” I said. “How did you get home?”

  “On the bus. It arrived last night after midnight.”

  “You must be exhausted.”

  “No, I’m really not. I guess with what’s going on here in Cabot Cove, I won’t have time to be exhausted. You said you saw my father yesterday.”

  “Yes.”

  “How was he?”

  “As well as can be expected, considering he’s in a jail cell. Why don’t you go see for yourself?”

  “Would they let me?”

  “I think so. If you’d like, I’ll call Sheriff Metzger and arrange it.”

  Her face turned glum again, and she sat back in her chair.

  “Problem?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure I want to see him ... there. He might be embarrassed.”

  “That’s always a possibility,” I said, “but I’d still suggest you do it. I’m sure he loves you, and he can use love in return at this moment.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Good. Care for a donut?”

  She shook her head. “I’m on a diet.”

  “Why would you be on a diet?” I asked. “You’re a slender young woman.”

  “But I’m afraid I’ll get fat, eating all that rich food in New York. We always ate simple at home. I guess because we never had any money.”

  “Things have been hard for your family, haven’t they?” I said.

  I’d learned how financially strapped the Walther family was when I was going through the process of getting Jill the scholarship. Family financial statements had to be submitted, and from what I saw, they lived hand to mouth. Being a poor farmer, of course, has its advantages. There’s usually fresh fruit and vegetables in the good weather, and I knew that Mary Walther was an expert canner, which helped them get through the long, harsh Maine winters. But there wasn’t any room for luxuries.

  “Did you know Mr. Brent very well?” I asked.

  My question seemed to sting her. An angry expression came and went on her thin face, and she started to chew her cheek.

  “I mean, most people in Cabot Cove knew him, if only as Santa Claus at the annual Christmas festival. I just thought—”

  “I didn’t know him at all,” she said with finality. “Why did you ask that question?” she asked defiantly.

 
“I’m not really sure,” I said. “People say your father and Mr. Brent had a problem. Are you aware of any problem between them?”

  “No.” The same flat, angry tone.

  “I think most of that rumor is coming from Mr. Brent’s son, Robert,” I said.

  If she showed anger before, her face now reflected an inner rage. She took deep breaths, pursed her lips tightly together, and said, “Why would anyone believe anything he says?”

  “I take it you know Robert Brent.”

  “Of course I do. We went to school together.”

  “I didn’t mean to make you angry, Jill. It’s just that now that I’ve become involved to some extent with helping your father, I thought you might be able to give me a hint as to the relationship between your dad and Mr. Brent.”

  “They didn’t get along,” she said. “I would like a donut.”

  “Of course.”

  I returned from the counter with two cinnamon donuts on paper plates. Jill took a tiny bite and pushed the plate away.

  “Any idea what the trouble was between them?”

  She shook her head.

  “You know, Jill, when I first met you and started to read what you were writing, I was very impressed by your keen sense of observation. Every good writer is a good observer, or should be, and you demonstrated a remarkable level of it even in high school. It seems to me that your power of observation might have been operating where your father was concerned, especially his relationships with other people, like Rory Brent.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I know you’re trying to be helpful, but do you understand how painful this is for me?”

  “Of course I do. But the pain will go away if we can help your father establish his innocence. What was the problem between them?”

  She paused, looked up at the ceiling, then back at me, and said, “I don’t know.”

  “And I accept that,” I said. “Eat your donut. I’d say it’s getting cold, but we both know that isn’t the case.”

  When the plates were empty except for loose cinnamon sugar, I asked, “Want me to make that call to Sheriff Metzger?”

  She shook her head and stood. “I really have to get back to Mom. As you said, she needs me. Thanks for the coffee and the conversation. Oh, and the donut, too.”

  We parted in front of The Swan. As we shook hands, I felt an ache in my heart. Jill Walther was in obvious pain, and I was convinced it had to do with something more than her father having been accused of murder. Something very heavy was weighing on her, and I wanted to know what it was. I felt a certain proprietary interest in Jill Walther, and cared deeply. But I knew I wasn’t about to find out much more at that moment, not on a cold December day on a sidewalk in front of a deli.

  “I’d like to see you again while you’re home,” I said.

  “You will. I really have to get home now. Thanks again, Mrs. Fletcher—for everything.”

  “Sure. Take care, Jill. Stop by the house any time.”

  I considered calling Dimitri Cassis from the deli to get a ride home, but decided against it and set off at a brisk pace. A half hour later, I walked through my front door to the sound of a ringing telephone.

  “Hello.”

  “Jessica? Joe Turco here.”

  “Hello, Joe. I was at Rory Brent’s funeral.”

  “I was going to go, but decided against it. I really didn’t know the man. Besides, I was sort of busy over at the D.A.’s office.”

  “And?”

  “She’s not sure she has enough to hold Jake Walther for Brent’s murder. I gave her until five this afternoon to make up her mind. Frankly, I think he’ll be home for supper.”

  “That’s good news. I think.”

  “What do you mean, ‘I think’? ”

  “Nothing.”

  What had prompted my involuntary comment was my ambivalence over whether Jake Walther should be set free. I didn’t want to believe he’d murdered Rory Brent. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t. What if he had committed the murder, was let loose, and ran away, or worse, went on to kill someone else? Wanting something not to be, and having it turn out that way are often two different things.

  Turco said, “The D.A. is a nice gal. More willing to listen than some D.A.s I met in New York. If she does let Jake go, she’ll set conditions. She might want him to wear an electronic ankle bracelet so his movements can be monitored.”

  “A small price to pay for being home,” I said. “Have you spoken with Jake again?”

  “Yeah. I wish I could handle the case without ever having to spend time with him. Damn, he is an ornery type, defying everybody, including me. Must be a joy to live with.”

  “I’ll be here all afternoon, Joe. Will you let me know how it turns out?”

  “Of course. By the way, I closed on that real estate deal. Went smoothly.”

  “That’s good to hear. Call me later.”

  I was immersed in writing Christmas cards when Seth Hazlitt called at four.

  “Thought it strange, Jessica, you running off from the cemetery like that.”

  “Why was it strange? Jill Walther arrived, and I wanted to find out how things were going at NYU.”

  “Ayuh, but it still seemed strange to me. Sure you didn’t go off to try and find out more about her father, and whether he killed Rory Brent?”

  “Seth,” I said, mock indignation in my voice, “I’m a writer in between books who has no interest in crime, real or fiction. I intend to spend the next few weeks simply getting ready for Christmas, and soaking in all the joy of the season. Started your cards yet?”

  “Had them written a month ago.”

  I laughed. Typical Seth, doing things well in advance. Traveling with him always means arriving at the airport hours before a flight.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Well what?”

  “What did you find out about Jake Walther and his relationship with Rory Brent?”

  I sighed. “Very little,” I said. “I asked, but Jill claims she doesn’t know.”

  “Believe her?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “How convincing did she sound?”

  I thought back to The Swan; not very convincing at all. I told him that.

  “I’ve been doin’ some serious thinking this afternoon, Jessica.”

  “Always good to hear a doctor say that,” I said. “Tough case?”

  “Haven’t been thinkin’ about medicine. More a matter of giving some thought to Rory’s murder.”

  “You’re. infringing on my territory.”

  “Isn’t the first time.”

  “No, it isn’t, and I must admit on those other occasions you were very helpful. Tell me what you’ve been thinking.”

  “Not especially keen on doing it over the phone.”

  “Oh? Something sensitive?”

  “Ayuh. Thought you might enjoy a quiet supper over here at my place.”

  “What’s on the menu?”

  “Not to worry. I don’t like Indian food, either.”

  “Then I’ll be there. What time?”

  “Make it seven. I’ll pick you up.”

  “No need. Dimitri will do just fine.”

  I hung up and pondered the conversation I’d just had with my dear friend, the good Dr. Hazlitt.

  Too sensitive to discuss on the phone.

  That was unusual for him. My curiosity was piqued to such a level that I couldn’t concentrate on writing personal messages in the cards, so I put them aside and got busy cleaning the kitchen, my favorite mindless activity.

  Dimitri arrived at ten of seven. I was about to leave the house and get in his taxi when the phone rang. I considered letting the answering machine get it, but curiosity got the better of me.

  “Hello?”

  “Jessica. Joe Turco.”

  “Hi, Joe. I was hoping to hear from you again. I’m on my way out the door. Has Jake been released?”

  “No.”

  “Oh? A snag?”

  “A big on
e. The county police came up with a footprint in Brent’s barn that places Jake there.”

  “But the sheriff said—”

  “Yeah, I know what he said. He didn’t find any prints that didn’t belong there. He missed one. From what I’ve been able to gather, the sole print has an unusual mark on it, a break or a tear. Matches perfectly with a pair of boots owned by Mr. Jake Walther.”

  “Ouch.”

  “My sentiments exactly. I did my best.”

  “I know you did. Thank you.”

  “I still might consider representing him at trial.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Joe. I have a taxi waiting. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “Okay. Funny, but as much as I dislike the guy, I really wanted to make it work.”

  “And you still may. Thanks for the update. Talk with you tomorrow.”

  Dimitri deposited me at Seth’s house fifteen minutes later.

  “How late can I call?” I asked him.

  “As late as you want,” he replied. “I hired another driver to work at night. His name is Nick. He’s a cousin.”

  “That sounds like a smart move,” I said. “Did he just move here?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Fletcher. He’s living with us. I spent all day showing him where things are in Cabot Cove. You will like him. He is a good driver.”

  “Just as long as he’s as good as you.”

  Dimitri grinned. “No one is as good as Dimitri. I told him you were my favorite customer.”

  “That’s sweet,” I said, patting him on the shoulder from the rear seat. “I’ll look forward to meeting your cousin later this evening.”

  As I stood on the sidewalk and watched Dimitri drive away, a surge of apprehension came over me. I turned and looked at Seth’s front door. He’d never before expressed concern about talking to me on the telephone—about anything. What did that mean? I wondered. What startling revelation did I have in store?