(11/40) A Little Yuletide Murder Read online

  Chapter Seventeen

  I had to wait two hours for a bus back to Cabot Cove, and spent the time browsing quaint shops and enjoying a tuna salad sandwich in a pub that seemed to be a popular gathering spot for Salem’s business community.

  I was virtually alone on the bus, for which I was grateful. I’ve always found traveling, whether on a plane, an ocean liner, or even a bus, to be good thinking time. The problem was the bus ride was so short that I’d barely began to codify what I’d learned from Tom Skaggs when we pulled up to the small, two-bay bus station in Cabot Cove.

  It was four-thirty. Although the sun continued to shine, albeit with less intensity as it neared the horizon, the weather had turned colder, the sort of bone-chilling, dry cold that seems to occur only on clear winter days in Maine.

  Dimitri’s cousin, Nick, was parked at the curb. I got in the back of his taxi and he drove me home.

  “How are things working out?” I asked as I signed the small chit that would become part of my monthly bill for cab services.

  “Very good, ma’am,” he said. “I like it here. This is a good place.”

  “Cabot Cove? Yes, it certainly is,” I said, getting out of the taxi as he stood holding open the door. I’d reset the timers on my outdoor lights to go on earlier, and the one in front did as we stood in my driveway, illuminating the pretty wreath on my door.

  “Are you getting ready for Christmas?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, but there is so much to do. America is a busy place, especially when a holiday comes.”

  “It certainly is,” I said. “Thank you for the ride. Say hello to Dimitri.”

  I brought in the mail, turned up the heat, which my frugal New England heritage has me turning down to the lowest possible level whenever I’m not there, and made a fire in the fireplace.

  I sat at the kitchen table and started going through my mail. Most of it consisted of bills, although there was an envelope with only my handwritten name on it. I opened it and read:

  Mrs. Fletcher—I want very much to interview you about the Santa Claus murder. I’ll make myself available any hour of the day or night—you name the time and place. Other people in town have been very cooperative all day, and I was hoping to meet up with you again. We’re staying at Morton’s Boardinghouse—it was the only place we could find rooms in town. Please call me the minute you get this message—Roberta Brannason.

  She included Morton’s phone number.

  I put the note aside; I was in no mood to talk to Ms. Brannason, or any other member of the press for that matter.

  The phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Jessica. Seth here.”

  “Hello, Seth. I just came back from Salem.”

  “Yes, I know. Tom Skaggs called. You’ll have to fill me in on what transpired between you.”

  “Well, he basically confirmed that—”

  “Not on the phone, Jessica. Free for dinner?”

  “Yes, although I’d prefer to have a quiet dinner alone right here at the house.”

  “As you wish. Heard from the reporters?”

  “Only Ms. Brannason, the reporter from Fox News. I take it more have arrived.”

  “Ayuh, they certainly have. You’d think the president of the United States was holdin’ a summit meeting in Cabot Cove. Got to hand it to Priscilla Hoye. She seems to have them all pretty much in hand. Knows how to deal with them, somethin’ I wouldn’t want to do.”

  I laughed. “They can be an aggressive lot, that’s for certain.”

  “By the way, Jessica, seems to me we ought to start pickin’ the stories we’ll be readin’ to the children at the festival.”

  “You’re right, although I thought we should confer with Cynthia before making any decisions.”

  “My thinking exactly. Well, if I can’t get you to agree to let me buy you dinner, I’ll wish you a good evening.”

  “And the same to you, Seth. Please understand. I’d love to, but not tonight.”

  “Of course. But I do think we should hook up tomorrow, say at my office at ten? I don’t have patients till one.”

  “Fine. Put me in your appointment book.”

  Although I wanted to settle down for the evening, content myself with some snacks for dinner, and get back to writing Christmas cards and answering correspondence, I was too restless to accomplish any of that. I found myself pacing the house, the events of the past few days flooding my brain. So I did what I often do when faced with such mental confusion. I took out a yellow legal pad and pen, sat at my desk, and listed everything I’d learned to date:

  > The victim, Rory Brent, successful farmer and beloved figure in town, found murdered in his barn a half mile from his house wearing only shirtsleeves. Killed sometime in the morning.

  > Brent’s wife, Patricia, away visiting her cousin, Jane, in Salem, Maine. (Just occurs to me that Tom Skaggs and his Here-to-Help organization is located there, too.)

  > Patricia says she took an early bus, the trip took forty minutes, and she returned on the one o’clock bus.

  > Brent’s son, Robert, seemingly untouched by his father’s death—claims Jake Walther threatened his father. Known that bad blood existed between Rory Brent and Jake Walther. Walther disliked by many people in town.

  > Walther initially claims his brother-in-law, Dennis, was fixing a stone wall with him the morning of Brent’s murder. Dennis confirmed that. Then, Dennis changes his story and says Jake threatened him unless he provided that alibi, and that he was not with Jake the morning of the murder. Question is, can Dennis be trusted in what he says?

  > Jake’s wife, Mary, seeks help for her husband. I bring attorney Joseph Turco into picture. Looked like Jake would be released until county police determine that a footprint on the barn’s dirt floor, missed by Mort Metzger, had a unique sole print matching boots owned by Walther. Walther now charged with Brent’s murder.

  > Jill Walther, Jake and Mary’s daughter, pregnant in senior year—referred to a social agency in Salem by Seth Hazlitt. Tom Skaggs confirms that a pregnant Jill Walther came to him, and that he gave her names of two abortion clinics. Also says he counseled her on other options, including giving birth and keeping the baby, or putting it up for adoption.

  > Jill Walther claimed she was raped, but refuses to name the person. Who was it?

  > Shortly after Jill’s visit to Here-to-Help, Rory Brent makes a big financial contribution. What connection does the Brent family have with Jill’s pregnancy?

  > My next move? Confront Jill Walther with my knowledge she’d become pregnant? To what end? I have no right knowing that information—unless it bears directly upon murder, it should remain her business. Still, could be a valuable piece of information. Possibility: discuss it with Mort Metzger. No!!!! If I do anything, must be face-to-face with Jill.

  I’d no sooner written that last line when the phone rang. It was Roberta Brannason, the Fox News reporter.

  “Glad I caught you, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said brightly.

  I wish I could say the same.

  Instead, I said, “Well, you have. I was gone for the day.”

  “Mind if I ask where?”

  My guffaw was involuntary. “Of course I mind. Where I go is none of your concern.”

  “I just thought it might have to do with the Santa Claus murder.”

  “Ms. Brannason, Santa Claus was not murdered in Cabot Cove. Mr. Rory Brent was, a leading citizen. Frankly, I think treading upon the fact that he played Santa Claus at our yearly festival is distasteful.”

  “Hey, Mrs. Fletcher, don’t jump on me. I’m just developing a story the way my bosses want me to.”

  “Well, maybe you should tell your bosses they’re on the wrong track. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “Give me a half-hour interview.”

  “Out of the question. I told you I would not grant an interview having to do with this tragedy.”

  “I talked to your publicity director at Buckley House in New York. She said
she hopes you’ll cooperate. Help sell books, you know.”

  I am normally a very patient person, and I understand the need of reporters to press as hard as they can to get a story. After all, that is their job, and I respect it. But there are times when the press has strained my patient nature, and this was developing into one of those times.

  I tried to divert her attention by saying, “I understand a number of your media colleagues have arrived.”

  “Yes. It’s a big human interest story, Mrs. Fletcher. I understand how you feel, but the public has an insatiable appetite for stories like this, especially when they involve a major holiday—like Christmas.”

  “That may be, but—”

  “Were you in Salem today following up on some aspect of the murder?”

  “Was I in—? How did you know I went to Salem?”

  “By asking a few simple questions around town. My network has sent up two investigative reporters to help me develop the story. Someone at the bus station said you’d bought a ticket to Salem.”

  “I must say, I’m impressed, Ms. Brannason.”

  She laughed. “We’re pretty good at what we do. Isn’t Salem where Mr. Brent’s wife went the morning he was murdered?”

  “I’m even more impressed now.”

  Another laugh. Then, in a more serious tone, “Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t want to unduly interfere with your life. But we’re going to do this story one way or the other, and it really would mean a great deal to have the famous Jessica Fletcher, the most illustrious citizen of Cabot Cove, give me an on-air interview. Please? Won’t you at least consider it?”

  “I’m always willing to consider most anything, Ms. Brannason.”

  “Call me Roberta.”

  “I’ll think about it ... Roberta. In the meantime, I’m busy this evening doing some paperwork. I’m sure I’ll see you around town tomorrow. We can chat then.” I didn’t give her a chance to respond because I quickly added, “Good night. Thank you for calling,” before hanging up.

  I received other calls that night before going to bed, none of them having to do with the murder. Mostly they were from people wanting to discuss the upcoming festival. I enjoyed those conversations. They certainly were less weighty than murder.

  But the final call of the evening, which came in just as I was preparing to go to bed, was from Joe Turco.

  “Hope I’m not calling too late,” he said.

  “Not at all. I’m happy to hear from you. Anything new?”

  “I’d say so. They’re releasing Jake Walther.”

  “What? Why? How did that come about? I thought—”

  “It seems there’s some conflicting theories about that footprint found in Rory Brent’s barn. The county police say it matches the sole on one of Jake’s boots. But another scientist from the same lab claims they don’t match. Anyway, while they’re thrashing out conflicting theories, I put the arm on the D.A. I’ve been with her all night. I told her that she absolutely has nothing to justify holding Jake in jail. As I told you, she’s a pretty levelheaded person. She finally agreed with me that there wasn’t enough evidence to indict, and so he’s being let go. Should be on his way back to the farm by now.”

  I had the same ambivalent set of feelings as when it was first anticipated that Jake would be allowed to go free. I was delighted for him and his family. On the other hand, I had that lingering question of what would happen if he had, in fact, killed Rory Brent.

  But I couldn’t let that color my thinking. The man was innocent until proved guilty, and up until this point no such proof existed.

  “You’ve done a marvelous job for someone who dislikes his client so much,” I said.

  His laugh was weary. “Every lawyer I know has done work for clients they couldn’t stomach, absolutely hated. It isn’t important how a lawyer feels about a client. What is important is that the law be followed, and justice be served. I’m just glad it worked out this way, at least for his wife and daughter. I just learned about her. Jill, is it?”

  “Yes. She and I ... well, Joe, it was good of you to call and give me the news. You sound like you could use some sleep.”

  “What I could use is a drink and some dinner,” he said, “which I intend to take care of right now. Good night, Jessica. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  Before going to bed, I added a final item to my list:

  Jake Walther released. What next?

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Hello, Mary.”

  I’d just finished showering when Mary Walther called.

  “No, you didn’t wake me. I’ve been up for an hour. I heard the good news about Jake. Joe Turco called me last night to tell me he’d arranged for Jake’s release.”

  Mary Walther’s voice did not mirror the sort of joy I expected. She said flatly, “I suppose it’s good news, Jessica, although I have to be honest with you. I’m very worried.”

  “About Jake?”

  I thought back to my previous conversation with her in which she’d indicated her concern that Jake was capable of doing something destructive. It was that conversation that had led Seth, Mort, and me to the farm, resulting in Mort’s taking Jake into custody. Was she voicing the same concern this time?

  I asked.

  “I don’t know how to explain it, Jessica,” she said. “Naturally, I’m pleased that he’s not in jail any longer. But—”

  “But what?”

  “Could you come to the farm today? I know it’s an imposition—I’ve imposed upon you enough already—it is, after all, the Christmas season, and I know how busy you are, but I just thought—”

  “Of course I’ll come. How is Jill doing?”

  “That’s part of my concern. You will come?” Her voice brightened.

  “Yes. What would be a good time for you?”

  “Well, I’m not quite sure at the moment. Maybe midday? Yes, about noon. I’ll make some lunch.”

  “No need to do that,” I said. I knew of their dire financial situation; the last thing Mary Walther needed, with everything else on her plate, was to be making lunch for visitors.

  “I look forward to you coming,” she said.

  I dressed, tidied up the house, and checked my personal calendar for the day. I’d promised to meet with Seth Hazlitt in his office at ten. Other then that—and, of course, with a trip to the Walther farm now on the schedule—I was relatively free, which meant I might actually get around to doing some Christmas shopping.

  In previous years, when I’d been away from Cabot Cove in the days leading up to Christmas, I’d done my shopping in big cities like New York or London. Shopping for gifts in Cabot Cove would be a welcome deviation from that pattern, and I looked forward to it. With only a few exceptions, Cabot Cove’s shopkeepers are extremely pleasant and helpful. Not only do they offer an array of interesting and useful gifts, there is psychic satisfaction from buying locally and supporting their efforts.

  It was an overcast day, but no snow in the forecast, and I decided to walk into town. I’d put on my down jacket, hiking boots, red-and-black plaid scarf, and woolly hat, and was about to go out the door when the phone rang. Rather than pick it up, I let the answering machine do its work, and stood next to it waiting to hear who was calling. Call screening certainly comes in handy on occasion.

  I wasn’t surprised that it was the Fox news reporter, Roberta Brannason. “Please, Mrs. Fletcher, just fifteen minutes for an interview. I promise I won’t take any longer than that. I’m not sure where well be during the day, but if you’re in town, I’m sure we’ll bump into each other.”

  Glad that I’d opted to not pick up, I set off at a brisk pace toward the village. I had a few minutes to kill before my ten o’clock appointment with Seth, and stopped in to visit with Peter and Beth Mullin in their flower shop. With Christmas coming up fast, Beth and seasonal helpers she’d hired for the holidays were extremely busy. Her husband, she told me, was spending most of his time making deliveries—“Cuts into his poetry writing,” she said, lau
ghing. When Peter wasn’t helping run the shop, he was writing poetry for which he’d gained a sizable reputation in Cabot Cove, and gave Monday night poetry readings at a trendy, cozy coffee house that had opened within the past year.

  “Anything, new on Rory Brent’s murder, Jess?” Beth asked, not looking up from an elaborate floral arrangement she was creating.

  “No,” I said, “except that Jake Walther has been freed.”

  That announcement stopped her in midtask. She looked at me, eyes opened wide, and said, “I hadn’t heard that. I thought they’d pretty much identified him as the murderer.”

  “That’s the prevailing understanding of most people in town, Beth, but there’s evidently been a classic rush-to-judgment. Something to do with a conflict over the lab analysis of the shoe print found in Rory’s barn. Jake is back at the farm.”

  Beth frowned and bit her lip. “I’m not sure letting Jake Walther loose was a great idea.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, we all know the man is irrational. And irrational people can do ... well, irrational things.”

  I had to silently agree, although I worked hard at the moment to override my emotional response with a more cognitive one. I decided not to respond, but asked instead, “Is Joe Turco upstairs?”

  “I think so,” she said, returning to her arrangement. “He came in a few minutes before you did.”

  “Think I’ll pop up and say hello,” I said. “Save some poinsettias for me, Beth. I love them in the house this time of year.”

  Joe Turco was drinking coffee and munching on Danish when I arrived at his open office door.

  “Come on in,” he said.

  “Just stopped by to say hello, and to thank you for letting me know about Jake’s release.”

  “I suppose I should consider it a legal victory.”

  I entered the office and took a chair across the desk from him. “Why do you say you ‘suppose’ you should consider it a legal victory. It is, isn’t it? I mean, from a lawyer’s perspective, arranging for a client to be released has to be viewed as some sort of triumph.”

  “I know, I know,” he said, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin and tossing it along with the empty Styrofoam cup and paper plate into a wastebasket. “Maybe if the guy were a little nicer, I’d feel better about it. When I went down to police headquarters to give him the news and escort him out, all he did was glare at me and growl some obscenity. He’s a real head-case, Jess. What’s that word for it? You know, that Maine slang.”