(11/40) A Little Yuletide Murder Read online

  My arched eyebrows indicated I was waiting to hear what it was.

  “We’ve got to decide who’s going to play Santa Claus this year, now that Rory is gone.”

  “A good question,” I said. “Any suggestions?”

  “I’ve had some discussions with a few people from the festival committee,” Cynthia said. “An interesting idea came up.”

  “I’m all ears,” I said.

  “You!”

  I looked at Seth. “Me?”

  “Interesting notion, wouldn’t you agree?” Seth said. “Politically correct, as they say. Might be a real good thing for Cabot Cove to have the first woman Santa.”

  I couldn’t help but guffaw. “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Not the concept of having a woman as Santa Claus, but this woman? I hate to be vain, but I really don’t think I look the part.”

  “That wouldn’t be a problem,” Cynthia said. “Always easy to make somebody look heavier than they are. You know, pillows strapped around the waist, that sort of thing.”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. I glanced at Seth. “Have you ever considered being Santa Claus, Dr. Hazlitt?”

  “No, and I don’t intend to at this stage in my life. Too old to have all those little kids jumping up and down on my bad knees. You think about it, Jessica. Probably get us lots of media attention, having a female Santa and all. You know, television shows, maybe a reporter from a big paper. Would give everybody in Cabot Cove a boost.”

  “Well,” I said, “I will not think any more about it because it is absurd. I think we’re much better served focusing our attention on how to diffuse this situation concerning Jake Walther. There are many good candidates in this town for taking Rory’s place as Santa. I’m not one of them. I’ll call Mort as soon as you leave.”

  I didn’t mean to say it in such a way that I wanted them out of the house, but I suppose it came off that way because they both stood, thanked me for the tea, and said they’d get back to me later after I’d had a chance to talk with Mort.

  I was happy when they were gone, not because I didn’t love being with them, but because it had been such a hectic, traumatic day. I needed some quiet time to think about what had transpired.

  I made another cup of tea and went into my den that also serves as my writing room. I was between books, as they say, which was a pleasant change. Too often, I was facing deadlines around the holiday season, and swore every year I wouldn’t allow it to happen. This time, things fell right, and I was free to enjoy the holidays.

  I called Mort a half hour later and was told he’d returned to the Brent farm with Robert Brent. I left a message and decided to spend an hour catching up on correspondence I’d let slip over the past week. I’d just settled down to respond to a letter I’d received from an old friend and former mayor of Cabot Cove, Sybil Woodhouse, who’d moved earlier that year to California with her husband, Adrian, when I heard a knock at the door.

  I glanced out my den window. I hadn’t noticed that snow had now begun to fall with conviction, and a wind had picked up, sending the flakes swirling. A bad night to be out, I thought, as I got up from my writing desk and went to the front door, where I pulled aside a curtain on one of the side windows.

  Standing there was Mary Walther, Jake Walther’s wife.

  Chapter Five

  Mary Walther’s arrival took me by surprise. I don’t know how to explain it, but seeing her standing at my front door was unsettling. I suppose it had to do with the conversation I’d just had with Seth Hazlitt and Cynthia Curtis about Jake Walther and the rumor he’d murdered Rory Brent.

  But as these thoughts went through my head, I had a parallel realization that I was being terribly rude. The weather outside had turned truly foul. There she was, standing in the snow and wind, while I peered through a window from the warm comfort of my home.

  I opened the door. “Hello, Mary.”

  She didn’t move, nor did her stem expression change.

  “What a nice surprise,” I said, standing back to allow her to enter. “Please, come in.”

  She looked as though she wasn’t sure what to do next, but then entered the foyer. I closed the door behind her. “Can I take your coat and hat?” I asked, extending my hands.

  “All right,” she said. Large, thick fingers unbuttoned her plain gray gabardine coat. I helped slide it off her shoulders. She reached up and removed her artificial fur hat and handed it to me. I hung them on pegs and said, “Come in. I’ll make tea. Unless you’d prefer coffee.”

  “Neither, thank you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  I led her into the living room, aware of what a large woman she was. She stood six feet tall, and her body was boxlike, her face broad and square, too. Once, when I was in a shoe store, looking for winter boots, Mary came in looking for a new pair of moccasins. They had nothing in a woman’s style large enough to fit her feet, which, I noticed, were measured at size twelve. She settled for a man’s moccasin, saying as she paid at the counter, “Big feet, big heart, they say.”

  To which the sales clerk replied, “I’m sure that’s true, Mrs. Walther. Have a nice day.”

  A big woman—everywhere.

  I’ve always respected Mary Walther. Despite marriage to a difficult and unpopular man, she was active in the larger Cabot Cove community, quick to respond to charity events to help out someone who’d fallen on hard times. She was aware of the occasional snide, sometimes cruel comments behind her back, but seemed able to put them aside. Mary wasn’t a leader; there always seem to be too many leaders and not enough soldiers to do the grunt work on a project. But you could depend upon her to follow through and get the job done.

  Like Patricia Brent, Mary Walther married a farmer and lives on a farm. But there is a dramatic difference between both families.

  While Rory Brent had been a successful farmer, Jake and Mary Walther seem always to be on the brink of insolvency. And the family’s living arrangements are strange, to understate it. There isn’t just one house on the property. There are three, each in decrepit condition and not larger than what might be termed a shack. The three houses are lined up one behind the other, starting a dozen or so feet from the road. Jake Walther, at least according to those who claim to know, lives in the house closest to the road. Mary lives in the next house up the hill, perhaps 200 feet from the first, with their only child, Jill, who was away at school. And in the third house lives Mary’s mildly retarded young brother, Dennis, a sweet, pleasant man who earns his keep by helping Jake on the farm. I can’t attest to it from personal knowledge, but people say that Mary would ring a bell just outside her door at mealtimes, and Jake and her brother would come to her house for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, then return to their respective houses.

  Unconventional? Without a doubt. Then again, there are undoubtedly those families who live in the same house without having any interaction. The older I get, the less critical I’m determined to be.

  A number of merchants in Cabot Cove had complained about not being paid by Jake and Mary, and a few had taken legal action against them. The bank, I’d heard, had been threatening for a long time to repossess their farm and home.

  The problem is, as Cynthia Curtis had put it, unpleasant people are sued more often than pleasant ones. Compounding the Walther’s financial problems is Jake Walther’s sour, combative personality. He is a tall, thin man with a craggy face and salt-and-pepper hair that looks as though it hasn’t been combed in years. His clothing is always dirty and in need of repair, and his face is set in a perpetual scowl, to the extent that children express fear of him just because of the way he looks.

  Mary sat ramrod straight in a chair I indicated, clasped her gnarled hands in her lap, and planted her feet firmly on the floor.

  “Sure you don’t want something?” I asked. “Perhaps some wine?”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m afraid this is not a social visit.”

  “Please call me Jessica,” I said. “We know each other well enough for that.”
r />   Mary Walther and I established a bond of sorts two years ago when her daughter, Jill, was about to graduate from high school. I’d taught a workshop that spring for students who’d achieved honor status in their senior English class, and Jill Walther was one of them. She was a shy girl, with a head of frizzy hair and who wore very thick glasses. When I read her first short story, I was immensely impressed with her talent and insight. This was a young woman who was definitely college potential, and who could, if she followed the right path, become a fine writer.

  I encouraged her; she seemed to respond to my praise. One day she lingered after class, and we had a chance to discuss her future. She wanted to go to college, but her father didn’t have the money to send her. Although she didn’t state it, I sensed that even if Jake Walther had the funds to pay for her college education, he wouldn’t do it.

  I decided to help. I wrote to the dean of creative writing at New York University, where I’d taught on occasion, sent him copies of Jill’s stories, and urged him to consider a full scholarship for her. He came through. Jill was thrilled at the news, although her father’s reaction was not as positive. Eventually, Mary Walther managed to choreograph things so that Jill could go off to New York City and begin her college studies. She kept in touch through letters, and whenever she was home made it a point to visit me.

  Mary Walther, not a terribly demonstrative person, was relatively lavish in her gratitude to me, and we’d maintained that good relationship ever since, not a close friendship by any means, but a warm feeling for each other.

  “Not a social visit?” I said, taking a chair across from her and leaning forward to indicate my interest in what she was about to say. When she didn’t speak, I said, “Would I be correct in assuming you’re here because of what happened to Rory Brent?”

  She closed her eyes for a second, opened them, and said, “Yes.”

  “Well, suppose you tell me what’s on your mind.”

  She said flatly, “I’m afraid there is going to be big trouble.”

  I sat back and sighed. “Oh, I’m sure there will be. We don’t have many murders here in Cabot Cove. My hope is that Rory was killed by someone passing through, not anyone who lives here.”

  “They’re saying Jake did it,” she said in that same low voice bordering on masculine.

  “Yes, I’ve heard the rumor. People shouldn’t jump to such conclusions.”

  “Jake isn’t much liked in these parts,” she said.

  I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “I suppose people consider him to be ... well, consider him to be a little angry at times.”

  “People don’t give him a fair chance to be liked,” she said.

  I didn’t necessarily agree with her, but didn’t want to get into a debate.

  She continued. “Jake’s always been a hardworking man, Mrs. Fletcher. Hard work and not much to show for it. He gets bitter at times, mad at what the good Lord has dealt him.”

  I thought of other people I knew who’d been dealt a losing hand in life, too, but who, if they were bitter, didn’t wear it on their sleeve the way Jake Walther did.

  “Jake can be down right jo-jezzly at times. I wouldn’t deny that.”

  Jo-jezzly was a popular Maine term for someone who was ornery or cussed. It seemed an apt description of Jake Walther.

  “Not always easy living with him. I would say that for certain.”

  “Mary, you said there was going to be big trouble. Do you want to explain that a little further?”

  She replied, “Jake knows what folks are saying about him and Rory, that they didn’t get along and that Jake was the one who shot him. Jake says nobody is going to take him away from the farm because he didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t, Mrs. Fletcher, I can swear to that.”

  I didn’t know how she could be so certain, but decided that was something for Mort Metzger to examine.

  “Mary, you say Jake won’t allow anyone to take him away from the farm. Do you mean he won’t subject himself to questioning by Sheriff Metzger?”

  Now she showed her first sign of animation. “Mrs. Fletcher, Jake’s back at the house, got the door locked. He won’t talk to anyone, not me, not Dennis. All he says over and over through the door is that nobody’s going to take him away.”

  “Doesn’t he realize that if he didn’t kill Rory, he has nothing to fear from Sheriff Metzger or anyone else?” I asked. “All the sheriff would want to do is ask him some questions. Maybe he has an alibi, someone who can say he wasn’t anywhere near Rory’s farm this morning. But if he refuses to cooperate, he’ll end up in terrible trouble that he doesn’t deserve.”

  “Exactly, Mrs. Fletcher. That’s the big trouble I was talking about. I can’t talk sense to him. I tried. Had Dennis try, too, but he runs us off his part of the farm. I don’t know what to do. I surely don’t.”

  I thought for a moment before saying, “My only suggestion would be to go to Sheriff Metzger, tell him the situation, and see what he suggests.”

  She slowly shook her head. “Jake won’t talk to the sheriff. But maybe he’d talk to you.”

  “Me? Why me? I don’t have any relationship with your husband.”

  “Jake read all about how you saved Jed and Alicia Richardson over in London. Read it in the paper and saw it on TV. He was real impressed. Said you were a brave and decent woman.”

  I had to stop and think for a moment to sort out what she’d said.

  A year or so ago I’d traveled to England and Scotland with a contingent of friends from Cabot Cove. The trip had been arranged by my dear friend, George Sutherland, a chief inspector with Scotland Yard in London, whose family had come from Wick, Scotland. He still owns the family mansion there, used most of the year as a hotel for tourists. He insisted I visit his homestead. When I told him I was making the trip with a number of friends, he said that wasn’t a problem because he would simply close the hotel for the week we were there and accommodate everyone.

  We started the trip in London, where I had a few days’ business to attend to before heading north. While in London, Jed Richardson, who owns Jed’s Flying Service, a two-plane airline operating out of Cabot Cove, and his new wife, Alicia, were abducted by a madman and held hostage in the infamous Tower of London. I ended up negotiating their release. I hadn’t planned on doing that, nor did I aspire to the task. It just seemed to evolve into that situation. The London press played it up big, and it eventually found considerable space in American newspapers.

  “Mary,” I said, “that was a very unique circumstance. I’m not a negotiator and don’t pretend to be. As a matter of fact, I don’t want to be in that role. I don’t think I would have any influence on your husband.”

  Her expression seemed to soften as she said, “I know I’m imposing, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Jessica.”

  “Jessica. I’m not the sort of person who imposes on other people. I think you know that. I guess because you’re the sort of woman who’s always ready to help others in trouble, I figured you’d help out in this situation. I guess I was wrong.” She stood.

  I, too, stood. “Mary,” I said, “of course I want to help you and Jake. As a matter of fact, if there is the sort of trouble you’re indicating, I would want to do anything in my power to head it off. But I can’t do it unilaterally. I can’t do this alone. It would be taking the law into my own hands, something I am firmly opposed to. If you really think I could be instrumental in convincing Jake to cooperate in the investigation, I’ll be happy to do it, but only in conjunction with Sheriff Metzger and his department. I’m waiting for a call from him now, as a matter of fact. If you agree, I’ll tell him the situation and suggest we all go together to talk to Jake. That’s the only way I can be involved.”

  “I’m just afraid, Mrs. Fletcher, that if Jake sees the sheriff and his car, he’ll do something crazy.”

  “Maybe I can convince Sheriff Metzger to use a plain car, and to stay out of sight until I’ve had a chance to talk to Jake. Frankly, I don’t
think this will work. There is no reason for your husband to trust me, or to listen to my advice.”

  “But maybe he will. I know one thing for certain, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He sure won’t listen to me or anybody else I can think of.”

  Chapter Six

  Mary Walther wasn’t gone more than a minute when Mort Metzger returned my call.

  “How did it go with Robert Brent?” I asked.

  “All right, I suppose, although he’s a strange young fella. Didn’t have much to say except for repeating over and over that Jake Walther killed his father.”

  “Did he offer anything tangible to support that claim?”

  “No, he did not. Well, maybe he did in a way. He said his father and Jake had a real altercation about a month ago or so. He says Jake came to the farm and confronted his father over something having to do with land and money. The kid says he didn’t know the details of what the argument was about, just that Jake threatened to kill Rory. Said he’d be back to ‘blow his brains out.’ ”

  “That’s something tangible, I would say. A direct threat of bodily harm.”

  “True, provided you believe what young Robert says. I’m not sure I do.”

  “Based upon what?”

  “Based upon ... well, gut instinct. You do what I do long enough and you develop a pretty good sense of whether people are tellin’ you the truth or not.”

  “I wouldn’t argue with that. Mort, Mary Walther just left my house.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes. She was very distraught when she arrived. She’s afraid that something really bad is going to happen because of the rumors about Jake having killed Rory. She told me Jake has holed up in his house on the property. He won’t talk to her brother or Mary. Poor thing, it must be so difficult for her being married to Jake. I’ve always admired her determination to become involved in the community while knowing what people in town are saying about him.”

  “A good woman, Mary Walther,” Mort said. “Sounds like Jake is actin’ like a damn fool.”