(11/40) A Little Yuletide Murder Page 6

  I got up, put on slippers and robe, and went to the kitchen, where I turned on the teakettle and retrieved from a bag a cinnamon bun I’d bought the day before at Charlene Sassi’s bakery. As I waited for the water to boil, I looked out my window at the rear patio, covered by what I estimated to be three inches of snow. You get good at judging the depth of snow after living in Maine for a while. The two bird feeders I’d hung near the window were doing a landslide business, my little feathered friends fluttering about them in a feeding frenzy.

  The teakettle’s whistle interrupted my reverie. Armed with a steaming mug of tea and the cinnamon bun, I went to the living room and turned on the television. The Today Show was on; the guest was an economist forecasting how well merchants would do this holiday season. I wasn’t interested in that, so I shut it off and returned to the kitchen for the more esthetic show being put on by the birds. But as I watched them, thoughts of Jake Walther and what had occurred at his house last night took center-stage.

  Judging from the way things had gone, my assumption was that Jake had been detained, at least overnight, in Mort Metzger’s four-cell jail, which he was fond of referring to as his “Motel Four,” the humor undoubtedly lost on those forced to spend a night there.

  I also thought of Mary Walther, poor thing, having to face what had become the town’s apparent consensus that her husband had murdered Rory Brent. I desperately hoped it wasn’t the case, that whoever shot Rory was a stranger passing through, a demented, vile individual who had no connection to Cabot Cove. But I had to admit that Jake’s sudden move toward his weapon caused me to wonder whether there might be some validity to the rumor that there was bad blood between them, and that he’d killed Rory because of it. The contemplation made me shudder.

  Our local newspaper was on the front steps. I brought it inside, made a second cup of tea, and read the paper from cover to cover. Originally, it had been a weekly. But the town had grown sufficiently to prompt its publisher to turn it into a daily paper, usually dominated by news of births and deaths, local events, and the goings-on of various citizens, but with an impressive national and international section culled from wire services to which the paper subscribed. Plans for the Christmas festival occupied two entire inside pages. Rory’s murder took up most of the front page.

  The reporter had tried to interview Mort Metzger, but our sheriff had simply replied, “No comment.”

  Good for him, I thought. What could he possibly say at this stage of the investigation?”

  But a spokesman from county law enforcement was willing to speak, at length. I recognized the picture of the officer that accompanied the article. He’d been at Rory’s barn when Mort and I arrived.

  There was a biography of Rory, highlighting the fact that he’d played Santa Claus for our annual Christmas festival for the past fifteen years. A picture of him in his Santa costume was there, as well as a picture of his wife, Patricia. She, too, had decline to make a comment except to say that she was sad at her husband’s death, and hoped that whoever did it would be caught quickly.

  It was at the end of the article that speculation appeared about who might have killed Rory. The reporter mentioned that Robert Brent, son of the deceased, had volunteered to come to police headquarters to give a statement, and that Jake Walther, who’d been detained for questioning, was being held in the town jail. That bothered me. It would do nothing but give credence to the rumor that he was the murderer. We’re innocent until proved guilty in court of law, but that doesn’t necessarily apply to the court of human frailty and misconception.

  I was tempted to try and reach Mort to get an update on what happened last night, but fought the temptation. It really wasn’t my business, even though I’d been there when the incident with Walther had occurred. I showered and dressed. I had a nine o’clock meeting scheduled with Cynthia Curtis to discuss how we might approach the reading of Christmas stories to the children of Cabot Cove. She’d suggested the meeting when she left my house yesterday, and I’d agreed to it. She wanted Seth there, too, but he’d declined, claiming he had a busy patient load that morning.

  It wasn’t easy summoning enthusiasm for a meeting, which I assumed was the prevailing feeling of most people in town involved with the festival. Initially, learning of Rory’s murder had put us all in shock. Now, twenty-four hours later, that shock had been replaced with a pervasive sense of gloom and depression.

  But I knew that I, and anyone else, couldn’t let that dominate our lives. The festival was too important to have it ruined by any single event, no matter how tragic it might have been.

  Dimitri picked me up in his taxi at ten of nine and drove me to the library, where Cynthia waited in her office.

  “Good morning, Cynthia.”

  “Good morning, Jess. Glad you could make it. Frankly, I wondered whether you’d show up.”

  “I said I would.”

  “Because of what happened yesterday. I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning, I was so depressed over it.”

  I nodded. “I know exactly what you mean. But I reminded myself that we have a festival to put on. It might be rationalization on my part, but I think Rory would have wanted us to go forward.”

  “I agree. I got a call from Jim Shevlin this morning.”

  “How is our mayor?” I asked.

  “Feeling pretty much the same as we do. He said he was going to meet with the festival committee at noon and suggest that the festival be officially dedicated to Rory’s memory.”

  “That’s a splendid idea.”

  She’d gotten up to greet me. Now she settled behind her desk, went through some papers, saying as she did, “At least having the murderer identified and under arrest might make things easier, provide some sort of closure.”

  “Pardon?”

  She looked up. “Didn’t you hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “That Jake Walther is being charged with the murder of Rory Brent.”

  “No, I did not hear that.”

  “What have you heard?” she asked.

  I recounted what happened the night before, and the circumstances under which Jake had been brought to police headquarters. When I finished, I added, “But Mort was simply going to question him. What happened? Did Jake confess to the murder?”

  Cynthia shrugged and said, “I really don’t know. You read the paper this morning?”

  “Sure. But the article didn’t indicate that Jake had been arrested, just that he had been detained for questioning.”

  “Mara says she got it from a good source that Jake is being accused of the murder.”

  I laughed. “The good old Cabot Cove grapevine at work, with Mara’s Luncheonette as its headquarters. Mind if I use your phone?”

  “Not at all.”

  I dialed the number for police headquarters. Deputy Tom Coleman answered, asked me to hold, and a minute later Mort came on the line.

  “I was wondering when you’d get around to calling,” he said.

  “I wasn’t going to. I didn’t think it was my business. But I just heard that you’re charging Jake Walther with Rory Brent’s murder.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “It came from ... well, just a rumor floating around town.”

  “Damn Cabot Cove rumor mill,” he said. “No. I had Tom drive Jake back to his house this morning. Kept him overnight and stayed up asking him questions. He admits he and Rory didn’t get along. Maybe that’s an understatement. But he swears he didn’t kill him.”

  “Does he have an alibi?” I asked.

  “Claims he does. Says he spent the morning fixing a crumbling stone wall with his wife’s brother, Dennis.”

  “Believe him?” I asked.

  “No reason not to, unless his alibi doesn’t hold water. I was just about to go out to talk to Dennis when you called.”

  “Well, Mort, I’m glad the rumor doesn’t have any foundation in fact. I’m with Cynthia Curtis. We’re talking about the children’s story program f
or the festival.”

  “Sounds like a good thing to be doing. I think Doc is a little upset at not having it all to himself again this year.”

  “Oh, is he? I certainly don’t want that to be the case. I’d rather bow out than hurt his feelings.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought, Mrs. F. You know Seth. Gets him self riled up over stupid things. Got to run. Talk with you later.”

  I hung up and told Cynthia what the true situation was with Jake Walther. When I finished, she asked, “What do you really think, Jess? You write about murders and have ended up solving some real ones.”

  “Too many real ones,” I said. “I don’t know what I think. What I’m determined to do is to not come to any conclusion until Mort and other investigators do their job.”

  “I wish you could instill that philosophy in everyone else in town.”

  “Well, maybe just expressing it to enough people will have that effect. Now let’s get down to the business of the children’s Christmas story hour.”

  Chapter Eight

  My meeting with Cynthia lasted until ten. From the library I went directly to the office of my dentist, Anthony Colarusso, who was also president of the Cabot Cove Chamber of Commerce. Tony was not only a fine and caring dentist, he was an avid fisherman with whom I’d spent many pleasant mornings on some of the area’s tranquil streams and rivers in search of elusive trout. We always fished with barbless hooks in order not to injure the fish we caught, enabling us to easily remove the hook from their mouths and send them back into the water for another day.

  I didn’t have a specific problem prompting me to make my 10:15 appointment, but a note on my calendar told me it was time for my semiannual checkup and cleaning. As usual, most of our conversation revolved around fishing, although the gauzy, metallic paraphernalia in my mouth kept the talk one-sided.

  After agreeing we would be at a trout stream in the spring on the opening day of the fishing season, Tony said, “Shocking what happened to Rory Brent.”

  “It certainly was. Poor man. How could anyone do such a thing?”

  “Rory was a patient. I always enjoyed it when he came in. Never had a bad word for anybody, always laughing and joking. I’m told Sheriff Metzger is focusing on Jake Walther as the most likely suspect.”

  It was inevitable, I suppose, that Jake Walther would be brought up in our conversation. I could only assume his name was being bandied about all over town that morning, as it had been since the earliest moments following the determination that Rory had not died of natural causes. Amazing, I thought, how scuttlebutt takes on a momentum of its own, the mere hint of an accusation mushrooming into the assumption of truth.

  I said, “I just left Cynthia Curtis’s office at the library, Tony, and spoke with Mort Metzger from there. He questioned Jake, but released him. Frankly, I hate to hear this kind of rumor circulating. The man is innocent until a court of law proves him guilty. At least that’s the way the Constitution says it’s supposed to be.”

  “Rinse,” Tony said, indicating the basin next to the chair. I did as I was told.

  “That’s the problem when people create a negative reputation, like Jake. Easy to think the worst of somebody like that.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” I said. “Still ...”

  “I hear Jake has a good alibi.”

  I sat up a little straighter in my chair. “Who did you hear that from?”

  “Susan Shevlin. She was in first thing this morning to have a filling replaced.”

  Susan Shevlin was married to Cabot Cove’s mayor, Jim Shevlin, and operated the town’s leading travel agency.

  I shook my head as Tony removed the bib from around my neck. “My, how news gets around. She’s right, though. Jake told Mort he spent the morning of Rory’s murder fixing a stone wall with Mary Walther’s brother, Dennis.”

  Tony’s eyebrows went up. I knew what he was thinking, that Dennis Solten—Solten was Mary Walther’s maiden name—might not be the best source of an alibi for someone accused of murder. Anyone who’d spent any time with Dennis knew that he was someone who agreed with anything and everything said, siding with totally opposing views as fast as they were proffered. Unlike his brother-in-law, Jake, who argued with everyone about everything , you never heard a word of disagreement from Dennis. The word “sweet” was most often applied to him. I sometimes wondered whether labeling him mildly retarded accurately reflected his situation. He had the look of a beaten puppy, someone who’d been put down so often in his life that it became second nature for him to be so malleable that he came off as intellectually slow, even dim-witted. Dennis Solten was as small as his sister was big. But he was a hard worker; no one would debate that. When he wasn’t helping Jake on the farm, he hired out for yard work, snow shoveling, and other odd jobs. I’d hired him last fall to split two cords of wood from an ash that had died and fallen on my property. He attacked the task with vigor and dedication, swinging the heavy sledgehammer into the wedge he’d driven into each log with such energy that it tired me out just watching him.

  “Are you saying that Dennis might be providing Jake with an alibi because Jake told him to?”

  “Possibility, isn’t it?” said Tony, stripping off latex gloves and tossing them into a special trash container. “Seems to me it wouldn’t be hard to get Dennis to say almost anything.”

  I thought for a moment about what he said, then offered, “If that’s true, then the opposite could occur. He could be persuaded to say something about Jake that would be incriminating.”

  “I guess it’s a matter of who gets to him first with the most persuasive argument.”

  I left Dr. Colarusso’s office, realizing how accurate his final comment had been. I also recognized that I, too, was feeding the Cabot Cove grapevine. I wasn’t doing it for the sake of gossip. At least I hoped it wouldn’t be perceived that way. I made a few more stops before heading home for lunch, including the post office, the bookstore, where I’d promised to sign copies of my latest novel, and our local fish market to pick up a bushel of clams for steaming. Everywhere I went, the conversation quickly turned to Rory Brent’s murder and the suspicion that Jake Walther had done the evil deed.

  Happy to be home and away from the subject of murder and murderers, I placed water, two bay leaves, and a splash of white wine in the bottom of a very large lobster pot and put it on the stove. When it started to send up steam, I dumped in the clams. In the ten minutes it took for them to open, I melted some butter, cut off two pieces of crunchy French bread, and settled down at my kitchen table for one of my favorite meals. Although it had stopped snowing, it was still gray and raw outside, a perfect day to stay indoors. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the luxury of spending the afternoon there. I was due at our local community college at three to meet with Bob Roark, dean of the creative writing department. He’d approached me a month ago to see whether I would be willing to teach a minicourse in mystery writing. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have had to decline his offer because of the press of my own writing schedule. But as it turned out, I didn’t plan to start my next book for at least three months, which gave me plenty of time to do those pleasurable things I too often never get around to. I enjoy teaching young writers, and have been doing more and more of it over the past few years, including New York University in Manhattan, and individual one-day seminars at other institutions of higher learning.

  The clams were succulent—no surprise. After mopping up the last few drops of broth and butter with the final scrap of bread, I returned to correspondence I’d been working on the night before when Mary Walther’s arrival had interrupted the process. I wrote letters until quarter of three, when Dimitri Cassis arrived with the taxi to take me to the college.

  “What is new about Mr. Brent’s murder, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked once I’d gotten in the backseat and closed the door.

  “I really don’t know, Dimitri.”

  “Did Mr. Walther do it?”

  “Why do you ask that
?”

  “Everyone says he did.”

  “Well, Dimitri, just because everyone says so doesn’t mean it’s true. I don’t think anyone knows who killed Rory Brent, although I certainly hope they find out as soon as possible.”

  He pulled out of my driveway, and we rode in silence for a minute before he said, “I don’t like Mr. Walther.”

  “Have you had a problem with him?”

  “Oh, yes. When I first came to Cabot Cove, I drove him to his house from town. He said he would go in the house and get money, but he never came out.”

  “That’s not very nice,” I said. “What did you do? Did you knock on his door?”

  “No, Mrs. Fletcher, I did not think I could do that. I had only been here a few months, and had bought the taxi from Mr. Monroe two weeks before. I did not want to make trouble.”

  “Well, people should be paid when they provide a service. Is that the only time you were involved with Jake Walther?”

  “Yes, ma’am, although I have seen him many times in the town. He’s not nice to people.”

  “Yes, I know. He isn’t very pleasant.”

  We said nothing else until Dimitri pulled up in front of the administration building on the community college campus.

  “Put it on my bill,” I said.

  “Of course,” he said. “You are my best customer.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Yes?”

  “I would not be surprised if Mr. Walther killed Mr. Brent.”

  “And I would be very sad.”

  He nodded and said, “I understand. You will call for me to pick you up?”

  “Yes. It should be in about an hour.”

  I’d met Dean Robert Roark shortly after his arrival in Cabot Cove. He’d come to our community college from the English Department of Purdue University, where he’d been rated the department’s most popular and effective teacher. Having been born in Maine played a major role in his decision to leave a comfortable Midwest teaching position to take over a department at a two-year community college. No matter what his motivation, he quickly became a valuable asset not only to the college, but to the community at large.