A Deadly Judgment (2 page)

 

“Good afternoon, good morning, whatever,” Mara said from behind the counter in her postage-stamp size restaurant. “And good day to you, Mr. Buckley,” she said without having been introduced to him. She wiped her arthritic right hand on her stained apron and extended it to him.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Vaughan said.

“I suppose I’ve talked a lot about your visit, Vaughan,” I said. “Cabot Cove isn’t like New York. Everyone in town knows my esteemed publisher is visiting me today.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Up here,” Mara said, “you’re a pretty big fish in a wee little pond.”

“And in New York I’m just one fish in a school of millions of minnows.”

“No offense,” Mara said.

“None taken. You’re right. And I’m delighted to be here.”

“Are we having breakfast or lunch?” Mara asked.

“Vaughan and I looked at each other. “Heard a lot about you from Ms. Fletcher, Mr. Buckley,” said Mara. “Seems to me you’re the blueberry pancake sort ‘a fella.”

Vaughan’s smile was broad and genuine. “Sounds wonderful,” he said. “And, please call me Vaughan.”

As Mara led us to a small table covered in a red-and-white check plastic tablecloth, she asked, “Usual low-calorie special for you, Jess?”

“Not today, Mara. I think I’ll join Vaughan. Make it two stacks of blueberry pancakes.”

“You have quite an influence on our town’s first lady,” she said to Vaughan.

“I certainly hope so,” he replied, holding out my chair.

After settling down at the table and taking in his surroundings—there were a few fishermen who’d just returned from a run, and some tourists—Vaughan said, “Cabot Cove is delightful, Jess, as I knew it would be. As magical as you’d painted it. Picturesque seaside town, quaint, friendly but with enough hustle and bustle to make even a Manhattanite like me feel at home.”

“You’re here during the tourist season,” I said. “Come back in the dead of winter. Not much hustle and bustle then.”

We sipped our coffee while I waxed a little more poetic about my town. He listened intently; Vaughan Buckley was a good listener, one of his many endearing qualities.

“You know, Jess, Olga and I have been looking for a country home. A real getaway place, and I mean
away.
Of course, we have the house in the Hamptons. It’s nice there, but it seems like the entire publishing world feels the same way. Hard to escape in the real sense of the word. I’m thinking that Cabot Cove would be the perfect place to have a retreat. You know, come up and hibernate for weeks at a time. Sadie and Rose would love it.” He chuckled softly. “I’m not sure Olg would want to become a regular passenger of Jean Richardson, though. She gets motion sick on elevators.”

I laughed. “It looked to me as though you might have been a little queasy yourself when you got out of the plane this morning.”

“No, not at all.”

He finished his coffee. Why is it men can’t admit to something like motion sickness? I wondered. I know few who can. Like not asking for directions when lost.

I fielded Vaughan’s questions about fishing in the area, shopping, hospitals, and theater, sounding very much like a real estate agent. It would be wonderful if he and Olga had a home here. They’re two of my favorite people.

On the other hand, one of the reasons I still live in Cabot Cove is because, although you can make the trip in half a day, this sleepy town is a million miles from New York. Here I can be someone other than the famed mystery writer, the role I’m forced to play when in New York and other cities promoting my books. I like living in two separate worlds—Jessica Fletcher Number One: decent fisherwoman, maker of homemade jams and to-die-for iced tea, and wearer of thick, woolly, cable-knit sweaters. And Jessica Fletcher Number Two: famed mystery writer, Chanel earrings, silk chemise blouses, expert at making reservations, savvy shopper, and as-good-as-the-next-guy at finding a cab at rush hour. If I had to give up one for the other, I’d opt for Jessica Number One, the Cabot Cove version. It’s the real me. As my mother always said, “Be true to your colors, Jessica.”

Although Vaughan raved about the pancakes, he went easy, leaving half a stack on his plate before calling it quits, which Mara would probably take personally.

“Well, Jess, I suppose it’s time we get down to business,” Vaughan said after the plates had been cleared (Mara’s expression confirmed what I’d expected), and our cups had been refilled with her signature strong, aromatic coffee.

I was glad to get to the real reason for Vaughan’s trip to Cabot Cove. He’d never visited me before, and the fragile, paranoid ego of a writer—any writer—this writer was working overtime. Not that I was concerned that my longstanding relationship with Buckley House was in jeopardy. The tales of my books ranked me high on the publisher’s bottom line. But I hadn’t come up with an idea for my next work because, frankly, I didn’t have a clue as to what it would be. I’d toyed with myriad plots, none of which stood up to scrutiny upon reflection. Was Vaughan Buckley about to prod me to come up with my next book, even chastise me for having become—well, lazy, perhaps? Or had he brought worse news? No matter how successful my books had been, it was always possible—my insecurity level seemed to increase with each passing minute—for any publisher to decide that an author’s string had run, that her books no longer appealed to that large baby-boomer population, that her ...

“Okay,” I said, “time to talk business. You didn’t come all the way to Cabot Cove for pancakes.”

“But not a bad idea,” he said, laughing. “Jess, I came here today to discuss your next book. I think the next J. B. Fletcher best-seller should revolve around a murder trial.”

“Oh?”

“It’s the hottest genre in publishing. The O.J. Simpson trial. Susan Smith. Grisham. Turow. One best-selling novel after another set during a trial. I think ifs time you tapped into that interest.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I understand what you’re saying, but although it may be the hot genre right now, it isn’t my genre. I haven’t the foggiest idea about murder trials other than what I follow in the papers. For me to write a book with a plot that relies heavily on trial procedure, I’d have to dedicate an awful lot of time to research. Maybe even sit through an entire trial to pick up the nuances, soak up the mood, study the judge, the jurors. And believe me, Vaughan, murder trials in Cabot Cove are few and far between. We haven’t had anyone tried for murder here in years. I’d like to keep it that way. So should you if you’re serious about buying a home here.”

Vaughan laughed. “Not a high crime rate, I take it.”

“An occasional stolen chicken. Graffiti on the bridge.”

“I love it. Look, you know what a fan you have in me. I would never insist that you heed my suggestion about what sort of plot to use in your next book. You’re the expert in that area, not me. All I ask is that you think about it.”

“Of course I will. I just don’t think—”

“Not now.” He checked his watch. “How about a walking tour of Cabot Cove?”

“Sure. We can stroll toward my house, stop there for some iced tea for which I’ve achieved a modicum of local fame, and lunch if the walk spikes your appetite.”

We said good-bye to Mara—“You didn’t like the pancakes, Mr. Buckley?” “They were wonderful, just so filling”—and started walking.

Later, over iced tea on my patio, he said, “Looks like it’s time to hook up with Mr. Richardson for the flight back.”

“He’ll be by in fifteen minutes to pick you up. It’s been such a pleasure having you here, Vaughan.”

“And it’s been a pleasure to be here, see your town, sample your iced tea which, I agree, deserves a prize. Great to get away for a day.”

“I imagine.”

Jed arrived, and Vaughan climbed into his minivan.

“We’ll talk soon,” he said to me.

“Count on it. Safe home. Best to Olga. And to Sadie and Rose.”

I watched them pull away, went to the patio to pick up the empty glasses, settled in front of the computer in my office, and started working on a plot for my next book, which had nothing to do with murder trials and the law. Fact was, I didn’t want to devote months to sitting through a trial in order to gain knowledge of how it works despite Vaughan’s urging me to do it. Besides, how would I arrange to attend such a trial?”

No, not for me, I decided as I tried to concoct a plot based upon what are basically six standard approaches for a murder mystery—a hard-boiled private eye? A spy this time, or a rogue cop? A flat-out tale of horror? Maybe something in a Gothic setting. No cozy mystery this time around; my last two had been small-scale with all the suspects ending up together in a house with failed electricity.

A murder trial?

I gave up at midnight, climbed into bed, and thought about Vaughan’s visit and his idea for my next book.

A trial?

No.

Sorry, Vaughan.

Lights out.

I’m an earlier riser, but was awake even earlier than usual the following morning. I followed my usual routine: put on a robe and picked up the New York
Times
and the Cabot Cove Spotlight from the foot of my driveway. The
Spotlight
was a weekly, published on Thursday. This was Friday, its delivery day. I turned on the drip coffeemaker I’d set up the night before, got the fans going to draw in the cool morning air, and went to the patio to inspect my dozens of potted red geraniums. They didn’t look too good to me, wilted, less than radiant, weak. I’d been delinquent in my watering, and rectified that immediately. Geraniums represent a passion of mine. I’d actually wanted to hold a pot of them at my wedding, but was told by friends and family that it would have been inappropriate. I shouldn’t have listened to them. My dear husband, now deceased, knew my love of the red flower and showered me on every anniversary with pots of them.

As I was pouring coffee into an insulated carafe to keep it from steeping longer than necessary, the phone rang. I picked it up in the kitchen. “Hello,” I said.

“Hello there, dear Jessica. Have I caught you at a bad moment?”

“No. Who is this?” The laugh was deep and rumbling, a laugh I now recognized. “Malcolm? Malcolm McLoon?”

“Of course. It hasn’t been that long, has it?” he asked in his characteristic loud, deep, stentorian voice that mirrored his physical presence.

“Five years?” I said.

“Oh, my, Jessica, if it’s that long, we’re both growing older at a rate faster than we wish.”

Malcolm McLoon was in his late sixties, and everything about him was grandiose—long, flowing white hair, huge potbelly—a frustrated Shakespearean actor, fond of limp, floppy multicolored bow ties and whimsical suits, usually white or cream-colored, summer or winter. His reputation for being fond of the bottle rivaled his fame as one of the most successful, and controversial criminal defense attorneys in America. He’d handled dozens of high-profile cases since leaving Cabot Cove twenty years ago, and had won the majority of them, despite what critics pointed to as a gratingly pompous and obnoxiously flagrant style. They were right, of course. But there was another side of him that I’d gotten to know, a gentle charm, a man who would give you the shirt off his back provided you wore shirts with a collar size of twenty, and a size sixty suit.

“How are you, Malcolm?”

“Couldn’t be better, Jessica. Tip-top. And how are you, young lady?”

“Just fine. I enjoyed the glorious spring we had, and so far the summer’s been kind to me. Even getting in a little fishing. How do you like that?”

“I like it very much, indeed,” he said. “Working on anything these days? A new book?”

“Funny you should ask,” I said. “I had breakfast with my publisher yesterday to discuss what’s next. Nothing decided yet. He wants me to—”

“I call with a proposition, dear lady.”

“A decent one, I trust.”

“Am I capable of any other kind? How would you like to work with me on my next case?”

“I don’t understand.” I said.

“Allow me to explain. I’ve been retained by the Brannigan family of Boston. You’ve heard of them, of course. Brannigan’s Bean Pot? The best baked beans this side of the Charles River. Hmmm, hmm good.”

“Of course I’m familiar with the name and the product. And I agree. They are the best baked beans—in a can. But you haven’t tasted baked beans until you’ve tasted mine. I’ve perfected a wonderful recipe.”

“Perhaps you’ll do me the honor of cooking up a batch in my kitchen while you’re here.”

“While I’m there?”

“Yes.” He said it as though I should have known all along why I would be in Boston. “Unfortunately, Jessica, it seems the Brannigan family troubles have gained in more notoriety these days than their baked beans.”

I understood what he was saying. I’d followed recent media coverage of the murder of Jack Brannigan by his brother, William. “I can’t think of anything more tragic than one family member killing another,” I said.

“Billy Brannigan is an innocent man, Jessica. Being accused of murdering his brother, and being convicted of it, are two very different things. Truth is, he didn’t do it. As his defense counsel, I’m confident I will successfully make that point to a jury of his peers.”

“Congratulations on being chosen to defend him, Malcolm. From what I’ve read, it will be a difficult case to try.”

“Not for this lawyer,” he said. I smiled as he continued. “You are your usual gracious self to offer your congratulations, but I didn’t call to elicit them, although there are those who label me a braggart and wouldn’t put it past me to do just such a thing. But you know the real Malcolm, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” I said, my grin widening. “What can I do for you?”

“I want you to come to Boston for the summer ...
,” he sang. It was a line from a popular song I hear while waiting in my dentist’s office, or flipping through the light FM channels on the radio.