A Little Yuletide Murder (10 page)

Richard’s agent narrowed his eyes and said, “You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you, Richard?”

“Me?”

“Sure. Remember the old radio series, ‘Casey, Crime Photographer’? ”

Seth laughed. “I’m the only one old enough here to remember it,” he said. “Folks joked that it was called that because the way Casey took pictures, it was a crime.”

“I never heard of it,” the cousin said.

“You’re investigating the murder?” the agent asked Mort, her eyes open wide.

“Afraid so,” he replied.

“Has him out of the house day and night,” Mort’s wife said, patting her husband on the arm. “I prefer it when the only crime he has to investigate is somebody’s lobster pot being stolen.”

Although many questions were now asked of Mort, he remained adamant in his commitment not to discuss the Rory Brent murder. I admired him for that, although I admit my curiosity level wasn’t exactly dormant.

The party broke up at eleven, late for midweek Cabot Cove social events. We tend to be early-to-bed, early-to-rise people. Seth drove me home.

“Come in for a nightcap?” I asked.

“Ayuh,
don’t mind if I do.”

The oyster pie had left me thirsty, and I poured myself a club soda with lime. Seth readily accepted my offer of brandy.

“Pleasant evening,” I said as we settled in the living room.

“Always is at Richard and Mary Jane’s. Don’t know if they’re the best cooks in Cabot Cove, but they come close.”

“I was proud of Mort this evening, not succumbing to the temptation to discuss Rory’s murder.”

“He is capable of keeping his mouth shut on occasion,” he said, tasting the brandy and smacking his lips. “The perfect end to a nice evening.”

“Seth, has Mort told you anything about going out to check on Jake’s alibi with Dennis?”

He didn’t answer, but his expression told me he had, indeed, been privy to additional information about the murder. I know Seth well enough not to press. If he wished to share it with me, he would.

“I spoke with Dr. Treyz this afternoon,” he said, taking another taste of his brandy.

“Oh?”

“He finished up the autopsy on Rory.”

Again, I didn’t push for further details. You get from Seth Hazlitt only what he wishes to give you.

“Ayuh,
told me it was a twenty-two that killed Rory. Bullet lodged right in his brain.”

“I assume it was turned over to Mort,” I said.

“I suspect it was. Probably go out to the state forensic lab down to Portland. It’s official, Jessica. Somebody put a bullet in Rory Brent’s head.”

I felt a sudden chill, and eyed Seth’s half-filled snifter of brandy. But I knew the shiver that went through me was not the result of the temperature in the room. Each time I thought of Rory Brent lying dead on the cold dirt floor of his barn, I suffered a physical reaction, as though someone had set off an electrical charge inside, or poked a knife in my ribs.

“Want some cookies?” I asked.

“Thank you, no, Jessica. Quite content.”

I was heading for the kitchen to refill my glass when Seth said matter-of-factly, as though speaking to no one in particular, “Jake’s alibi holds up.”

I stopped midstride, turned, and looked at him. “Dennis corroborated what Jake said, that they were fixing a stone wall together?”

“That is correct,” said Seth.

“I had my teeth cleaned this morning by Tony Colarusso. He questioned whether Dennis could be counted on as a reliable alibi.”

“I suppose Tony is right, Jessica. But as far as Mort is concerned, Dennis gets Jake off the hook.”

“Mort told you this himself?”

“That he did. ’Course, he only gave me a
scrid
of information. Just a wee bit.”

“But important information, I’d say. Does this mean that Mort has officially ruled out Jake as a suspect?”

“Hard to say. I didn’t get into that with him. And if I were runnin’ the investigation, I’d be looking elsewhere. ’Course, I’m not runnin’ the investigation.”

He stood. “Much obliged for the brandy, Jessica. What’s on your agenda tomorrow?”

I glanced at the grandfather clock in a comer of the room. It was a few minutes past midnight. “You mean what’s on my agenda today? A busy schedule, but I won’t bore you with the particulars. I’m sure we’ll touch base again. Thanks for the ride, Seth. Careful home. Watch out for that black ice.”

“Ayuh,
I certainly will. Good night.”

Although the hour was late, I wasn’t tired, and sat up until after one thinking about what had occurred since that fateful morning of the Christmas festival planning meeting, when Tim Purdy arrived back from Rory Brent’s farm with the grim news that he was dead. And then, of course, the tragedy was compounded after Mort visited the Brent farm and reported to us at lunch that it appeared Rory had been murdered.

Eventually, I climbed into bed and tried to read a few more pages in the book I’d started. But, as often happens, the act of reading quickly caused my eyes to lower. My final thought before I drifted off was the conversation I’d had with Vaughan Buckley about doing a true crime book based upon the Rory Brent murder. Doing such a book held little or no interest for me. But then again, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to do a little poking around in the event I changed my mind.

I knew one thing for certain: I wanted Rory Brent’s murderer brought to justice before the Christmas festival. If it still hung over our heads during that joyous period of time, much of the Christmas spirit—and what it was supposed to mean—would be lost.

There would be no peace in Cabot Cove until Rory’s murderer was behind bars.

I was up early the next morning and feeling remarkably refreshed, considering the late hour I’d gone to bed. Maybe it was the weather; the sun was shining brightly, and the sky was a deep, unblemished blue.

A perfect morning for a brisk walk, I thought as I prepared a simple breakfast, then took a shower. A half hour later, dressed in my favorite sweatsuit worn over a sweater, a scarf to keep my ears warm, and a new pair of expensive sneakers on my feet
(Why
are sneakers so expensive these days?), I headed out the front door and for town.

Because I’m as much a creature of habit as anyone else, I usually find my walks taking me in the same direction each time. Sometimes, when I think of it, I alter my route, if only to enjoy different scenery. But this morning I didn’t bother being creative in choosing what streets to take. The only thing on my mind was to get moving, breathe in the cold, crisp air, and feel my blood flowing.

It takes only ten minutes to reach the center of Cabot Cove from my house. When I arrived there, I glanced at my watch. It was seven-thirty. Even at that early hour the main street—aptly named Main Street—was bustling. That is one of the reasons I enjoy taking morning walks into town. It’s a chance to see friends before they become immersed in their work and daily lives.

I bumped into Sandy and Bernadette, who own the Animal Inn, a wonderful kennel where dogs and cats placed in their loving charge are treated royally.

“How are all your canine and feline borders?” I asked.

“Making the usual racket,” said Sandy. “I think they sense Christmas is coming.” To which Bernadette added, “A full house, no vacancies. Not an empty run in the place, and looks like it will stay that way right through the New Year.”

“That’s called prosperity,” I said.

“I suppose you’re right, Jess,” Sandy said. “We’ve been turning down callers from miles away who want to bring their pets with them to the festival. Hate to say no but—”

I’d traveled another half block when I was stopped by Mickey and Joan Terzigni, on their way to open up their sign shop.

“Keeping busy?” I asked.

“With the Christmas festival coming up?” Mickey said, laughing. “Can’t keep up with all the signs the festival committee keeps ordering. You?”

“Not very busy at all,” I said, “and loving every minute of it.”

The only problem with running into so many people on my walk is that it interrupts the rhythm I try to establish, one that will benefit my cardiovascular system.

I eventually left the downtown area and headed for the waterfront. The smell of sea air was bracing, the sound of gulls overhead providing what almost sounded like a choir—were they singing a Christmas song? I smiled at the thought.

The wind off the water was brisk, and I soon regretted not having dressed more warmly, perhaps adding a jacket over my sweatsuit. People were going in and out of Mara’s Luncheonette, but I resisted the temptation to stop in for a cup of coffee and whatever caloric breakfast pastry she’d come up with that morning. After pausing on the dock to take in the stunning vista of sky and water, I went to the shore, removed my sneakers and socks, and walked barefoot along the water’s edge. The sand was surprisingly warm on my bare feet, at least below the surface. Many people were on the beach, some throwing sticks for their dogs to fetch, others walking hand in hand. A man combed the sand with a metal detector in search of buried treasure. The sound of children’s laughter rose above the steady slap and swish of waves breaking onshore.

At first, I wasn’t sure I heard correctly. Had someone called my name? When I heard it a second time, I stopped and turned. Tom Coleman, Sheriff Metzger’s deputy, was waving to me from where the sand ended at a series of large boulders, behind which was a parking lot.

“Good morning, Tom,” I said when I reached him. “Beautiful day for December.”

“Yes, ma’am, I suppose it is,” he said. “The sheriff’s been looking for you.”

“Looking for me? Why?”

“Has to do with Jake Walther, I think.”

“How so?” I asked, sitting on a rock, brushing the sand from my feet and between my toes, and putting on my socks and sneakers.

“He didn’t really say, Mrs. Fletcher, except that Mrs. Walther is at headquarters. I think she’s looking for you, too.”

“Has something bad happened?” I asked.

“My car is right up here,” was his reply.

I accepted his hand to help me up onto the rocks and followed him to his police cruiser.

Five minutes later I was in Sheriff Mort Metzger’s office. Mary Walther stood by the window, her back to me.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Good morning, Mrs. F.,” said Mort.

“Good morning, Mary,” I said.

She turned and looked at me with red-rimmed eyes.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “I assume it must be something important to have sent Tom down to the beach to interrupt my morning constitutional.”

When Mary didn’t respond, Mort said, “I arrested Jake this morning for Rory Brent’s murder, Mrs. F.”

Mary bit her lip and turned away again.

“What happened?” I asked. “I thought Jake had an alibi.”

When neither of them responded, I added, “Didn’t Dennis say he was fixing a stone wall with Jake the morning Rory was killed?”

“That’s what he said the first time, Mrs. F., but I had my suspicions, so I went out there first thing this morning and talked to him again. Seems he’s changed his story.”

“He wasn’t with Jake that morning?”

“Afraid not. Dennis says Jake told him to come up with that story so that he would have an alibi. But after a little prodding, I got the truth out of him.”

I thought of Tony Colarusso’s comment that Dennis would testify to anything, depending upon who was most persuasive. Was that the case here? Had Mort led Dennis into this total turnabout in his story?

Mary again faced me. “I’m afraid Dennis is telling the truth this time, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Please, it’s Jessica.”

“Jessica. He confided in me that he’d told the sheriff he’d been with Jake that morning only because he was afraid of Jake. No, Dennis was not with Jake when Rory Brent was killed. I know that for a fact. After all, he is my brother.”

“But such a drastic change in story,” I said, exhaling loudly. “And why would he be afraid of Jake? He’s lived with you and Jake on the farm for many years.”

“I know, I know,” said Mary, slowly shaking her head and sinking into a chair. “But just because Dennis wasn’t with Jake doesn’t mean Jake killed Rory.” Having stated that seemed to perk her up. She sat forward and looked at Mort. “It doesn’t necessarily mean that, does it, Sheriff Metzger? I mean, just because he wasn’t with Jake doesn’t mean Jake killed anyone.”

“I suppose that’s what a jury will have to decide, Mrs. Walther,” Mort said glumly. “All I know is I have enough to hold Jake on suspicion of murder until the D.A. decides whether to indict.”

“Where is Jake?” I asked.

“In jail,” Mort said.

“Why did you send for me?” I asked.

“Because I asked him to,” Mary answered. “I don’t know, Jessica, but sometimes I think you’re the only real friend I have.”

Her comment struck me as strange. Although we had been friendly, we’d never socialized the way true friends do, only interacted through mutual involvement in community activities. To call me her only friend was, in my judgment, a gross exaggeration.

Still, my heart went out to her. If she viewed me that way, it meant she harbored a terrible distrust of everyone else she’d gotten to know over the years.

“Mary, what would you like me to do?” I asked. “How can I help?”

Mort answered for her. “Jake’s going to need a lawyer, Mrs. F. I told Mary that we could get him a public defender, but she said she wanted to talk to you first.”

“Talk to
me
about lawyers?” I said.

“Because you seem to be the one person in Cabot Cove that everyone looks up to, Jessica,” Mary said. “And I know you understand something about the legal system because of the books you write. Maybe I was out of place. I shouldn’t have bothered you. It isn’t your concern.”