A Little Yuletide Murder (20 page)

“Any other patients due?” I asked.

“No. Slow day, Jess. Getting ready for Christmas?”

“Trying to. I thought I’d block out this afternoon for some shopping.”

“My shopping was done a month ago,” Pat said. “All my cards written, too.”

“I envy you. Every year I promise myself to get a running start on cards, have them in the mail no later than the middle of November. But as my father used to say, ‘The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.’ ”

“How true, how true,” she said. “Excuse me, Jess. I have to get some paperwork done before I leave.”

Seth’s patient, a young woman named Anne Harris, who’d recently moved to Cabot Cove, was introduced to me by the good doctor.

“I’ve wanted to meet you since moving here,” she said. “I do some writing of my own.”

“Really? What sort of writing?”

“Nothing major. Some poetry, short stories.”

“Short stories,” I said, “the hardest form of writing.”

“So I’ve heard. I thought I’d like to try my hand at writing a murder mystery.”

“Then you should do it,” I said.

Seth, recognizing a familiar scenario in my life—someone aspiring to write murder mysteries and wanting me to become involved—said, “Good to see you Mrs. Harris. You pick up that prescription and take it until it’s run out, heah?”

“I promise,” she said lightly.

When she was gone, I followed Seth to his study, where he was engaged in—what else?—the writing of last-minute Christmas cards. He poured tea from a teapot Pat Hitchcock had placed on his desk and said, “All right, fill me in, Jessica. What happened out at the Walther farm?”

I told him.

“Must have been difficult for Mary to tell that to Mort. Doesn’t do her husband’s case any good.”

“Yes, it was difficult for her, Seth, but I’m proud that she found the courage to do it. I also stopped in Joe Turco’s office before coming here.”

“And how is our young attorney friend?”

“Just fine, although he’s having trouble programming phone numbers into his new fax machine.”

Seth laughed. “You’d think they’d come up with a way to make programming those infernal machines easier. Must be some sort of plot against consumers. Time for Ralph Nader to get involved.”

“Seth, Mary told me Jill Walther is going back to college early, leaving the day after tomorrow.”

“That’s odd, isn’t it?” he said.

“I thought so. I asked her about it, and she said she thought it was better for Jill not to be here in Cabot Cove while all of this is going on with her father. I’ve got to talk to her before she goes.”

“Shouldn’t be difficult. Just go back out there.”

I shook my head. “No, Seth, there was something in Mary’s tone that told me
she
did not want me to talk to Jill. She didn’t state that, of course, but I sensed it.”

“Why would she want to keep you from speaking with her daughter? After all, Jessica, you were the one who got her into college, got her that scholarship. Seems to me you’d be the first person welcome at the house.”

“I feel that way, although what I did for Jill doesn’t give me any automatic rights to spend time with her. But I have to see her, Seth. I have to clear up, if only for my own sake, this business of Jill’s having sought abortion counseling, and Rory Brent’s making a big contribution to the counseling center right after she was there. I’m also intrigued with what Robert Brent said.”

“Which was?”

“Robert said his father had argued with Jake Walther over ‘land and money.’ That’s why I stopped up to see Joe Turco. I asked him to check public land records to see if there was any link between Jake Walther and Rory Brent from a real estate point of view. I just know there’s a relationship of some sort between those two men that goes beyond Jake’s surly disposition.”

“Ayuh,
you may be right, Jessica. Funny, while I was waiting for Mrs. Harris to arrive, I started thinking about Patricia Brent.”

“Rory’s wife?”

“Ayuh.
Everybody’s looking to Jake Walther as the likely murderer, but no one is looking at anybody else.”

“Seth, you aren’t suggesting that Patricia might have murdered her husband.”

“I’m not suggesting any such thing. But I am talking sense. The only suspect is Jake Walther. What about Patricia? Wives have killed husbands before. And what about that son of theirs, Robert? Barely showed any emotion about his father gettin’ murdered, at least according to what I’ve heard.”

He was right, of course. Not that I suspected Patricia or Robert Brent of being capable of doing such a dreadful thing. But with all the focus on Jake Walther, it seemed that Mort and his deputies hadn’t looked beyond him. Yes, there had been speculation—no, make that
hope
—that Rory Brent had been murdered by a passer-through, a stranger, someone with no connection to Cabot Cove. We all fervently wished that.

But what if he had been killed by a Cabot Cove resident—someone who knew him well, someone whom we all knew well? Rory was a popular citizen. He knew many people, maybe the majority of Cabot Cove’s population. And because he was a prosperous farmer, he’d undoubtedly had many business dealings, perhaps with someone who became angry at the way a business deal came out.

“You know all the basic reasons for someone murderin’ somebody else, Jessica—passion, greed, money, family tensions. Could be somebody got real mad at Rory and flew off the handle.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so, Seth, not the way Rory was killed. It was a deliberate act, well thought out in advance. Maybe not
too
far in advance, but it certainly wasn’t a sudden flare-up that resulted in physical harm to him. Somebody wanted to kill Rory Brent—and did.”

“I suppose you’re right. Did you get a chance to talk with Mort while you were over at headquarters?”

“No. I just stayed long enough to lend some moral support to Mary. Mort wanted them to stay a little longer to answer some questions. I left.”

“More tea, Jessica?”

“No thanks. I’d better be running along. I promised myself some time for Christmas shopping.”

“What will you be getting me this Christmas?”

I laughed. “I have a very special present in mind for you, Dr. Hazlitt, and wild horses could not pull it out of me. You’ll just have to wait until Christmas Eve.”

I’d be spending Christmas Eve, after festival activities had ended, with Seth at his home, along with twenty or so other guests.

“Got a special present picked out for you, too,” he said.

“Tell me.”

“Wild horses couldn’t pull it out of me,” he said.

I finished my tea and was about to leave when his doorbell rang. I accompanied him to the door. Standing on his wide, wraparound porch was a television crew, led by a middle-aged man. I looked beyond them and saw Mort Metzger getting out of his sheriff’s car and heading up the walk.

“And who might you be?” Seth asked the reporter.

“Gary Kraut, Portland TV,” the man said. “We just arrived in town to report on the Rory Brent murder. We understand you were his physician.”

Seth glared at them.

Mort joined us, and they immediately turned their attention to him.

“You’re the sheriff,” Kraut said. “What’s new in the Brent murder?”

“Excuse me,” Mort said and turned to Seth and me. “Got a minute?”

“Of course,” Seth said. The three of us returned inside and closed the door in the face of the television crew.

“I just left Joe Truco,” Mort said, removing his Stetson and placing it on a small table in the entrance hall.

“You did?” I said, thinking of my request that Turco research public real estate records in Town Hall.

“Thought it only right to run the news past him before acting on it,” Mort said.

“What news?” I asked.

“About Jake Walther.”

“Stop beatin’ around the bush, Mort,” Seth said. “Just tell us what the news is.”

“Well, seems the lab boys have gotten their act together. No doubt about it, they tell me. The footprint on Rory’s barn floor is a perfect match to that boot owned by Jake.”

I thought back to what Joe Turco had said, that unless that match was made, Jake would probably remain in the clear.

“Interesting development,” said Seth. “What happens now?”

“I’ve got a call into the D.A.. Hope to meet with her before the day is out,” Mort responded. “Seems to me there’s nothing else to do but go arrest Jake.”

“Again?” Seth and I said in unison.

“Afraid so, Mrs. F.,” Mort said.

“Think this time it’ll stick?” Seth asked. “Folks in this town are getting downright tired of Jake Walther goin’ in and out of jail.”

Mort looked at Seth with a hurt expression, as though his good friend was being critical of his police work.

“Didn’t mean anything by it, Mort,” Seth said. “But you get my drift. Seems to me if you arrest Jake Walther again, it had better be for good this time.”

“I wouldn’t argue with that,” Mort said. “Reason I came by was to ask you, Mrs. F., if Mary Walther, or that strange brother of hers had anything else to say when you were with them.”

“No,” I said. “The only thing of substance Mary said is what she told you at headquarters.”

“Just checkin’,” Mort said. “I’ll leave you two to whatever it was you were talkin’ about.”

“I was just leaving when you arrived,” I said.

“Got those media vultures outside,” Mort said.

“Tell ’em to go away,” Seth told our sheriff. “They’re on private property up on my porch.”

“I’ll do just that. Need a lift, Mrs. F.?”

“I think I’ll take you up on that, Mort, considering they’re outside. Drop me in town where I can do some shopping?”

“Certainly will. Christmas shopping?”

“Yes. I—”

“Got any ideas about what you’ll be gettin’ me for Christmas?”

Seth and I looked at each other.

“Jessica and I have just been talking about that, Mort. You’ll have to wait until Christmas Eve.”

“Just remember that if it’s clothing, I don’t like green. Always had a funny feeling about green clothes, like they were bad luck.”

I sighed, smiled, and said, “Mort, I promise the tie I buy you will not be green.”

“A tie? I’ve got a closet full of ties. I was thinking more along the line of—”

“Come on,” I said, picking up Mort’s Stetson from the table and handing it to him. “If I don’t get downtown, I’ll never get my shopping done.”

I made a silent pledge to myself as I got out of Mort’s car in the middle of town that I would blot out everything having to do with murder for the rest of the afternoon.

Although I’m not especially fond of shopping in general, Christmas shopping is another matter. I take great pleasure in finding just the right gift for those I love, and was not about to allow a self-imposed pall to taint that activity.

“I’d appreciate it, Mrs. F., if you wouldn’t mention what I told you to anybody else,” Mort said, leaning across the seat and speaking to me through the open passenger window.

“Count on it,” I said. “You will let me know if Jake is brought in again.”

“Yes, I will,” he said, resuming his place behind the wheel. I started to walk away, but he stopped me. “If I were you, I’d stay far away from the Walther farm. No telling how Jake will react if he gets wind I’ll be taking him in again.”

I nodded and said, “Thanks for the advice, Mort. Talk with you later.”

Actually, I’d already done some of my Christmas shopping. Seth Hazlitt loves miniature soldiers, particularly those from the Civil and Spanish-American wars. He has elaborate displays of them in his office, and I’d ordered a set from a shop in London whose card I’d taken the last time I was there. They would be arriving by mail any day.

I started at the far end of town, going from store to store, consulting my list of gifts to buy as I went, and thoroughly enjoying the process. The shopkeepers were in excellent spirits, and I found the perfect gifts for a number of people on my list.

Mort Metzger loves board games and had once invented a murder mystery game that he came close to selling to Parker Brothers. But the deal fell through at the last minute over certain changes requested by the company that Mort refused to make. One of our local gift shops had just received a brand-new game, a whodunnit set in Los Angeles. I bought that, as well as a fancy new cribbage board for Mort, making sure that none of the inlaid pieces on the board or the pegs themselves were green.

I would have continued shopping except that my load of gifts had gotten heavy. I decided to call it a day and head for home. I checked my watch. It was almost five. Night had fallen; it had become noticeably colder.

“Call Dimitri for you, Jessica?” the owner of the last shop asked when I mentioned I was going to my house.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” I said.

Dimitri’s cousin, Nick, arrived a few minutes later, helped me load the packages into the back of his vehicle, and drove me home. The timers had turned on my outside lights, one of which cast an appealing glow over the large wreath on my front door.

I thanked Nick, signed the receipt, and got out of the cab.

“I will help you in with the packages,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said. “I didn’t realize I’d bought so much.”

“Because you have so many friends,” he said pleasantly, loading his arms with the bags and boxes and following me to the front door. I opened it for him. He carried the gifts into my living room and placed them on the couch.

“Thanks, Nick,” I said. “That was kind of you.”

“No problem, Mrs. Fletcher.” He is fond of saying “no problem” in response to most comments made to him by customers.

As I escorted him back to the front door, we were both brought up short by a sound emanating from the rear of my house. It sounded as though someone had tripped over something and fallen.