A Little Yuletide Murder (21 page)

“What was that?” I said.

Nick didn’t answer. Instead, he returned to the living room and approached the door to my study. Another sound was heard, this time a door opening.

Nick entered the study, with me bringing up the rear. I’d just reached the open doorway when I saw someone swing an object at Nick. It caught him on the side of his head and sent him sprawling to the floor.

“Who are you?” I shouted.

With that, the figure lurched across the room and ran through open French doors leading to a small patio at the back of the house. I didn’t see him clearly; it was too dark, too gloomy, for that. None of the lights in the room had been on. But as he ran out to the patio, one of the outside lights caught his face and torso for a fleeting second.

It was Robert Brent!

Or was it?

I fought the urge to take pursuit. Instead, I dropped to my knees next to Nick, who now sat up and massaged the back of his neck and side of his face, groaning as he did.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“I think so,” he said weakly.

“My God, why would such a thing happen,” I asked myself aloud as I stood, went to the wall, and flipped on the overhead lights. Nick had been struck with a foot-tall metal cup, the largest of a set of four I’d purchased in Turkey many years ago. Fortunately, the set was not made of heavy metal, and the damage to Nick was minimal. He seemed more shocked than physically injured.

I helped him to his feet. He immediately went to the open French doors and peered out beyond the lighted patio into the darkness. His assailant was gone, presumably having jumped over hedges lining the perimeter of that end of the property.

“Close the doors,” I said. “He’s gone.”

Nick secured the doors, turned, and faced me. “Who would do such a thing?” he said. “In your own house.”

“I don’t know.”

Although I thought the person I’d seen was Robert Brent, I couldn’t be certain of it. It had all happened so fast. It looked like him, but if I were asked to attend a police lineup, I knew I would never be able to say beyond a doubt that he was the one who’d been in my house moments ago.

“You must call the police,” Nick said.

“Yes, you’re right. Please, sit down. Would you like some tea, coffee? A drink? Brandy?”

He shook his head. “No, Mrs. Fletcher, I am quite all right. Please, call the sheriff.”

Mort Metzger and a deputy were at my house within minutes. Mort ascertained that the intruder had entered through a window in a small bathroom just off my study. Obviously, using the French doors to escape was a lot quicker and easier than retracing his steps through the window.

“You didn’t get a look at him, Mrs. F.?” Mort asked.

“Well, I did, but only for a second. Not long enough to
really
know who it was.”

Mort fixed me with a skeptical stare. “Sounds like you’re fudging a bit. Sounds like you did see who it was, but don’t want to say because you can’t be a hundred percent sure.”

“It looked to me like ... I hate to say this, because you’re right. I can’t be sure. It looked to me like Robert Brent.”

“Rory and Patricia’s boy?”

“Yes. Again, Mort, it happened so quickly that—”

“Saw his face?”

“Yes. Well, not so much his face. It was his hat and jacket.”

“Hat and jacket?”

“He wore a blue baseball cap backward, and a black-and-red wool mackinaw.”

“Did he now? Seems to me Robert Brent wore that the day he came into town with us.”

“Exactly.”

Mort scribbled something on a pad he carried, looked at me, and said, “I think I’ll head out to the Brent farm and have a talk with young Mr. Brent.”

“I suppose that’s what you have to do.”

“Have you checked for anything being stolen?” he asked.

“No. I haven’t even thought about that. But as you can see, whoever it was was looking for something in my desk.” Drawers had been opened, and papers tossed on the floor.

“Well, Mrs. F., I suggest you do a quick inventory, see if anything’s missing. You can let me know about that later. Right now, I’d like to hightail it out to the Brent farm. Want Tom to stay with you?” He indicated his deputy.

I shook my head. “No, I’m fine, just fine.”

“You okay, young fella?” Mort asked Nick.

“Yes, sir, I am all right. I was glad I was with Mrs. Fletcher and could scare him away.”

“Probably was a good thing you weren’t alone, Mrs. F. Well, make sure you lock the doors behind me.”

They all departed, leaving me alone in the house. I felt an intense chill, which had nothing to do with air temperature. More a reaction to the reality that someone had violated me and my home.

As I walked around the house, looking for signs that something had been taken, I kept hearing noises. I knew they were in my mind, irrational responses to what had just happened, but I couldn’t help it.

I settled down and made myself a cup of tea before tackling the task of picking up the papers that had been strewn about my study, and checking to see whether any documents were missing. It seemed to me nothing was gone, although it was hard to make that judgment.

I kept seeing the face I’d seen in the light of the patio. It
was
Robert Brent—or maybe it wasn’t. The only thing I was sure of was that the intruder wore a blue baseball cap backward on his head and a black-and-red wool mackinaw. Hardly enough to accuse him of having been the one to break into my home. From what I’d been able to observe, wearing a baseball cap backward had become almost a uniform for teenagers. That the cap was blue wasn’t helpful. Most baseball caps are blue, aren’t they? A red-and-black mackinaw? Hardly a unique item of clothing in Maine in winter.

If only there had been a second more for me to observe him. The last thing I wanted was to falsely accuse someone.

Seth called a half hour later. He’d heard from Mort about what had happened and wanted to check on me.

“I’m fine,” I said. “When did Mort tell you? Had he already gone out to the Brent farm?”

“I don’t know, Jessica,” Seth replied. “He called me from his car, said I should ring you up to make sure everything was all right. That’s what I’m doin’.”

“And I appreciate it, Seth.”

“How about some dinner?”

“I don’t know. I’m kind of beat from shopping today.”

“And all shook up by what just happened to you.”

“That, too. I’d love dinner with you.”

“Fine. Pick you up in forty-five minutes. We’ll go to Simone’s. That all right with you? I’ve had a yearning all afternoon for their special veal chop.”

“Fine with me,” I said. “I’ll be ready when you arrive.”

Forty-five minutes later, I had my hat and coat on and was ready for Seth’s arrival. But as I stood in the foyer, I remembered I’d left my house keys on my desk in the study. I went there and surveyed the desk. They weren’t there. I circled the desk to see whether I’d knocked them off. I had; they were resting on the carpet just enough under the desk to have escaped my initial attention.

When I bent down to pick them up I saw the sheet of paper jutting out from behind my wicker wastebasket. Assuming it was something that had been removed from my desk by the intruder, or was a piece of paper I’d tossed at the basket and missed, I picked it up and was about to wad it into a ball for disposition when I realized it was nothing I’d seen before.

I stood up straight and examined it in the light. It was a note made from cut-out letters from magazines and newspapers, the sort you see in kidnap ransom notes in the movies. The letters were crudely pasted on the paper, forming a jumble of letters, large and small.

But what they spelled out was unmistakable:

Seth and I had just finished a shrimp appetizer and were considering what to have as a main course when Phillipo Simone, the gregarious owner of the restaurant, came to the table.

“You have a telephone call, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.

“Really? Who knew I was coming here?”

“Must be Mort,” Seth said. “I left a message for him that we’d be here this evening.”

I followed Phillipo to the bar, where he handed me the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Sorry to interrupt your dinner, Mrs. F.,” said our sheriff, “but thought you’d want to know that it was Robert Brent who broke into your house.”

“It was? Are you certain?”

“Certain as I am that Christmas is coming,” he said. “The boy admitted it the minute I confronted him.”

Mort didn’t know about the note I’d found in my study just before leaving for dinner. I’d shoved it into my handbag and taken it with me, and had shown it to Seth shortly after arriving at Simone’s.

“Have you arrested him?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am. He’s cooling his heels in cell number three as we speak.”

“Mort, there’s something else you should know.”

“Oh?”

“Whoever broke into my house—Robert Brent, you say—left a note for me.”

“A note? What kind of note?”

“The words were spelled out with letters cut from magazines and newspapers. It said, ‘Butt out if you know what’s good for you.’ ”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t you give it to me when I was at your house?”

“Because I didn’t know it was there. I discovered it on the floor as I was leaving for dinner with Seth. I have it with me.”

“I’ll be right over,” Mort said.

I returned to the table and recounted my conversation for Seth.

He thought in silence, then asked, “What do you make of all this, Jessica?”

I shrugged. “Obviously, Robert Brent left the note in order to intimidate me. But I can’t be certain about his motivation. Does he think I’ve been poking my nose into his father’s murder? If so—and even if I was—why would it concern him, unless—”

Seth finished my sentence. “Unless he killed his father and views you as a threat to him by proving it.”

Now, it was my turn to be silent. Somehow, the idea that a son would shoot a father in cold blood was anathema to me. Granted, Robert Brent was not your average young person, at least in terms of social skills and outlook on life. Children have killed their parents in the past, and it was naive of me to rule that out based solely upon my refusal to accept the possibility. Still, I wasn’t at all convinced that simple tension between a father and son would lead to such a dreadful act.

My thoughts gravitated to Jill Walther and her having sought counseling when she became pregnant in her senior year. Rory Brent, Robert’s father, had made that five-thousand-dollar contribution shortly after Jill visited Thomas Skaggs at his agency, Here-to-Help. Jill Walther and Robert Brent had been classmates. When I raised his name during my coffee with her at The Swan, she’d visibly reacted, was angry that I’d even mentioned him.

The problem with that scenario was that I couldn’t conceive of Jill Walther and Robert Brent having had an intimate relationship. They were polar opposites—she the quiet, achieving young woman; he the brooding, marginal student with a sour view of the world.

But I’d learned long ago to never question why any two people get together. Many of my friends over the years have ended up in relationships that didn’t make sense to me, or anyone else viewing it from the outside. Yet there was obviously an unnamed, mysterious attraction between them that others were not expected to fathom.

Seth said nothing.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“I’m thinking that Robert might have left that note on somebody else’s behalf.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

Phillipo Simone came to our table and asked what we wished to order as an entree.

“Any specials tonight?” Seth asked.

“Of course,” Simone said, grinning. “There is always a special dish for our favorite doctor and writer.” He described a veal dish in exquisite detail, and we both ordered it, along with a salad.

“Wine?” Simone asked.

“Not for me, thank you,” I said. Seth ordered a glass of Chianti; I opted for a glass of water. I considered a bottle of mineral water, but had decided a long time ago that paying premium prices for water in a bottle didn’t make any sense, especially since Cabot Cove’s natural water is excellent.

We changed subjects and chatted about things other than the episode at my home that evening. Naturally, the Christmas festival came up, and we discussed in greater detail how we would approach our reading of Christmas stories to the children. We were well into that topic when Mort Metzger entered the restaurant, removed his Stetson, greeted Phillipo Simone, and came to our table, followed by Simone carrying an extra chair.

Once Mort was seated, Seth asked him about the circumstances leading to Robert Brent’s confession.

“I drove out to the Brent farm,” Mort said. “I beat the kid there by a half hour. I’d no sooner gotten out of my car and was walking up to the house when he comes flying in like a bat out of hell in a pick-up truck. He didn’t see me at first, and got out of the truck. When he spotted me, he panicked and jumped back in the truck to make a getaway. I stopped him and asked where he’d been. He had guilt written all over his face, that’s for certain. I asked him if he’d been at your house, Mrs. F., and he blurted out that he had. He said he went inside to get warm.” Mort laughed, “Some excuse, huh? I told him I was putting him under arrest for breaking and entering, and maybe a few more things. He looked at me with that blank expression of his and said, ‘Okay.’ ”