A Little Yuletide Murder (23 page)

I had a choice of asking Dimitri to wait for me, or to dismiss him and call him later. “I will wait for you,” Dimitri said.

I was about to tell him not to bother, but the thought of having him outside was comforting.

“I appreciate that,” I said. “Just charge me for whatever time you have to wait.”

“That is not a concern, Mrs. Fletcher. I will do whatever is best for you.”

I slid forward on the backseat and placed my hand on his shoulder. “Thank you,” I said. “You’re a good man.”

I had noticed as we came up the road that there was a light on in the first cabin, the one occupied by Jake Walther, and that smoke drifted from the chimney. Lights were also on in the middle cabin. I looked beyond it to where Dennis lived. That cabin was dark.

I got out and shivered at the sudden change in temperature between the warmth of Dimitri’s car and the cold outside air.

I went up the steps, stepped onto the porch, and knocked. Mary Walther opened the door.

“Good evening, Mary,” I said. “I know this is late to be visiting but—”

Her tone was as stern as her face. “I know why you’re here, Mrs. Fletcher. Because of my silly daughter.”

“Silly? She called and asked me to come because she was frightened. That’s why I’m here.”

Mary Walther’s large body filled the open doorway. She pressed her lips tightly together, narrowed her eyes, and said, “As long as you’re here, you might as well come in.”

She stepped back, allowing me to enter the living room, and closed the door behind us. It was toasty warm in the house, and the smell of freshly baked cookies wafted from the kitchen.

“A nasty night, although they say the snow will stop by morning,” I said, making conversation.

“She shouldn’t have called you,” Mary said.

“Jill? I don’t know whether she should have or not, but I didn’t see any alternative but to respond. She sounded upset. Is she here?”

“Upstairs.”

“May I see her? Will you go tell her I’m here?”

“She doesn’t have to!”

We both turned at the sound of Jill’s voice, who stood on the narrow staircase leading to the second floor, arms folded across her chest, defiance painted on her face.

Mary said sweetly, “Why don’t you get some cookies and tea for Mrs. Fletcher, Jill.”

“No need for that,” I said.

“As long as you’re here, we might as well be good hostesses.” Her voice firmer now. “Get cookies and tea for Mrs. Fletcher.”

I watched as Jill made up her mind what to do. Then she slowly descended the stairs and disappeared into the kitchen.

“You’re right,” Mary said. “She’s very upset. I suppose she’s entitled to be, but that’s why I insisted she leave here and go back to school. There’s nothing but negative feelings because of what Jake did.”

“Because of what Jake did? Are you saying he murdered Rory Brent?”

“I can’t defend him any longer, Mrs. Fletcher. Lord knows, I want to. He’s my husband, and I don’t want to see him go to jail. What will we do here without him? We’ll lose the farm. But it seems certain now that Jake did kill Rory. I can’t say that I blame him. Rory Brent, with all his so-called niceness, was not as nice as people thought.”

“I’m sorry to hear that from you, Mary. May I take off my coat?”

“If you’re intending to stay.”

“I don’t mean to intrude, and I’m not here to see you. I promised Jill I’d come and talk to her. I intend to do that.”

“Suit yourself, although you won’t get much sense out of her. She’s just a wreck, schoolgirl sort of emotions. Crying all the time, wailing about what her life is going to be like because of what Jake did. I told her to get a grip on herself. Lord knows I’ve shed my tears, but I’ve done it in private. What we have to do now is face reality. My husband murdered another man, and they have the proof of that. He’ll have to face the consequences, and so will we, but we’ll do it with dignity.”

I admired her staunch stand. She undoubtedly had had to exhibit this sort of inner strength throughout her adult life as Jake Walther’s wife. Not only was he an unpleasant man, his efforts at farming had not resulted in much financial gain. Many woman I know would have bolted, run from such a situation. But Mary had stayed, and obviously intended to stand tall no matter what fate befell her and her daughter.

Jill reappeared carrying a plate with Christmas cookies in one hand, and a mug of steaming tea in the other. I took off my coat, placed it on a chair, and sat at a small table. Jill placed the plate and mug in front of me.

“The cookies look good,” I said, thinking it must be especially hard to do anything in the Christmas spirit under the circumstances.

“Life must go on,” Mary said. “Mrs. Fletcher, I—”

“Please, Mary, call me Jessica. I’m here as a friend.”

“You keep reminding me to call you by your first name, but I find it difficult. You’re a woman of substance and of the world. Famous and rich. I was brought up to be respectful of my superiors.”

“I am not superior to anyone or anything.”

I turned to Jill. “Want to sit down and tell me why you asked me to come here tonight? I’m sure whatever is causing you such concern can be worked out, and I promise I’ll help any way I can.”

Jill looked to her mother as though to gain permission to speak.

“Go ahead, Jill, tell her whatever it is you want,” said her mother. “Get if off your chest. Maybe once you do you’ll stop acting so silly.”

Jill and I looked at each other.

I said, “I’m waiting, Jill.”

She averted her eyes and took a few breaths as though pumping herself up for what she was about to say. Finally, she said flatly, in a statement that sounded as though she’d rehearsed it, “My father did not kill Mr. Brent.”

I looked at Mary, who said, “See? Denial. Just denial all the time.” She said to Jill, “You have to stop this, Jill. You have to grow up and face facts. Neither of us wants to admit that Daddy killed Rory Brent. I’ve been denying it to myself ever since it happened, and there’s a side of me that keeps saying he didn’t do it. But he did, Jill, and that’s the cruel truth.”

I asked Jill, “Why do you say your father didn’t do it? I mean, I understand that you want it that way, but do you have a solid reason, some evidence that would prove his innocence?”

She looked straight at me and said, “Ask Dennis.”

Mary guffawed. “Here you go again. Dennis told the truth when he said he was not with Daddy the morning of the murder. Dennis was with me. We were attending to the chickens and trying to fix that damn wall that keeps falling down on the coop.”

“That’s not true,” Jill blurted, standing straight and clenching her fists, as though about to do physical combat. “Dennis would say anything that you tell him to, and you know it.”

Mary extended her arms at me and said, “See? I get no help from her. She’s calling me and Dennis liars. Some daughter. She’s out of her mind. The best thing for her is to be away from here and back at school.”

What Jill had said a few moments ago about Dennis doing whatever Mary told him to do interested me. Until then, it had been assumed that any possible influences on Dennis’s story had come from either Jake—who allegedly threatened him with physical harm if he didn’t tell Sheriff Metzger that they’d been together the morning of the murder—or from the sheriff himself, suggesting to Dennis that he might want to change his story. It wasn’t that Mort would have done anything like that deliberately. But if Dennis was as suggestible and malleable as people said, it was possible that Mort had inadvertently led him into a different version of events.

Was Jill right? Had Mary exerted control over Dennis, helping him shape his recounting of events that morning to suit herself? Why would she do that? What would she have to gain from seeing to it that Dennis testified in a certain way?

I asked Mary, “Do you have any doubt in your mind that Dennis is reporting what actually happened that morning, Mary?”

A dark, severe expression crossed her broad face. “Are you suggesting, too, that I’m lying?”

I laughed to soften the moment. “Of course not. But Dennis has a reputation for being easily influenced. That’s all I meant.”

“People think a lot of bad things about Dennis because he’s slow. But I assure you, Jessica ... Mrs. Fletcher ... that he’s not a liar. He’s a good and decent man who works hard and keeps to himself. That’s the way we were brought up as brother and sister.”

Not wanting to further anger her, I turned my attention to Jill, who’d regained her seat on the bottom step of the staircase. I wasn’t sure what the reaction would be if I raised the question of her visit to Here-to-Help to obtain counseling, including the option of abortion. I certainly would have preferred to ask her about that in a private setting, just between the two of us. But I had the sinking feeling that the only opportunity I was going to have to speak to her was here and now, in this small, modest home in which she’d grown up, and in the presence of her mother who, I now realized, was more domineering than I imagined.

I decided to broach the subject obliquely.

“Jill, when you and I had coffee the day of Mr. Brent’s funeral, I mentioned his son, Robert. You said you knew him because you were classmates.”

I searched her face for a visible reaction and found it. It was a combination of surprise, fear, and anger.

“So?” she said.

“Do you know that Robert broke into my home earlier this evening?”

Her stutter-step response said clearly to me that she was aware of it.

“No. I mean ... broke in? ... No ... why would I ... ?”

I continued. “Robert has been arrested and is in jail now. He left me a note, Jill, warning me to, as he put it, ‘butt out.’ ”

Nervous glances were exchanged between mother and daughter.

“Have you seen him tonight?”

“Seen who?”

“Robert Brent.”

“No. I mean, why would I see him?”

Mary, who’d been sitting in a narrow ladder-back chair, now stood, placed her hands on her sizable hips, and glared at me from her elevated position. “Maybe it’s time you left,” she said.

I sighed, shrugged, and said, “I will leave, of course, if you want me to. But I have a feeling, Mary, there’s something more going on here having to do with Rory Brent’s murder than you’re willing to admit.”

I didn’t give her a chance to respond. I looked at Jill. “Jill, I know about what happened in your senior year. I know you went to seek counseling in Salem with the Here-to-Help organization. Mr. Skaggs? Remember him?”

I braced for a response. It came from Mary Walther.

“You obviously have been doing a lot of snooping into this family’s business,” she said.

“I prefer not to call it snooping, Mary. I have become involved in the investigation of Rory’s murder due to circumstances that I didn’t create. But now that I am, I think I owe it to myself—no, let me amend that—I think I owe it to this town to help get to the bottom of what happened so that it can be put to rest, hopefully before the Christmas festival and everything good and decent it represents.”

Jill started to say something, but caught the words before they came out.

“You have no right doing this,” Mary said.

“I’m not doing anything, Mary, except trying to get some answers. Which, I might add, could help your husband. I don’t believe he murdered Rory Brent.”

“You don’t?” Mary said. “What makes you such an expert in murder? You write books, that’s all. The evidence is against him, as sad as that might be. Please leave.”

I stood and went to where Jill continued to sit. I placed my hands on her shoulders, brought my face close to her, and said softly, “Sometimes, Jill, keeping painful secrets weighs too heavy on us. What happened in high school was a mistake, a tragic one, of course, but a mistake. You don’t have to live the rest of your life suffering for it.”

I straightened and turned. Mary held out my coat for me to slip into. I did, retrieved my hat and scarf from where I’d dropped them on a table, and went to the door.

“I wish you didn’t view me this way,” I said. “Believe it or not, Mary, all I want to do is help you and your family.”

“I think the best way to help my family is to leave us alone,” she said.

“Fair enough.”

As I reached for the doorknob, I was startled by the sound of heavy footsteps on the porch outside. My hand froze in mid-motion. There was no need for me to open the door because Jake Walther did. He pushed it open with such force that it almost knocked me over. He stepped inside and slammed the door behind him.

He had a crazed look in his eyes.

The smell of alcohol on his breath was overwhelming.

And the sight of the shotgun he carried was sobering.

To say Jake’s sudden arrival shocked me would be an understatement of classic proportions. Although he didn’t physically touch me, his mere presence caused me to back up as though I’d been pushed.

“Cozy little group you’ve got here, Mary,” he said, his words slurred.

“Go back to your house,” Mary said with authority.

Jake glared at me. “You just can’t keep your nose out of our business, can you?”

“I came to visit your daughter,” I said, forcing calm into my voice. “I was just leaving.”

“Maybe you ought to stay a spell,” he said. There was a distinct threat in his voice.

“No,” I said. “I have someone waiting for me outside.”

He grinned and said, “He won’t be missing you.”

“What do you mean? It’s Dimitri. He drove me here. He’s waiting for me to—”

“Dimitri ain’t waiting for nobody,” Jake said. “I took care of that.”

“You haven’t hurt him, have you?” I said.

“Just made sure he wouldn’t be worryin’ about when you come out.”

“Excuse me,” I said, moving toward the door. “I’ll see for myself.”