A Little Yuletide Murder (4 page)

“Where does your cousin live?” Mort asked.

“Salem.”

“Salem’s only about forty-five minutes from here,” Mort said.

“That’s right,” Patricia said. “Forty minutes exactly on the bus. I timed it.”

What time did the bus leave?”

“Seven.”

“So you got down there close to eight,” Mort said. “What bus did you catch back?”

“The one o’clock. Took longer to come back. An accident tied things up in every direction. Dimitri was at the bus station and drove me home.”

“So I saw,” Mort said.

“Any idea who might have done this to Rory?” I asked.

She slowly shook her head.

Mort followed with, “Robert told me I should check into Jake Walther.”

“Jake? Do you think he killed Rory?”

“I don’t know, Patricia, but that’s what Bob said.”

Patricia thought for a moment before saying, “Rory and Jake never did get along. But then again, I don’t know of anyone in the area who gets along with Jake.”

“Yes, he is a disagreeable sort,” I offered. “Did Rory and Jake have a feud going, some sort of conflict that perhaps became more intense lately?”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” she said.

She was interrupted by the shrill sound of the teakettle’s whistle. “Excuse me,” she said, going to the kitchen.

Mort said to me, “I think it’s time I had a talk with the son, don’t you, Mrs. F.?”

“I suppose so,” I said. “But frankly, I’d just as soon not be with you during that conversation. Any chance of running me back into town before you question him ... have your chat?”

“I suppose so, although I want to make sure he doesn’t leave here. Come to think of it, maybe he’d be willin’ to come with me down to headquarters. Question him in a little more formal surroundings. Might get more done.”

“Can you do that without charging him?”

“Ayuh,
provided he comes willingly. I’m not accusing him of anything, just looking for information. If he wants a lawyer, he can have one.”

“Whatever you say, Mort,” I said as Patricia returned, carrying a tray with tea, milk, and sugar, and a small plate of cookies.

Mort stood. I did, too. “Patricia, I don’t mean to be rude,” Mort said, “but Mrs. Fletcher and I have to get back to town. Won’t have time for your tea. I thought I might ask Robert to come with us. I have to start getting some information to help in the investigation, and he might be able to offer something.”

“Take him to police headquarters?” she asked.

“No, ma’am, not taking him there. Just asking him if he’d be willing. I’ll be wanting to return and talk to you again, too. My deputy, Tom Coleman, is back in the barn, and he’ll be staying until he’s relieved. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go anywhere until I have a chance to come back.”

“I won’t be going anywhere except—”

“Except what?” I asked.

“Except to make funeral arrangements, I suppose. I’ll have to do that, won’t I?”

“Eventually,” Mort answered. “But Doc Treyz will be doing an autopsy on Rory. That’s the law.”

“Of course. Thank you for coming,” she said. “I have a few phone calls to make. Family to be told. You understand?”

“Of course we do,” I said. I crossed to where she stood and put my arms around her frail body. She was as rigid as an oak, and I quickly backed away.

“Would you be good enough to ask Robert to come down?” Mort said.

“Yes. I’ll go up to his room right now. He spends a lot of time there, you know, reading. He likes to read. He’s very intelligent.”

Judging from Robert Brent’s loud, angry voice, which was clearly heard in the living room, he wasn’t keen on coming downstairs. But Patricia prevailed. Five minutes later, he followed her into the living room. He wore jeans, ankle-high military-style boots, a blue sweatshirt with gold figures on it that looked like some sort of military ranger group’s, and a blue baseball cap worn backward.

“Robert, you know Sheriff Metzger and Mrs. Fletcher,” Patricia said.

His response was to glare at us.

Mort said, “Thought you wouldn’t mind coming down with me to town, Robert. You know, just to have a little chat about what happened to your dad.”

Robert looked at his mother, who smiled demurely and nodded.

“Won’t take very long,” Mort added. “Of course, if you’d rather not, we can talk here.”

“About Jake Walther?” Robert asked.

Mort looked at me before saying, “Sure. We can talk about Jake. Talk about anything you’d like.”

“I’m not being arrested or anything, am I?” Robert asked. “I didn’t do anything. Jake shot my father.”

Mort’s chuckle was forced. “Of course you’re not being arrested for anything, Bob. Like I said, you could help me understand a little bit more about what happened. I’d be right interested in hearing about Jake Walther and why you think he might have shot your father.”

“Not
might
have shot my father,” Robert said angrily. “He did it.”

“You saw him do it?” I asked, surprised at how adamant he was.

Robert ignored my question and said to Mort, “I don’t mind going with you. Are we driving in your car?”

Mort nodded. “Unless you’d rather come in your own.”

Robert shook his head. “I’ll come with you.” He looked at me. “Are you coming, too?”

“Yes,” I said. “Sheriff Metzger drove me out here and will bring me home. But I won’t be with you when you and the sheriff have your talk.”

That seemed to satisfy him.

While the conversation was taking place, I observed Patricia Brent. Living in a semirural part of the country had put me in contact with many farmers, men and women who live off the soil and were not unduly touched by the world’s modem thinking. They tend to be a stoic lot. I don’t mean that in a disparaging way. It’s just that it has been my experience that such people are not glib, much to their credit. There is too much glibness in the world as far as I’m concerned.

But at a time like this, when a loved one has been found murdered, you would expect even the most dour of individuals to display some emotion, some sign of deep pain and hurt. Not so with Patricia. She was as calm and placid as though we were there picking up her son to take him to a basketball game. I had to remind myself to not be judgmental. Each of us handles grief in his or her own way. When my husband, Frank, died years ago, I fought to retain my composure and to deal with the death of this man I loved very much in a rational and controlled manner. Did people look at me the way I was looking at Patricia at this moment, wondering why I was not displaying the emotion
they
expected of me? Of course, there were countless moments alone when I broke down and allowed my grief to pour out in a torrent of tears. Perhaps that’s what would happen the moment we left. Patricia Brent would go to her room, close the door, and cry her heart out.

“Ready?” Mort asked Robert.

“I have to get my coat,” he said.

“Good idea,” Mort said. “Nasty day out there, and gettin’ worse.”

Robert returned from the vestibule, wearing a black-and-red wool mackinaw.

“You take care, Mrs. Brent,” Mort said, touching Patricia on the shoulder. “Just give yell if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“And that goes for me, too, Patricia,” I said. “Please don’t hesitate to call if I can help you with funeral arrangements, or anything else.”

“You’re both very kind,” she said.

We went to the front door, opened it, and stepped out onto the porch. As Patricia was about to close the door behind us, she said wistfully, “Rory is dead. Hard to believe. I expect to see him walking in here any minute.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and managed a small smile. I was glad to see some sign that she’d recognized the grim reality of the situation.

Mort opened the front passenger door of his car for me, but I sensed that Robert was disappointed at being relegated to the rear.

“Perhaps you’d like to ride up front,” I said.

My suggestion brought a hint of pleasure to his face.

Mort started to protest, but I said, “No, I’ll be very comfortable in the back.”

I was glad I made the decision to give up my front seat to Bob Brent. As we proceeded toward town, he became almost animated, questioning Mort about the array of electronic communications gear wedged between the two front seats. Mort readily answered all the questions, and even demonstrated the use of the radio by calling headquarters. “This is Metzger,” he said into the handheld phone. “On my way back in with Robert Brent. Should be there fifteen, twenty minutes. Over.”

A voice came through the speaker. “Roger. I read.”

“Over and out,” Mort said. We both sensed that Robert would have liked to use the mobile phone, too, but Mort was not about to go that far.

As we pulled into the main part of Cabot Cove, Mort turned and asked, “Straight home, Mrs. F., or drop you some other place?”

“Home, if you don’t mind.”

As we approached the street on which I live, I noticed two cars parked in front of my house.

“Looks like you’ve got company,” Mort said.

“Appears that way.”

He turned into my driveway. I got out and came around to where Mort sat behind the wheel. He lowered his window. “Thanks for the ride,” I said. I looked across to where Robert sat and said, “I’m very sorry about your father, Robert. Please tell your mother again to call if I can be of help.”

His response was a glum nod and to turn away from me.

Strange young man, I thought as I approached my front door. To my surprise, it opened, and I was greeted by Seth Hazlitt. Seth and I have keys to each other’s houses and don’t hesitate to make ourselves at home in either one.

“Hello,” I said. “I thought you had a waiting room full of patients this afternoon.”

“Ayuh,
I did, but a couple of ’em canceled last minute.”

As I stepped inside, I saw Cynthia Curtis, our head librarian and member of the town board, standing in the archway leading to my living room. “Hello, Cynthia. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Seth insisted I come,” she said. “I just put water up for tea. Hope that’s all right.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said, hanging my coat up on a row of pegs and leading them into the living room. Seth had made a fire. I stood before it and rubbed my cold hands. “Feels wonderful,” I said. I turned and asked, “What’s up?”

Seth did the talking.

“Jessica, Cynthia came to me with a problem having to do with Rory Brent’s murder.”

I looked at Cynthia, a vivacious, energetic mover-and-shaker in the Cabot Cove community. “A problem concerning you, Cynthia?” I asked.

She looked to Seth to continue, which he did.

“It seems that everybody in town has already convicted Jake Walther of killin’ Rory.”

“That’s terrible,” I said. “How could people come to that conclusion so quickly?”

Now Cynthia spoke. “I suppose it’s because of Jake’s reputation, Jess. You know how it is. Doctors with a pleasant bedside manner get sued less than the arrogant ones.”

We both looked at Seth. He smiled and said, “I certainly agree with that. Never been sued in my professional life, and proud of it.”

“Jake has made so many enemies over the years,” Cynthia said. “You know, he has that mean streak in him that seems to come out at the worse possible moments. I don’t suppose there’s anyone who’s lived here for any length of time who hasn’t been crossed by him. At any rate, all everyone is talking about is that Jake murdered Rory Brent.”

I sat in a chair in front of the fireplace and looked into flames that were building. I understood her concern. Once a rumor gets legs, as they say, it’s like the proverbial snowball rolling down hill. It suddenly struck me that Cynthia might be worried that townspeople would take matters into their own hands. I asked her if that was on her mind.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so, Jess. People here aren’t like that.”

“You never know,” Seth said sternly.

“Certainly not at this time of year,” I said. “It’s almost Christmas. Peace on earth. Goodwill toward men.”

“And women,” Cynthia added.

“And women,” I said.

“You might be forgetting one thing,” said Seth.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It wasn’t just Rory Brent, a farmer, who’s been killed. It was Santa Claus.”

Initially, his comment struck me as funny. But it occurred to me just as quickly that there was a certain metaphorical truth to what he’d said. Rory Brent had become synonymous with Santa Claus in Cabot Cove. He was an icon, a man loved throughout the year, but revered once he donned his red Santa costume with its furry white trim, floppy red-and-white hat, and shiny black boots.

I stood and paced the room. “If what you say is true—and I agree there could be a problem having people running around already convicting Jake Walther—then what we have to do is come up with a quick plan to put it to rest. Any suggestions?”

“Maybe you should tell us what happened out at Rory’s farm when you and Mort went out there,” Seth said.

I thought for a moment, then said, “Well, there isn’t much to say. The county police were there. It seems there’s a little jurisdictional dispute between Mort and them. Patricia arrived while we were there. She was down visiting a cousin in Salem. She hadn’t known about Rory’s death. It wasn’t pleasant being the ones to break the news. I came back in town with Mort and Robert Brent.”

“You did?” said Cynthia.

“Yes. Mort wanted to interview him and thought headquarters was the best place to do it. He came readily enough.”

“A bad seed, that boy,” said Seth.

“Not terribly friendly, I agree, but I don’t want to jump to conclusions about him the way you say others are ready to hang Jake Walther. Bob Brent has been telling Mort that he’s convinced Jake killed his father. Not that that means anything. Mort asked him whether he had seen Jake do it, and Bob said he hadn’t. He and Mort are at police headquarters as we speak.”