A Little Yuletide Murder (6 page)

I thought for a moment before saying, “My only suggestion would be to go to Sheriff Metzger, tell him the situation, and see what he suggests.”

She slowly shook her head. “Jake won’t talk to the sheriff. But maybe he’d talk to you.”

“Me? Why me? I don’t have any relationship with your husband.”

“Jake read all about how you saved Jed and Alicia Richardson over in London. Read it in the paper and saw it on TV. He was real impressed. Said you were a brave and decent woman.”

I had to stop and think for a moment to sort out what she’d said.

A year or so ago I’d traveled to England and Scotland with a contingent of friends from Cabot Cove. The trip had been arranged by my dear friend, George Sutherland, a chief inspector with Scotland Yard in London, whose family had come from Wick, Scotland. He still owns the family mansion there, used most of the year as a hotel for tourists. He insisted I visit his homestead. When I told him I was making the trip with a number of friends, he said that wasn’t a problem because he would simply close the hotel for the week we were there and accommodate everyone.

We started the trip in London, where I had a few days’ business to attend to before heading north. While in London, Jed Richardson, who owns Jed’s Flying Service, a two-plane airline operating out of Cabot Cove, and his new wife, Alicia, were abducted by a madman and held hostage in the infamous Tower of London. I ended up negotiating their release. I hadn’t planned on doing that, nor did I aspire to the task. It just seemed to evolve into that situation. The London press played it up big, and it eventually found considerable space in American newspapers.

“Mary,” I said, “that was a very unique circumstance. I’m not a negotiator and don’t pretend to be. As a matter of fact, I don’t want to be in that role. I don’t think I would have any influence on your husband.”

Her expression seemed to soften as she said, “I know I’m imposing, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Jessica.”

“Jessica. I’m not the sort of person who imposes on other people. I think you know that. I guess because you’re the sort of woman who’s always ready to help others in trouble, I figured you’d help out in this situation. I guess I was wrong.” She stood.

I, too, stood. “Mary,” I said, “of course I want to help you and Jake. As a matter of fact, if there is the sort of trouble you’re indicating, I would want to do anything in my power to head it off. But I can’t do it unilaterally. I can’t do this alone. It would be taking the law into my own hands, something I am firmly opposed to. If you really think I could be instrumental in convincing Jake to cooperate in the investigation, I’ll be happy to do it, but only in conjunction with Sheriff Metzger and his department. I’m waiting for a call from him now, as a matter of fact. If you agree, I’ll tell him the situation and suggest we all go together to talk to Jake. That’s the only way I can be involved.”

“I’m just afraid, Mrs. Fletcher, that if Jake sees the sheriff and his car, he’ll do something crazy.”

“Maybe I can convince Sheriff Metzger to use a plain car, and to stay out of sight until I’ve had a chance to talk to Jake. Frankly, I don’t think this will work. There is no reason for your husband to trust me, or to listen to my advice.”

“But maybe he will. I know one thing for certain, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“What’s that?”

“He sure won’t listen to me or anybody else I can think of.”

Mary Walther wasn’t gone more than a minute when Mort Metzger returned my call.

“How did it go with Robert Brent?” I asked.

“All right, I suppose, although he’s a strange young fella. Didn’t have much to say except for repeating over and over that Jake Walther killed his father.”

“Did he offer anything tangible to support that claim?”

“No, he did not. Well, maybe he did in a way. He said his father and Jake had a real altercation about a month ago or so. He says Jake came to the farm and confronted his father over something having to do with land and money. The kid says he didn’t know the details of what the argument was about, just that Jake threatened to kill Rory. Said he’d be back to ‘blow his brains out.’ ”

“That’s something tangible, I would say. A direct threat of bodily harm.”

“True, provided you believe what young Robert says. I’m not sure I do.”

“Based upon what?”

“Based upon ... well, gut instinct. You do what I do long enough and you develop a pretty good sense of whether people are tellin’ you the truth or not.”

“I wouldn’t argue with that. Mort, Mary Walther just left my house.”

“She did?”

“Yes. She was very distraught when she arrived. She’s afraid that something really bad is going to happen because of the rumors about Jake having killed Rory. She told me Jake has holed up in his house on the property. He won’t talk to her brother or Mary. Poor thing, it must be so difficult for her being married to Jake. I’ve always admired her determination to become involved in the community while knowing what people in town are saying about him.”

“A good woman, Mary Walther,” Mort said. “Sounds like Jake is actin’ like a damn fool.”

“Sounds that way to me, too. I told her I’d get your advice on what to do.”

“Doesn’t seem to be much question about what to do,” he said. “Because of Robert Brent’s accusation, my next move is to go out there and talk to Jake. But I sure don’t want to walk into a war.”

“No one wants that,” I said. “I assume you intend to call the house before going.”

“Sure, except the only phone is in Mary’s house in the middle. You know that setup out there. She lives in the middle house—more like a shack, it seems to me—Jake lives in the one by the road, and her brother lives up the hill in the third house. Calling out there will just reach Mary. And if Jake won’t talk to Mary or Dennis, doesn’t seem I have much chance to reason with him except in person.”

I asked, “Did Jake have any friends in town, Mort? Anyone he spent time with, trusted, maybe would confide in?”

There was silence while he pondered my question. Finally, he said, “None I can think of, Mrs. F., ’cept for maybe Doc Hazlitt.”

“Seth? I didn’t know Seth was friendly with Jake Walther.”

“He’s not. But Jake had a couple of medical problems over the last few months and went to Seth for treatment. From what I hear, Jake was pretty pleased with the way Seth handled things. Somebody told me—I can’t remember who—that Jake said Seth was probably the only honest doctor in Maine. I don’t think Seth charged him, at least not much.”

“Then maybe Seth would have success talking sense to Jake, to get him to realize that the only sensible course is to cooperate with you, answer your questions, and put to rest any accusations that he killed Rory. Provided, of course, that he didn’t.”

“Maybe you’re right, Mrs. F. I’ll call Seth and run it by him, see if he’ll come out to Jake’s place with me.”

“Good idea,” I said. “If Seth agrees, would you have any objection to my coming along?”

“I don’t see any,” Mort said. “You might be helpful, considering Mary Walther came to you.”

“I’ll be waiting for your call.”

I heard from him five minutes later. “I got hold of Seth just as he was leavin’. Told him the situation. He says he didn’t charge Jake for treating him because he knew he was down on his luck and didn’t have any money to speak of. Jake seemed real appreciative, according to Seth.”

“Did Seth agree to go out to Jake’s house with you?”

“Ayuh.
He suggested we not go in my car. Might set Jake on edge. We’ll go in Seth’s.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “You’ll pick me up?”

“Be there in a half hour.”

 

Seth pulled into my driveway exactly thirty minutes later. By then it had really begun to snow, the flakes big and wet and sticking to the ground. At least the wind had abated, lessening the effect of the cold.

I got in the backseat and we headed for Jake Walther’s farm.

“Seems to me an unusual way for the sheriff to interrogate a witness,” Seth said grumpily, both hands on the wheel, eyes focused straight ahead.

“No rule about how I approach a suspect in a murder,” Mort replied from the front passenger seat. He’d pulled his Stetson down low over his eyes and tucked his chin against his chest. “Seems to me we’re doing it exactly the right way, considering what might happen if I did it by the book. No sense adding to the problems of having a leading citizen murdered here in Cabot Cove by ending up in some stupid standoff. Better to try and get Jake to cooperate. I’d hate to have to go out there, guns drawn, and drag him off. More people might get hurt.”

“I think you’re right,” I said from the backseat. “The impact of Rory’s murder is just really settling in on me. These kinds of things just don’t happen in Cabot Cove, especially at Christmas.”

Seth grimly reminded me of a couple of other murders that had occurred in our idyllic Maine town, although they had happened a number of years ago.

“Now tell me, Morton, how you want me to proceed with this,” Seth asked.

“Depends on how brave you are, Doc.”

Seth glanced over at the sheriff. “What in hell do you mean by that?”

“Well, according to Mrs. F., seeing me will only set Jake off, and we sure wouldn’t want to send her up there to knock on the door. The way I figure it, we’ll park out on the road a little bit away from the house. You’ll go up to the door and tell Jake who you are and why you’re there.”

I leaned forward and placed my hands on Seth’s shoulders. “That could be dangerous,” I said. “If Jake is in as tormented a state of mind as Mary says he is, he’s liable to panic. He might have guns with him.”

“Somehow, no matter how mean-spirited Jake Walther is, I just can’t see him shooting anybody,” said Seth. “I don’t think I’ll have a problem getting him to talk to me. He’s one of those fellas who’s got a gruff exterior, but down deep there lurks a decent person. At least, that’s the way I read him.”

“What kind of medical problems did he have?” I asked.

“Can’t discuss that,” Seth said. “Doctor-patient privilege.”

I didn’t press him, but he volunteered, “Man has wicked arthritis. Neck, shoulders, hands, back. In lots of pain. Maybe that’s why he’s so
jo-jeezly
all the time.”

I silently thought that Seth was probably right, and felt a twinge of compassion for Jake.

As we approached the Walther property, Seth slowed down, eventually stopping fifty yards from a narrow, rutted dirt driveway leading up past the three separate houses.

“Might as well get to it,” Seth said, shutting off the lights and engine.

“I don’t like this,” I said. “I think we should go with you.”

“But if Jake sees me, he might—”

I interrupted Mort. “I don’t think Seth should simply go up there by himself, Mort. If the three of us go up, we’ll have each other to lean on. You and I can stay back and let Seth do all the talking. If he’s successful, and Jake opens the door, then you’ll be right there to take advantage of it.”

Mort chewed his cheek while he thought. He turned to Seth and asked, “What do you think?”

“Jessica is probably right,” Seth said. “Of course, I don’t mind goin’ up there alone. But maybe we should be together. If I get him to cooperate, no sense having to come back down here and bring you up. Besides, if I’m going to stand out in the cold, you might as well, too.”

I didn’t think that was a particularly good reason for us to accompany Seth, but didn’t express it. We got out of the car, slowly walked down the road to where the driveway intercepted it, and looked up at the first house where Jake lived. It wasn’t much of a house, nor were the other two.

“Here we go,” said Seth, leading us up the driveway. We reached a stone path that twisted up to the front of Jake’s house, we took it, but paused at the two small wooden steps leading up to the porch.

Mort whispered, “Jess and me will stand over there on the porch while you talk to him through the door.”

“Ayuh,”
said Seth. He drew a deep breath; his lips were pressed tightly together. I said a silent prayer that this wouldn’t backfire. Bad enough Rory Brent was dead without having someone else fall victim to violence.

We stepped quietly up onto the porch. Mort and I moved to our right, approximately six feet from the door. Seth knocked. There was no response. He knocked again. This time Jake Walther’s raspy voice growled, “Who the hell is it?”

“Doc Hazlitt,” Seth said loudly.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jake asked. We judged he’d moved closer to the door because his voice had grown louder.

“Want to talk to you,” said Seth.

Jake said, “Talk to me? About what?”

“About ... about what happened to Rory Brent.”

Silence.

“Jake, you listen to me,” Seth said. “Folks in town are saying you had a spat with Rory, a pretty serious one, and some of ’em are even saying you might have shot him. Now I know you didn’t shoot him, and the best way to make that point with everybody is for you to sit down with Sheriff Metzger, answer his questions, and put it to rest.”

“Can’t do that,” Jake said.

“Why not?”

“ ’Cause nobody’ll believe me. Nobody ever does in this town. People would just as soon hang me and get it over with.”

“Now, Jake, that’s nonsense. Don’t you trust me? You said you did.”

“As a medicine man? Sure. Best damn doctor I’ve ever known, only I don’t know many. But that’s just you, Doc. Others in town got their own agenda, and it includes getting rid of me.”

Seth looked to where we stood, our eyes open wide. I noticed Mort had unzipped his jacket and had rested his hand loosely on a holstered handgun on his right hip.

Seth said, “You can trust me, Jake, with anything, not just medicine. My word is good. You’d better believe that.”