Martinis and Mayhem (26 page)

“That’s good to hear,” Mort said. “I suppose Miss Kimberly Steffer is one happy lady these days.”

“That’s for certain. We had dinner with her and her stepdaughter, Ellie, just last night. They’re both happy, and grateful I might add, for Jessica’s interest and determination to clear Kimberly. As you can imagine, Jessica Fletcher is a very popular lady with Kimberly and Ellie Steffer.”

Eventually, jet lag overtook me, and my yawns became more frequent. Seth and Mort picked up on my fatigue and prepared to leave. I accompanied George upstairs where he placed his suitcase in one of two spare bedrooms. I preceded him downstairs.

“So, where are you off to next, Jess?” Seth asked.

“Scotland,” George answered as he came down the stairs. “Jessica will be spending the Christmas holidays with me at my home in Wick, Scotland. Give her a chance to see my hometown and meet some of my family and friends. We’ll probably sneak some time in London for a show or two.”

Mort and Seth said good night, but not before George arranged to visit Mort’s police headquarters in the morning. When they were gone, George suggested a nightcap. Brandy snifters in hand, we clinked rims: “To a successful resolution of the Kimberly Steffer case,” he said.

“Definitely worth raising our glasses to,” I said.

“I have the feeling I shouldn’t have announced your plans to visit Scotland over the holidays.”

“Oh, they’ll get over it. They like us all to be together at Christmas.”

“I can understand that.”

“I think they’re more upset that you’re staying in my house while you’re here in Cabot Cove.”

“Yes. I sensed that. Perhaps it would be better if I stayed in a hotel. I’m sure you have some very nice ones.”

“Oh, yes, we certainly do. And I don’t want to hear another word about that. This is where you shall stay, Inspector Sutherland. I’ve never had a—a Scotchman as a houseguest before.”

We both laughed.

“Go to bed and have a fair night’s sleep, Jessica,” he said. “To paraphrase Robbie Bums,
‘My Jessica’s asleep by thy murmuring stream; Flow gently sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.’ ”

For a dish of
baked beans and murder
don’t miss the
Murder, She Wrote
mystery
A DEADLY JUDGMENT
by Jessica Fletcher and Donald Bain
Available,from Signet

Cafe Pamplona’s outdoor terrace had become crowded since I’d taken a table and ordered a shrimp cocktail and glass of sparkling water. I’d spent the late afternoon in Cambridge’s Harvard Square, enjoying its vibrant mix of students, professorial types, foreigners, panhandlers, and protestors. Now, it was time to make a tough decision. Should I attempt to contact Professor Montrose to warn him of the potential danger he might be facing? If so, I would again be disobeying the court’s order forbidding members of either the defense or prosecution from making contact with jurors in the Billy Brannigan murder trial.

But if I didn’t—and my suspicions were correct—Professor Montrose, Juror Number Four, might end up dead like the other two, the most recent “accident” being Juror Number Seven.

 

Making contact with the family of Juror Number Seven had been, I knew, not only a serious breach of legal ethics, it undoubtedly broke the law. Many laws. Had my foray into South Boston become known to the stem Judge Wilson, pleading ignorance of the law wouldn’t get me very far, probably no further than a jail cell. Charge? Contempt of court. “Lock her up and throw away the key.”

As part of Malcolm McLoon’s team defending accused murderer Billy Brannigan, I’d become “an officer of the court” in a sense. Once I’d agreed to become one of Malcolm’s jury consultants, a decision I’d been debating ever since arriving in Boston, I was expected to play by the rules set down by the judge. Her words reverberated in my head:

“Under no circumstance is anyone involved in the case, from either the defense or prosecution, to have any contact, of any nature, written, oral or through third parties, with any member of the twelve-person jury, or the six alternates. Because I have faith in each juror’s integrity and honesty, and because the attorneys representing the people and the defendant are known to me to uphold the highest professional standards”—the judge winced when including McLoon in that group—“I have decided against sequestering this jury. Its members are admonished to not read about the case or hear reports about it through radio or television, and are not to discuss the case with anyone until it has been submitted to them. And I reiterate—no person from either side is to have any personal contact with members of the jury.”

But, I rationalized, Juror Number Seven was alive when Judge Wilson issued that order.

Juror Number Seven had been an attractive, thirty-four-year-old woman with two children, a sickly mother-in-law for whom she cared, and a husband who worked as a construction foreman. She enjoyed painting by the numbers, baking, and collecting seashells. I liked her the moment she started answering questions during
voir dire
, that pretrial ritual where the attorneys from each side question prospective jurors to ferret out hidden prejudices, veiled biases, or life circumstances creating a conflict of interest. She was straightforward in her answers, someone who would take her duties as a juror seriously, especially where the accused faced the rest of his life in prison. I didn’t hesitate telling Malcolm that, in my judgment, she was the sort of fair-minded person we wanted on the jury. That hadn’t set well with the expensive
professional
jury consultant Malcolm had hired, who resented my inclusion from the moment Malcolm introduced me. “Jessica is an astute judge of character,” he’d said in his usual bombastic style. “While I appreciate your expertise in these matters, Jessica’s gut feelings as a bestselling author and observer of life matter a great deal to me—and, I might add, to the accused.” His speech was met with grim smiles by the woman being paid more than one hundred thousand dollars to study community attitudes and demographic patterns, her “scientific” findings contained in boxes filled with computer printouts.

She hadn’t liked Juror Number Seven. But my instinctive positive evaluation of her held more water with Malcolm, and she was accepted on the jury.

And now she was dead, run down by a hit-and-run driver in front of her modest home as she returned from buying milk and bread at a local convenience store. The second death on the jury in a week. Something was wrong, and I was determined to find out what it was.

I arrived at Juror Number Seven’s house as her husband and mother-in-law were about to leave for the wake. Her husband was a broad, beefy man with a workman’s hands and large, sad brown eyes. His mother sat stoically in a wheelchair, rosary beads clutched tightly in her gnarled fingers.

“I’m sorry to intrude like this,” I said. “My name is Jessica Fletcher.”

The husband cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “The mystery writer?”

“Yes. I’m also a consultant to Billy Brannigan’s defense team.”

“I know that,” he said. “We read about you. My wife said—” He turned away as his eyes moistened.

“I’m so sorry about what happened,” I said. “I didn’t know your wife, but I liked her the minute she started answering questions from the lawyers. I knew she’d make a fine juror.”

He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. “Maybe if she hadn’t been on that damn jury she’d still be alive,” he said.

“Do you think her death had something to do with being a juror?” I asked. My rising inflection wasn’t genuine. I, too, had the feeling her jury duty was linked in some way to being run down.

“All I know is she was alive before the trial started. Now, she’s laid out, about to be put in the ground.”

“That’s why I’ve come here,” I said. “I know she was killed by a hit-and-run driver. Is there anything to lead you to believe it might have been deliberate?”

“Seems to me it was,” he replied. “She was up on the curb when it happened. Seems to me he had to aim for her to hit her there.”

“Yes,” I said, “it does seem that way. Did you have any indication as to how she was leaning as a juror?”

His face became angry. “Is that why you’re here, trying to find out whether she thought that Brannigan brat is guilty of murdering his own brother?”

“Only to see if what I’m thinking about your wife’s death, and the death of the other juror might be true. The other juror who died seemed to believe in Billy Brannigan’s innocence. But I take it from what you’ve just said that your wife didn’t.”

“Jurors aren’t supposed to talk about the case with anybody, including family.”

“I know, but it’s human nature to—”

“She talked about it.”

“And?”

“She didn’t think he did it. Killed his brother. I tried to talk sense to her but ... I don’t suppose I should be telling you this, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference anymore. The judge can’t do anything to hurt her.”

“So your wife was leaning in favor of the defendant. Like the other juror.”

“Brannigan’ll get off. People with money always do.”

Juror Number Seven’s mother-in-law had sat silently during my conversation with her son. Now, she looked up at me and said, “She was a good woman. Like my own daughter. May God shine his light on her.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, thanked them for allowing me to intrude in their time of grief, and quickly walked away.

 

There were two dead jurors, each having indicated to a family member they’d been inclined to acquit Billy Brannigan. If my read on Professor Montrose, Juror Number Four, was correct—that he, too, was buying Malcolm McLoon’s defense of Brannigan—another unfortunate “accident” could be in the offing.

I paid my check at Cafe Pamplona, confirmed Montrose’s address from a slip of paper in my purse, and slowly walked in the direction of his street, which was only a few blocks away. Darkness was falling; lights came to life in shops and the area’s many university buildings. I paused at the comer.

I stood opposite Professor Montrose’s six-story apartment building, drew a deep breath, and looked up the one-way street. A car slowly approached; plenty of time for me to cross. But as I stepped off the curb, the sudden roar of its engine froze me in my tracks. I turned. The car was bearing down on me at racetrack speed. I twisted and hurled myself back in the direction of the curb, landing with a thud on the pavement, my cheek making painful contact with the concrete. The car, large and dark in color—brown? black? blue?—flashed by in a blur, its left tire missing my foot by less than an inch.

 

I didn’t give Professor Montrose, Juror Number Four, another thought until the smiling young doctor in Harvard University Hospital’s emergency room assured me my face was only scraped and bruised, nothing broken. By then, I wanted only to get back to my suite at the Omni Parker House, lock the door and shut the drapes against the outside world and all its potential violence. Before I could, however, the police wanted to question me about the incident. I told them everything I could remember, which wasn’t much. One thing I was sure of, I said. The driver of that dark car had deliberately tried to run me down.

“What were you doing on that particular street, Mrs. Fletcher?” one officer asked.

“I was—just sightseeing.”

“That’s a residential street,” he said. “Nothing touristy.”

“A pretty street,” I said. “I just sort of wandered down it.”

“You’re on the Brannigan defense team,” his partner said as they prepared to drive me back to the hotel.

“That’s right.”

“My wife’s been watching the trial on
Court TV.
”

“Oh? I’m not sure I agree with allowing television cameras into the courtroom,” I said, gingerly touching my fingertips to my stinging cheekbone. “But then again, there is the public’s right to know what goes on in its justice system.”

“Shame how those jurors died,” he said, holding open the rear door of the marked police car.

“Terrible,” I agreed.

He and his partner got in the front seat. The engine came to life and we pulled into Boston traffic. “Yeah,” the officer said, turning his head to speak directly to me. “Really strange, three people from the same jury dying like that.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in. When they did, I sprang forward and placed my hands on his shoulders. “Did you say
three?
”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s why I was interested in how come you were on that street when you were. That professor on the jury—Number Four I think was his number—fell off his roof just a little after you almost got run down.”

“Fell—off—his—roof?”

“Yup. Or got pushed.”

I slumped back in the seat and pressed my fingers to my temples. The stinging on my cheek had been replaced by a pounding, pulsating pain deep inside my head. I’d been right. It was no longer just a theory. Three members of the Billy Brannigan jury had died in less than a week. I believe in coincidence. I think it happens more than we realize.

But there’s coincidence, and then there’s coincidence.

Somebody was killing off the jurors, and it looked like only those who were sympathetic to the defense were marked for an accident.

And then it dawned on me that it wasn’t only jurors who were in jeopardy. This jury consultant had almost become coincidence number four.