Trick or Treachery (11 page)

Mort got down to business. “Mrs. F., did you know the deceased?”

“We’d never been introduced, Mort, but I’d seen her several times around town.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“I saw her across the school foyer right after the Halloween pageant and before that, I believe was when you went to investigate the report of the missing Wandowski child and I tagged along. As you know, we hardly spoke with her at the time.”

“She was kind of a contradiction, wasn’t she?” Mort mused, making a note to himself. “She had those cold eyes, but she baked cookies with the little girl.”

“Some people find it easier to communicate with children than they do with other adults. Perhaps she was lonely, and the child offered her a bit of companionship.”

“Maybe. See anything out of the ordinary tonight?”

“Other than a hundred people in costumes and masks?”

Mort looked down at his fringed shirt and shook his head. “Any ideas where we should start with that group out there?”

“We?”

“I hate to keep you up, but I’d be obliged if you’d stay in here and listen to what they have to say. Wouldn’t be the first time you picked up on something I missed. I mean, that hasn’t happened often, but I just figured—”

“Of course, Mort. You know I’ll do anything to help.”

“Let’s do some of this in batches before we have a revolt on our hands,” he said. “Harold, bring in the Lerners. And give these car keys to my wife.” To me: “If Maureen doesn’t get some sleep tonight, I’ll feel the sharp side of her tongue tomorrow. She’s got a meeting of the School Lunch Committee first thing in the morning.”

“Sure you want to interview couples together?” I asked. “I thought you always preferred one-on-one interviews.”

“I do, Mrs. F., under most circumstances. But considering the time of night, and the fact that the couples we know wouldn’t be murdering anybody, I’d like to get it over with as fast as possible. Just want to know what they might have seen.”

I removed my shawl, folded it over the wig, got up and went to a cushioned window seat. As an unofficial observer, I wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible. Mort was right. It was unlikely that one of our group was a murderer. Except for the Lerners, who were recent arrivals, we’d known one another for years. But perhaps someone did see something that would provide a clue to the perpetrator. Of course, I didn’t know Wandowski to speak to, and certainly not Tremaine. It would be interesting to hear what they had to say.

Harold escorted Joan and Ed Lerner into the room, followed by Mort’s wife, Maureen. All that was left of her elaborate makeup were dark arcs under her eyes where the mascara had smudged. “Sure you want me to leave?” she asked.

“Yup, you go on home, honey. I can ask you all the questions I need to over breakfast.” He grinned. She came behind the desk, kissed him on the cheek and left.

Mort said to Harold, “Go see how the state cops are doing down at the crime scene. And check to make sure Jerry has enough guys to cover the shifts guarding the taped area.”

“Sure thing, Sheriff.”

Mort repeated to the Lerners the few questions he’d asked me. Ed Lerner tried, and failed, to stifle a series of yawns. He gave Mort a wan smile and said, “I’m not much of a witness, Sheriff. I can’t think of anything that would be helpful. We never even met the lady who was killed. What about you, Joan?”

“Well, let me think,” his wife said. “You know, we’re new here, so we don’t know everyone. And with all the costumes, especially the moose ones . . .” Her eyes narrowed as she concentrated on the evening’s events. Being a witness in a murder investigation had given her a second wind. I raised my glasses and glanced at my watch. It was two-thirty.

“I do recall seeing one of the moose walking away from the party. I remember wondering why he was leaving so early,” she said.

“And where did you see this moose?” Mort asked.

“Well, he was walking toward the cemetery. I didn’t know about the cemetery then, but I do now, since we ran through it before finding the body. I think that must be why I counted them—the moose, you know—when we were down at the cottage. There were so many of them around. I kept seeing them everywhere I looked.”

“Do you have any idea what time that was? The moose in the cemetery?” Mort tapped his pencil on his pad.

“I’d say sometime right after dinner was served. Isn’t that right, Ed?”

Her husband shrugged. “I don’t remember that,” he said, yawning.

“That must have been when you were talking about camera lenses with the photographer,” she said.

“That I remember. Nice guy. I invited him to our party next month,” Ed Lerner said.

“I’m glad you told me,” Joan said. “I want to start working on the guest list tomorrow.”

“I also invited the Deckers and the Walters. Okay with you?”

Mort cleared his throat.

“Sorry, Sheriff,” Ed said, grinning. “I didn’t mean to get us off the topic, but you see, we’re having a Veteran’s Day party next month.”

“And we certainly hope you and Maureen can make it,” Joan added.

Mort looked confused. “Sure, thanks.”

“Joan, are you sure you didn’t see a
pair
of moose?” I asked from my perch, pulling them back to the matter at hand. I remembered the moose couple in the moonlight. “And could it have been before dinner?”

Joan stared at me, but her eyes were focused inward as she tried to recall the sequence of events. “Nooo,” she said, drawing the word out softly. “I’m sure it was later, Jessica. We’d gotten our plates from the buffet, then stopped to admire Miss Havisham’s table. Wasn’t that a wonderful literary reference, Ed?”

She sensed Mort’s growing impatience. “Sorry,” she said, “I seem to be losing my place.”

“It’s late, Mrs. Lerner,” Mort said. “Go on.”

“Well, we couldn’t find an empty place at any of the tables inside, so we went out onto the patio. It was very warm inside anyway with the crush of the crowd. The photographer was out there and a few others, and the only seats available were along the stone wall that overlooks the grounds. I remember seeing a moose walking, striding really, across the lawn. Then I sat down, so my back was to him, and I didn’t see anything else.”

“You said ‘him,’ ” Mort pointed out. “Are you sure it was a man?”

“Actually, with those huge heads on, it was impossible to tell. And we were too far away to gauge height, so I don’t really know if it was a man. I suppose it could have been a woman.”

Harold knocked and pushed open the door. Behind him in the hall was a state patrolman. Mort thanked the Lerners for their cooperation and handed them a card with his office phone number. “Please give me a call if you think of anything else. Sometimes folks remember things when they’re more relaxed and have a chance to sleep on it. And I’d appreciate your not discussing this investigation with anyone else.”

The Lerners agreed and left the room.

“Okay, Harold, bring in the Deckers and the Walters,” Mort said.

“What about Tremaine?” I asked. “He’s the only uninvited guest.”

“I’m saving Mr. Tremaine for last.”

Harold disappeared into the hall. A moment later, the door to the library slammed back against the wall and Robert Wandowski stalked into the room, his face a mask of fury. Harold, a hand on his right shoulder, was right behind him. “Couldn’t help this, Sheriff,” the deputy said. “He pushed right past me.”

The hulking Wandowski came directly to the desk, then put large hands on it and leaned over Mort. “I gotta get home. You know how late it is? You ignored me.”

Mort asked Harold, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Harold said, rubbing his shoulder.

Mort stood and faced Wandowski. “You sit down, sir, and don’t get up till I tell you to or I’ll have you taken in for impeding an investigation and assaulting a peace officer.” He turned to Harold: “You keep an eye on him. If he moves, cuff him.”

Wandowski’s jaw dropped, and his bravado seemed to ooze out of him. “Look, I’m sitting down,” he said. “I won’t move, Sheriff, I promise. I’m sorry. I just get a little hot now and then.”

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” Mort said.

“Sorry, Hal.”

“What was that?” Mort said.

“I said, ‘Sorry, Hal.’ ”

“You two know each other?” Mort asked his deputy.

“We’re in the same bowling league,” Harold said. He looked at Wandowski: “Just cooperate with the sheriff, Bob, and don’t make any more trouble.”

Mort moved to the front of the desk, then leaned back on the polished walnut and cherry inlaid top and glared down at Wandowski, who squirmed in his chair. Mort let the silence build, keeping his gaze on Wandowski, who glanced over his shoulder at Harold, looked down at the carpet, then up again, his eyes unable to meet Mort’s. The tension grew, and I watched Wandowski’s face turn red, pale, then red again. Finally, he blew, as Mort knew he would.

“I didn’t do it!” he exclaimed. “I was here all night. I never left the party.”

“You were angry with her.”

“I swear I didn’t do it.”

“You were getting even.”

“No, no, you’re wrong.”

“You threatened her right in front of me.”

“I know, but I swear I never saw her again.”

“You just said yourself you can’t control your temper. You saw her and remembered your daughter coming out of her cottage. You felt the rage all over again. And you killed her.”

“No! You can’t trick me into saying anything. I’m not the killer.”

“You just wanted to protect your home, right?” Harold said kindly. “You just wanted to keep your family safe.”

Wandowski looked up, relieved at the show of support from the deputy. “Yes,” he sighed. “Of course I want to keep my family safe.”

“So you killed Mrs. Swift because she represented a threat to their safety.” Mort’s voice was low and measured.

“No, no, I didn’t say that.”

“You thought she’d kidnapped your daughter, and you wanted to get even.” Mort slapped the desktop, punctuating his lines. “You wanted to kill her. You didn’t want her anywhere near your daughter. She was a stranger, different—everyone said so. She was evil, luring your daughter into her cottage when you weren’t there. What was she doing to your girl? She was—”

Wandowski leapt to his feet. “She never should have taken Julie!” he roared. “She got what she deserved.”

Mort stopped and eyed Wandowski. I held my breath.

Wandowski looked around frantically. “No, no, I know it sounds like I was mad at her, and I was, I was, but I didn’t kill her. I swear.” He collapsed back into his seat and wrapped his arms about himself.

I let out the breath I’d been holding. Mort shrugged and looked at Harold. The deputy put a hand on Wandowski’s shoulder. “All right, Bob, calm down now.”

Mort turned his back on them and went to the door. “You can go home, Wandowski, but I’m not through talking to you. You’re not to leave Cabot Cove. Understand?”

Wandowski nodded.

“Mr. Wandowski,” I said from my observation post at the window, “may I ask you a question?”

Wandowski appeared surprised. He must have forgotten I was there. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“Why didn’t your wife come to the party with you tonight?”

“Uh, she wanted to, but we didn’t have a baby-sitter for my daughter. I work for Mr. Marshall, so I had to come, even if she couldn’t.”

“Go on, go home,” Mort said. Wandowski slowly stood and shuffled from the room in stark contrast to the way he’d entered.

The Deckers were next to be interviewed.

“You folks are in the business of noticing things,” Mort said, “being writers and publishers and all. What’d you see tonight?”

Jack Decker, a tall, handsome man with a deep voice, laughed gently. “I’m afraid we didn’t have our journalist ears and eyes operating tonight, Mort. We were strictly here to enjoy ourselves.”

Marilou added, “Jack is right, but I can’t imagine that poor woman’s murder has anything to do with the party. It had to have been someone passing through, some nut.”

“Or someone who knew her but wasn’t at the party,” her husband said.

“You may be right,” said Mort, “but I can’t go on assumptions like that. What do you know about Ms. Swift?”

The Deckers looked at each other before Marilou said, “All I know is that there’s been a lot of talk about her since she moved here. People considered her strange.”

“Strange how?” Mort asked.

“Different, I suppose is the way to describe it,” Marilou replied. “Some people can be cruel when a newcomer arrives who doesn’t look like the rest of us.”

How true, I thought.

Jack said, “I’ve been told that Ms. Swift had been asking around about Tony Scott’s death in the fire.”

I sat up a little straighter. So did Mort.

“Why was she doing that?” Mort asked.

Jack shrugged. “Idle curiosity, I suppose.”

“Happened a year ago,” said Mort. “Can’t imagine why a stranger to town would be wondering about that.”

I interjected, “Who did she ask about it, Jack?”

“Dick Mann for one.” Dick is Cabot Cove’s fire chief.

Mort made a note. “Anyone else?” he asked.

The Deckers shook their heads.

“Well, folks, thanks for sharing what you know,” Mort said. “Might as well go home and get to bed.”

I smiled as the Deckers stood and left the library. Since coming to Cabot Cove after successful careers in magazine publishing in New York, they’d become one of the town’s most popular couples, erudite and attractive, involved and concerned.

Harold escorted Pete and Roberta Walters into the room. They owned a small radio station that provided soothing music and lots of local news.

“How about a statement for the record, Mort?” Pete asked. “I’m heading for the station once we leave here.”