Trick or Treachery (20 page)

“A hell of a bad fire, Jessica. One of the worst I’ve ever seen.”

“I hear that the insurance company hasn’t paid the key man insurance to Paul Marshall because the fire is still labeled suspicious.”

“That’s right. Arson still hasn’t been ruled out.”

“By the insurance company.”

“And by me. I’ve never been able to prove it, Jessica, but all my years of experience and my gut instinct tell me someone deliberately set that fire.”

“To murder Tony Scott?” I asked.

“Probably not,” he said. “Most deaths in arson cases are caused by some other means prior to a fire. In almost every case, someone is murdered, then the murderer sets the fire in an attempt to cover up the crime.”

“I see,” I said. “I’m making notes as we speak. It’s my understanding that a good pathologist can determine whether someone was alive when the fire broke out. True?”

“In most cases, depending upon how badly the body is consumed. In Tony Scott’s case, he was burned as bad as anyone can be, which made the pathologist’s job tougher. He didn’t find carbon monoxide in the blood, which would be a sign that Scott was alive when the fire overcame him, but he did detect a minute trace of smoke stain in Tony’s air passages. That could mean he
was
alive. Always tough when there’s conflicting evidence.”

I made another note before asking, “Dick, if there’s this conflicting evidence, why are you still leaning toward arson?”

“I knew you’d ask that. The thing that bothers me about the Marshall-Scott fire has to do with the flash points.”

“Flash points?”

“When a fire originates from a single source—a single flash point—we seldom suspect arson. But when a fire originates in more than a single flash point, the antenna goes up.”

“Was that the case at Tony Scott’s lab?”

“Afraid so. There were two distinct flash points, and possibly a third. And there was all that calcium carbide.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that from everything I could determine, there was no need for Tony Scott to have had large amounts of calcium carbide in his lab. It fueled that blaze, Jessica, especially when the water hit it. Calcium carbide really goes up when it comes in contact with water.”

“Where does it stand now with the insurance company?”

“They’re still balking at paying Paul Marshall the key man insurance. He’s been raising hell about it, but insurance companies can be tough about such things. In this case, I’m glad they are, although don’t tell Paul Marshall I said so.”

“My lips are sealed. Thanks, Dick. You’ve been a big help.”

“Sure this is research for a book, Jessica, or because of the murder at Marshall’s place?”

“Oh, maybe a little of both.”

“Coming to our open house next week?”

“Wouldn’t miss a chance to ride on that shiny new fire engine of yours. My best to Anne.”

Next on my to-do list was a stop at the sheriff’s office, where Mort had just finished a meeting with state police about the Matilda Swift murder.

“Any more leads?” I asked after pouring myself a cup of coffee and settling in across the desk from him.

“Only what we’ve already discussed, Mrs. F. Hey, what’s this I hear about you attending one of his séances last night?”

“What you hear is correct. It was interesting.”

“You didn’t try to . . . ?”

“Try to contact Frank?” I said, finishing his question for him. “No, I didn’t, but I was tempted.”

“Good thing you fought the temptation. What’s it like, his phony séance?”

“I can tell you later, Mort, but we have more important things to discuss. I think I know how to prove who killed Matilda Swift.”

He’d been leaning back in his swivel chair. Now he sat up straight. “Say again, Mrs. F.”

“I said, I know how to flush out the murderer, and I thought tomorrow night might be the perfect time to make the announcement.”

His hand went up. “Whoa,” he said, “let’s slow down here. If you think you know who the murderer is, you’d better fill me in. I am the sheriff.”

“Of course you are, and I’m here to do just that, as well as to ask for your cooperation. I might add we can not only reveal who the murderer is, we can expose Mr. Lucas Tremaine for the fraud he is.”

“Go ahead, Mrs. F. I’m all ears, as the saying goes.”

Twenty minutes later, after I’d laid out for Mort what I intended to do and had enlisted his cooperation, I stood to leave.

“Me and some of my deputies will be there like you want, Mrs. F., but I still say it’d be better to just let me go arrest the murderer.”

“I don’t think so, Mort. What we have is mostly circumstantial evidence. Oh, I know, circumstantial evidence is sometimes enough to convict, but wouldn’t you be better off having absolute proof, maybe even a confession?”

“Sure. Some slick lawyer won’t get anybody off with a signed and sealed confession. Okay, we’ll do it your way. Besides, it’ll do my heart good to see Tremaine showed up for the phony he is.”

“My thinking exactly,” I said, leaving the office and returning home, where a list of calls to make lay in the middle of my desk.

I first called Paul Marshall.

“Paul,” I said, “I was wondering if I could borrow your Rose Cottage tomorrow night for a little get-together.”

“What sort of get-together?”

“A party of sorts, I suppose you could call it, but with a more serious purpose. I think it’s time we put to rest all this nonsense about the Legend of Cabot Cove, and I think I can do it tomorrow night.”

There was a long pause on his end of the line.

“I might also have some information to share bearing on Matilda Swift’s murder,” I added.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. I’m sure you want to see that resolved as much as I do.”

“Of course I do. What time is this little gathering?”

“Ten. There’ll be a dozen or so people—Seth Hazlitt, the Mullins from Olde Tyme Floral, the Lerners and others.”

“All right. The cottage is empty, and the police released it as a crime scene.”

“You’ll be there, won’t you?”

“I, ah . . . all right, I’ll stop by.”

“Wonderful. Thanks, Paul. I think you’ll find it of great interest. Not so festive as your Halloween party but . . . interesting.”

I reached the others on my list and delivered what was basically the same message, altered somewhat to fit what I considered each individual’s needs. Everyone naturally had questions and wanted more information, but I politely declined to offer more than what I’d told Paul Marshall. Erica Marshall was clearly annoyed, but agreed to be there. Lucas Tremaine found it amusing, but said he’d be there, too. I didn’t speak directly to Artie Sack, but gave the message to his sister-in-law, who said she would come with Artie. Bob Wandowski was at work, but Lauren said she’d give him the message.

I went to the Cabot Cove theater at three and met with Sophia Pavlou. She was full of questions, too, as she tried on the flowing white floor-length gauzy dress I’d brought with me, and experimented with the greenish white makeup, long gray wig and the strands of green crepe paper to achieve the look of seaweed.

“I don’t have any lines?” she asked, disappointed.

“No, you don’t have to say a word. Just be there at the right time, make your entrance and leave—but don’t go too far, just out of view of the people with me. Wait until I call for you, appear again, then leave for good. Except do be sure to join us as yourself before you say good night.”

“I still don’t understand what this is all about,” she complained.

“Trust me, Sophia. When it’s over, you’ll know everything. I hope everyone will know everything.”

The phone was ringing when I arrived home. It was Seth Hazlitt.

“Everything set for tomorrow night, Jessica?” he asked.

“Yes. You’ll be there?”

“Ayuh. Peter and Beth, too, the Lerners, and I got Doc Treyz and his wife, Tina, to come, too.”

“Wonderful. I don’t want to limit it to only suspects.”

“As you said, Jessica, havin’ others there will make it less threatenin’ to the real culprits.”

“Glad you agree.”

“I have one concern.”

“What’s that?”

“What if the murderer doesn’t confess?”

“Then it was a wasted evening. But do you know what, Seth?”

“What?”

“I think that when I’m finished presenting the evidence, the person who killed Matilda Swift won’t have much of a choice except to admit to the killing.”

“Let’s hope you’re right. Sure you don’t want me to pick you up and drive you there?”

“Positive. I want you to arrive just like the others. I plan to be there well in advance of everyone else, an hour earlier.”

“As you wish.”

I turned on the TV and checked the weather channel. Perfect. The forecast for the next night was clear and cool, with an almost full moon.

Everything was in place. My guest list was complete, The Legend was scheduled to show up on cue, and I knew exactly how I intended to proceed.

All I had to do now was wait. That was the hardest part.

Dimitri, owner of our local taxi company, dropped me at the rear of the Marshall estate, next to the break in the stone wall I’d used when visiting Artie Sack at the barn. Going through the old cemetery in daylight is always peaceful and pleasant, and I had enjoyed spending reflective time there over the years. I loved the way many of the centuries-old tombstones had sunk into the ground at odd angles, the sun illuminating their faded inscriptions, the branches of ancient trees dipping low over the graves as though paying homage to those buried beneath the weathered stones. I’d gone there on a few occasions with the Historical Society’s classes in gravestone-rubbings; I’d proudly framed and hung one of my efforts in my kitchen.

But it is different at night—it always is. Darkness can turn the most pleasant of places and circumstances into something ominous. Noises during the day go unnoticed; at night, they become louder and threatening. In daylight, wind that causes leaves to flutter on trees is pleasant to watch. Not so once the sun goes down and the moving leaves cast shadows that take different forms. I was glad for the moon, although it came and went as fast-moving black clouds crossed it—darkness one minute, welcome light the next.

I walked through the cemetery quickly and reached the Rose Cottage. I tried the door; it was unlocked, so I stepped inside and reached for light switches I’d seen on my previous visit. One turned on a ceiling fixture in the small anteroom, the other an exterior fixture on the front brick patio.

I went back outside. The exterior light illuminated a portion of the long brick wall on which in springtime prize-winning roses blossomed forth in all their glorious color. Funny, I thought, how such a tranquil, happy place could be transformed so quickly into one of menace. All it took was a brutal murder to forever paint the place a different, darker color than when the red, pink and white roses are in bloom.

I looked at my watch—nine-ten. Fifty minutes until the others were to arrive. I’d wanted to be early, have time to collect my thoughts and go over what I intended to do and say. I went to a green wrought iron loveseat against the brick wall and sat, then opened the large handbag I’d brought with me and pulled out materials bearing upon the occasion. I’d prepared everything the way an attorney might, making notes of what I wanted to say in my opening argument, having the supporting materials arranged in order to accompany each point I wished to make.

Confident that I was ready, I sat back, closed my eyes and drew a deep breath. This moment of quiet reflection was shattered by a yowl from behind me. I leapt from the bench and spun around, dropping the materials I’d been holding and bringing my hands up in anticipation of an attack. I looked up to the top of the brick wall. Peering back at me were two large yellow eyes.

I let out a whoosh of air and smiled nervously. It was the big black cat that belonged to Matilda Swift.

“You scared the devil out of me,” I said, extending a hand to entice the animal to me. It pondered whether to trust me, as cats are wont to do, then decided to, jumping down from the wall and rubbing against my leg. I reached down and stroked its smooth furred head. It followed as I picked up what I’d dropped and returned to the bench, then hopped up beside me.

“You’re a big, mean-looking fellow,” I said, “but you’re just a softie, aren’t you.” A loud purr was the answer.

I remembered the day this cat had jumped onto Artie Sack’s shoulder, and how I’d winced at the thought of its claws digging into him. As it climbed on my lap, I caressed the smooth pad of its front paw in my hand.

As quickly as it had befriended me, the cat suddenly jumped off my lap and disappeared into the shadows.

I checked my watch again—nine-twenty. Time was dragging. I decided to go into the Rose Cottage again and turn on additional lights in the event we ended up inside. Beyond the foyer, it was pitch-black. I remembered there were two floor lamps in the living room, and felt my way into the room to a corner where one had been positioned next to a recliner. The chair was silhouetted against moonlight through a window. I touched the chair and was about to reach for the lamp when it came on, causing me to jump back.

“Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher,” Lucas Tremaine said from the chair.

“Good Lord, you frightened me to death!” I said.

“I hope that won’t be the case tonight.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Resting, contemplating this evening you’ve prepared for us.”

“You weren’t supposed to be here until ten.”

“I’m habitually early, Mrs. Fletcher, catching the worm and all that. I see you are, too.”