Trick or Treachery (21 page)

He got up and went to a window that overlooked the rear of the cottage. “Perfect night for The Legend to pay a visit,” he said, his back to me.

“I suppose it is,” I said, not meaning it, but also not interested in debating it with him.

He turned. His crooked smile was unnerving. “I understand you’ve taken it upon yourself, Mrs. Fletcher, to dig into Matilda Swift’s death.”

“Yes, I’m interested,” I said.

“What have you come up with?”

“I’ll get to that when the others arrive.”

“Ah, I like your style, Mrs. Fletcher. Build up the suspense the way you do in your books.”

“But in this case we’re talking about real murder, aren’t we, Mr. Tremaine?”

“Oh, yes, we certainly are. Much more intriguing than murder created in the mind of a novelist. Ever have one of your fictitious victims be someone like Matilda Swift?”

“A female murder victim? Of course.”

“Matilda wasn’t just a ‘female murder victim,’ Mrs. Fletcher. She was of another dimension.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Really, Mr. Tremaine,” I said, “you can spare me your claim that she was some sort of spirit, less than human.” As I said it, I thought of the photos of Matilda that Richard Koser had shown me in which Matilda was out of focus while everything around her was razor sharp.

Tremaine returned to where I stood next to the chair. “Do you feel her?” he asked.

“Feel whom?”

“Matilda. She’s here. You can physically take the life of someone like her, but her spirit can never be extinguished. That’s what makes her, and others like her, so different. Like your famous Legend of Cabot Cove. I’m looking forward to seeing her tonight.”

“So am I,” I said, thinking of the actress Sophia Pavlou, and wondering what Tremaine’s reaction would be to seeing her emerge from the cemetery. Interesting, I thought, that he obviously believed The Legend would make an appearance. Had
he
hired an actress to play The Legend? That was the only way The Legend would join us, and I felt smug at being the one who knew it.

We both looked toward the front door at the sound of voices from outside.

“Ah, the rest of the guests arrive,” Tremaine said, arching his back against an unseen pain and stretching his arms in front of him. “It’s show time!”

“Anybody home?” Doug Treyz asked through the open front door.

“Doug, Tina,” I said, joining them on the patio. “You’re the first to—well, you’re among the first to arrive.”

Tremaine came up behind me.

“Do you know Lucas Tremaine?” I asked my dentist and his wife.

“No,” Tina said, “but we’ve certainly heard a lot about you, Mr. Tremaine.”

“All highly favorable, I assume,” said Tremaine.

The Treyzs didn’t respond.

Seth Hazlitt and Ed and Joan Lerner appeared. Right behind them were Paul and Erica Marshall, Warren Wilson and Jeremy Scott, who’d come down the road from the main house.

I mentally ran over the guest list.

All accounted for with the exception of Artie Sack and Bob Wandowski. That was partially rectified when Artie and his sister-in-law approached from the direction of the barn, Artie following her like a child seeking protection behind a mother.

Also missing were Beth and Peter Mullin, but I wasn’t worried about them. Their presence would be welcome, but wasn’t necessary. I glanced in the direction of the cemetery and wondered whether Sophia Pavlou had arrived yet, dressed and made up like the Legend of Cabot Cove. She was a pro; I didn’t doubt she’d be there at the appointed time.

“Is this a second Halloween party?” Joan Lerner asked. “If I’d known you usually have two, I would have been happy to host the second.”

“We don’t usually, Joan,” I said, “but this is a special occasion.”

“And I’d like to know just what the special occasion is,” Paul Marshall said. He wore a houndstooth sports jacket with patches at the elbows, shirt, tie and highly polished ankle-height boots. He glared at Lucas Tremaine, who stood with his arms folded, a satisfied grin on his face. “And what is this nut doing here?”

“The founder of S.P.I.,” I explained, “has predicted that the Legend of Cabot Cove will make an appearance tonight.” I turned to Tremaine. “Isn’t that right, Doctor?”

“Aha,” he said, “you’ve decided to afford me my proper credential,
Doctor
Tremaine. Thank you.”

“The Legend of Cabot Cove is bunk,” Jeremy Scott said, guffawing. “What kind of party is this?”

“It’s a solve-the-murder-mystery party,” I replied.

Jeremy’s smile faded. “If you know something about who the murderer is, Mrs. Fletcher, please lay it out for us.”

“I intend to,” I said, “but we’re missing someone.”

“Who?” Paul Marshall asked.

“Robert Wandowski.”

“Is he the murderer?” Warren Wilson asked.

“I’d prefer to wait until—” I saw Wandowski and his wife approaching from the direction of their cottage. “Here he is now,” I said.

“What’s this all about?” Wandowski asked gruffly.

As the Wandowskis joined the crowd, Beth and Peter Mullin also arrived; Beth carried a large basket of fall flowers. “Sorry we’re late,” said Peter, “but we had a last-minute order to fill.”

Beth handed me the basket.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“The party. I thought they’d make a nice table decoration.”

“That’s sweet,” I said. “Thanks, but we won’t be having a table, I’m afraid.” I took the basket to the brick wall and placed it on the ground, then returned to where everyone was gathered in a semicircle on the front brick patio.

“I’m sorry to say that many of you have been lying,” I said.

“Lying?” Paul Marshall demanded. “Are you accusing
me
of being a liar?”

“Let me finish, please, Paul. When I said many of you have been lying, I mean about Matilda Swift. And one of the liars here is the murderer.”

There was absolute silence as my “guests” looked around at one another and then back at me. There was a subtle shifting of bodies; each was wondering if he or she was standing next to a killer.

Wandowski spoke up. “Well, I’m not a liar.”

“Ah, Mr. Wandowski.” I turned to the big man standing next to his wife. “You had motive and opportunity.”

“How do you figure that?”

“You told me and the sheriff that you’d come to the party alone, and that your wife had to stay in your cottage for the entire evening to care for Julie.”

“Well . . . I wasn’t anywhere near . . . I mean . . .” Wandowski trailed off.

I took the photograph of Lauren Wandowski that Richard Koser had taken and held it up, like a lawyer presenting a piece of evidence to a jury. “That’s you, Lauren, in a moose costume. Pictures don’t lie, unless they’ve been doctored, and I assure you this one hasn’t been.”

“I told you when you brought that to our cottage that I was only there for an hour,” Lauren said, her voice breaking. “I just wanted to get out of the cottage and have some fun for a few minutes.”

“When did she come to the cottage?” Bob demanded.

“You said you’d have your husband tell the sheriff about having left the party,” I said.

“I—”

“Shut up,” her husband said.

She ignored him. “It wasn’t fair, his getting to go and not me,” she continued, “so I made him come home, and I got into his moose costume. It was too big, but I didn’t care.”

“I’m not being critical of you for coming to the party, Lauren,” I said. “But it does mean your husband was away from the party during the time Matilda Swift was murdered—and we know he was extremely angry at her, not only because your daughter visited her that day without telling you, but because Matilda was a stranger here, like Dr. Tremaine. She was someone others gossiped about.”

Joan Lerner pointed at Wandowski. “I saw you downtown the other day bragging you were going to run Tremaine out of town.”

Erica Marshall added, “And you’ve been walking around saying you hated these newcomers so much you wanted to move from this estate because of them.”

“So what?” Wandowski growled. “Everybody who’s mad at somebody doesn’t go around killing them.”

“Not usually,” I said, “but sometimes they do.”

Before he could respond, I turned to Erica, who stood between Warren Wilson and Jeremy Scott. “I’m disappointed in you, Erica. You lied, too.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You told me you didn’t know Matilda Swift, had nothing to do with her, had never even had a conversation with her.”

“That’s right.”

“But you baked cookies with her.”

“I did not!”

“Oh, Erica, I think you did. Little Julie Wandowski recognized you. Why would you lie about something as innocuous as that?”

“Because of . . . him.” She directed her words at her father, Paul. “You told me to have nothing to do with her, and I didn’t want to go against you, but—”

“But what?” I asked.

“But I . . . I just found myself coming here to Rose Cottage. I can’t explain it. It was as though there were a magnetic field that pulled me here, a force. I was like a moth, and she was a candle. Oh, God, it sounds so stupid.”

“Not to me,” Tremaine said.

I didn’t let him go into one of his explanations about Matilda being some sort of supernatural being. I said to Erica, “Wasn’t it more a matter of not wanting anyone to know you’d struck up a friendship with Matilda, Erica? Because not only were you embarrassed about spending time with this strange woman who’d moved here, you didn’t want your father to know that you were looking for evidence concerning Tony Scott’s death.”

“Is that true?” Paul asked his daughter.

Her eyes flared with anger, and her voice mirrored it. “Yes, it’s true. Everyone knows the fire that killed Tony wasn’t an accident.”

All eyes went to Paul Marshall.

“How dare you?” he said. “You’ve been hinting for more than a year that I might have had something to do with Tony’s death. The man was like a brother to me, Erica.”

Warren Wilson weighed in. “Your father is right, Erica. I’ve heard you question whether he was involved in some way with the fire. He’s your own father, for God’s sake. How could you?”

Erica turned her ire on Warren. “It wouldn’t matter to you whether my father did kill Tony, would it, Warren? The only thing that’s ever mattered to you is my father’s money.”

I thought for a moment that Warren might physically attack Erica, and was glad when Jeremy took a few steps in order to position himself between them. Tony Scott’s son said, “Now maybe we’re getting someplace.”

“I know you each have your reasons for lying,” I said, “and even though I’m sure you can justify those lies, I can’t help but wonder whether the underlying reason is to distance yourselves from any possibility of guilt in Ms. Swift’s murder. If you were innocent, there was no reason to deny knowing her.”

I confronted Jeremy Scott. “Jeremy,” I said, “your lies concern me more than Erica’s and Bob Wandowski’s.”

“What lies?” he said.

“About not knowing Ms. Swift. You were in the Rose Cottage on a number of occasions, including just about the time she was killed. Unless, of course, Ms. Swift smoked cigars. As far as I know, she didn’t.”

Jeremy’s laugh was nervous. “What did you do, Mrs. Fletcher, find a cigar in the cottage and automatically assume it was mine? Lots of people smoke cigars.” He looked around at the others. “What a joke.”

I smiled. “As a matter of fact, Jeremy, I did find a cigar, and yes, I did assume it was yours. But there’s a good deal more than that to indicate that you and Matilda Swift weren’t strangers. Blood relatives would be a better description of your relationship.”

The gasp from the group was spontaneous and loud.

“Blood relatives?” Paul Marshall boomed. “What the hell is she talking about, Jeremy?”

“My question, Jeremy,” I said, “is when did you learn that Matilda Swift was your father’s sister, your aunt? Before or after you returned to Cabot Cove?”

“She . . . this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“She was your aunt, Jeremy?” Erica asked, her voice testifying to her disbelief.

When he didn’t answer, I did.

“Anthony Scott and Matilda Swift had been out of touch for a long time. They didn’t know where each other lived until Matilda read about Tony Scott’s efforts to develop BarrierCloth. That’s when Tony discovered that his sister lived in Salem, Massachusetts. He got in touch with her not long before he died.”

“Why didn’t she just announce who she was when she got here?” Paul Marshall asked.

“Because she didn’t come to Cabot Cove to be reunited with her brother’s family,” I said. “She came to Cabot Cove to discover who killed him.”

I held up the letter Artie had shared with me, but I didn’t pass it to anyone. “This explains it quite nicely,” I said.

“She rented Rose Cottage under false pretenses,” Paul Marshall said. “If I’d known—”

“If you’d known who she was, Paul, you might not have spent all that money ‘renovating’ Rose Cottage, would you?”

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“You used the excuse of renovating Rose Cottage to search for the formula for BarrierCloth. Even though you’d been told by Tony—and told by Warren, too—that he’d never developed a working formula, you wanted proof. You never found it, did you?”

“Excuse me,” Warren Wilson said. “This is all very interesting, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me. So that crazy lady was Tony Scott’s long-lost sister. So what? I have better things to do than stand around here and—”

“It has everything to do with you, Warren,” I said. “I suggest you stay a little longer. Mr. Tremaine has promised us a visit from The Legend.”

Wilson shook his head. “Has everybody gone nuts? The Legend of Cabot Cove? That’s just a crazy myth.” He looked at Lucas Tremaine, who now leaned against the brick wall, arms folded in defiance, a smirk on his face. “Is this one of your con games, Tremaine? You belong in jail.”