“Then look again. That ladder has a slew of warning labels attached to it. When did this place close, Seth?”
“Oh, sometime after World War II.”
“I don’t think ladders were required to carry warning labels back then, Sheriff.”
Mort’s expression flattened. “What’s your point?”
“I don’t have one beyond that.” My gaze returned to the ladder that rose maybe a yard from the spot where I believed Loomis Winslow had been attacked. “Not yet, anyway.”
* * *
* * *
With the storm drawing ever closer, Mort dropped Seth off at the same house he’d lived in since he came back to Cabot Cove fresh out of medical school.
“Next stop, Hill House, Mrs. F.,” he said after I climbed into the front seat.
“I was thinking the sheriff’s station.”
“My sheriff’s station?”
“Is there another in town? I figure you’re going to do some digging into Loomis Winslow and I want to be there.”
“Digging and finding are two entirely different things.”
“Exactly. So once we get to the station, you grab your shovel and I’ll grab mine.”
* * *
* * *
I was in no particular rush to get back to Hill House, truth be told. Not since I figured it would be a few days before I’d be able to venture out again, if forecasts of the looming storm’s severity proved accurate. Beyond that, the hotel’s entire second floor had been rented out to a wedding party. Bad enough to be cooped up for an extended period of time. But cooped up with strangers anxious over whether their entire planning was about to be waylaid? That I could do without and I suppose I was putting it off for as long as possible. I have no idea who schedules a wedding in the depths of winter, in Maine no less, and didn’t particularly want to find out. Kind of like sitting next to someone on a flight whose mouth moves as fast as the plane. At least at Hill House I’d be able to retreat to the confines of my suite, while a plane offered no such respite.
The coming storm had Mort’s deputies out and about to deal with any traffic issues and try to cajole a few of our least mobile residents to accept a move to a shelter that had been set up at the high school. So it was just him, me, and the dispatcher present in the quaint open office that featured a single cell in the basement. I took one of the deputies’ desks on the floor, while Mort adjourned to his office. He started to close the door, looked at me with his usual snicker, then left it open instead.
“I’m going to see what I can learn from Loomis Winslow’s office down in Boston, maybe get a notion as to what he was doing up in these parts.”
“Not to mention who he was working for.”
“It’s never that easy, though, is it, Mrs. F.?”
“That’s the fun part when I’m writing.”
“But you’re not writing now.”
“No,” I said, flashing my iPhone, “I’m calling.”
* * *
* * *
I wondered how many times exactly I dialed or pressed the New York exchange that was ringing now.
“Harry McGraw. State your piece.”
“Is that your new greeting?” I asked the best detective, private or otherwise, I’d ever known.
“I’m trying it out. How’s the storm treating you up there, little lady?”
“Hasn’t started yet. I’m still hoping it’ll miss us.”
“Right, tough weather to bike in for sure.”
“Alas, my trusty new Pashley is put away for the winter.”
“So how do you get around, snowplow?”
“Without a driver’s license?”
“That’s for a car,” Harry said. “I figured maybe you got your commercial license without any of us knowing.”
“Jessica Fletcher driving a snowplow?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of one of those monster trucks. Love to see you behind the wheel of that.”
“I doubt you’d be able to see me behind the wheel of that, Harry.”
“So, what do you need, dear lady? I’m at your service, unless you want me to shovel your walk.”
“You’re sounding awfully accommodating these days,” I told him.
“Part of my fifteen-step program to become a better person. That’s number six: Be helpful.”
“I thought it was twelve steps.”
“No, that’s Alcoholics Anonymous, and I already tried that. Worked for a while.”
“What happened?”
“You kept calling me.”
I could picture Harry grinning on the other end of the line.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I’m supposed to give up my seat on the subway to an elderly person, or something like that, every day.”
“How’s that working for you?”
“It isn’t, because I don’t ride the subway. Another option is carrying a neighbor’s groceries in for them.”
“Sounds like a better choice,” I told him.
“Except I live in a six-story walk-up, so I’ve limited myself to helping only those who live on the first floor. I’m also supposed to practice forgiveness. That’s number four.”
“And?”
“I forgive you, Jessica.”
“For what?”
“Do I really need to make you a list?”
“Mind if I add to it, Harry?”
I heard him force a sigh. “Why ask me if you’re going to anyway?”
“Ever heard of a private detective named Loomis Winslow?”
“What, you think we all know each other or something? Like we all attend the same annual convention, like circus clowns?”
“I didn’t know clowns held an annual convention.”
“Figure of speech. And the answer is, no, I’ve never heard of a private detective named Loomis Winslow. Are you thinking of hiring him?”
“Why would I when I’ve got you?”
“Who is he, Jess?”
“You mean, who was he.”
“Don’t tell me. . . . Murdered?”
“You told me not to tell you.”
“The phone rings, my first thought is, who died in Cabot Cove? I’m giving serious thought to changing my number. There’d still be bodies, but I wouldn’t have to hear about them.”
As always, Harry sounded gruff and flippant. I’d long grown used to his quirks along with his quips, and I was continually amazed at his ability to turn up dirt under stones others would have been hard-pressed to find in the first place.
“You need to hear about this one, Harry.”
“Why?”
“Because he was a PI. Like you.”
“Like me? You mean you stiffed him on his bills, too?”
“Maybe you should start sending them to me.”
“Don’t worry, Jessica. I’ve let go of my anger for you stiffing me, because that’s number three. Number five is to be honest and direct. So, what were we talking about, again?”
We’d finally gotten back to the point. “Loomis Winslow.”
“Sounds like the name of a character from one of your books.”
“Can you look into him, Harry?”
“In search of what, exactly?”
“Who might have had reason to kill him and what might have brought him to Cabot Cove.”
“Step number thirteen is ‘don’t show up empty-handed,’ so let me see what I can find out.”
“He’s based in Boston. I’ve got his e-mail and phone number from a card in his wallet, if you need it.”
“Don’t bother, little lady—I’ll look it up. Us private eyes are expert at investigating each other. And I want to surprise you. That’s number fourteen on the list.”
“Since you never let me down, it won’t be much of a surprise, Harry.”
“Shh,” he hissed out. “Don’t tell anyone, because I want to have another box I can check off. I never realized how easy it was to become a better person. I would’ve tried it years ago if I’d known.”
“What’s number fifteen on your self-improvement list?”
“Compliment yourself. I’m having trouble with that one.”
As I ended the call, I saw Mort burst from his office fastening his sheriff’s cap in place.
“Let’s go, Mrs. F.”
“Where to?”
“To watch history being made.”
Chapter Three
We headed over to pick up Seth Hazlitt on our way to the town hall, where an emergency meeting had been called by Cabot Cove’s mayor. Apparently, the blizzard had gone from big to historic, the forecast upped to three feet even in these parts close to the Maine coastline. The governor had already declared a state of emergency and urged all municipalities to man their respective barricades as well, calling in public service reinforcements in the form of first responders and snowplow drivers, along with mechanics at the municipal depot to keep those plows on the road through what promised to be treacherous conditions.
In 1978, a similar blizzard had struck with such ferocity, piling up over four feet in many areas of New England, that all of Rhode Island was shut down for a week. A few winters back, when Boston’s total snowfall exceeded ten feet, narrowed streets were switched to one-way once hours-long traffic jams resulted in nobody getting anywhere. I remember reading about a shooting that occurred when a man snatched an on-street parking space from a neighbor who’d spent all of eight hours clearing it.
So it was no wonder our mayor had called this emergency meeting upon learning the forecast had been increased to dangerous, even life-threatening proportions. Normally, Mainers shrug off snowstorms with the ease of swatting a mosquito. Every once in a while, though, a storm comes along we can’t shrug off, and this one had the makings of a true storm of the century. On the way over to Seth’s, Mort was droning on about three weather systems currently on a collision course and destined to explode in what was being called a meteorological bomb. The first flakes had just begun to fall, leaving on the road a soft coating that deepened seemingly between blinks of the eye. Mort switched his SUV into all-wheel drive and we passed a number of vehicles already having trouble negotiating the slick roads.
“You haven’t told me what you managed to learn about Loomis Winslow, Mort.”
“That’s because there isn’t much to tell—nothing, in fact. My call to his office number went to voice mail, and I haven’t been able to find anyone else capable of telling me anything about his background. Nobody’s answering their phones or e-mails because everything down there is pretty much closed. Boston’s getting hammered as we speak.”
“You try Google?” I asked Cabot Cove’s esteemed sheriff. “The site doesn’t close when it snows.”
“Now, why didn’t I think of that?” Mort shot me a quick look, not wanting to take his eyes off the road. “Of course I googled him. But all I got was his office address and phone number. Since Loomis Winslow is such a unique name, I was hoping for more.”
“Maybe Harry McGraw will have more luck. Anything else I should tell him that might help?”
“Winslow’s not in the system, either DNA or fingerprints. I dug as deep as the federal no-fly and terrorist watch lists. Not surprisingly, he’s not on either. So he’s never been arrested, I can find no evidence of him ever getting married, and his credit score is in the low seven hundreds. That enough for you?”
“I didn’t ask about his credit score, Mort.”
“You should have. It’s the new gold standard when it comes to even the simplest background checks and affects pretty much every facet of your entire life, from buying a house or car to applying for insurance. Anyway, I was starting to do an even deeper dive, into his charge cards and such, when I got the call about the emergency meeting.”
“You haven’t mentioned anything about Winslow’s cell phone.”
“That’s because he didn’t have one on him or anywhere in the car.”
“Maybe the killer took it with him,” I surmised, “to hide the fact that his, or her, phone number was on the call log.”
“Speaking of which, Loomis’s cell phone number was on the business card we found in his wallet, and I’ve already requested a call and text message dump from his cellular provider.”
“How long do you expect the call dump to take?”
“A couple days, anyway. That’s business days, which means we’re looking at early next week. Could be even longer if the office holding those records is in the path of the storm.”
“I’ll bet Harry comes up with something before that.”
“Because he’s a better investigator than me?”
“Because he hasn’t got a town to protect during a blizzard.”
We pulled up in front of Seth Hazlitt’s picket fence to find him waiting for us, all bundled up with his ever-present cap in place.
“Don’t know what they need me for,” he groused, climbing into the backseat of the SUV and pulling off his gloves.
Mort flipped the windshield wipers to the next interval level. “It’s a meeting of principal chief responders, and you’re a principal first responder.”
“And me thinking I was just a country doctor . . .”
“A country doctor who agreed to serve on our ad hoc nine-one-one team.”
“When did I agree to that?”
“Around the time I took over as sheriff, Doc.”
“And I’m supposed to remember that?”
“No, you have me for that.”
Seth leaned forward to give himself a better view of the rapidly intensifying storm through the windshield. “I told you she was going to be a bad one, didn’t I? Could feel it in the air—smell it, too. Ayuh, this is going to be one for the ages.”
“Anybody lose their life in those historic storms that preceded this one?” Mort asked him.
“Well, if memory serves, Whitney Londine lost her dog in the ’seventy-nine storm.”
“I’m talking about lost human lives, Doc.”
“We’re a hardy bunch, Sheriff. You’ve lived here so long, I figured you’d know that by now. Nope, no deaths.” Seth turned his gaze on me. “You talk to Harry McGraw?”
“What makes you ask that?”
“Because our murder victim’s in the same line of work, and I know how you think.”
“Harry doesn’t know Loomis Winslow, or has ever even heard of him,” I told Seth. “It’s not like private investigators all belong to the same fraternity.”
Mort glanced at me again, even quicker. “You were president of your sorority in college, weren’t you, Mrs. F.?”
“Community service chair.”
“Organize anything big?”
“The school was in New Hampshire, so we always made sure to shovel out our elderly neighbors.”
“Where do I sign up?” Seth asked me.
* * *
* * *
Sam Booth had been mayor of Cabot Cove for longer than most residents could remember. The slogan for his last reelection campaign had been “The Do-Nothing Mayor,” which pretty much summed up the rigors of the mostly ceremonial job. And since he’d run unopposed in the last six elections, the voters were clearly expecting no more than what he’d promised.
But sometimes the position of mayor becomes a real job, and this was one of those times. Mayor Sam, as he was affectionately known, sat in the center of the raised table where town officials conducted the official business of Cabot Cove. Approximately sixty folding chairs were set up neatly on the chamber floor. Besides rare occasions like this, normally the only times all of them were filled (and then some) were during zoning board meetings, when the most contentious battles of the day were fought,
with various sides often shouting at one another, and even coming close to blows from time to time.
I grabbed a chair near the front, on the aisle, while Mort and Seth took their respective seats on the dais flanking Mayor Sam, along with our fire chief, Dick Mann, and Cabot Cove’s chief town elder, Ethan Cragg, a local fisherman and longtime friend of mine. Mayor Sam seemed to be searching the long table for a gavel with which to convene the meeting but couldn’t find it. He had worn a shirt and tie for the occasion, though the media turnout in the form of the local papers, radio stations, and television outlets was pretty thin. I did spot Evelyn Simpson, editor of the Cabot Cove Gazette, who was likely more interested in who was in the audience than with what anyone had to say.
“Okay,” Sam Booth started, “as mayor of Cabot Cove, I call this unofficial meeting officially to order. As you all know, the weather folks are now referring to this storm as a meteorological time bomb. I don’t know what a meteorological time bomb is, but I know it can’t be good. So we all thought it might be a good idea to convene Cabot Cove’s department heads associated with public safety, so each can update you on the storm from their viewpoint. Chief Mann, why don’t we start with you?”
Dick Mann cleared his throat. “I’ve called as much of our volunteer force as I could to the station to wait out the storm, in addition to keeping all four of our full-time firefighters and all three paramedics on shift for the duration. We’ll be focused on responding to emergency calls so long as the plows keep the roads reasonably clear. Our big trucks can operate in up to eighteen inches of snow in the event of a fire. We’re also prioritizing evacuations of those who find themselves stranded with no power, which is another eventuality we’re considering. In my experience, with a storm of this magnitude there are also going to be power outages. And with the wind speeds being upped in the latest forecast, those are virtually inevitable.”
Evelyn Simpson raised her hand. “Mayor Sam, based on what Chief Mann just said, have you arranged for outside electrical crews to be on standby in order to restore power as quickly as possible?”
The Murder of Twelve Page 3