Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three - A Few Weeks Later
Chapter Four - Autumn—That Same Year
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight - Thanksgiving Day
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve - A Few Days Later
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen - The Following Saturday
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Death strikes a false note
“Hello?” I said. My voice was thick with sleep. As always happens when the phone rings at an odd hour, I expected the worst possible news.
“Suppose I woke you. Sorry about that.”
“It’s—it’s four-thirty in the morning.” I pulled my plaid-flannel sheets and down comforter over my head and pressed my ear against the earpiece.
“Who is this?”
“Sheriff Mort Metzger.” He sounded offended that I didn’t know.
“Why are you calling at this ungodly hour?”
“They found somebody dead up at Worrell.”
“Who?” I asked.
“A young woman. ’Bout twenty-nine, thirty. Name’s Maureen Beaumont. A classical musician. Played the flute, I think.”
“How did she die?”
“Gunshot to the head.”
SIGNET
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First Printing, August 1995
Copyright © 1995 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All Rights Reserved.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
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For my wife, Renée
Chapter One
“The usual, Jess?”
“Not today, Mara. Spring has sprung and I’ve sworn off blueberry pancakes. Bikini season’s just around the corner.”
“You wear a bikini?” Mara asked over her shoulder as she drew coffee from a stainless-steel urn behind the counter.
“No. My girlish figure has never been girlish enough to run the risk. But I would like to be able to fit this summer into what bathing suits I do own.”
“Aw, come on, honey,” said Mara in her usual upbeat voice. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. You look fabulous. Me? I’m another story. I only eat broken cookies because the broken ones don’t have calories. Doesn’t work. The hips keep getting bigger, the shoulders smaller. Sure about the pancakes?”
“Yes, I’m sure. But thanks for the compliment. One egg. Over easy. English muffin, dry. Coffee. Skim milk. Sweet’n Low.”
“Gorry, Jess,” said Seth Hazlitt, Cabot Cove’s senior and most popular physician, and my dear friend. “You sound like the girl in that movie—what was it?—When Henry Met Sweetie?”
“When Harry Met Sally.”
Cabot Cove’s sheriff, Morton Metzger, another good friend, sat up straight and grinned with satisfaction at having come up with the right title. “It’s Harry and Sally, Seth. Where’d you get Henry and Sweetie, for cryin’ out loud? It’s Harry and Sally. Everybody knows that.”
There was laughter up and down the counter of Mara’s postage stamp-sized luncheonette. Cabot Cove had other larger, and certainly more elegant eating places, but none with the waterfront charm and down-home comfort of Mara’s. Somehow, the ripped vinyl chairs and cigar burns on the edge of the counter and tables made the simple, good food taste even better. But probably the most palatable aspect of the small luncheonette was the spirited conversation. Every table, and every stool at the counter held an opinion—on everything. Including movies.
“I loved When Harry Met Sally,” Kurt Jones, our local pharmacist with his faded movie-star looks of another era, chimed in. “That was some scene. The two of them were sitting in a restaurant and the girl faked—”
“Yes, that’s the same movie, Kurt,” I quickly said, hoping to kill the topic. But my attempt breached one of many unwritten rules of debate in Mara’s. Nothing was off-limits. If you dared step in for breakfast, you went with the flow.
“That was some funny business,” said a lobster fisherman who, until now, had been content to silently attack his overflowing plate of corned-beef hash. His partner, whose weather-beaten face and ink-black fingers defined Maine fisherman, sat next to him. He gave out with a knowing laugh and launched into his critique of the movie’s most memorable scene.
I again tried to change the subject. Mara giggled. She’d been serving breakfast to the town’s fishermen for almost seventeen years, seven days a week, the doors open at five A.M., the grill fired up by five-thirty. She’d heard it all. And thrived on it.
The men at the counter continued to eat their substantial breakfasts as they launched into a series of risqué comments, punctuated by winks, elbows in the ribs, and explosive laughter. It was obviously more fun talking about Harry and Sally than the hard, cold day they faced out on the Atlantic.
“Finally, a real spring day,” I said as Mara served my breakfast. “I saw a robin out my kitchen window this morning.”
> “Don’t get too used to it,” said Seth. “Just a tease. You know full well, Jessica, that spring doesn’t come to Maine until July.”
“July? Try, August,” said Kurt, as he put on his coat.
“Another day it’ll be colder’n a moose yard,” one of the fishermen said.
Kurt bumped into a small table, sending menus to the floor.
“Gawmy SOB, ain’t he” came from the fishing contingent at the counter.
Kurt winced at the down east reference to his clumsiness and left.
“I suppose I’m just the eternal optimist,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned, spring is here to stay.”
“To optimism,” said Mort, lifting his glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.
I returned his toast with my coffee cup.
“Goin’ to the press conference tomorrow?” Seth asked.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said.
“Should be interesting to see what this Worrell fella has up his sleeve,” said Mort. “Somethin’ scandalous most likely. Seems nobody holds a press conference lest there’s a scandal to hush up. Last time Cabot Cove had one was what, ten years ago? When the padre announced his resignation after that boy accused him of sexual misconduct.”
“We had one more recently than that,” said Seth. “Remember? Martha called a conference to announce she was pregnant and was takin’ maternity leave from bein’ mayor.”
“I certainly do,” Mort replied, dabbing a moistened corner of his napkin at egg yolk that had slid down his chin and onto his brown uniform tie. “Sorry,” he said. “What about you, Jess? Got any inside information on what Worrell’s up to?”
“Afraid not. At least nothing official. But I think you rumormongers are going to be disappointed.”
“How so?”
“Because from what I hear—and it’s strictly hearsay—there’s not going to be any scandal involved. My information is that Mr. Worrell is simply going to announce that he’s donating Worrell Mansion to Cabot Cove.”
“That would be terrific,” one of the town’s sanitation workers said. He’d been listening to our conversation from a table behind us. “It’s some big place. What’ll the town do with it?”
I shrugged. “Probably what it’s always done with it. Use the grounds for picnics and ball games. The difference will be the town will own it, instead of just having access to it.”
“I heard he was going to propose that the town turn it into a nature preserve and museum,” another customer offered.
“I didn’t hear that,” Mara said from where she turned a batch of home fries. “We already have enough nature preserves.” She leaned on the counter, and using the greasy spatula for emphasis, said in a conspiratorial voice, “I hear the mansion is going to become a school for the deaf and the blind. Seems that the young Mr. Worrell and his wife have a baby who’s hearing impaired.”
“What a shame,” I said. “Just goes to show money can’t buy everything. Here he is with more money than Ross Perot, good-looking, young—couldn’t be more than forty—and the only living heir to the Worrell fortune. You’d think he had it all. Then you hear something like this, and you realize that tragedy can hit anyone.” I took the napkin from my lap and placed it on the counter. “Breakfast was delicious as usual, Mara.”
“Leaving us so soon,” Mort asked.
“Yes. Have to run. Literally. A slow jog or fast walk through Monroe Park. Maybe I’ll spot more robins celebrating this lovely day.”
“Playing hooky, huh?” Seth said, laughing.
“Yes. I finished the latest book this past weekend and intend to take off some time before starting the next. Taking a breather, as they say. Sound good, Doc?”
“Therapeutic, Jess. That’s for certain. Like I always say, if I could write prescriptions for vacations and sabbaticals, I would. Far as this doctor’s concerned, stress kills more people than everything else combined.”
“Shame health insurance plans don’t cover prescriptions for vacations,” I said.
“Nothing preventative ever is,” Seth added with solemnity.
“That’s what’s wrong with this new health plan comin’ outta Washington,” Mort said.
“It’s got its good points,” said Seth.
“Hell it does,” the sanitation man said.
Sensing the beginning of a heated debate, I stood. “Have a wonderful day,” I said.
Mort handed me the five-dollar bill I’d left on the counter. “My treat,” he said. “Happy spring!”
“Why, thank you, Mort. That’s very kind. And yes. Happy spring!”
Chapter Two
“Please, everyone, take your seats so we can get started.”
Sybil Stewart, Cabot Cove’s new mayor, repeated her request, this time in a louder, more shrill voice. Her frustration at not being able to bring the press conference to order creased her round face into a grimace.
“P-l-e-a-s-e,” she implored. “Let’s show Mr. Worrell our best Cabot Cove manners.”
Sybil, who had always been an unabashed Nancy Reagan fan, including Ms. Reagan’s taste in fashion, smoothed the pleats on the skirt of her tailored crimson suit as she waited for order. Her suit and blouse were strictly big-city. Her red pumps were small-town.
A few people stopped their animated conversations and took their seats, but most ignored Sybil’s pleas. I looked around the congested room and couldn’t help but smile. Interest in today’s announcement seemed to have drawn all of Cabot Cove, as well as people whose faces were unfamiliar to me. No surprise, actually. Like most New Englanders, our town’s citizens love to talk about politics. Whether I’m waiting in line at Store 24 or having dinner at any of Cabot Cove’s restaurants, eavesdropping on conversations around me invariably picks up snippets of political debate. And not just local political talk. National politics, too. In the blood, I suppose. Or the clam chowder.
Jared Worrell, the reason for the press conference, stood quietly behind Sybil. Although this was the first time he’d been to Cabot Cove, he dressed like he belonged. His sport jacket was preppy muted-brown tweed. He wore tan slacks with a crease that would cut cheese, pale blue button-down shirt, subtly striped green-and-brown tie, and penny-loafers. His Roman nose and square jawline hinted at aristocracy, like a Kennedy. Although he lived in Southern California—Beverly Hills I’d heard—he was not my vision of a “Muscle Beach” surfer. He was quite short, thin, and pale. I judged him to be in his early thirties.
Since the death of the Worrell family’s patriarch more than a hundred years ago, the mansion had been held in a trust agreement with Cabot Cove that stipulated that as long as the town maintained it, its use as a conference center, park, and playground was to be enjoyed by all the town’s citizens. And enjoy it we did, along with the tourists who traveled to our sleepy village on the ocean to soak up the grandeur of another time. L.L. Bean in Freeport and lobster dinners up and down Maine’s coast would always be bigger attractions. But Worrell had its share of out-of-town admirers, and the local economy benefited from their tourist dollars. Whether what Mr. Worrell would announce this morning would change things was why we’d all shown up at city hall—to hear first-hand what the future held.
As the last surviving family member, Jared Worrell had come to town to fulfill the terms of the trust agreement. Every five years, on the sixteenth of March, the senior surviving member of the Worrell family was free to discontinue the trust agreement, and to sell the property. Until this day, the senior surviving member had been Jared’s elder sister, Waldine, who would always send a letter informing us that the agreement would remain in force for another five years. But Waldine Worrell had died the previous summer. It was now Jared’s responsibility to make the decision about his ancestors’ family mansion. That he’d decided to come in person made townspeople nervous. If he was going to extend the trust agreement, all he had to do was write a letter as his sister had done. Then again, some reasoned, he might have decided to personally appear in order to bask in the lim
elight of announcing that the mansion would be donated outright to Cabot Cove. Glass half-full, or half-empty? The speculation would cease in a few minutes, when Jared Worrell officially put an end to it.
“Quiet everyone!” Sybil Stewart had given up trying to cajole the crowd to attention. She fairly yelled into the microphone, and her new approach worked. She was a woman to be reckoned with. The room became relatively silent.
“Thank you. As you all know, Jared Worrell has come to Cabot Cove to make an announcement about the future of the Worrell Mansion. If you’re wondering whether I’ve been made privy to what he is about to say, I assure you I haven’t been. Among many of Mr. Worrell’s admirable traits, discretion is obviously one of them.” She glanced at Worrell, who smiled. Not a big smile. Just a hint. He stood straight, hands at his sides, his eyes slowly scanning the room. A self-assured man, I thought. Great wealth always helps establish such confidence.
Sybil continued, “I know that Mr. Worrell has a busy schedule and must leave immediately following his remarks. So I won’t take any more time. Mr. Worrell.”
Worrell stepped to the podium, glanced down at an index card, said, “Thank you for all being here. I know how important my family’s residence has been to Cabot Cove. I also know that there is understandable concern in this room about the future of Worrell Mansion. Let me assure you that you will be happy to hear what I have to say this morning.”
Sybil tried to initiate a round of applause, but her hands were the only ones to be heard. The faces around me were serious. You don’t tell someone from Maine that he’ll be happy, and expect him to applaud. Like people from Missouri, and I suppose just about everywhere else, telling us to be happy doesn’t work. “Show me!”
Jared sipped water from a glass and continued: ‘Too often, stately houses and sprawling grounds end up in the hands of greedy developers who only see such properties as sites for intrusive condominiums and ugly shopping malls. That will not be the case with my family’s home and gardens.”
Brandy and Bullets Page 1