“What now, Mrs. F?”
“I’d like to see your rental records for the day the blizzard hit. The day Norman Huffaker disappeared.” I gave him the date.
“Suppose I can find those records,” he said. “Not sure where to look. Don’t pay much attention to what goes on here, ’cept for whether it made any money. Hasn’t lately.” He started rummaging through dog-eared boxes of files. “Never cared how things worked here. Like I said, I was hopin’ it would help me and the Mrs. retire someday.”
“I’m looking for a rental to Norman Huffaker.” I spelled his name.
“Gottcha.”
“And it’s between us,” I said. “Whatever we come up with.”
“Gottcha, Mrs. F.”
After a few more minutes of pulling pieces of paper from the files, Jake held up a batch. “These here are from that day,” he said. “Let’s see. Huffaker. Huffaker.” He perused each rental receipt. “Nope. I don’t see anybody with that name, for that day. Only rented eleven. Looks like I’d better count on drivin’ instead of retiring.”
“Could I take a look myself?” I asked.
“Sure can. Hope you have more luck than me.”
I flipped through each rental agreement with my index finger, like an Evelyn Wood speed-reader. The records were dirty, smudged, dog-eared. Some names were virtually illegible.
No Norman Huffaker.
But then during a second run, my finger stopped, as if the agreement were written in braille.
Praether.
B. K. Praether.
Red Chevy.
Norman, the ghost, a.k.a. B. K. Praether.
“Gorry, what brings you here this time of night, young lady?”
“Sorry to barge in on you, Mort. Let’s just say that I was in the neighborhood.”
Mort peered at me over the rim of half-glasses, which he usually wears only at night, and at home. We all have our pockets of vanity. Wearing glasses is one of our sheriff’s.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” I said.
“Nothin’ that can’t wait. I’ve been trying to come up with new rules for my game. Parker Brothers still doesn’t like the old ones.”
Mort had spent the past few years fine-tuning a board game he’d invented. It was a murder mystery game. He’d sent it to the large game company, Parker Brothers, and anxiously awaited its response, like an author sending off a first novel and checking the mail six times a day.
“I’m sure you’ll work it out,” I said. “I was just down at the Old Moose River Bridge.”
“In this weather. Below zero down there, I figure.”
“It was cold. Jake Monroe took me. I had him drop me off here. He left to pick up someone. He’ll be back in a half hour.”
“What were you doin’ down at the bridge?”
“Brainstorming, actually.”
“Seems more sensible doing that in front of a fireplace.”
“I thought the same thing. I found something very important, Mort.”
“Don’t tell me you found Norman’s body.”
“No. Thank God. But I did find a body of evidence.”
“Take off your coat and sit awhile, Jess. I’m all ears.”
I spoke while taking off my hat, scarf, and other layers of winter clothing. “I happened to go to the Rent-a-Wreck car rental agency. You know the one. By Jimmy’s Store Twenty-four. By the bridge.”
“I get it,” he said. “Mr. Norman Huffaker rented a car there. Right?”
“Wrong.”
He sighed, crossed his arms, and shook his head. “Don’t keep me in suspense, Jess. Save that for your readers.”
“B. K. Praether rented a car from the agency the day before Norm’s alleged suicide note was found.”
“Who the hell is B. J. Praether?”
“B. K. Praether.”
“What’s this Praether fella have to do with Huffaker?”
“He’s Norman’s ghost.”
“Uh-huh. You feelin’ okay?”
“I feel a lot better knowing what I now know.”
“And what you now know, it seems to me, is that Norman Huffaker is dead, but his ghost rented a car from Rent-a-Wreck.”
“Exactly. A red Chevrolet. Only Norman isn’t dead. I’d bet my life on it.”
“That’s bein’ pretty sure, Jess.”
“Norm faked his suicide at the bridge, walked to the Rent-a-Wreck agency, got in his rented Chevy, and drove to—”
“I’m listening.”
“Drove to an airport. Bangor. Boston. Maybe even West Hartford.”
“In that storm?”
“Yes. What I need for you to do is to put an all-points on the rented car he used. Here.” I handed him a photocopy of the rental receipt. “All the airports he might have reached before they shut down.”
“Jessica, I’ve got a reputation of sorts to keep. I’m not about to put out an all-points for a ghost’s car.”
I laughed. “Ghostwriter,” I said. “Praether is the pen name Norman used early in his career. He wrote two western novels under it.”
“Oh. Now I get it. All right. I’ll put out the bulletin right away.”
“Thanks, Mort.”
Jake arrived. I put on my coat and hat, thanked Mort again, and headed for home.
“Accomplish what you were after?” Jake asked.
“I certainly did, Jake. And it wouldn’t have been possible without you.”
He grinned. “That’s always good to hear, Mrs. F. Looks like me buyin’ into that Rent-a-Wreck agency paid off, at least for you.”
“Yes, it did, Jake.”
“Just wish it’d make some money.”
“It will,” I said. “Give it time. Everything takes time.”
“Jess. Mort here. Sorry to be calling so late, but thought you’d want to know as soon as I got word. B. K. Praether flew from Boston to Washington, D.C. Dumped that red Chevy in the long-term lot at Logan. Must’ve been a hell of a ride in that storm. At any rate, your dead friend—at least his ghost—is in our nation’s capital.”
I sat up in bed to confirm I wasn’t in a deep REM sleep. “Washington? I wonder why he went there.”
“Can’t answer that, Mrs. F. ’Course, he’s a writer. You know how they are.” He chuckled.
“I can’t thank you enough, Mort. You sound exhausted. Get some rest.”
“Exactly what I intend to do. Good night.”
I looked at the clock. One-thirty. Ten-thirty in Los Angeles.
I called from my office downstairs. Jill answered on the first ring.
“Hello, Jill. It’s Jessica.”
“I know,” she said.
“You do? Expecting a call from me?”
“No. I just had Caller ID installed. When the phone rings, you see the phone number of the person calling you. It’s a wonderful feature.”
“So I’ve heard. Did you get it in the hope that Norman might call, and it would help you track him down?”
“Of course not, Jessica. Norman is dead. I’ve accepted that. I think it’s time everyone did, including you, my good friend. What are you doing up so late? You were always an early-to-bed, early-to-rise person.”
“I’m wide-awake, Jill, because I have exciting news for you. Norman didn’t jump from that bridge. He’s alive.”
“What?”
“I tracked him down through a car-rental agency in town. He rented a red Chevy from a place called Rent-a-Wreck, the day before he left his so-called suicide note. He drove to Boston that night, and flew out of there to Washington, D.C.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Maybe there are two Norman Huffakers,” she suggested.
“But only one B. K. Praether. He signed the rental agreement using his pseudonym, Jill.”
“That’s—that’s far-fetched, Jess. Sorry, but I don’t buy it. Why would he fly to Washington? Besides, if Norm were alive, he’d call me. He wouldn’t put me through this. You know that. If my husband were alive, h
e’d call. He’s never tried to cause me pain. This would be the most extreme form of cruelty. Norman isn’t capable of that. Of committing suicide? Yes. Of hiding from me? No.”
Discussing it any further was futile. She’d finally accepted her husband’s death. That was hard enough. Now, with my news, she’d have to go through another process that she wasn’t ready for. And who could blame her? It hadn’t occurred to me that her reaction would be anything but ecstatic. That was my problem. She needed time to digest what I’d said.
“Jess, someone is playing a nasty trick,” she said. “Someone’s trying to pretend that Norm didn’t commit suicide. That’s the only plausible answer.” Her tone was firm and deliberate.
“I’m sorry, Jill. I know this is difficult for you.”
“Oh, God,” she sighed. “Jess, forgive me for sounding like a snapping turtle. I’m not angry with you. You’ve been wonderful, there for me every step of the way. Your heart’s always been in the right place. Maybe I’m just angry at the world right now. Next time I’m in this mood, and see that it’s your number on my Caller ID, I’ll spare you my mood by not picking up.”
“And I’d feel horrible if you did that. You don’t have to spare me anything. I’ll check in with you tomorrow, Jill. Try to get some sleep.”
“You, too. Jess. And keep looking for Norman, on the outside chance you’re right. I hope you are.”
“You know I will. Good night, Jill.”
Chapter Fourteen
I intended to indulge myself by sleeping a little later that morning. But Sheriff Mort Metzger’s call at seven dashed that intention.
“Is this Jessica Fletcher, the famous mystery writer and public speaker?”
“Good morning, Mort.”
“I figured you were up.”
“You figured wrong. But I am now. Up. What can I do for you?” I knew he wanted something from me. There’s a tone that creeps into his voice whenever he seeks a favor. That tone was there loud and clear.
“The pleasure of your company at breakfast, ma’am.” He said it with an exaggerated cowboy twang.
Now I knew for certain he wanted something. No free lunches. Or breakfasts.
“Pick you up in half an hour?”
“An hour.”
“Be there in forty-five minutes. We’ll go to Mara’s. I’ll make a reservation.”
“Mara doesn’t take reservations.”
“She will if I make it under your name. Your name’s got clout in this town.”
“Whatever you say. A stack of Mara’s blueberry pancakes is suddenly appealing.”
I was surprised, and pleased, to see Seth Hazlitt arrive with Mort in his patrol car. I hadn’t spoken with him for a few days, not even on the phone.
“Good morning, Jessica,” Seth said. “Been a stranger lately.”
“I might say the same about you.”
“Been busy. Delivered Sally James’s baby early this mornin’. Fine-looking boy.”
“Wonderful. Are you joining us for breakfast?”
“Ayuh. Never turn down a free meal from our sheriff.”
As we stopped at an intersection with stop signs for all, a tan Jeep with Massachusetts plates ignored its sign and barreled through.
“Damn fool,” Mort said, turning on his siren and flashing lights, and taking pursuit. The Jeep’s driver, a young blond woman, quickly pulled over. Mort got out and sauntered up to her. Seth and I watched as the woman opened her door and joined Mort on the side of the road.
“Just like a woman,” Seth said. The driver had begun to cry.
“Hardly a gender issue,” I said.
“Look there, Jessica. She’s pleading with him not to give her a ticket. Probably tellin’ him she’s got a sick and dying mother at the hospital, or a needy child at home.”
Mort calmly wrote her a ticket. As he did, her tears turned to fury. We couldn’t hear, but the words coming from her mouth were obviously not flattering to Mort.
When Mort rejoined us, Seth said, “Looks like whatever the young lady said, it didn’t work.”
“Said she had a sick mother, and a kid at home.”
Seth smiled at me.
“What were her parting words?” I asked.
“Not fit for your ears, Jess. Sorry for the delay. She really worked up an appetite in me. Everybody hungry?”
“Ayuh,” Seth said.
“Ayuh,” I said.
Mara’s was as busy and festive as usual. A temporary thaw had arrived in Cabot Cove; everyone seemed to have taken advantage of it by getting out of their homes. You grab those opportunities in a snowy place like Maine. Chances were good that any moderation in temperature wouldn’t last long. I’d checked the local radio station before leaving my house. More blizzard-like weather was forecast for early evening.
The windows in Mara’s were fogged from the heat. The heavy, pleasant aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and freshly baked cinnamon buns permeated the air. Mara had set aside a table for us, which undoubtedly annoyed the dozen people waiting for tables. I would have been content to join them, and wait my turn. But Mort had this thing about reservations. He viewed his ability to reserve tables in busy places as a perk of being chief law enforcement officer. He wasn’t an arrogant man, but when it came to getting a table—
We ordered, and made small talk. I knew Mort would eventually announce why he’d arranged for us to have breakfast together. That was another quirk of our sheriff. He enjoyed leaving friends in suspense until he decided he was ready to communicate.
Mara placed my pancakes in front of me. A heaping mound of corned-beef hash arrived for Mort. Seth opted for oatmeal, eggs over-easy, a double side order of bacon, and an English muffin. Seth may be a physician, but he’s never prescribed himself a low-fat diet.
“Delicious,” I announced. “Now, Mort, what’s behind this sudden, but admittedly pleasant, breakfast?” I looked to Seth, who shrugged, and consumed another tablespoon of oatmeal.
Mort grinned.
“What is it, Mort?”
“Looks like a hearty stack of blueberry pancakes to me,” he said.
I guess my face mirrored my annoyance at being played with, because he added, “Dr. Michael O’Neill called me.”
“And?”
“He wanted to know your favorite restaurant.”
“Did he?”
“Yup.”
“And why might he have done that?” I turned to my pancakes to indicate a lack of interest in the answer.
“Because he wants to take you to a real nice place.”
“You’ve been seeing O’Neill?” Seth asked.
“Seeing him? No. Of course not.”
“Seems to me he’s smitten with you, Jessica,” said Seth.
“He and his wife’s gettin’ a divorce,” Mort said.
“Not a bad-looking fella,” Seth said.
“Wanted to know other things about you, Jess,” Mort said. “He asked me what kind of flowers you liked best. And whether you were partial to perfume, or chocolates.”
“This is absurd,” I said. “What restaurant did you tell him was my favorite?”
“Mara’s,” Mort said, giggling.
“At least you got that right,” I said. I glanced about the busy luncheonette. No one seemed to be listening to us. I leaned across the small table and said to Mort, “Michael O’Neill has asked me to dinner twice. And twice I’ve turned him down.” I added syrup to what was left of my stack. “Now, could we change the subject? Anything new with Norman? Anything from Washington?”
“I think you should go,” Mort said.
“What about Norman?” Seth asked.
“I’ll fill you in later.”
“You find his body?” Seth asked Mort.
“I think you should go, Jess,” Mort repeated.
“Don’t think the thought hasn’t occurred to me,” I said. “I have friends in Washington I haven’t seen for ages.”
“I don’t mean you should go to Washington,” Mort said
. “I think you should go to dinner with O’Neill.”
“Does it count for anything that I have absolutely no interest in having dinner with Michael O’Neill? I prefer curling up with a good book in front of the fire instead of wasting time—his and mine.”
“Case closed,” said Seth, wiping his mouth with a napkin, sitting back, folding his hands over his corpulent belly, and smiling. “I never did like O’Neill much. Just proves that Jessica Fletcher’s got good taste—in everything—especially men.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” I said.
“I’m not done yet,” Mort said as Mara refilled our cups.
“I think you are,” I said.
“Hear me out?” our sheriff asked.
“I always hear you out,” I said.
Mort, too, checked the other customers. Secure that our conversation wouldn’t go further than the table, he whispered to me, “Ever consider, Jessica, that having a simple dinner alone with O’Neill might turn up some useful information about your friend, Huffaker?”
Seth sat up straight. “What’s goin’ on with Norman Huffaker?”
“Later,” I said, gently placing my index finger on Seth’s lips. To Mort: “Go on. I’m listening.”
“Seems to me, Jess, that whatever happened to your friend, and to the other victims—Miss Beaumont, who’s dead, and the gal recovering in the hospital—this Worrell Institute’s got something to do with it. You know I’ve never bought any of the official explanations. Still consider everything an open case.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“Dr. O’Neill runs that institute.”
“Right.”
“So, it strikes this cop that if anybody knows what’s goin’ on, it would be the boss. Dr. O’Neill.”
“Makes sense,” Seth said, anxious to be brought into the loop.
I didn’t need any further explanation from Mort as to what he wanted me to do. I said, “You want me to go to dinner with Michael O’Neill on a ruse, under false pretenses, in order to coax information from him.”
“Is that what you want her to do?” Seth asked Mort.
“Not a bad idea,” Mort said. “Just dinner. Could clear up a lot of unanswered questions about your friend.”
“I won’t go to dinner on that basis,” I said.
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