by Donald Bain
We fell silent for a few more minutes until I said, “Not a very cheery Christmas for Patricia Brent.”
“I wouldn’t argue that with you,” Seth said, sitting back and wiping tartar sauce from the comer of his mouth with a napkin. “Never easy losing someone any time of year, but especially tough around Christmas.”
“I wonder who’ll be chosen to be Santa this year,” I said.
“Up to the committee,” Seth said.
“Cynthia Curtis suggested that you and I read Christmas stories to the kids together this year.”
His eyes went up. “Did she now?”
“Of course, I wouldn’t think of joining you unless you really wanted me to.”
“Seems like a right good idea, Jessica. I like it.”
I drew a deep breath and also sat back in my chair. Funny, I thought, how quickly we return to mundane, everyday matters so soon after someone dies. Here we were discussing the Christmas festivities as though nothing had happened to Rory.
Seth evidently sensed what I was thinking because he said, “Life goes on, Jessica. That’s the way it was meant to be by the good Lord up above. Festival is real important to Cabot Cove. Rory would have wanted us to get on with it, make it the biggest and best ever. Coffee?”
Mara had made pecan pie that morning. I passed it up, but Seth enjoyed a hearty serving. We finished our coffee and had stood to leave when Mort Metzger came through the doorway. He was immediately asked by others about what information he had concerning Rory Brent’s death, but he ignored them and came to us.
“Cup ’a coffee, Mort?” Seth asked.
“Don’t mind if I do,” our sheriff said, removing his Stetson hat and sitting heavily in a third chair at the table.
Mara came to take our new order, but lingered at the table after we’d told her we wanted three coffees. Mort ignored her presence and said, “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a little Yuletide murder on our hands.”
Seth and I looked at each other, eyes narrowed, brows furrowed.
“Rory Brent has been murdered?” Mara said loudly.
Mort nodded, looked up at her, and said, “Seems that way, Mara. Got any pecan pie left?”
She left the table. Seth and I leaned closer to Mort. Seth said, “Now, Morton, be a little more specific. Are you certain it was murder?”
“Certainly looks that way to me, Doc. Gunshot to the left temple. Didn’t exit the other side, so the bullet is still in his brain. Must have dropped instantly.”
I said, “Why are you so sure it was murder? Couldn’t it have been suicide?”
“Surely not, Mrs. F. No weapon at the scene. Of course, I’m saying he was shot based upon my examination of him. Could be something else was involved along with a gun. Doc Treyz will have to come to that determination. The ambulance boys were out there real fast, took poor old Rory away.”
“Where was the body?” I asked.
“Out in one of his barns. The big one at the back of the property.” A puzzled expression crossed Mort’s face. “Funny,” he said, mostly to himself.
“What’s funny?” Seth asked.
“Rory was out there in shirtsleeves. No coat, no hat, no gloves. Can’t imagine him trekkin’ all the way from the house out to the barn in this weather without winter clothing.”
“Maybe he just ran out there to get something quick,” I offered.
“That barn has got to be a half mile from the house. You don’t run out there to get something quick,” Mort said.
I didn’t argue with him.
“How’s Patricia?” Seth asked.
“She wasn’t there,” Mort said.
“That’s unusual, isn’t it?” I said. “She seems always to be at the farm.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Mort, sticking his fork into the pie Mara had set in front of him. “His crazy kid was there, though.”
“Was he the one who discovered the body?” I asked.
“According to Tim Purdy. Tim said he got out there just a few minutes after Robert found Rory in the barn. Robert said he was about to call my office when Tim arrived. Says he figured since Tim was coming back to town to tell us, there was no need for him to make a call.”
“I assume he was upset,” I said.
“You can’t prove it by me, Mrs. F. That kid is a real foul ball. Just had that dumb, placid expression on his skinny little face. Didn’t hardly say nothing.”
“What was he doing when you arrived?” Seth asked.
“Sittin’ in his room, reading magazines.”
“After just discovering that his father had been killed?” I said, unable to keep the incredulity from my voice.
“Like I said, he’s a strange-o. The only thing he said was about Jake Walther.”
“What about Jake?” Seth asked.
“He said I should go arrest the old son-of-a—no need to repeat his profanity,” Mort said, looking at me. “He said I should arrest Jake for killing his father.”
“Does he know that for a fact?” I asked.
Mort shook his head and ate more pie.
“Everybody knows Rory and Jake Walther had bad blood between them,” Seth said.
“But that doesn’t matter,” I said. “What would cause Robert Brent to immediately accuse Jake of having killed his father?”
“Beats me,” Mort said. “I told the boy I’d be back to question him.”
“Did he mention his mother?” I asked.
“Says she went to visit somebody. A cousin. Well, I’d better get back there and get answers to some questions I didn’t get around to asking. I suppose seeing good ol’ Rory lyin’ dead in his barn shook me up a little. Not supposed to, being an officer of the law and all that. But I’m human.”
“Mind if I come along?” I asked.
“I suppose not, Mrs. F., although there’s not much to see. My boys took pictures of the scene and did all their measuring before the ambulance took Rory away. Just a crude sketch on the dirt floor where he was found.”
“I’d like to go,” I said. “Maybe Patricia Brent is there and could use some comforting. You know, woman-to-woman.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Seth said. “I’d come with you, too, except I’ve got a full slate of patients this afternoon, starting—” He looked at his watch. “Starting ten minutes ago. Excuse me. Call you later at home, Jessica.”
Chapter Three
The landscape of Cabot Cove has changed quite a bit over the years I’ve called it home. It still retains a small-town charm, but is no longer the sleepy little coastal Maine village it once was.
The change isn’t especially apparent downtown because most of the shops continue to be owned by individuals, rather than chains and large corporations. The best coffee shop is not a Starbucks, and the largest clothing store is called Charles, not the Gap or Eddie Bauer or Jos. Bank.
But as you leave the center of town and proceed north on an extension of Main Street, the effects of “progress” become readily apparent. All the major fast-food companies have an outlet along that stretch of road, and there are now two strip-malls housing a couple of major department stores and trendy boutiques. However, unlike many towns and villages across America, the opening of the malls did not put local downtown merchants out of business. Cabot Coveites are a resilient lot, one of many things I love about living here.
I sat in the front seat of Mort’s sheriffs car and watched the sights go by as we continued north until the malls, hamburger places, and gas stations faded from view and we were in tranquil farm country. The area doesn’t support the farming industry as it once did, but there are still plenty of hearty souls who, having had their farms handed down from generation to generation, continue to work the soil and take from it both enough money to live, and a psychic pleasure only farmers understand.
As we approached Rory Brent’s spread, Mort said, “I just keep thinking of poor ol’ Rory no longer being alive. I really liked that man. I suppose everybody in town did.”
&n
bsp; “That’s a fair assessment, Mort. Not only was he likable, I was always impressed at his skill at farming. It’s not an easy way to make a living, but he certainly seemed to have the knack.”
“No thanks to that worthless kid of his,” Mort grumbled, turning into the long, tree-lined road leading up to the Brent house, which sat majestically on a rise, affording views in every direction of the hundreds of acres surrounding it.
Not that there was much to see that day. The clouds had lowered, obscuring the horizon.
We pulled up in front of the house and got out. The Brent residence looked the way a farmhouse should look. An inviting covered porch spanned the front. The main part of the house was painted a pale yellow, the shutters and front door a forest green. It was more than a hundred years old, but had been meticulously maintained. The paint was fresh, the grounds manicured. The only artifact giving away its twentieth-century occupants was a huge satellite dish off to one side.
We stepped up onto the porch, and Mort knocked. When no one responded, he knocked again, louder this time. A chill went through me as I stood there, and I pulled my coat a little closer about me. Eventually, the door opened, and we faced Rory and Patricia’s son, Robert.
“I said I’d be back,” Mort said. “Did your mom return yet?”
“No,” he replied flatly, the morose, sullen expression never changing on his thin, sallow face.
“You haven’t heard from her?”
“No.”
“Well, Mrs. Fletcher and I are going back out to the barn. You aren’t planning to go anywhere, are you, Bob?”
“No.”
With that, he closed the door, leaving us standing on the porch. Mort mumbled something under his breath—I assumed it was just as well that I didn’t hear what he said—and we came down off the porch, went around the side of the house, and headed for the barn that was partially veiled by the low clouds. Two vehicles were parked in front of it, one a marked police car, the other a vehicle without markings.
“The boys are still going over the scene,” Mort said as we trudged along a narrow path. We’d almost reached the barn when one of Mort’s deputies stepped outside.
“Just wrappin’ things up here,” the deputy said.
“Who belongs to that other car?” Mort asked.
“County police,” the young deputy replied. His name was Tom Coleman; he’d been a Cabot Cove police officer for less than a year.
“How’d they get involved so fast?” Mort asked, leading the way into the barn.
“Didn’t ask ’em,” Coleman said, closing the door behind us. Not that it mattered whether the door was open or closed. It was as cold in the barn as it had been outside.
Two men in suits stood by the crude outline of where Rory’s body had been. Mort introduced himself, and they did the same.
“I wish you hadn’t had the body moved so quickly,” one of them said.
“Didn’t see any need to leave him lyin’ on the ground,” Mort said. His attempt to keep annoyance out of his voice was unsuccessful. “I horsed him right out of here.”
The two county officers looked at each other. One asked, “Did you personally examine the body before it was removed?”
“Of course I did,” Mort said. “Took a real close look at it. Checked the area for any physical evidence, weapons, notes, things like that. Nothing there. Checked for footprints. Didn’t see any that wouldn’t have been made by the deceased.”
“Was the door to the barn open?” one of the men asked.
“Ayuh. I wasn’t the one who discovered the body.”
“You weren’t?”
“No. The son did. A fella named Tim Purdy came back into town and reported that Mr. Brent was dead. That’s when I came out here. Didn’t know whether it had been an accident or what. When I got here, I took a close look at Rory’s head. Single bullet hole to the left temple. No exit wound. No weapon. Checked for rigor. Body was getting cold, but still had a little heat left. Rigor was just setting in. I pegged time of death between two and four hours earlier.”
Mort had obviously done the right thing when investigating the scene, and I was proud of him. There are people who sometimes view the Cabot Cove police department as being run by country bumpkins, but that certainly isn’t true. Although Mort occasionally comes off as being unsure of himself, he’d kept pace with scientific advancement in police work ever since he became our sheriff years ago, and has a mind that is a lot keener than is sometimes apparent at first meeting.
The men had been talking to Mort as though I didn’t exist. Suddenly, they seemed to discover I was there and looked at me.
“This is Jessica Fletcher,” Mort said.
“The famous mystery writer,” one of the county officers said, extending his hand.
“I don’t know about famous, but I do write murder mysteries,” I said.
“Any special reason you’re here?” the other officer in civilian clothes asked.
“No. Mort told me what had happened out here, and I came along. Rory Brent was a friend of mine, a much loved individual in Cabot Cove.”
“I just thought you might be out here getting material for your next mystery novel,” the officer said, smiling.
“Never entered my mind,” I said.
They turned their attention again to Mort. “Interview any suspects?” he was asked.
“Talked to the son, Robert. He’s up in the house. The wife, Patricia, went downstate to visit a cousin, according to the son. Says she was due back a couple of hours ago.”
One of the men said to the other, “Let’s go up and talk to the kid.”
“Now hold on a second,” Mort said. “This murder occurred in my jurisdiction, and I’m responsible for the investigation. Perfectly fine for you county fellas to get involved with the autopsy, that sort of thing. But when it comes to questioning people, I’ll take care of that.”
Mort and the men looked at each other without another word being spoken. Finally, one of them said to the other, “Let’s go,” then turned to Mort. “We’ll be back.”
“I’ll be looking forward to seeing you again,” Mort said.
As we prepared to leave the barn to return to the house, Mort instructed his deputy to remain there until relieved. The front of the barn had been cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape. “Nobody comes in here unless he’s official. Got that, Tom?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come on, Mrs. F., let’s go have a chat with Mr. Robert Brent.”
When we were outside, I asked, “Are you sure you want me with you when you question him?”
“I wouldn’t if I was about to question him. But I just intend for him and me to have a little chat. Nothing wrong with you being there while we chat, is there?”
“I suppose not.”
A few soft snowflakes had begun to fall from the leaden sky. We’d just rounded the comer of the house when Dimitri Cassis pulled up in his taxi. Dimitri is a Greek immigrant who’d settled with his family in Cabot Cove after buying the local taxi service from Jake Monroe, who’d retired. He is a handsome, hardworking man who’d been readily accepted into the community. Because I don’t drive, I use his service often, to the extent that I have a house account I pay monthly.
He jumped out of the taxi and opened the rear door, through which Patricia Brent exited, carrying a small tapestry overnight bag.
“She doesn’t know,” I said quietly to Mort. “My God, what a shock this will be.”
Patricia was as small a person as her deceased husband had been big. She was birdlike and wore old-fashioned long, flowered dresses. She kept her graying hair up in a tight bun. When she spotted us approaching, a puzzled frown crossed her face.
“Hello, Patricia,” I said. “Jessica Fletcher.”
“ ’Afternoon, Mrs. Brent,” Mort said, tipping his Stetson.
“My goodness,” Patricia said, suddenly smiling. “What are you doing here?”
“Afraid we have some bad news,” said Mort.
We watched as she fished money from her purse and handed it to him. He appeared to not want to leave, now that he had heard there was some bad news being reported. But he also instinctively understood that as long as he was present, that bad news was probably not going to be voiced. He thanked her, said hello to Mort and me, got back in his taxi, and drove away.
Patricia took a deep breath, pulled herself up to her maximum height, which was not more than five feet, and said, “Well, now, what is this bad news you have?”
“Maybe we’d better go inside,” Mort said. “Starting to snow. Catch a chill out here.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll put on a pot of tea—unless you’d like something stronger. We always keep a few bottles in the house, although neither Rory nor I drink.”
Mort and I thought the same thing, that their son certainly didn’t fall into his parents’ teetotaling habits.
We followed her into the house and stood in a large foyer. She placed her bag on the floor, removed her coat, and looked in the mirror, touching hair that had been blown during the taxi ride. “Please, take off your coats,” she said.
“Ma’am, I don’t think we will be having any tea,” Mort said. He looked at me; I gave him a look that said we should take off our coats and go to a more comfortable setting to break the news. He picked up on my silent message, removed his jacket, helped me off with my coat, and we went with Patricia to the living room, a large, pleasant space, dominated by a huge hooked rug, antique pine furniture, and hundreds of knick-knacks.
“Please, sit,” she said. “Tea will only take a minute.”
“Mrs. Brent, I—”
Mort’s words were lost in the room as Patricia suddenly disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
When she was gone, Mort turned to me and said, “Something strange going on here, Mrs. F.”
I nodded.
“Here poor ol’ Rory is shot dead not more than six or seven hours ago. I say we got bad news, and she just sits us down in the parlor and goes in to make tea. The son knows what happened, but he doesn’t even bother coming down to be with his mother when she finds out.”