by Donald Bain
“This is Jessica Fletcher. I’m calling from Cabot Cove. Dr. Seth Hazlitt called you on my behalf.”
“That’s right, he did,” the man said gruffly.
“I’d like very much to talk to you ... today, if at all possible.”
There was a long silence.
“What time would be convenient for you?” I asked.
“I’m not sure we should be having this talk, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I know how delicate the topic is, Mr. Skaggs, but as you know, someone’s life may hang in the balance.”
After another prolonged silence, he said, “Noon? At my office?”
“That would be fine. Can you give me directions?”
After he had, I hung up and stepped out into the lovely December day. My temptation was to call Skaggs back and cancel our appointment. But I knew I couldn’t do that, now that I’d put things into motion. I had no idea where the visit would lead, but if it would shed any light on what had happened to Rory Brent, I owed it to him, to his family, to Jake and Mary Walther—and to myself—to pursue it.
Chapter Sixteen
Thomas Skaggs lived in the town of Salem, about forty-five minutes south of Cabot Cove, just over the county line. I considered asking Dimitri to drive me there, but decided that discretion was the better part of valor in this situation. I checked the bus schedule and caught the eleven o’clock, which made a stop in Salem on its way to New York City.
I hadn’t traveled on a bus in years, and found the experience enjoyable, although I suppose I might not have had the same reaction were I taking a longer trip. The ride was smooth and without incident; forty minutes later, I got off in front of Salem’s small town hall.
I stopped someone on the street and asked for directions to the address given me by Skaggs. This friendly citizen gave me a big smile and informed me it was only two blocks away. I thanked her and walked slowly in the direction she’d indicated. Minutes later, I was in front of a prewar, two-story brick building in what appeared to be a residential area. I looked around; it was the only commercial building within sight.
I approached and read names on small brass plates affixed to the right side of the door. There were six occupants of the building, all of them having something to do—at least according to their names—with social work or counseling. The name at the top of the row was Here-to-Help, the organization run by Mr. Skaggs.
I stepped inside and looked at a directory on the wall. Here-to-Help was upstairs in office number six. I climbed the stairs, went to the door with the organization’s name on it, and knocked. A woman’s voice said, “Come in.”
I stepped into a cramped reception area, where a middle-aged woman with carefully coifed silver hair sat behind a metal desk.
“Yes?” she asked.
“I’m Jessica Fletcher. I have a noon appointment with Mr. Skaggs.”
“Oh, yes, we’ve been expecting you. I can’t tell you what a pleasure this is, Mrs. Fletcher, to actually meet you in person. I’ve read most of your books—Mr. and Mrs. Skaggs have, too—and we love them. Imagine, you living so close and never having met you. This is an honor.” She got up, came around the desk, and extended her hand. “Let me tell Mr. Skaggs you’re here.”
“Before you do that, I’m a little unsure of what Here-to-Help does.”
“Oh, I think Mr. Skaggs would be the best person to explain that to you. But basically, we’re a resource for young men and women who’ve made a wrong turn in life and need some sort of restructuring.”
“You mean counseling?”
“Yes, we do a great deal of that, too. But primarily we point them in the direction of other agencies that can more directly help them, depending upon the problem they bring to us.”
The door opened, and we both turned. Standing in the doorway was a mountain of a man with a black beard, ruddy cheeks, and glasses tethered to his neck. He wore a rumpled tan safari jacket over a blue denim shirt, jeans, and sneakers.
“Jessica Fletcher?”
“Yes. You must be Mr. Skaggs.”
“Tom Skaggs, and I would appreciate it if you would call me Tom.”
“Provided you call me Jessica.”
“We’re already off on the right foot,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice. “Please, come in.”
His office wasn’t much bigger than the reception area, but it had a comfortable feel to it because of the dozens of framed autographed photographs on the walls. I glanced at a few, which were pictures of him with familiar political faces.
“My personal rogues’ gallery,” he said. “You don’t get paid a lot in this business, but you do meet a lot of important and self-important people. I keep telling the bank that holds the mortgage on my house that these pictures are worth something, but they never seem to agree.”
I laughed. “I suspect there are millions of people with that same problem, doing important good work, but not being recognized for it by bankers.”
“Well said. Please, sit down.”
I took one of six director’s chairs that formed a semicircle to one side of his desk. He plopped into a large, high-backed leather swivel chair and propped one sneaker—it had to be size fourteen—on the edge of the desk. “Well,” he said, “I have a feeling you’re about to cause me to break one of my most stringent rules.”
“Which is?”
“Never to discuss anyone who’s ever stepped through this door.”
“I can understand and appreciate that, Tom, but I’m sure you agree that the circumstances make it the perfect time for you to break that rule.”
“You may be right. From what I’ve been told by Seth Hazlitt, this could represent one of those extenuating circumstances. I believe in the law, but sometimes it has to be broken if the cause is great enough. Same goes for bureaucratic rules. Fill me in. Seth did his usual shorthand explanation. I suspect that you, being the great writer you are, will do a better job of weaving the tale.”
“I’m not sure being a writer will help me in this situation, but I’ll try to be concise. I’m a great believer in the old adage, ‘If I had more time, I would have written less.’ ”
His laugh was as big as his body. “I like that,” he said. “Go ahead. I’m all ears.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the murder of Rory Brent, a successful farmer in Cabot Cove, and a man loved by everyone in town.”
“Santa Claus at your yearly festival.”
“Exactly. Our sheriff has made an arrest in the case, a gentleman—another farmer—named Jake Walther.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about that, too.”
“Jake Walther is disliked by many people,” I said. “He’s an unpleasant sort of man, rough-hewn and without what might be termed a warm and fuzzy personality. He was immediately suspected of the murder, mostly because of having rubbed people the wrong way. The deceased’s son, Robert, claims that Jake Walther threatened his father, said he was going to ‘blow his brains out.’ ”
“Sounds like the motive was there.”
“Oh, yes, if the son is to be believed. At first, our sheriff only questioned Jake Walther in connection with the murder. Jake claimed to have had an alibi provided by his wife’s brother, Dennis, who lives with them on the farm. But then Dennis changed his story and said he’d been threatened by Jake if he didn’t provided that alibi. I should mention that Dennis is somewhat impaired. He’s the sort of person who will agree with anything in order to not offend. There’s speculation that our sheriff might have pressured him into changing his story, although I tend to dismiss that theory, knowing our sheriff as I do.”
“I’m sure you’re right in that assessment, Jessica, although it’s possible, isn’t it, that your sheriff influenced this fellow, Dennis, without meaning to.”
I nodded. “Yes, that is always a possibility. I brought a young lawyer into the case, and he was confident Jake Walther would be released, based upon the grounds the sheriff and district attorney were using to hold him—nothing more than the deceased’
s son’s claim that there was bad blood between the two men, and that Dennis had changed his story and says Jake threatened him. But then the county police discovered a footprint in the barn where Mr. Brent was murdered, and they further claim that Jake Walther owns a pair of work boots with a unique characteristic in the sole, some sort of tear or rip that matches the print found in the barn. Based upon that, he’s being formally charged with the murder.”
I sat back, confident I’d accurately portrayed the situation.
Tom Skaggs, too, leaned back and ran his hand over his beard. Finally, he came forward in his chair, placed his elbows on the desk, and cradled his chin in his hands. “I take it you aren’t convinced that this Jake Walther committed the murder.”
I shook my head. “No, that’s not quite right. I don’t know whether Jake Walther killed Rory Brent or not. Based upon this new piece of evidence involving the boot, I have to go with the sheriff’s decision to charge him with the crime. On the other hand, there was such an obvious rush to judgment that I must wonder whether even our sheriff, and the district attorney, have been unduly influenced by public condemnation of Jake Walther. I’m not trying to clear him of anything. But I’m also determined that an innocent man not be charged with a heinous crime. We have the Christmas festival coming up, and you know how important that is not only to us in Cabot Cove, but to thousands of others who’ve come to depend upon our festival as an affirmation of the Christmas spirit.”
Skaggs pondered what I’d said, stood, then went to a gray metal, four-drawer file cabinet in a corner of the office, where he withdrew a folder. He returned to his desk and opened the file.
“I understand how sensitive this is, Tom. But I also hope you see the necessity of knowing what actually happened. It could have an important bearing upon this case.”
His response was to nod and flip through pages in the file, asking as he did, “Are you involved in this, Jessica, because of a professional interest? As a writer of crime novels?”
“Goodness, no,” I said. “My publisher did ask me to consider writing a nonfiction book about the case, but I’ve declined. On the other hand—”
He glanced up. “On the other hand?”
I smiled. “On the other hand, I must admit to a certain genetic curiosity that has held me in good stead when writing my novels, but that sometimes gets me in trouble.”
He returned my smile. “Curiosity killing the cat?”
“Fortunately, not yet. I just want to make you aware that I’m cognizant of the difficult position this puts you in, just as it put Dr. Hazlitt in an awkward posture.”
“No need to further explain. If I wasn’t going to open these files to you, I would have said so right from the beginning. I’ve known Seth Hazlitt for years. He’s one of the most honorable and ethical physicians I’ve ever met, and I come in contact with a lot of them because of what we do here. No, I’m willing to share this with you and answer your questions, provided we keep it between us, in this room. In other words, you can use what you learn, but can’t tell anyone where you learned it. Fair enough?”
“It will have to be.”
“Okay, here’s what happened. Jill Walther was referred to this agency by Dr. Hazlitt a year ago. She was a senior in high school, and I understand was a very good student. I’m also led to believe that she was not the sort of young woman who might be termed ‘promiscuous.’ ”
“I certainly would concur with that. I got to know Jill pretty well because of her writing talent. I arranged for a scholarship for her to New York University.”
“I didn’t realize that. A nice thing you did for her.”
“I did only what I thought was justified.”
“Does Jill know everything going on with her father regarding the murder?”
“Yes. She came home on Christmas break a few days early once she heard about it. She’s with her mother at the farm.”
“You say you got close to her. She never mentioned any of this?”
I shook my head. “Not a word.”
“I suppose I’m not surprised,” he said. “The reason she was sent here, after all, was to get her out of your county. I was reluctant when Seth Hazlitt first called about her. My experience has been that when a young person messes up, it’s better to face things right where they are, with the people they know. But there seemed to be some additional pressure involved, and I certainly wasn’t about to say no. We seldom do when a young person is referred to us.”
“I know that Dr. Hazlitt referred her to you,” I said. “I also know the reason she went to him.”
“A sad thing when a high school girl becomes pregnant. It’s a national epidemic. For some reason, these young women think having a baby will give their lives something worthwhile, something to love and to love them back. They never stop to realize that they’ve put their entire lives on hold, never consider the tremendous financial responsibility having a child entails.”
“I certainly agree with that,” I said. “Tragic when a young woman forfeits her future by becoming pregnant before she’s ready emotionally and financially to raise a child in the proper way. But my understanding from Seth Hazlitt is that this was not the result of a deliberate act on her part. There was the question of whether she was raped, and became pregnant by virtue of that.”
“That’s right. Frankly, I honestly don’t know the circumstances that led to her pregnancy. She told me she’d been raped, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard that from a girl suffering guilt, and trying to lay the blame off on something, or someone else. Did Dr. Hazlitt indicate what he felt had actually happened?”
“No. He told me she claimed when she went to him that she’d been raped. She wanted him to arrange for an abortion, even do it himself. Of course, he refused and urged her to go to the police. She said she couldn’t do that.”
“Exactly the same thing she told me when she was here. Does Dr. Hazlitt have any idea who the alleged rapist was?”
“Not that he told me. Did she give a name to you?”
He shook his large, shaggy head. “I urged her to bring charges, too, but she was adamant about not doing it. I have the feeling she was afraid that if she named the person, there might be serious repercussions. I didn’t press; it’s not my job to press.”
I thought for a moment, then asked, “Did she come here seeking an abortion?”
“Yes.”
“And you refused as well, I assume.”
“We’re not in the abortion business. I wanted her to stay in our group home for a few days and receive some counseling before making up her mind about what to do. She refused that as well. I gave her the names of two respected abortion clinics. That’s protocol with Here-to-Help. I pointed out other options—delivering and keeping the child, or putting it up for adoption. All I could do.”
“Did she come here alone, Tom? I mean, was she accompanied by anyone?”
“Not that I’m aware of. I asked her whether someone had brought her, and she said no. I felt very sad seeing her walk out of this office after the brief conversation we had. She seemed like an extremely intelligent and decent girl. I think I could have helped her if she’d stayed.”
“Do you know if she went on to get an abortion?” I asked. “I mean, I suppose I have to assume she did since I’m not aware she had a child. If she did have a child—no, that’s impossible. I spent a great deal of time with her throughout her senior year. She must have aborted the baby.”
“I’d say your assessment is correct.”
“Do you have any idea where she had the procedure performed?”
“Not a clue.”
“Did she pay for your services?”
“No, nor was she asked to. We’re funded by the state, some federal funds, and charitable donations. We don’t take money from the young people we serve, although there are times when a family member will insist upon making a donation to the agency. We never turn them down.” He laughed.
“Did anyone offer such a contrib
ution on her behalf?”
He grunted as he searched for an answer. “Not that I can recall, although sometimes such contributions are made long after the young person has been helped by us, and made anonymously.”
“Do you keep records of contributions made according to their source? I mean, would you have a list of contributors to this agency from, say, Cabot Cove?”
“Mrs. Witherspoon is a fanatical record keeper. She makes a note of everything. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has the height and weight of every contributor in her files, along with eye and hair color. Want me to ask her?”
“If you would.”
He left the office, leaving me with some time to consider what he’d said. That Jill Walther had become pregnant in her senior year of high school was certainly a shock, not because I’m unaware that such things happen, but that it happened to her. Of course, her claim that she’d been raped cast a very different light on her situation—if that claim was true.
I was still digesting what he’d told me when he poked his head in the door and asked, “How far back do you want me to go?”
“Not too far,” I replied. “Maybe the period immediately following her visit to you.”
When he returned, he carried with him a computer printout. He sat behind his desk and scrutinized it while I waited. “Yeah, there were a couple of donations from Cabot Cove during the three months following the date of my meeting with Jill. A couple of small contributions, but one impressively large.” He laughed again. “We could use more people like this. Interesting donor, based upon what you’ve told me.”
“May I see the list?”
“Sure.”
He positioned the printout on his desk so I could peruse it. The name came off the page with physical force. Rory Brent had made a contribution of five thousand dollars shortly after Jill Walther sought the counsel of Here-to-Help.