by Donald Bain
Mort didn’t know about the note I’d found in my study just before leaving for dinner. I’d shoved it into my handbag and taken it with me, and had shown it to Seth shortly after arriving at Simone’s.
“Have you arrested him?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. He’s cooling his heels in cell number three as we speak.”
“Mort, there’s something else you should know.”
“Oh?”
“Whoever broke into my house—Robert Brent, you say—left a note for me.”
“A note? What kind of note?”
“The words were spelled out with letters cut from magazines and newspapers. It said, ‘Butt out if you know what’s good for you.’ ”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you give it to me when I was at your house?”
“Because I didn’t know it was there. I discovered it on the floor as I was leaving for dinner with Seth. I have it with me.”
“I’ll be right over,” Mort said.
I returned to the table and recounted my conversation for Seth.
He thought in silence, then asked, “What do you make of all this, Jessica?”
I shrugged. “Obviously, Robert Brent left the note in order to intimidate me. But I can’t be certain about his motivation. Does he think I’ve been poking my nose into his father’s murder? If so—and even if I was—why would it concern him, unless—”
Seth finished my sentence. “Unless he killed his father and views you as a threat to him by proving it.”
Now, it was my turn to be silent. Somehow, the idea that a son would shoot a father in cold blood was anathema to me. Granted, Robert Brent was not your average young person, at least in terms of social skills and outlook on life. Children have killed their parents in the past, and it was naive of me to rule that out based solely upon my refusal to accept the possibility. Still, I wasn’t at all convinced that simple tension between a father and son would lead to such a dreadful act.
My thoughts gravitated to Jill Walther and her having sought counseling when she became pregnant in her senior year. Rory Brent, Robert’s father, had made that five-thousand-dollar contribution shortly after Jill visited Thomas Skaggs at his agency, Here-to-Help. Jill Walther and Robert Brent had been classmates. When I raised his name during my coffee with her at The Swan, she’d visibly reacted, was angry that I’d even mentioned him.
Was Robert Brent the father of Jill’s aborted child?
Had Rory Brent made that large donation to Here-to-Help in order to cover up his son’s involvement in the pregnancy?
The problem with that scenario was that I couldn’t conceive of Jill Walther and Robert Brent having had an intimate relationship. They were polar opposites—she the quiet, achieving young woman; he the brooding, marginal student with a sour view of the world.
But I’d learned long ago to never question why any two people get together. Many of my friends over the years have ended up in relationships that didn’t make sense to me, or anyone else viewing it from the outside. Yet there was obviously an unnamed, mysterious attraction between them that others were not expected to fathom.
Seth said nothing.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“I’m thinking that Robert might have left that note on somebody else’s behalf.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Phillipo Simone came to our table and asked what we wished to order as an entree.
“Any specials tonight?” Seth asked.
“Of course,” Simone said, grinning. “There is always a special dish for our favorite doctor and writer.” He described a veal dish in exquisite detail, and we both ordered it, along with a salad.
“Wine?” Simone asked.
“Not for me, thank you,” I said. Seth ordered a glass of Chianti; I opted for a glass of water. I considered a bottle of mineral water, but had decided a long time ago that paying premium prices for water in a bottle didn’t make any sense, especially since Cabot Cove’s natural water is excellent.
We changed subjects and chatted about things other than the episode at my home that evening. Naturally, the Christmas festival came up, and we discussed in greater detail how we would approach our reading of Christmas stories to the children. We were well into that topic when Mort Metzger entered the restaurant, removed his Stetson, greeted Phillipo Simone, and came to our table, followed by Simone carrying an extra chair.
Once Mort was seated, Seth asked him about the circumstances leading to Robert Brent’s confession.
“I drove out to the Brent farm,” Mort said. “I beat the kid there by a half hour. I’d no sooner gotten out of my car and was walking up to the house when he comes flying in like a bat out of hell in a pick-up truck. He didn’t see me at first, and got out of the truck. When he spotted me, he panicked and jumped back in the truck to make a getaway. I stopped him and asked where he’d been. He had guilt written all over his face, that’s for certain. I asked him if he’d been at your house, Mrs. F., and he blurted out that he had. He said he went inside to get warm.” Mort laughed, “Some excuse, huh? I told him I was putting him under arrest for breaking and entering, and maybe a few more things. He looked at me with that blank expression of his and said, ‘Okay.’ ”
“Was Patricia Brent there?” I asked.
“I didn’t see her. There were lights on in the house, but I figured I didn’t have any obligation to go tell her what I was about to do. I put the kid in my car, and we drove back into town. Read him his rights, told him he was entitled to have an attorney present. He just mumbled a few things, so I put him in the cell.”
“Will he be charged?” I asked.
“Ayuh. I’ll take him before Judge Coldwater in the morning. You’ll have to be there, Mrs. F.”
“Why?”
“To testify. Tell the judge what happened.”
“But I’m not the one bringing charges,” I said. “You and the district attorney will do that on behalf of the state.”
“We could, but it would have a lot more clout if you showed up.”
I looked at Seth, who nodded.
“All right,” I said.
“Now, what about this note?” Mort asked.
Before I could respond, Mr. Simone came to the table and asked the sheriff if he wished anything.
Mort looked at Seth’s glass of wine and said, “Can’t drink ’cause I’m still on duty. Maybe just one of your antipasto platters and a glass of that nonalcoholic beer.”
Seth, who’d been looking at the note earlier in the evening, handed it over. Mort’s brow furrowed as he digested it.
“What do you make of it, Mort?” Seth asked.
“Doesn’t seem to be any debate about what it says, or means,” our sheriff replied. “Looks like young Mr. Brent was trying to scare you off.”
“We understand that, Mort,” I said, “but the bigger question is scare me off from what?”
“Has to do with Rory’s murder. Seems pretty simple to me,” Mort said.
I was tempted to tell him about Jill Walther’s pregnancy and the possible link to Robert Brent, but knew I couldn’t do that without breaching Seth’s confidence. Mort carefully folded the note and put it in the pocket of his blue down winter uniform jacket. “Wish you hadn’t touched this,” he said. “Could be prints on it.”
“I never stopped to think. I was running out the door, spotted it on the floor, grabbed it, and brought it with me,” I said defensively.
“No harm, I suppose,” Mort said.
Phillipo’s son, Vincenzo, who worked with his father at the family restaurant, delivered Mort’s antipasto platter and bottle of Buckler beer.
“More than I can eat,” Mort said. “Help yourselves.”
Seth and I glanced at each other and smiled. We’d never seen a platter of any size that was more than Mort’s voracious appetite could handle.
Mort stayed throughout the dinner, and we left the res
taurant together. To our surprise, it had started to snow, lightly and gently.
“Weatherman didn’t say anything about snow,” Seth grumbled, raising the collar of his overcoat and pulling it tight around his neck.
“You folks take care, drive easy,” Mort said, tipping his hat.
“Same to you,” Seth said.
As Seth drove me home, I asked absently, “I wonder why it took Robert Brent the length of time it did to drive home after leaving my house.”
“Probably stopped off for a Big Mac,” Seth said.
“Possibly. Or, maybe he stopped to see someone.”
“Like who?”
“I don’t know.” I turned and faced him. “Jill Walther?”
“I don’t think so,” was Seth’s response. “Can’t imagine him going to the Walther farm, considering everything that’s gone on.”
“Maybe he met her some other place. Maybe they had a date.”
“Always a possibility, I suppose,” Seth said, turning into my driveway, which now had a thin coating of fresh snow on it.
“Cup of tea?” I asked.
“Thank you, no. Sure you’ll be all right alone here tonight?”
“Of course I will. Robert Brent was the one who broke into my house, and Robert Brent is sitting in a jail cell. Nothing to worry about.”
“I suppose you’re right. Well, Jessica, sleep tight, call me in the morning.”
“I will. And thanks for dinner. It was excellent, just what I needed.”
As was his custom, Seth walked me to the door and waited until I’d opened it. Before I did, however, I saw that a large manila envelope was propped against it. I picked it up. My first name was written on it in big letters.
We stepped into the foyer, and I opened the envelope. A handwritten note was attached to a sheaf of papers.
Jessica—Here’s what I came up with at Town Hall re: the Walther property. Hope it’s helpful. Pay particular attention to the info on Rory Brent’s “other life.” He had more money than anyone knew. I checked on the partnership he was involved with in Indianapolis. An eye-opener. Happy reading. Sorry I missed you. Will call in the morning. Joe.
“What’s that all about?” Seth asked.
I explained that I’d asked Joe Turco to see what he could find at the town clerk’s office about the Walther farm.
“Why did you do that?”
“Curious, that’s all. Jake Walther and Rory Brent allegedly argued about land and money. I just thought public records might provide a hint as to what might have prompted that argument.”
“I see. Well, looks like you’ve got some reading to do. Frankly, I can never make sense out of legal papers. All full of gobbledygook and boilerplate legalese.”
I laughed. “I’ll do my best,” I said. “Thanks again for dinner. Careful home. The roads are slippery.”
Despite my bravado about being alone in the house that night, I found myself apprehensive once there. I kept thinking of earlier that evening: the sound of someone intruding upon my sacred place, seeing the person run out the French doors, and believing it was Robert Brent; the papers from my desk strewn all over the floor. I’d been fortunate. Evidently, the only reason Robert came to my house was to look for something in my desk, and to leave his sophomoric note warning me to “butt out.” Inflicting serious bodily harm wasn’t on his agenda.
Still, there was something unsettling about being where an intruder had stood only hours earlier.
I tried to put it out of my mind, turned on the television set, and settled back to watch the news, the papers Joe Turco had delivered resting unread on my lap. I surfed the channels, using the remote control, until landing upon the Fox News network, where Roberta Brannason was filing a live report on the Rory Brent case from the steps of City Hall.
“I’m Roberta Brannason reporting from Cabot Cove, Maine, where one of this charming town’s most beloved citizens, Rory Brent, a prosperous farmer and a man who brought joy to the village each year as Santa Claus at the annual Christmas festival, was murdered in cold blood. We’ve been reporting to you on the progress of this case, which has shaken Cabot Cove to its foundation. Now, Fox News has learned that an arrest is imminent. The prime suspect all along has been another farmer, Jake Walther, a man universally disliked by most citizens of this Maine community. He’s been detained, then released on two occasions. Now, reliable sources have told us that the laboratory analysis of a footprint found on the dirt floor of Rory Brent’s barn does, in fact, match the sole of one of Mr. Walther’s boots ... and that the sheriff of Cabot Cove, Morton Metzger, in concert with the local district attorney, will once again arrest Mr. Walther and charge him with the murder of Santa Claus. I’m Roberta Brannason reporting from Cabot Cove, Maine.”
I clicked off the TV, sat back in my recliner, closed my eyes and sighed.
I thought of Mary Walther, and, of course, her daughter, Jill. What a tragedy to have a member of your family accused of having murdered another person. The pain must be unbearable.
I placed the papers on a table next to my chair, got up, went to the window, and peered through the glass. It was still snowing, although it hadn’t intensified. I returned to my chair and waited for the TV weather report. Our local weatherwoman—local in the sense that she reported from a station in Portland; Cabot Cove does not have its own TV outlet—said that we shouldn’t expect much in the way of accumulation, and that the snow would stop before dawn.
Although dinner had been delicious, it sat heavy on my stomach; too much food without enough time to properly digest it. I considered taking a walk, but the weather dissuaded me. Instead, I went to the cabinet in which I keep liquor and poured myself a small snifter of half brandy and half port wine.
Years ago, when coming back to the Scottish mainland from the Orkney Islands, we’d hit vile weather, so bad that I wondered halfway through the trip whether we’d make it. Obviously, we did, but I stepped ashore a shaken person, and with an extremely upset stomach. I went into a hotel near the dock and asked the bartender for a small glass of blackberry brandy, which I’d always considered good “medicine” for an upset stomach. The bartender, an older Scottish gentleman, suggested I instead try a mixture of port and brandy. “Make you feel like a new person,” he told me.
His advice proved right. My stomach immediately settled down, and I enjoyed a big dinner before heading for my hotel in another village along the coast.
I took a sip of my medicinal concoction and focused my attention on the events of earlier that evening. It was obvious that Robert Brent had left the note to scare me. What I couldn’t figure out was what he might have been looking for in my desk. What sort of paper would be of interest to him, so much so that he would break into my home and risk arrest?
My pondering of that question was interrupted by the ringing phone. I glanced at a clock on the wall; it was eleven-thirty, late for someone to be calling, especially in Cabot Cove, where most people lived the adage of early to bed, early to rise, including me.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Fletcher?”
I recognized Jill Walther’s voice.
“Jill?”
“Yes. Did I wake you?”
“No, although I was about to head for bed. I watched the news and the weather.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, I have to talk to you.”
“I’m happy to hear that, Jill. I wanted very much to see you again before you returned to school. Your mother said you’d be cutting short your vacation.”
“Yes. That was her idea.”
Her tone was accusatory. She didn’t sound at all happy that her mother had made the decision for her to prematurely leave Cabot Cove.
“Why don’t we get together tomorrow? Breakfast? My treat.”
There was a long, profound silence on the other end of the line.
“Jill?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. Could you come to the farm?”
“Tomorrow?”
“No, right now. I wouldn’t ask e
xcept ... Mrs. Fletcher, I’m so scared.”
“About what?”
“About everything. About my father and what might happen to him. About me. I don’t think I could go back to school knowing my father is accused of Mr. Brent’s murder. I couldn’t face anyone. I saw the news tonight, too. They keep talking about my father having killed ‘Santa Claus.’ That isn’t fair. I can’t stand having people think of me as the daughter of someone who murdered such a popular person as Mr. Brent.”
“I think you might be overreacting, Jill. Most people don’t blame a family member for the act of another. Besides, your father hasn’t been proved guilty of anything.”
She began to sob, softly at first, then more urgently.
“Please, Jill, get hold of yourself. I don’t see how I could come to your farm tonight. I don’t drive and—”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Fletcher. I never should have made this call. This isn’t your concern.”
“Oh, but it is, Jill. I took a very special interest in you, and that interest continues to this day. I want what’s right for you, no matter what your father might have done. And I stress the word might. Maybe I can get someone to drive me out there—the local cab company.”
Her toned brightened. “Would you?” she said. “Thank God. You’re such a wonderful person and—”
“I’ll call and see if they’ll pick me up. It might be too late for them, although at this time of year they tend to work later. People getting ready for Christmas, that sort of thing. If you don’t hear from me, I’ll be there within the hour.”
“Thank you again, Mrs. Fletcher. I knew I could count on you.”
Dimitri answered on the first ring.
“Are you still working?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. My cousin worked all day, and I’m driving at night. A busy time of year.”
“Yes, it is. Dimitri, could you pick me up at the house and take me out to the Walther farm?”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Of course I can, Mrs. Fletcher, but—”
“But what?”
“Why do you want to go out there at this time of night, and in this weather?”