by Donald Bain
“Makes you sound like an overnight success,” Ed said, “but I know better.”
Melinda blushed. “It’s true. What I didn’t tell you about were the four books I wrote that got rejected everywhere.”
“That’s part of the learning curve for most writers,” I said.
“Well, they don’t matter now. I finally got an acceptance, and I’m over the moon.”
“That deserves a toast,” I said, raising my glass. “To Melinda and her success as a writer.”
“Would you read it, Mrs. Fletcher?” Melinda asked. “I’d really be honored. It does have a murder in it.”
“Even if it didn’t, I’m flattered that you want me to read it,” I said, which prompted her to run into the house, returning seconds later with a box containing the manuscript, which I put next to my purse.
While I was very much in the moment with my host and hostess and their niece, my attention occasionally wandered to the broad expanse of acreage next door, which sloped down to the water and a dock where the Leboeufs’ boat, a moderately sized yacht, was tethered. In what my neighbors would call their “yahd,” the Leboeufs had installed a putting green, tennis courts, a large free-form swimming pool, and a separate guest cottage, all of which had been commented upon during construction and none of which was visible from the Fillers’ patio. However, because the Leboeuf deck was elevated, I could see it from where I sat despite a solid white board fence and tall hedgerow that defined the property line. Eva Leboeuf came in and out of a rear door. Obviously for tonight, at least, she was leaving the running of the bistro to the staff. The two brooding young men who’d beaten Compton also made appearances from time to time, including ten minutes tossing a football between them. I hadn’t seen her son, Wylie, and wondered whether he was also at the house.
Ed Filler fiddled with his grill, which he said was called a Big Green Egg. He was a purist when it came to barbecuing, using a special brand of charcoal and tending it with loving care. When Elaine and Melinda declined my offer of assistance and went inside to put finishing touches on the evening’s meal, I stood, stretched, and casually strolled down the hill to where a breakwater separated the two properties. I looked back. From this vantage point I had a better view of the goings-on at the Leboeuf house. Eva had returned to the deck. She wore sunglasses and a shawl around her shoulders and sat in a teak armchair, reading a magazine. One of the young protectors sat at the opposite side of the deck, lost in what I assumed was a smartphone. Today’s technology is sometimes baffling to me, surefire evidence that I’m on the wrong side of fifty. But I have learned my way around my cell phone as well as my computer.
I was about to turn back to the Fillers’ patio when something caught my attention on the Leboeuf boat. Someone was moving about.
I walked closer to the fence and shielded my eyes from the setting sun. The figure that I’d seen now came into view on the boat’s aft deck. It was the Leboeufs’ son, Wylie.
“Hello,” I called, waving.
My greeting startled him. He looked left and right before focusing on me.
“Hello,” I repeated. “It’s Jessica Fletcher.”
He appeared to be uncertain how to respond. Finally, he gave me a halfhearted wave and said, “Hi.”
“It’s a beautiful boat,” I said. “Do you get to go cruising on it often?”
“No.”
“That’s a shame. You have such a picturesque spot here.”
“It’s nice,” he mumbled; I had trouble hearing him.
“I wanted to let you know that I’m so very sorry about what happened to your father,” I said.
Wylie’s head bounced up and down, but he didn’t respond.
I glanced back to see whether Eva and her watchdogs were aware of our conversation. They didn’t seem to be.
“Do you mind if I talk with you?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“May I come aboard?”
When he didn’t respond, I wedged through an opening at the end of the fence and hedgerow and walked out on the dock. Wylie’s expression was pure confusion.
“It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it?” I said as I stepped onto the boat’s deck.
“I don’t know if you should be here,” he said, looking back to where his mother had dozed off. “I’m not supposed to talk to the press or anyone.” Her two bodyguards—I suppose that was the proper description of them—had disappeared inside the house.
I held my hands up to show that I wasn’t hiding anything. “I’m not the press,” I said. “I just wanted to extend my condolences to you and your family. How are you and your mother holding up? Your father’s death was such a terrible, unexpected tragedy.”
He stared at me in wary silence.
An unexpected response to be sure; I didn’t pursue it.
He walked toward the bow and I followed.
“Do you know how to pilot this boat, Wylie?”
“No. He never taught me—wouldn’t ever let me touch the controls—but I think I could do it anyway. I watched how he did it, and sometimes when we had guests he hired a captain do the piloting.” He smiled softly. “He used to show me what everything was for.”
“Maybe you can learn now. Your mother might like that.”
“I don’t think so. You’re that writer, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Jessica Fletcher.”
“You’re not a cop.”
“No. I promise I’m not.”
“Then why are you asking questions about my family?”
“Did you know your father and I were colleagues of sorts? We share the same agent in New York. I once interviewed your father for a book I was writing. He was very helpful to me.”
Wylie gave a soft snort. “You must have been one of the few, but that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“It’s a terrible blow when someone is murdered, Wylie. I’m sure this is a painful time for you. And like you, I want to see your father’s killer brought to justice.”
He turned to face me, and I saw in his large brown eyes torment and hurt, anger and resentment. In the few times I’d seen him before, he’d never had that youthful glow that most young people have, and I wondered whether his use of drugs had dulled his expression, dulled every aspect of his life.
He stared at me. His lips moved, but no words came from them. Then he said, “It was that guy Fowler who killed him, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Is that what you and your family think?”
He nodded and mumbled, “Yeah. My mother said that’s who did it. Rico said so, too.”
“Rico? Is he one of the men on your father’s staff?”
He nodded, his gaze going up to the deck of the house.
“I’m sure the police will determine who’s responsible for your father’s death,” I said. “But it’s a mistake to jump to conclusions until all the facts are in.” I glanced back to the Fillers’ patio, where Ed was fussing with his prized barbecue. “I think it’s time I rejoined my hosts. It was good to talk with you, Wylie.”
“What are you doing here, Jessica?” a harsh female voice asked.
It was Eva Leboeuf. She stood on the pier with hands on her hips, an angry expression on her fine-boned face.
“I’m having dinner with your neighbors,” I said, gesturing up the hill. “I saw Wylie here and walked down to offer my sympathies to your son.”
“Do you really think that’s necessary?”
“He’s suffered a tragic loss. I don’t see anything wrong in acknowledging that.”
“You’ve been here longer than that. What else did you talk about?”
“About Dad’s murder,” Wylie said harshly.
Eve kept her eyes on me. “He doesn’t know anything about it.”
“As I said, Eva, I simply came to offer condolences. To you as well as
Wylie.”
Behind her, the two men had left the house and were heading downhill toward us. Max, the German shepherd, was with them, thankfully on a leash. “Is she bothering you, Mrs. Leboeuf?” one of them called out, as Max let out a series of sharp barks.
She didn’t answer.
“I feel sad about your husband’s death, Eva,” I said. “I know we don’t know each other very well, but in my few encounters with Gérard, he always spoke so proudly about you and—”
I started to retreat from the boat when Eva said, “Maybe it’s time you and I had a talk, Jessica.”
Her protectors flanked her, arms crossed, their faces stony, while Max growled at me.
“I’d like that,” I said.
“I know that you’re some sort of a celebrity in this wretched town and that you enjoy poking your nose into other people’s business.”
I was startled by her aggressive tone, but waited for her to continue.
“I also know that you’re a friend of the Fowler family and that you questioned that imbecile, Compton, in the hospital.”
“That’s all true,” I said.
“Gérard may have been helpful to you in business, but that does not give you the right to meddle in our lives.”
“A vicious murder has been committed in Cabot Cove, and that impacts everyone who lives here. I would think that you, above all, would want the killer arrested and prosecuted as swiftly as possible.”
“There are professionals investigating my husband’s murder. We don’t need amateurs analyzing us or thinking they know more than the police.”
“I agree. However, I have been helpful to the authorities in the past, and I hope to be again.”
“All they have to do is arrest Brad Fowler and charge him with the murder. You certainly can’t think that he’s innocent.”
“Jessica, soup’s on!” Ed Filler yelled from his patio.
Eva seemed to be trying to push me into concurring with her conclusion. But I didn’t agree and wasn’t about to be pressured to say something she could—and likely would—use against me. “I’d like very much to continue this conversation, Eva, but it will have to be at another time. My host is calling. Please excuse me.”
I could feel their eyes boring into me as I retraced my steps through the gap in the fence and up to the Fillers’ yard, where I joined my friends at a nicely set table near the barbecue.
“Have a productive conversation with our neighbor?” Ed asked, grinning.
“I suppose you could call it that,” I said. “It wasn’t especially friendly, but considering what they’re going through, I can hardly fault them for being reluctant to speak with me.”
“They’ve never been friendly,” Elaine put in, lowering her voice, although it was doubtful anyone next door could overhear our conversation. “She’s always been a cold fish, and the son—well, you’ve heard the rumors about him.”
“I feel sorry for him,” I said.
“He’s a loner. No telling what’s on his mind,” Ed said. “What did you talk about?”
“I mentioned the murder. He said that he and his family believe that Brad Fowler killed his father.”
“Well, they’re only saying what everyone else in Cabot Cove is,” Ed said, “at least that’s what I hear from my patients.”
Elaine spooned homemade potato salad onto our plates. “I just wish it was over,” she said. “Gérard Leboeuf’s murder has the whole town on edge.”
I silently agreed. Knowing that a murderer was wandering around Cabot Cove had created a pervasive tension among townspeople, me included. But I forced that thought from my consciousness. I chose to sit with my back to the Leboeuf estate next door as I dug into the meal in front of me. Elaine was right; the barbecue sauce that her husband had created was superb, the ribs tender and falling off the bone. There was, of course, lots of conversation with Melinda about her young-adult novel and her plans for the future. Such youthful enthusiasm was contagious, and her exuberance brought back memories of when I was her age and viewing the future with wide eyes and an equal amount of awe.
The setting had become still and serene after darkness had fallen. Patio lights, augmented by flickering lanterns, cast a soft glow over everything. Elaine brought out a key lime pie as special as her husband’s barbecue sauce. I asked for the recipe.
“It’s so easy, Jessica. Even Maureen Metzger couldn’t mess up this pie.”
After a cup of strong and flavorful coffee, I stifled a yawn and glanced at my watch. “I think it’s time for this lady to head home and to bed,” I said. “It’s been a wonderful evening—good food, good friends, and spending time with a future National Book Award winner.”
Melinda beamed as I picked up her manuscript and my purse and stood.
“I’ll drive you home,” Ed said.
“I can call a cab,” I protested.
“Nonsense,” Ed said. “Just give me a minute to carry some things inside.”
“I’ll help,” I said.
With the table cleared, and after hugs to the ladies, I walked with Ed to his car in the driveway. As I was about to get in, my cell phone sounded.
“I wonder who that is,” I said, rummaging through my purse in search of the phone. “Hello?”
“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher,” a female voice managed between sobs.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“It’s me—it’s Marcie Fowler.”
“What’s wrong, Marcie?”
“You have to come. It’s Brad. They took him away.” The rest of her words were drowned in her tears.
“Please, Marcie, try to get ahold of yourself. Where are you?”
“At the restaurant.”
“What’s happened to Brad?”
“Sheriff Metzger and his deputies arrested him for Gérard Leboeuf’s murder.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Chapter Nineteen
Ed Filler said that he would be glad to come with me into the Fin & Claw, but I told him it wasn’t necessary. During our drive there, I had filled him in about Marcie’s call.
“The police must have the goods against him if they’ve made the arrest,” he said.
It was a reasonable assumption on Ed’s part. Brad Fowler’s very public dispute with Gérard Leboeuf placed him at the top of the suspect list, and the authorities had focused their attention on him from the beginning. His arrest had begun to feel inevitable. Despite my hopes for Brad’s innocence, I had to acknowledge that if someone was arrested and charged, there must be enough evidence to justify such action. Mort Metzger and the other investigators might well have uncovered tangible evidence that incriminated Brad beyond a reasonable doubt. If so, they were to be congratulated for solid police work. However, knowing as I do that the police want to solve a crime as quickly as possible and that there have been times when they take the easiest path, I had to hope that this was one of those occasions.
I thanked Ed for the lift to the restaurant and for the lovely evening, got out of his car, and approached the Fin & Claw’s entrance. There were quite a few cars in the parking lot, as there were in the parking lot for Leboeuf’s bistro. It appeared as if Leboeuf’s murder hadn’t hurt either business, whether thanks to the food on the menus or the notoriety of both owners, one the victim of a brutal killing and the other suspected of the crime. Either way, both establishments were making money.
As I entered the Fin & Claw, I was greeted by Fritzi, who had abandoned his waiter’s uniform for a suit and tie, befitting his role that evening as substitute host. I wasn’t surprised. Marcie had been emotionally distraught when she’d called, hardly conducive to presenting a smiling, welcoming face to customers.
Fritzi’s greeting was nonverbal. He raised his eyebrows and slowly shook his head.
I looked past him at the full dining room. “Where’s Marcie?” I ask
ed.
“In the kitchen or the back office,” he said. “You missed all the excitement.”
“She told me that Brad has been arrested.”
“That’s right. Sheriff Metzger and two deputies hauled him off in handcuffs. Terrible!”
“Did they do it in front of the customers?”
He cocked his head toward the kitchen. “You’d better talk to her, Mrs. Fletcher—provided you can get her to calm down.”
A number of familiar faces greeted me, and the conversational buzz grew as I passed by their tables on my way to the swinging doors leading into the kitchen. I drew a deep breath and stepped through them.
“Where’s Mrs. Fowler?” I asked.
A young man at the salad-making station said, “In the office.” He pointed to a door almost hidden by a massive stainless steel refrigerator. I went to it and knocked.
“Who is it?” Marcie’s voice asked.
“It’s Jessica Fletcher,” I said.
Marcie was huddled behind a small desk piled high with papers. I could see from the doorway that her face was red and blotchy; her mascara had run down from her eyes over her cheeks, giving her a tragic-comic look. I closed the door behind me and approached the desk. There was one other chair, a red-and-white striped director’s chair in a corner, which I pulled close to her.
“I came as quickly as I could,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said weakly. “I shouldn’t have bothered you, but I didn’t know who else to call. Isabel isn’t—”
“Your timing was perfect, Marcie. I was just leaving Dr. Filler’s house. I’m glad you reached out to me.”
I thought she was about to cry again, but her reservoir of tears was empty. All that emerged from her were dry gasps. I waited until that spasm had passed before saying, “Do you want to tell me what happened tonight?”
“It was awful, Mrs. Fletcher, a nightmare.”
“Sheriff Metzger arrested Brad here at the restaurant?”