by Donald Bain
“Excuse me,” I said. “Is Jake Trotter in the kitchen?”
They looked at each other before the one with the cigarette said, “No, ma’am. Trotter doesn’t work here anymore.”
“Oh. When did that happen?”
The fellow with the water giggled. “Jake quit,” he said. “He left right after the boss got killed!” His tone said loud and clear that he wasn’t displeased at Trotter’s absence.
“Do you know where he is?”
They looked at me strangely. They must think I have a crush on Jake. Why else would a middle-aged woman follow him to his place of work—or former place of work, as I now knew? I thanked them and walked to the seawall, feeling a mixture of frustration and relief. I’d gotten myself all worked up expecting to confront Jake Trotter and pin him down about important comments he’d made in his statement. And now he wasn’t where I’d been expecting him to be.
I looked out over the water. A fishing boat was on its way in from a day at sea, accompanied by a flock of seagulls following the day’s catch. I took in the first wave of tourists who’d come to town and were strolling the promenade, men, women, and children enjoying all that Cabot Cove has to offer. It seemed to me that there was probably plenty of business for both new restaurants to handle, and that all the bad feelings each owner had held for the other were unnecessary. Yet a murder had taken place, and people were thinking the motive had to do with who was going to emerge triumphant in this restaurant war. But there are no winners when one man is dead and another is accused of his murder.
I walked back through the park to where I’d left my bicycle and debated what to do next. Now that I knew Jake Trotter wasn’t in the bistro’s kitchen, I had another decision to make. It was going to get dark in an hour. Should I try to find him or let it go for another day? I consulted my cell phone, then climbed on my bike and headed home. Once in my driveway, I made up my mind. I called the taxi company and told them I needed a cab. One of their drivers pulled up to my house within fifteen minutes. The driver waved to me. “Just got the call, Mrs. Fletcher, that you need a taxi.”
“Yes, I do,” I said, sliding into the rear seat.
“Going downtown?” the driver asked as he slowly pulled away.
“As a matter of fact, no.”
“To Dr. Hazlitt’s house?”
“Not this time.”
“Sheriff and Mrs. Metzger’s place?”
“No.” I gave him the address I’d found on my cell phone.
“That’s out on the peninsula,” he said.
“Yes, I know.”
“There’s not much out there, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I’m visiting someone who lives there,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. “Whatever you say.”
The trip took almost a half hour. The route took us through the center of town and to a stretch of four-lane highway until it narrowed into a two-lane road. The final ten minutes found us on a poorly maintained gravel road that led down to a line of small houses—“shacks” might be a more apt term—behind a row of low industrial buildings. The six dwellings that constituted the small community were in various states of repair. A rusted vehicle sans tires rested on cement blocks in one yard. Clothes dried on a line in another, where someone had made an effort to dress up the house with small pots of geraniums on the steps.
Jake Trotter’s address was 6; the black iron numeral hung from a single nail on the front of his home. I recognized the red pickup truck in Jake’s driveway as one I’d seen parked near the restaurants, a distinguishing large dent on one fender and a coating of rust along the bottom of the door. A small porch ran the width of the cottage’s front. Two green wicker rocking chairs flanked a table on it.
“You’re sure this is the address?” my driver asked.
“If this is the address on the paper I gave you,” I replied. “Yes, this is it.”
“Want me to wait for you, Mrs. Fletcher?”
I was tempted to say yes. “That won’t be necessary. I’m not sure how long I’ll be here,” I said, “but I have my cell phone with me. I’ll call in plenty of time before I need a ride back.”
I signed the chit with my name and account number on it, got out, and watched him drive away, seriously wondering whether I’d made a prudent decision. Too late for second-guessing, I told myself as I approached the front porch, climbed the three rickety steps, and knocked on the door. There was no response. I knocked again, louder and more prolonged this time. Still no reply.
“Mr. Trotter?” I said in a loud voice. “Are you home?”
There was silence, aside from the sound of water lapping onto the rocky shoreline and the long calls of gulls.
I called his name again, louder this time, and knocked with more force. To my surprise the door creaked open a little. I pushed it further and tried Trotter’s name one more time. When he didn’t answer, I stepped through the opening and took in the room. It was, to be kind, a mess. A rancid odor reached my nose, and a pervasive aroma of whiskey and stale cigarettes or cigars hung in the air.
I knew that I didn’t have any business intruding into his home and considered leaving and calling back the taxi. But items on the counter of the Pullman kitchen caught my eye. Marcie had said that Brad accused Trotter of stealing things from the Fin & Claw’s kitchen. What had she said was missing?
I circumvented a wooden box of tools on the floor and stepped over to the kitchen. The obvious newness of the pieces that Jake had left in a pile was in contrast to other scattered paraphernalia on the counter, which had seen longer wear. There were an obviously expensive frying pan, a set of stainless steel mixing bowls, and a long, narrow grater covered by a plastic shield. I hesitated before picking up the grater, turning it to see what company made it. It was a Microplane, the same brand of grater Marcie had said was a gift to Brad from Isabel. As I examined it, a sound from behind caused me to stiffen. I didn’t want to look behind me, but knew that I had to. I replaced the grater on the counter and turned to face Jake Trotter, who stood in the open doorway. He was dressed in a stained white T-shirt and dungarees. But what was more noticeable was the shotgun that he carried. It was pointed directly at me.
“Who the hell are you?” he growled, tipping up the gun’s barrel for emphasis.
“I’m sorry to have barged in,” I said brightly, “but you didn’t answer when I called your name, and your door was open. I’m Jessica Fletcher, by the way. We’ve met before.”
“We have?”
“Yes, Mr. Trotter, when you worked for the Fin and Claw. Remember?” I didn’t elaborate that we’d never had a formal introduction. I’d simply been present two times when he’d been arguing with Brad Fowler.
“What are you doing in my house?”
I drew a deep breath, hoping it would inflate me with confidence. “I came to talk to you,” I said. “I knocked, more than once. The door swung open, and I came in, hoping you were here. And now you are.”
“You’re trespassing.”
I forced a laugh. “Yes, I certainly am, although I don’t mean you any harm. I simply wanted to talk.”
“About what?”
“About Gérard Leboeuf’s murder.”
“I already told the cops all I know about it.”
“Yes, I know that you gave a statement to the sheriff. Would you be kind enough to please put down that gun? It’s making me uncomfortable.”
He pondered what I’d asked, his long, angular face set in a question mark. I thought he might accommodate my request, but the shotgun remained aimed in my direction.
“People know that I’m here. I told them that I was coming to talk with you about the murder and the statement you gave the police.”
It wasn’t true, of course. Apart from the taxi driver who’d brought me to the house, no one had any idea of my whereabouts. But it seemed a sensible thing to say
at the moment, and I wished that I had let others know of my plans.
“Do you mind if I sit?” I said, indicating one of two straight-back chairs at a slab of wood atop a barrel. A half-empty bottle of bourbon and a glass rested on it. “I’m feeling a little tired.” I didn’t wait for his permission, and settled myself in one of the chairs, figuring he was less likely to shoot a woman sitting down than one standing up. I didn’t bother to wipe off the seat, which clearly had crumbs of some previous meal on it, not wanting to offend my host.
Host! That’s a laugh, Jessica. Wouldn’t it be ironic if your writing career ended right here in a shanty outside your beloved Cabot Cove? Seth would shake his head and say he’d always told me to mind my own business and leave the investigatin’ to the police, but his stubborn friend would never listen.
I forced a smile. “You said that you witnessed Brad Fowler kill Gérard Leboeuf,” I said, eager to get to my reason for being there.
“That’s right.”
“I’m sure you’d never lie to the police, Mr. Trotter, but somehow I have trouble accepting your story. And Brad—Brad Fowler, that is—denies having had anything to do with the murder.”
He laughed, exposing a large set of yellowing teeth. “What do you expect him to do?” he said. “He killed Leboeuf, plain and simple.”
“And you saw him do it?”
“That’s right. I gave my statement and I’m done with it. I’ll be out of this cruddy town, and good riddance to it.”
“You’re leaving?”
“You bet I am. I’ve got me some money now. Been saving up. I’ll be outta here before you can blink.”
“But where will you go? And don’t you have to come back to testify when Brad Fowler comes to trial?”
“I’ll worry about that when the time comes.”
If the police can find you by then. He said he’d saved some money, but for a man who didn’t keep a job for very long, it was more likely that he’d come into money another way. I wondered if he’d pawned items that he’d stolen from his previous employers. Otherwise, where would a sudden influx of money come from?
I asked.
“None of your damn business,” was his reply.
“Did you sell this house?” I asked, indicating with a sweep of my hand where we were talking.
“Not mine to sell,” he said. “I rent this dump. I’ll find me a lot better place once I get on the road. Plenty of places, nicer than this, for a man with my talents.”
I decided to stay with the topic of money.
“I’m pleased for you, Mr. Trotter, that you now have enough money to leave and improve your living conditions.”
“It’s about time,” he said, pulling the second chair away from the makeshift table and sitting heavily on it. He frowned, as though a thought had crossed his mind. He asked, “What’s this to you anyway? What are you, a buddy of Fowler?”
“I was a very good friend of Brad Fowler’s mother, Isabel. Remember her? She died, you know.”
“I knew that. Had a stroke in Fowler’s kitchen, at the restaurant. What a joke—him running a restaurant. Didn’t know what he was doing.”
“But you know your way around a commercial kitchen, don’t you, Mr. Trotter?”
“I sure do. Only the clowns I’ve worked for never had the good sense to listen to me.”
“Including Mr. Leboeuf?”
“He was okay; sorry when he died.”
“And according to your statement, you saw him die, saw him killed with a kitchen knife.”
“That’s right.” He cocked his head and leaned closer to me. “You don’t believe me, huh? Well, the cops believe me. That’s what counts.”
Now that he was sitting, the shotgun rested on his lap, no longer pointed in my direction. He poured himself a drink from the bottle, and as an afterthought asked whether I wanted a drink, too.
“No, thank you.”
“You know,” he said absently, as though speaking to a third person in the room, “I don’t really blame Fowler for killing Leboeuf.”
“Oh? Why do you say that?”
“Well, I mean, if my wife was playing around with another guy, I might do the same thing.”
Was he implying that Marcie Fowler had been involved with Leboeuf in a romantic way?
“You know this for fact?”
“Yeah. I saw them together.”
“When? Where?”
He laughed; it was more a cackle. “The night that Leboeuf got it. She was in the kitchen at his so-called bistro. ‘Bistro.’ Fancy name, huh?”
“Marcie Fowler was with Gérard Leboeuf the night he was murdered? What time was that?”
Trotter shrugged and drank. “Two, three, after the place was closed.”
“Was that the only time you’ve seen them together?”
“It’s enough, isn’t it?”
“Did you see them—I mean did you see them in some sort of an embrace?”
Another shrug, another drink. He refilled his glass.
“Not exactly, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I know hanky-panky when I see it. Never did understand why a looker like her would stick with a buffoon like Fowler. What’s he got? Money? No. Looks? No. He’s got a temper. That’s what he’s got. You know, I bet he beat her and that’s why she turned to Leboeuf. For a little comfort.” He chuckled. “I’d have given her a little comfort, too.”
I hadn’t expected this turn of events and had to grapple with my thoughts to put them in some semblance of order. “What exactly did you see take place between the two of them?”
“I saw him give her like a secret smile when she walked in the back door. ‘I knew you would come,’ he says, all tickled. And she goes, ‘Were you serious about this?’ holding up this love note he must have sent her. And then he pulls her toward him, and says ‘I can be serious.’ And I’m thinking, ‘Oh, boy, wait till the wife sees this.’”
“Well, that’s certainly news,” I said.
“Hey, I’m a good guy. I like to help out.”
“I appreciate you being candid with me, Mr. Trotter, so let me be candid with you. I don’t know if you’re telling me the truth about Marcie having an affair with Leboeuf.”
“Believe what you want. It’s no skin off my nose.”
“What I do believe is that you were not telling the truth when you told the authorities that you saw Brad Fowler stab Gérard Leboeuf.”
He squirmed in his chair, as though I’d poked him with a stick, and glared at me. “I tried to be helpful. If you don’t appreciate it—”
“Let me tell you why,” I quickly added. “I had the opportunity to read your statement to the police.”
“You did?”
“Yes, and something you said stayed with me. It didn’t fit with the facts.”
“Everything I said was factual. I can’t help it if you aren’t up with what went down.”
“You said that you saw Brad Fowler lift his hand and drive the knife down into Leboeuf.”
“Yeah. He did.”
“But Leboeuf was stabbed in the spleen, probably from the side. He was stabbed by someone who held the knife low and thrust it at him from that position.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, well, what does it matter—up, down, sideways? So what?”
“It matters a great deal, Mr. Trotter. I’m sure that Sheriff Metzger and the other investigators will recognize that inconsistency, too, once they have a chance to go over your statement more carefully.” I paused. “The punishment for perjury is pretty harsh.”
My admonition had an effect on him. He fidgeted; at one point the shotgun almost slid off his lap. I sat quietly, waiting for him to speak. When he did, his voice packed the strength it had earlier in our confrontation. What he said surprised me.
“You’re a big shot in town, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“But you write all those books that sell millions of copies, right? I heard about you.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“You want to get Fowler off the hook, I can tell. What I mean is that maybe I can change what I told the cops about seeing him kill Leboeuf. You would like that, right?”
“If what you told them originally wasn’t true, then, yes, you should amend your statement to them.”
“Yeah, I could do that, ‘amen my statement’ or whatever you said, but—”
“But what?”
“Look, I’ll level with you. I’ve got to get what’s coming to me. I’ve been kicked around by one boss after the other, guys who didn’t know squat about running a restaurant compared to me. I got screwed when I was a cook in the army by sergeants who wouldn’t know a dishwasher from a refrigerator. I should have had my own place, but there was never money to open a joint. I worked fifty, sixty hours a week for these clowns and got paid beans. You know what I mean?”
“I think so.”
“So I’m entitled to something.”
“I’m listening. But what does this have to do with me writing books?”
“Like I said, you must be rolling in dough. If you could—well, maybe top what I got for making that statement to the police, I could change it and—”
“You were paid to say that Brad Fowler killed Leboeuf?” I tried to keep the shock out of my voice. “Who paid you?”
“Look, what’s the difference? If you take care of me, I’ll take care of you. You want your buddy Fowler off the hook, and I can get him off the hook—for a price. Make sense?”
I looked to where the restaurant items I’d examined earlier sat on the counter. “Did you take those from the Fin and Claw?” I asked, cocking my head toward them.