Cabot Cove was late in joining the statewide network of shelter programs for those who are abused, primarily because people were hesitant to acknowledge that such things existed in our tranquil small town. But Maine had recognized it as a serious problem as far back as 1973, and the movement to address domestic violence really picked up momentum in 2000 when then-governor Angus King declared violence against women and children “Maine’s Public Enemy Number One” in his State of the State Address. He dramatized his remarks by pointing to seats in the hall that had deliberately been left empty to represent those who’d been killed by domestic abusers.
* * *
I turned off the TV and climbed into bed. A feeling of well-being swept over me. As I often do, I thought about how fortunate I was to live in a place like Cabot Cove and to have so many wonderful friends. The town’s strong sense of community has always been alive and well, and the establishment of the shelter is but one example of that spirit of reaching out to the less fortunate and more vulnerable.
My final thought as I closed my eyes and allowed sleep to wash over me was that life was good in Cabot Cove. I had no reason to think otherwise.
Chapter Two
Hate hunting but glad when he goes away for a weekend with his buddies—wish he would go away forever—leave me alone—leave the kids alone—what did they ever do to make him so mad? He wasn’t like this when we met—nice and gentle—except for the hunting—killing defenseless animals—makes my skin crawl—no pets for us—he never let us have pets—maybe just as well—he wouldn’t be kind to them. —MW in Maine
Hey, MW in Maine—Sounds like you’re in a bad situation. I know what you’re going through. Been there, done that. Janet is right. Get out!!! It’ll only get worse. They always do. Get out now. Your kids are suffering, too. Wish I could help but I’m on the other side of the country. —JS in Oregon
* * *
I spent part of the next afternoon catching up on correspondence and other paperwork before whipping up a simple dinner for myself. Although I’d worked behind the scenes to raise funds for its establishment, it was my first evening to volunteer at the women’s shelter’s downtown office, and I considered riding my bike into town. But the sky was threatening (March is one of those months in Maine when you can never accurately predict what the weather will be day to day), which ruled out using my trusty two-wheeled transportation. I called a taxi (One of these days I really should learn to drive, I thought) and arrived composed and dry. Edwina was already there reading the newspaper.
“Feels good in here,” I said, referring to the warm air that was oozing from the ceiling vents. “What’s new in the paper? I never got a chance to read it this morning.”
“Evelyn was kind to Mauser. All she wrote was that he voted against funding for the shelter, not a word about his rant.”
“Just as well,” I said. “Do you know his wife?”
“Met her once or twice. You never see her in town. A real homebody. Seemed nice enough, kind of shy, quiet.”
“I wonder if she ever gets a word in at home,” I said.
Edwina laughed. “Can you imagine being married to a bully like that?”
“Not a pleasant contemplation,” I said. “I’ve never met her. Is she his first wife?”
“I’m sure she is. She’s about his age, give or take a few years. Not a young ‘trophy’ wife, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
I settled into a small club chair and reviewed some of the training material I’d been given. “Think anyone will walk in tonight?” I asked.
“You never know. Some nights it’s quiet and sometimes two calls come in just as someone walks in the door. Remember, if someone phones in looking for support, use language that’s full of empathy and reassurance, but nothing judgmental, no questions asking why she did or didn’t do something.”
“Because ‘she’s doing what she needs to do to survive,’” I said, quoting from the sheet in my hand. “I was just rereading those instructions.”
“Exactly! By the way, Jessica, one of the women is moving out of the shelter tomorrow. We’ve found a new home for her and her teenage son. We’re delivering furniture to their new place tomorrow afternoon.”
Aside from cash donations, the shelter was the repository of contributions of clothing and furniture, baby items, food, and other necessities for those who didn’t want to return home to an abusive environment. But it was only temporary quarters. Edwina and others working at the shelter helped them find and move to alternate lodgings.
“That’s great,” I said. “Anything more they need?”
“I’ll know once they’re moved in. I’m so excited for her. It’ll be a new life for her and her son, safe from battering, new credit card, new untraceable cell phone, new PO box address, like the witness protection program.”
“I suppose it is,” I said. “Hopefully she’ll pick up the pieces and build on her new life.”
Edwina had brought with her homemade cookies that she put on a paper plate. We made cups of tea on a one-burner hotplate and nibbled on the sweets while filing a week’s worth of forms and correspondence. I was on my knees putting papers in a low file drawer when the doorbell sounded. We both looked up. “I’ll get it,” Edwina said and went to the door. She returned seconds later with a woman I almost didn’t recognize. Myriam Wolcott was a friend of my neighbor Tina Treyz. We’d met at several of the bake sales Tina often organizes to benefit her favorite charities. I stood, schooled my expression so it wouldn’t reflect my shock at her altered appearance, and extended my hand. “Hi, Myriam,” I said. “Jessica Fletcher.”
She took my hand but did it in a way that mirrored the fright in her moist eyes, tentative, as though touching me would injure her. “Jessica?” she said in a voice that was at once surprised and unhappy.
“Hi, Myriam,” said Edwina.
“I—I think I shouldn’t have come here,” Myriam said, glancing in the direction of the door.
“But now that you’re here, you might as well have a cookie, and tea or coffee,” I said.
Edwina quickly pulled a chair from the corner and invited Myriam to sit. She looked as though deciding whether to stay represented a monumentally important decision. I smiled encouragingly. She sat.
I understood her unease. She’d undoubtedly expected to see only Edwina, whose work at the shelter was well-known around town and who could be counted on to keep confidential whatever nasty secrets Myriam brought with her. Could she count on me? I tried to put her mind at ease by saying, “I’m a volunteer here, Myriam, and I’m obligated to keep whatever transpires private. I promise you. But if you’re uncomfortable with me being here, I’ll leave, of course.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“You’re sure it’s all right for Jessica to stay, Myriam?” Edwina asked. “It’s your choice.”
“She can stay. I just wasn’t expecting her, that’s all.”
“We have tea and coffee. What would you like?” I asked, busying myself with the refreshments.
“Ah, neither,” she replied. “No, I guess coffee would be nice.” She looked down at her lap and smoothed her skirt.
Edwina and I glanced at each other. There was no mistaking the angry red-and-purple bruise beneath Myriam’s left eye. I was taken aback at how disheveled she was. When we’d met other times, she’d always appeared to be meticulous in her dress and personal appearance, her brunette hair shining and nicely cut, makeup judiciously applied. But that wasn’t the woman who sat before me this night. Whatever makeup she’d applied had been watered down by sweat and tears. Her eyes were bloodshot, her mascara smeared. Her hair hung in lank strands. Her red blouse was wrinkled, and she wore flip-flops, an odd choice for such a chilly night. She looked as though she’d dressed hastily in whatever was close at hand. There was no question why she was there. It wasn’t a social call, and she didn’t want to volunteer at the shelter. Myriam Wolcott had come because she’d been assaulted.
Before Edwina or I could
initiate further conversation, Myriam doubled over, her head in her hands, and wept. I wanted to put my arms around her to comfort her, but I didn’t know whether she was injured or bruised. Edwina had instructed that it was best not to hug the shelter’s clients unless they initiated it. Instead, I sat in a chair close to Myriam’s and said in a soft voice, “It’s okay. You’re safe here.”
When she’d managed to stem the tears, Myriam looked up at us and said, “I’m so ashamed. I never should have come here. I didn’t think I’d know anyone and—”
“As Jessica said, anything that happens here is strictly confidential,” Edwina assured her. She laughed to lighten the atmosphere. “We’re like those ads for Las Vegas. Whatever happens in this room stays in this room. Water’s ready for coffee. Have a cookie.”
Nothing was said as Myriam took a small bite and sipped her drink. Edwina broke the silence by saying, “It’s very brave of you to be here, Myriam. It took a lot of courage. What made you decide to come tonight?”
Myriam drew a breath, winced, and touched her abdomen.
“Did someone hit you there, too?” Edwina asked gently.
She nodded.
“Do you need medical attention? If you’d like me to accompany you to the emergency room, I will do that.”
Myriam looked up sharply. “No! No hospital. I don’t need a doctor.”
“All right,” Edwina said soothingly, “no doctors. You know, you’ve taken an important step to protect yourself and your children just by coming here.”
I remained silent, allowing Edwina to set the pace. She’d received extensive psychological training in how to handle battered and abused women. I’d attended several training sessions with her but was well aware of my limited knowledge. I knew my role was to be an attentive listener and to observe Myriam’s demeanor and body language.
Edwina got right to the point. “Who hit you, Myriam?” she asked.
“I—Josh.”
“Your husband?”
She mouthed a silent “Yes.”
“He hit you in the face and in the stomach?”
She nodded. “And over here.” She indicated her shoulder, then brushed away the tears that had started again.
“Has he ever done that before?”
The question caused Myriam to screw up her face as though a new, more intense pain had emerged. Judging from her reaction, Edwina and I knew what the answer was, but we waited to hear it from her.
She swallowed hard and nodded again.
“Many times?” I asked.
Myriam blotted her tears with the napkin, shrugged one shoulder, and winced.
“What provoked him to hit you tonight?” Edwina asked.
She blew her nose with a tissue. “He was angry about something. He always seems angry lately. He’d stopped after work at a bar and had a few drinks with some friends. I’d had dinner ready on time and the kids were hungry, and . . .” She shook her head. “Does it really matter? He was late and I said something. Maybe I shouldn’t have.”
“I don’t know what you said,” Edwina said, “but whatever it was didn’t give him the right to lay a hand on you in anger. No husband ever has the right to hit his wife.”
There was a lull that I filled by asking, “What about the children? Did they see him hit you?”
She drew in a deep breath before answering, “Yes, they did. My daughter, Ruth—she’s twelve—she became hysterical, screamed that she hated him, and ran up to her room. She’s always been her daddy’s little girl. I don’t want her to hate him.”
“It’s not unusual for a child to love a parent, yet hate what he does. You have a son, too, if I remember correctly,” Edwina said.
“Mark. He’s sixteen. He left and went to his friend Paul’s house. I called the Hanleys and confirmed that he was there. They’re a nice family. He arrived just in time for dinner.” She managed a smile. “Mark has a good appetite. He eats us out of house and home. You’d never know it, he’s so small for his age.” Her smile turned to laughter. “I sometimes wonder where he came from. Everyone in my family is tall, and Josh is over six feet.”
“Where’s Ruth now?” Edwina asked.
“She’s at a friend’s house, too. I dropped her off before coming here. I didn’t know what to do, where to go. I didn’t want to come here, but it seemed the only place that I . . .”
“That you could feel safe and secure,” Edwina filled in.
“Yes.”
“That’s what it’s meant to be.”
She visibly relaxed.
Edwina drew her out, asking about her life, and Myriam responded enthusiastically. She talked about their home, her garden that she took pride in, how well her children were doing in school, and how she’d been working on a sewing project to enter in the blueberry quilt contest. Edwina gently tried on a few occasions to get her back on the topic of having been assaulted by her husband, but Myriam resisted revisiting it. She looked at a clock on the wall. “I’d better be getting home,” she said, standing and smoothing her skirt. “I can’t thank you enough,” she said.
“Before you leave, Myriam, I should ask you a few more questions,” Edwina said. “Are there weapons in the house?”
“Yes. Josh is a hunter. I hate hunting, but it’s his hobby. He has a gun collection that’s kept locked up in a cabinet.” Her brow furrowed. “Only . . .”
“Only what?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing, really. Josh has a couple of handguns that he keeps in the cabinet, too, but he’s been leaving one of them in different rooms lately.”
“A loaded handgun?” Edwina asked, her voice mirroring her concern.
“No, of course not, never with the children around,” was Myriam’s response. She quickly added, “And he has permits. Josh is law-abiding.”
Edwina and I avoided looking at each other. There was no need to verbalize what we were thinking. He was “law-abiding” except when it came to assaulting his wife.
“Has he ever used a gun to threaten you?” I asked.
Myriam shook her head vehemently, but I wasn’t certain I believed her.
“Is Josh a heavy drinker?” Edwina asked. “Does he use drugs?”
“Well, he has a couple of drinks before dinner, and sometimes before going to bed.” Her posture said that she was now anxious to leave, to get away from the questions. She edged toward the door.
Edwina looked at Myriam with her head cocked. “Do you feel it’s safe enough to go home now?” she asked. “We can provide a haven for you and your children. He won’t know where you are, and you’d be safe from any further abuse.”
Myriam forced a small laugh. “Oh, I’m sure Josh has gotten over whatever he was angry about and everything will be fine. She managed a wide smile. “He’s always so sorry after something like this, like a little boy who got caught doing something naughty.”
Edwina nodded slowly, but I knew what she was thinking, that she’d heard this too many times from too many women. “Even so, you may want to have a safety plan in place.”
Myriam swallowed audibly. “What’s that?”
“Keep a small bag stashed away with a night’s clothing for you and the children, and some cash or a credit card, just in your name. Set up a code word with the children, in case of an emergency, in case you need to leave quietly and quickly.”
A small moan escaped Myriam’s lips.
“And please keep in mind,” Edwina continued, “if ever you decide you want to move out permanently, your new address can be kept private by law, and the state has a victims’ compensation program, so some of your expenses could be covered. And we’re here to help you in whatever way we can.”
Myriam shook her head. “I don’t think it will have to come to that. I love my husband and he loves me. He’s just going through a difficult time, and sometimes he . . . he . . . Well, he’s just going through a hard time right now.”
“This is not about him,” Edwina said urgently. “It’s about you and the kids. We have
programs to help them, too.”
“Please don’t tell anyone that I’ve been here. I’d be so embarrassed,” Myriam said.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Edwina said. “There’s always someone at this number if you need us.” She pressed a piece of paper into Myriam’s hand.
“Do you feel well enough to drive?” I asked as we walked her to the door.
“I’m fine,” Myriam said. “I’m sorry to rush out, but I have to pick up Ruth. Mark can walk home. It isn’t far. Thanks again.”
We watched her get into her car. She started it, waved at us, and pulled from the curb.
“She’ll be back,” Edwina said.
Chapter Three
He says I spend too much on groceries—I don’t!—I try to scrimp and save, always using coupons and looking for sales—I hate him—forgive me—it’s not right to hate anyone—but could kill him sometimes—no, don’t mean that—I just feel trapped, nowhere to go. The kids—he’s their father—doesn’t hit them, not yet anyway—but they’re scared of him, I can tell. They hate it when he yells—always cruel to me. Should talk to someone—not mother. Don’t really want anyone to know—have to keep things together for the kids. —MW in Maine
Murder, She Wrote: Domestic Malice Page 2