“She hung up.”
“Good for you, Seth,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
I’d no sooner put the receiver down when I heard a plop at the front of the house. I opened the door and picked up that day’s edition of the Cabot Cove Gazette. The bold banner headline screamed at me: “It Was Murder.” I took the paper inside and laid it on my kitchen table. Evelyn Phillips must have been up all night putting together the story, although she shared the byline with James Teller, a young reporter whom she had hired fresh out of college with a journalism degree from the University of Southern Maine in Portland. I’d stopped by the office a few days after he’d started working there and Evelyn had introduced us. I was immediately taken with James’s youthful exuberance and energy, which undoubtedly had been helpful in coming up with the story overnight.
According to their article, the 911 operator had received a call at 9:07 from the Wolcott residence. The caller was Myriam Wolcott. The conversation with the operator was replayed in the story:
“Nine-one-one.”
“This is—oh my God—there’s been a shooting,” Myriam was reported to have said.
“A shooting. Where?”
“At my house. It’s . . .”
“What’s the address, ma’am?”
Myriam managed to get it out.
“Is the victim with you now?”
“Yes. No, he’s in the driveway.”
“Is he alive, ma’am?”
“No. I don’t know. He’s been shot.”
“Do you know the victim?”
“Of course I do. It’s my husband.”
“Is the shooter still there? Are you in danger?”
“No, he’s not here. I mean, I don’t know who shot him. Please hurry. Send help. Please!”
“Can you see if he’s still alive, ma’am, breathing? I’ll notify the proper authorities. I’m sure they’ll be there shortly.”
According to the article, Sheriff Metzger was called at home and immediately met up with a deputy who’d responded to the 911 call. After surveying the crime scene, the sheriff called for backup, the medical examiner, and a crime scene team. Dr. Foley arrived fifteen minutes later and confirmed that the victim, Joshua Wolcott, was indeed dead.
Evelyn Phillips and her new hire, James Teller, had also gone to the scene and reported what they’d witnessed. Two patrol cars were parked at the foot of the driveway, their lights flashing. Evelyn and Teller were able to get close to the victim before another deputy arrived and helped establish an off-limits boundary using crime scene tape. Prior to being banished to the perimeter, the reporters were able to get off two snapshots in which the deceased was seen lying in a pool of his own blood next to his vehicle, his face covered with a cloth presumably placed there by the police. He was on his back; the driver’s door of his gray SUV was open, leading the writers to speculate whether he was gunned down as he was about to get into the car.
Although neither Evelyn nor Teller was able to gain access to the house, an anonymous source—my guess would be one of the EMTs—said that the victim’s wife, Myriam, and their two children, a teenage boy and a younger daughter, were huddled on a couch. Another couple was with them, later identified as Mrs. Wolcott’s brother, Robert, and her sister-in-law, Stephanie, who lived sixty miles down the coast.
Attempts to question Sheriff Metzger were stonewalled. “I have nothing to say at this moment,” the sheriff replied. “This is an ongoing investigation.”
Evelyn and her new journalist had done a good job reporting the incident, considering its fast-breaking nature. Aided by the photos, I kept visualizing the grisly scene as I settled in my home office and checked e-mails that had come in overnight. I was in the midst of that task when the phone rang once again.
“Mrs. Fletcher. It’s James Teller at the Gazette.”
“Hello, James. I’m just reading your coverage of Josh Wolcott’s murder. I must say that you and Evelyn did a thorough job.”
“I spent most of last night at the scene of the crime and have been trying to dig up additional facts all day.”
“Quite a baptism for you in your new position.”
“You bet, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s my first byline. I mean a real one. I had plenty on the school newspaper, but this is different.”
I congratulated him.
“Ms. Phillips suggested that I call you.”
“I’m afraid that I have nothing to offer, James. You know a lot more than I do. Everything that I do know comes from your article.”
“But Ms. Phillips said that besides writing mysteries, you’ve also helped solve real murders.”
“That’s unfortunately true.”
“Did you know Mr. Wolcott?”
“I’d met him a few times, but I wouldn’t say that I knew him well.”
“Ms. Phillips thought you might have a few insights or comments about the murder.”
“Hold it right there,” I said. “Writing about murder is one thing. The real thing is another. My only comment is that my heart and prayers go out to the Wolcott family.”
“Oh, sure, no offense. It’s just that we’re working on a follow-up piece and are looking for some local color.”
“Well, James, I appreciate the call, but I’m afraid you’ll have to find your color elsewhere.”
“Do you know Mrs. Wolcott?” he asked.
I hesitated before saying, “We’ve met. She’s a lovely lady.”
“She’s being questioned as a suspect.”
“Oh? I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I have it from a good source.”
“It’s only natural that the police will want to hear from her.”
“No, I mean she’s a suspect.”
While I admired his tenacity and youthful zeal for his job, I wasn’t anxious to prolong the conversation. “I really must be going,” I said.
“Okay, only I hope it’s all right if I call you again, you know, as the case progresses.”
“If you wish. Say hello to Evelyn for me.”
Trying to put the murder out of my mind was like telling someone not to think of a green-and-white zebra. It stayed with me throughout the afternoon, helped along by more phone calls from friends. I spent time outdoors cleaning winter debris from my garden and doing other March chores. The light was fading when I came inside to answer yet another call. It was Edwina Wilkerson again.
“What a day,” she said.
“A day we could all do without. Have you heard anything aside from what was in the paper today?”
“Yes, I have. I got up the nerve to call Myriam a half hour ago. She’d just gotten back from being questioned by the sheriff at police headquarters.”
“How is she holding up?”
“As well as can be expected. Sheriff Metzger put her through quite a wringer, as she put it.”
“Questioning her is routine,” I offered. “After all, she was there at the time of the shooting. Did she say anything to indicate who might have killed him?”
“No. But she did tell me a little of what had happened. She and Josh had an argument that escalated into something more.”
“Did he hit her again?” I asked.
“I believe so. Myriam says that it began to ‘get out of hand,’ which really upset their son, Mark. He walked out and went to a friend’s house not far away. Myriam said that his friend’s mother and father have become like a second family to Mark. He always went there when things heated up at home. Anyway, Mark left the house and the daughter, Ruth, fled upstairs to her room. Myriam says that her husband had been drinking before the argument and announced he was going out. She asked him where he was going, but he wouldn’t tell her. She tried to stop him and he threw her down. He left the house to get in the car—this is what Myriam says—and after a while she heard a shot. She ran outside and found him lying there by the car, blood coming from his chest.”
“What an awful thing to have to go through,” I said. “The article in the paper says tha
t Myriam’s brother and his wife were there.”
“That’s true. She was in a panic and called them before dialing nine-one-one.”
Before calling 911? Calling her brother first would certainly be viewed by some, especially anyone in law enforcement, as highly unusual and suspicious. Why hadn’t she immediately sought medical help in the event her husband was still alive and might have survived with emergency care? But I wouldn’t pass judgment on someone who’d just suffered such a shocking discovery. In her state of mind, it might have made all the sense in the world to reach out to a brother who lived relatively close by.
“Poor thing,” Edwina said. “I just keep wondering if I should have been more forceful when she came to the office, insist that she leave the house and move to the shelter.”
“Don’t second-guess yourself,” I said. “You couldn’t have forecast and staved off this tragedy. Did she say how her children are doing?”
“She said that they’ve rallied around her. I hope she arranges for some sort of therapy for them. The impact of a tragedy like this can last a lifetime. Oh, Myriam’s mother is on her way from Bangor to help with the kids. Myriam didn’t sound too enthusiastic about it. Seems her mother was never a fan of Josh Wolcott.”
“Be that as it may, it’s good that Myriam will have some additional support. Thanks for the update, Edwina.”
“I thought you’d want to know, considering we spent time with her the other night. And I wanted to talk to you because I’m not sure exactly what to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the police ought to know that Myriam was a battered wife, that Josh hit her, don’t you think? But I’m not sure it’s ethical to tell them. I only know about it because she came to the shelter. But we promise confidentiality to all our clients. Do you think I should tell the police that Myriam had come to the shelter after Josh had hit her?”
“They may already know, but I’d ask Myriam how she feels about that,” I replied. “I imagine it will come out anyway as the investigation proceeds, but ask her first.”
I could almost hear her sigh over the phone. “Good advice,” she said. “I didn’t want to bring it up to the shelter board, but maybe after all this is over, we can straighten out what we do in cases like this. We’re learning as we go. Thanks, Jessica.”
I just had time to drop in at the library to see Richard Koser’s photo exhibit before getting over to my local market. I had a grocery order I wanted to leave there for delivery the next day. Richard occasionally did work for the Gazette, but his loves in life were art photography, cooking, and of course his wife, Mary-Jane, not necessarily in that order.
Richard’s photographs were mounted on foam board without frames and filled a whole wall in the front entrance of the library to the right of the checkout desk. His subjects varied from landscapes and architectural studies to candid scenes and portraits. I browsed pictures of places in Cabot Cove that were familiar to me, most of which were made all the more dramatic by being rendered in black and white, a few shots accented with color. Whether he still used film or used the computer to make his digital pictures mimic black-and-white film, the images were dark and mysterious.
“Nice, aren’t they?” said a voice behind me.
“Wonderful,” I replied, turning to see my friend Tobé Wilson. Tobé is married to Jack Wilson, Cabot Cove’s most popular veterinarian, and works side by side with him at their animal hospital. Some years back, she’d made a name for herself and attracted quite a bit of attention by walking her pet pig, Kiwi, in town. Kiwi was now in hog heaven, having succumbed to old age, but people in Cabot Cove still remembered her fondly. Meanwhile, Tobé volunteered what spare time she had to civic activities. She was this year’s chairwoman of the Blueberry Festival.
“Can I count on your being a judge in the blueberry pie contest this summer?” she asked.
“I will if you need me,” I said. “I was debating whether or not to enter it myself.”
“You can enter one of the other competitions,” she said. “We’re going to be inundated with blueberry pies, and I’m desperate for good judges. I’ve got Charlene Sassi, but everyone else I’ve asked turned me down.”
“I’m sure Seth would help you out,” I said.
“Already called him and he declined.”
“He did?”
“He said he gained three pounds with last year’s contest and still hasn’t taken them off. He’s not willing to add to the total.”
“Well, that’s prudent of him,” I said. “He could stand to lose a pound or two.”
“Or three. So are you in?”
“Tell you what,” I said, not eager to add to my weight either. “If you can’t find anyone else, I’ll fill in, in a pinch. But I’d really rather not be a judge.”
“Fair enough. I’ll keep looking, but in the meantime, I’ll send you the judging instructions. By the way, did you see Richard’s picture of the river that runs behind Dick Mauser’s plant?”
“No. Which one is it?” I asked, scanning the top row of photographs.
“This one down here,” Tobé said, leading me to a photo of leaves floating on the water; the base of a brick building could be seen in the background. Richard had added color to the picture, tinting the rocks along the shore and several of the leaves spilling down the bank a bilious acid green.
“He’s making a political statement, wouldn’t you say?” I said to Tobé.
“No doubt about it, but it’s hardly undeserved,” she replied.
“Has anyone come up with any proof that Mauser’s plant is polluting the river?”
“We should have it soon,” Tobé said. “Jack says the team from the Environmental Protection Agency is expected to arrive any day.”
“Is that official?” I asked.
“He heard it this afternoon from a councilwoman who brought in her corgi to be spayed.”
“I wonder why the river preservation commission hasn’t been informed,” I said.
“You’ll probably get the word in the morning,” she replied. “Frankly, I hope they come up with a finding that really rakes Mauser over the coals, hits him with a hefty fine that torches his bottom line. And I’m not the only one to feel that way.”
I was surprised to hear Tobé wishing a harsh result on anyone. Her kindness to four-legged creatures usually extended to the two-legged kind as well. Clearly, Mauser had alienated many in the community.
But later that night after I’d gotten home, changed for bed, and started reading my new Molly MacRae novel, Lawn Order, I was struck with how dramatically and swiftly events had occurred that would impact the town. Only a few days earlier, the most exciting news stories in Cabot Cove were plans for the upcoming annual lobster and blueberry festivals, high school sports, an occasional case of teenage vandalism, and other less-than-monumental happenings.
Now Josh Wolcott’s murder, his history as a wife abuser should it ever come out, and a federal agency arriving to investigate Richard Mauser’s business would be splashed on the front pages of the Cabot Cove Gazette and would dominate conversation.
I know that the so-called good ol’ days weren’t necessarily as good as we like to think they were, but I silently wished for a return to them as I closed my book, and my eyes.
Chapter Six
You haven’t been posting anything lately and I wonder if you are OK. —Janet
* * *
I answered a call from Edwina Wilkerson the following morning as I was putting away the groceries I had ordered. “I just heard from Myriam Wolcott,” she said. “She’s asked me to visit her.”
“Did she say why?”
“She wants to speak with me about her visit to the shelter’s office. She asked whether you’d come.”
“I barely know her.”
“But you were there that night, Jessica. I know you’re busy, but I’d really be grateful if you would come with me.”
“When are you planning to go?”
“Late
r this morning, at eleven. I can pick you up.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll be waiting.”
* * *
Edwina drove the way she did everything else in life—fast! You got the feeling that she viewed each day as possibly her last and intended to cram a lifetime into it. But I didn’t comment as she sped along the road leading out of town and to the community where the Wolcott house was located.
It was a split-level, identical to all the other homes on the block, the lawn and small flower garden in front as perfectly maintained as the neighbors’ yards. We pulled up to the curb and I took note of a small yellow car parked across the street. The sun was in my eyes and I squinted to see if I recognized the driver who sat stoically behind the wheel. It was James Teller, from the Gazette. I waved and he returned the gesture.
But it was another vehicle that more fully captured my attention, a marked Cabot Cove police cruiser containing two officers, one a familiar face, a deputy sheriff who’d been with the department for a number of years, the second unfamiliar to me. There was also a black Lexus sedan with a Maine license plate parked in the driveway.
Edwina and I got out of her car. A white granular substance coated a spot in the driveway that I assumed was there to cover Josh Wolcott’s blood. Although the newspaper article had said that crime scene tape had been strung, it had been removed, a positive sign where Myriam was concerned. Teller had told me that she was considered a “suspect,” which I chalked up to his youthfulness. A “person of interest”—a more neutral designation and one meant to indicate that many people were being questioned—was the politically correct term these days and was more likely the way Myriam was being viewed at that juncture, unless evidence surfaced to make her an official suspect.
Two red bicycles—one a larger boy’s model, the other a smaller one meant for a female rider—were piled together in front of the two-car garage. While the lawn and garden were manicured, the house was starting to show some neglect; white paint on the garage door had started peeling, and the trim around the front door was doing the same. A screen on the front window was torn as if someone had put a fist through it.
Murder, She Wrote: Domestic Malice Page 4