Murder, She Wrote: Domestic Malice

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Thanks for being early,” the DA said. “I’m running a bit behind this morning.”

  The deposition didn’t take very long. It focused on what had occurred that night at the women’s shelter’s office when Myriam Wolcott arrived and told us that she’d been attacked by her husband. After establishing that the meeting had, in fact, taken place, Ms. Cirilli prompted me to repeat what Myriam had said that night. I answered as best I could, recounting what had transpired between Myriam, Edwina Wilkerson, and me.

  “And so you’re certain that Mrs. Wolcott said that her husband had physically injured her?”

  “Yes. That’s why she came. She was shaken.”

  “Did she indicate that this wasn’t the first time that he’d attacked her?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “And what did she say about the Wolcott children?”

  “Oh, she said a number of things. She eventually started talking about how well they did in school, how personable they were, things like that.”

  “Had the children witnessed their father’s attack on her?”

  “Yes. She said that their daughter—her name is Ruth; she’s twelve—became upset and ran upstairs. Their son, Mark, went to a friend’s house.”

  After another fifteen minutes, the DA said, “We’re about ready to wrap this up, but one last question. Did Mrs. Wolcott say anything about weapons in the house?”

  I nodded.

  “You’ll have to speak your reply, Jessica,” she said, indicating at the stenographer.

  “Oh, yes, of course. Sorry. Yes, she said that her husband was a hunter and that he had a collection of weapons. She also said that he’d lately been leaving a handgun in different rooms in the house.”

  Ms. Cirilli paused and ran her teeth over her upper lip before asking, “Did she ever say during your meeting with her that night that she wanted to kill her husband?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t recall her saying anything like that. In fact, she said she loved her husband and that he loved her. She ended up excusing his behavior, which Ms. Wilkerson told me is common with abused spouses. They assign blame to themselves instead of where it’s due, the abusing spouse.”

  “Is that it?” O’Connor asked.

  “I think so,” the DA replied. “Thank you, Jessica. It was a pleasure seeing you again.”

  “I assume that her interest in whether Myriam said that she wanted to kill her husband feeds into the motive they’re looking for,” I said as we left the building.

  “Exactly.”

  “But what if she had said that?” I asked. “People say things like that all the time about someone they’re angry at or fighting with. They don’t really mean it. It’s just a way of venting their emotions.”

  “Tell that to a jury. Would you like to join me for lunch? I’ve hired a private investigator and I’d really like you to meet this guy,” he said.

  “I’d be happy to meet him another time,” I said, walking with him to where he’d parked his car, “Before you go, I have a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “The other night you said that Mrs. Caldwell wants Myriam to plead guilty but claim self-defense. That kept me up half the night and had my mind churning all day yesterday.”

  His laugh was boyish. “I shouldn’t have dropped that on you at the last second. Can we meet back at my office at, say, two? I’ll have the investigator with me, and we can talk about Mrs. Caldwell’s request.”

  “Surely you aren’t considering doing it,” I said.

  He patted me on the arm and said, “I really have to run, Jessica. See you at two.”

  I took a taxi to his office building, where Sharon busily typed on her computer.

  “I’m confused,” I said.

  Her laugh was rueful. “Join the club,” she said.

  “He intends to . . .” I stopped in midsentence in case she wasn’t aware that Mrs. Caldwell wanted to have her daughter plead guilty to murder.

  “Listen,” Sharon said, taking some pages from the printer and sliding them into a manila envelope. “I have to deliver these to a client in the next building. Would you mind terribly waiting here for me? I promise I won’t be long.”

  “Take your time,” I said, picking up a copy of The Week magazine from the coffee table and choosing a comfortable chair. “I’m free until two.” But I never opened the magazine’s cover. Instead I began thinking about Cy’s receptionist and wondering what she thought important enough to ask me for a private meeting.

  Sharon Bacon had started working for Cy O’Connor’s father as a young woman and had remained with the law firm to this day. The elder O’Connor viewed his chunky, rosy-cheeked right-hand woman with Shirley Temple–like reddish curls as the daughter he’d never had and treated her with great deference and love. In return she was fiercely loyal to her employer and surrogate father, and ran his office as though it were her own home, paying meticulous attention to detail and creating a warm, welcoming atmosphere for his many clients.

  She’d never married. “The law office is my spouse,” she often said. “It doesn’t talk back to me or leave dirty socks on the floor.” If she regretted not having married, it never showed in her demeanor. She was unfailingly upbeat and pleasant, with a hearty laugh to accompany a sometimes naughty sense of humor and keen mind.

  I was well aware of her personality since I’d known her for all these years. That was why the dejected expression on her face when she returned from her errand and invited me into Cy’s conference room concerned me.

  We sat at the large walnut table surrounded by tall bookcases filled with leather-bound legal volumes. Sharon set out our sandwiches on two paper plates. “Is water okay?” she asked.

  “Just fine.”

  She took two bottles from the small fridge at the back of the room and placed two glasses by our plates. “If I didn’t have to work this afternoon, I’d go raid Cy’s liquor cabinet and have a real drink,” she said, “a double.”

  I laughed. “Judging from that scowl on your face, I’d say it might be in order.”

  She managed a smile. “Who am I kidding?” she said. “You know I don’t drink. Anyway, thanks for making time for us to get together.”

  “It’s my pleasure. This sandwich is delicious.”

  “My mother always insisted that my sisters and I know how to make chicken salad. She said it was her fallback recipe. When all else fails, fall back on chicken salad. Everyone loves it.”

  After we’d eaten and I’d poured water into my glass, I sat back and looked at Sharon. Signs of whatever strain she was under were still in her face. “You said you needed to talk,” I said.

  She exhaled, closed her eyes, opened them, and said, “I’m thinking of resigning.”

  “Oh my! Is this a last-minute decision, or have you been thinking about it for a while?”

  “I’ve been considering it ever since—ever since the elder Mr. O’Connor died.”

  “That long? I’m sure his son is pleased that you decided to stay.”

  “I suppose he is.” She reached across the table and placed her hand on mine. “You know how they say that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree when a son or daughter is like a parent? Well, in the case of the young Mr. O’Connor, the apple fell a mile away.”

  I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. As far as I knew, Cy O’Connor had done a good job since taking over the firm. Apparently, I was about to hear a different interpretation.

  “I wouldn’t want this to get back to Cy,” Sharon said.

  “That you’re thinking of leaving? I certainly won’t mention it to anyone. But we all reach a point where retirement is appealing.”

  “That’s not the case with me, Jessica. Oh, I could retire. Cy’s father set up a very generous retirement plan for me, enough to see me through the rest of my life. But retirement isn’t on my mind. I think I might go mad not having the office to come to every day.”

  “Then why . . . ?”

  “Let me be
blunt,” she said. “I can’t stand by while I watch Cy destroy everything his father worked so hard for. Mr. O’Connor must be turning over in his grave.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  She answered with a solemn nod.

  “I’ve only had a few legal dealings with Cy, and I haven’t had any reason to be dissatisfied.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Sharon said. “He’s a bright and capable attorney. The problem is that he has these delusions of what the law and lawyers should be. His dad knew that law, the real practice of law, doesn’t involve courtroom theatrics and flamboyant arguments. He knew that it meant drafting ironclad agreements, forging reasonable resolutions of disputes, and setting up estates that were in the best interests of his clients. It may not be exciting, but it’s important.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Young Cy is—well, he’s watched too many courtroom dramas on TV. He kept urging his father to set up a criminal defense office so that he could defend criminals. His father steadfastly refused, and I give him credit for that.”

  “But now?” I asked, trying to see where Sharon was going with this.

  “I think Cy is bored, and some of his legal work reflects that. I’ve heard him tell friends how tiring it is to draft agreements and research case law, but that’s the nuts and bolts of being an attorney. I’ve had to correct simple mistakes he’s made. Not that he didn’t know better, but he’s just too busy tooling around in his fancy sports car and hanging out at the club and chasing women and . . .”

  “He’s young,” I said.

  “Young and foolish. His father left him a lucrative practice, and I’m watching him squander it. This business with Myriam Wolcott is the straw that broke this camel’s back.”

  I’d been waiting for her to get around to that.

  “When he told me that he was going to defend her I did something I seldom do. I challenged the wisdom of it, asked him to reconsider. He didn’t take kindly to my butting in.”

  “That decision he made has raised a question with a lot of people in town,” I said.

  “And for good reason.” Her face tightened. “That woman!”

  “Who?” I asked, although I already knew.

  “Mrs. Wolcott’s mother, Mrs. Caldwell. She treats Cy and me as though she owns us, as though it’s her firm, laying down the law, making demands, telling Cy what to do.”

  “Like pleading Myriam guilty?”

  Her expression changed to one of surprise. “You know about that?”

  “Yes. Cy told me after we had dinner together at his club Saturday.”

  “His club,” she said scornfully. “Do you know what he recently told a mutual friend? He told her that he wants to land some big-money cases, enough to close down the office here in Cabot Cove and go to Boston or New York to practice criminal law.”

  “Again, Sharon, he’s young, perhaps immature. A big city naturally appeals to him. But let’s get back to Myriam Wolcott pleading guilty. How can that be? As far as I know, she’s denied having killed Josh at every turn. Why would she possibly agree to such a thing?”

  Sharon hesitated before answering, and I could almost see the gears turning in her brain—how much should she tell me? I decided that I wouldn’t press her for further information, but I didn’t have to.

  “I don’t know how well you know Mrs. Wolcott,” she said, “but she’s an incredibly malleable woman, the sort who believes whatever the last person who talks to her says. Her mother has convinced Cy—and she’s evidently working on her daughter—that Myriam will never be found innocent by a jury here in Cabot Cove. I think she’s wrong—I know she’s wrong—but Cy has bought it.”

  I sat back and let what she’d said sink in. Was Cy’s dream of practicing criminal law so strong that he’d take on a case in which the accused, his client, would agree to pleading guilty to a murder she hadn’t committed because of pressure from her mother? Had Myriam been right, that the lure of a big payday swayed what would otherwise have been a more rational decision?

  It occurred to me as I sat there that Myriam might not be the only malleable one. No matter how much money was involved, no matter how fervently he wanted to practice criminal law, Cy O’Connor was making a mistake. Could he be a man who was so easily manipulated that it was possible that he would sell out his client in order to satisfy his own needs? If that were the case, his father might well be twisting in his grave.

  Sharon wasn’t finished venting.

  “Mrs. Wolcott’s mother is using her daughter’s visit to the women’s shelter as the basis for her self-defense plea.”

  “I knew that her visit would provide a motive for the DA,” I said, “but I hadn’t considered it being used as a defense. Frankly, Sharon, this is all very upsetting.”

  As we cleaned up after our luncheon, I mentioned that I was supposed to meet with Cy and the private investigator he’d hired. “Why is he bothering to hire a private detective if he intends to plead her guilty?” I asked.

  “Probably for show,” was Sharon’s reply.

  “What’s his name?” I asked.

  “He’s from Boston. His name is Harlan McGraw. Cy says that his father had worked with him before.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Harlan McGraw? Harry McGraw?”

  “Cy called him Harlan.”

  “Oh, my,” I said. “Harry McGraw.”

  “You know him?”

  “I certainly do.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I’d met Harry McGraw when I was researching background for one of my novels. I’d hired another Boston detective, Archie Miles, to look into a twenty-five-year-old murder case. When Archie was killed on his way to Maine to interview a witness, his partner, Harry McGraw, entered the picture. We became friends despite our different approach to life. Harry is—well, Harry marches to his own drummer, always in some sort of personal jam, but he is a good detective. He’s a straight talker, sometimes to his own detriment. I’d lost contact with him a few years ago, but now we were going to become reacquainted.

  “If you know this guy, maybe you can have him talk some sense into Cy,” Sharon said as we returned to the reception area of the law office.

  “I don’t know if I have that much influence, but if I have the opportunity, I’ll raise it with him. I’m sorry things aren’t going well for you at the firm.”

  “It felt good to get it off my chest, Jessica. Thanks for being my sounding board.”

  It was still early for my meeting with Cy and his newest recruit in the Wolcott murder case, Harry McGraw. While Sharon returned to her desk, I walked over to Charles Department Store to browse their selection of teakettles. After forty years, mine had whistled its last, and it was time for a new one. When I arrived back at O’Connor’s office carrying my purchase in a shopping bag, Harry McGraw was hanging around the reception area talking with Sharon. He turned as I entered, extended his arms, gave me a bear hug, and said, “Jessica Fletcher! Look at you. How come you haven’t aged a day?”

  “Getting through harsh Maine winters keeps you young,” I said. “And how are you?”

  “Me? I get older every hour. Must be all those harsh Boston winters that keep me chained inside my favorite bar. It’s great seeing you, Jess.”

  “And I’m glad that you’re here,” I said, smiling broadly. Harry always made me smile.

  He looked older, but not due to the passing of years. McGraw’s lifestyle undoubtedly played a larger role. He’d always believed in living fast and hard, making decisions in his personal life that sometimes backfired and worked against his self-interest. His handsome albeit hangdog face had sagged slightly, giving him an even more world-weary look. His clothes, a navy blue jacket, pale yellow button-down shirt, and skinny red tie, hung loosely from his angular frame. I suppose you could describe his looks as nondescript, but that was a useful image in his line of work.

  Cy O’Connor joined us. “Come on in,” he said.

  We settled in chairs around the same table
Sharon and I had recently deserted.

  “So you two know each other,” he said.

  “We sure do,” McGraw said. “Jessica bailed out my bacon a few times. I was so impressed, I offered her a job in my agency.”

  “Which I promptly turned down,” I said lightly.

  “Maybe you can help Harry with this case,” O’Connor suggested.

  “Maybe you’d like to explain just what it is you want me to do, Mr. O’Connor,” McGraw interjected.

  “Happy to, but it’s Cy. Let’s drop the formality. Look, the reason Jessica is here is that she witnessed my client’s visit to this women’s shelter we have in Cabot Cove and was told by my client that her husband beat her with regularity.”

  “So she offed her old man,” Harry said.

  “I wouldn’t have phrased it quite that way,” I inserted.

  “Afraid so,” O’Connor said.

  I held up my hand and said, “As long as I’ve been invited into this discussion, I have a few questions, Cy.”

  “Go on.”

  “As far as I know, Myriam Wolcott has repeatedly proclaimed her innocence.”

  “Right.”

  “So why would she plead guilty?”

  “Let’s be a little more accurate, Jessica,” said O’Connor. “Myriam will admit that she killed her husband but will plead not guilty, using self-defense as her reason for doing it. It’s done all the time. It’s not anything revolutionary.”

  I could feel my ire rise at his condescension. “That still doesn’t answer my question, Cy. She has claimed all along that she didn’t do it. Josh Wolcott was a financial adviser with questionable ethics, no question about that. He bilked more than one client out of his or her savings. It’s possible that one of them killed him to exact revenge. Until I hear Myriam tell me that she actually killed Josh, I refuse to believe this scenario that you and . . .” I hesitated before saying, “That you and Myriam’s mother have concocted.”

  O’Connor’s face turned red and he glared at me. “You think I’ve ‘concocted’ something with Mrs. Caldwell? You don’t know what you’re talking about, Jessica.”