Murder, She Wrote: Domestic Malice

by Jessica Fletcher

  I was tempted to repeat what Sharon had said at lunch but knew that it would be inappropriate. I also knew that despite having been drawn into the case, I wasn’t directly involved with Myriam’s defense. I was judging it as an outsider who hadn’t been made privy to what decisions O’Connor and Myriam’s mother had made jointly. But I was sickened at the thought of Myriam being turned into a pawn for one man’s ambition and whatever her mother’s motives might possibly be.

  “Well now, let’s not get into a hassle over this,” McGraw put in, evidently sensing a need to lower the heat. “Either she is or isn’t guilty. It doesn’t matter to me. All I need to know is what you have in mind for me to do, Counselor. I didn’t come all the way up here to enjoy the spring weather, such as it is. I’m assuming you have something you want me to do.”

  “I want you to find others who’ll testify that my client had been abused by her husband. The more people who’ll corroborate that claim, the better our chances of getting her off the hook with a self-defense plea.”

  “Finding others who know about Myriam’s abuse, aside from me and Edwina Wilkerson, won’t be easy,” I said. “Myriam did what most abused women do—kept it to herself.”

  O’Connor, whose expression mirrored the anger that he was feeling, forced a smile and said, “I’m sure someone with Harry’s experience will prove you wrong, Jessica.” His smile slipped. “I’m surprised and, frankly, annoyed with your attitude.” He pulled a sheet of paper from a folder on the table and handed it to McGraw. “It’s a simple agreement that spells out what we agreed to on the phone, Harry. I’m pleased to have you on the case.”

  I’d grown increasingly impatient and decided that staying would only increase my negative reaction to what I’d been hearing that day, not only from O’Connor but from Sharon Bacon. “I really have to leave,” I said.

  “Are you free for dinner?” O’Connor said to McGraw, turning his back to me.

  “I’m always free for dinner,” Harry said.

  “Good.” O’Connor stood and slapped him on the back. “You’re staying at the Thomases’ B and B?”

  “Yeah. Nice room, nice people.”

  “Craig and Jill are good friends,” I put in.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven,” Cy said, shaking hands with McGraw. “We’ll go to my club.”

  I hadn’t wanted to share another meal with Cy, especially at his club, but I felt the invitation extended to Harry in front of me was pointed in its exclusion of me.

  Cy finally turned to me. “Thanks for stopping by, Jessica.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  McGraw and I left the office together. Sharon smiled at me, but when Cy stopped at her desk, she busied herself at her computer.

  “Why do I get the feeling, Jessica, that you and the counselor don’t get along?” Harry asked as we stood on the sidewalk.

  “We did until now,” I said.

  “Need a lift?” he asked. “My car’s parked over there.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” I said. “Got a spare hour for me?”

  “For you I’ve always got time.”

  “Great. There’s something I’d like to run by you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  McGraw had visited my home on a number of occasions back when we worked together, and he immediately made himself at home, discarding his jacket, loosening his tie, and sprawling on the living room couch. I made a pot of coffee and joined him.

  “Like old home week,” he commented as he scooped several spoonfuls of sugar into his cup.

  “I must say that I’m delighted to see you, Harry. Of course, things have changed in Cabot Cove since you were here last.”

  “It got bigger,” he said.

  “But not necessarily better,” I said. “What did you think of the meeting with Cy O’Connor?”

  His raised eyebrows provided a partial answer. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Hey, I’m not arguing. I can use the money. But if this Myriam Wolcott says she didn’t kill her old man, why would O’Connor plead her guilty—or as he said, she’ll admit to the crime but try to get off pleading self-defense. And what’s with this mother of hers?”

  I filled him in as best I could about Myriam’s visit to the women’s shelter—the death of her husband, her mother’s emergence on the scene, and her decision to hire O’Connor to defend Myriam despite his not having any criminal law experience. When I was finished, Harry said, “Is this O’Connor on the up-and-up?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “I did some work for his father. Nice old guy, a straight arrow, all business, no nonsense, not like too many other lawyers I’ve worked for. You say his kid doesn’t defend criminals. So what’s he in this case for, the money?”

  “Perhaps. The mother is calling the shots.”

  “And she wants her kid to say she did the deed even if she didn’t?”

  “From what I gather, Myriam’s mother and Cy O’Connor don’t trust a Cabot Cove jury to find her not guilty.”

  “So change the venue.”

  “I assume Cy has considered that.” I winced. “Or maybe he hasn’t. At any rate, I don’t believe for a second that a jury here wouldn’t be fair and impartial.”

  Harry stood and looked out the window. “Looks like snow,” he muttered.

  “It’s forecast for tonight.”

  He turned and faced me. “What’s this about the victim being a financial scam artist?”

  I told him about the call from Mr. Quaid, Tim Purdy’s tale of the older woman whose savings were wiped out, and the experience Seth Hazlitt and I had had with Josh.

  “Doc Hazlitt,” McGraw said, laughing. “How is the irascible old coot?”

  “I won’t tell him that you said that, Harry,” I said, laughing, too. “Seth is fine, and yes, he’s as irascible as ever.”

  “Hope to get to see him while I’m in town. About these people who lost money through the victim. Seems to me that one of them had as much a reason to pop the hubby as his wife.”

  “My thought exactly. Maybe you should look into that.”

  “That’s not what I’m getting paid for.”

  “If you’re being paid to look for people who know that Myriam Wolcott was abused by her husband, you might as well stay in bed. I seriously doubt whether anyone knows that except for me, the woman who established the women’s shelter, and Myriam’s family.”

  “Come on, now, Jessica. Someone always talks.”

  I thought about that for a minute. “You might start with neighbors of Myriam Wolcott, the Hanley family. The Wolcott son, Mark, evidently spends a lot of time there when things get heated at his own home. I don’t know how much the Hanleys know about Josh Wolcott’s abuse of his wife, but the boy might have indicated something to them.”

  “I’ll give it a shot,” McGraw said as he finished his coffee with a flourish, smacked his lips, and said, “You always made good coffee, Jess.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is that sheriff still around? Metzger, wasn’t it?”

  “Mort is still here.”

  “Maybe I’ll stop in and say hello, see what his take is.”

  “That’s a fine idea.”

  I walked him to his car in my driveway.

  “You really don’t believe that your friend Myriam killed her husband, do you?” he said as he got behind the wheel.

  “No, I don’t, but it’s only my belief, as you put it.”

  “Your beliefs have usually panned out, Jessica. I’ll stay in touch.”

  * * *

  McGraw called at six that evening while I was preparing dinner. Background noise said that he was in a public place, most likely a bar.

  “I’m on my cell,” he said.

  “Where are you?”

  “A place called Peppino’s. Must be new.”

  “New to you. It’s been here a while.”

  “Thought I’d pass along some info. I stopped in to see your sheriff. Nice guy. I told him I was working for O’Con
nor on the Wolcott case. According to him, Mrs. Wolcott admitted just hours before I got there that she killed her husband.”

  I suffered a momentary shortness of breath before saying, “According to plan.”

  “I don’t know about that, but thought you’d want to know.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “I also eavesdropped on a conversation at the bar, a habit of mine. Anyway, it’s a busy bar, lots of happy chitchat. There were three business types sucking on drinks and talking about the victim. The gist of what I heard was that one of their buddies must be tickled that Wolcott’s out of the picture. They were laughing about it. One of ’em said that this buddy of theirs, Mauser or Hauser, not quite sure, must be throwing himself a party, celebrating that Wolcott got it.”

  “Mauser,” I said.

  “You know him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, anyway, thought I’d pass it along. You learn a lot hanging out in bars. At least I always do.”

  “Thanks, Harry.”

  “I’d better get back to my room and dress for dinner with O’Connor. Don’t want to look out of place at a country club.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. No matter what Harry McGraw wore, he would look out of place at any country club, including the Katahdin.

  So had Richard Mauser also invested through Josh Wolcott and lost money? I pondered. How many others like him had seen their finances dwindle because of Josh’s malfeasance or downright dishonest dealings? That question was one that I decided had to be answered.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Is it true?” Evelyn Phillips asked without even a preliminary hello.

  “Is what true?” I replied, the phone propped on my shoulder as I poured myself a bowl of cereal.

  “That Myriam has admitted killing Josh?”

  I hated being put in that position. I certainly wasn’t about to confirm what she’d said, and that meant having to lie. I knew it was true because Mort Metzger had told Harry McGraw, and Harry had told me, but I did what I often do when I find myself in that situation: I avoided answering by asking my own question.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “It’s a rumor, Jessica. I’m going crazy trying to confirm it. Mort Metzger won’t return my phone calls. The same with Cy O’Connor. Even someone inside the sheriff’s department who I can usually wheedle information out of is avoiding me.”

  “What makes you think that I’d know anything about it?” I asked.

  “Because you have your ear to the ground, especially when it involves murder.”

  “That’s some reputation to have.”

  “But it’s true. You do know a lot. So, Jessica Fletcher, I put it to you straight: Did Myriam Wolcott admit that she killed her husband?”

  “If Mort isn’t returning your calls, it’s probably because . . .”

  “That’s it! You could call Mort for me. I know that he’ll return your calls.”

  “I can’t do that, Evelyn. Why don’t you . . . ?”

  I heard a phone ring on her end. “Sorry, Jessica. Have to run. Another call. Maybe it’s Mort. Bye.”

  Saved by the bell, or at least the ring.

  I puttered around the house for most of the morning. It wasn’t so much that there were things that had to be done. It was more a matter of trying to occupy my mind and forget about the Wolcott murder. While I managed to accomplish a few things, my mind-control efforts weren’t successful and I decided at a few minutes before noon to call O’Connor to see whether I could arrange for another visit with Myriam.

  “He’s out playing golf,” Sharon Bacon told me.

  “When will he be back?”

  “Any minute now. I’ll tell him you called.”

  “Thanks. Oh, Sharon, I heard this morning that Myriam Wolcott has admitted that she shot Josh.”

  “Not a good time for that discussion, Jessica. He’s just come through the door. I’ll tell him you’re on the line.”

  O’Connor picked up the phone.

  “I’d like to set up another meeting with Myriam,” I said.

  “No can do.”

  “It was all right the other day.”

  “Right, but things have changed. Better that Myriam’s contact with others not connected with the case be kept to a minimum.”

  I was about to suggest that I certainly had become “connected” with the case through no fault of my own but decided not to, at least at that moment.

  “Your old buddy McGraw is quite a character,” O’Connor said. “He’s a real fan of yours, told me about some cases that you’d worked on together.”

  “He’s a good detective.”

  “He also told me that you suggested that he look into the possibility that someone else might have killed Josh Wolcott, somebody whose investments went bad.”

  “Which makes sense to me.”

  “That’s not what I’m paying him for. You see—”

  “I know. Myriam has now admitted to shooting her husband.”

  “Can’t anything be kept a secret in this town for even a few hours?”

  “Afraid not, Cy. You’re saying that you won’t pursue that possibility, which I find puzzling. You have Harry on your payroll. Why not set him loose investigating that angle?”

  “That’s a job for the police.”

  “Are they doing it?”

  “I don’t know. Ask your pal the sheriff. All I know is that I have a client who needs a rock-solid defense.”

  “But she says she’s guilty.”

  “Sure, guilty of pulling the trigger, but she had a legal right to shoot him. The guy was a monster who threatened her life and the life of her kids. Her own mother knew it for years and pleaded with her daughter to leave the guy. She should have, but that’s water over the dam. Myriam did what any caring mother would have done considering the circumstances. The fact that she shot him is one thing. Getting a judge and jury to accept the self-defense plea and find her not guilty is what’s more important right now. Her admission that she pulled the trigger works in her favor. She’s an honest woman. Being battered by her husband is now public knowledge. Everyone chosen for the jury will have been made aware of that. That’s what I want McGraw to do—not only find others who knew about her being abused, but at the same time spread the word around town.”

  “And how will you account for the missing gun?” I asked.

  “Jessica, do you have a law degree?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t second-guess me.”

  “If Myriam Wolcott did indeed shoot her husband, then I’m sure that your self-defense defense is the best way to proceed. But what if she’s lying? As an officer of the court, I’d think that your finding out who really killed Josh Wolcott would not only exonerate Myriam; it would bring the true murderer to justice.”

  A deep, audible sigh came through the phone. “Sorry about not being able to accommodate you this time,” he said. “I don’t need Myriam hearing conflicting bits of advice at this point. Thanks for calling.”

  I replaced my phone in its cradle, sat back, rubbed my eyes, and allowed the sting of his criticism to abate. He was right, of course. I was invading his area of expertise, the law, and doing it without benefit of education or license. On the other hand, a degree doesn’t necessarily ensure that lawyers make good decisions. Here was one who was decidedly making a wrong one.

  Up until that day I’d been operating on my belief that Myriam Wolcott hadn’t shot her husband. After all, she’d proclaimed her innocence, not only to me but to Mort Metzger and others in law enforcement. Why the sudden turnaround?

  Her confession clearly changed Cy’s strategy for the defense.

  Still, there was something inside of me that didn’t buy it. Even while Myriam was still declaring her innocence, her mother and Cy O’Connor were preparing to have her admit to the crime in hopes a plea of self-defense would sway a judge and jury.

  How did they convince her to change h
er mind?

  Couldn’t get a fair trial in Cabot Cove?

  Nonsense!

  What was going on?

  I was determined to find out.

  I stopped in to see Seth Hazlitt that afternoon, but his nurse said he was backed up with patients.

  “Why don’t you come by for dinner?” he said when he poked his head into the waiting room between office visits.

  I mentioned that Harry McGraw was in town, and Seth suggested that I bring him along.

  I called Harry at the B and B and told him of Seth’s invitation.

  “Sounds good to me,” Harry said. “Maybe the doc can tell me how to get rid of the pain in my back.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be happy to do that, Harry. Pick me up?”

  “Always at your service, Jessica. Shall I bring the town car or the stretch limo?”

  “Bring a bike and we can pedal there together.”

  “My stretch limo is in for service. Have to be my rented wreck. See ya.”

  To my surprise, Seth had also invited Mort and Maureen Metzger. Seth pulled me aside in the kitchen right after I arrived at his house and said, “I managed to talk Maureen out of bringing some newfangled noodle dish she’s been experimenting with, but she insisted on providing dessert. Said she had to practice for the Blueberry Festival.”

  “That’s months away,” I said, “but thanks for the warning.”

  Seth had prepared a chateaubriand, fingerling potatoes, a salad, and French bread straight from Sassi’s Bakery. He’s an excellent cook when he finds the time, his menus usually treading heavily on beef, as well as dishes high in fat and calories. A dietician he’s not. We’d barely sat down when he raised the Wolcott murder.

  “I understand you’re working for Mrs. Wolcott’s defense team,” he said to McGraw.

  “That’s what they tell me,” Harry replied. “I’m looking for people to back up her story about being abused. She’d tried to keep it secret and she was pretty successful. No luck so far.”

  “Must be awkward asking about such things,” Seth said.

  “Not really,” was Harry’s response. “Everybody’s talking about the murder anyway, so I just say that I hear that the wife had been beaten up by her husband. Everybody knows the rumors, but nobody chimes in about having direct knowledge, at least not yet.”