“Part of my job is to see whether there might be other people in this lovely town who had a motive to kill Wolcott.”
“Are you suggesting that . . . ?” Mauser sputtered to a halt.
“I’m not suggesting anything,” said McGraw. “But you’re a leading citizen in Cabot Cove, on the council and all. I’m sure you’d want to see justice done, real justice.” When Mauser didn’t respond, Harry said, “Am I right?”
It was apparent from my vantage point that Mauser struggled to get himself under control. When he had reined in his temper, he said in a voice that passed for moderation, “Mrs. Wolcott shot and killed her husband. The women’s shelter implanted in her the evil notion that it was all right to pull the trigger. End of story, Mr. . . . ?”
“McGraw. Harry McGraw. Pleasure meeting you, Councilman. Maybe we can get together sometime and talk about how Wolcott ripped people off. By the way, how much did he take you for?”
“Good night, Mr. McGraw,” Mauser said and lumbered away, hunched forward, his briefcase under his arm. Harry picked up a cookie, took a large bite, and came to us.
“Well, that was certainly direct,” I said, although I wasn’t entirely surprised. Bluntness was among McGraw’s many personality quirks. He would not have made a good diplomat.
“Just wanted to give him a chance to back off on his stance about the murder and the shelter. Did you watch him? He didn’t say it, but everything about him tells me that he was ripped off by Wolcott.”
“You didn’t really expect him to admit it, did you?” I asked, laughing.
Mort Metzger, who’d stood by quietly while witnessing the exchange, finally said, “What was that all about?”
“Harry was fishing to see whether Mr. Mauser was another of Josh Wolcott’s victims of financial malfeasance.”
Mort’s expression was a melding of confusion and discomfort. He took my elbow and moved me away from the others. “Look, Mrs. F.,” he said, “I know that you have this notion that somebody else killed Josh Wolcott, somebody who he cheated.”
I started to say something, but he cut me off with, “Mind a word of advice?”
“When have I ever said no to you, Mort?”
“Fair enough. I’ve always appreciated it when you’ve come up with information that helped me out with a case, but I really think you should butt out of this one.”
“I’m listening.”
“Okay, let me tell you why,” he said. “One, Myriam Wolcott has admitted that she killed her husband. That alone should be reason enough. But I’ll give you another. For your friend to confront Dick Mauser like that was pretty darn rude, if you ask me. Yeah, I know he’s a difficult guy, a bully even, but he’s an important member of the community. There’s nothing to be gained by getting him all riled up.”
“What if Myriam was pressured to confess?” I asked. “What if she’s lying?”
Mort looked at me as though I’d lost my mind. “What reason would she have to do that, Mrs. F.? Why would anybody say they killed somebody if they didn’t?”
“Come on, Mort. As a policeman, you know there have been lots of people who’ve made false confessions to crimes. They all have their reasons for doing what they do, even if we don’t know what they are.”
And I intend to keep looking for Myriam’s reason until I’m proved wrong, I thought.
“Be that as it may, this is not the big city, and Myriam Wolcott is not one of those crazies who confess to crimes they didn’t commit,” Mort said. “She even told us where she threw the gun. I’ve got my guys checking out that part of the river.”
“And when did she have time to throw the gun in the river?” I asked. “Before or after she was on the phone with nine-one-one saying that someone had shot her husband?”
Mort gave me an exasperated look. “My suggestion is that you back off and accept what looks to me like an open-and-shut case. She claims that she did it in self-defense, and that’s good enough for me. The jury will decide if she was justified. For me, the case is closed and I’d appreciate it if you’d not muddy the waters.”
“You’ve made your point, Mort.”
“Yeah, but did I get through to you?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Good. No offense?” He cocked his head and gave me a charming smile to show there were no hard feelings.
“Of course not.”
“One more piece of advice?”
“Mmmmm?” I hummed noncommittally.
“Call off your buddy McGraw. Let him do whatever work he’s supposed to do for Cy O’Connor and go back to Boston.”
“I’ll pass along your recommendation,” I said.
“Good. Now that that’s settled, how about coming to the house for dinner day after tomorrow? Maureen’s got a new recipe for scallops. It’s pretty good.”
“Thanks, Mort. I’ll check my schedule and call.”
I recounted our conversation to McGraw as he drove me home.
“Maybe he’s right,” McGraw said.
“And maybe he’s not. I’m not the one who hired you,” I said, “but I’m still convinced that Josh Wolcott might have been killed by someone other than his wife.”
“I don’t know whether you’re right or not,” he said as he pulled into my driveway, “but as long as I’m here, I’ll keep nosing around.”
“Cy won’t like it,” I said as I opened the door.
“No reason for him to know,” McGraw said, shrugging his shoulders. “Hey, what are friends for? Anyway, I have a hunch I want to follow.”
“What’s that?”
“I think that this Mauser character really wants Mrs. Wolcott to be convicted of the murder.”
“Why would he want that?” I asked.
“Maybe because he knows that she didn’t do it and wants to protect somebody else.”
“Such as who? Himself?”
“Just a thought,” Harry said, grinning. “Catch up with you tomorrow.”
Chapter Eighteen
It snowed overnight, coating everything in white. I’d checked the weather on TV before going to bed and was told that the forecast was for ample sun and moderating temperatures. I assume that the meteorologist pushed the wrong button and was referring to Miami or Phoenix.
An unexpected snowfall wasn’t the only surprise that morning.
A headline in the morning newspaper trumpeted, “Bail Granted.” A report by Evelyn Phillips and James Teller revealed that Cy O’Connor had submitted a motion to Judge Mackin to grant bail for Myriam Wolcott, and the judge had agreed—provided she wore an ankle bracelet, was restricted to her home with the exception of medical emergencies and visits with her attorney, and turned over her passport, which was a moot point since she didn’t have one. The article said the district attorney had protested, claiming that since Myriam had already killed once, she posed a threat to her family and neighbors. Judge Mackin ignored the DA and ordered Myriam released. The news pleased me. At least Myriam would be in her own house and with her children until her trial, which the paper informed me would commence months from now, in August.
A less official bit of news came from Edwina Wilkerson.
“They’re here,” she said breathlessly when I picked up the phone.
“Who’s here?”
“The EPA inspectors. They’re about to test the river near Mauser’s factory.” She sounded gleeful. “I can’t wait for them to nail that miserable excuse for a human being, fine him ten million dollars, and put him out of business.”
I knew that Edwina had been keeping tabs on the arrival of the EPA people. I also knew that her loathing for Richard Mauser now exceeded rational boundaries.
“I’ll buy the whole town a drink when he’s run out of town,” she was said to have told Mara at her dockside luncheonette according to others who were there.
“They haven’t found anything yet,” I told her.
“Oh, but they will,” she countered.
I realized that it was impossible at that moment
to have a reasonable conversation with her about Mauser and changed the subject to the latest about Myriam.
“I didn’t know that,” she said. “That’s wonderful news. I’ll bet Mauser is tearing his hair out.”
So much for changing the subject.
I’d no sooner ended that conversation when Harry McGraw called.
“Good morning,” I said.
“No, it isn’t. I came out this morning to find two of my tires slashed.”
“Oh, Harry, that’s terrible. Who could have done such a thing?”
“Beats me. Remember that young guy who stood up and said he agreed with Mauser about the shelter?”
“Yes. I’d never seen him before. Why?”
“When we came out of the meeting, I saw him hanging around my car, like he was looking it over.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“No crime in what he was doing. I’ve got a guy from a local garage bringing over two new tires. Hey, I didn’t think people did stuff like this in Cabot Cove.”
“We’re not without our problems.”
“Last time I was here you were bragging about how little crime there is, but you’ve got a woman who shoots her husband, a flimflam financial adviser who steals widows’ pensions, and a guy who gets his jollies cutting up tires.”
“Have you called the sheriff’s office?” I asked.
“No, but I will. What’s on your plate today?”
“I haven’t put it together yet. Do you have a suggestion?”
“I may have some news for you if you’re going to be around.”
“Tell me.”
“I’ve got this friend in Boston with the Better Business Bureau. I called her yesterday and she put me in touch with somebody in Bangor who handles Maine. I asked her for a list of people who filed complaints against Wolcott. She’s supposed to get back to me in an hour.”
“Please let me know, Harry. I’ll be here all morning.”
He called back a little after eleven.
“Did you get a list?”
“Yeah. Not many on it, just four, a guy named Quaid, a woman named Judson, and two other guys, a Peter Zeweski and somebody Caldwell, Robert Caldwell. No Mauser on the list, though. Of course, just because he didn’t go on record doesn’t mean he wasn’t taken for a ride.”
“Did you say one of the names was Caldwell?”
“Yeah. That mean something to you?”
“His first name was Robert?”
“Uh-huh.”
I was certain that Myriam’s mother had mentioned that Myriam’s brother’s first name was Robert.
“Do you have an address for Robert Caldwell?”
“Yeah. Some town called Gorbyville.”
“Gorbyville,” I repeated. “That’s about sixty miles from Cabot Cove.”
“Sounds like a place Stephen King would like. Take out the b and you’ve got Goryville. Why the interest in this guy?”
“Unless I’m mistaken, Robert Caldwell is Myriam Wolcott’s brother.”
“Caldwell. That’s the mother’s name?”
“Right.”
“So if this Robert Caldwell is Myriam Wolcott’s brother, it means the vic was fleecing his own brother-in-law.”
“It looks that way,” I said.
“I have to go in a minute; the guy with the tires just pulled in. One last thing. This gal at the Better Business Bureau told me that they checked with the organization that certifies financial planners, you know, gives them a bunch of letters to use after their names.”
“Certified Financial Planner,” I said. “Hold on.” I fetched the card that Josh Wolcott had given me and came back on the line. “Wolcott had the letters CFP after his name on his business card,” I told Harry.
“My best new old friend at the Better Business Bureau says that when they checked they found that Wolcott used to be certified,” McGraw said, “but after too many complaints the regulators took it away from him.”
“When?”
“Two years ago.”
Long before he gave me his card and was still representing himself as a CFP.
“This is all interesting, Harry. I’ll let you go to get your car fixed.”
“If you’re free, let me take you to lunch and we can bat this around.”
“I’m free. Pick me up at noon?”
“On the dot, provided this guy knows how to change a tire.”
As promised, Harry pulled up to my house at noon and we drove to the waterfront for lunch at Mara’s. Harry remembered it from his last visit to Cabot Cove.
“Like an office watercooler,” he said as we entered. “All the latest gossip.”
I laughed. “There are no secrets in Cabot Cove,” I said lightly, “especially not in Mara’s.”
Mara recognized Harry and gave him a hearty greeting as she escorted us to a booth at a window overlooking the harbor and dock. The temperature had managed to nudge above freezing, and much of the snow had melted.
“How’s that British friend of yours?” Harry asked after we’d been handed menus.
“George Sutherland? He’s fine. We don’t get to see much of each other.”
“He’s Scotland Yard, right?”
“Yes. A chief inspector.”
“I got the feeling that Doc Hazlitt isn’t his biggest fan.”
“Oh, that’s not true. Seth is—well, Seth is overly protective of me.”
“Or nuts about you.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Hey, don’t kid a kidder. I pick up on those things.”
Mara came to the table to take our order. She leaned closer to me and said, “Those folks from the Environmental Protection Agency are in town. They had breakfast here this morning.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said, “not about breakfast but that they were here.”
“Mr. O’Connor brought them in.”
“Cy did?” I said. “Is he involved with them in some way?”
“Beats me, Jessica. Nice that Mrs. Wolcott gets to go home, at least for a few months. Nice lady. He really must have pushed her to do what she—”
“Last time I was here I had blueberry pancakes,” McGraw said, interrupting her. “Best I ever had.”
“House specialty,” Mara said. “Served all day.”
Our orders delivered—the pancakes and a side of sausage for him, a salad and dry English muffin for me—McGraw became silent as he looked out the window.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
He turned to me. “The more I learn about this guy Wolcott and his shady business dealings, the more I agree with you, that maybe it was one of his victims who blew him away, not the wife.”
“My feelings about that are summarily dismissed,” I said, “because she’s admitted to the murder.”
“Yeah, except she wouldn’t be the first person to admit to a crime she didn’t commit. Maybe she’s shielding somebody else, like this brother-in-law who got taken to the cleaners by Wolcott.”
“Her brother was there the night of the shooting,” I said. “The newspaper said she’d called him right after she discovered the body and that he and his wife rushed there.”
“Maybe he was there earlier than that.”
“It would put another light on the case if it were true.”
“I got an idea. What say we take a ride over to this Goryville after lunch?”
“Gorbyville.”
“Whatever. Let’s take a look at this brother of hers up close.”
* * *
Gorbyville, Maine, is one of many towns that sprung up around the logging industry, one of the state’s major industries. Based upon what Myriam Wolcott’s mother had said, I had wondered if her son Robert held some sort of important executive position with one of the companies there, but it turned out that Robert Caldwell was the owner of an insurance agency in Gorbyville, with an office in a strip mall in the center of the small town. McGraw had also gotten the address of the house where Caldwell and his wi
fe, Stephanie, resided. We decided to stop in at his office first.
“Is Mr. Caldwell in?” I asked the pretty young blond woman in the firm’s outer office.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, we don’t,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. This is Harry McGraw. He’s a private detective working for Myriam Wolcott’s attorney.”
The receptionist seemed unsure of what to say or do next.
“We won’t take much of his time,” McGraw said. “Just a coupla questions.”
She wrote down our names and with a “please wait here” disappeared into an office at the rear. We could hear her and a man’s voice but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Finally she emerged and said, “Mr. Caldwell is very busy, but he says he can see you for a few minutes.”
Caldwell appeared from the back office. He was a good-looking man, solidly built, with an old-fashioned crew cut. He wore a white shirt, no tie, gray slacks, and moccasins.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
After introducing ourselves, I said, “Mr. McGraw is working on behalf of your sister. Cyrus O’Connor has hired him to help in her defense.”
Caldwell ignored Harry and said to me, “And you’re Jessica Fletcher, the writer. My mother mentioned you to me.”
“I am a writer, Mr. Caldwell, but that’s not why I’m here.” I looked around before asking, “Could we sit down with you for a few minutes, somewhere more private?”
His receptionist looked annoyed but said nothing.
“Yeah, I suppose so,” Caldwell said, “but I can only give you a few minutes. It’s a very busy day. I have a lot of appointments.”
We followed him to his office, which was cramped and messy. File folders and papers were piled everywhere. I noticed that the yellow-and-brown shag rug was badly worn in spots. Color travel posters hung crookedly, more befitting a travel agency than an insurance firm. There were two photographs on the wall behind the desk. One depicted Caldwell dressed in camouflage clothing, holding a rifle, and standing proudly over the carcass of a deer he’d evidently just shot. The second was of him and a woman I assumed was his wife. It had been taken on a sunny beach, possibly in the Caribbean.
Caldwell stood with his hands on the back of the chair behind the desk and pointed to the only other available seat, which I declined.
Murder, She Wrote: Domestic Malice Page 13