Cy O’Connor, who’d said nothing during the wrenching events of the past few minutes, also headed for the door.
“Just a second, Mr. O’Connor,” Judge Mackin said. “As an officer of the court, you are entrusted to seek the truth. It sounds to me as though you’ve been involved in a scheme to thwart justice, which will have consequences. I dread to think what your father would have said.”
O’Connor started to respond, but no words came. He slunk from Mackin’s chambers and quietly closed the door.
Chapter Twenty-nine
What occurred in Judge Mackin’s chambers that day had a profound impact on me. I’m very much a glass-half-full person who seldom gives in to depression. Yet I spent the days immediately following the confrontation—and the sad truth that emerged—in a funk, questioning myself and what my efforts had resulted in.
Mrs. Warren Caldwell’s words—“May you rot in hell”—stayed with me like a sore that wouldn’t heal. Intellectually I knew that she was wrong to assign blame to me for uncovering the true circumstances of the case, that her twelve-year-old granddaughter had wielded the weapon that killed her father. Ruth’s grandmother had tried to circumvent the law in her misguided belief that she was above it and that she was entitled to choreograph everything having to do with her son-in-law’s murder. She was wrong in that assumption, of course, but I understood what drove her. I might have been tempted to do the same thing were a grandchild of mine in a similar circumstance. But being tempted is different from taking action. She was wrong, and I hung on to that truth.
Harry McGraw visited me before heading back to Boston. Seeing him boosted my spirits; he has that effect on many people. We joked before he left: “That offer to hook up with me in my agency still stands, Jessica—McGraw and Fletcher, private investigators.”
“I still prefer Fletcher and McGraw,” I countered, and we both laughed.
Naturally, what came out of that day in Judge Mackin’s chambers was the talk of Cabot Cove. Evelyn Phillips and her young reporter, James Teller, badgered me for comments, which I declined to give. The articles they would write were compelling enough without any editorial input from me.
Myriam Wolcott recanted her story that she’d killed her husband and issued a statement in which she said she’d assumed blame in order to shield her young daughter. She pleaded for the child not to be judged harshly and pointed out that Ruth had become sick at seeing her mother physically and verbally abused over the years by her father. Myriam acknowledged that the night of the shooting, Josh had been especially brutal in his attacks on her, threatening to kill her in cruel ways, and describing how he would dispose of her dead body. Both Ruth and her brother, Mark, had pleaded with him to stop. When he persisted in his threats, Mark had run upstairs and grabbed his own deer rifle, an unregistered gun that his father had given him. Mark had pointed it at his father and demanded that he stop the abuse. But Josh laughed at him, and Mark couldn’t go through with it. Ruth, in hysterics, wrestled the weapon from her brother’s hands, followed her father out to the driveway, and pulled the trigger. She hadn’t aimed; she was incapable of that. But the single shot that was discharged remarkably found its mark. Josh Wolcott fell to the ground mortally wounded.
Seth Hazlitt instinctively knew the conflicting feelings I was suffering and made it a point to stop by.
“Stop beating yourself up, Jessica,” he told me after arriving with a box of pastries from Sassi’s Bakery. “You did the right thing.”
“But I can’t help feeling that because of me this lovely little girl now has to live for the rest of her life not just with the horrible memory of having killed her own father, but the certainty that everyone around her knows what she did. The impact on Mark Wolcott is equally profound. I questioned myself long and hard before going into the judge’s chambers and pointing an accusatory finger at Mark Wolcott. I kept asking myself was I doing the right thing. I knew I had to do it, but . . .”
“The children will receive the best psychiatric and psychological care,” he said. “You know that. What happened inside the Wolcott house that led to this tragedy was beyond anyone’s ability to intervene.”
“But we should have done more,” I said. “Myriam came to the women’s shelter office looking for help, and we didn’t provide it.”
“From what you and Edwina have said, you suggested that she leave the house, told her it was a dangerous situation. She didn’t listen. Damn shame what happened, but you didn’t cause it. Get over it, Jessica. You knew what was goin’ on in court was wrong and you made it right. Sometimes innocent people get hurt when someone else does the right thing, but that doesn’t mean you don’t do it. Heah?”
“Yes, Seth, I h-e-a-h.” His words, plus the bear hug he gave me, did wonders for my psyche and snapped me back into a semblance of the person I usually am.
Later that day, I received a call from Edwina Wilkerson.
“Richard Mauser died,” she said.
I’d known that he’d remained in critical condition since suffering his coronary and that Edwina had kept track of how he was doing through frequent calls to the hospital.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get over the hatred I felt for the man.”
I remembered Seth’s advice to me. “Knock it off, Edwina,” I said in my best impression of Seth Hazlitt, and proceeded to give her the sort of pep talk I’d received from my physician friend. It seemed to help, and we promised to get together in the coming days.
Two other visits bolstered my spirits.
The first was from Sharon Bacon, Cy O’Connor’s right-hand woman, who had come by to help put my mind at ease.
“The attorney assigned to defend Ruth Wolcott has worked out a plea with the district attorney,” she told me, “and Judge Mackin has approved it. Ruth will be treated as a child and placed on probation while receiving counseling. When she reaches twenty-one—and providing she does everything expected of her by the court—her record will be expunged. The court recognizes that she acted impulsively and reacted to her father’s abuse of the mother. It’s not an excuse, of course, but there are plenty of extenuating circumstances that weigh in her favor.”
“I’m pleased to hear that,” I said. “And I hope Mark receives similar help, as well. What about the others, the grandmother, who pressured her daughter to file a false plea, Myriam’s brother, who removed the weapon from the scene, Myriam herself, and Cy O’Connor? They were all involved in a scheme of sorts.”
“The grandmother’s off the hook,” Sharon said. “She never lied to authorities or in court under oath. The brother faces charges of obstructing justice. The DA is charging Myriam with conspiracy and lying under oath, but considering the circumstances, a plea deal is likely to be worked out. As for Cy, there’s a real possibility that disbarment proceedings will be discussed by the Maine Bar Association. He told me the other day that he’s closing up his practice here in Cabot Cove and moving to New York City.”
“Where does that leave you, Sharon?” I asked.
Sharon laughed. “His leaving has forced me to make up my mind about what to do with my life. I’m looking forward to a pleasant retirement.”
“Well deserved,” I said. “It was really good of you to stop by. I feel better knowing that Ruth Wolcott won’t be treated too harshly.”
“Sometimes our legal system does the right thing,” Sharon said.
The second visitor was a complete surprise to me. When I opened the door I was faced with a friendly-faced middle-aged woman wearing a gray-and-black dress. I didn’t know her. A car with a driver was parked at the curb, its engine running.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Mrs. Fletcher? My name is Laura Mauser. My husband was Richard Mauser.”
“Oh, dear,” I said. “I was so sorry to hear about your husband’s passing. I intended to go to the wake, but . . .”
“Please,” she said, “there’s no need to explain.”
“Won’t you come in?”
“I’d rather not,” she said. “I know I’m intruding and don’t want to take up your time. I just came by to give you this.”
She extended an envelope to me.
“I considered giving it to Ms. Wilkerson, but in light of the problems between her and my husband, I thought better of it.”
I hesitated to open the envelope, but when it was clear that she was waiting for me to do just that, I slid my finger under the flap. Inside was a check made out to the Cabot Cove women’s shelter in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“It’s in Richard’s memory,” she said. She managed a small smile. “He could be difficult, but he wasn’t as bad as some made him out to be. Use it well, Mrs. Fletcher. The shelter is much needed here in Cabot Cove.”
It took me a while to get over the shock of the check and what the sentiment behind it meant. When I had, I picked up the phone and called Edwina Wilkerson.
“Thanks for the pep talk the other day,” she said. “I needed it.”
“Edwina,” I said, “I’d like to start volunteering at the shelter again one night a week.”
“Wonderful. How about tonight?”
“Tonight sounds fine. I’ll be there along with something I think you’ll be both surprised at and delighted with.”
“What is it?”
“Just a reminder that life can be good. See you at seven.”
AUTHORS’ NOTE
Authorities tell us that most cases of domestic violence are never reported to the police. Yet one in four women will experience domestic abuse in her lifetime. For children, being a witness to domestic abuse is the strongest risk factor for the perpetuation of violence from one generation to the next. If you know someone who is being abused, help is available twenty-four hours a day. Please reach out to the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE.
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Click here for more books in this series.
OTHER BOOKS IN THE Murder, She Wrote SERIES
Manhattans & Murder
Rum & Razors
Brandy & Bullets
Martinis & Mayhem
A Deadly Judgment
A Palette for Murder
The Highland Fling Murders
Murder on the QE2
Murder in Moscow
A Little Yuletide Murder
Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch
Knock ’Em Dead
Gin & Daggers
Trick or Treachery
Blood on the Vine
Murder in a Minor Key
Provence—To Die For
You Bet Your Life
Majoring in Murder
Destination Murder
Dying to Retire
A Vote for Murder
The Maine Mutiny
Margaritas & Murder
A Question of Murder
Coffee, Tea, or Murder?
Three Strikes and You’re Dead
Panning for Murder
Murder on Parade
A Slaying in Savannah
Madison Avenue Shoot
A Fatal Feast
Nashville Noir
The Queen’s Jewels
Skating on Thin Ice
The Fine Art of Murder
Trouble at High Tide
Murder, She Wrote: Domestic Malice Page 23