Chapter Fourteen
Seth dropped me home a little before eleven. Dinner was good, no surprise. Although my doctor friend wasn’t a particularly creative chef, he always did nicely with basic dishes. After scallops wrapped in bacon as an appetizer, we went on to a hearty navy bean soup, followed by what Seth insists is an original recipe—creamed crab meat on freshly baked waffles, a combination I never would have thought of, but admit is delicious—and filling.
But the evening’s menu was not foremost in my mind once I was inside my house and had made myself a cup of tea. What did dominate my thoughts, and sent my mind racing, was what Seth had raised over dessert.
Before I could settle in my den and focus upon it, however, I had to return three phone messages that had been left on my answering machine.
The first was from Vaughan Buckley. It sounded urgent, and he encouraged me to return the call “at any hour.”
“Jessica?” he said the minute he picked up the phone.
“Yes. I was out to dinner and just got your message.”
“Thanks for getting back to me so soon. I just heard on the news that Mr. Walther has been formally charged with the murder of Santa Claus.”
“You mean Rory Brent,” I said, not sure why the way Vaughan put it nettled me.
“Yes, Rory Brent.”
“Who carried the story?” I asked.
“One of the all-news radio stations here in New York. They’re playing it up big, Jess. You know, a brutal murder during the holiday season, a leading citizen of a small Maine town gunned down just weeks before Christmas. On top of that, the victim was that same town’s Santa Claus.”
I sighed deeply and pulled up a chair. “This is all so unfortunate,” I said.
“Yes, it is. Have you given any more thought to doing a book about the killing?”
“I’m really not interested, Vaughan. I’m too close to it, living here and having known both parties.”
“You mean Brent and the accused.”
“Exactly.”
“But that’s why you’re the ideal person to write a book about it. You know these people, are tuned in to how they think. It’s your town, Jess.”
“Which is why I wouldn’t want to write about something so tragic having happened here.”
“We’ve received calls at the office concerning it.”
“From whom?”
“Press. They know you’re Cabot Cove’s most illustrious citizen. They want to interview you.”
“Tell them no.”
“I can’t tell them that, Jess. They have a right to ask questions, which I assume they’ll do starting tomorrow.”
“I refuse to be interviewed about this. You know how cooperative I am when it comes to publicity, but this is different.”
“Of course it’s different, and I’m not suggesting you do this to publicize anything. The publishing industry may have become crass, but not to that extent. I just thought I’d inform you that this little yuletide murder in your beloved town of Cabot Cove has taken on greater significance. It’s now a national story.”
“Thanks for tipping me off, but as far as doing a book about the murder, I pass.”
“Your call, and I wouldn’t attempt to influence you. Olga and I are still considering driving up for a few days. Is the offer still good to stay with you?”
“Of course it is. Just give me a day’s notice.”
The second of three calls on my answering machine was from our mayor, Jim Shevlin.
“Hope I’m not calling too late,” I said to his wife, Susan.
“Not at all, Jess. We’re watching television, although Lord knows why. All these new cable channels and less to watch. I’ll get Jim for you.”
“I got your message,” I said when he came on the line.
“Good. Have you been getting calls from the press?”
“No, although I just got off the phone with my publisher in New York. He tells me some reporters have called him concerning Rory’s murder.”
“I’ve been getting calls, too. There are two TV news crews arriving tomorrow morning, one from Portland, the other from New York.
“TV news crews! I can’t believe this.”
“I don’t want to believe it, Jess. Of course, I suppose the story does have a certain cachet. You know, the Christmas festival, Rory having been synonymous with our Santa Claus, that sort of thing. You’ve heard, I assume, that the D.A. has formally charged Jake with the murder.”
“Yes. Joe Turco called me earlier this evening to give me the news. Something to do with a footprint in Rory’s barn.”
“Right. It seems the county police picked up a print that Mort missed. It has an odd configuration in the sole, which matches a pair of work boots Jake owns. Pretty compelling piece of evidence.”
“I suppose so. What do you suggest concerning the press?”
“We don’t have any choice but to cooperate. This story has obviously gone public. Nothing we can do to cover anything up, nor should we. I just thought you might be willing to intercede a little on behalf of the town.”
“My publisher said some of them wanted to interview me. I told him I wouldn’t agree to be interviewed about something this tragic.”
“Which I can certainly understand. But if you were to sort of ... well, sort of act as the spokesperson for the town, it might take the pressure off me and some other people. We still have a festival to put on.”
“Let me think about it,” I said.
“Sure. I’ve called a meeting first thing in the morning to come up with some sort of battle plan. Will you join us?”
“I suppose so. Where and when?”
He told me.
The third call I returned was from Jack Decker, who publishes a monthly Cabot Cove magazine. Jack had been publisher of some of the nation’s largest magazines before leaving the hustle-bustle of New York City and settling in Cabot Cove. I had reservations about returning his call. He did, after all, represent the press. But I also knew that he was not someone looking to capitalize on tragedy. His magazine was a loving monthly tribute to the town he’d adopted and had learned to love as much as those who’d lived there all their lives.
“Was hoping you’d get back to me tonight,” he said.
“I assume you’re calling about Jake Walther being formally charged with Rory Brent’s murder.”
“Exactly. I spoke with Jim Shevlin earlier this evening. He’s concerned that the story has been picked up by the national media, and that some of them are heading for Cabot Cove tomorrow. I suggested he tap you as the official spokesperson for the town.”
“That was your idea. Thanks a bunch, Jack.”
He laughed. “Makes sense. Any reporter who shows up here will want to talk to you anyway, considering your stature. You might be able to deflect their attention.”
“That’s a role I’m not anxious to take on. I told Jim I’d attend a meeting with him tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll be there. We can discuss it then. By the way, I understand you were the one who got Joe Turco as Jake Walther’s attorney.”
“Word does get around. Yes. I brought Joe into the situation. He’s not particularly fond of Jake Walther—but then again there aren’t many Jake Walther fans around, are there? But he agreed to take the case, at least in its preliminary stages. Looks pretty bad for Jake, doesn’t it?”
“I’d say so. Well, see you in the morning.”
“Yes, you will. Best to Marilou.”
All calls returned—and hoping no one else would call that night—I sipped my tea, which by this time had become cold, and seriously pondered what Seth Hazlitt had told me at dinner a few hours before.
What he’d related to me was shocking in and of itself. Compounding it was the difficulty he’d had in deciding to share it with me. He was appropriately circumspect, which I understood, considering the sanctity of the doctor-patient relationship. But that consideration was mitigated by the importance of the information as it related to Rory
Brent’s murder, and Jake Walther having been charged with it. Poor Seth, I thought. He’d found himself between the proverbial rock and a hard place. That he chose to share the information with me was, at once, flattering, yet unnerving. But now that he had, I had an obligation to follow through, whether I wanted to or not.
The problem was that I wasn’t sure how to proceed, whether to have another discussion with Seth, or simply to act upon what he’d told me.
An hour later, without having come to a definitive conclusion, I decided that what was most needed was a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow was another day, as the saying goes, although that contemplation wasn’t especially pleasant, considering what it might hold in store.
Chapter Fifteen
The meeting started out in Mayor Shevlin’s office, but quickly shifted to the courtroom because of the number of people who’d decided to attend.
Cabot Cove’s courtroom doesn’t get much use. It’s in session two nights a week to handle traffic violations and other minor infractions, but seldom hosts anything resembling a prolonged trial. The last one I could remember was a year ago when Sheriff Metzger, working in concert with state police, broke a car theft ring operating out of an auto repair service on the outskirts of town. Stolen cars from all over the state were brought to this repair place to be painted, and to have their VINs altered. The trial lasted six days; the accused were convicted and sent to a penitentiary in northern Maine.
“Well, looks like we have a media event on our hands,” the mayor said once he’d gotten everyone to settle down.
“A media circus, you mean,” one citizen replied. “It’s a disgrace to be known as the town where Santa Claus was murdered.”
“I second that,” someone else said.
“It doesn’t matter what any of us feel,” Shevlin said. “The fact is a murder did take place in Cabot Cove, and the victim happened to be the person playing Santa Claus at our yearly festival. Obviously, that has piqued the interest of folks in the media, and they’re coming here to report the story. Now, it seems to me that what we have to accomplish here this morning is to come up with a way to manage things so that everything goes smoothly, and that Cabot Cove comes off in the best possible light.”
“I have something to say,” Seth Hazlitt said. He and I sat next to each other in the front row.
“Yes, Dr. Hazlitt?”
“Rory Brent’s murder doesn’t have anything to do with the average citizen of this town. You know how reporters are. They’ll be pokin’ their noses into everybody’s backyard, trying to get some dumb answer from them on how they feel about the murder. If you want to protect the image of Cabot Cove, I suggest anybody arrives here from the media be herded up and kept on a short leash. The story they’re interested in is the murder. We’ve got a victim, and we’ve got the accused. The only access these folks from out of town should have is with Mort and his people, the D.A., and anyone else involved in the legal aspects of the case. After that, they shouldn’t be allowed to talk to anybody.”
A few people applauded.
Priscilla Hoye, chairperson of the Christmas festival, stood and faced the crowd. “I would be the last one to debate anything with Dr. Hazlitt,” she said. Priscilla is an attractive middle-aged woman with short blond hair and a sunny disposition. She’d forged a successful career in public relations in the travel industry, but, like attorney Joe Turco, had become tired of the hectic pace of life in Manhattan, gave up her New York office, and moved to Cabot Cove. Her natural marketing and public relations skills had been quickly put to use by the festival committee.
She continued. “But I think we might be missing an important point. Yes, we don’t want this unfortunate situation to cast a pall over the festival. At the same time, as you all know, we’ve pursued wider coverage of the festival than just Maine media outlets. We were delighted when that network talk show decided to broadcast from here last year during the festival. We send out news releases to all the major national media. So, having them arrive, even though it’s for a different purpose, should be put to good use. An integral part of the story is that this murder occurred during the weeks leading up to the festival, and that this town refuses to be set back by it. The festival is going forward, and it promises to be the most successful in its history. I’m sure we can maneuver the press in such a way that they’ll balance their reports of the murder with upbeat, positive stories about the festival and the town.”
Now Seth stood. “Can’t say that I agree with you, Priscilla. Seems a little naive to think the press would do anything positive. All they want is stories about blood and gore.”
Priscilla, who’d remained standing, said, “I know that’s the popular perception of the media, Seth, but it isn’t necessarily accurate. I’ve been dealing with the press for many years, and I can assure you that if handled right, Rory Brent’s murder will be only a part of the story, not the whole story.”
“Seems like we should listen to Priscilla,” a citizen said. “She’s the expert when it comes to these matters.”
“Nope, I go with the doc,” said a gentleman from the rear. “Reporters are a bunch ’a ghouls. Let’s do like Doc suggests, herd them up and make sure they don’t stray.”
A spirited discussion ensued, with those in attendance pretty much split on whose side of the argument they favored. As usual, our diplomatic mayor settled the matter by suggesting a committee be formed to make a decision about how much latitude to give reporters. Seth declined to be on the committee, and I was asked if I would participate. It wasn’t high on my priority list, but I accepted.
“All I can say is you’d better get this committee workin’ pretty fast,” Seth said disgustedly. “From what I hear, the vultures will be descending on us any minute.”
With that, the door to the courtroom opened, and two young men and a young woman entered. The men carried portable video equipment, including lights and a microphone dangling from a long boom. The young woman, obviously the reporter, led them up the center aisle and to the front of the courtroom.
Mayor Shevlin looked down from where he sat at the judge’s bench and asked, “Who might you be?”
“Roberta Brannason, Fox News.”
Shevlin straightened his tie and buttoned his suit jacket. “Welcome to Cabot Cove,” he said in a voice usually heard only when he was campaigning.
“Thank you,” Ms. Brannason said. “Who runs things around here?”
“Pardon?” Shevlin said.
“Who’s in charge? We’re here to cover the Santa Claus murder.”
Shevlin looked to where Seth Hazlitt and I sat. He frowned, pursed his lips, then turned to the reporter and said, “I’m the mayor of Cabot Cove. But I suppose you’d like to speak with our sheriff, Morton Metzger.”
The lights held by one of the two young men came to life, and the cameraman, the videocamera propped on his shoulder, began recording.
“I’d like to speak with a lot of people,” Ms. Brannason said, “starting with the person in charge of your Christmas festival.”
“That would be Ms. Hoye,” Shevlin said, indicating Priscilla, who went to the TV crew and introduced herself.
“We’d like to interview Jessica Fletcher, too,” Brannason said.
“She’s sitting right over there,” Priscilla said, pointing at me.
The reporter, followed by her two colleagues, came to where I sat with Seth. “Roberta Brannason,” she said, extending her hand. Seth and I stood; I shook her hand.
“I’m glad you’re in town, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Brannason. “I understand you travel a lot.”
“Usually I do, but this Christmas I’m staying close to home.”
“I understand you might be doing a book about the murder.”
“I’m afraid you’ve received faulty information.”
Ms. Brannason turned to her crew and said, “Let’s get a wide shot of this room and the people in it,” then turned to Shevlin. “Is this meeting about the festival and the murder?”
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br /> “Well, yes and no. Actually, we knew you were coming and—”
Brannason ignored him and instructed her crew where to position themselves.
She turned again to me and asked, “After we get some wide shots, I’d like to go where I could interview you in private, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I’m afraid I’m not about to become an interview subject, at least not where this tragic incident is concerned.”
By now, with the meeting thoroughly disrupted, people had gathered around us.
“You probably know more about the case, Jessica, than anyone else, except for the sheriff and the district attorney,” a woman said.
“Oh, no, you’re wrong.”
“Is the sheriff here?” Brannason asked.
“No,” Seth Hazlitt said. “Got better things to do than hang around waiting for somebody with a camera and a microphone.”
Ms. Brannason ignored him and asked me again if I would consent to an interview. Before I could answer, Jack Decker, the magazine publisher, who’d joined our little knot of people, said, “I think that’s a splendid idea.”
I glared at him.
“Jack may be right,” Seth chimed in.
The reporter waited for the crew to join her.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” I said, overtly checking my watch. “I have an appointment.”
“What’s your phone number?” the reporter asked.
“It’s ... I’m in the book. Excuse me.”
Seth followed me to the courtroom door. “Where are you runnin’ off to in such a hurry?”
“I have an appointment with ... with Dr. Colarusso.”
“You just had your teeth cleaned.”
“I know, but I feel a sudden toothache about to come on.”
He looked at me quizzically, but didn’t say anything else. I left the courtroom, walked briskly down the hall to the front door of town hall, and stepped outside. The sky was deep blue and without a cloud, the sunshine bright and glistening off the snow. I walked a block to a public phone, stepped inside the booth, pulled a scrap of paper from my pocket on which I’d written a number, and dialed it. A man answered.
A Little Yuletide Murder Page 11