Murder, She Wrote

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Alice and Brian had gone hiking in the woods that day.”

  “But they couldn’t prove it.”

  “No.”

  “How awful. Didn’t anyone else see them?”

  “Someone actually did. They came across a man using a compass to find his way, stopped to ask him what he was doing, and discovered he was in training to become a Maine guide.”

  “Cool! Maybe that’s what inspired Brian to become a guide.”

  “Perhaps, but they didn’t know the man’s name or where to find him again.”

  “Nuts! Did they ever find him?”

  “They did. Or at least the lawyer from the Innocence Project did. He sent e-mails to all the wilderness organizations asking them to poll their members to see if any of them remembered talking to a young couple on the date in question about the training needed to become a guide.”

  “And someone came forward.”

  “Yes. He completed an affidavit the lawyer presented to the judge, who reversed the verdict and Brian was let out.”

  “So at least it’s a happy ending.”

  “Almost,” I said.

  “Why almost?”

  “Brian had to give up many years of his life for no reason.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean to make light of that.”

  “You also have to remember that once someone has been in prison, even if he was there for a crime he didn’t commit, people look at him differently.”

  “You mean they don’t trust him anymore?”

  “Don’t trust him or don’t believe he was really innocent.”

  “Maybe they’re just afraid of how that experience may have changed him.”

  “Whatever their reasons, it’s a blemish that is hard for Brian and others like him to escape.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “There’s a lot that’s unfair in this world.”

  Chapter Six

  “I think I got a little sunburn,” Maureen said, resting a hand on her red knee as Brian guided our boat into new waters. “My skin feels hot.”

  “Did you forget to put on sunscreen this morning?” I asked.

  “I remembered to put it on my face and the back of my hands, but forgot my arms and legs when I rolled up my sleeves and unzipped my convertibles. What can I tell you? It’s the story of my life. I’m a redhead. We always burn.”

  “That’s not a good thing,” I said. “If you’re uncomfortable, we can go back to the cabin. I’m sure I packed some witch hazel. That will help a little, and Jim Shevlin always leaves a first-aid kit under the sink.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t! I’m not missing my chance to catch a big fish just because of a little sunburn. I want to see if I can net a rainbow as big as yours.”

  “Listen to her,” Brian said, chuckling. “She’s talking like a real fisherman now.”

  “I am?” Maureen said, her pink cheeks becoming even pinker.

  I studied her face. Whatever sun protection factor she’d used this morning hadn’t kept her from getting a burn. Her cheeks, nose, and chin were glowing, and her neck was red. “I think you might want to put on some extra sunscreen now if we’re going to be out for another three hours.”

  Maureen fumbled in the pocket of her vest and withdrew a half-squeezed tube. She squinted at the small writing on its side. “The SPF is fifteen. It’s what I use most of the year.”

  “Most of the year you aren’t sitting on a boat with the sun’s rays hitting you from above and reflecting off the water,” I said.

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll put it on now.” She squirted out a blob of white cream, rubbed her hands together, and swiped them over her face, leaving streaks of cream on her cheeks and around her nose. She patted more on her already-red knees and up her arms.

  “Do you feel all right?” I asked, cocking my head at her.

  “I’m fine, just a little hot.”

  Brian took a thin towel from the duffel under his seat, dragged it in the water, wrung it out, and handed it to Maureen. “Here, wrap this around your neck. It should make you feel better.”

  Maureen grinned. “Ooh, that feels good. See all the tricks I’m learning, Jessica?”

  “The trick is not to get burned in the first place,” I said under my breath as Maureen twisted around in her seat to face the direction in which we were heading.

  We passed several other boats either anchored near a promising pool or drifting along under the shade of tall trees.

  “Aren’t there any big fish in this lake?” one of the fishermen called out. “All I can catch are eight- or nine-inchers. Not even big enough for a good-size sandwich.”

  Brian laughed. “Keep trying,” he yelled. “This lady reeled in a sixteen-inch rainbow this morning.” He pointed at me.

  “I thought they’re not supposed to eat the trout,” Maureen whispered to me.

  “I think he was kidding,” I said.

  “I caught two brookies,” Maureen called out.

  “How big?”

  Maureen held her hands up to show the size of her fish and kept moving them father apart. She grinned and shrugged.

  The fisherman laughed and gave her a thumbs-up.

  “Just how big can a brook trout get?” she asked Brian.

  “A twelve- to thirteen-incher is a pretty good size. Depends on the lake. Bigger lake, bigger fish, but the rules for this derby keep us restricted to a specific geographical area. Where we’re fishing most of ’em average out around ten inches.”

  “So my guys from this morning are only average?”

  “Or girls,” he said smiling. “It’s hard to tell the sexes apart when they’re young.”

  “And when they grow up?”

  “When they spawn in the fall, there’s a color difference you can see.”

  Brian found a cove the other fisherman had missed—or perhaps had already abandoned.

  “This looks promising,” he said, allowing the boat to float toward the shore while he pored over a tray of artificial flies trying to decide which one to tie onto Maureen’s rod. “What do you think about a Royal Wulff?” he asked me, holding up a fuzzy fly with an abdomen of bright red thread.

  “I like that one,” Maureen chimed in.

  “Royal Wulff it is,” Brian said.

  “I think I’ll try an ant this time,” I said, choosing a fly made out of three beads of black foam rubber.

  “Ick! That looks a little too real,” Maureen said.

  “I hope the trout feel the same way,” I said, smiling as we cast our lines.

  The location proved disappointing, and we moved several times before finding the perfect spot—an outcropping of rock shaded by long branches of a swamp maple—that yielded our best catches of the day: a rainbow for Maureen, pretty close in size to the fish I’d caught; three brook trout; two more perch, which we released; and a good-size pike Brian decided to keep for dinner, either ours or his.

  We returned to the dock by six thirty, tired, sweaty, and with the distinct aroma of fish on our clothing. Brian offered us his pike, but we encouraged him to take it home to Alice.

  “Not sure her stomach is up to eating fried fish,” he said, “but Emma and I will have a nice dinner. You guys have enough to eat?”

  “Without doubt. My friend here could stock a small grocery from her cooler,” I said, smiling at Maureen.

  We bid Brian good-bye and said we’d see him bright and early the next day.

  “How’s about seven thirty?” he said. “Give this lady a chance to sleep in.” He nodded at Maureen, whose cheeks were an alarming shade of red.

  Once Brian had pulled away, Maureen collapsed into one of the rocking chairs on the porch and promptly fell asleep. I changed into a bathing suit and took a dip in the chilly waters of the lake, glad to wash off the day’s combination of sunscreen, pers
piration, and fish. When I checked on her an hour later, she was still sleeping, her fishing hat covering her face. I opened a can of chicken noodle soup and poured it into a small pot to heat on the hot plate, sliced some tomatoes using the knife from the magnetic rack, and put two pieces of whole-wheat bread on a plate.

  I went outside and shook her shoulder. “Maureen? You won’t sleep tonight if you take too long a nap.”

  She mumbled something, turned her head, and her hat fell into her lap. Maureen’s face was scarlet, her eyes swollen, and her lips chapped.

  “Maureen, come on. We’ve got to put some first aid on that burn or you’re going to be hurting a whole lot.”

  She squinted up at me.

  “I don’t want you to get sunstroke. Come inside and let’s treat this right now.”

  Maureen stumbled into the cabin and went straight to the bathroom. “I don’t look too great, do I?” she said when she came back to the main room.

  “I’m less concerned with your looks. How do you feel?” I said.

  “I have a little headache.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said, rinsing a towel under the cold water from the pump. “Here, put this on the back of your neck.”

  “Mmm. Feels good.”

  I opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a metal box. “There should be a bottle of ibuprofen in this first-aid kit.”

  “It’ll fade by tomorrow. It always does. Then I peel and turn white again. Never could tan.”

  “Can you take this?” I asked, handing her the bottle of pills and a glass of water.

  “I’m not allergic, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Ibuprofen is an anti-inflammatory. It reduces the swelling and the redness and can keep the burn from getting worse.”

  “Thanks! This water is so nice and cold.”

  “Don’t drink too quickly. Take sips. You want to stay hydrated, but you don’t want to overdo it.”

  Maureen took the pills, and I put a bottle of Vitaminwater and a bottle of witch hazel on the picnic table next to her.

  “Don’t confuse these, please.”

  She giggled. “Can you imagine if I drank the witch hazel by mistake?”

  I took the towel from her, rinsed it in water again, and poured a capful of witch hazel onto the cloth. “Let’s keep this away from your eyes,” I said, patting her swollen cheeks with the witch hazel–laced towel. “You’d better take off your ring in case your fingers get swollen, too. Sometimes it takes four to six hours before all the sunburn symptoms show up.”

  Maureen removed her wedding band and tucked it into one of the many pockets on her fishing vest. She snapped the pocket closed and yawned. “Can I go to bed now?” she asked in a little-girl voice.

  “Not yet. I’m heating up some chicken soup. You need something to eat, and the soup is also liquid.”

  “Yes, Mama,” she said, smiling at me. “I tried to wink at you but my eye isn’t working right.”

  “Your eyes are swollen. Let’s hope you can open them in the morning.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “That bad,” I agreed.

  We ate our simple meal in silence while I kept a close watch on Maureen, popping up to keep her towel cool by running it under cold water and wringing it out. Sunburn is enough of a problem, but sunstroke can be a medical crisis. I thought of Seth’s warning about being isolated without means of help should there be an emergency. We already knew our cell phones were not reliable in an area with spotty service at best. If Maureen became light-headed or disoriented, if she felt weak or nauseated, or had a seizure or trouble breathing, we’d be in big trouble. I counted the ways I could get help. I could tramp through the woods to Mayor Jim Shevlin’s second cabin on the other side of the lake and hope that the cellular phone service was better over there. I could take my bicycle, parked around the side of the cabin, and ride down the dirt road in hopes of finding another resident or a roadside store. But either option would be difficult in the dark. Or we could stay put until Brian arrived in the morning and send him for help.

  After our light dinner, I helped Maureen undress and apply a soothing cream to her arms, legs, neck, and face. I placed a towel on her pillow and rinsed out the one we’d used earlier that was no longer cold. There are several places on our bodies where blood vessels are near the surface of the skin. Behind the neck is one, and a cold-water compress there can make your whole body feel cooler.

  Maureen fell back on the cot with a sigh. “You know, I haven’t had a bad burn since I was a teenager. My friends used to slather baby oil on themselves and use a reflector to get tan faster. Stupid kids, huh? We didn’t worry about skin cancer, never mind wrinkles.” She lifted her head to flip over the washcloth so the chilly side was against her skin. “I usually avoid the sun at all costs because I know I can burn. I just wasn’t paying attention. I was so excited to learn to fish and to catch a good one for the derby. I did it, too, didn’t I?”

  “You certainly did,” I said. “Your rainbow trout was bigger than mine.”

  “Oh, you’re just being kind,” she mumbled and sighed. “If it is, it’s probably because I used a Royal Wulff fly. I love that name. How did such a fluffy little fly get such a serious name? Does Queen Elizabeth use it when she goes fishing?”

  “It’s possible, but I don’t know how we’d go about researching what flies the queen uses.” I added a second wet towel to her forehead.

  “You missed your proper profession, Jessica.”

  “I did?”

  “Mmm-hmm. You’re a great nurse. I feel better already.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “But I think I’ll go to sleep anyway. Got to be ready in the morning for when Brian takes us out again,” she said, her voice trailing off.

  “Let’s see how you feel tomorrow. You may want to rest up in the morning and just go out in the afternoon.”

  But my advice fell on deaf ears, or at least sleeping ones. Maureen’s soft breathing reassured me, and I tiptoed into the main room and sank down on the picnic table bench, relieved for the moment.

  Camping always requires more work than you anticipate, and I spent the next hour cleaning up. I washed our soup bowls, dried them, and stacked them on a shelf alongside the bread plates. I rinsed out the soup can, gathering leftover pieces of chicken and noodles to add to our bearproof garbage bag hanging from the laundry line outside, and made certain any food stuffs were properly stored away. I set out two more ibuprofen pills for Maureen and made a note of the time she could safely take the medicine again. My clothing from the day’s fishing required more than a night’s airing, but that was all it was going to get under the circumstances. At the end of the derby I’d give our clothes a good wash in the sink and hang everything on a line to sun-dry.

  As I gathered up Maureen’s things, which I’d left on my cot, I heard the sound of a car heading up to the cabin from the dirt road. I hurried to the door and looked out to see Brian climbing from his Jeep holding a brown paper bag.

  I stepped out onto the porch. “What are you doing back?” I asked in a low voice, not wanting to disturb Maureen’s sleep.

  “Just checking up on you,” he said. “Mrs. Metzger looked like she got a bad burn today.”

  “She did, and I’m grateful for your concern. I was wondering how to get help if her sunburn became sunstroke.”

  “Do you think it will?”

  “I’m hopeful it won’t. She’s sleeping now, but I’m afraid she’ll be hurting tomorrow.”

  “Alice told me to give you this aloe vera cream. She swears by it, calls it her miracle cure.” He handed me the paper bag he’d been carrying. “I think she put in some extra cookies, too.”

  “Ooh! That was so kind of her. Please thank Alice. Are we depleting your supply?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t matter. She can always make more.�
�� He shifted from one foot to the other as if he had more to say but couldn’t find the words to put together.

  “Can you keep me company for a little while, or do you need to get right back to Alice? We haven’t really had a chance to catch up.”

  An expression of relief passed over his face. “Sure. Alice won’t mind. She’s the one who insisted I come up here.”

  “Let’s sit on the porch so we don’t wake Maureen. Would you like a bottle of water, or I could make a mug of tea?”

  He shook his head. “I have a bottle of water in the Jeep, but I wouldn’t mind one of those cookies.”

  I laughed and passed him the paper bag after we’d settled in the rockers. He dug out a packet of aluminum foil, unfolded it, and took a cookie. “Want one?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  We chewed in companionable silence for a moment before he asked, “Do you think Mrs. Metzger will be okay to go out tomorrow?”

  “She says she’s eager to fish again. I’m not sure it’s the best idea. Maybe you can help me convince her to take the morning off—if she’ll listen.”

  He chuckled. “I’m not very good at convincing anyone of anything,” he said. He handed me back the paper bag. “I have something else for you.”

  “Oh? What is it?” I opened the bag. I could feel the shape of the bottle of lotion and knew there was a packet of cookies in there but wasn’t able to see its contents in the dark.

  “No. Not in there.” He sighed, then pulled a rolled newspaper from the back pocket of his jeans. “Alice thought I should give you this.”

  “It’s not easy to read by moonlight. Can you tell me what’s in it?”

  “It’s about Stinky. I mean Darryl.”

  “Was that Jepson’s nickname? The prisoner who escaped?”

  There was enough moonlight for me to see Brian nod.

  “Have they found him?” I asked.

  “Not yet, but they don’t think he’s trying to sneak into Canada anymore.”

  “Why not? Where else do they think he’d go?” I asked.

  “They think he’s coming to Cabot Cove.”