Murder, She Wrote

by Jessica Fletcher

  “So you gotta figure she’s been gone eight hours, at the most,” Mort said. “If it turns out she was in that other cabin when Mrs. F. checked it out, then she’s only been gone maybe four or five hours. Can we get this going now?” He glanced at his watch. “We’re going to lose daylight soon. The longer Maureen’s missing, the more . . .” He trailed off. “Let’s just give Warden Ong something of Maureen’s so she can get started. Any suggestions, Mrs. F.? You know what she wore recently.”

  Warden Ong handed Tigger’s leash to her colleague, and she and Mort and I entered the bunk room. “We probably shouldn’t touch whatever it is you’re using, right?” Mort asked.

  “Just point it out to me,” she said. “And if you have a new plastic bag, that would be helpful.”

  “Maureen wore the fishing vest hanging up over there,” I said.

  “Okay,” Ong said, lifting it off the peg. “We don’t need what’s in the pockets. That’ll just distract the dog.” She rummaged through Maureen’s vest, removing her lipstick, a packet of tissues, and other items, dropping them on her cot.

  “Wait, what’s that?” Mort said, plucking out Maureen’s wedding ring from the pile the warden left on the bed.

  “We were afraid her fingers would swell from the sunburn,” I said. “I told her to take off her ring.”

  Mort schooled his expression, but I could tell it was an effort for him not to break down. He tried to slide Maureen’s ring onto his ring finger, but it wouldn’t go past his first knuckle. He put it on his pinkie and closed his fist over it.

  Outside again, Gabby Ong conferred with her colleagues from the Warden Service. She listened quietly while they briefed her on the details of the reports Mort and I had given separately. She took the leash and checked her own belt to secure the dog’s water bottle, but before giving Maureen’s vest to Tigger to let the dog smell the scent he was to pursue, she talked with us again.

  “Our search-and-rescue dogs are trained to give two kinds of alerts: an aggressive alert—that’s barking and pawing at wherever he thinks his subject is—and a passive alert. Tigger is trained to give a passive alert. That means when he finds something, he won’t bark or make a noise that might frighten the person we’re searching for or warn a kidnapper if that happens to be the case. Is your wife afraid of dogs, Sheriff?”

  “No. She loves animals.”

  “That’s good. Once I give Tigger your wife’s vest to smell, he’s going to take off. You may see his nose go up and sniff the air. A dog’s nose is ten thousand times more powerful than our own. He’s not going to be smelling the ground like you see a bloodhound do in the movies.”

  “What exactly is he smelling?” Mort asked.

  “All of us humans shed skin cells,” Ong replied. “They float in the air for a period of time and leave a distinctive aroma the dogs can distinguish. Every time your wife touched a branch or the bark of a tree, she’d be adding even more cells to the air.”

  “How do you keep up with the dog?” I asked.

  “We keep him on a thirty- to fifty-foot lead, but in the woods we may shorten that so we don’t get tangled up. Once he starts, we don’t touch him. We don’t want to distract him from his mission.”

  “I understand,” Mort said. “Can I go with you?”

  Warden Ong hesitated. “I know how much you want to be here,” she said. “That’s only natural. But you’re a law enforcement officer; you understand that we have a job to do. Just let us do what we do best. If your wife is in the vicinity, Tigger will find her.”

  “If you don’t find her, what does that mean?”

  “It means we have to look harder. Maybe bring in more dogs. Keep in mind, however, that if Jepson or some other kidnapper has her, he may have access to a vehicle. In that case, we may find out where they’ve been, but not necessarily where they are.”

  “No one has mentioned a vehicle before,” Mort said. “Jepson’s picture has been plastered all over the media. It’s not as if he could show up somewhere and not be recognized.”

  “You and I know what he looks like,” Ong said, “but I’m sure you won’t be surprised if I remind you how many people don’t read a newspaper or watch television. And those who get their information online are more likely to click on a funny cat video than a news story about an escaped con. Do you think your wife would recognize Jepson as the guy every cop is out looking for?”

  Mort sighed. “I don’t know. I kind of try to shield her from that kind of stuff. Maybe I shouldn’t.”

  “We all want to protect our families from the ugly parts of life,” Ong said.

  Mort nodded and put on his Stetson. “I’ll let you get to work. I gave everyone my contact information. Please keep me informed.”

  “We will. I promise.”

  Mort and I watched as Warden Ong and Tigger walked down to the lake. She took Maureen’s vest out of the plastic bag I’d given her and held it under Tigger’s nose. The dog snuffled the fabric, raised his nose in the air with his nostrils quivering, then sniffed along the shore where we’d seen the bear prints. He followed in a circle for a few seconds, then went straight to the path leading to the other cabin. In a moment, he and Ong and the other officers disappeared down the trail.

  “They’ll stop at the other cabin,” I said to Mort.

  “I know, but where they go from there will be the key.” He sighed as he signaled to his deputies. “I’m going to drive Mrs. Fletcher home. Evan, get back to headquarters and man the phones. Any messages that come in, you call me immediately. Chip, get out to all the roadblocks and take notes. I’ll see you at nineteen hundred hours for a full report.” He turned to me. “Ready to go, Mrs. F.?”

  “Whenever you are, Mort.”

  He looked around the campsite as the deputies backed down the driveway. “I don’t want to leave,” he said. “My wife is out there somewhere, maybe with a coldblooded killer.”

  “They’ll find her, Mort. I’m sure they will.”

  “I wish I could be that confident, Mrs. F.”

  I wished that I could be that confident, too.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mort decided to leave Maureen’s belongings where they were for the time being. “There’ll be plenty of time to collect them,” he said. “And if somehow she manages to find her way back to the cabin, I want her to find her things. I don’t want it to look like we didn’t expect her to return.”

  “If you think that’s a possibility, then shouldn’t someone stay here?” I asked.

  “I’m coming back tonight,” he said. “I’ll drop you home, check in with my men at headquarters, and drive back up. Those guys can only keep the dog going while they can see. It’s too bad we got such a late start.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “I’m not blaming you, Mrs. F. Maureen could easily have gotten lost—she doesn’t have the greatest sense of direction—and if she’d found her way back, we’d all look like idiots, panicking before it was necessary.”

  “That might still be the situation,” I said.

  “I pray it is but I’m not taking any chances, not with a killer on the loose.”

  The trunk of Mort’s squad car was crammed with assorted material—accident and crime scene investigation equipment, flares and roadside emergency signs, rain gear and medical apparatus. There was no room for my bike. Instead we managed to squeeze it in the backseat on an angle. I climbed into the front passenger seat, after Mort swept a pile of papers and books that had occupied that space onto the floor. I held my duffel bag on my lap. Rather than chance damaging my fishing rod by fitting it in the backseat with the bike, we decided to leave it in the cabin to be retrieved later.

  Mort turned the car around and slowly drove down the grassy slope to the dirt road and headed toward town. He was quiet for a long time, steeped in his thoughts, while I kept my eyes on the woods bordering the road, hoping
I would spot a movement or a color indicating someone was walking there.

  “You know what really scares me?” he asked after a while.

  “What?”

  “He already broke into one cabin. What keeps him from breaking into others? And there are hunters up here who keep their rifles in their camps.” He shook his head. “I can’t even think about what happens if he gets his hands on a gun.” He fell silent again.

  We passed a fisherman tying his kayak to the roof of his car. Where the road paralleled the water, I counted at least a dozen rowboats, bottom side up, that had been pulled on shore by their owners. I knew that the owners had taken the oars with them to discourage others from “borrowing” their craft, but I wondered if any careless person had left a paddle with his boat, making it easier for a thief to steal. What if Jepson put Maureen in a boat and rowed away? Would the dogs be able to find them?

  Would anyone?

  Jepson, as Brian Kinney had, grew up in the woods surrounding Cabot Cove. Like Brian he’d probably camped out frequently, fishing in the lakes and hiking the trails. I imagined that he still possessed familiarity with the terrain. Those days of tramping through the forest with his friends would be good recollections, imprinted on his memory.

  “Assuming they don’t find her tonight,” Mort said, interrupting my thoughts, “I want to get the search started as soon as it gets light.”

  I remembered Maureen being horrified at having to get up at first light and how we’d decided to start our fishing day later so she could sleep in. Would Jepson want to be on the move as early as four thirty or five?

  “I can coordinate the search from up here,” Mort mumbled. His voice was low, as if he were talking more to himself than to me. “This car has a high-gain antenna, which means I’ll always be able to find a wireless network. Your phone may not be able to make a connection, but my cruiser will.”

  “That’s reassuring,” I said.

  He cocked his head at me. “Just how big was the knife he stole?”

  The question startled me; we’d been discussing communications, but I recognized that Mort’s mind was jumping from one topic to another, trying to cover all the pertinent facts and be prepared for anything.

  “The knife that was hanging on the magnetic rack was a bread knife, about ten inches long with a serrated edge,” I said. “It wasn’t terribly sharp.”

  “But sharp enough to threaten someone.”

  “Yes. That’s true.”

  “And Jepson, by virtue of who he is and what he did, would be an intimidating figure. He might not even have to hold the knife up to her throat to keep her in line.”

  “I think Maureen would treat him just as she would a bear.”

  “A bear? How does that compute?”

  “We discussed what to do if she came upon wildlife near the cabin. We saw paw prints of a mama bear and her cub, so we knew that was not out of the realm of possibility. I’d recommended that if Maureen encountered the bear, she should try to look as tall as possible and speak softly and back away. It’s a bad idea to challenge wild animals.”

  Mort snorted. “Jepson’s a wild animal all right, right down to his wild animal smell. He’s a skunk and a rat.”

  “Your wife is smart,” I said, hoping to distract Mort and keep him from raging against Jepson. “I think Maureen will do what she needs to do to cooperate and keep herself safe. Jepson has no reason to hurt her. She’s more valuable to him as an unharmed hostage than she would be if he injured her. An injured hostage would just slow him down.”

  “You’re right, Mrs. F. That’s good thinking. She’s a sharp cookie, all right, my wife. A lot like you, in a way.”

  “I take that as a compliment,” I said.

  It was close to dark when Mort pulled up in front of my house. I had left a few lights on timers as I usually do when I’m away, so I was grateful to come through the back door and see a lamp on in the living room.

  Mort managed to extract my bicycle from the backseat with only a modicum of profanity, which I pretended not to hear. He wheeled it onto the back porch and took his leave.

  “I may give you a call tomorrow, Mrs. F.”

  “I hope you will,” I said. “And if you need my help with anything, you only have to ask.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Good night.”

  I took my duffel bag upstairs and unpacked, separating the fishing clothes from those I hadn’t worn. The action reminded me of Maureen laying out all her purchases on the cot so we could choose her outfit for fishing the next day. I remembered her saying that she wouldn’t need so many clothes the next time and how I’d rolled my eyes, hoping that she didn’t assume we would have an annual date for the Cabot Cove fishing derby. I sighed, chastising myself for such a selfish thought. If Maureen was found safe and sound, I would be happy to enjoy an annual fishing date with her.

  I gathered all my clothing and dropped everything into a laundry basket. Even the things I hadn’t worn had taken on the smell of fish. It would all need to be washed.

  I sat on the bed and wondered what Maureen was doing. Was she frightened? Hungry? Fighting for her life? I shook my head. No! I wouldn’t think that way. Better to learn everything I could about Darryl Jepson and what might motivate him and where he might go. The officers weren’t letting me search the woods along with them, but there were still things I could do.

  I carried the laundry basket downstairs and picked up the phone.

  “Seth? I hope I’m not calling too late for you.”

  “Wondered when I might heah from you.”

  Part Two

  Chapter Fourteen

  “It could be one of two things,” Seth said in answer to my questions about a medical condition that could produce a powerful body odor, such as the one that Darryl Jepson had. “There’s hyperhidrosis, which is excessive sweating. If it’s being produced by the apocrine glands, there’s the possibility of strong reaction with bacteria on the body.”

  “Can anything be done?”

  “Ayuh, there are a lot of treatments for that condition—antibacterial soap, diet changes, and medications depending on the exact diagnosis. Interestingly, people who perspire a great deal often don’t produce any odor because the moisture, if it’s produced by the other sweat gland, the ecrine glands, simply washes away the bacteria and moisture from the apocrine glands.”

  “But that’s not the circumstances here. I was able to detect this odor after the man had left the cabin.”

  “Well, in that case, it’s more likely to be trimethylaminuria.”

  “Can you spell that?” I asked, taking notes on our conversation and trying to keep up with his use of medical jargon.

  “It’s more commonly known as ‘fish-odor syndrome’ or by the initials of its components, TMAU.”

  “Not so easy to treat?” I asked.

  “Much more difficult,” he replied. “First off, it’s very rare, so you might find a doctor who’s either never heard of it or—if the doctor doesn’t smell anything, which is possible in a surprising number of cases—thinks it’s a case of body dysmorphia.”

  “And that is?”

  “A preoccupation with an imaginary physical flaw. A lot of people with TMAU have gone undiagnosed because their physicians thought they had a psychological problem.”

  “But this odor wasn’t imaginary.”

  “Poor fellow. It’s a terrible condition to live with, and it has nothing to do with not being clean or bathing enough. Many people who have it don’t even know they do. All they experience is people avoiding them or passing nasty comments.”

  “How awful. You never saw him for it, did you?”

  “Jepson? No, he was never my patient. I can ask around at the hospital if you want me to.”

  “Would you, Seth? That would be helpful.”

  “Not sure how helpful it will b
e if someone objects to a possible breach of patient confidentiality, but I’ll ask all the same.” He paused. “Now that I’ve helped you, I want something in return.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You keep me up to date on the search for Maureen. I want to know as soon as she’s safe. I feel responsible for tricking you into taking her along. If I hadn’t done that, she’d be home with her husband right now.”

  “You didn’t trick me, Seth. I knew exactly what you were doing.”

  “You’re sure Jepson’s got her? Couldn’t just be that she got lost and the search-and-rescue people will find her?”

  “I wish it were that simple. But if we go by odor alone, we know Jepson was inside our cabin twice, and again at the other cabin where we found the book.”

  “Course, if she hadn’t been along, it mighta been you that Jepson took hostage.”

  “Are you going to find a way to make yourself responsible for my welfare as well?”

  He harrumphed. “Nope! Too late for that. Gave up on you a long time ago. You’re completely indifferent to taking chances, don’t even recognize when you’re doin’ it. I just close my eyes and cross my fingers.”

  “I didn’t mean to be unsympathetic, Seth. I thought the same as you did—wondered if I hadn’t invited her to join me for the derby, would she be safe at home now? But it’s too late for recriminations. All we can do is pray that Maureen is all right.”

  After we disconnected, I put up a load of laundry and sat at my kitchen table with a pen and pad. What did I need to know? Jepson had been in prison for a dozen years. Would he still be in touch with anyone in his hometown, someone who could provide insight into his character? I could have asked his lawyer, but someone had killed Wes Caruthers. Why? Was it Jepson, in retaliation for not getting him off in the grocer’s murder? Or was it someone else who wanted to shut him up for another reason?

  I went to the bookcase in my study and pulled out a Cabot Cove telephone directory. I know you can find this information online, but somehow it’s never as easy as simply running your finger down a column of names. I flipped through the pages for the letter J and looked for the name Jepson. There were no listings. Yet I knew that Darryl Jepson had grown up here. I needed a telephone directory from a dozen years ago to see if there had been a listing for Jepson back then. That meant a trip to the library.