“You said ‘him,’ ” Mort pointed out. “Are you sure it was a man?”
“Actually, with those huge heads on, it was impossible to tell. And we were too far away to gauge height, so I don’t really know if it was a man. I suppose it could have been a woman.”
Harold knocked and pushed open the door. Behind him in the hall was a state patrolman. Mort thanked the Lerners for their cooperation and handed them a card with his office phone number. “Please give me a call if you think of anything else. Sometimes folks remember things when they’re more relaxed and have a chance to sleep on it. And I’d appreciate your not discussing this investigation with anyone else.”
The Lerners agreed and left the room.
“Okay, Harold, bring in the Deckers and the Walters,” Mort said.
“What about Tremaine?” I asked. “He’s the only uninvited guest.”
“I’m saving Mr. Tremaine for last.”
Harold disappeared into the hall. A moment later, the door to the library slammed back against the wall and Robert Wandowski stalked into the room, his face a mask of fury. Harold, a hand on his right shoulder, was right behind him. “Couldn’t help this, Sheriff,” the deputy said. “He pushed right past me.”
The hulking Wandowski came directly to the desk, then put large hands on it and leaned over Mort. “I gotta get home. You know how late it is? You ignored me.”
Mort asked Harold, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Harold said, rubbing his shoulder.
Mort stood and faced Wandowski. “You sit down, sir, and don’t get up till I tell you to or I’ll have you taken in for impeding an investigation and assaulting a peace officer.” He turned to Harold: “You keep an eye on him. If he moves, cuff him.”
Wandowski’s jaw dropped, and his bravado seemed to ooze out of him. “Look, I’m sitting down,” he said. “I won’t move, Sheriff, I promise. I’m sorry. I just get a little hot now and then.”
“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” Mort said.
“Sorry, Hal.”
“What was that?” Mort said.
“I said, ‘Sorry, Hal.’ ”
“You two know each other?” Mort asked his deputy.
“We’re in the same bowling league,” Harold said. He looked at Wandowski: “Just cooperate with the sheriff, Bob, and don’t make any more trouble.”
Mort moved to the front of the desk, then leaned back on the polished walnut and cherry inlaid top and glared down at Wandowski, who squirmed in his chair. Mort let the silence build, keeping his gaze on Wandowski, who glanced over his shoulder at Harold, looked down at the carpet, then up again, his eyes unable to meet Mort’s. The tension grew, and I watched Wandowski’s face turn red, pale, then red again. Finally, he blew, as Mort knew he would.
“I didn’t do it!” he exclaimed. “I was here all night. I never left the party.”
“You were angry with her.”
“I swear I didn’t do it.”
“You were getting even.”
“No, no, you’re wrong.”
“You threatened her right in front of me.”
“I know, but I swear I never saw her again.”
“You just said yourself you can’t control your temper. You saw her and remembered your daughter coming out of her cottage. You felt the rage all over again. And you killed her.”
“No! You can’t trick me into saying anything. I’m not the killer.”
“You just wanted to protect your home, right?” Harold said kindly. “You just wanted to keep your family safe.”
Wandowski looked up, relieved at the show of support from the deputy. “Yes,” he sighed. “Of course I want to keep my family safe.”
“So you killed Mrs. Swift because she represented a threat to their safety.” Mort’s voice was low and measured.
“No, no, I didn’t say that.”
“You thought she’d kidnapped your daughter, and you wanted to get even.” Mort slapped the desktop, punctuating his lines. “You wanted to kill her. You didn’t want her anywhere near your daughter. She was a stranger, different—everyone said so. She was evil, luring your daughter into her cottage when you weren’t there. What was she doing to your girl? She was—”
Wandowski leapt to his feet. “She never should have taken Julie!” he roared. “She got what she deserved.”
Mort stopped and eyed Wandowski. I held my breath.
Wandowski looked around frantically. “No, no, I know it sounds like I was mad at her, and I was, I was, but I didn’t kill her. I swear.” He collapsed back into his seat and wrapped his arms about himself.
I let out the breath I’d been holding. Mort shrugged and looked at Harold. The deputy put a hand on Wandowski’s shoulder. “All right, Bob, calm down now.”
Mort turned his back on them and went to the door. “You can go home, Wandowski, but I’m not through talking to you. You’re not to leave Cabot Cove. Understand?”
Wandowski nodded.
“Mr. Wandowski,” I said from my observation post at the window, “may I ask you a question?”
Wandowski appeared surprised. He must have forgotten I was there. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“Why didn’t your wife come to the party with you tonight?”
“Uh, she wanted to, but we didn’t have a baby-sitter for my daughter. I work for Mr. Marshall, so I had to come, even if she couldn’t.”
“Go on, go home,” Mort said. Wandowski slowly stood and shuffled from the room in stark contrast to the way he’d entered.
The Deckers were next to be interviewed.
“You folks are in the business of noticing things,” Mort said, “being writers and publishers and all. What’d you see tonight?”
Jack Decker, a tall, handsome man with a deep voice, laughed gently. “I’m afraid we didn’t have our journalist ears and eyes operating tonight, Mort. We were strictly here to enjoy ourselves.”
Marilou added, “Jack is right, but I can’t imagine that poor woman’s murder has anything to do with the party. It had to have been someone passing through, some nut.”
“Or someone who knew her but wasn’t at the party,” her husband said.
“You may be right,” said Mort, “but I can’t go on assumptions like that. What do you know about Ms. Swift?”
The Deckers looked at each other before Marilou said, “All I know is that there’s been a lot of talk about her since she moved here. People considered her strange.”
“Strange how?” Mort asked.
“Different, I suppose is the way to describe it,” Marilou replied. “Some people can be cruel when a newcomer arrives who doesn’t look like the rest of us.”
How true, I thought.
Jack said, “I’ve been told that Ms. Swift had been asking around about Tony Scott’s death in the fire.”
I sat up a little straighter. So did Mort.
“Why was she doing that?” Mort asked.
Jack shrugged. “Idle curiosity, I suppose.”
“Happened a year ago,” said Mort. “Can’t imagine why a stranger to town would be wondering about that.”
I interjected, “Who did she ask about it, Jack?”
“Dick Mann for one.” Dick is Cabot Cove’s fire chief.
Mort made a note. “Anyone else?” he asked.
The Deckers shook their heads.
“Well, folks, thanks for sharing what you know,” Mort said. “Might as well go home and get to bed.”
I smiled as the Deckers stood and left the library. Since coming to Cabot Cove after successful careers in magazine publishing in New York, they’d become one of the town’s most popular couples, erudite and attractive, involved and concerned.
Harold escorted Pete and Roberta Walters into the room. They owned a small radio station that provided soothing music and lots of local news.
“How about a statement for the record, Mort?” Pete asked. “I’m heading for the station once we leave here.”
Mort closed his ey
es and pinched the bridge of his nose. “The only statement I can give is that there’s been a murder, and that our office is investigating. I’d appreciate it, Pete, if you held off on reporting any of this for twenty-four hours, till after I finish the interviews.”
“Mort, you know how unrealistic that is. The word will be all over town by sunup, and the TV and newspapers will be on the case not long after that. Sorry, Mort, but I can’t do it.”
“Well then, no speculating, huh? Just stick to the facts. And if anyone calls with information about the case, give ’em this number.” He handed Pete a card.
“Of course.”
“I know you’re used to asking the questions, Pete,” Mort said, “but when there’s a murder, I do the asking.”
“Shoot,” Pete said.
“Roberta, you and Pete were here all evening. See anything unusual, anything might shed some light on what happened down at the Rose Cottage?”
“Can’t say that I did,” she responded.
“You, Pete?”
“No. The only thing I saw were people having a good time. What’s your read on it, Mort? I assume that nut out there, Tremaine, is at the top of your suspect list.”
“I don’t have such a list—yet. You have any contact with the victim since she moved here?”
They both denied having ever met Matilda. But then Pete said, “I heard she was down at the newspaper, looking through clips in the morgue.”
“That so?” Mort said. “Know what she was looking for?”
“Horace told me she was diggin’ into articles on Tony Scott’s death.”
Mort glanced at me before asking, “How come Horace wasn’t at the party?” Horace Teller is publisher of the Cabot Cove News, our weekly newspaper.
“Out of town,” Roberta answered. “Visiting his son in New York.”
“I see,” Mort said. “Well, unless you’ve got anything else to say, you’re free to go.”
“Sure I can’t get a statement from you, Mort?”
“Yup, I’m sure. Safe home.”
Harold escorted the Walters out of the library, and Mort placed his elbows on the desk and rested his head in his palms.
“Don’t you think it’s time to call it a night?” I suggested, getting up to stretch my legs. My right foot had fallen asleep.
“Can’t leave just yet, Mrs. F. The others I can get to later, but Mr. Tremaine has some questions to answer, plenty of ’em.”
“Of course,” I said. “Shall I go tell everyone they’re free to leave, and have Harold or Wendell bring Mr. Tremaine in?”
“Thanks, Mrs. F., I appreciate the help. By the way, I’m intending to inspect the cottage tomorrow.” He massaged his neck and rolled his head. “I’ll be back out here around ten. You’re welcome, as usual, to join me.”
“I’ll take you up on that, Mort. I’m interested in seeing Ms. Swift’s home. You learn a lot about people from the way they live.”
The occupants of the Marshall living room were barely awake when I entered. Wendell was close to falling asleep on his feet, arms crossed, head leaning against the wall. Paul Marshall stared into space, his book resting on his chest, half glasses perched on his nose. His daughter had drawn her chair up to the French writing table; a pillow from the sofa cushioned her dark head on the table’s sleek surface. Her two swain, if that’s what they were, sat slumped on sofas on opposite sides of the room, fighting to keep their eyes open. And Seth snored, not so gently, in his wing chair. The scene was peaceful, if a bit noisy, but something was not right. The room was chilly, and I noticed the patio doors were ajar. And then I realized immediately what was amiss. The chair in which Lucas Tremaine had been sitting was empty.
He was gone.
Chapter Eight
The sun came up far too early the next day, even for this usually early-to-bed, early-to-rise lady. I’d been early to bed, all right, but it had been early in the morning, not early in the evening. I was contemplating getting out of bed when the ringing of the telephone jangled my nerves and forced me upright.
“Mrs. F.?”
“Good morning, Mort. At least I think it’s a good morning.”
“I take it you and the doc got home all right.”
“Yes, we did, and I was happy to be here. Did you find Mr. Tremaine?”
“Ayuh. Got to be one of the strangest characters I’ve ever met. He sneaks away from the scene of the murder but doesn’t go very far. Wendell and Jerry hightail it over to that place he calls his spiritual headquarters and there he is, sitting on a chair out front waiting for them. Gives them a big greeting and says he figures they’re there to get him, walks over to the squad car, gets in and says, ‘Let’s go.’ ”
“Where is he now?”
“In jail. I’m holding him as a material witness. I can only hold him for so long. Would have to charge him with Ms. Swift’s murder or some other crime to keep him any longer. That’s the law.”
“Did you question him?”
“We had a few words last night when they brought him in. He says he crashed the party because he likes good parties. He’s a smug son-of-a-gun. I asked him why he left, and he said he got bored. Always got a big smile. Gives me the creeps.”
“Have you spoken with anyone else this morning?”
“Got a call from Paul Marshall. He’s coming in to talk to me this afternoon.”
“That’s good. What about the young people—Erica, Jeremy and Warren?”
“Not sure if they’ll be coming with Marshall or not. Marshall said he has to go out of town on business. Wants to ‘get this over with’ were his words.”
“How long does he plan to be gone?”
“Said two or three days. Intends leaving after we have our talk. What do you think?”
“I wouldn’t worry about him, Mort. He has his daughter and business here.”
“That’s the way I figure it.”
“Did he mention if he was taking Warren Wilson with him?”
“Didn’t say. Well, just wanted to let you know I’m heading for the Rose Cottage. Still planning on joining me?”
“I’ll be there,” I said, pushing my toes into my slippers and lifting my robe from the foot of the bed, “but it’ll take me a half hour or so to put myself together.”
“No rush,” he said. “You come on along whenever you can. I’ll be there a while. I’ll bring a Thermos of coffee, now that you taught me how to make it.”
“Sounds fine. Would you like me to stop off for doughnuts on my way?”
“Sure thing. Doughnuts are one of the basic food groups in law enforcement.”
I laughed and rang off. Tying the belt of my robe, I started for the kitchen when something stopped me. I looked back at the phone. What was it? I replayed our conversation in my mind, but there was nothing out of the ordinary there. Maybe after I showered my mind would be a little clearer, I decided.
Sassi’s Bakery was buzzing with news of the murder when I arrived on my bike. Brenda Brody, who worked for the Cabot Cove magazine, was there buying a coffee cake.
“I know you don’t believe in such things, Jessica,” she said with a sniff, “but Lucas Tremaine predicted that The Legend would rise up and terrible plagues would descend on Cabot Cove, and just look what’s happened. It’s happening just the way he said it would.”
“Brenda, tragic as it is, one murder could hardly be considered a plague. And no spirit wielded the weapon that killed Matilda Swift.”
“And what’s making the dogs howl every night? Dogs are sensitive to ghosts, you know.”
“Never having encountered a ghost and a dog at the same time, I’m afraid my experience is limited.”
“You can scoff, but Mr. Tremaine has been very helpful to me. I believe he has a direct line into the spirit world, and I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
Direct line! That was what I was trying to remember this morning. “I’m sorry to break off this conversation, Brenda, but I’ve got to run. Nice seeing you.”
“The state guys finished dusting the place, and we’ve got lots of Polaroids and a video, so we don’t have to worry about disturbing the scene,” he said as I followed him down the hall into the combination kitchen-dining room.
“You know what occurred to me this morning after I spoke with you?” I said, arranging the doughnuts on a plate.
“What’s that?” Mort picked up a powdered doughnut, one of his favorites I knew.
“It was the telephone line.”
“Ayuh, what about it?” He took a bite.
“It was clear,” I said. “There was no static. That was the first phone call in weeks in which I didn’t have to fight to have my voice heard over the noise on the line.”
Mort chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “That’s right. Funny, it happening right after Ms. Swift got killed.”
“I can’t imagine there’s a connection,” I said. “I’m sure the telephone company has fixed the problem. But it did cross my mind.” I debated a doughnut and decided to forgo the extra calories. “Where do we start?” I asked.
“I’m going to check out the kitchen area,” Mort said, eying the doughnut plate. “Why don’t you look around and see if there’s a desk where she kept her papers.”
A decorator’s touch was evident in the main room. It was naturally cozy, given its small size, but also exhibited a certain sophistication. Large pink flowers on a chintz fabric covered the loveseat and matching armchair positioned in front of the brick-and-stone fireplace. The furniture was placed on a rose-patterned rug that snuggled up to the flagstone hearth and polished brass fender. Red-and-pink striped curtains were pulled back with brass rosettes, and embroidered red and pink roses were sprinkled across the upholstered valance. The effect could have been cloying, but the professional hired by Paul Marshall knew just when to pull back. The coffee table and side tables were burnished walnut, and their dark wood contrasted boldly with the flowery theme, saving the room from being too sweet. I reminded myself I was not here to admire the decor, and studied the remainder of the room, looking for clues to Matilda Swift’s personality and, more important, to why someone would want her dead.
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