Trick or Treachery

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” I said, forcing lightness into my tone. “Probably just routine.”

  Erica disappeared inside, but Mrs. Sack remained in the open doorway until Mort and Wendell returned with Artie. “I don’t want to go to the police station,” Artie said. “Oh, no, I don’t want to go there.”

  “Just want to get your fingerprints, Artie, and ask you a couple ’a questions,” Mort said. “Have you back here for supper.”

  “No, no, I don’t want to go to the police station,” Artie repeated. “Don’t know nothing, don’t know nothing, didn’t do anything, didn’t do anything.” The words came from him rapid-fire, like rounds from a machine gun.

  “Now, don’t make me have to force you,” Mort said, placing his hand reassuringly on Artie’s shoulder. “Get in the car with me and Wendell and let’s get this over with.”

  Foolishly, Artie turned to run, which necessitated Wendell grabbing him and pulling his arms behind his back. Artie whimpered and looked with wide, pleading eyes at his sister-in-law as Wendell guided him into the squad car’s rear seat, holding a hand above Artie’s head to keep it from bumping on his way in.

  My heart went out to Artie and Mrs. Sack as Mort got behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled away, Artie’s face a mask of fright as he looked back at us through the rear window.

  Jeremy Scott suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, smiling. “I didn’t know you were here. Come on in, have some tea or a drink.”

  “Thanks, Jeremy, but I have an appointment I have to get to.”

  He frowned; I assumed he found it strange seeing me standing outside the house, having neither come from it nor having announced my arrival.

  “But thanks for the invitation,” I said pleasantly, getting on my bike and rolling down the driveway to the street. I rode home as fast as I could, put the bike away in the garage, made myself a pot of tea and sat at the desk in my library.

  The conversation among Erica, Jeremy and Warren kept coming back to me. I turned it over in my mind and made some notes on a pad. I wondered whether Mort had learned anything yet from the state police lab about the stains on Artie Sack’s shovel and rag. The luminol had indicated it was blood. I had the uncomfortable feeling I was missing something.

  Suddenly, I felt very tired. There had been so little sleep the night before. Added to that was the emotional trauma of being where someone had been brutally murdered, and spending my every waking moment since then thinking about that murder and who might have committed it.

  I needed a day off. But I knew that wasn’t in the cards until I’d gotten some answers as to why Matilda Swift had been murdered and, more important, who’d done it. This wasn’t the first time I’d been gripped by such a compulsion, and probably wouldn’t be the last. I could have, and probably should have, put it out of my mind and been content with getting updates from Mort Metzger and other investigators on the case.

  But that wouldn’t have been me, and if there’s anything I’ve learned during my lifetime, it’s the need to go with who you are, not who you’d prefer to be.

  Richard Koser had taken multiple photographs at the party.

  Not a bad place to start.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Richard, are you in?” I called, rapping my knuckles on the door that stood ajar. The faint smell of darkroom chemicals drifted into my nostrils.

  “C’mon in, I’m just finishing up,” came a disembodied voice. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

  I left the door as I’d found it and wandered through Richard Koser’s Craftsman-style bungalow to the kitchen in the back. My nose twitched. Here the chemical smell was augmented by something more exotic, spicy. Must be cumin, I thought, and onions, definitely onions. A man of many talents, Richard was not only a fine photographer, but also a masterful chef. He loved nothing more than poring through cookbooks and turning out exotic—and delicious—meals.

  “Hi, Jessica,” Richard said, pulling aside a heavy curtain from the doorway to his darkroom. “Can you stay for lunch? I’m trying out a new curry recipe for kooftah, and MaryJane went over to Bangor for the day.”

  “I wish I could, Richard, but I’m supposed to meet Mort at his office, and I have a few errands to run before then. A rain check?”

  “You’ve always got that,” he said, lifting the cover on a large pot and releasing a cloud of aromatic steam into the room. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, I wondered if you’d had time to develop the photos you took at Paul Marshall’s party.”

  “You’re in luck,” he said, replacing the pot cover after stirring the meatball stew. “I just put them in the dryer—the photo dryer, that is—and they should be ready in a few minutes. If I can’t talk you into kooftah, how about a cup of tea?”

  “Tea would be lovely, thanks.”

  “Green? Black? Herbal?”

  “Whatever you’re having will be fine.”

  Richard took a white porcelain teapot from the shelf and put a kettle onto the stove after filling it with cold water. He was a purist, and I tried not to fidget as I seated myself at the kitchen table and waited impatiently for the tea and photos to be ready.

  As he fussed with cups and saucers and tea strainers, he questioned me about the murder investigation, which was, not surprisingly, now a topic of great speculation in Cabot Cove. “Real shame about that lady. Mort’s deputy—Harold, is it?—came to interview us yesterday, but we weren’t any help. MaryJane and I were just having a good time at the party, not looking for murderers. Paul Marshall puts on quite a spread. Did they nail down when the murder took place?”

  “The body was discovered after most of the guests had gone home, but I’m not sure what the time of death was.”

  “The Lerners told us they were there when the body was found. Must have been pretty shocking, seeing the bloody victim and all. I suppose every party-goer will be getting a visit from the local constabulary.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.”

  “Peculiar, isn’t it, having a murder on Halloween, exactly a year after Tony Scott died in that fire? Paul Marshall’s having a run of bad luck.”

  “Seems to me Matilda Swift was the one with the bad luck,” I said, “but, yes, the timing is ironic.”

  “I heard that the nut over on the quarry road is one of the suspects. You heard that?”

  “Lucas Tremaine? Mort hasn’t said who he considers a suspect, but Mr. Tremaine was at the party, and an uninvited guest to boot. I’m not sure crashing a party qualifies as grounds for arrest, but it would be interesting to know what he’s up to.”

  “Well, if anyone can find out, Jessica, it would be you.”

  “Thanks for your confidence, Richard, but I’m sure Mort and his people are doing a thorough job.”

  “I just heard they hauled in Artie Sack. Don’t they know Artie wouldn’t hurt a fly, much less a person?”

  “You’ve heard that already? Mort just took him in this afternoon.”

  I wasn’t sure how much of what I knew to share with Richard, or anyone else for that matter. But knowing the speed of Cabot Cove’s grapevine, I decided it wouldn’t hurt to preempt it, especially with a dear friend like Richard. After all, I was there seeking information from him—information possibly contained in photographs. But it wouldn’t hurt to fudge a little.

  “Mort brought Artie to headquarters to get his fingerprints, Richard. Just routine. If they find the murder weapon, they’ll want everyone’s prints.”

  “The shovel?”

  I sighed. “Yes, the shovel. But it hasn’t been established yet whether it was used to kill Matilda Swift.”

  “I heard they found blood on it.”

  “Oh, I—”

  “My money’s on Tremaine,” he said, sparing my having to respond to whether blood had been found on the shovel. “He’s an oddball to begin with.”

  The tea kettle whistled, and a buzzer sounded from the darkroom. I looked at
Richard expectantly. He rinsed the teapot with boiling water from the kettle before carefully spooning in tea from a metal tin, then pouring more boiling water over the crushed leaves.

  “The tea needs to steep a bit. I’ll bring in the pictures for you to look at while we’re waiting.” He disappeared behind the heavy curtain used to keep light from entering the darkroom when he was developing his work. He emerged with a box filled with warm photos, and a magnifying glass.

  He set stacks of five-by-seven-inch pictures beside me and went to pour the tea. I was already sifting through the photos when he set a cup and saucer at my elbow and took a chair opposite me.

  “What are you looking for exactly?” he asked, picking up a few photos I’d cast aside. “I know it’s not just my wonderful photography that has you tapping your foot like that.”

  I laughed and sat back in my seat, reaching for the tea. “You’re right. I need to relax a bit. This murder case has me up nights worrying if I’ve missed anything.”

  “And have you?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I’d love to see a picture of the murderer with a big sign saying ‘I did it.’ Failing that, I thought the photos might stimulate some ideas, or indicate . . . something.”

  I sighed and sipped my tea. “Are these all the photos from that night?”

  “You’ve got six rolls of film there, Jessica. Should keep you occupied for a bit.”

  “Do you mind if I sit here and look through them?”

  “Not at all,” he replied, getting up and turning off the flame under the kooftah, “as long as you don’t mind if I get on with my work. I’ve got more film to develop, but not from the party.”

  “Don’t let me keep you. I’ll just study these a while and call out when I leave.”

  Richard reentered his darkroom, and I arranged the photos into three piles—those I hadn’t looked at yet, those I’d seen and wanted to look at again and those I didn’t need to reexamine.

  A half hour and 216 pictures later, I rubbed my tired eyes, strained from squinting through the magnifier and staring at the myriad images of masked and moose guests cavorting at the Marshall party. Richard was a wonderful photographer, and it was hard not to allow the overall impression of his pictures to interfere with my concentration on the details. But at last I’d gotten my look-at-again pile down to three photographs. One shot was of the moose couple dancing, with other guests observing them. Their grace, despite the awkward costumes, had drawn admiring attention.

  Another picture showed Paul Marshall standing on the central staircase of his manor house, addressing the assembled multitude.

  The third, taken on the patio, showed guests sitting on the brick wall overlooking the back lawn. I examined them again, searching the figures in the background. I felt a prickle on the back of my neck. There was something here. What was it? Raising the magnifying glass again, I pored over the photo of Paul Marshall. Though Richard had taken several shots of the scene, the angle of this particular photo was slightly to Marshall’s left, and caught the side of the staircase as well as a glimpse into the dining room. There, mostly hidden by pirates and witches and cheerleaders and soldiers and cowgirls, was someone who wasn’t supposed to be there. Her arms were raised as she was about to replace the moose head she’d taken off. It was Lauren Wandowski.

  Richard emerged from the darkroom. “See any you’d like, Jess? I’ll make you up some prints.”

  “Just this one,” I said, indicating the one with Lauren.

  “Why that one?”

  “Nothing special, Richard. Lauren wasn’t supposed to have been at the party but—” Whatever I said would be grist for conversation around town the next day. I kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Richard. I’ll tell you all about it next time I see you. Have to run.”

  “Before you go,” he said, “take a look at these.” He held up eight-by-ten prints that were still wet from processing.

  “What are they?” I asked.

  “I was around town a few days ago shooting stuff for my architectural series. I’m still working on that book I told you about, vintage buildings of New England.”

  “The book’s a great idea, Richard, only I don’t see any houses of particular historic interest in these shots.”

  “I know. There aren’t any. While I was wandering around, I saw the deceased.”

  “Ms. Swift?”

  “Yeah. She’s intrigued me ever since she moved to Cabot Cove. Strange-looking lady, I’m sure you’ll agree. Anyway, I had a long lens on my camera and snuck a couple of shots of her—without her knowing, of course.”

  I leaned closer to the prints and narrowed my eyes. “Is that her?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened? Was your camera malfunctioning?”

  “No. It was working fine.”

  “But she’s out of focus.”

  “And everything else is in focus,” he said.

  “It’s as though there’s a mist surrounding her, gauze, like the way they used to photograph fading movie queens through lenses smeared with Vaseline.”

  “I know,” he said. “Beats me why these shots came out this way.”

  “Well, there’s got to be a tangible explanation for it, a physical reason.”

  We looked at each other, and I wondered whether he was thinking what I was thinking. He satisfied my curiosity. “Maybe she’s The Legend, Jess,” he said, laughing.

  I didn’t laugh.

  No one seemed to be at home at the Wandowski cottage when I arrived and leaned my bike against the gate, but then I heard a child’s voice coming from the wooded area at the side of the house. A moment later, Lauren and her daughter, Julie, emerged from the trees, the child swinging her lunchbox and chattering animatedly. Both saw me at the same time. Lauren looked worried, but Julie raced to me and sang out, “Hi! You’re the lady who came here with the policemen, right?” She stopped in front of me and her smile faded as she remembered that day. “My mom told me Mrs. Swift died. She was a nice lady. Did you like her? Daddy didn’t like her. But she was nice to me. She let me bake cookies with her.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t know her very well,” I said, smiling at the child’s unbridled enthusiasm. Lauren was approaching, so I quickly asked, “Who else was baking cookies with you when you visited Mrs. Swift, Julie?”

  “The pretty lady from the big house was there, but she didn’t help much. I did all the mixing,” she piped up proudly.

  “That’s enough, Julie,” her mother said, reaching for her daughter’s shoulders and turning her toward the cottage. “I’m sure Mrs. Fletcher has more important things to discuss. You go on in.” She gave her a little push. “Take a snack. I’ll be right there.”

  Lauren looked ill at ease. “I wasn’t expecting company . . .” She trailed off, her eyes following Julie, who waved at me as she opened the cottage door and slipped inside.

  “I won’t keep you long,” I said, handing Lauren the photo Richard had given me. “Your husband said you didn’t attend the party, but I’m pretty sure that’s you.” My finger pointed to the corner of the picture.

  Lauren’s face became red, and she stammered as she handed the picture back. “Bob, uh, I mean . . . what I mean is we couldn’t get anyone to stay with Julie, so we took turns at the party.”

  “Why would your husband lie to Sheriff Metzger about that?”

  “Oh, God.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I told him we’d get in trouble. He didn’t want the sheriff to know he’d left the party to allow me to come because . . .”

  “Because that would have given him the opportunity while he was away from the party to kill her. He did threaten Ms. Swift the day your daughter was with her, Mrs. Wandowski.”

  “I know he did, but he didn’t kill her, Mrs. Fletcher. I know my husband. He has a temper at times, but he could never kill anyone. Oh, my God,” she wailed. “How could this have happened to us? Are you going to have him arrested? He’s innocent. I know he’s innocent.
”

  I wasn’t sure of Robert Wandowski’s innocence, but I didn’t want to further upset his wife. “Why don’t you have Bob tell the sheriff the truth,” I said. “It will be much better if it comes from him.”

  She wiped tears from beneath her eyes and nodded stiffly. “I’ll do that. I promise. I’ll have him go straight to the sheriff’s office when he gets home from work.”

  She backed toward the cottage while I went to where I’d left my bicycle. “I promise,” she called out from the doorway as I got on the bike and rode away, looking back over my shoulder to see Julie Wandowski’s little face in the window.

  The sheriff’s office sounded like a big city police station when I walked in the next morning. Phones were ringing nonstop, and Wendell, Harold and Marie were all talking at once. With her hand on one still-ringing phone, Marie rested the receiver of another on her shoulder and said to me above the hullabaloo, “Mort had to go down to the state police barracks to pick up the lab report on Matilda Swift. A tanker truck overturned down on the highway—a big oil spill—and the press is calling about the Swift investigation.”

  “Did the blood type match Ms. Swift’s?” I asked.

  Marie nodded.

  “Can I help?” I asked.

  “You can pick up any ringing phone. Just take a message and one of us will call back.”

  I grabbed a pad and pen from the nearest desk, seated myself in a rolling chair and answered a phone with, “Cabot Cove Sheriff’s Office.”

  “This is George Walker. Is Sheriff Metzger there, please?”

  “I’m sorry, the sheriff is out of the office at the moment. May I take a message for him?” I asked, writing down his name.

  “Yes, ma’am, you may. I’m with the United Insurance Company in Salem, Massachusetts. The sheriff called me about one of our clients, Matilda Swift. Ms. Swift had a life insurance policy with us, and I understand she has passed away.”

  My heart started beating quickly. “Yes,” I said.

  “That reminds me, I’ve got to call her lawyer. Do you need his name?”