He’d been leaning back in his swivel chair. Now he sat up straight. “Say again, Mrs. F.”
“I said, I know how to flush out the murderer, and I thought tomorrow night might be the perfect time to make the announcement.”
His hand went up. “Whoa,” he said, “let’s slow down here. If you think you know who the murderer is, you’d better fill me in. I am the sheriff.”
“Of course you are, and I’m here to do just that, as well as to ask for your cooperation. I might add we can not only reveal who the murderer is, we can expose Mr. Lucas Tremaine for the fraud he is.”
“Go ahead, Mrs. F. I’m all ears, as the saying goes.”
Twenty minutes later, after I’d laid out for Mort what I intended to do and had enlisted his cooperation, I stood to leave.
“Me and some of my deputies will be there like you want, Mrs. F., but I still say it’d be better to just let me go arrest the murderer.”
“I don’t think so, Mort. What we have is mostly circumstantial evidence. Oh, I know, circumstantial evidence is sometimes enough to convict, but wouldn’t you be better off having absolute proof, maybe even a confession?”
“Sure. Some slick lawyer won’t get anybody off with a signed and sealed confession. Okay, we’ll do it your way. Besides, it’ll do my heart good to see Tremaine showed up for the phony he is.”
“My thinking exactly,” I said, leaving the office and returning home, where a list of calls to make lay in the middle of my desk.
Paul Marshall
Erica Marshall
Jeremy Scott
Lucas Tremaine
Warren Wilson
Artie Sack
Bob and Lauren Wandowski
I first called Paul Marshall.
“Paul,” I said, “I was wondering if I could borrow your Rose Cottage tomorrow night for a little get-together.”
“What sort of get-together?”
“A party of sorts, I suppose you could call it, but with a more serious purpose. I think it’s time we put to rest all this nonsense about the Legend of Cabot Cove, and I think I can do it tomorrow night.”
There was a long pause on his end of the line.
“I might also have some information to share bearing on Matilda Swift’s murder,” I added.
“Is that so?”
“Yes. I’m sure you want to see that resolved as much as I do.”
“Of course I do. What time is this little gathering?”
“Ten. There’ll be a dozen or so people—Seth Hazlitt, the Mullins from Olde Tyme Floral, the Lerners and others.”
“All right. The cottage is empty, and the police released it as a crime scene.”
“You’ll be there, won’t you?”
“I, ah . . . all right, I’ll stop by.”
“Wonderful. Thanks, Paul. I think you’ll find it of great interest. Not so festive as your Halloween party but . . . interesting.”
I reached the others on my list and delivered what was basically the same message, altered somewhat to fit what I considered each individual’s needs. Everyone naturally had questions and wanted more information, but I politely declined to offer more than what I’d told Paul Marshall. Erica Marshall was clearly annoyed, but agreed to be there. Lucas Tremaine found it amusing, but said he’d be there, too. I didn’t speak directly to Artie Sack, but gave the message to his sister-in-law, who said she would come with Artie. Bob Wandowski was at work, but Lauren said she’d give him the message.
I went to the Cabot Cove theater at three and met with Sophia Pavlou. She was full of questions, too, as she tried on the flowing white floor-length gauzy dress I’d brought with me, and experimented with the greenish white makeup, long gray wig and the strands of green crepe paper to achieve the look of seaweed.
“I don’t have any lines?” she asked, disappointed.
“No, you don’t have to say a word. Just be there at the right time, make your entrance and leave—but don’t go too far, just out of view of the people with me. Wait until I call for you, appear again, then leave for good. Except do be sure to join us as yourself before you say good night.”
“I still don’t understand what this is all about,” she complained.
“Trust me, Sophia. When it’s over, you’ll know everything. I hope everyone will know everything.”
The phone was ringing when I arrived home. It was Seth Hazlitt.
“Everything set for tomorrow night, Jessica?” he asked.
“Yes. You’ll be there?”
“Ayuh. Peter and Beth, too, the Lerners, and I got Doc Treyz and his wife, Tina, to come, too.”
“Wonderful. I don’t want to limit it to only suspects.”
“As you said, Jessica, havin’ others there will make it less threatenin’ to the real culprits.”
“Glad you agree.”
“I have one concern.”
“What’s that?”
“What if the murderer doesn’t confess?”
“Then it was a wasted evening. But do you know what, Seth?”
“What?”
“I think that when I’m finished presenting the evidence, the person who killed Matilda Swift won’t have much of a choice except to admit to the killing.”
“Let’s hope you’re right. Sure you don’t want me to pick you up and drive you there?”
“Positive. I want you to arrive just like the others. I plan to be there well in advance of everyone else, an hour earlier.”
“As you wish.”
I turned on the TV and checked the weather channel. Perfect. The forecast for the next night was clear and cool, with an almost full moon.
Everything was in place. My guest list was complete, The Legend was scheduled to show up on cue, and I knew exactly how I intended to proceed.
All I had to do now was wait. That was the hardest part.
Chapter Seventeen
Dimitri, owner of our local taxi company, dropped me at the rear of the Marshall estate, next to the break in the stone wall I’d used when visiting Artie Sack at the barn. Going through the old cemetery in daylight is always peaceful and pleasant, and I had enjoyed spending reflective time there over the years. I loved the way many of the centuries-old tombstones had sunk into the ground at odd angles, the sun illuminating their faded inscriptions, the branches of ancient trees dipping low over the graves as though paying homage to those buried beneath the weathered stones. I’d gone there on a few occasions with the Historical Society’s classes in gravestone-rubbings; I’d proudly framed and hung one of my efforts in my kitchen.
But it is different at night—it always is. Darkness can turn the most pleasant of places and circumstances into something ominous. Noises during the day go unnoticed; at night, they become louder and threatening. In daylight, wind that causes leaves to flutter on trees is pleasant to watch. Not so once the sun goes down and the moving leaves cast shadows that take different forms. I was glad for the moon, although it came and went as fast-moving black clouds crossed it—darkness one minute, welcome light the next.
I walked through the cemetery quickly and reached the Rose Cottage. I tried the door; it was unlocked, so I stepped inside and reached for light switches I’d seen on my previous visit. One turned on a ceiling fixture in the small anteroom, the other an exterior fixture on the front brick patio.
I went back outside. The exterior light illuminated a portion of the long brick wall on which in springtime prize-winning roses blossomed forth in all their glorious color. Funny, I thought, how such a tranquil, happy place could be transformed so quickly into one of menace. All it took was a brutal murder to forever paint the place a different, darker color than when the red, pink and white roses are in bloom.
I looked at my watch—nine-ten. Fifty minutes until the others were to arrive. I’d wanted to be early, have time to collect my thoughts and go over what I intended to do and say. I went to a green wrought iron loveseat against the brick wall and sat, then opened the large handbag I’d brought with me an
d pulled out materials bearing upon the occasion. I’d prepared everything the way an attorney might, making notes of what I wanted to say in my opening argument, having the supporting materials arranged in order to accompany each point I wished to make.
Confident that I was ready, I sat back, closed my eyes and drew a deep breath. This moment of quiet reflection was shattered by a yowl from behind me. I leapt from the bench and spun around, dropping the materials I’d been holding and bringing my hands up in anticipation of an attack. I looked up to the top of the brick wall. Peering back at me were two large yellow eyes.
I let out a whoosh of air and smiled nervously. It was the big black cat that belonged to Matilda Swift.
“You scared the devil out of me,” I said, extending a hand to entice the animal to me. It pondered whether to trust me, as cats are wont to do, then decided to, jumping down from the wall and rubbing against my leg. I reached down and stroked its smooth furred head. It followed as I picked up what I’d dropped and returned to the bench, then hopped up beside me.
“You’re a big, mean-looking fellow,” I said, “but you’re just a softie, aren’t you.” A loud purr was the answer.
I remembered the day this cat had jumped onto Artie Sack’s shoulder, and how I’d winced at the thought of its claws digging into him. As it climbed on my lap, I caressed the smooth pad of its front paw in my hand.
As quickly as it had befriended me, the cat suddenly jumped off my lap and disappeared into the shadows.
I checked my watch again—nine-twenty. Time was dragging. I decided to go into the Rose Cottage again and turn on additional lights in the event we ended up inside. Beyond the foyer, it was pitch-black. I remembered there were two floor lamps in the living room, and felt my way into the room to a corner where one had been positioned next to a recliner. The chair was silhouetted against moonlight through a window. I touched the chair and was about to reach for the lamp when it came on, causing me to jump back.
“Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher,” Lucas Tremaine said from the chair.
“Good Lord, you frightened me to death!” I said.
“I hope that won’t be the case tonight.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Resting, contemplating this evening you’ve prepared for us.”
“You weren’t supposed to be here until ten.”
“I’m habitually early, Mrs. Fletcher, catching the worm and all that. I see you are, too.”
He got up and went to a window that overlooked the rear of the cottage. “Perfect night for The Legend to pay a visit,” he said, his back to me.
“I suppose it is,” I said, not meaning it, but also not interested in debating it with him.
He turned. His crooked smile was unnerving. “I understand you’ve taken it upon yourself, Mrs. Fletcher, to dig into Matilda Swift’s death.”
“Yes, I’m interested,” I said.
“What have you come up with?”
“I’ll get to that when the others arrive.”
“Ah, I like your style, Mrs. Fletcher. Build up the suspense the way you do in your books.”
“But in this case we’re talking about real murder, aren’t we, Mr. Tremaine?”
“Oh, yes, we certainly are. Much more intriguing than murder created in the mind of a novelist. Ever have one of your fictitious victims be someone like Matilda Swift?”
“A female murder victim? Of course.”
“Matilda wasn’t just a ‘female murder victim,’ Mrs. Fletcher. She was of another dimension.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Really, Mr. Tremaine,” I said, “you can spare me your claim that she was some sort of spirit, less than human.” As I said it, I thought of the photos of Matilda that Richard Koser had shown me in which Matilda was out of focus while everything around her was razor sharp.
Tremaine returned to where I stood next to the chair. “Do you feel her?” he asked.
“Feel whom?”
“Matilda. She’s here. You can physically take the life of someone like her, but her spirit can never be extinguished. That’s what makes her, and others like her, so different. Like your famous Legend of Cabot Cove. I’m looking forward to seeing her tonight.”
“So am I,” I said, thinking of the actress Sophia Pavlou, and wondering what Tremaine’s reaction would be to seeing her emerge from the cemetery. Interesting, I thought, that he obviously believed The Legend would make an appearance. Had he hired an actress to play The Legend? That was the only way The Legend would join us, and I felt smug at being the one who knew it.
We both looked toward the front door at the sound of voices from outside.
“Ah, the rest of the guests arrive,” Tremaine said, arching his back against an unseen pain and stretching his arms in front of him. “It’s show time!”
“Anybody home?” Doug Treyz asked through the open front door.
“Doug, Tina,” I said, joining them on the patio. “You’re the first to—well, you’re among the first to arrive.”
Tremaine came up behind me.
“Do you know Lucas Tremaine?” I asked my dentist and his wife.
“No,” Tina said, “but we’ve certainly heard a lot about you, Mr. Tremaine.”
“All highly favorable, I assume,” said Tremaine.
The Treyzs didn’t respond.
Seth Hazlitt and Ed and Joan Lerner appeared. Right behind them were Paul and Erica Marshall, Warren Wilson and Jeremy Scott, who’d come down the road from the main house.
I mentally ran over the guest list.
All accounted for with the exception of Artie Sack and Bob Wandowski. That was partially rectified when Artie and his sister-in-law approached from the direction of the barn, Artie following her like a child seeking protection behind a mother.
Also missing were Beth and Peter Mullin, but I wasn’t worried about them. Their presence would be welcome, but wasn’t necessary. I glanced in the direction of the cemetery and wondered whether Sophia Pavlou had arrived yet, dressed and made up like the Legend of Cabot Cove. She was a pro; I didn’t doubt she’d be there at the appointed time.
“Is this a second Halloween party?” Joan Lerner asked. “If I’d known you usually have two, I would have been happy to host the second.”
“We don’t usually, Joan,” I said, “but this is a special occasion.”
“And I’d like to know just what the special occasion is,” Paul Marshall said. He wore a houndstooth sports jacket with patches at the elbows, shirt, tie and highly polished ankle-height boots. He glared at Lucas Tremaine, who stood with his arms folded, a satisfied grin on his face. “And what is this nut doing here?”
“The founder of S.P.I.,” I explained, “has predicted that the Legend of Cabot Cove will make an appearance tonight.” I turned to Tremaine. “Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
“Aha,” he said, “you’ve decided to afford me my proper credential, Doctor Tremaine. Thank you.”
“The Legend of Cabot Cove is bunk,” Jeremy Scott said, guffawing. “What kind of party is this?”
“It’s a solve-the-murder-mystery party,” I replied.
Jeremy’s smile faded. “If you know something about who the murderer is, Mrs. Fletcher, please lay it out for us.”
“I intend to,” I said, “but we’re missing someone.”
“Who?” Paul Marshall asked.
“Robert Wandowski.”
“Is he the murderer?” Warren Wilson asked.
“I’d prefer to wait until—” I saw Wandowski and his wife approaching from the direction of their cottage. “Here he is now,” I said.
“What’s this all about?” Wandowski asked gruffly.
As the Wandowskis joined the crowd, Beth and Peter Mullin also arrived; Beth carried a large basket of fall flowers. “Sorry we’re late,” said Peter, “but we had a last-minute order to fill.”
Beth handed me the basket.
“What’s this for?” I asked.
“The party. I thought they’d ma
ke a nice table decoration.”
“That’s sweet,” I said. “Thanks, but we won’t be having a table, I’m afraid.” I took the basket to the brick wall and placed it on the ground, then returned to where everyone was gathered in a semicircle on the front brick patio.
“I’m sorry to say that many of you have been lying,” I said.
“Lying?” Paul Marshall demanded. “Are you accusing me of being a liar?”
“Let me finish, please, Paul. When I said many of you have been lying, I mean about Matilda Swift. And one of the liars here is the murderer.”
There was absolute silence as my “guests” looked around at one another and then back at me. There was a subtle shifting of bodies; each was wondering if he or she was standing next to a killer.
Wandowski spoke up. “Well, I’m not a liar.”
“Ah, Mr. Wandowski.” I turned to the big man standing next to his wife. “You had motive and opportunity.”
“How do you figure that?”
“You told me and the sheriff that you’d come to the party alone, and that your wife had to stay in your cottage for the entire evening to care for Julie.”
“Well . . . I wasn’t anywhere near . . . I mean . . .” Wandowski trailed off.
I took the photograph of Lauren Wandowski that Richard Koser had taken and held it up, like a lawyer presenting a piece of evidence to a jury. “That’s you, Lauren, in a moose costume. Pictures don’t lie, unless they’ve been doctored, and I assure you this one hasn’t been.”
“I told you when you brought that to our cottage that I was only there for an hour,” Lauren said, her voice breaking. “I just wanted to get out of the cottage and have some fun for a few minutes.”
“When did she come to the cottage?” Bob demanded.
“You said you’d have your husband tell the sheriff about having left the party,” I said.
“I—”
“Shut up,” her husband said.
She ignored him. “It wasn’t fair, his getting to go and not me,” she continued, “so I made him come home, and I got into his moose costume. It was too big, but I didn’t care.”
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