The Murder of Twelve
Page 1
OTHER BOOKS IN THE Murder, She Wrote SERIES
Manhattans & Murder
Rum & Razors
Brandy & Bullets
Martinis & Mayhem
A Deadly Judgment
A Palette for Murder
The Highland Fling Murders
Murder on the QE2
Murder in Moscow
A Little Yuletide Murder
Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch
Knock ’Em Dead
Gin & Daggers
Trick or Treachery
Blood on the Vine
Murder in a Minor Key
Provence—To Die For
You Bet Your Life
Majoring in Murder
Destination Murder
Dying to Retire
A Vote for Murder
The Maine Mutiny
Margaritas & Murder
A Question of Murder
Coffee, Tea, or Murder?
Three Strikes and You’re Dead
Panning for Murder
Murder on Parade
A Slaying in Savannah
Madison Avenue Shoot
A Fatal Feast
Nashville Noir
The Queen’s Jewels
Skating on Thin Ice
The Fine Art of Murder
Trouble at High Tide
Domestic Malice
Prescription for Murder
Close-up on Murder
Aloha Betrayed
Death of a Blue Blood
Killer in the Kitchen
The Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher
Design for Murder
Hook, Line, and Murder
A Date with Murder
Manuscript for Murder
Murder in Red
A Time for Murder
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2020 by Universal Studios
Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All rights reserved.
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Fletcher, Jessica, author. | Land, Jon, author. | Fischer, Peter S.,
creator. | Levinson, Richard, creator. | Link, William, creator.
Title: The murder of twelve : a novel / by Jessica Fletcher, Jon Land.
Other titles: Murder, she wrote (Television program)
Description: First edition. | New York : Berkley Prime Crime, 2020. |
Series: A Murder, She Wrote mystery | “Based on the Universal television
series created by Peter S. Fischer, Richard Levinson & William Link.”
Identifiers: LCCN 2019044673 (print) | LCCN 2019044674 (ebook) | ISBN 9781984804334 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781984804358 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Fletcher, Jessica--Fiction. | Women novelists--Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction
Classification: LCC PS3552.A376 M87 2020 (print) | LCC PS3552.A376 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019044673
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019044674
First Edition: May 2020
Jacket image of building by Michael Overbeck / Stocksy
Jacket design by Ally Andryshak
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0
Contents
The Murder, She Wrote Series
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Cast of Characters
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
About the Authors
For Angela Lansbury,
who brought Jessica Fletcher to life
Cast of Characters
THE WEDDING PARTY
CONSTANCE MULROY—mother of the groom
MARK MULROY—fraternal twin of the groom
LOIS MULROY-DODGE—niece of Constance Mulroy
BEATRICE AND OLIVIA SPRAGUE—elderly twin cousins of Constance Mulroy
DOYLE CASTAVETTE—father of the bride
TYLER CASTAVETTE—brother of the bride, and Doyle’s son
VIRGINIA DA SALLE—actress, and Doyle Castavette’s date
HENLEY LAVARNAY—mother of the bride, and Doyle Castavette’s ex-wife
HARRISON BAK—esteemed lawyer, and Henley Lavarnay’s companion
IAN AND FAYE—good friends of the bride- and groom-to-be, the best man and maid of honor, respectively
THE MISSING
HEATH MULROY—husband of Constance, believed to have committed suicide
DANIEL MULROY—the groom
ALLISON CASTAVETTE—the bride
HOTEL STAFF
SEAMUS MCGILRAY—manager and part owner of Hill House
JANEY RYLAND—front desk clerk
EUGENE—recently hired temp kitchen worker
Very few of us are what we seem to be.
—AGATHA CHRISTIE,
FROM “THE MAN IN THE MIST”
Chapter One
Gonna be a killer for sure, Jessica.”
Seth Hazlitt looked at me across the table at Mara’s Luncheonette. I couldn’t tell whether he was sniffing the air for a hint of the coming snowstorm or soaking up the aroma of his hot-out-of-the-oven morning blueberry muffin.
“This’ll be one we’ll be battening down the hatches for, ayuh.”
Sheriff Mort Metzger peeked out from behind his copy of the Cabot Cove Gazette. “You say that at least once every year.”
“And every year it turns out to be true,” Seth countered.
“Tell me again how it
is Cabot Cove suffers a once-in-a-century storm every winter.”
“Just lucky, I guess,” I said, noticing the headline splashed across the top of the paper’s front page read simply BLIZZARD!
Local forecasters were predicting upwards of two feet, while the Weather Channel had the amount closer to three. But Dr. Seth Hazlitt, our resident family doctor and certified curmudgeon, shook his head furiously when I voiced those estimates.
“Nope. We’re looking at four, maybe five, feet for sure. I can tell. It’s all in the nose,” he said, and pinched his nostrils.
Mort looked less than convinced. “And how’s that, exactly?”
“I can smell it on the air. Smelled it back in 2013 for Nemo, when we got thirty-two inches in these parts, and two feet in 1979, before they started giving storms names.”
“How about 1952?” Mort quipped. “Or the storm back in 1935?”
“Who’s asking, since Maine was just a speck on the map for you until you up and retired here?”
“Both of those dumped around two feet all the same, Doc.”
“Nothing compared to what we’re going to see this time,” Seth assured us both.
“Have they given a name to this storm yet?” I wondered aloud.
“No idea,” Mort said.
“Think they’re up to the letter J or maybe K,” Seth suggested.
I turned my gaze out Mara’s front window in anticipation of the first fall of flakes. It had been a habit of mine since I was a little girl when a storm was in the forecast. There’s something uniquely serene about being somewhere safe and sound as the snow begins to mount, about being home while the world beyond stands still amid a growing blanket of white. Of course, home for me for some months now had been Cabot Cove’s Hill House hotel. Construction problems and challenges had repeatedly delayed returning to my beloved home at 698 Candlewood Drive. So I would be watching the snow pile up through the window of my suite instead.
A week ago, the forecasters predicted a bad storm in the eight-to-twelve-inch range. That had given way to warnings of a blizzard, and as of this morning, something in the potentially monstrous range, a record setter by all accounts. A winter storm warning encompassed all of New England, and the storm steaming northward had begun to intensify over Boston. If the forecast held, we’d see the first flakes in early afternoon, with measurable snow within an hour or two. After that, it was anyone’s guess. The Cabot Cove Public Works Department maintained only two dedicated plows but usually contracted a half dozen local vendors, many of them fishermen and landscapers looking to boost their winter income. For this storm, though, Mort had mentioned that twice that number, an even dozen, had been retained. The main roads that ran into, out of, and around our town were the responsibility of the state, fortunately. And, in my mind, anyway, the lack of traffic that accompanied the foreboding forecast proved a welcome relief from the ever-growing number of seasonal visitors who besieged Cabot Cove during the summer months.
“Why stare out the window, Jess,” Seth Hazlitt said to me, “when I told you the snow wasn’t going to start until one-ish?”
“What time is that, exactly?” Mort asked him.
“What time is what, exactly?”
“One-ish.”
“Sometime between one and two o’clock, but not after one thirty, because that would be two-ish.”
“Oh,” Mort noted, as if that were some kind of revelation. “Well, there’s one good thing about a blizzard, Mrs. F.,” he added, turning toward me.
“No crime?”
“Murders, specifically, with everybody pretty much stranded.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Sheriff,” Seth groused. “During the blizzard of ’seventy-nine, Agnes Menfredi took a frying pan to her husband, George’s, head when he wouldn’t shovel their walk. Ended up with a concussion that stole a whole bunch of his memory for a time, not a bad thing, given that Agnes was the kind of woman you wanted to forget. I’d opened my practice the year before, and I remember trudging my way over to the Menfredi home because the rescue squad got stuck in a snowdrift.”
Mort Metzger was nodding. “Don’t tell me, Doc. Uphill all the way.”
“As a matter of fact . . .”
Seth’s voice had already faded when I heard a Cabot Cove Sheriff’s Department dispatcher’s voice through Mort’s shoulder-mounted microphone.
“You read me, Sheriff?”
“Loud and clear.”
“You’re needed at the old textile mill off Route One. Abandoned vehicle. Deputy Jenks just called it in.”
“Why’s he need backup for an abandoned vehicle?”
“Because he found a dead body inside.”
* * *
* * *
There’s a part of Cabot Cove located on the town’s outskirts that nobody talks about much anymore. It’s part of our legacy and our past dating back long before the world discovered our village, which had remained quaint and isolated for so long. I’m talking about an area devoted to industry, primarily textile mills that had been set up during the Industrial Revolution. The largest of these was the long-shuttered and crumbling Cabot Manufacturing Company. It had been saved from being razed only by our local historical society’s designation of it as a landmark, marked as such by a plaque that had to be glued in place over the entrance since it was feared nailing the plaque might lead the rotting façade to collapse.
In a gravel parking lot we found a plain dark sedan, centered in the shadow of a still-massive structure that seemed to shed fresh parts of itself with every stiff wind.
“Thanks for coming along for the ride, Mrs. F.,” Mort said, parking his department-issue SUV near the patrol car that had come upon the vehicle during a routine sweep of the area, “even though this one’s not up your alley.”
“We’ll see about that, ayuh,” Seth Hazlitt said from the cruiser’s backseat. “Since when did you know a death in Cabot Cove that wasn’t murder?”
“There was Gladys McCrady just last week,” Mort answered, throwing open his door.
“She was a hundred and one,” Seth reminded him. “Used to tell me at her checkups she enjoyed a spot of gin every day since she was fifty and said it was the reason she’d lived so long.”
Mort turned to flash me a look before climbing out of the SUV. “I could see how this town could be enough to drive anyone to drink, and I don’t mean for medicinal purposes either.”
I started to exit from the passenger side and accepted Seth’s help in getting out. He’d accompanied us because, in the absence of a full-time medical examiner, Seth had long maintained the role of de facto coroner, something he’d gained considerable experience in over the years through both Amos Tupper’s tenure as sheriff and then Mort Metzger’s after Amos had retired to live with his sister in the Midwest.
At first glance, especially under gloomy skies, the remains of the Cabot Manufacturing Company looked like something out of a Stephen King novel. The weather-beaten wood-frame structure had been expanded so many times it was hard to tell where the building’s original footprint ended. The building stretched three stories high in some areas and four in others to account for the sprawling, high-ceilinged factory floor where hundreds of workers had operated the presses, lathes, and cutting stations that produced tons of tailored cloth on an annual basis. Three shifts over twenty-four hours a day was the standard practice during the boom times of war years, when the need for uniforms drastically increased the factory mill’s overall output. Some of the wings farthest out and the older, single-story storage sections that had been damaged by fire either had collapsed or looked like they were about to at any minute.
The central part of the building, and likely the oldest, stood reasonably strong, though, in spite of the fact that the wood had turned so dark with rot and age that the frame looked charred. Listen hard enough, the tour guides from the Cabot Cove Histo
rical Society used to say when the building had been open for viewing, and you might hear the sounds of the lathes fashioning material. Look hard enough and you might be able to glimpse smoke wafting out of the crumbling brick chimneys. Where the original building’s façade didn’t look charred, it had been ravaged by our harsh winters and summer sun. In short, the Cabot Manufacturing Company had the look of a building Seth Hazlitt would have already pronounced dead, had that been part of his role as de facto town coroner.
He had his trusty old leather doctor’s bag in hand as he trudged alongside Mort across the weed-speckled parking lot. I followed, feeling the hard gravel crunching beneath my heavy winter shoes. Strange how Seth always lugged that bag along with him on trips like this, even though inside were tools for checking or maintaining people’s health as opposed to passing judgments on their deaths. Come to think of it, I’d glimpsed Seth actually extract something on only a few such occasions, and then just a stethoscope, really, to confirm the deceased person’s heart had indeed stopped beating.
Seth seemed to be sniffing the air as he walked. “Gonna be a bad one, all right,” he noted, even though the flakes hadn’t started falling yet. “Worst we’ve ever seen, by the look of things.”
“You mean smelled,” Mort said. “That’s what you were doing—smelling the air.”
“I know what I was doing and I was looking at it too. Very first flakes are there to see if you look hard enough.”
I’d drawn even with them on Mort’s side by then and he shot me a glance.
“He’s got a point, Mort. I think I can see them too.”
Mort took off his Cabot Cove Sheriff’s hat and scratched at his scalp through his still-thick salt-and-pepper hair. “Is it too late to unretire from my last job?”
“Think the NYPD would have you back after all these years?”
“With bells on, thanks to all the experience I’ve gained in Cabot Cove.”
Rosy-cheeked, freckle-faced Deputy Andy approached when we neared the sedan he’d posted himself near.
“Morning, Sheriff.” He moved his eyes to Seth and me, adding, “Doc, Mrs. Fletcher.”