Martinis and Mayhem

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Bob,” Nancy Antonio said in a surprisingly soft voice. “Please.”

  “Please, hell. I’m not taking the rap for anybody.”

  “How can you say that?” Nancy said.

  George and I looked at each other. What we’d hoped would happen was happening. Their tight little group was unraveling.

  “You were extremely jealous of Kimberly Steffer’s relationship with Ellie, weren’t you, Mrs. Steffer?” I asked Joan.

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “But Kimberly was aware of it. There are many entries in her diary that refer to it. You hated Mark’s new wife. Resented her creative success.”

  “You bet I hated her.”

  “And that’s why she killed Mark,” Nancy Antonio said. “I want a lawyer.”

  “Sure,” Josephs said. “As soon as I take you and your friends downtown and charge you with the murder of Mark Steffer.”

  As Josephs started the process of herding the three of them from the restaurant, I stopped Nancy Antonio by placing my hand on her arm. “What I can’t figure out, Ms. Antonio, is why you wanted Mark dead.”

  She looked deep into my eyes. All the forceful posturing I’d experienced in the hotel lobby was gone. Two elongated teardrops left tracks on her face as they left her eyes and ran to her chin. “It was him,” she said, looking at Robert Frederickson. “I was in love with Robert, and would have done anything for him. He got me into this mess. He figured that if Mark was dead, and we could successfully frame Kimberly for the murder, Robert would get the business for himself, which he did. He promised me we’d be married once Mark was out of the way. He lied. The only thing I got was cancer.”

  Once outside, Detective Josephs displayed a rare smile and slapped George on the back. “Nice job, George. Real nice.”

  George ignored the compliment.

  “Hey, Mrs. Fletcher. What about my manuscript?”

  “I’ll return it to you in the morning,” I said. “In the meantime, I suggest you not give up your day job.” His grin was now wide and warm. “Yeah. Not very good, huh? Well, writing about murder is your game. Me? I’m better at the real thing.”

  My raised eyebrows caused him to add, “You’re not bad, either—at the real thing. Have a nice night you two. Yeah, I figure you will. Good night.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  We were picked up at Bangor Airport by Jake Monroe, owner of Cabot Cove’s largest taxi service. That the service involved only Jake and his brother, Billy, and two cars, indicated the size of Jake’s competitors.

  George Sutherland looked out the window as Jake entered town and headed for my house. It was a pristine Maine day, sunny and cool. The heat wave that had gripped the state when I left for San Francisco was probably making someone else’s life miserable.

  Jake pulled into my driveway.

  “No place like home,” I said with a contented sigh.

  “I can see why you feel that way,” George said. “Cabot Cove is a charming village. What a pretty house.”

  “Thank you,” I said after signing Jake Monroe’s voucher for the trip. Because I don’t drive, I’m Jake’s best customer, and have an account with him.

  “Brrrr,” I said as George put down our bags in the foyer. “Let me turn up the heat. So damp. It may be summer, but the house gets damp when I’m gone.”

  “Like Scotland,” George said.

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Hopefully, you’ll learn firsthand.”

  I took his tweed topcoat and hung it in the closet. “Make yourself at home, George. Everything’s ready for a fire. Just needs a match put to it.”

  He ignited the newspapers and wood in the fire-place, and sat on a couch in the living room. “What can I get you?” I called from the kitchen. “Scotch? Glass of wine?”

  “Scotch would be splendid, thanks.”

  I was in the process of getting our drinks when George announced from the other room, “There’s someone at the door.”

  “Get it please. My hands are wet.”

  “Surprise!” I heard two male voices say. No doubt who the voices belonged to. I ran into the living room to greet Sheriff Mort Metzger and Dr. Seth Hazlitt, my two best friends in Cabot Cove, who stood on the front porch, quizzical expressions on their faces.

  “Oh,” I said. “Sorry. Mort, Seth, I’d like you to meet my good friend, George Sutherland.” George extended his hand to Mort, who shook it. Seth had a problem because of the fruit basket. I took it from him, and he and George engaged in a firm handshake.

  “Let’s not stand here like this,” I said. “Come in. I missed you. We just arrived. Jake picked us up in Bangor. I was just about to call you. I was dying for you to meet George. I—” I realized I’d been talking nonstop from front door to living room. “Thanks for the fruit,” I said. “Back in a minute.” I went to the kitchen with the basket, leaving my three male friends standing in front of the roaring fire.

  “I understand you’re an officer with Scotland Yard,” Seth said.

  “That’s the truth,” George replied. “Stationed in London. Scottish by birth.”

  “Had a good friend used to live here who was Scotch,” Mort said. I heard it from the kitchen and wondered if George would correct him as he had Detective Josephs. I needn’t have worried. It wasn’t George’s style to create an uncomfortable situation with my friends.

  I made drinks for all and rejoined them. “George will be staying here for a few days before he heads home,” I said.

  “Heah?” Seth said. “In your house?”

  “Yes. I want to show off Cabot Cove to him. You’ll have a chance to really get to know each other.”

  “I look forward to that,” Mort said, laughing. “Anytime you want, come down and spend some time at the station. Show you how we police here in Maine.”

  “I appreciate that, Sheriff,” George said. “I’ll take you up on it.”

  I wasn’t sure how long they planned to stay. But an hour later the four of us were seated at my dining room table enjoying clam chowder and a clam pie from Sassi’s Bakery that I’d bought before leaving on my trip.

  “Glad to see this travelin’ Gypsy lady hasn’t forgotten her roots,” Seth said as he helped himself to another slice of pie.

  “No fear of that,” I said.

  “What’s that stuff you Scotch people like to eat?” Mort asked.

  George shot me a glance and a smile before replying, “You’re probably referring to haggis.”

  “Ayuh,” Mort said. “That’s it. Understand it’s not for everybody’s taste.”

  “Including mine,” George said. “I never learned to enjoy a dish made of minced heart, lungs, and liver of a sheep. They add suet, onions, oatmeal, and some seasonings, then boil it up in the dead sheep’s stomach.”

  There was silence at the table.

  “Sorry,” George said.

  “More pie?” I asked.

  “Had my fill,” Seth said.

  “Not hungry anymore,” Mort said.

  “So tell me again, Jess, about almost gettin’ pushed off the Golden Gate.”

  “I’ll leave that for George,” I said, standing and picking up dirty dishes.

  “Give you a hand?” they said in unison.

  “No. You gentlemen stay put. Tell them all about it, George.”

  I listened from the kitchen as George filled in Mort and Seth about my—our—San Francisco adventure.

  “... Jessica became so involved in trying to clear Kimberly Steffer, she dismissed her own near-death experience,” George told them. “We learned just before leaving San Francisco that the bleck. was a local hoodlum hired by Mark Steffer’s former partner, Robert Frederickson.”

  “A bleck?” Mort said.

  “A nasty fellow. A term we—Scotch—often use.”

  “Uh-huh,” Seth said. “A some-ugly fella.”

  “If you say so, Doctor Hazlitt. By the way, Jessica told you about Ms. Steffer’s former illustrator falling to his death
from the bridge the same morning as her unfortunate incident.”

  “Ayuh, she did,” Seth said.

  “The police out there have decided that he jumped, just as his former male lover described it.”

  “That threesome finally confess?” Mort asked.

  “Indirectly. They keep pointing their fingers at each other. Adds up to a confession. I don’t think a jury will have trouble convicting them.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Mort said. “I suppose Miss Kimberly Steffer is one happy lady these days.”

  “That’s for certain. We had dinner with her and her stepdaughter, Ellie, just last night. They’re both happy, and grateful I might add, for Jessica’s interest and determination to clear Kimberly. As you can imagine, Jessica Fletcher is a very popular lady with Kimberly and Ellie Steffer.”

  Eventually, jet lag overtook me, and my yawns became more frequent. Seth and Mort picked up on my fatigue and prepared to leave. I accompanied George upstairs where he placed his suitcase in one of two spare bedrooms. I preceded him downstairs.

  “So, where are you off to next, Jess?” Seth asked.

  “Scotland,” George answered as he came down the stairs. “Jessica will be spending the Christmas holidays with me at my home in Wick, Scotland. Give her a chance to see my hometown and meet some of my family and friends. We’ll probably sneak some time in London for a show or two.”

  Mort and Seth said good night, but not before George arranged to visit Mort’s police headquarters in the morning. When they were gone, George suggested a nightcap. Brandy snifters in hand, we clinked rims: “To a successful resolution of the Kimberly Steffer case,” he said.

  “Definitely worth raising our glasses to,” I said.

  “I have the feeling I shouldn’t have announced your plans to visit Scotland over the holidays.”

  “Oh, they’ll get over it. They like us all to be together at Christmas.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “I think they’re more upset that you’re staying in my house while you’re here in Cabot Cove.”

  “Yes. I sensed that. Perhaps it would be better if I stayed in a hotel. I’m sure you have some very nice ones.”

  “Oh, yes, we certainly do. And I don’t want to hear another word about that. This is where you shall stay, Inspector Sutherland. I’ve never had a—a Scotchman as a houseguest before.”

  We both laughed.

  “Go to bed and have a fair night’s sleep, Jessica,” he said. “To paraphrase Robbie Bums, ‘My Jessica’s asleep by thy murmuring stream; Flow gently sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.’ ”

  For a dish of

  baked beans and murder

  don’t miss the

  Murder, She Wrote mystery

  A DEADLY JUDGMENT

  by Jessica Fletcher and Donald Bain

  Available,from Signet

  Cafe Pamplona’s outdoor terrace had become crowded since I’d taken a table and ordered a shrimp cocktail and glass of sparkling water. I’d spent the late afternoon in Cambridge’s Harvard Square, enjoying its vibrant mix of students, professorial types, foreigners, panhandlers, and protestors. Now, it was time to make a tough decision. Should I attempt to contact Professor Montrose to warn him of the potential danger he might be facing? If so, I would again be disobeying the court’s order forbidding members of either the defense or prosecution from making contact with jurors in the Billy Brannigan murder trial.

  But if I didn’t—and my suspicions were correct—Professor Montrose, Juror Number Four, might end up dead like the other two, the most recent “accident” being Juror Number Seven.

  Making contact with the family of Juror Number Seven had been, I knew, not only a serious breach of legal ethics, it undoubtedly broke the law. Many laws. Had my foray into South Boston become known to the stem Judge Wilson, pleading ignorance of the law wouldn’t get me very far, probably no further than a jail cell. Charge? Contempt of court. “Lock her up and throw away the key.”

  As part of Malcolm McLoon’s team defending accused murderer Billy Brannigan, I’d become “an officer of the court” in a sense. Once I’d agreed to become one of Malcolm’s jury consultants, a decision I’d been debating ever since arriving in Boston, I was expected to play by the rules set down by the judge. Her words reverberated in my head:

  “Under no circumstance is anyone involved in the case, from either the defense or prosecution, to have any contact, of any nature, written, oral or through third parties, with any member of the twelve-person jury, or the six alternates. Because I have faith in each juror’s integrity and honesty, and because the attorneys representing the people and the defendant are known to me to uphold the highest professional standards”—the judge winced when including McLoon in that group—“I have decided against sequestering this jury. Its members are admonished to not read about the case or hear reports about it through radio or television, and are not to discuss the case with anyone until it has been submitted to them. And I reiterate—no person from either side is to have any personal contact with members of the jury.”

  But, I rationalized, Juror Number Seven was alive when Judge Wilson issued that order.

  Juror Number Seven had been an attractive, thirty-four-year-old woman with two children, a sickly mother-in-law for whom she cared, and a husband who worked as a construction foreman. She enjoyed painting by the numbers, baking, and collecting seashells. I liked her the moment she started answering questions during voir dire, that pretrial ritual where the attorneys from each side question prospective jurors to ferret out hidden prejudices, veiled biases, or life circumstances creating a conflict of interest. She was straightforward in her answers, someone who would take her duties as a juror seriously, especially where the accused faced the rest of his life in prison. I didn’t hesitate telling Malcolm that, in my judgment, she was the sort of fair-minded person we wanted on the jury. That hadn’t set well with the expensive professional jury consultant Malcolm had hired, who resented my inclusion from the moment Malcolm introduced me. “Jessica is an astute judge of character,” he’d said in his usual bombastic style. “While I appreciate your expertise in these matters, Jessica’s gut feelings as a bestselling author and observer of life matter a great deal to me—and, I might add, to the accused.” His speech was met with grim smiles by the woman being paid more than one hundred thousand dollars to study community attitudes and demographic patterns, her “scientific” findings contained in boxes filled with computer printouts.

  She hadn’t liked Juror Number Seven. But my instinctive positive evaluation of her held more water with Malcolm, and she was accepted on the jury.

  And now she was dead, run down by a hit-and-run driver in front of her modest home as she returned from buying milk and bread at a local convenience store. The second death on the jury in a week. Something was wrong, and I was determined to find out what it was.

  I arrived at Juror Number Seven’s house as her husband and mother-in-law were about to leave for the wake. Her husband was a broad, beefy man with a workman’s hands and large, sad brown eyes. His mother sat stoically in a wheelchair, rosary beads clutched tightly in her gnarled fingers.

  “I’m sorry to intrude like this,” I said. “My name is Jessica Fletcher.”

  The husband cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “The mystery writer?”

  “Yes. I’m also a consultant to Billy Brannigan’s defense team.”

  “I know that,” he said. “We read about you. My wife said—” He turned away as his eyes moistened.

  “I’m so sorry about what happened,” I said. “I didn’t know your wife, but I liked her the minute she started answering questions from the lawyers. I knew she’d make a fine juror.”

  He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. “Maybe if she hadn’t been on that damn jury she’d still be alive,” he said.

  “Do you think her death had something to do with being a juror?” I asked. My rising inflection wasn’t genuine. I, too, had the feel
ing her jury duty was linked in some way to being run down.

  “All I know is she was alive before the trial started. Now, she’s laid out, about to be put in the ground.”

  “That’s why I’ve come here,” I said. “I know she was killed by a hit-and-run driver. Is there anything to lead you to believe it might have been deliberate?”

  “Seems to me it was,” he replied. “She was up on the curb when it happened. Seems to me he had to aim for her to hit her there.”

  “Yes,” I said, “it does seem that way. Did you have any indication as to how she was leaning as a juror?”

  His face became angry. “Is that why you’re here, trying to find out whether she thought that Brannigan brat is guilty of murdering his own brother?”

  “Only to see if what I’m thinking about your wife’s death, and the death of the other juror might be true. The other juror who died seemed to believe in Billy Brannigan’s innocence. But I take it from what you’ve just said that your wife didn’t.”

  “Jurors aren’t supposed to talk about the case with anybody, including family.”

  “I know, but it’s human nature to—”

  “She talked about it.”

  “And?”

  “She didn’t think he did it. Killed his brother. I tried to talk sense to her but ... I don’t suppose I should be telling you this, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference anymore. The judge can’t do anything to hurt her.”

  “So your wife was leaning in favor of the defendant. Like the other juror.”

  “Brannigan’ll get off. People with money always do.”

  Juror Number Seven’s mother-in-law had sat silently during my conversation with her son. Now, she looked up at me and said, “She was a good woman. Like my own daughter. May God shine his light on her.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat, thanked them for allowing me to intrude in their time of grief, and quickly walked away.

  There were two dead jurors, each having indicated to a family member they’d been inclined to acquit Billy Brannigan. If my read on Professor Montrose, Juror Number Four, was correct—that he, too, was buying Malcolm McLoon’s defense of Brannigan—another unfortunate “accident” could be in the offing.