Murder, She Wrote: Domestic Malice

by Jessica Fletcher

  My raised eyebrows and cocked head reflected my surprise.

  “The women’s shelter,” he said. “I’m told that you were there when she came in after her hubby beat her up.”

  “Mind if I ask who told you that?”

  “Don’t mind at all. In questioning a neighbor of the Wolcotts, one of my deputies picked up that she’d gone to the shelter. Not sure if it was the wife, Mrs. Wolcott, or one of the kids who told the neighbor. And I got it that you were there from someone else closer to the scene. But it’s true, right? You were there?”

  I did a quick calculation about whether admitting I’d been present violated the rules of privacy at the shelter. I decided that even if it did, I couldn’t lie to the police, and said, “Yes, I was there, Mort. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, Mrs. F., knowing that Wolcott beat up on his wife is kind of an important thing to know, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It certainly is for his wife.”

  “What did she tell you that night?”

  “Now, Mort,” I said, “you know that you’re treading on a sensitive issue. Women who come to the shelter are assured that what transpires there is privileged information.”

  His frown said that he didn’t buy it.

  “That’s all well and good, Mrs. F., but I’m dealing with a murder here. Seems to me—and the county DA agrees—that when there’s a murder involved, all bets are off. It also seems to me that the relationship between the Wolcotts is darned important. I’m sure it won’t surprise you that we’re looking at Mrs. Wolcott as a suspect.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me at all,” I concurred. “And I know what’s behind you wanting to know what happened that night at the shelter. If Josh Wolcott was a wife batterer, it provides Myriam Wolcott with the motive to have killed him.”

  He started to say something, but I continued.

  “Be that as it may,” I added, “I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to be telling tales out of school, in this case tales out of the women’s shelter.”

  Mort held up his hand. “Take it easy, Mrs. F. I just thought that we could get this over with, have a pleasant chat about it.” His voice took on a more conspiratorial tone. “The DA and the state and county investigators will just have to subpoena you and Ms. Wilkerson, do the same with the shelter’s records.”

  “Then I’ll wait for that, Mort. I’m not trying to be difficult, but I take very seriously the pledge of confidentiality I took when I started volunteering at the shelter. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  “Of course I do, and I admire you for it. It’s just that I’d like to save the town and the county some money, gather up evidence without having to go the legal route. Besides, I’ve always been up front with you, haven’t I?”

  “Yes, you have, Mort, and I’ve always appreciated it. But in this case . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know, I know, you gave your word and you mean to keep it.”

  “Thank you for understanding. May I ask you a question now?”

  His eyebrows went up. “You can ask.”

  “Have you been contacted by the attorney Cyrus O’Connor?”

  “Got a call from him first thing this morning. Sounds to me like you know more than you’re telling me.”

  “Just responding to a rumor around town, Mort, that Myriam Wolcott might be retaining him as her lawyer.”

  “I don’t pay much attention to rumors, Mrs. F., but in this case it’s true. It surprised me, too. Never knew the man to take on criminal cases.”

  “Has he agreed to represent her?”

  “Seems so. He put a stop to questioning her unless she’s charged. Typical lawyer’s first move.”

  I stood and glanced out the window. “Spring is in the air,” I said.

  “Can’t come soon enough.”

  “Mort.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Who told you I was there when Myriam Wolcott came to the women’s shelter?”

  He winced.

  “I think I’m entitled to know. After all, it appears that I’ll now become involved in a very direct way.”

  “Her brother,” he said flatly.

  “Myriam’s brother?”

  “Right. Seems that she called him the night she came to the shelter. I had him in here yesterday for questioning, and he told me about the call.”

  “Her mother will not be pleased,” I said.

  “You know her?”

  “We’ve recently met.”

  “Tough old bird.”

  “That’s one way of putting it. Are we finished?”

  “I am if you are.” He rose and walked me outside.

  “If I’m subpoenaed about that night at the shelter, I’ll naturally comply.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. F.”

  “I know you have a job to do. Please send my love to Maureen. Has she been cooking up exotic dishes lately?”

  Another wince. “Let’s not discuss that, Mrs. F. Thanks for coming by.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh as I pedaled away from his office. Maureen Metzger was a dear soul, full of life, one of the town’s real doers. She was also one of Cabot Cove’s most adventuresome—and least successful—cooks.

  My cell phone started ringing and vibrating while I was riding home. I stopped and checked the screen to see who was calling. Seeing the name Josh Wolcott caused me to flinch. I answered and heard Myriam Wolcott say, “Jessica Fletcher?”

  “Yes. Myriam?”

  “Yes, it’s me. Have I caught you at a bad time?”

  “I’m just riding my bike home, but I’m happy for the break. I admit that I was startled to see Josh’s name on my screen.”

  “I haven’t changed the phone yet.”

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’m all right, I suppose, all things considered. Mrs. Fletcher, um, Jessica, I was wondering whether you could spare me a few minutes.”

  “Of course.”

  “I have some time this afternoon. Will you be home?”

  “I should arrive in fifteen minutes, and I plan to stay there for the rest of the day.”

  “I could come around three,” she said. “I can’t stay long because—well, because it’s been so hectic, and with the children and all, I . . .”

  “Come at three,” I said, “and stay as long as you wish.”

  Her call dominated my thoughts for the rest of the trip home. Once there, I put up a pot of coffee, defrosted some cinnamon buns from Sassi’s Bakery, and awaited her arrival. I heard the car pull into my short driveway and opened the door. Myriam looked more put together than when I’d last seen her, although the lines on her young face reflected the strain she was obviously under. She managed a smile at my greeting and said, “Thanks for seeing me.”

  “It’s no trouble at all,” I said. “Coffee’s made, and I have some absolutely wonderful pastries from Sassi’s. Come in and we can talk.”

  But Myriam found it difficult to express herself. Once inside, she demonstrated her state of anxiety by pacing my living room floor and rubbing her hands together. I invited her to sit several times, which she ignored, and she didn’t take me up on my offer of something to drink and eat. I’d begun to wonder whether she’d ever get around to telling me why she’d come when she finally sank onto my couch and said, “I just don’t know what to do, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  I sat next to her and said, “I don’t wonder that you’d be confused, Myriam. And please, it’s Jessica.”

  “They think that I killed Josh. Every day someone else wants to talk to me. I’m afraid I’ll go mad if I have to answer the same questions again.”

  “I understand that you’ve retained Cyrus O’Connor to represent you. Hasn’t he put a stop to the questioning, at least for the moment?”

  “You know that?”

  I wasn’t about to tell her that I learned the news from our sheriff. Instead I said, “Your mother was in Cy O’Connor’s waiting room when I stopped into his office the other day. I assumed that she was discussing
your representation with him.”

  “I suppose so,” she said through an exasperated sigh.

  I was puzzled at her reply, and my expression mirrored it.

  “Mother hired him.”

  “Cy’s not a criminal attorney, you know.”

  “She knew that.”

  “Then why . . . ?”

  Myriam raised her hands as if to say something, then dropped them in her lap with a sigh. “You don’t know my mother, Jessica.”

  I held back what my initial impression of her mother had been.

  “She’s a very strong-willed woman,” Myriam said. “She wants a young attorney she can control. I’m sure of it.”

  “That’s not a very smart way to go,” I offered. “It’s like being one’s own attorney, and you know what they say about that. Or choosing a doctor because you can dictate your treatment. There are some very skilled criminal attorneys in the area who I’m sure would be glad to take your case—if you think you’re going to be charged with a crime.”

  She fell silent.

  “I’m sitting here, Myriam, wondering why you wanted to see me today.”

  “How can I say it?”

  “Just say it, that’s how.”

  “I need someone to stand up for me,” she said in almost a whisper.

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Stand up for me with my mother and others once I’m charged with Josh’s murder. You’re highly respected in town, and I know that you’ve helped people in the past who were falsely accused of killing someone.”

  “You say you need someone to stand up for you with your mother? It’s true I don’t know her well, but she’s obviously very much in your corner. And Cy O’Connor is a bright and capable young attorney, even if he’s not experienced in handling criminal cases.”

  “He told Mother that he wasn’t the right kind of lawyer to take my case, but she insisted. I suppose the money she offered helped sway him. My father left Mother a sizable sum when he died. She can afford to buy who she wants.”

  I somehow doubted whether O’Connor would inject himself into a legal matter with which he was unfamiliar simply for money, but he may have been responding to an appeal for help. Then again, while I knew the father, I didn’t really know the son. Perhaps he had another reason for taking a case that was outside his area of expertise.

  “Although Mr. O’Connor isn’t a criminal attorney,” I said, “I’m sure he’s qualified to handle things at this early stage. If—well, if your legal requirements become more serious, you can always bring in an experienced criminal attorney.”

  “Tell that to Mother.” She jumped up and began pacing again.

  I formulated my response in my mind before saying it. “Myriam, I’m sure your mother only wants to help you navigate this difficult situation, and that must be comforting, but I can’t help but feel that since you’re the one directly involved, you should be the one making the decisions. After all, it’s your life and your children’s lives that are at stake.”

  As diplomatic as I attempted to be, my words caused her to stiffen. “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression about Mother,” she said. “She’s a wonderful, very intelligent woman who knows about such things, things that I don’t know anything about. Who else can I trust?”

  I realized that it would not be productive to argue the point. Her lack of self-esteem was painfully evident when she came to the shelter, and she continued to demonstrate it.

  “I’m sure whatever decisions you and your mother make will be the right ones, Myriam. But let’s get back to what you want of me. You say that you want me to stand up for you. I’m not sure what that entails. We aren’t really familiar with each other, but I’m certainly concerned for you and your family. Beyond that . . .”

  “You do believe me, don’t you?”

  “About what?”

  “That I didn’t kill Josh.”

  “I have no reason not to,” I said, failing to add that my belief in her innocence might change should evidence surface to the contrary.

  “It’s important that you believe me, Jessica. You’re well respected in town and are friends with the sheriff and . . .”

  “Let me think this over,” I said, interrupting her by standing and removing the plate of pastries to the kitchen. Her comment about my being friends with Sheriff Metzger shed light on the reason she was there. She hoped that I’d put in a good word for her with Mort, which I would not do. Standing up for her as a friend, really more of an acquaintance, was one thing; injecting myself into the investigation was another.

  Myriam followed me into the kitchen. “I have to get home,” she said. “Mother took Ruthie out for the afternoon and doesn’t know I came here. She’d be upset if she knew. Thanks for being here for me, Jessica. I really appreciate it.”

  I watched her drive off, poured myself a cup of coffee, and settled in my office. Like it or not, I was being dragged into the Josh Wolcott murder, something I’d promised myself wouldn’t happen. I could hear Seth Hazlitt: “There you go again, Jessica, gettin’ yourself all bound up in another murder. When will you learn?”

  And I wouldn’t have an answer for him.

  Chapter Nine

  “Wife Charged in Wolcott Murder.”

  The headline stared up at me from the front page of the Cabot Cove Gazette as it sat on my front step the following morning. But it wasn’t news to me. I’d already heard about it via an earlier phone call from Seth Hazlitt.

  “Thought I’d give you a heads-up, Jessica,” he said. “They’ve brought in Mrs. Wolcott and they’re going to charge her with killin’ her husband.”

  “When did this happen?” I asked. “She was here with me yesterday afternoon.”

  “Was she, now? What brought that about?”

  “She said she needed to talk. Nothing much came out of it except that she was understandably nervous and upset. Perhaps she knew this was coming. Where did you hear about her arrest?”

  “Over at Mara’s. I was there for breakfast bright and early and got talkin’ with that fella Evelyn Phillips has hired at the paper, Teller. Said to call him Jimmy. Nice chap. He’d just come from police headquarters and had all the inside dirt. Said he was there last night when they brought her in. Showed me the pictures he took on his digital camera. Feel a mite sorry for that Mrs. Wolcott, having those pictures goin’ in the paper, but I suppose there’s nothing she can do about it.”

  Good old Mara’s Luncheonette, I thought. If you wanted to know what was happening in Cabot Cove, you stopped in there and cocked an ear toward the myriad conversations taking place.

  “What about the Wolcott children?” I asked.

  “Her mother is tending to them is what I hear.”

  “Oh dear, I just realized that it’s Friday.”

  “What’s Friday got to do with anything?”

  “The courthouse is closed.” One of Mayor Shevlin’s cost-saving measures in his efforts to conserve funds and stave off having to let go any public service employees was to close all municipal offices on Fridays, including the courts. “There’s no chance to appeal for bail because they won’t be able to arraign Myriam until Monday. She’ll be stuck in jail all weekend.”

  “That’s tough luck,” Seth said.

  I thanked him for his call, picked up the paper, and began reading. Evelyn and her assistant didn’t offer much more in the way of details than I’d received from Seth, although they did quote Mort Metzger. Our sheriff stated, “Based upon evidence collected, we are charging Myriam Wolcott with the shooting death of her husband, Joshua Wolcott. We continue to investigate the circumstances surrounding this tragic event and will have more to report later on.”

  Cy O’Connor, whose photo also accompanied the article, was quoted as saying, “My client, Myriam Wolcott, denies the charges against her, and I’m confident that she will be vindicated.”

  I busied myself around the house for the remainder of the morning and waited for the phone to ring aga
in. It did as I was about to leave for a lunch date at Peppino’s with Tim Purdy. The taxi had just arrived and I motioned for the driver to wait.

  “Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Mitchell Quaid. I’m sure you don’t remember me, but we’ve met at a few civic functions.”

  “I remember,” I said.

  “I’m calling because—well, do you have a minute?”

  “I’m afraid I’m just on my way out the door.”

  “Then I’ll make it brief. I’m sure you’re aware of Josh Wolcott’s murder.”

  “It would be hard not to be,” I said.

  “I’m calling because I was a client of Wolcott’s.”

  “Yes?”

  “I became a client because he seemed to have a pretty impressive roster of other clients who’d entrusted their money to him.”

  I wondered where this was going.

  “To cut to the chase, Mrs. Fletcher, I signed up with him and took a bath. I lost three-quarters of what I gave him to invest.”

  “I’m terribly sorry to hear that, Mr. Quaid, but why are you telling me this?”

  “Because one of the clients he bragged about representing was you.”

  “What? That’s absolutely untrue. He offered his financial services to me a long time ago, but I declined. I cannot tell you how angry it makes me to hear that he used my name falsely to attract clients.”

  “Well then, all I can say is that you made a wise decision. I thought that if you’d been a client and lost money, too, you might be interested in launching some sort of a class action suit against whatever money was left in his hands when he died.”

  “That’s obviously out of the question,” I said, “and I’m awfully sorry to hear of your misfortune. I don’t mean to cut this short, Mr. Quaid, but I am running late.”

  “That’s all I had to say, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “No, that’s quite all right. You didn’t bother me at all. Well, that’s not exactly accurate. What you told me is very bothersome indeed.”

  It took me until I arrived at the restaurant to calm down a bit from the indignation I felt at having had my name used fraudulently by Josh Wolcott. How dared he tell anyone that I’d become one of his financial services clients? If my previous suspicions about him needed any bolstering, this incident certainly served the purpose.