Myriam looked at the blank sheet and sighed. She picked up the pen and wrote “1” and put a circle around it. Then she wrote “Children?” Tears filled her eyes and she put down the pen to press them away with her fingers. A gamut of emotions raced across her face as she scribbled on the page. Finally, she pulled into herself and seemed to shrivel in the chair. “I don’t know what to do,” she said softly.
“My best advice at this juncture,” said O’Connor, “is to keep that chin up and think positive thoughts. Being incarcerated isn’t pleasant. I know that. But it’s early in the investigation. I’m bringing in a private investigator tomorrow to work on your behalf. He’s top-notch. And with friends like Mrs. Fletcher—and you have legions of friends and supporters, I’m sure—things will work out for you.” He pulled her paper away, folded it in quarters, and tucked it in his breast pocket.
I forced myself to participate in the conversation. “Myriam, is there anyone you’d like me to call for you? Do you have what you need here? Can I bring you anything? Toiletries? Something to read? I can check with Sheriff Metzger as to what’s allowed.”
She answered each question with a nod—no, yes, no, no, no—as if too exhausted to talk.
There was a knock on the door and the deputy opened it. “There’s another visitor,” she said. “The prisoner’s mother.”
Before we could say anything, Mrs. Caldwell pushed past the deputy and stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her bosom, anger etched on her face.
“Madam, you have to wait your turn,” the deputy said.
“Hello, Mrs. Caldwell,” O’Connor said, standing. He waved at the deputy. “It’s all right. Let her in.”
Mrs. Caldwell pointed at me. “Why is this woman here?”
O’Connor looked at me; I suppose that my puzzled expression matched his.
“You may leave now, Myriam,” her mother said. “Tell the deputy to take you back inside. This meeting is over.” She glared at O’Connor. “I’ll be at your office in twenty minutes, and I expect to see you there.”
Cy’s face was flushed, and I waited for him to say something in defense of our being with his client. But he held his tongue, and Mrs. Caldwell stormed out.
Myriam slowly pushed out of her chair and shuffled over to the deputy, holding out her wrists so the officer could cuff her before returning her to her cell.
“I don’t believe what just happened,” I said, watching as a demoralized Myriam was led away.
O’Connor sat grim faced, his fingers rolling rhythmically on the tabletop.
“Do you have an explanation for what occurred?” I asked.
“Probably, but it will take a while to put it in plain words.”
“I have all the time in the world.”
He managed a tight smile and shook his head. “Are we still on for dinner?”
“Yes.”
He stood, closed his briefcase, and said, “I’ll pick you up at seven? I know you don’t drive.”
“Seven will be fine,” I replied.
He left me alone in a room filled with questions.
Chapter Twelve
Cy O’Connor arrived at my house at the stroke of seven, bounded from his racing green sports car, and rang the bell.
“Right on time,” I said.
“A family trait,” he said. “My father was a stickler for being prompt, claimed that people who ran late were just looking for attention.”
“He makes a good point,” I said. “Where are we going to dinner?”
“The Katahdin Club, if it’s all right with you.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “You’re a member?”
“Yeah. Dad was. When he died, his membership passed to me. I’ve kept it up. Good for business.”
The Katahdin Country Club was named after Maine’s Mount Katahdin, the state’s highest peak, the centerpiece of Baxter State Park. Henry David Thoreau once climbed the 5,268-foot-high mountain and wrote about it in a chapter from The Maine Woods, although he spelled it “Ktaadn.” Regardless of the spelling, the club was the second of two golf clubs to open in Cabot Cove once the town had begun to experience growth.
Its development was not without controversy. Many people in town objected to a pristine tract of land along the coast being developed for the privileged few, and they fought vigorously against it. It was eventually decided, however, that the area needed such a facility, and the plans were approved—but with a provision written at the last minute. In order for the private Katahdin Club to open and for its wealthy members to enjoy an eighteen-hole golf course designed by a leading architect, the developers were obliged to create a second eighteen-hole golf course on an adjacent tract of land that would be open to the public. That seemed to satisfy both sides, and the two facilities have flourished ever since.
A young man in a valet’s uniform took the car from O’Connor, and we entered the club beneath a long red canopy that stretched from the door to the circular drive. O’Connor, beautifully dressed in a gray suit, blue shirt, and multicolored tie, walked quickly and with a spring in his step, and I had to hasten my pace to keep up with him. He was greeted by other club members as we approached the maître d’, who led us to a table in the dining room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sea.
“You a golfer, Jessica?” O’Connor asked after we’d been seated.
“I have played, but I wouldn’t call myself a golfer. I’m not very good at it. I take it that you play.”
“I hack away. Not my favorite way to spend time, but it’s good for my practice.”
The dining room was large and nicely lit. Tables were adorned with starched white tablecloths and glistening silverware; a vase of fresh red and purple flowers was on each table, and a pianist sat in a far corner at a white baby grand playing familiar show tunes.
“Is this your first time at the club?” he asked, taking menus from the waiter.
“No. I’ve been to a few functions here, not many.”
“Maybe you ought to join,” he suggested. “I’ll be happy to be your sponsor.”
“Thank you, but no. I’m afraid I’m not the country-club type.”
“I think I know what you mean,” he said through a smile. “Drink?”
“White wine would be nice.”
As the waiter took our order, I looked beyond him to another side of the room, where I spotted Richard Mauser standing with a group of men. They each held a glass and laughed heartily at something he’d said. O’Connor noted my interest in the group.
“Dick Mauser,” he said. “He’s the club president.”
A good reason not to take O’Connor up on his offer to sponsor me as a member.
“He spends a lot of time here.”
“I suppose he would, being president,” I said.
“Not the most simpatico of people.”
I avoided adding my verbal agreement.
“What appeals?” he asked, indicating the menu, which I hadn’t looked at yet. I picked it up, glanced at the entrees, and said, “Poached salmon and a salad would be fine.”
“I’m a hopeless carnivore,” he said. “Never met a steak I didn’t like.”
Our orders placed, I asked what he’d had on his mind when he issued the dinner invitation.
“Myriam Wolcott, of course,” he replied. “I need help.”
My first thought was that he was about to discuss not having any experience with criminal law. Instead he said, “You’ve met Mrs. Caldwell.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
He grinned and nodded. “She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”
“I—I don’t know what she is, except that she isn’t especially pleasant. I gather from what I’ve seen that she’s very much involved in her daughter’s defense.”
“Your turn for an understatement, Jessica. She’s hired me to be her daughter’s counsel.”
“Which brings up a question.”
“And I know what it is. Why would she choose me to handle a murder case, c
onsidering that it’ll be my first?”
“It’s a reasonable question, isn’t it?”
“Sure it is, and I’ve been hearing it asked around town every day. Why would I be retained when there are a dozen good criminal attorneys ready and willing to defend her?”
I didn’t have to encourage his answer.
“I’ll level with you, Jessica. When I decided to go to law school and follow in my father’s footsteps, my goal was always to practice criminal law.” His chuckle was self-effacing.
“What kept you from doing it?”
“Dad. He was sort of a crusty guy who considered criminal law to be—well, to be not exactly clean. Certainly not the field for his fair-haired boy. As far as he was concerned, criminal lawyers had to wallow in the same sties as their clients. He considered them the bottom of the legal barrel.”
“That isn’t true,” I said. “I’ve known many criminal lawyers who were fine men and women who believed that every person, even criminals, is entitled to a defense.”
“Yeah, I know, and I agree with you. But Dad could be persuasive. I was his only kid, and he’d envisioned me being in practice with him as far back as I can remember. Anyway, when I graduated from law school and passed the Maine bar, he didn’t leave any doubt that I’d join him here in Cabot Cove. He was very successful, as you know, had a crackerjack legal mind when it came to corporate and estate law. I broached the subject of wanting to practice criminal law someplace, maybe even open a criminal division within his practice, but he wouldn’t hear of it. When it came down to it, I knew that Dad needed help. He’d been slowing down ever since my mother died, and I couldn’t just walk away. Soooo—here I am.”
“So you gave up your dream,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t be offended.
“Until now.”
“And now you’re going to be a criminal lawyer?”
“Looks that way.”
“Which still leaves the question of why Mrs. Caldwell has retained you to defend her daughter.”
He started to reply, smiled instead of speaking, and then said, “That’s something you’ll have to ask her, Jessica.”
Which left me to continue pondering the same question. I certainly didn’t expect to be able to pose it to the formidable Mrs. Caldwell.
Over salads, I mentioned that he’d said he needed help from me and asked what he was seeking.
“I’m not sure how to put it,” he said. “I suppose you could call it running interference.”
“With?”
“With Myriam. You saw how her mother can pose a problem. She’s an extremely domineering woman, Jessica, wants to call the shots at every turn, make every decision concerning Myriam’s defense. I can’t let her do it.”
I wasn’t surprised to hear that. Although I couldn’t have known for sure, watching the staunch Mrs. Caldwell in action certainly didn’t butt heads with that evaluation of her. I was taken aback by the way she’d talked to O’Connor when she cut short our meeting with Myriam, and her daughter literally cowered in her presence.
Our entrees were served and we chatted about other things. I wanted to explore further why Cy’d agreed to represent Myriam. His desire to practice criminal law, one that had been thwarted by his father, explained his decision only up to a point, but there had to be another dynamic at play. Was it money? Myriam had speculated that gain might have been influencing him, and although he didn’t seem like the sort of young man who would sell out for a payday, I had to consider the possibility.
I reintroduced the topic of Josh Wolcott’s murder after coffee had been served, along with rice pudding that O’Connor claimed was a specialty of the club. “What did you mean by running interference?” I asked.
“I need someone to keep Myriam in check, to keep her on an even keel, and to understand that the legal moves I make on her behalf are necessary.” He signaled to the waiter for our check.
“Has she questioned your moves so far?”
“You were there when she challenged me today. I keep telling her she can change lawyers. I want her to understand the choice is hers, but she never takes me up on it. Look, let me be straight with you. The problem is that . . .”
We both looked up at Richard Mauser, who’d come up to the table and was hovering over us. He slapped O’Connor on the back and said, “Looking for Mrs. Fletcher here to write a best seller about how you defended Wolcott’s killer?”
O’Connor and I looked at him quizzically. Mauser’s face was florid, and he was perspiring despite the cool air in the room. His tight shirt collar forced his naturally fleshy face to puff out, giving him the look of a red toad.
“Hello, Richard,” O’Connor said.
Mauser looked down at me. “Haven’t seen you here before. Join me for a drink,” he asked, his alcohol-laced breath causing me to sit back.
“Thank you, no,” I said, managing to keep pique from my voice. “We were just leaving.”
Ignoring my reply, he dragged over a chair from an unoccupied table and plopped down next to me. He put his hand on top of mine, which I quickly withdrew.
“You ought to come here more often,” he crooned, “get a taste of real life instead of those murder mysteries you make up.” He said to O’Connor, “I bet you two are conjuring up a way to get the town’s favorite husband killer off.” He laughed at his own words.
“Cy, we really have to leave,” I said.
“Yes, of course,” said O’Connor, who pushed back his chair and stood.
“You seeing things differently now?” Mauser said, squinting at me. “I was right, wasn’t I?”
I ignored him, folded my napkin, and set it on the table.
He gripped my wrist, preventing me from standing. “Know what I’m going to do, Mrs. Fletcher?” Mauser asked. “I’m going to make the case at the town council that funding your damn women’s shelter has to stop. See what it did? Josh Wolcott’s wife gets herself in a snit, goes to your shelter, gets her head full of feminist nonsense, goes home, and shoots her hubby. How the hell can you and that woman Wilkerson sleep at night?”
I wrenched my arm away and stood. “We sleep very well, Mr. Mauser,” I said. “I might also suggest that you would do better to withhold your opinions until you are no longer drunk and obnoxious. Good evening.”
Mauser called after us, “Careful who you hang out with, Counselor. Your father wouldn’t put up with the likes of her.”
O’Connor spun around and was about to go back to the table, but I grabbed his sleeve and kept him moving in the direction of the door. We stood outside, both of us breathing heavily, our breath steaming into the chilled March night air.
“I apologize for him, Jessica,” he said as he handed the valet the parking ticket.
“You didn’t do anything,” I said. “He’s an insufferable boor to begin with, and the drinking only makes him worse.”
The ride home was awkward, with O’Connor continuously apologizing for Mauser’s behavior. When he pulled into my driveway, I said, “Please, let’s forget about Mr. Mauser. Up until his appearance, I had a lovely time.”
“He insulted you. And I’m offended on your behalf.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I’ve been insulted by better men than this one,” I said. “Thanks for dinner.”
“Wish it had turned out more pleasant.”
He came around and opened the door for me.
“About your deposition on Monday,” he said. “Swing by the office at nine thirty and we’ll go to the DA together.”
“Shall do,” I said. “Before I go in, you’d started to say something when he arrived at the table. You said you wanted to be straight with me. About what?”
“About Myriam and her mother. Mrs. Caldwell wants me to plead Myriam guilty and use a claim of self-defense to get her off.”
“I—I don’t understand,” I said. “Is she saying that Myriam actually killed Josh?”
His silence was chilling.
Chapter Thirteen
Followi
ng a Sunday spent worrying the day away, I arrived at Cy O’Connor’s office Monday morning at nine thirty, ready to beard the lion in his den. What could he be thinking having Myriam plead guilty? She had sworn up and down she was innocent, that she had not killed her husband, Josh. Now Cy was going to have her turn around and say she hadn’t told the truth, that she had killed him, but that it was in self-defense? Would those who’d believed her before still believe her now?
Cy’s indispensable aide, Sharon Bacon, intercepted me as I came through the door and ushered me back into the hallway.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I wish I knew. Ever since Mrs. Wolcott’s mother retained Cy, he—” She stopped as O’Connor poked his head through the open doorway. “Ready, Jessica?” he asked.
“I suppose I’d better be,” I replied.
He disappeared back into the reception area.
“Jessica, would you be free after the deposition so we can talk? Cy’s got a lunch appointment and we won’t be disturbed back here at the office.”
“I assume I’ll be. I hope it won’t take longer than an hour. Cy did say he wanted to get together with me today. But I can put him off until after lunch. How’s that?”
“I’d really appreciate it. I made an extra sandwich just in case you were available. You’re welcome to it. I didn’t want to intrude on your lunchtime without feeding you. Do you like chicken salad?”
“That was very thoughtful, Sharon. I love chicken salad.”
* * *
Cy and I drove to the DA’s office, where the district attorney, Diane Cirilli, and a stenographer waited. I’d met Ms. Cirilli a number of times before. She was a short, slender woman with a dusky complexion and a head full of tight blond curls, and she was dressed today in a nicely tailored gray suit and white blouse. She introduced me to the stenographer, who sat ready to repeat our conversation into a tape recorder through a mask that she would hold to her mouth.
Murder, She Wrote: Domestic Malice Page 9
