“Okay,” he said, “why have you come to see me?”
I glanced at Harry before replying, “We’re trying—no, I’m the one who’s trying to determine whether someone else might have shot your brother-in-law.”
His expression was blank.
“I know your sister,” I continued. “I was at the Cabot Cove women’s shelter the night she came in, her face bruised, her self-esteem shattered. To cut to the chase, Mr. Caldwell, I have my doubts about what really happened that night in her driveway.”
He dismissed me with a crooked smile and a slow shaking of his head. “I don’t know whether you read the papers, Mrs. Fletcher, but my sister has confessed to killing Josh.”
“I’m well aware of that,” I said. “I also know that people confessing to crimes they haven’t committed isn’t as rare as you might think.”
“Why would she admit to killing Josh if she didn’t do it?” Caldwell asked.
“I thought you might have some thoughts on that subject,” I said. “You were the first one she called.”
“You think she’s crazy?” he said through a sneer.
“Hardly,” I said. “Is she protecting someone?”
“Like who?”
I didn’t respond, nor did Harry say anything.
Caldwell looked at his watch. “Time’s up,” he said, pointing to the door.
“You mind one more question?” Harry asked.
Caldwell sighed.
“Your brother-in-law, Josh, was quite an operator,” Harry said.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that he was a so-called financial adviser whose advice took some people to the cleaners.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Caldwell.
“Sure you would,” Harry countered. “How much did he fleece from you?”
For a moment I thought that Caldwell might physically lash out at Harry. His fists were clenched and his mouth drew into a tight, angry line.
I quickly said, “The point is, Mr. Caldwell, that the people your brother-in-law stole from might have had reason to want him dead. We know that you invested with him and that . . .”
Caldwell came around the desk, opened his door, and said, “I have nothing more to say to you.” He put on a forced smile. “Have a nice day.”
We walked past him and the receptionist’s desk and went outside.
“The guy’s got a temper, huh?” Harry commented.
“You did take him by surprise,” I said.
“Always the best way. We know one thing.”
“Which is?”
“His brother-in-law sure as the devil must’ve taken him for a bundle if Caldwell was willing to file a complaint. Not exactly good for family relations.”
“Neither is financial malfeasance,” I said.
“You see his face when I said he was fleeced?”
“I certainly did.”
“Let’s head back.”
We turned to see Caldwell climb into an older-model yellow Toyota in front of his office and drive away.
“I have a better idea,” I said. “As long as we’re already here, let’s go by his house before he calls his wife to warn her about us.”
McGraw smiled. “You’re on the scent, huh?” he said.
“I just hate to waste an opportunity, Harry. Game?”
“Always.”
I didn’t mention that not only did I want to take advantage of already being in Gorbyville; I wanted to make good use of the time I had with Harry. His official capacity as investigator for Myriam Wolcott’s defense gave me—us—an explainable reason for seeking out people and asking questions. As long as he was willing to join me in trying to find a different explanation for Josh Wolcott’s murder, I intended to benefit from it. He wasn’t being paid by Cy O’Connor to chase down my theory, however, and his doing so would probably anger the lawyer. He was being a good guy, which he’d always been.
The Caldwell home was only a mile or so from Robert Caldwell’s insurance office in a cluster of small houses on a lake. They might once have been summer vacation bungalows but now had been converted into year-round houses. A few teenagers played soccer in the street, and an elderly woman walked a dog on a leash. We parked across from the house and took it in.
“Hate to make judgments,” McGraw said, “but I’d say his company isn’t setting the insurance world on fire.”
“It is a little run-down,” I said. “Let’s see if she’s home. Her name is Stephanie.”
“I hope the guy didn’t call her from his car.”
“Nothing we can do about it if he did,” I said.
Stephanie Caldwell opened her front door as we approached and stepped outside onto a marred concrete slab that served as a front step. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, hip cocked, her posture and expression asking who we were and why we were there. She had a rough, somewhat crude look to her; her skin was sallow, features coarse—nose, lips, jaw—and beneath her tired eyes were faint dark circles. She struck me as a woman who’d gone through some rough times and had aged beyond her chronological years. Her clothing was nondescript, drab tan slacks and sweater that matched her hair.
“Mrs. Caldwell,” I said.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“I’m Jessica Fletcher. This is Harry McGraw, a private detective. We’re from Cabot Cove and . . .”
“What do you want?”
“Just a few minutes of your time, ma’am,” Harry replied.
“About what?”
“About Josh Wolcott’s murder.”
“Why do you want to talk to me? My husband and I weren’t anywhere near Cabot Cove when Josh was killed. We had nothing to do with it.”
“We understand that,” I said, “but we do have some questions, the answers to which might help your sister-in-law.”
It was impossible to tell whether the snort from her was directed at our reason for being there or at the mention of Myriam.
“I know we’re barging in,” I said, “but we would appreciate if you would grant us a few minutes.”
“Why don’t you talk to Robert?” she asked.
I hesitated admitting that we had, but Harry said, “We will but don’t want to bother him at work. Being in the insurance business must keep him busy.”
The woman we’d seen walking the dog stopped at the curb in front of Stephanie’s house and waved to her. Stephanie raised a hand halfheartedly in return and turned to the door. “I don’t want to give the neighbors anything to talk about,” she said. “You’d better come in.”
The inside of the house was small and dingy. The front entrance led straight into the living room. A slat on a venetian blind was broken and dangled from the cord. A dirty plate and a half-empty bottle of water sat on a coffee table in front of a TV set on which a soap opera played silently. We could see two other rooms off the main one. Access to the kitchen was on the back wall, and to the right was the door to the bedroom, through which the unmade bed was visible. Stephanie walked to the bedroom door, shut it, and returned to us.
“All right, get to it,” she said as the three of us stood awkwardly in the center of the room.
“You and your husband rushed to Myriam’s home the night Josh was shot,” I began.
“So? What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing at all,” I said. “I’m sure that you and your husband were a source of much-needed comfort for Myriam.”
My comment was met with a chilly silence, her stance the same as when we’d first met her in front of the house.
“Myriam reached out to you even before calling nine-one-one, so am I correct in supposing that you and your husband had a good relationship with Myriam and Josh?”
“Robert and Myriam get along,” she replied.
“What about Josh? Did you have a good relationship with him as well?”
That question caused a change in her posture. She sank down in one of two stained white swivel club chairs and swung back and forth, a twisted smile
on her face. “What are you trying to get at? He was our brother-in-law. He was Myriam’s problem, not ours.”
McGraw, who stood next to me, his eyes taking in everything, said, “Yet your husband must have been pretty upset the way his brother-in-law handled his finances.”
Stephanie got to her feet. “You know about that?”
“Yeah,” Harry said. “It’s pretty common knowledge.”
What she said next came as a surprise, both in content and in tone. “That phony con artist screwed us royally!”
“That must have been terrible for you,” I said.
“How much did he take you for?” Harry asked.
She didn’t answer. Playing for time, she picked up a T-shirt that was draped over the arm of her chair, balled it up, opened the door to the bedroom, and threw it on the bed.
I took the chair that was a match to hers, my mind going in two different directions. I couldn’t help but wonder how this woman’s staunch, patrician mother-in-law reacted to her daughter-in-law’s lifestyle and language. At the same time, I wanted to learn more about the relationship between this family and Josh and Myriam Wolcott. “You weren’t the only ones that your brother-in-law scammed, Mrs. Caldwell,” I said.
“Seems he had a habit of stealing from his clients,” McGraw added. “There are plenty of them in Cabot Cove.”
“He was a swine,” Stephanie said, nearly spitting with disgust. She paced the room. “He almost wiped us out. Robert took all the money his father left him when he died and handed it over to his big college-man brother-in-law to invest.” She almost growled as she said it. “His father had left us a beautiful vacation home in Calais. We were in seventh heaven. Robert’s agency was never that profitable, and we were always scraping to make ends meet.” She grabbed the water bottle from the table, unscrewed the cap, and took a swig. “Robert sold the place and gave Josh the money. I pleaded with him not to, but he’s stubborn . . .” She paused before adding, “And not too bright. Josh blew every cent of it, every last cent. I could have died when Robert finally got up the courage to tell me that the investments Josh put us in had collapsed, were worth nothing.” She became more animated. “I hated him.”
“Josh?”
“Yeah, Josh. And Robert, too.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“It ruined the marriage; that’s what it did,” she said, her eyes flaming. “I don’t know why I even stay here.” She threw herself into the chair opposite mine.
“Did Myriam say anything the night that you and your husband drove to her house, anything to indicate that she’d shot Josh?”
“Myriam is a wimp. But she did it, right? She confessed.”
“Did she confess to you that night?”
“Not to me, but we were never close. I just felt sorry for the kids. They were both crying. I stayed with them while Robert talked to Myriam.”
“Did Robert tell you that Myriam confessed to him?”
“No, but she told the cops. Isn’t that enough?”
“Yes,” I said, “but there’s some doubt in my mind whether she’s telling the truth.”
“Why? The guy beat her up, didn’t he? We knew it. If Robert ever did that to me, I’d . . .”
I thought she might begin to cry, but instead she drained the last of her water and sat sullenly, eyes directed at the empty bottle held on her lap in both hands.
“I know this is upsetting to you,” I said, “and we won’t stay much longer. But by any chance had you and Robert been to Myriam’s house earlier that evening, before Josh was killed?”
“What are you getting at?” she snapped.
“Had he, or possibly the both of you, been there earlier?” I pressed.
She fixed me with a threatening stare as she said, “Are you suggesting that maybe we shot him?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, only asking a question.”
Harry sensed that I’d moved the conversation into a controversial area and said, “Like Mrs. Fletcher says, I’m a detective working for Myriam Wolcott’s lawyer. I’m trying to get everybody’s timeline straight, that’s all. If you weren’t there earlier, you weren’t there, pure and simple. I suppose you’ve got people who’ll testify that you were home until Mrs. Wolcott called.”
“Get out!” Stephanie barked.
Harry held up his hands and said, “Hey. Take it easy. Just asking a simple question. It’ll come up in court.”
“Out!” Stephanie shouted.
“Thanks for your time,” McGraw said, ushering me toward the exit.
Stephanie pushed ahead of us to the front door and flung it open, only to have Robert Caldwell step into the room.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, anger written on his face.
“Just leaving,” Harry said, smiling.
“What did you tell them?” Robert yelled at his wife.
“Nothing, just what a loser you are and how you blew everything we had. I’m glad he’s dead.”
“These people are strangers. Just keep your mouth shut. Are you going to broadcast the news all over the neighborhood? It’s none of their business.”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”
McGraw and I left and walked quickly to his car, their combative voices carrying clearly across the street. Harry pulled away and headed back in the direction of Cabot Cove.
“Man,” he said, “that guy Wolcott sure fouled up a lot of people, even in his own family.”
“He certainly did,” I said. “I keep thinking about the mother. She has a daughter who married a wife beater and scam artist who hurt many people including his own in-laws, and a son who isn’t very successful in his business, who squandered money, and who is married to a woman who’s angry and resentful. I can’t say that I like Mrs. Caldwell, but I understand a little better why she’s so committed to the facade she puts on.”
“You always see the best in people, don’t you, Jessica?”
“I’m not sure that’s true, Harry. It’s just that as I get older, I’m more respectful of the human dilemma, our failures and foibles and the hurdles we’re called upon to face from time to time.”
“Know what I think?” he asked.
“Tell me.”
“I think Mrs. Wolcott is lucky to have somebody like Jessica Fletcher on her side and looking for the truth.”
“Somehow I don’t think she’ll see it that way.”
Chapter Nineteen
I’d promised Harry a home-cooked meal as a thank-you for his assistance, but first he wanted to stop in to see Sheriff Metzger to report his slashed tires. The deputy at the desk told us that the sheriff was being interviewed. I thought that someone from the Gazette might be with him, but the deputy said, “Those TV folks from The Hour are here.”
“Do you think they’ll be much longer?” I asked.
“Shouldn’t be,” he replied. “They’ve been in there for more than an hour already, and . . .”
The door opened and a four-person film crew preceded Mort into the waiting area.
“Hi, Mrs. F.,” Mort said. “McGraw.”
“Hello, Mort. Will you have a minute when these folks leave?”
“Jessica?”
I turned to see a familiar face, Clay Dawkins. I’d met Clay in New York years earlier when he was a TV producer for one of the networks. He’d produced a documentary on the popularity of murder mysteries, and I was one of the authors interviewed for the show. We’d kept in touch until he announced one day that he was leaving New York City for a job with a TV station in Burlington, Vermont, and we’d lost contact.
“Hello, Clay,” I said. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“A pleasant surprise and a timely one,” he said. “I intended to call you later today.” He ushered me away from the others. “Your sheriff is a great guy. I let it drop that I knew you, and he told me that you’re involved in some way with the murder investigation.”
I stole a glance at Mort, who was talking with McGraw.
; “Not officially,” I said, “but I’ve been looking into it.”
“For a book?”
“Not this time. I happen to know the accused, Myriam Wolcott.” I hesitated before whispering, “I have some doubts about her having killed her husband.”
“She confessed, didn’t she?”
“Yes, she did,” I said and left it at that. “But tell me about you. The last I heard, you were headed for Vermont. I didn’t know that you’d ended up in Bangor with The Hour.”
“I’m new to the production, moved to Bangor just a month ago. It’s a fine show. But, Jessica, you changed the subject, and now you’ve piqued my interest.”
“How so?”
“The documentary we’re doing is about domestic abuse, which seems to be reaching epidemic proportions, if the statistics are accurate.”
“The statistics are likely to be inaccurate,” I said, “since so many cases go unreported.”
“In this case it ended up with the murder of the abusing spouse. As far as I know, there’s no question that she shot her husband, but you say there is.”
“There’s always a question in cases like these. It’s just my opinion. I don’t have a lot to go on, and I can’t claim many who agree with me.”
“I’d like to know more.”
“How long will you be in town?”
“About four days. Depends on how the interviews go. I just had an idea. How about an on-camera interview with you?”
“Oh no! Thanks, but no.”
“Okay, but I’d really like to pick your brain about your theory that the accused might not be guilty. It could add an interesting dimension to the story.”
“Happy to share whatever I know,” I said, meaning it. I decided on the spot that I needed all the assistance I could muster if I was to get to the bottom of things. Harry McGraw was proving to be a help, but having a savvy TV producer asking his own set of questions around town certainly couldn’t hurt.
“What are you doing for dinner?” I asked.
“No plans yet. Find a local spot to eat with the crew.”
“I can’t invite the whole crew,” I said, “but you’re welcome to come for a home-cooked meal. What do you think?”
Murder, She Wrote: Domestic Malice Page 14
