Mort sat back, raised his arms over his head, and yawned noisily. “Let’s call it a night, Mrs. F.,” he said. “Cogan’ll sober up in his cell and have his day in court.”
“And you’ll question him to see if Mauser had anything to do with the tires, and with the incident tonight.”
“First thing in the morning.”
“Anything new with the Josh Wolcott murder?”
“Not on my end. The trial’s coming up, but you know that. You’re going to be called as a witness.”
When I didn’t say anything, he added, “And you’re still convinced somebody else killed Wolcott, somebody he took for a financial ride.”
“I’m not convinced of anything,” I said, “but in my mind a reasonable doubt exists that Myriam Wolcott is guilty. I remember hearing that someone contacted her encouraging her to kill her husband, or even offering to do it himself—assuming it was a man.”
“That’s true. No secret.”
I gave him my best tell-me-more look.
“Well,” he said as we left his office and walked to his car, “I’ll help put your mind at rest. The forensics folks finally managed to trace where those e-mails came from. Seems the sender logged in to be invisible online, sort of erased his identity. That might successfully hide him from most people surfing the Internet, but the forensic boys know how to get around it. They unerased the name, or at any rate the identification of the computer that the messages came from.”
We climbed into his car and pulled away from the sheriff’s office.
I thought about what Mort had said and began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’ve invented a new word, Mort.”
“What word?”
“Unerased.”
Mort grinned sheepishly. “Anyway, turns out those messages came from another house in the neighborhood.”
“That’s interesting,” I said.
“The Wolcotts’ neighborhood. A couple of blocks away. The Hanley family. We visited the house and talked to everybody there. They all swear they weren’t the ones who sent those messages.”
“Hanley? I know that name.”
“The husband’s a minister at a small church in that neighborhood, the wife’s a nurse’s aide, and the kid, Paul, he sounds like a straight shooter when he says he never wrote anything to Mrs. Wolcott.”
“How old is the son?” I asked.
“Sixteen.”
“Isn’t he friends with Mark Wolcott?”
“Best friends, according to the father. They play video games together all the time.”
“But if no one in the family sent those messages, Mort, then who did?”
“Beats me. The way I figure it, somebody hacked into their computer and sent ’em. Happens all the time, I hear, people hacking into other people’s computers and causing mischief.”
“Or,” I offered, “the boys could be using the computer for something other than games.”
“What are you getting at? You think the Wolcott boy wanted his mother to kill his father? I don’t know, Mrs. F. It sounds pretty far-fetched to me.”
“It does to me, too, when you put it that way, but it also seems far-fetched to think someone would hack into the Hanley computer to send messages to Myriam.”
Mort pulled up in front of my house and left the engine idling.
“I appreciate your sharing that information with me, Mort. Thanks for the lift.”
“No problem, Mrs. F. By the way, Maureen said you were entering a pie this year in the festival.”
“If I ever get a chance to do some baking. How’s Maureen’s entry coming?”
Mort’s sour expression said it all. “You ever taste a blueberry pie with avocado in it, Mrs. F.?”
“No, I can’t say that I have, but Maureen has asked me to be a taster for her.”
“Then I’ll let you decide,” was all he added about his wife’s pie as he came around and opened the door for me. Among our sheriff’s many attributes was loyalty to his wife.
Chapter Twenty-three
It came as no surprise that I found myself dwelling upon what Mort had told me about the messages urging Myriam Wolcott to kill her husband and how they’d been sent from a neighbor’s computer—the same neighbor to whom Mark Wolcott often fled when things were difficult at home. Mort had ruled out members of the Hanley family as the source of those messages, including their sixteen-year-old son, Paul, who was Mark’s friend. I was sure that Mort’s reasons for his decision were valid. Someone might have hacked into the Hanleys’ computer. But why would they have chosen that particular one? It was also possible that someone with access to the house could have used the computer to deliver those provocative threats. I didn’t know the Hanley family, nor was I aware of others who may have spent time at their home. I could be sure of only one thing: Someone had sent Myriam those messages. The question was who.
But there wasn’t much time to dwell on that or the upcoming trial. The Blueberry Festival was suddenly upon us. The weather cooperated—the two-day event over a weekend was blessed with cooler temperatures, a cobalt blue sky, and a refreshing breeze off the water.
The festival drew more visitors than previous years. The town was chockablock with new faces, men, women, and children wandering from event to event, tasting the various blueberry concoctions, buying up arts and crafts offered by our more creative citizens, and bidding at the auction that was held in a large tent erected on the high school football field. Spirits were high. A thousand blue and white balloons lined the downtown streets, and store owners had followed through on the color scheme in their windows. Mara’s restaurant on the dock had unfurled a huge sign proclaiming the best blueberry pancakes in the universe and offered mini–blueberry milk shakes for a dollar. The various musical groups alternated, providing toe-tapping tunes, and our local theater group put on a play set in the sixteen hundreds in which early settlers interacted with the local Indian tribes, the Abenaki, Penobscot, and Passamaquoddy. Members of the acting troupe had been working on their costumes for months, their efforts appreciated by the theatergoers.
The pie-baking contest was to take place on Saturday afternoon at four, with the pie-eating contest to follow. Maureen had sent me a sample of her entry, which Mort had dropped off. I’d told her as diplomatically as I could that I thought she needed to work a bit at the proportions, but she said that out of all her trials, this was the combination she liked the best. I wished her luck. My submission had come from an old recipe I’d unearthed. I made two, the first to be sure it came out well, and the second to enter in the contest. The pie had no exotic ingredients, just blueberries and a little lemon and vanilla. It tasted good to me—one of my better efforts, I told myself—but I didn’t have any illusions about where I might place in the competition.
Due to the large crowds, Sheriff Metzger had canceled all days off and ordered his deputies to be on duty throughout the festival, augmented by a contingent of state police. He’d placed posters at strategic points throughout the town warning of the threat of pickpocketing and had told me on Friday that other festivals around the state had seen a sharp increase in the number of such incidents. Hopefully, it wouldn’t happen to us. I heeded his warning and carried a small purse with a secure clasp and a long strap that I looped over one shoulder, allowing the bag to nestle on my opposite hip.
I ran into Mort as I exited the theater production.
“All going well?” I asked.
“So far. Everybody seems to be having fun and behaving themselves.”
“Has Joe Cogan made his bail?” I asked. He’d been arraigned on a variety of charges, and Judge Mackin had set a high bail.
“Nope. That public defender assigned to him is screaming bloody murder over how high it is, but the judge is holding firm. I suppose you’d like to know that he was questioned about any connection to Dick Mauser, and he claims that Mauser had nothing to do with it. How’s Cogan’s wife?”
Edwina had told me th
at after a night in the shelter, and knowing that Joe was in jail, Carol Cogan had returned home and packed up her things. “She’s been relocated out of town,” I said. “She asked the shelter not to send her back to her hometown in Chester, for fear that’s where Cogan will look for her first. I don’t know where she is or what the future holds in store for her, but I think getting herself away from an abusive husband is a positive first step.”
A local restaurant had set up a food stand and was selling a Maine staple, “lobstah rolls.” Summer is when lobsters molt, shedding their shells. Cabot Covers know that “shedders,” or soft-shell lobsters, are sweeter than hard-shelled ones and no nutcracker is needed, but the trade-off is there’s less meat compared to the larger, hard-shelled lobsters. With my stomach rumbling in anticipation, I headed in the direction of the food stand and came upon Seth Hazlitt and Tim Purdy, who shared a bench, each enjoying a roll overflowing with lobster meat.
“Looks wonderful,” I said.
“Ayuh, very tasty, Jessica,” said Seth. “Everybody seems to make lobster rolls differently. This one is especially good, just the right amount of mayo.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Please do,” Tim said, scooting over to make room.
Seth stood and handed me the paper plate on which his half-eaten roll rested. “Save our seats,” he said. “I’ll buy you one.”
“No need to do that, Seth.”
“Be my pleasure.”
Seth joined a long line of others waiting to be served. It seemed that all of a sudden people had collectively suffered a yen for a lobster roll and had descended in droves on the stand. I felt guilty for making Seth wait so long to buy me lunch, but my attention was soon diverted to another line, where local Girl Scouts were selling their cookies, and where Cy O’Connor’s right-hand lady, Sharon Bacon, stood in line.
I looked to see how Seth was progressing. He was now behind two other people waiting to place their orders, and a knot of people had formed behind him. I had to smile. Seth Hazlitt is one of the sweetest men I know. He can be crusty, even rude, at times, but he always means well. It would be a sad day in Cabot Cove when this self-proclaimed “chicken-soup doctor” decided to retire.
“Be back in a jiff,” I told Tim as I set Seth’s plate on the bench and fell in behind Sharon at the Girl Scout stand.
“Perfect day for the festival,” I said.
“Sometimes you get lucky,” she said.
“What’s new in the office?” I asked.
Her raised eyebrows said much. She looked to her left and pointed to where O’Connor and Richard Mauser were having a conversation with a strikingly attractive young redheaded woman dressed in a skintight pants suit.
“Mr. O’Connor’s latest hottie,” she said.
I laughed. “Is she from here?” I asked.
“New York. He’s been spending more time there than in Cabot Cove. She’s a model, or so he says.”
“She certainly is beautiful. Is he still representing Dick Mauser?”
“Sure. I never would have figured that they’d get along, but I suppose money talks, as they say.”
“You and your new assistant must be busy getting ready for the trial.”
It was her turn to laugh. “Judging from the time the boss has spent in the office, you’d never know that a murder trial was about to take place. Oh, don’t get me started, Jessica. Maybe I’m just old and out of touch with the way things are done these days.”
“Age has nothing to do with it,” I said. “Doing the right thing doesn’t change no matter how old we get.”
Our conversation ended as we reached the stand and bought our cookies.
“Enjoy the rest of your day,” she said, “and, hey, good luck in the blueberry pie contest.”
Sharon walked away and I felt a pang of sadness for her. She’d devoted herself to the O’Connor law firm and obviously knew that things were changing. I had thought she’d accommodated herself to the new circumstances, but apparently she felt she no longer fit in. Mauser had disappeared, but O’Connor and his model friend strolled by.
“Hello, Cy,” I called out.
“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher.” He introduced me to his date, Brigitte. “Taking in the fun?”
“Yes,” I said. “I suppose you’re up to your ears preparing for the trial.”
“Actually,” he said, “things are pretty much under control. I’m looking forward to it.”
Brigitte looked bored. “C’mon, Cy. I want to see the rock band.”
“Have to be going,” he said. “See you in court.”
A strange way to end the conversation, I thought.
By the time I got back to the bench, Tim was finished with his lobster roll and Seth had reached the young man at the stand and was placing his order. I was eager for him to return. I was famished.
As I chatted with Tim about how his revised history of Cabot Cove was coming, a disruption suddenly ensued at the lobster-roll stand. I strained to see what had caused it and to see whether Seth was involved. He was.
I jumped up to see what had now become a full-fledged scuffle between a shabbily dressed middle-aged man and Seth.
“Give it to me,” Seth yelled.
“What happened?” someone asked as Seth grabbed the man by the shirt.
“Let me go,” the man said.
“You took my wallet,” Seth bellowed.
The man swung at Seth but missed. Seth now had the man in the grip of both hands. He yanked him to the side and the man fell to his knees. Seth released his hold. The man scrambled away, got up, and pushed his way through the crowd in my direction.
“Stop him!” Seth yelled. “He’s got my wallet.”
The man came directly at me. He was wide-eyed, his face contorted as he tried to make his escape. I stepped back to avoid having him run into me. As I did, and as he passed, I stuck out my foot. He tripped over it and went sprawling to the ground, the wallet he clutched flying from his hand and skidding across the pavement. Two men in the crowd that had gathered pounced on him while I retrieved Seth’s wallet.
I looked back to where the altercation had occurred. Seth was leaning back on a chair someone had thoughtfully provided, a group of people circling him. I ran there. His face was beet red and streaked with perspiration. I saw that he was breathing heavily, and I was afraid he was having a heart attack. I knelt at his side. “Seth,” I said. “Are you all right?”
He tried to respond, but his breathing swallowed his words.
I touched his cheek, looked up, and said to those surrounding us, “Somebody, please call nine-one-one. Get an ambulance.”
Seth managed to collect himself. He waved an arm in the air. “No, no ambulances,” he said. “I’ll be fine, just shaken up, that’s all.”
“No,” I said, “I think that you should . . .”
Now he was pushing on the seat with both hands. “Help me up,” he said.
Seth Hazlitt is no lightweight, and it took another person in the crowd and great effort on both our parts to help get my friend to his feet. The tan slacks that he wore were a bit grubby now, and his flowered Hawaiian shirt was dark with sweat.
“He got my money, the filthy bugger,” he said.
“No, he didn’t,” I said, producing his wallet and handing it to him.
“How’d you get it?” he asked.
“I tripped him.”
I looked back to where I’d upended the pickpocket. A uniformed deputy from Mort’s office had handcuffed the man and propped him against a tree, and the sheriff, who’d been enjoying a sausage sandwich at a nearby kiosk, walked over to join us.
“That hooligan gaffled my wallet,” Seth told Mort, his breathing now back to near normal.
“He did what?” Mort asked.
“Gaffled my wallet,” Seth said, not trying to disguise his annoyance. “You never will learn to speak like the rest of us do, will you, Sheriff? Gaffled. Stole my wallet. Ripped me off. Picked my pocket.”
“So
rry about that, Doc, but cool your jets. We’ve got the perp in custody, and you’ve got your cash and cards back. But you’ll have to come down to headquarters to file a complaint against him.”
“Which I will happily do. But first I’m going to buy this lady a lobster roll and get another one for myself. I deserve an extra treat after this kerfuffle. Then once I’ve gone home, showered, and changed out of my untidy outfit, I’ll present myself at your office.”
“Fair enough,” Mort said. “No rush.”
I watched them escort the pickpocket away, and while I was happy that he’d been caught and that Seth’s wallet had been returned, I felt a twinge of pity for the thief. He looked like a man who’d fallen on hard times, his eyes vacant, his posture one of abject defeat. That didn’t excuse his behavior, of course, and he’d undoubtedly broken the law many times before. Hopefully being apprehended and facing jail time would change his perspective and prompt him to go on to live an honest, productive life.
Seth returned from home wearing fresh clothing and rejoined a group of us at the pie-baking contest, which had attracted a standing-room crowd. The four judges included the owners of Peppino’s, a cookbook writer who’d been imported from a nearby town, and Charlene Sassi of Sassi’s Bakery. The pies were lined up on a long table with only numbers in front of them; the bakers would remain anonymous until the winners were announced. I frankly never have understood how judges in a pie-tasting contest could manage to consume so much, but they all dug in with enthusiasm. Meanwhile, those of us in the crowd who had an entry in the contest tried to ascertain the judges’ reactions based upon facial expression.
“I’m so excited I can hardly stand it,” Maureen Metzger said.
“Easy does it, hon,” Mort, who’d joined us, said.
“Easy for you to say,” Maureen said. “You haven’t spent half your life getting ready for the bake-off.”
Mort glanced at me but said nothing. I knew what he was thinking: that he’d be glad when it was over.
After the judges had tasted all the pies, they conferred for fifteen minutes before handing the results to Mayor Shevlin to read off the winners.
Murder, She Wrote: Domestic Malice Page 18
