Murder, She Wrote: Domestic Malice

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Well, you are wrong, Mrs. Fletcher, very wrong!”

  Edwina started to say something, but we were joined by Cy O’Connor. “Problem?” he asked.

  “Please instruct Mrs. Fletcher and her friend that the children are off-limits. They are not to be approached by them and—”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Fletcher meant no harm,” said O’Connor.

  “I will be the judge of that,” Mrs. Caldwell said. With that she grabbed both kids by their arms and whisked them away.

  “She’s uptight,” O’Connor said. “I’m sure you can understand that.”

  “She’s certainly protective,” I said, “but she is also is a remarkably rude woman.”

  As Edwina and I headed out for lunch, she asked me what my questioning of the young Wolcott boy was all about. I deflected her query by changing the subject, to which she didn’t object.

  The second expert witness testified until almost four o’clock, taking up the rest of that’s day’s court time and pushing off our testimony until the following day—hopefully. Edwina and I left the courtroom with friends who’d attended the trial. We’d reached the sidewalk when I saw Harry McGraw climb out of his car and head in our direction.

  “Harry,” I said. “You did come.”

  “Yeah, sure. Nothing jumping in Beantown. Besides, my bookie is getting antsy with me. I made a couple of bad bets lately. Just need a little time to recoup.”

  Among Harry McGraw’s myriad human weaknesses is a fondness for betting on horses—or anything else, for that matter.

  As we chatted, Myriam Wolcott emerged from the courthouse accompanied by her mother, brother, and two children.

  “There’s the old battle-ax, huh?” McGraw said.

  Mrs. Caldwell aimed furious eyes in my direction, causing my blood pressure to rise.

  A contingent of press had set up just outside the courthouse, including Evelyn Phillips and her new hire, James Teller, as well as reporters from neighboring towns. A TV remote unit from Bangor had arrived in Cabot Cove the night before and had parked its mobile van, with its satellite antenna jutting from the roof, next to the print media’s camp. They tried to corral Myriam and her family for a comment but were rebuffed. Myriam’s brother, Robert, rushed them into a waiting car. But a moment later Richard Mauser exited the building and walked directly to the press. I sidled closer to hear what he had to say.

  “Mr. Mauser,” a reporter called out, “as a member of the town council you’ve blamed the Cabot Cove women’s shelter for Josh Wolcott’s murder. Do you still stand by that?”

  “You bet I do,” the councilman replied. “That shelter and its people fed ideas that were poison to the defendant, Mrs. Wolcott—filled her with the justification for killing her husband. You heard what the expert witnesses said inside. She could have just walked away from him if she was so unhappy, gotten a divorce. The poor guy was getting into his car when she gunned him down. You call that ‘imminent danger’?” He guffawed. “If you do, I’ve got a bridge to sell you.”

  With that he went to his Cadillac, which was parked in a spot reserved for town council members, and drove away.

  Evelyn spotted me and ran to where we stood. “What’s your reaction to what transpired in the courtroom today, Jessica?”

  “I don’t have any comment,” I said.

  “I do,” said Edwina. “Richard Mauser is trying the defendant before the trial is even over. He puts himself forward as judge and jury all by himself. Grrrrr.”

  Evelyn made notes in the pad she carried and turned to me once more.

  “I trust in the judicial system,” I said. “Let the jury decide.”

  “The word around town, Jessica, is that you don’t think Mrs. Wolcott shot her husband. What do you base that on?”

  “I prefer not to respond to rumors, Evelyn.” I cocked my head at McGraw. “Come on, Harry. Time to go.”

  “Wait a minute, Jessica,” Cy O’Connor called to me as he hurried down the courthouse steps. He was breathing hard. “Sorry you and Edwina have had to hang around so long.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. I didn’t add that I was content merely to attend the trial. I felt a kinship with Myriam Wolcott and wanted to be there to support her, as unstated as that support might have been.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait even longer to testify,” Cy said. “Judge Mackin has canceled tomorrow’s proceedings.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Something to do with new evidence being introduced by the prosecution.” He glanced at his watch. “Ms. Cirilli and I are due back inside in a half hour to meet with him in chambers.”

  “What is the new evidence?” I asked.

  “I don’t know yet, but I thought you’d want to know about the change in plans. Enjoy your day off.”

  Evelyn Phillips tried to corner O’Connor as he returned to the courthouse, but he walked briskly past her and disappeared inside.

  “What could this new evidence be?” Edwina asked.

  I shrugged. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,” I said.

  “I’ll be grateful for the extra time,” Edwina said. “Sitting on those benches all day is hard on my back. Would you like a lift home?”

  “Thanks, Edwina, but I need to spend a little time with Harry. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

  “Where to?” Harry asked as we walked to his car. “Wherever it is, I hope it won’t take long. My stomach is rumbling.”

  “There’s something I’d like to do.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Cy says there’s new evidence. If so, Sheriff Metzger will be aware of it. I’d love to know what it is.”

  “And you want me to find out.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Nah, I wouldn’t mind, but I think you should be with me if I drop in to see him.”

  Police headquarters was only a few blocks away, and we walked there.

  “Is the sheriff in?” I asked the deputy on desk duty.

  “Yes, he is, Mrs. Fletcher, but I don’t think—”

  “Would you be good enough tell him that I’m here and that Harry McGraw is with me?”

  “Okay, but he’s up to his neck today.”

  The deputy disappeared through a door leading back to Mort’s office. To my surprise, he returned with the sheriff.

  “Hello, Mrs. F.,” he said. “McGraw. To what do I owe this honor?”

  McGraw looked at me. When I didn’t say anything, he jumped in. “Mrs. Fletcher was told this afternoon that court is canceled tomorrow because of new evidence.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “The lawyer, O’Connor,” Harry said.

  “Figures. Let me guess. You want to know what the new evidence is.”

  “Just curious,” I said.

  “You’re the most curious person I’ve ever known, Mrs. F. But you know what? I’m going to tell you because you’ll end up reading about it in the paper tomorrow morning anyway.”

  My expression mirrored my surprise.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Somebody in the state police blabbed about it to some media type, and Mrs. Phillips at the Gazette was told about it. I just got off the phone with her.”

  McGraw and I waited for him to continue.

  Mort shook his head and smiled. “Can’t believe it myself, but we think we’ve found the murder weapon in the Wolcott case.”

  “You think?”

  “Good chance that it is.”

  “Well, that is big news,” I said. “Where was it?”

  “Might as well tell you that, too,” he said. “Some fisherman fifty or so miles west of here caught the weapon on his hook instead of a bass and turned it over to the state boys.”

  “What kind of weapon was it?” McGraw asked.

  “Oh, you’re curious, too,” Mort said. “Must be catching from hanging around with Mrs. F. It’ll be in the paper, too. Deer rifle. Satisfied? I have to get home. Maureen’s having guests for dinner.”

  �
��I wouldn’t want to keep you,” I said. “Oh, one more thing, Mort. You said this fisherman was fishing fifty miles west of here. Any chance it was near Gorbyville?”

  “Good guess, Mrs. F. It was right outside it. Good fishing there, I’m told. Well, nice seeing you again, McGraw. Have a good night, Mrs. F.”

  Harry and I didn’t have anything to say to each other during the walk back to his car. Once we were on our way to my house, he said, “Goryville, Maine. That’s where the defendant’s brother lives.”

  “It’s Gorbyville, Harry, and yes, it’s where we visited Myriam Wolcott’s brother, Robert, and his wife, Stephanie.”

  “I figure I’m thinking the same thing you are,” McGraw said.

  “I’d be shocked if you weren’t, Harry,” I said. “Let’s take care of those hunger pangs. I’ll make you a home-cooked dinner—food for thought.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  When we arrived at my house, there was a message on my answering machine from a court clerk advising me that although court proceedings had been canceled for the following day, I was to be reachable at all times in the event the judge decided to reconvene. I was glad that I’d given my cell phone number. It meant I could leave the house and still be available to take a call.

  McGraw and I debated what to do with our suspicion that the weapon used to kill Josh Wolcott might have been removed from the murder scene by Myriam’s brother, Robert. We had no proof of that, of course, but it made sense. The question was how to bring our theory to the court’s attention. And would it contribute to or refute my thesis that Myriam hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger? I didn’t see any direct connection, but it was an avenue to be explored.

  We decided that we would get together in the morning and make a visit to Cy O’Connor’s office, who was the obvious person to hear our conclusion.

  Sharon Bacon was at her desk when we arrived.

  She tilted her head in the direction of his office. “Mrs. Caldwell is with him.”

  “Do you think he’d find time for us after she’s gone?” I asked.

  Sharon’s shrug was her response. “You’ve heard, I assume?”

  “Oh, dear. What now?”

  “They’ve found the murder weapon. It was in the paper this morning.”

  “Yes, I’d heard that, but my paper hadn’t been delivered before I left.”

  She handed me that morning’s Gazette, the front page of which heralded the discovery.

  “I understand that no one is certain if it is the murder weapon,” I said. “Has Forensics made that determination?”

  She glanced at O’Connor’s closed office door before saying, “It was unregistered, or so I’m told. But that’s not unusual with hunting rifles.”

  “I’d been led to understand that Josh Wolcott registered most of his weapons, including rifles.”

  “Maine laws don’t require it,” Sharon said. “He elected to do it.”

  “But he didn’t elect to do it for all his weapons?”

  Sharon shrugged.

  “Fingerprints?” McGraw asked.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “Cy told me that Forensics worked all night examining the weapon. They faxed him their preliminary report first thing this morning. He grabbed the pages from the machine before I had a chance to read them.”

  “Did he say anything about where the weapon was found?” I asked.

  She looked at me quizzically.

  “I just thought that Cy might find it interesting, that’s all. Sheriff Metzger said it was found by a fisherman near Gorbyville.”

  “That’s what it says in the paper,” Sharon said. “They quoted the fisherman.”

  “Myriam Wolcott’s brother lives in Gorbyville,” I said, “and he was at her house the night of the shooting. She called him before she dialed nine-one-one.”

  “I know,” Sharon said, sighing. “The prosecution is making a big deal out of that.”

  The door to O’Connor’s office opened, and he emerged with Mrs. Caldwell. Their expressions mirrored their surprise at seeing us.

  “I was hoping to steal a few minutes of your time,” I said to O’Connor.

  Mrs. Caldwell shot a stern look at O’Conner, clearly questioning why he would even consider the request. She walked brusquely past us, leaving O’Connor with a sheepish grin.

  “Just a few minutes,” I said.

  Reluctantly, he ushered us in. “I don’t have time to waste,” he said. “What do you want?”

  “The weapon that was found,” I said.

  “What about it?”

  “We understand it was found up near some hick town called Gorbyville,” McGraw said.

  He’d gotten it right this time.

  O’Connor’s face was a blank.

  “Where Myriam Wolcott’s brother lives,” I said.

  “I know that,” O’Connor said.

  “Doesn’t that strike you as a strange coincidence?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” he said. “I’ve already talked to Robert Caldwell. He knows nothing about it.”

  “According to him,” McGraw said.

  “Yes, McGraw, according to him. Besides, it’s irrelevant. Nobody even knows yet whether it is the weapon used to kill Josh Wolcott. Some fisherman drags it up and everybody jumps to conclusions, starting with the media.”

  “Was it the same caliber weapon that was used to shoot Josh?” I asked.

  “Yes, which means nothing. There are plenty of those deer rifles, hundreds, maybe thousands in Maine. We’re having a hearing this morning with Judge Mackin concerning the weapon.” O’Connor’s temper had surfaced. “Case closed,” he said. “Is there anything else I can do for you? If not, please excuse me. I’ve got a busy day ahead.”

  We accepted our dismissal and retreated to the waiting room.

  “That was quick,” Sharon said.

  “Too quick,” I murmured as Harry and I said good-bye and headed for his car.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” he said. “They find this rifle in some body of water and right away claim it’s the murder weapon. But the gun wasn’t registered to anybody, so why jump to that conclusion? There’s gotta be something else.”

  “Sharon didn’t know whether they found fingerprints on the weapon. Maybe they did.”

  “That’d be my bet,” said Harry.

  Based upon his history as a betting man, I didn’t take his faith as encouraging, but I withheld my editorial comment. Of far greater concern was whose fingerprint might have been found on the rifle, if any. If Myriam’s print was there, it didn’t bode well for her. But maybe the print, if there was one, belonged to someone else who could be identified.

  Like someone who’d been fleeced by Josh Wolcott.

  Harry dropped me home and said he was going to drive back to Gorbyville to ask around about Robert Caldwell, see whether he fished in the same waters where the weapon had been found, maybe even find a local citizen who possibly heard Caldwell make some revelatory comments about his brother-in-law’s murder. It was a long shot, of course, and I declined the invitation to accompany him. But I was pleased that McGraw, as cynical and nonconforming as he is, wanted to forge ahead on my behalf to discover the truth, no pay involved. I was glad to have him on my side.

  I tried to use what was left of the day editing chapters from my latest book, but waiting for my cell phone to ring distracted me. It was like having set an alarm for early in the morning and staying awake all night waiting for it to go off. The call from the clerk at the court came at four that afternoon. The trial would resume the following morning at nine, and all witnesses were expected to be there—and on time.

  McGraw called me at eight that evening to report that he’d found someone in Gorbyville, a fisherman, who said that Robert Caldwell often fished in the same water in which the weapon had been found. “The guy told me he wished he’d found the rifle because he would have demanded a reward,” Harry told me, laughing. “Nice old guy. He says Caldwell is a lousy fisherman, stand
s where the fish are.” Another laugh. “He talked funny like all you people do up here in Maine.”

  The next morning, word had gotten around that a rifle had been found that might be the murder weapon. Evelyn’s front-page story the previous day, and a follow-up story in that morning’s edition, ensured that the courtroom would be packed. A line had formed outside by the time Edwina and I arrived.

  We avoided the press and were escorted into the courtroom by a sheriff’s deputy, who directed us to seats reserved for witnesses and others with an official reason for being there. I took note that Myriam’s brother, Robert, was not with the family that morning. Mrs. Caldwell sat staunchly between Mark and Ruth Wolcott behind the defense table, where Cy and Sharon Bacon waited for the trial to resume. Richard Mauser was ushered in just before the bailiff called, “All rise!” Judge Mackin entered the room, took his chair behind the bench, and invited us to take our seats. As I waited for Myriam to be brought in, I wondered what had transpired between the attorneys and the judge yesterday. So much of what happens at a trial takes place backstage; decisions made in the judge’s chambers can, and often do, have a dramatic impact on the outcome.

  Myriam made her appearance at a few minutes past nine. She looked less composed and put together than when I’d last seen her in court. She glanced around nervously, smiled at her children and mother, caught my eye, and held the gaze until returning her attention to O’Connor and Sharon.

  The judge apologized for abruptly canceling yesterday’s session, saying that an urgent matter had been brought before him that had to be resolved. He asked Ms. Cirilli whether she was ready to proceed.

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Fine. Call your first witness.”

  “The People call Dr. Melvin Weeks of the Maine Central Forensics Laboratory.”

  O’Connor got to his feet. “Your Honor,” he said, “I renew my objection of yesterday, and I’ve prepared a written objection for the record.”

  “Objection noted,” Mackin said. “Call your witness, Ms. Cirilli.”

  Dr. Weeks was a kindly, soft-spoken older man who detailed his background, his experience, his professional affiliations, and the peer-reviewed articles that he’d written. When he and the prosecutor had gone through that pro forma exercise, the DA asked whether Dr. Weeks had examined the weapon found near Gorbyville, Maine.