Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Teaser chapter
“YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO BE DOING THIS,” MARY SAID.
“I’m not doing anything, Mary, except trying to get some answers. Which, I might add, could help your husband. I don’t believe he murdered Rory Brent.”
“You don’t?” Mary said. “What makes you such an expert? You write books, that’s all. The evidence is against him, as sad as that might be. Please leave.”
“Fair enough.”
As I reached for the doorknob, I was startled by the sound of heavy footsteps on the porch outside. My hand froze in mid-motion. There was no need for me to open the door because Jake Walther did. He pushed it open with such force that it almost knocked me over. He stepped inside and slammed the door behind him.
He had a crazed look in his eyes.
The smell of alcohol on his breath was overwhelming.
And the sight of the shotgun he carried was sobering.
SIGNET
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First Printing, October 1998
Copyright © 1998 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All Rights Reserved.
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For Zachary, Alexander, and Jacob,
through whose innocent eyes the mystery,
majesty, and promise of the
Christmas spirit lives.
And for Roy Kramer, lawyer and accountant,
who defines what friendship means,
and Billie Kramer, his partner in decency.
Chapter One
“The meeting will come to order!”
We’d gathered in the Cabot Cove Memorial Hall, built after World War II to honor those from our town who’d given their lives, literally and figuratively, defending the country. It soon became a popular place for meetings and social events, especially when large numbers of people were involved. This meeting to plan the upcoming annual Christmas festival certainly qualified. The hall was packed with citizens, most of whom came simply to listen—or to get out of the house during that dreary first week of December—and for some, to offer their ideas on how this year’s festival should be conducted.
Cabot Cove’s Christmas festival had started small a couple of dozen years ago, consisting back then of townspeople getting together on Christmas Eve and going from house to house to enjoy cider and cookies, singing carols all the way. But as the years passed, the festival became more ambitious. Today it evolves over an entire week, and has become one of Maine’s leading tourist attractions. People come from all over to participate in what’s been billed as “America’s most traditional Christmas celebration.” Hotels, inns, and bed-and-breakfasts for miles around are booked as much as a year ahead. Some claimed it had gotten out of hand, becoming too commercialized. Others reveled in the town’s national reputation as an oasis in a commercial Christmas world, where tradition reigns. No matter what the view, the festival had taken on a life of its own, and most Cabot Cove citizens got caught up in the excitement and were enthusiastic participants.
I was delighted to be there, not only because I enjoyed participating in the planning, but because for the first time in a few years I would actually be home during the holiday season. I’d found myself traveling on previous holidays, usually to promote my newest murder mystery, or sometimes simply because invitations extended me were too appealing to pass up. But even though I’d spent previous Christmases in some wonderful, even exotic locations, I always felt a certain ache and emptiness at being away from my dear friends, and from the town I loved and called home.
The meeting was being chaired by our mayor, Jim Shevlin. Seated with him at a long table on a raised platform were representatives from the public library, the Chamber of Commerce, the town historic society (sometimes snidely known as the “town hysterical society”), local political clubs, the fire and police departments, the volunteer ambulance corps, and local hospital, schools, and, of course, the standing decorating committee, which each year turned our lovely small village into a festival of holiday lights.
Shevlin again called for order. People eventually took seats and ended their conversations.
“It’s gratifying to see so many of you here this morning,” Shevlin said, an engaging smile breaking across his handsome Irish face. “This promises to be the biggest and best holiday festival ever.”
People applauded, including me and Dr. Seth Hazlitt, my good friend with whom I sat in
the front row. He leaned close to my ear and said, “Jimmy always says it’s going to be the biggest and the best.”
I raised my eyebrows, looked at him, and said, “And it usually is.”
“Hard for you to say, Jessica, considerin’ you haven’t been here in a spell to make comparisons.”
“But from what I hear, each year tops the previous one. Besides, I’ll be here this year.”
“And a good thing you will,” Seth said. “This is where Jessica Fletcher ought to be spendin’ her Christmases.”
I was used to mild admonishment from Seth, knowing he always meant well, even though his tone could be taken at times as being harsh and scolding. I returned my attention to the dais, where Shevlin introduced the chairwoman of the decorating committee. She went through a long list of things the committee planned to do this year, including renting for the first time a large searchlight to project red and green lights into the sky above the town. This resulted in a heated debate about whether a searchlight was too commercial and tacky for Cabot Cove. Eventually, Mayor Shevlin suggested the searchlight idea be put on hold until further discussions could be held.
As such meetings tend to do, this one dragged on beyond a reasonable length. It seemed everyone wanted to have a say, and did. During the presentation of how the schoolchildren would participate I noticed someone missing at the dais. I turned to Seth. “Where’s Rory?” I asked.
Seth leaned forward and scanned faces at the long head table. “You’re right, Jessica,” he said. “Rory hasn’t missed a holiday planning meeting for as long as I can remember.”
Rory Brent was a prosperous local farmer who’d played Santa Claus at our holiday festival for the past fifteen years. He was born to the role. Brent was a big, outgoing man with a ready, infectious laugh. He easily weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, and had a full head of flowing white hair and a bushy white beard to match. No makeup needed. He was Santa Claus. His custom was to attend the planning meeting fully dressed in his Santa costume, which he proudly dragged out of mothballs each year, stitched up gaps in the seams, had cleaned and pressed, and wore to the meeting.
“Is he ill?” I asked.
“Saw him yesterday,” Seth said. “Down to Charlene’s Bakery. Looked healthy enough to me.”
“He must have been detained. Maybe some emergency at the farm.”
“Ayuh,” Seth muttered.
A few minutes later, when Jim Shevlin invited further comments from the audience, Seth stood and asked why Rory Brent wasn’t there.
“I had Margaret try to call him at the farm,” Shevlin said. Margaret was deputy mayor of Cabot Cove. He looked to where she sat to his right.
She reported into her microphone, “I called a few times but there’s no answer.”
“Maybe somebody ought to take a ride out to the farm,” Seth suggested from the floor.
“Good idea,” said Shevlin. “Any volunteers?”
Tim Purdy, a member of the Chamber of Commerce, whose business was managing farms around the United States from his office in Cabot Cove, said he’d check on Rory, and left the hall.
“You can always count on Tim,” said Seth, sitting.
The meeting lasted another half hour. Although there was disagreement on a number of issues, it warmed my heart to see how the citizens of the town could come together and negotiate their differences.
Coffee, tea, juice, and donuts were served at the rear of the hall, and I enjoyed apple juice and a cinnamon donut with friends, many of whom expressed pleasure that I would be in town for the festivities.
“I was wondering whether you would do a Christmas reading for the kids this year, Jessica,” Cynthia Curtis, director of our library and a member of the town board, said.
“I’d love to,” I replied. “Some traditional Christmas stories? Fables?”
“Whatever you choose to do,” she said.
But then I thought of Seth, who was chatting in a far comer with our sheriff and another good friend, Morton Metzger.
“Seth usually does the reading, doesn’t he?” I said.
“Oh, I don’t think he’d mind deferring to you this year, Jess. It would be a special treat for the kids to have a famous published author read Christmas stories to them.”
I suppose my face expressed concern about usurping Seth.
“Why don’t you do the reading together?” Cynthia suggested. “That would be a different approach.”
I liked that idea, and said so. “I’ll discuss it with Seth as soon as we leave.”
Seth and Mort approached.
“Feel like an early lunch?” Seth asked.
“Sure. Nice presentation, Mort,” I said, referring to the report he’d given about how the police department would maintain order during the festival.
“Been doing it long enough,” he said. “Ought to know what’s needed. ’Course, never have to worry about anybody gettin’ too much out of hand. Folks really pick up on the Christmas spirit around here, love thy neighbor, that sort of thing.”
We decided to have lunch at Mara’s Luncheonette, down by the water and a favorite local hang-out. The weather was cold and nasty; snow was forecast.
“I hope Mara made up some of her clam chowder,” I said as the three of us prepared to leave. “Chowder and fresh baked bread is appealing.”
We reached the door and were in the process of putting on our coats when Tim Purdy entered. I knew immediately from his expression that something was wrong. He came directly to Sheriff Metzger and said something to him we couldn’t hear. Mort’s face turned serious, too.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“There’s been an accident out at Rory’s place,” Purdy said.
“An accident? To Rory?” Seth asked.
“Afraid so,” said Purdy. “Rory is dead!”
“Rory is dead?” Seth and I said in unison.
Purdy nodded, grimly.
“Means Santa’s dead, too,” Seth said.
He was right. My eyes filled as I said, “I’m suddenly not hungry.”
Chapter Two
Although the sad news of Rory Brent’s death had taken away any appetite I might have had minutes earlier, I succumbed to Seth’s insistence that I go with him to Mara’s, if only to keep him company. Sheriff Metzger had immediately left for Brent’s farm to investigate the situation.
By the time we got to Mara’s—only ten minutes or so after learning the news from Tim Purdy—the report of Brent’s death had reached every corner of Cabot Cove.
“What terrible news,” Mara said as we entered her small, popular waterfront eatery. “Can’t hardly believe it.”
“We’re all in shock,” I replied as she led Seth and me to a window table.
“Any word on how he died?” Mara asked.
“Not so far as I know,” said Seth, adding, “Rory was a big man, carried too much weight. Hauling around that kind of tonnage puts a strain on the heart. I told him every time he came in for a checkup to drop a few pounds, but he’d just laugh and say he liked having more of him for folks to love.”
I couldn’t help but smile at that reference to Rory Brent. He was perpetually jovial; people like him warm the hearts of others. He’d be missed, not only because our familiar Santa Claus wouldn’t be here this Christmas, but because we wouldn’t be the recipients of his sunny disposition the rest of the year.
Seth and I sat in silence after Mara left us to greet new customers. We looked out the window onto the town dock and beyond, where a heavy, wet, cold fog had settled in over the water, obscuring all but the nearest boats. I thought of Rory’s wife, Patricia, as shy and reticent a person as her husband was gregarious.
Patricia Brent stayed pretty much to herself on the farm, running the household and addressing every one of her husband’s needs. A dutiful wife was the way to describe her, although I was sure she had many other dimensions than that. They had a son, Robert. Thinking of him made me wince.
Robert Brent, who’d just turned eighte
en, did not share his father’s positive reputation around town. A brooding young man, he’d had more than one run-in with Sheriff Mort Metzger, usually after a night of drinking with his buddies. Although he lived on the farm with his mother and father, people who knew them better than I did said he seldom lifted a finger to help out, preferring instead to sit in his room, reading magazines about guns and hot automobiles and the military. I don’t think I’d ever had a conversation with the younger Brent, my direct contact with him consisting only of an occasional greeting from me on the street, which was usually not returned.
He was different from his father in another way, too. Robert Brent was as thin as his father was corpulent. To further set him apart—perhaps a continuation of his teenage rebellious years—he had shaved his head, making the contrast with his father’s flowing white hair that much more dramatic. But although I was not particularly fond of Robert Brent, my heart went out to him at that moment, as well as to his mother, Patricia. As traumatic as Rory’s death was for the community, it was surely devastating to them.
Seth ordered his usual, a fried clam sandwich and small green salad. Mara had made clam chowder that day, and I ordered a bowl, nothing else.
“I assume it was a heart attack,” I said idly, tasting the chowder which was, no surprise, superb.
“Perhaps,” Seth said. “Or stroke. I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”
“Will there be an autopsy?” I asked.
“I suspect so. Doc Treyz will probably be asked to do one, considerin’ the sudden nature of Rory’s death. Standard procedure in cases like this.”
I looked up at him and said, “I didn’t realize that. I thought it was standard procedure only when the cause of death was suspicious.”
“Ayuh,” Seth said, taking another bite of his sandwich, which he’d slathered with Mara’s homemade tartar sauce. “We’ll just have to see what Mort comes up with, whether he labels it suspicious. Eat your chowder, Jessica, ’fore it gets cold as outdoors.”
A Little Yuletide Murder Page 1
