“What caused you to change your story?” I asked.
“I dunno. I guess I just didn’t like having to lie to the sheriff. Made me nervous. I get nervous a lot.”
I understood, but didn’t see the need to reinforce his sudden pang of conscience.
I turned to Mary. “Why are you telling me? Have you told anyone else?”
“No.”
“Will you? Will you go to the sheriff and tell him this?”
“I don’t want to, that’s for certain.”
“If you don’t want the sheriff to know, why not just keep it entirely to yourself?”
Her broad face became a mass of wrinkles as she pondered the answer. Finally, she said, “Because like I said before, Jessica, I’m a God-fearing woman. I feel like I did when this thing first happened, when I had to make a decision about what to tell people. I don’t know what to do, and that’s the plain and simple truth. You were the one I came to right away when Mr. Brent was killed, and when Jake was acting strange. I came to you because you seem to have a level head on your shoulders, and would help me do the right thing. I feel that way now, and that’s why I asked you to come here today. What should I do, Jessica?”
“I’m afraid I have only one answer, Mary, and that’s for you to go to Sheriff Metzger and tell him this. No one can make you do that, but it’s the right thing. It’s the only thing, especially for someone who, as you say, fears God.”
The truth was, I’d never been someone who believed in fearing any God. For me, God—whoever he or she might be—is a benevolent force somewhere out there, to be loved, never feared. But I understood that there are many people who were brought up to believe different, and this was not the time to get into a religious debate.
“Will you go with me to the sheriff?” Mary asked.
“No, Mary. This doesn’t directly concern me. I suggest you call him. If you want to do that while I’m here, that’s fine. But no, I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to go with you.”
“But you came over with that young lawyer to help me. You were at the house the night the sheriff took Jake away. It would mean a lot to me, Jessica, to have you at my side when I go in and admit my lie, admit that I did a terrible thing.”
I stood and placed my hands on her beefy arms, looked her in the eye, and said, “Mary, you haven’t done a terrible thing. You’ve been under tremendous stress, and I’m sure the sheriff will understand that.”
Her face became soft, almost childlike, and I wondered if she was about to cry.
“Yes, I’ll come with you to the sheriff.”
We didn’t bother eating lunch that day. Ten minutes after Mary had made her confession, we were outside and ready to climb into their battered pick-up truck. The press was still camped on the road.
Dennis got behind the wheel. I was about to get in the truck when I remembered that Mary had said on the phone she was worried about Jill, whom I’d forgotten about.
“Where is Jill?” I asked.
“Sleeping.”
“In your house?”
“Yes. Poor girl. She’s been crying her eyes out ever since this happened.”
I turned and looked at the small house. An upstairs curtain parted, revealing Jill Walther. Although I was a distance from the window, I could see the anguish etched into her pretty, young face. I raised my hand to wave, but she quickly closed the curtain and was gone from my sight.
“I’d like to see Jill again before she goes back to school,” I said.
“I don’t think that will be possible,” said Mary.
“Why?”
“I’ve convinced her to go back early—day after tomorrow.”
“She won’t be home for Christmas?”
“Better to be away from here until all this is settled,” Mary said.
“I ... well, that’s your decision ... and hers.”
As we slowly drove down the rutted access road, we had to pass the house in which Jake lived. He was on his small porch. I thought Dennis might stop, but we drove right past without acknowledgment. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw him clearly. He was leaning against the door and holding a rifle that dangled at his side. It was a chilling sight, one I would not soon forget.
Roberta Brannason and the other members of the press stood on the road. She waved; I didn’t return it. What I was thinking was that I hoped she, and her colleagues, wouldn’t be foolish enough to approach Jake. He looked like he meant business.
Chapter Nineteen
I accompanied Mary Walther and Dennis into police headquarters, where Sheriff Mort Metzger sat in his office, eating a slice of pizza. He glanced up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and came around the desk. “What brings you here?” he asked.
“Mary has something to tell you, Mort,” I answered.
“Oh?” Mort’s eyebrows went up. “And what might that be?”
“Maybe we ought to sit down,” I suggested.
“Sure, Mrs. F., sure thing.”
Since there were only two spare chairs in his office, he yelled out the door for someone to bring in a third.
Once seated, I looked at Mary, gave her a smile of encouragement, and said, “Go ahead, Mary. It’s the right thing to do.”
Mary told Mort that she’d been with Dennis the morning of Rory Brent’s murder.
“Doin’ what?” Mort asked.
“Tending to the chickens and trying to fix a wall of the chicken coop that was falling down,” she said.
Mort looked at Dennis. “That true, Dennis?”
Dennis nodded, hat clenched tightly in his hands, eyes focused on the floor.
“So, what you’re saying,” said Mort, “is that not only was your original story about being with Jake that morning a lie, you now have someone to corroborate your second story, that you weren’t with him.”
“Yes, sir,” Dennis mumbled.
“Okay,” said Mort. “But what about your claim, Dennis, that Jake threatened to hurt you if you didn’t come up with that first story about being with him? You still stand by that?”
Dennis glanced nervously at Mary before replying, “Yes, sir. He certainly did.”
Mort sat back in his chair, formed a tent with his hands beneath his chin and grunted. After a moment, he said, “I appreciate your coming in to tell me this. But I’ve got to tell you, Mary Walther, that lying to a law enforcement officer isn’t taken lightly around here.”
I said, “But she didn’t lie, Mort. She simply didn’t offer the information, and I don’t think you asked her whether she was with Dennis that morning.”
“Maybe lying is too strong a term,” Mort said. “But it certainly involves withholding information. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. F.?”
I didn’t answer. It seemed to me there was no longer a reason for me to be there. I said, “Mary confided this in me, and we agreed to come to you, Mort. She wanted to get it off her chest because it was weighing heavy. I admire her for that.”
I gave her another smile.
“Now that she has,” I said, “and unless you have anything else to ask her, I suggest we all get about our business.”
“No need for you to stay, Mrs. F.,” Mort said. He turned to Mary and Dennis. “But I’d like you two to hang around a few minutes more. I’ve got a couple of questions that need answering.”
A look of panic came over Mary’s face. I stood, went to where she sat, placed my hand on her shoulder, and said, “There’s nothing to worry about. All you have to do is tell the truth.”
Mort said, “You realize, don’t you, Mrs. Walther, that what you’ve told me this morning isn’t calculated to help your husband any.”
Mary agreed.
“I suppose you didn’t want to tell me this in order to protect him.”
“Yes, sir, that is the truth,” she said. “A woman has to stand by her man. That’s the way I was raised.”
“Admirable enough, but sometimes when the law is involved—especially murder—that rule doesn’t
always hold up.”
“I’ll be off,” I said, “I have things to do.”
“Want a ride back home?” Mort asked. “Tom can—”
“No, thank you, Mort. I have errands to run here in town. Besides, a walk will do me good. Good-bye, Mary. Good-bye, Dennis.”
Mary stood and thanked me for my support. Dennis didn’t move from his chair, although a slight twitch of his head indicated, I suppose, that he was responding to my words.
I walked at a leisurely pace from police headquarters to the center of town. My first stop was the Post Office, where I’d heard they were selling a special edition of Christmas stamps. I bought a hundred of them on self-stick sheets, spent a few minutes chatting with Debbie and Jim, two of our friendly, helpful postal clerks, left the building, and stood on the street. It was still overcast, and a breeze had picked up from the east. Although snow hadn’t been forecast, I could smell it in the air. You live in Maine long enough and your nose becomes extremely sensitive to the possibility of snow, no matter what the official forecast.
I went to the building housing Olde Tyme Floral, waved to Beth, and went up the stairs to Joe Turco’s office. He didn’t see me in the doorway because he was hunched over an office machine in the corner of the room. I cleared my throat. He stopped what he was doing, turned, and shook his head.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Trying to program phone numbers into this new fax machine I just got. Ordered it from a catalogue. Great machine, but it takes a Ph.D. in space science to program in the numbers. You’ve got to push one button after another, and by the time I remember to push the next one, the menu the previous button brought up is gone.”
I laughed. “How are you at programming VCRs?”
“Even worse than programming fax machines.”
“Well, don’t let me interrupt you.”
“I’m glad you did. What’s up?”
We sat, and I filled him in on what had happened that morning with Mary Walther and Dennis.
His response was to shake his head and say, “Not good for my client.”
“I suppose not, although the fact that Dennis can’t provide an alibi still doesn’t say Jake murdered anybody.”
“True, but it just keeps looking worse and worse for him. Maybe the lab techs will never get together on the shoe print. That’s the key piece of evidence. If they ever come to an agreement, Jake will find himself facing a jury.”
“Joe, I was wondering if you would do me a favor.”
“If I can.”
“I’m interested in what the town records indicate about the Walther farm.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Rory Brent’s son, Robert, claims that his father and Jake Walther had a real falling out. I remember distinctly his saying that they argued more than a month ago over ‘land and money.’ Yes, those are precisely the words he used. ‘Land and money.’ ”
“So?”
“So, I’ve been around long enough to have seen some pretty irrational behavior where land and money are involved. What I’m wondering is why such an argument would take place between Jake and Rory Brent. Rory’s farm isn’t adjacent to Jake’s property. What interest would Rory Brent have in the Walther farm?”
Turco chewed his cheek, shrugged, ran his index finger around the inside of his ear, and said, “I can’t imagine public records would shed any light on that, Jessica, but I’m willing to take a look. Easy to do.”
“I know it is, and I realize I could do it myself. But I just thought that any information contained in those records might have more meaning for an attorney.”
“Could be. I’ll hop over to Town Hall right now if you’d like.”
“No rush. You do have that new fax machine to program.”
“No, I don’t. I think I’ll give it up and just punch in numbers when I need to send a fax. Or, have a couple of stiff drinks later today before trying again. Where will you be for the rest of the day?”
“In town. I promised Seth Hazlitt I’d drop by his office after coming back from the Walther farm. I’ll do that, get in a little Christmas shopping, and then head home.”
“If I come up with anything, I’ll give you a call.”
I started to leave the office, but he stopped me. “You know what I’ve been wondering lately, Jessica?”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve been wondering where Rory Brent got his money.”
“Oh? That seems fairly obvious. He ran an efficient and profitable farm. At least that’s what I’ve always heard.”
“I’ve heard that, too. But I have some successful farmers as clients. While they do pretty well, none of them will ever get rich working the land.”
“I suppose not. It’s a tough way to make a living, as the saying goes. Maybe Rory had family money. Or Patricia.”
“Maybe. Just a thought. I’ll be in touch.”
Seth was with a patient when I arrived at his office, located in a wing of his stately Victorian home. His nurse, Pat Hitchcock, who worked part-time for him, greeted me warmly and said he wouldn’t be long.
“Any other patients due?” I asked.
“No. Slow day, Jess. Getting ready for Christmas?”
“Trying to. I thought I’d block out this afternoon for some shopping.”
“My shopping was done a month ago,” Pat said. “All my cards written, too.”
“I envy you. Every year I promise myself to get a running start on cards, have them in the mail no later than the middle of November. But as my father used to say, ‘The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.’ ”
“How true, how true,” she said. “Excuse me, Jess. I have to get some paperwork done before I leave.”
Seth’s patient, a young woman named Anne Harris, who’d recently moved to Cabot Cove, was introduced to me by the good doctor.
“I’ve wanted to meet you since moving here,” she said. “I do some writing of my own.”
“Really? What sort of writing?”
“Nothing major. Some poetry, short stories.”
“Short stories,” I said, “the hardest form of writing.”
“So I’ve heard. I thought I’d like to try my hand at writing a murder mystery.”
“Then you should do it,” I said.
Seth, recognizing a familiar scenario in my life—someone aspiring to write murder mysteries and wanting me to become involved—said, “Good to see you Mrs. Harris. You pick up that prescription and take it until it’s run out, heah?”
“I promise,” she said lightly.
When she was gone, I followed Seth to his study, where he was engaged in—what else?—the writing of last-minute Christmas cards. He poured tea from a teapot Pat Hitchcock had placed on his desk and said, “All right, fill me in, Jessica. What happened out at the Walther farm?”
I told him.
“Must have been difficult for Mary to tell that to Mort. Doesn’t do her husband’s case any good.”
“Yes, it was difficult for her, Seth, but I’m proud that she found the courage to do it. I also stopped in Joe Turco’s office before coming here.”
“And how is our young attorney friend?”
“Just fine, although he’s having trouble programming phone numbers into his new fax machine.”
Seth laughed. “You’d think they’d come up with a way to make programming those infernal machines easier. Must be some sort of plot against consumers. Time for Ralph Nader to get involved.”
“Seth, Mary told me Jill Walther is going back to college early, leaving the day after tomorrow.”
“That’s odd, isn’t it?” he said.
“I thought so. I asked her about it, and she said she thought it was better for Jill not to be here in Cabot Cove while all of this is going on with her father. I’ve got to talk to her before she goes.”
“Shouldn’t be difficult. Just go back out there.”
I shook my head. “No, Seth, there was something in Mary’s tone that
told me she did not want me to talk to Jill. She didn’t state that, of course, but I sensed it.”
“Why would she want to keep you from speaking with her daughter? After all, Jessica, you were the one who got her into college, got her that scholarship. Seems to me you’d be the first person welcome at the house.”
“I feel that way, although what I did for Jill doesn’t give me any automatic rights to spend time with her. But I have to see her, Seth. I have to clear up, if only for my own sake, this business of Jill’s having sought abortion counseling, and Rory Brent’s making a big contribution to the counseling center right after she was there. I’m also intrigued with what Robert Brent said.”
“Which was?”
“Robert said his father had argued with Jake Walther over ‘land and money.’ That’s why I stopped up to see Joe Turco. I asked him to check public land records to see if there was any link between Jake Walther and Rory Brent from a real estate point of view. I just know there’s a relationship of some sort between those two men that goes beyond Jake’s surly disposition.”
“Ayuh, you may be right, Jessica. Funny, while I was waiting for Mrs. Harris to arrive, I started thinking about Patricia Brent.”
“Rory’s wife?”
“Ayuh. Everybody’s looking to Jake Walther as the likely murderer, but no one is looking at anybody else.”
“Seth, you aren’t suggesting that Patricia might have murdered her husband.”
“I’m not suggesting any such thing. But I am talking sense. The only suspect is Jake Walther. What about Patricia? Wives have killed husbands before. And what about that son of theirs, Robert? Barely showed any emotion about his father gettin’ murdered, at least according to what I’ve heard.”
He was right, of course. Not that I suspected Patricia or Robert Brent of being capable of doing such a dreadful thing. But with all the focus on Jake Walther, it seemed that Mort and his deputies hadn’t looked beyond him. Yes, there had been speculation—no, make that hope—that Rory Brent had been murdered by a passer-through, a stranger, someone with no connection to Cabot Cove. We all fervently wished that.
But what if he had been killed by a Cabot Cove resident—someone who knew him well, someone whom we all knew well? Rory was a popular citizen. He knew many people, maybe the majority of Cabot Cove’s population. And because he was a prosperous farmer, he’d undoubtedly had many business dealings, perhaps with someone who became angry at the way a business deal came out.
A Little Yuletide Murder Page 15
