Murder, She Wrote

by Jessica Fletcher

  She gave me a watery smile. “Thanks, Jessica.”

  “No thanks needed,” I said. “What we need is something to eat, and I can’t figure out what you intended to make with all those condiments.”

  “Oh, let me show you.”

  Between my groceries and the contents of Maureen’s cooler, we fixed ourselves a nice meal, washed our dishes in cold water, sealed our garbage in bearproof containers, and strolled down to the water while it was still light, passing the stone-ringed campfire pit.

  Maureen took a deep breath and let it out. “Oh, it’s so beautiful here—and peaceful.”

  “It is lovely,” I said, watching a great blue heron spring into the air and fly across the lake.

  “I feel like I could stay here forever. Do you think the mayor would let me rent his other cabin for a week or two?”

  “I don’t see why not if he isn’t using it. But you may want to see how you feel after two days of rustic living before you commit to a longer stay.”

  “Don’t you think I’m up to it? I was a Girl Scout, remember.”

  “I think you can do anything you put your mind to. I’m only saying that I’ve found that camping is fine—wonderful even—in short spurts, but after a while you begin to miss reliable electricity and hot running water and other luxuries we’ve grown accustomed to.”

  “Like computers?”

  “Like computers and refrigerators and coffeemakers and air-conditioning and nearby shops and—”

  “Okay, I see what you mean. But maybe I could get Mort to come with me for a week. He has vacation days he hasn’t taken. Do you think he would?”

  I tried to imagine Mort free of all the electronics that ruled his life. “You know him better than I,” I said.

  Maureen laughed. “What am I saying? That man can’t spend five minutes without a walkie-talkie on his shoulder, a phone in his hand, and his ear to a police radio.”

  I smiled. “Maybe get him up here for a day and see how he handles it.”

  We walked back to the cabin and settled in the rocking chairs on the porch. “Speaking of Mort, that reminds me,” I said.

  “What reminds you?”

  “You said he got a call before he dropped you off and rushed away. You said the call was about somebody on a boat. Do you remember what exactly?”

  “I never listen to that radio, but Mort said he had to get down to the dock. Now that I think about it, it may not have been about somebody on a boat.”

  “No? What was it then?”

  “Maybe it was some body on a boat.”

  “That’s quite a difference. And certainly an emergency.”

  “Not really. I think the deputy told him that whoever it was, was already dead. At least that’s what I think I heard him say.”

  Chapter Three

  “Think, Maureen. What else did you hear?” I said, looking at her with surprise.

  “They found some old guy submerged in the water next to his boat,” Maureen said. “They thought he must’ve tripped and hit his head when he fell overboard and drowned.”

  “How awful. Do you know who it was?”

  “I didn’t recognize the guy’s name. Wes Carters or Caraghers, maybe. Car-something anyway.”

  “Not Wes Caruthers?”

  “That sounds right. Did you know him?” Maureen slapped a hand over her jaw. “Oh, me and my big mouth! I’m so sorry, Jessica, if he was a friend of yours. Here I go, just blurting it out. That’s why Mort tells me never to discuss his cases. He’ll be angry if I tell him I told you.”

  “Nothing to worry about. Wes Caruthers wasn’t a friend at all, but I did know him, or know of him.”

  Caruthers was an attorney, most of whose cases were assigned by the courts. He was rarely successful in exonerating his clients, some of whom accused him of not doing enough to prove their innocence. One of them was Darryl Jepson. A few threatened to sue, but obtaining another lawyer when you didn’t have enough money to pay for the first one was difficult to say the least. Most of Caruthers’s clients remained in prison for the full length of their sentences, too poor to mount an appeal.

  “Let’s sort out your wardrobe,” I said, more to distract Maureen from her distress than out of interest in her purchases. “We have to get up early, and it’ll be helpful if we’ve set out our clothes the night before.”

  “Okay! I can’t wait to show you my convertibles.”

  “Convertibles?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Maureen spread out all her purchases on the cot and reviewed the piles of clothing, weighing one outfit against another before finally selecting a peach-colored, button-down shirt.

  “David at Charles Department Store told me this fabric breathes.” She drew out the word as I was certain David must have, too. “He said it blocks UV rays and dries really fast if it gets wet. Plus I think the color goes great with my red bandana. What do you think?”

  “They’re lovely together. I think you’ll be the best-dressed angler in the boat.”

  “But wait, there’s more, as they say in the TV ads.” She pulled out a pair of pink rubber clogs to go with her convertibles, which turned out to be a pair of lightweight khaki pants the bottoms of which could be zipped off above the knee to become shorts if the weather got hot.

  “Isn’t this the greatest?” she said, holding up her prized fishing vest, the pockets already bulging with items she was convinced she couldn’t do without. She hung it up on a peg and hooked a long-handled fishing net onto the tab at the back of the vest.

  “There! I’m all set to go,” she said, grinning.

  “It’s a nice feeling.”

  “Now what are you going to wear?”

  I unzipped my duffel bag and pulled out my fishing clothes, some of which also doubled as my gardening attire.

  “I think I’ll wear my vintage cargo pants,” I said, holding them up. “I’m not sure if they’re retro, but they’re definitely old. And here’s my hand-decorated T-shirt last used to paint the back porch, and this elegant piece.” I dangled my light blue chambray shirt in the air.

  “Jessica, I think you’re making fun of me.”

  “Maybe a little, but I love your enthusiasm.”

  I was going to look like a dull moth next to her butterfly, but with only Brian as a fashion judge it didn’t matter. At least we wouldn’t waste time in the morning deciding what to put on. I set my travel alarm, and after taking turns washing up at the kitchen sink, we plugged our cell phones into the only two electrical outlets and climbed into bed.

  Maureen was too excited about the upcoming fishing competition to fall asleep right away, and she babbled to me in the darkness about the videos and television shows she’d watched to prepare for the derby.

  “You won’t believe this guy. He caught a catfish with his bare hands. Ew, I don’t think I could ever do that, could you? And another time, he hooked this giant fish the natives were convinced was eating people alive. And you know what? It was true.”

  I made appropriate listening noises, but my mind was busy remembering what I knew about the late Wes Caruthers, and one case in particular where his client paid a steep price for the lawyer’s incompetence.

  * * *

  The case involved two young men of limited means and with too much time on their hands. From what townspeople would call the wrong side of the tracks, the young men, high school dropouts, were well known to local law enforcement for a variety of misdemeanors—fishing without a license, being drunk and disorderly with their buddies, “borrowing” a bicycle, and setting off a cherry bomb in the high school gym early one Sunday, among other offenses. One of them, Darryl Jepson, liked to play with knives. A part-time gas jockey, he spent his off hours playing mumblety-peg with his friends or practicing his knife throws on a scraggly pine behind the filling station. Many other trees in town had
scars from the blade of Jepson’s knife, so it was no surprise, when a local grocer named Olberman was stabbed during a robbery and later died from his injuries, that the authorities pulled Jepson in for questioning. A security tape showed him pocketing items from the store the day of the robbery. Caruthers was assigned to take his case, but those who attended the trial said he did a terrible job of defending Jepson, who was convicted of murder and sent away. His friend was accused of being an accessory, and despite limited evidence, the jury found him guilty as well.

  But Jepson’s friend had not appeared on the security tape. His conviction was based on witnesses who swore they saw two men running from the scene of the crime and a tip from a questionable source. Because of his association with his knife-wielding pal, the young man spent seven years behind bars—repeatedly denied parole because he wouldn’t admit his guilt in the robbery and murder. But he used his time productively, getting his high school diploma, studying the law, and spending many hours writing letters seeking help until finally finding a receptive ear at the Innocence Project. A young lawyer from that volunteer organization—which is committed to helping those wrongly convicted—prevailed upon a judge to reopen the case, citing unreliable eyewitness reporting, a snitch with a grudge, and the complete lack of video or other forensic evidence. Plus, the young man had an alibi—dismissed during the trial—that he was with his girlfriend, Alice, at the time of the crime.

  While his buddy remained incarcerated, the young man was released, came home to Cabot Cove, married his girlfriend—much to the chagrin of her well-to-do father—and settled down to become a productive citizen. But despite his acquittal, many people in town still suspected he was guilty, and they turned their backs on his efforts to find employment and establish a life for himself, his wife, and their daughter.

  That’s when the young man, Brian Kinney, our guide, took the only road he saw available, becoming a Maine guide, chiefly for tourists who’d never heard his name before and for the likes of a number of us—like me—who believe in giving an innocent man another chance to make good in his hometown.

  Whether Darryl Jepson was also innocent, I didn’t know, although I suspected the sheriff’s office had arrested the right man. Jepson had chosen a different route to get out of jail: breaking out of the state prison by hiding in a laundry cart. And now authorities were hunting for clues to his whereabouts along the Canadian border.

  * * *

  Despite her groans at the prospect of our early start, Maureen was up before the alarm. She was still in her pajamas, sipping a cup of tea, sitting on one of the rocking chairs on the porch when I came outside at six o’clock.

  “Oh, good, you found the tea and mug I left out for you. Is Earl Grey okay? I hope you like a cranberry scone.”

  “One of my favorites,” I said, sliding into the other rocker and blowing on the tea to cool it before taking a sip.

  “It’s such a beautiful morning that I just wanted to take it all in. I never knew the sun rose so early. I think I saw a fox playing with a grasshopper. Do foxes eat grasshoppers?”

  “I’m not sure what a fox’s regular diet consists of, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Clearly the fox didn’t see you or it would have run away.”

  “I tried to sit very still when I saw him. I don’t think I would have been as calm if I’d seen a bear. Are there a lot of bears up here?”

  “Some. And moose, too. We’re in the woods. Wildlife encounters are definitely possible, as you’ve discovered this morning. The best thing to do is to keep our distance and let them move on.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  Maureen and I were both dressed and waiting on the porch when we saw Brian’s rowboat and heard the soft whoosh in the water as he cut the engine and eased up to the dock.

  “Good morning, ladies,” he called. “Ready to catch some trout?”

  We walked down to the dock carrying our fishing rods.

  “How can we be sure that trout is the only fish we catch?” Maureen asked. “Aren’t there other fish in the lake?”

  “Yes, ma’am, and if we’re lucky enough to hook a good-size pike, we’ll get a nice lunch out of it. They’re bony but taste great when you know how to make ’em.”

  “Oh, do you cook?” Maureen asked, immediately warming to our guide.

  “My skills are limited to campfire cuisine, but I make a mean fried fish,” he said, sliding our rods along the bottom of the boat under the seats. He stood and offered his hand to help Maureen aboard.

  She stepped down into the rowboat, hesitated, then chose the narrow seat in the bow. I followed and took the center seat.

  Brian waited until we were settled before raising his hand to get our attention. “I always do a little checklist before we push off. Do you have your fishing licenses?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, pointing to the plastic pouch pinned to my shoulder.

  “Derby permits?”

  “Check!”

  “Sunscreen?”

  “Right here,” Maureen said, extracting a tube from one of her vest pockets.

  “I already put mine on,” I said.

  “Hats?”

  Two pairs of hands reached up to be sure our hats were secure.

  “Bug spray?”

  “Check.”

  “Water? Snack?”

  We were only going to be out for three hours, but I had prepared a little care package with bottled water, some fruit, and three sandwiches in case we weren’t able to catch our lunch. I handed it to Brian, who stowed the insulated canvas bag in the stern, under his seat.

  “I have something to contribute to your goodies,” he said, pulling out a plastic container. “Emma insisted on baking chocolate chip cookies for you.”

  “Is that your daughter?” Maureen asked. “How sweet! It’s wonderful that she’s learning how to cook.”

  “She’s not much of a baker at three and a half but she loves to make cookies with her mom. And her dad loves to eat them.”

  “And share them,” I added.

  “Yes, but only occasionally,” Brian said with a fake scowl, and we all laughed.

  He handed us both life jackets, and I slipped mine over my blue shirt. Maureen had a little difficulty fitting hers over the bulging pockets of her fishing vest, but once she was enveloped in it, we looked up expectantly and Brian pushed off, starting up his electric motor and aiming the bow of the boat toward the center of the lake.

  Some odd feeling made me look back at the cabin, but I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. I snugged down my hat to shade my eyes and turned around. Had I kept my gaze on the shore, I might have seen an uninvited visitor climb up to the porch.

  Chapter Four

  Moon Lake is one of Maine’s six-thousand-plus lakes and ponds, many of them unnamed. Next to deep-sea fishing, which I also enjoy, fly-fishing on a lake or stream is among my favorite pastimes, whether part of a derby or not. While deep-sea fishing is like wrestling a brawny competitor, fly-fishing is more peaceful and contemplative. At least it is for me. I know how to tie an artificial fly onto the fine filament of fishing line called a leader. I know how to cast upstream and watch the line float past me, taking up the slack as it does. And I know the satisfaction of feeling a tug when a hungry trout mistakes my fly for an honest-to-goodness insect. Whether or not I net a catch, the best part of fly-fishing for me is simply standing in the water or sitting in a boat on a beautiful summer day, communing with my surroundings—listening for the call of the loon, watching dragonflies and damselflies circle their territories, and hearing the burble of the water. It calms my soul and renews my energy. It makes me sigh just to think about it.

  I wasn’t sure what Maureen Metzger’s expectations of fly-fishing were, but I doubted they had a lot to do with nature appreciation.

  “How will we know when we get where we’re going?” she asked.

/>   “Some of the other guides said they had good luck over at Martha’s Pond,” Brian said, “so we’ll start there and move on if they’re not biting.”

  “Why couldn’t we fish right near the cabin?” Maureen asked, clapping her hand on her hat to keep it from flying off in the breeze as the boat sped up.

  “Water’s too shallow there,” Brian replied. “Great for swimming, less so for fishing. We have to go where the fish are.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Brian slowed down and guided the bow into a narrow inlet using one of his oars to push aside reeds that arched over our boat until we emerged into another body of water. “Look over there,” he called, pointing.

  Near the shore standing knee-deep in the water was a bull moose with a broad rack of velvety antlers. He raised his head, a stream of weeds dripping from his mouth, peered at us for a moment, and went back to grazing, pushing his snout under the water.

  “Ooh, wait till I tell Mort that I saw a real moose,” Maureen said, her eyes gleaming.

  “Haven’t you ever seen one before?” Brian asked.

  “Once, when one crossed the road when we were driving out of Bangor, but that doesn’t count.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because it wasn’t really in its native habitat, more like a suburb.”

  “Moose were probably there before the houses. Human beings have been encroaching on moose habitat for years,” Brian said.

  “Lucky for them it’s a big state so there’s still plenty of room for wildlife,” I added.

  We rounded a curve in the pond and spotted two men in a canoe. Brian slowed the boat and waved. “Any luck?” he called.

  One of the men gave him a thumbs-up. “Two brookies so far,” he yelled.

  “Okay!” Brian said, pumping his fist and pointing the bow across the pond.

  “Are we close?” Maureen asked.

  “Soon,” Brian replied.