Trick or Treachery

by Jessica Fletcher

  Erica pushed open a swinging door leading into a huge kitchen. Unlike the formal room we’d just left, the atmosphere in this one was cheery and comfortable with tile floors from the local quarry, hanging plants in front of tall windows, fruitwood cabinets and modern stainless steel appliances. A long country table that served as a work space held clean trays, bowls and utensils from the evening’s buffet.

  At one end of the room a curved extension lined with windows jutted out into the garden. Inside it, a round table was covered with a pale yellow linen cloth and set for breakfast for three. I remembered that Jeremy was a house guest, and thought the tension between the young people must make for some uncomfortable meals.

  “I was hoping there was some leftover coffee from the party, but they must have thrown it out already,” Erica said. She crossed to a large coffee urn on a sideboard near the alcove and lifted the lid. “Oh, look, it’s already set up for tomorrow. That’s a bit of luck.” She flipped the switch. “We told the staff they didn’t have to come back till noon tomorrow to finish the clean-up. Mrs. Sack must have done this. She’s Artie’s sister-in-law. Do you know Artie?”

  “Oh, yes, a nice man and a wonderful gardener. He does work for me, too.”

  “I keep forgetting that Artie works for others in the village. Anyway, Mrs. Sack is our housekeeper, and she always sets up the morning coffee in the evening before she leaves. It looks like she made extra in case we had guests. Should be plenty.”

  Erica sighed as she sank into one of a quartet of wicker chairs surrounding the small table. “Please, Mrs. Fletcher, sit down. You must be tired, too.”

  “I am, but the aroma of the coffee is already waking me up. Shall we get the cups ready, and milk and sugar?”

  “In a minute. I don’t think I can lift my arms right now.”

  “Point out where everything is and I’ll get what we need.”

  “Just sit for a minute,” she said, a small, weary smile crossing her pretty face. “Please. We’ll do it together once the coffee’s brewed.”

  I took the chair closest to her.

  “What an awful evening,” she said.

  “Did you know Matilda Swift very well?” I asked.

  “I didn’t know her at all. She moved here several months ago after the cottage was redone. My father fixed it up after Tony died. He gutted the whole place, and then had a decorator come in to furnish it. That’s when the magazine people did the story on the rose garden.”

  “You must have spoken with her at some point,” I said, not wanting to sound as though I was prying. “She was your neighbor.”

  “Not really. A nodding acquaintance at most. She kept to herself. Tell me, Mrs. Fletcher, have you lived in Cabot Cove all your life?”

  “It certainly feels that way,” I said, “although there was a time when I was still teaching that I moved down south.” I laughed. “Massachusetts. ‘Down south’ as Mara at the luncheonette would say.”

  “Were you away long?”

  “I taught there for several years, but when I met my husband, Frank, he was eager to move to Cabot Cove. I’d told him so many stories about how wonderful my hometown was, he wanted to see if it could possibly be as idyllic as my descriptions. But we were talking about Matilda.”

  “The only time I ever lived away from home was during college, but that was only as far as Connecticut.”

  “Well, you’re young yet. About Matilda—”

  Erica rushed on as if she hadn’t heard me. “My mother’s family came from there, but I really haven’t had much contact with them. I think they didn’t like my father, and when my mother died—I was just a baby—they didn’t bother to keep in touch.” She twisted sideways in her chair so she could prop her arm on its back and rest her chin in her hand.

  “I only met your mother once, I believe,” I said. “A lovely woman.”

  “I don’t remember her at all. When I was little, Jeremy’s mother was like family to me, but then she moved away, taking Jeremy, and I never saw her again.”

  “It must have been difficult for your father, as a single man, raising you alone. He’s done a wonderful job.”

  “Well, he always had plenty of help,” Erica said, her voice suddenly hard. “Mrs. Sack has been here over twenty years, and there were a series of nannies, most of whose names I can’t even remember.”

  I had mixed emotions. On the one hand, I wanted to gain a better understanding of what had shaped Erica Marshall, why she was so bitter toward her father. On the other hand, intensely personal family matters made me uncomfortable. And, of course, the murder of Matilda Swift was certainly center stage this night.

  Erica’s eyes were flashing. She was wide awake now. She stood and went to the coffeemaker. The red light was on, indicating the brewing was completed.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said, joining her at the counter and helping to arrange cups on two trays.

  “Everyone always worries about my father. ‘Poor Paul, having to raise a child by himself.’ ‘Poor Paul, losing his best friend and partner.’ ‘Poor Paul.’ ‘Poor Paul.’ ” Her voice had taken on a singsong sound. “Poor Paul, my foot,” she said, stamping on the tile floor. “He’s hard as nails. He only pretends to miss Tony. Nothing gets to him.”

  Still fuming, she filled two carafes and wrenched open the refrigerator door, pulling out a container of milk and setting it down hard on one of the trays, next to a sugar bowl.

  “We’ll save the niceties for another time, shall we,” she said sharply, lifting a tray and turning from me.

  Wendell had completed his task of getting basic information from everyone when I reached the living room and placed my tray down next to Erica’s on the French writing table. Everyone perked up at the promise of caffeine and poured themselves cups of coffee. I did, too, but only a half cup—I still held out hope for a few hours’ sleep later on—and resumed my seat by the fireplace, near Seth Hazlitt. Erica sat in a Chippendale chair far removed from her two angry pursuers. Her legs were crossed at the ankle, and one foot bounced up and down at a fast tempo.

  “Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Yes, Wendell?”

  “I know who you are and all,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “I figure I don’t need to ask you questions.”

  “Oh, I think you’d better get a complete record for Sheriff Metzger, Wendell. Ask me whatever you’ve been asking the others.”

  “I suppose you’re right, ma’am.” He pulled a pencil from his uniform jacket pocket and opened a spiral-bound pad.

  “What would you like to know?” I asked, placing my cup and saucer down and looking into his earnest face.

  As I spelled my complete name for him, he carefully printed it with the kind of neat pen-manship his grade school teachers would have been proud to see. He wrote my name, address and telephone number, each on a separate line in his narrow notebook, then looked up at me. “You’re not planning to go out of town any time soon, are you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “No, Wendell. I’ll be in Cabot Cove through Thanksgiving. I may take a day or two in New York in December to see my agent and do some holiday shopping, but if the investigation is still going on, and you and the sheriff say so, I can put off the trip.”

  A worried look crossed Wendell’s brow. “I sure hope we’ve solved the murder before then.”

  “We all hope that,” I agreed.

  Mort returned a few minutes later. The cool draft that came through the French doors with him freshened the air, and the sounds of rustling clothes and clearing throats indicated that everyone was ready for what would come next.

  “Sheriff,” Robert Wandowski said from his corner of the room, “can you question me first? My wife must be frantic by now.”

  “Why don’t you give her a call?” Harold suggested. “I’m sure Mr. Marshall won’t mind.”

  Paul looked at his employee as if surprised to see him still here. “No, no, of course not. Go ahead, Bob.”

  Wandowski shook his head. “Can’t d
o that. I’d wake my daughter. She’s a light sleeper. Then I’d have two hysterical females to deal with when I get home. C’mon, Sheriff. You’ve got to start with someone. I barely know most of these people, and I sure didn’t know that lady, either, hardly at all. Only time I ever saw her you were there, and—”

  Joan interrupted. “Look here, Sheriff, he’s not the only one who wants to go home.”

  “I think we should go in alphabetical order,” Jack Decker said, grinning.

  “I’ll decide who goes first,” Mort said. “Mr. Marshall, is there another room I can use for interviews, some place private?”

  “There’s the library,” Paul said. “I’ll show you where it is.”

  Mort and Harold followed Marshall out into the hall, and Wendell moved to stand by the exit. Silence descended once again as everyone collapsed back into their seats.

  I watched as Lucas Tremaine surveyed the guests from his vantage point in the center of the room. Wisps of his long hair had escaped from its leather thong, and a five o’clock shadow—it was now well after midnight—considerably darkened his cheeks and jaw. Even in the headless moose costume, he was a commanding presence. He could have been handsome; his features were fine, almost pretty, but there was a hardness to his face that contradicted them. The expression in his gray eyes was derisive and calculating. I wondered what he was thinking.

  Paul Marshall returned, paused at the doorway, then went to his seat, carrying a book. “Might as well read something while I’m waiting,” he said.

  “Are there more where that came from?” Joan asked.

  “You wouldn’t have any magazines back there, would you?” Marilou Decker said.

  Paul’s response was to take out a pair of half glasses, open the small volume, and, ignoring everyone, begin to read.

  Harold reappeared and came to me. “The sheriff would like to see you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Damn, he didn’t listen to a thing I said.” Bob Wandowski spat, smacking his right fist into his left palm, then resuming his pacing in the corner.

  I followed Harold to the front hall and down a wide corridor, the clicking of our heels on the rose-colored marble floor echoing off the vaulted ceiling. We stopped before a pair of carved walnut doors with large brass knobs. Harold pushed one open and stepped aside, allowing me to enter. He followed and closed the door behind us.

  Paul Marshall’s library was lovely. I’d been in it before for one civic meeting or another, but it never failed to warm me. Two dozen cherrywood bookcases holding thousands of books dominated three walls. I knew from previous visits that one shelf held several well-thumbed mysteries by J. B. Fletcher, as well as books of the same genre by Agatha Cristie and P. D. James. Heady company.

  Mort had taken the high-backed chair behind Paul Marshall’s desk. He looked tired but determined, and a little silly in his party costume. I realized I must look silly, too. “The Legend” was still walking but definitely bedraggled, and I felt the sudden need to remove the gray fright wig and give my face a good scrubbing. Mort must have read my mind. “There’s a lavatory through there, Mrs. F., if you want to wash up,” he said, indicating a door in the corner.

  I made my escape, returning a few minutes later with my own coiffure, albeit a bit flattened, and my natural complexion.

  “That’s better,” I said, taking a seat in a leather armchair and dropping the wig in my lap. I fished my reading glasses out of my pocket and looped the cord attached to the ear-pieces around my neck.

  Mort got down to business. “Mrs. F., did you know the deceased?”

  “We’d never been introduced, Mort, but I’d seen her several times around town.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “I saw her across the school foyer right after the Halloween pageant and before that, I believe was when you went to investigate the report of the missing Wandowski child and I tagged along. As you know, we hardly spoke with her at the time.”

  “She was kind of a contradiction, wasn’t she?” Mort mused, making a note to himself. “She had those cold eyes, but she baked cookies with the little girl.”

  “Some people find it easier to communicate with children than they do with other adults. Perhaps she was lonely, and the child offered her a bit of companionship.”

  “Maybe. See anything out of the ordinary tonight?”

  “Other than a hundred people in costumes and masks?”

  Mort looked down at his fringed shirt and shook his head. “Any ideas where we should start with that group out there?”

  “We?”

  “I hate to keep you up, but I’d be obliged if you’d stay in here and listen to what they have to say. Wouldn’t be the first time you picked up on something I missed. I mean, that hasn’t happened often, but I just figured—”

  “Of course, Mort. You know I’ll do anything to help.”

  “Let’s do some of this in batches before we have a revolt on our hands,” he said. “Harold, bring in the Lerners. And give these car keys to my wife.” To me: “If Maureen doesn’t get some sleep tonight, I’ll feel the sharp side of her tongue tomorrow. She’s got a meeting of the School Lunch Committee first thing in the morning.”

  “Sure you want to interview couples together?” I asked. “I thought you always preferred one-on-one interviews.”

  “I do, Mrs. F., under most circumstances. But considering the time of night, and the fact that the couples we know wouldn’t be murdering anybody, I’d like to get it over with as fast as possible. Just want to know what they might have seen.”

  I removed my shawl, folded it over the wig, got up and went to a cushioned window seat. As an unofficial observer, I wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible. Mort was right. It was unlikely that one of our group was a murderer. Except for the Lerners, who were recent arrivals, we’d known one another for years. But perhaps someone did see something that would provide a clue to the perpetrator. Of course, I didn’t know Wandowski to speak to, and certainly not Tremaine. It would be interesting to hear what they had to say.

  Harold escorted Joan and Ed Lerner into the room, followed by Mort’s wife, Maureen. All that was left of her elaborate makeup were dark arcs under her eyes where the mascara had smudged. “Sure you want me to leave?” she asked.

  “Yup, you go on home, honey. I can ask you all the questions I need to over breakfast.” He grinned. She came behind the desk, kissed him on the cheek and left.

  Mort said to Harold, “Go see how the state cops are doing down at the crime scene. And check to make sure Jerry has enough guys to cover the shifts guarding the taped area.”

  “Sure thing, Sheriff.”

  Mort repeated to the Lerners the few questions he’d asked me. Ed Lerner tried, and failed, to stifle a series of yawns. He gave Mort a wan smile and said, “I’m not much of a witness, Sheriff. I can’t think of anything that would be helpful. We never even met the lady who was killed. What about you, Joan?”

  “Well, let me think,” his wife said. “You know, we’re new here, so we don’t know everyone. And with all the costumes, especially the moose ones . . .” Her eyes narrowed as she concentrated on the evening’s events. Being a witness in a murder investigation had given her a second wind. I raised my glasses and glanced at my watch. It was two-thirty.

  “I do recall seeing one of the moose walking away from the party. I remember wondering why he was leaving so early,” she said.

  “And where did you see this moose?” Mort asked.

  “Well, he was walking toward the cemetery. I didn’t know about the cemetery then, but I do now, since we ran through it before finding the body. I think that must be why I counted them—the moose, you know—when we were down at the cottage. There were so many of them around. I kept seeing them everywhere I looked.”

  “Do you have any idea what time that was? The moose in the cemetery?” Mort tapped his pencil on his pad.

  “I’d say sometime right after dinner was served. Isn’t that right, Ed?”
r />   Her husband shrugged. “I don’t remember that,” he said, yawning.

  “That must have been when you were talking about camera lenses with the photographer,” she said.

  “That I remember. Nice guy. I invited him to our party next month,” Ed Lerner said.

  “I’m glad you told me,” Joan said. “I want to start working on the guest list tomorrow.”

  “I also invited the Deckers and the Walters. Okay with you?”

  Mort cleared his throat.

  “Sorry, Sheriff,” Ed said, grinning. “I didn’t mean to get us off the topic, but you see, we’re having a Veteran’s Day party next month.”

  “And we certainly hope you and Maureen can make it,” Joan added.

  Mort looked confused. “Sure, thanks.”

  “Joan, are you sure you didn’t see a pair of moose?” I asked from my perch, pulling them back to the matter at hand. I remembered the moose couple in the moonlight. “And could it have been before dinner?”

  Joan stared at me, but her eyes were focused inward as she tried to recall the sequence of events. “Nooo,” she said, drawing the word out softly. “I’m sure it was later, Jessica. We’d gotten our plates from the buffet, then stopped to admire Miss Havisham’s table. Wasn’t that a wonderful literary reference, Ed?”

  She sensed Mort’s growing impatience. “Sorry,” she said, “I seem to be losing my place.”

  “It’s late, Mrs. Lerner,” Mort said. “Go on.”

  “Well, we couldn’t find an empty place at any of the tables inside, so we went out onto the patio. It was very warm inside anyway with the crush of the crowd. The photographer was out there and a few others, and the only seats available were along the stone wall that overlooks the grounds. I remember seeing a moose walking, striding really, across the lawn. Then I sat down, so my back was to him, and I didn’t see anything else.”