Trick or Treachery

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Yes, the sheriff will need that.”

  “His name is Stuart Shippee. He’s here in Salem, too.” He gave me the lawyer’s phone number.

  I wrote down the information, then asked, “Mr. Walker, did the sheriff leave word what other information he needed from you?”

  “Not specifically, Officer, but I assume he’ll want to know the name of the beneficiary and the amount of the death benefit.”

  I stalled for a moment, debating whether or not to correct his impression that he was speaking with a police officer. He took my hesitation to mean I was waiting for the answer.

  “Let me see,” he said. “I believe the amount of the policy is five hundred . . .” I heard him shuffle some papers. “Thousand. Yes, five hundred thousand.”

  I let out a breath. Matilda Swift may not have lived as modest a life as I’d originally imagined.

  “And the beneficiary?” I coaxed.

  “The beneficiary is her nephew in California. I’m not sure the address is current, but his name is Scott something. No, that’s not right.” I heard him turn a page. “Here it is. That’s his last name. Scott. The beneficiary is Jeremy Scott.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I called the number for the attorney, Stuart Shippee, which Matilda Swift’s insurance agent had given me, and was surprised when he picked up personally on the first ring.

  “Hello?” he said in a voice that told me he was an elderly gentleman.

  “Mr. Shippee?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Jessica Fletcher. I’m calling from Cabot Cove, Maine.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was given your name and number by George Walker, an insurance agent for a Matilda Swift. Unfortunately, Ms. Swift died recently. I was told you were her attorney.”

  “Yes, that’s correct. She died, you say?”

  “Yes. She was murdered.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Mr. Walker told me that Ms. Swift’s beneficiary on her life policy was someone named Jeremy Scott.”

  “Yes?”

  “Is that true?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I put Matilda in touch with George because she needed a life insurance policy. I wasn’t involved in writing the policy. You say she was murdered?”

  “Yes. The day before yesterday.”

  His sigh was long and deep. “Oh, my,” he said again. “Has the murderer been apprehended?”

  “I’m afraid not. Mr. Shippee, I was wondering whether—”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “My name? Jessica Fletcher.”

  “The mystery writer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, my. This is indeed a pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve read every one of your books. I’ve been a lover of murder mysteries for many years.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that, Mr. Shippee. It’s always nice speaking with someone who’s read my books.”

  What I didn’t bargain for was that this nice man was such a fan of murder mysteries that he consumed the next fifteen minutes discussing the relative merits of mystery writers. He was partial to the British—P. D. James, Ruth Rendell, Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers, although he admitted to a fondness for the American hard-boiled Chandler and Hammett, as well as a variety of recent best-selling writers, including me. He spent a few minutes analyzing my strengths and weaknesses as a writer before allowing me to return to the reason for my call.

  “Mr. Shippee,” I said, “did Matilda Swift leave a will?”

  “Oh, yes, of course.”

  “I realize it hasn’t been probated yet, but I wonder if you could tell me who the heir to her estate is.”

  “I believe that wouldn’t be out of order, Mrs. Fletcher. Do you prefer the cozy brand of mystery, or the police procedural?”

  “Ah . . . let me think about that, Mr. Shippee, while you look up Matilda Swift’s heir.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  I heard him humming, and opening and shutting drawers. He came back on the line and said, “Here we are, Mrs. Fletcher. Yes, I remember my conversation with Ms. Swift when we drew up the document. She said she didn’t have any close family. There was a brother, I think, but he’d died in some sort of industrial accident shortly before she came to me for a will.”

  “That would have been shortly after Halloween of last year,” I said.

  “November. Yes, that would be after Halloween. She said she would have left her estate to her brother had he lived but—well, we can’t always have things go the way we would like them to go, can we?”

  “No.”

  “Her brother had a son, she mentioned, her nephew. She’d never met him, but wanted to leave what she had to him. He lived somewhere in California. She wasn’t sure where.”

  “And his name is Jeremy Scott.”

  “You are absolutely right, Mrs. Fletcher. An impressive demonstration of deductive powers. Do you know this young man, have an idea where he might be found?”

  “I’m not sure, Mr. Shippee, but I believe I’ll be able to find out for you very quickly.”

  “That would be appreciated. Do you know of Ms. Swift’s burial plans? I’ll need an official death certificate to begin the probate process.”

  “Because her death was a murder, Mr. Shippee, her body won’t be released for some time.”

  “To be expected. Will you be visiting Salem, Mrs. Fletcher? I would enjoy sitting down together and discussing the current state of the murder mystery with you.”

  “No immediate plans, Mr. Shippee, but if I ever do get to Salem, I’ll look you up.”

  “That would be wonderful, a great pleasure for me. Good day, Mrs. Fletcher. Thank you for calling.”

  That confirmed it. Jeremy Scott was Matilda Swift’s nephew, which made his father, Tony, her brother. I sat back and formulated questions.

  Did Jeremy know Matilda was his aunt? Probably not originally, since the attorney, Shippee, indicated that Matilda claimed never to have met her nephew. But did she know Jeremy was in Cabot Cove when she elected to move here? If so, had she told him who she was once she arrived?

  It couldn’t have been a coincidence that Matilda Swift rented the Rose Cottage on the Marshall estate, the same cottage that her brother, Anthony Scott, had occupied until his death. Or was it?

  Matilda had drawn up her will shortly after Tony Scott died in the fire at his lab. Obviously, she knew of his death. Who had told her? Had she read it in the papers? It wasn’t likely that Scott’s demise would have been news in Salem, Massachusetts.

  The best source for at least some of the answers was Jeremy Scott. I was tempted to pick up the phone, call Jeremy and ask him outright. But I held back on that urge.

  Instead, I called Richard Koser at his home office. Besides his involvement in photography and gourmet cooking, he could be generally found hunched in front of an elaborate computer system.

  “Richard, it’s Jessica. Can I bother you again?”

  “You’re never a bother. What’s up?”

  “A technical question from a distinctly non-technical person. Would the U.S. Trademark and Patent Office have a Website on the Internet?”

  “Sure. Everybody else does. Why?”

  “Mind if I pop over?”

  “Not at all.”

  I sat with Richard in front of his large-screen monitor and watched him access the Internet, then go to the home page, as it’s called, for the Trademark and Patent Office.

  “What do you want me to look up, Jess?”

  “I’d like to see whether anyone has applied for a patent on BarrierCloth.”

  “Tony Scott’s invention?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought he failed to come up with a working formula.”

  “That’s what everyone says, Richard, but I’m just curious—the writer in me.”

  “Well, let’s take a look.”

  It took a minute for him to bring up the information I sought.

  “That’s interesting,” he said.r />
  “Yes, isn’t it? Can you print it out for me?”

  “Sure thing. I suppose this means Tony did perfect the formula and had it patented in the company’s name.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  As the pages slowly emerged from his printer, I said, “First, Richard, according to this, the application for a patent on BarrierCloth wasn’t filed in the name of Marshall-Scott Clothing. Look. It’s been filed by another company, Nutmeg Associates, Inc.”

  “Must be a subsidiary of Marshall-Scott Clothing. They have a couple of them, I know, because I did some photography for one of them earlier this year.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “But as for Tony Scott having perfected the formula, there’s nothing to say that the formula submitted to the Patent and Trademark Office actually works. Here, look at this note on the status of the patent:Patent pending independent testing for flammability. Documentation to be submitted by Excel Laboratory, Burlington, Vermont.

  “Wasn’t flammability always the problem?”

  “As far as I know. I wonder how the tests came out.”

  “Assuming they’ve been completed,” Richard said, chewing his cheek. “Mind if I ask you a question, Jess?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Obviously, your interest is more than simply being a murder mystery writer. What are you really looking for?”

  “I wish I knew, Richard.” I took another close look at the printout in my hands. “Do you see the date that this patent was applied for?”

  “November sixteenth, a year ago. It says it’ll probably be another year, especially with those tests going on in Vermont. These government agencies move slow as molasses.”

  “November sixteenth, a couple of weeks after Tony Scott died in that tragic fire. Richard, you’re a doll.”

  “Glad to help, but I wish I knew where this was leading you, Jess.”

  “I do, too, but if I ever figure it out, you’ll be among the first to know.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Good morning,” I said to Beth Mullin as I entered Olde Tyme Floral, in the center of town.

  “Hello, Jessica. Out for a constitutional?”

  “You might say that.”

  Beth’s husband, Peter, called a greeting from the rear of the shop, where he was preparing a floral delivery. I waved back.

  “Is Joe Turco upstairs?” I asked, referring to the young attorney who’d taken on Lucas Tremaine as a client.

  “I think so. Saw him come in about an hour ago.”

  “Well, think I’ll pop up and see if he—”

  I was saved a trip upstairs when Turco burst through the door to the flower shop, cradling a bundle of papers, and looking very much like someone in a hurry.

  “I was just coming up to see you,” I said.

  “Have to be another time, Jessica. I’m off to a meeting with everyone’s favorite person and my most recent client.”

  “You really are representing Tremaine?” Peter Mullin asked, coming from the back room to join the conversation.

  Turco shook his head and exhaled loudly. “Yes, I am representing Lucas Tremaine because . . . because he needs a lawyer and I happen to be a lawyer, who, I might add, believes that everyone deserves legal representation when they’re in trouble with the law, especially somebody like Tremaine who’s being persecuted for being different and controversial.”

  “Is he in trouble with the law?” Beth asked. “Is he the prime suspect in the murder of that woman out at Paul Marshall’s place?”

  “He’s a suspect,” Turco said, “like everyone else who was at the party. Look, I’d love to discuss this with you, but I’m already late for my meeting. I need some flowers sent to my sister in New York. Her birthday today.” He handed Beth a business card; he’d written his sister’s name, address and phone number on the back. “A nice colorful arrangement,” he said. “Keep it under fifty bucks, okay? I’ll pay you when I get back.”

  I followed him past the door to the street. “Joe, a quick question.”

  “Huh? Sure. What?”

  “Have you heard of a corporation called Nutmeg Associates?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I was thinking of buying stock in it. I think it’s a subsidiary of Marshall-Scott Clothing.”

  He shrugged. “Never heard of it, but I’ll check some sources when I get back.”

  “That’s great, Joe. Thanks.”

  During my brief conversation with Joe Turco, Brenda Brody, Cabot Cove Magazine’s copy editor, entered Olde Tyme Floral. I followed her inside.

  “ ’Morning, Brenda,” I said.

  She looked at me with what I can only label an angry expression.

  “How are things at the magazine?” I asked.

  “Just fine,” she replied. She placed an order with Beth for two bouquets of flowers to be delivered later that day to Lucas Tremaine’s building on the old quarry road.

  “Special occasion?” I asked.

  “Our weekly meeting, calling to the spirits. Lucas likes to have flowers at the séance.”

  “Oh? Sounds like a good idea,” I said.

  Brenda, a short, compact woman with red hair and very thick glasses, completed her transaction and turned to leave. She reached the door, stopped, faced me and said, “You know, Jessica, for a writer you’re a very close-minded woman.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said.

  “I suppose because you’re very successful and famous, you feel justified in dismissing what you don’t understand.”

  “Such as Lucas Tremaine’s activities?”

  “Exactly. Being skeptical, even scornful of what he does when you don’t even know what he does strikes me as prejudiced—something I’d never known you to be.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Brenda. I don’t know what Mr. Tremaine does.”

  “Dr. Tremaine.”

  “I didn’t realize he had a doctoral degree. It just seems to me that paying money to be put in touch with a departed loved one doesn’t—” I shook my head. “Well, I have to admit, it doesn’t make any sense to me.” She started to respond, but I held up a hand. “Then again,” I said, “I’ve never attended a séance, so I agree with you. I shouldn’t be scornful of something I don’t know about.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” she said.

  “What happens at one of his séances, Brenda? Educate me.”

  “Are you really interested in knowing?”

  “I wasn’t until we started talking. But, as you say, if I’m going to judge Mr. Tremaine—Dr. Tremaine—I should know what I’m talking about.”

  Brenda started to explain, step-by-step, what happens at a séance, but stopped after a minute and said, “I have a better idea. Why don’t you come with me tonight?”

  “Come with you? Me? Go to a séance?”

  “Yes. That way you can see for yourself.”

  “I don’t know, Brenda, I—”

  “Lucas could try to put you in touch with Frank.”

  The mention of my deceased husband stung for a moment, particularly in the context of trying to communicate with him through the mumbo jumbo of a séance conducted by a charlatan. But two things immediately crossed my mind. I had wanted to learn more about Lucas Tremaine in connection with Matilda Swift’s murder—and I did not want to continue being known as someone who’s critical of others without actually knowing what they do, and how they do it.

  “All right,” I said. “What time?”

  “Nine. Want me to pick you up?”

  “I’d appreciate that,” I said. “I don’t drive, as you know.”

  “You really should learn, Jessica,” Brenda said.

  I smiled. “You’re right about that, Brenda. One of these days.”

  “I’ll pick you up at eight-thirty,” she said.

  “And I’ll be waiting.”

  When she was gone, Beth Mullin looked up from an arrangement she was creating and said, “You’r
e really going to a Lucas Tremaine séance, Jess?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Never thought I’d see that,” she said, artistically placing gorgeous pink roses into the arrangement.

  “I never thought I would, either. Next thing you know, I’ll be learning to drive a car.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  From a distance, the old roadhouse looked dark when Brenda and I drove down the old quarry road that evening. But as we neared the dilapidated building, I could detect the flicker of candlelight through a downstairs window. A half dozen cars were pulled up onto the property, parked in haphazard fashion on the mostly dirt lawn, as if their drivers had been too rushed to consider parking in neat rows. I wasn’t even sure all of the cars were functional; some may have belonged to the previous owners of the building and been left to rust as a grim reflection of the aging structure.

  Brenda found a vacant area away from the other vehicles and shut off the engine. She lowered her head for a moment, as if in prayer, then looked at me. “Are you ready?” she whispered.

  “Yes, but why are you whispering?”

  “Lucas likes us to spend some quiet time before we come in. If we’re peaceful and quiet, our souls will be open to the spirits around us. He says loud noise discourages them.”

  As we and others exited our vehicles, the thuds of car doors being closed filled the night, and I wondered if we were chasing away the spirits before we even started.

  I looked up into the black sky, the scrim for a full moon and millions of stars. We have spectacular night skies in Maine, crystal clear and often startling in intensity. I was glad for the light the moon generated. Without it, we would have been shrouded in darkness as we approached the front of the crumbling building, the candle in the window the only illumination.

  Brenda opened the front door, exposing a small anteroom. On a table on the wall opposite the door was a large glass globe containing a blue bulb that washed the wall with azure light. The odor of incense reached me as I went up three rickety wooden steps and entered the anteroom. Other than the faint dissonant tinkling of wind chimes, there was silence inside the building—until a gust of wind slammed the door shut behind me. Brenda, myself and two others who’d just come in jumped at the sudden loud sound.