Murder, She Wrote--A Time for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

“Absolutely not! I’ll have no part in this—you hear me?”

  Another pause came, the absence of a second voice telling me this must be a phone conversation, a particularly heated one.

  “Was that a threat? Because if it was . . .”

  I felt like I was snooping, prying, like some local gossip hound or something. I knew I should go take a seat in the front section of the office, but his voice trailed me when I started backing away from his door. Slowly, as if to draw out the last of his heated remarks.

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me clearly,” Walter’s voice continued to rage. “And don’t threaten me! I’m not going to warn you again.”

  I thought that was it, the call done. But then Walter’s voice returned, softer but just as intense.

  “Over my dead body.”

  Chapter Three

  The present

  The ringing of a phone broke my trance, and I groped absently for my cell phone before realizing it was my landline that was chiming away.

  “Where are you?” Seth Hazlitt asked by way of greeting as soon as I answered. “We were supposed to meet at Mara’s.”

  “I was just there.”

  “Well, come back. Afternoon pie and coffee are nothing without my afternoon-pie-and-coffee partner.”

  I checked my watch. Where had all the time gone? Could I have lost this much in my reminiscing about my days back in Appleton? I guessed so.

  Cabot Cove’s resident family doctor had a simple prescription for living a long and happy life: a piece of pie and a cup of coffee every day at three o’clock. Call it the luxury of a small-town physician able to make his own hours in the company of a writer able to do the same.

  I pulled my new bicycle out of the Hill House shed, where I’d placed it after returning from Mara’s. I’d purchased something called a Crosstown bike, from a company called Pashley, after my older Schwinn was destroyed in a riding accident. A front slot fitted for a wicker basket was what had first attracted me to it in the store, my interest also stoked by some of the very qualities that turned others way. First of all, it was heavy and came standard with an abuse-proof frame that promised to last a long time and even withstand any further encounters I might have with nefarious pickup trucks. I took the Pashley out for a spin and fell in love with it instantly. Its heft had an old-fashioned feel to it. Not the choice to make if you intended to be racing around, and since I didn’t, I’d purchased it on the spot.

  Deep fall was already in the air, and before I knew it, my Pashley would be tucked away in the shed for the entire winter. I resolved to get out riding as much as I could before the conditions deteriorated further and the temperature started regularly drifting below freezing, as was typical for mid- to late fall in Maine. One day you’re out in your shirtsleeves, and the next there’s snow in the forecast. I looked forward to that first scent and feel of winter in the air with both wonder and dread: wonder for the beauty and quiet, dread for the isolation and being stuck inside without my daily bike rides or walks to invigorate me.

  The summer season had long since passed, yielding the roads of Cabot Cove back to its residents, with the summer people having departed at long last. I didn’t miss them, but I did miss the weather that brought them in droves to our once-quaint seaside village, which was now a haven for the privileged masses. I often wondered how such a thing came to pass: how a town could go from well-kept secret to traffic snarls seemingly overnight.

  It’s not like there was an article in some fancy magazine or Cabot Cove was featured on some popular TV network. Word had gotten out because, well, word had gotten out, almost like we’d paid for the privacy we’d been fortunate enough to enjoy for so long by losing it in a proverbial heartbeat. Went to bed one night with the town our own and woke up the next morning to find we had been inundated.

  When I chained my bike up outside Mara’s in the same spot where I’d left it that morning, I could see Seth seated at a table through the window. Not surprisingly, an empty plate sat before him, Mara’s daily special long gone.

  * * *

  * * *

  “Well, Jessica,” he said, flapping the cardboard invitation before him, “you’re always complaining you never get invited to anything.”

  “I am?”

  “Maybe not,” Seth noted, frowning. “Maybe it’s me.” He regarded the invitation again. “A retirement party, eh? Not yours, of course.”

  “Writers never retire, Seth.”

  “Neither do doctors, at least not the small-town variety. Then again, Cabot Cove isn’t as small as it used to be.” He handed me back the invitation. “So, are you going?”

  “Well, it is being held right here, at the Cabot Cove Country Club.”

  “No such venue in your former hometown, as I recall.”

  “Appleton does have the theater, though,” I reminded him, referring to the place where I’d first met Frank while we’d been working as volunteers on the same production.

  “Not the greatest place to host a retirement party. So, how well do you know this”—Seth stopped to review the invitation anew—“Wilma Tisdale?”

  “Not very. We taught at the high school around the same time, and she came to a book signing a few years back. Beyond that, if she walked into Mara’s right now, I’m not sure that I’d know her.”

  “And yet she invited you to her retirement party. Hmmmm,” Seth added, touching his chin.

  “You sound like you’re trying to solve a mystery.”

  “What, you think you’re the only sleuth in town?”

  His question brought me back to the interview Kristi Powell had done with me in this very restaurant just a few hours earlier.

  When did you solve your first murder?

  Even Seth didn’t know the answer to that question. Neither did Mort Metzger or Harry McGraw. They were almost surely the three people with whom I was closest in the world, and I’d never shared the answer with any of them. So why did I suddenly feel guilty about not sharing more of the story with a high school student?

  “Seth,” I started, pushing my chair back out, “there’s something I need to do.”

  “You haven’t gotten your pie yet.”

  I started to reach for my cup of tea for one last sip, but decided against it. “You finished yours before I even got here,” I said, standing up.

  “I was going to order another.”

  “Have mine.”

  Seth’s nose wrinkled at the prospect. “You know I hate lemon meringue, Jess.”

  “Oh, yes. How could I have forgotten? Next time I’ll be sure to order one of your favorites.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I had no intention of sharing the truth of my first murder investigation with Kristi Powell, but I felt I owed her more of an explanation than the one I’d given. I made it a habit never to dodge questions during an interview, believing strongly in the old adage that if you always tell the truth, you never have to remember what you said. While I hadn’t lied to Kristi, I hadn’t been totally up-front either. Had she been an adult eking out a living on her byline, I wouldn’t have given my sin of omission a second thought. But she was a high school student, impressionable and idealistic. And as a former high school teacher, I felt I owed her more than I’d initially provided.

  I recalled Kristi saying something about being on deadline, which meant the chance existed that she was still at the high school even several hours after dismissal. So I rode my bike over there from Mara’s and waited to be buzzed into the building, smiling toward the camera mounted over the main entrance. I heard the buzzer, followed by the click of the door opening.

  Back when I was teaching in this building, I’m not even sure they locked the door at night, and now this was what we’d come to? I was glad Cabot Cove had at least been spared the metal detectors common now even in similar suburban high schools, but bemoaned the fact that
any security precautions were deemed necessary. Was there no place we could consider safe anymore?

  Cabot Cove High principal Jen Sweeney emerged from the school office, lugging an armful of books, just as I entered the building.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, what a nice surprise!” She caught me spying the books she was toting. “Oh, this . . . I make the rounds every day, picking up left-behind library books before they accidentally get tossed away. Budget cuts being what they are, we can’t afford to lose a single book from our shelves.”

  “As president of the local Friends of the Library group, Ms. Sweeney, I can’t think of a more noble pursuit, and I applaud your efforts.”

  “So, what brings you down to our humble school? Are you mentoring anyone in the senior project this year?”

  I shook my head. “Guess this year’s class lacks the token scribe to take under my wing.”

  “A pity no student thought to take advantage of one of this town’s true treasures.”

  “That would be the coastline,” I said.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I gave our new advanced-placement and creative writing teacher your e-mail address.”

  “Not at all. I’d be happy to speak to the kids anytime.”

  “Wonderful, Mrs. Fletcher!” I watched Jen Sweeney switch the books from her right arm to her left. “Now, what can we do for you here at Cabot Cove High today?”

  “One of your students interviewed me earlier today for an article in the school paper.”

  “The Eagle’s won awards, you know.”

  “Actually, I didn’t.”

  Ms. Sweeney nodded, smiling. “New England High School Newspaper of the Year three times running and Maine’s six times running. Talk about a dog catching a ball every time you toss it to him. Who interviewed you for the Eagle?”

  “Kristi Powell.”

  “She’s won several awards herself, including Feature Story of the Year.”

  “I didn’t know that either.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t mention that or the paper’s success, Mrs. Fletcher. Seems a bit strange.”

  “She was probably just being humble.”

  Jen Sweeney didn’t look convinced of that at all. “‘Humility’ and ‘high school’ are seldom used in the same sentence.”

  “I suppose. Anyway, she mentioned she might be working on deadline. I thought I’d see if I could catch her. You see, Ms. Sweeney, I’m afraid I may have been a bit short with her on one of the lines of questioning she was pursuing, and I’ve been feeling guilty about it ever since.”

  “I’m sure it was nothing.”

  “Maybe. But if I want to sleep tonight, I need to make this right, maybe make it up to her in some way.”

  “I’m sure taking the time to come down here will be more than enough to accomplish that,” Ms. Sweeney said, laying the books she’d been toting down on a wooden bench set in front of the office. “I can get these back to the library later. Why don’t I show you to the newspaper office?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Have you ever noticed that all high schools smell the same? The hallways are inevitably filled with a mix of stale cleaning solvent, linoleum, paper, age, and sun-scorched tile. During the school day, those odors might be blocked by perfume, cologne, body sprays, and the like, but after hours, when the building empties, the original scents return to take hold.

  “Here we are,” Principal Sweeney said, reaching an open door near the far end of the first-floor corridor.

  Inside, I could hear the steady, rhythmic clack of fingers flying across computer keyboards—on deadline, as Kristi Powell had put it. Young, creative minds still believing anything was possible. I might have spoken to English and writing classes here occasionally, but hearing that sound made me fondly recall that stretch when I’d moved to New York to teach writing and criminology at Manhattan University, the first time I’d been back in a classroom since leaving Cabot Cove High. I don’t think I’ve ever had a more rewarding or enlightening experience, and I gave it up only because I missed Cabot Cove too much. Since I’d kept my Manhattan apartment, I did get back occasionally to the school for a week here and there, though it wasn’t the same. What I had enjoyed more than anything else was getting to know my students and watching them grow as they learned; popping in occasionally didn’t permit that luxury.

  “Mind if I come in?” Jen Sweeney asked those students gathered before her in the newspaper office. “I have a surprise for you all. I’m sure you’ve all heard of Cabot Cove’s own resident bestselling author, Jessica Fletcher.”

  I missed my cue and was late making my entrance through the door. I’d been distracted, wondering if it was time to finally answer, once and for all, the question I’d been dodging for twenty-five years, most recently earlier that day during my interview with the award-winning Kristi Powell.

  When did you solve your first murder?

  If it was time to come clean, what better way to do that than by letting a high school student be the first to tell the whole story of my final days at Appleton High? There was a curious, fitting symmetry to that, and I came to believe, as I stepped into the office of the Cabot Cove High School Eagle, that Kristi’s interview with me might come to serve a greater purpose. Maybe she’d even win another award. That thought brought a smile to my lips—making some good come from an experience I’d long banished from my memory.

  I didn’t spot Kristi initially among the room’s eager young faces.

  “Kristi, Mrs. Fletcher would like to have a word with you,” Principal Sweeney said to a girl seated in the corner before me.

  My breath seemed to freeze.

  I’d never seen that girl before in my life.

  Chapter Four

  Now, that’s a strange one, even for you, Mrs. Fletcher,” Sheriff Mort Metzger said, sitting across from me behind his desk at the Cabot Cove sheriff’s department.

  “Why Mrs. Fletcher today, Mort?”

  “Because we’re in the office. That makes this an official visit, and I like to impersonate a professional police officer from time to time.”

  “You spent twenty-five years with the NYPD,” I reminded him.

  “And I can’t help but remember my predecessor, Amos Tupper, didn’t provide any notion of what I was in for when I accepted this job.”

  I settled back in my chair. “So, what do you think?”

  “That I should drive you back to Hill House, so you don’t have to bike there in the dark.”

  “I was talking about the young woman who impersonated a high school newspaper reporter.”

  “Is that even a crime?”

  “You tell me, Mort. You’re the sheriff.”

  He laid his ever-present magical memo pad, which never seemed to be out of paper, down on the worn desk blotter before him. The blotter had so many coffee cup ring stains that some of the stains had stains. “Why exactly would someone impersonate a high school kid?”

  “To get me to talk,” I told him.

  “And did you, Jessica?”

  “This isn’t business anymore?”

  Mort rose from his chair and sat down closer to me on the front of the desk. “Did you speak with the real Kristi Powell at the school?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “Truth be told, I don’t think she’d ever even heard of me.”

  “But she really has won awards for her work?”

  I nodded. “Is that important?”

  “I have no idea what’s important here, Jessica, because none of this makes any sense.” He looked down at me from his new perch, pondering the situation further. “You didn’t ask to see any ID?”

  “No.”

  “And how did this young woman claiming to be Kristi Powell contact you?”

  “By phone.”

  “Your room a
t Hill House or cell?”

  “Hill House. If she’d called my cell, I would’ve been suspicious, wondering how she’d gotten the number.”

  “An intrepid high school journalist? She probably has all kinds of contacts on speed dial. You know, lunch ladies, the custodial staff, building security guard—the kinds of folks who know where the bodies are buried.”

  “This isn’t funny, Mort.”

  “I know, but I’m not sure what it is. And you let a perfect stranger into your home without doing any due diligence whatsoever.”

  “We met at Mara’s, Mort.”

  “I was speaking figuratively. Maybe you should come to my public safety coffee klatches once in a while. And I’m going to need to talk to Kristi Powell.”

  “I told you—I have no idea who she really is.”

  “I’m talking about the real one.”

  “Is that really necessary?”

  “What do you think? Maybe the impostor contacted her, dug some background info out of her to better seal the deal.”

  “I don’t think so. Like you said, the real Kristi has won awards, something the fake one never mentioned, something she surely would have done if she’d done her homework.”

  “No pun intended, given this case centers around high school.”

  “The impostor was no high school student, Mort. She was only made up to look like one.”

  “So how old might she have been?”

  “How can you tell these days? I have no idea.”

  “And you call yourself an investigator.”

  “I call myself a writer.”

  “Hmmm, you sound testy.”

  “It’s been a long day, that’s all,” I said, thinking of that invitation to the retirement party for a colleague from my days at Appleton, on top of all those questions about my involvement in my first murder investigation. “I have a feeling the past is catching up with me.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I’ll let you know when I figure it out myself. But there was this murder. . . .”