I was able to identify Ginny in the picture immediately, because I knew she was Walter’s youngest. The son who’d later die in service to his country in the Middle East was the eldest child, pictured here as a teenage boy looking as if he’d rather be somewhere else. Walter’s elder daughter, a junior at Appleton High at the time, was a gangly girl with glasses and frizzy hair. I seemed to remember she almost never smiled, perpetually glum and morose.
“What about Ginny’s mother, Walter’s ex-wife?” I asked Mort.
“She lives in Cape Elizabeth. I’ve got her address. We could make a stop there on the way home.”
“I don’t have any other pressing appointments.”
“Besides your retirement party on Saturday, that is.”
“It’s not my retirement party, Mort.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m sensitive about such things.”
“I don’t blame you,” Mort nodded. “Look no further than how retirement worked out for me.”
* * *
* * *
We conducted a scattershot, piecemeal search of the apartment, not sure of what we were really looking for. The only other things of interest we found were a few recent copies of the Cabot Cove Gazette lying around. That suggested Ginny had made other trips to town of late, not just to interview me in the guise of a high school student, and left me wondering what her source of fascination with our town might be.
Of the six copies of the paper she’d kept, the oldest went back just over five months.
It had been four months prior to that when she’d attacked her ex-husband. She’d developed an apparent fascination with a town to which she had no obvious connection, and this had occurred around the same time the divorce was finalized and her ex-husband, Vic, was incarcerated.
Was there a connection there perhaps? And what was it about Cabot Cove that had commanded her interest? Physical copies of the paper were sold in a very small radius, meaning Ginny was making regular trips to the proximity of our town for reasons yet unknown that might well have led to her death.
Were those reasons somehow connected to the interview she’d conducted with me under such patently false pretenses? Was there something in our conversation that might provide more hints as to the identity of her killer, someone she both knew and had set up a meeting with for later that night? I didn’t believe for one minute that her visit the day before had been random. Something had clearly sparked the timing, and the only other connection I had right now was Wilma Tisdale’s retirement party, which didn’t appear to be much of a connection at all.
I waited until we’d completed our initial, cursory check of Ginny Genaway’s last residence and were back in Mort’s SUV before raising any of this with him.
“Looks like we’ve got plenty to talk about on the way to Cape Elizabeth, Mrs. F.,” he said after I’d laid out a portion of my thinking. “And I think you may be right about Walter Reavis’s murder twenty-five years ago having some connection to his daughter’s last night.” He glanced at me across the seat, as he started his engine. “I think you’d better tell me what happened next at Appleton High, how that murder became the first one you ever solved.”
Chapter Nine
Twenty-five years ago . . .
Not just that,” Wilma Tisdale told me. “He may have been murdered.”
Wilma didn’t know much more, just that the school secretary, Alma Potts, had found the body and called 911. Something she’d seen had been the cause of the murder rumors, which, based on the hefty police presence and the fact that Appleton PD had called in the state police, must have been well-founded.
I felt like I was in a fog, chilled by the notion that I might very well have been the last person to see Walter alive. Except I hadn’t seen him. I’d only heard him at the tail end of that argument, which had finished with Walter pronouncing, “Over my dead body.”
Well . . .
I had to report what I’d heard to the state and local police. It would be left to them to learn who the principal of Appleton High had been arguing with, and that person, I assumed, would be someone they’d want to speak with immediately.
As a crime scene, the main office had been shut off from the rest of the school and guarded by a uniformed Appleton police officer I recognized as Tom Jennings. I spotted Alma Potts at work behind her desk, no doubt manning the phones, which I knew would be ringing off the hook all day.
“A terrible thing, Mrs. Fletcher,” Tom greeted me as I approached.
“Tom, I have information I need to pass on to the officer in charge of the case.”
“Between you and me, ma’am, I don’t even know who that is right now, although I’m guessing it would be the Appleton detective assigned to the case.”
“I didn’t even know Appleton had a detective.”
Jennings didn’t quite move out of the way. “So, this information . . .”
“Mr. Reavis and I were supposed to meet yesterday afternoon. But when I got to the office, I overheard him arguing with someone. I’m almost positive it was over the phone.”
Jennings’s mouth dropped. His gaze narrowed on me, as if it took a few seconds for the information I’d imparted to sink in.
“Stay here, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll get somebody.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
I watched him enter the main office and disappear down the short hallway at the end of which lay Walter Reavis’s office. He was gone only a few moments, before the office door opened anew and Tom Jennings emerged with a shorter man, slightly paunchy, with friendly doe eyes, a harried demeanor, and a sports jacket that had seen better days. He wore his police badge dangling by a chain from his neck, and it was accidentally flipped around so that it was facing his shirt. He looked haggard, anxious, and for some reason, I thought, happy to be away from where Walter’s body had been found.
“Detective, this is Jessica Fletcher,” Tom Jennings said by way of introduction. “She lives in Appleton and teaches here at the school.”
“Substitute teaches,” I elaborated.
The detective brushed his tweed sports jacket back and jammed his hands into his pockets. “The deputy here tells me you’ve got some information pertaining to Walter Reavis’s death that may be helpful to us,” he said.
“I believe so, Detective . . .”
“Tupper, ma’am. Amos Tupper.”
* * *
* * *
I took his extended hand as I looked slightly down at Detective Tupper. Because I’m a smidge over five feet eight, it was something I was used to.
“I knew Walter Reavis from the lodge.” Tupper sighed. “A wonderful man and a great educator. Not a good day for Appleton, Mrs. Fletcher, not a good day for Appleton at all. Now, Officer Jennings tells me you may be the closest thing we have to a witness.”
“How did Mr. Reavis die, Detective?”
“He appears to have fallen and hit his head.”
“You called in the state police for an accident?”
“We’re just being super diligent. Make that hypervigilant. We don’t have a lot of experience with such things in Appleton, Mrs. Fletcher. Figured the state police would be able to weigh in with more expertise.”
“I believe that’s wise,” I agreed as officers came and went past us.
“So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go over what you recall from yesterday afternoon,” Tupper said, feeling about his pockets. “Hold on a sec. . . .”
“Your lapel pocket, Detective.”
“Huh?”
I reached out and plucked a memo pad from his sports jacket.
“Will you look at that?” he said, taking the pad. “I feel like a chicken with its head cut off today.” He lowered his voice. “Can I confess something to you, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Of course, Detective.”
Lower still. “Thi
s is my first murder investigation—potential murder investigation, anyway.”
“It’s certainly a rare occurrence in Appleton.”
“Now, as to what you recall from yesterday . . .”
Detective Tupper listened intently to everything I had to say, and jotted down the most pertinent facts on his memo pad.
“Can you think of anything else?” he asked when I was finished.
“Like what?”
“You said that you had seen Mr. Reavis earlier in the day. How would you describe his demeanor at that time?”
“Nothing stands out, nothing out of the ordinary, except for that phone call I can’t get out of my mind.”
He made a note of that and pocketed his memo pad, seeming to think of something else. “Do you think you could do me a favor, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Of course.”
“Mr. Reavis’s secretary found the body, but never formally identified it. She was pretty shaken up, and I don’t want to bother her again. Would you mind identifying the body for us?”
I felt my insides tighten, but I nodded anyway. “It’s something that has to be done.”
Tupper looked appreciative of my obliging his request and started to lead me inside the office. “Say, you didn’t tell me what your meeting with Mr. Reavis was supposed to be about.”
I thought I had, but let it go. “He wanted to talk about bringing me on to replace a teacher who’s likely going to be out for the rest of the year. Right now, I’m full-time but only as a substitute.”
“Well, now, how can a substitute be full-time?”
“There’s always some teacher out, and I’m the first to cover. And on those rare days when everyone’s accounted for, the school finds other work for me.”
“I see. Well, we’d best get this over and done with so you can get to that work.”
* * *
* * *
Walter Reavis’s body lay crumpled at an odd angle on the floor, its contours visible through the plastic crime scene sheet currently covering it. I was grateful for that, since it spared me seeing a friend and colleague in such a state without any time to prepare myself. I’ve never considered myself to have weak knees or a weak stomach. Beneath that sheet, though, was the corpse of a man who’d believed in me and championed my fledgling career as a teacher. Walter saw something in me, a potential that no one else had. I went about my business as a substitute in as unobtrusive and professional a manner as I could. But the fact remained that even fellow teachers didn’t pay our kind much respect, given that the common perception was that there must have been a reason why I wasn’t a full teacher.
I caught the state police officers snickering at Detective Tupper’s presence in the principal’s office. They exchanged a few whispered words and poorly suppressed chuckles, clearly disparaging him.
“You boys mind giving us the room?” Tupper asked them.
He watched them leave the office and didn’t speak again until he was sure they were out of earshot. “Don’t pay them any heed, Mrs. Fletcher. They don’t respect me much and aren’t keen on my investigative skills.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Detective. Their judgment must be severely lacking.”
“Well, the truth is, they may be right when it comes to a murder investigation, but they don’t place a lot of stock in the fact that I’ve closed every case I’ve been assigned so far.”
“I must confess that I didn’t even know Appleton maintained a detective squad.”
“I am the squad, Mrs. Fletcher, and also the town’s official detective. Town selectmen approved the position in this year’s budget, and truth be told, I was the only one who applied for the job, fresh out of traffic detail. Investigated more than my share of accidents and made my ticket quota every month, but nothing prepared me for this.”
“Then perhaps I can help.”
“You have investigative experience?”
“None at all, but I found out yesterday I may have a future as a mystery writer,” I said, recalling that sophomore student’s critique of my story, which wasn’t a mystery at all.
“Well, that counts as experience in my book.”
Tupper moved to the plastic crime scene sheet covering the body of Walter Reavis and drew it back, turning toward me so as not to have to look at the corpse himself. “Can you identify this man, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“I can’t see his face, Detective. It’s turned the other way.”
“Well, I’ll be,” he said, frowning at his oversight. “Being that we don’t want to disturb the body, would you mind coming closer?”
“Not at all.”
Actually, I was shaking like a leaf. I’d never seen a dead body before, much less the corpse of someone I knew, and knew well. Walter looked as though he might have been sleeping, if it hadn’t been for the nasty gash on his forehead and the blood puddled beneath his head. I was grateful the drawn blinds shut out the light of the sun, keeping Walter’s face cloaked by shadows.
“State police haven’t ruled out murder yet, but I pretty much have.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
Detective Tupper pointed to a pair of yellow evidence flags affixed to the edge of the desk, between which rested what was clearly a blood smear. “As I see it, he slipped and hit his head. Let me show you something, Mrs. Fletcher.”
I followed him around to the back of Walter Reavis’s desk. Before sliding open the bottom drawer, Tupper looked toward the doorway to make sure the state policemen were nowhere to be seen.
“Take a gander.”
I moved into the spot he’d vacated and spotted a bottle of gin, half empty.
“At the lodge,” Tupper explained, “when we got to relaxing, Walter would say sometimes he needed a quick pop to help him get through the day. Now, I’m not one to pass judgment, and you may be thinking that as an officer of the law, I should’ve reported him, but the information was passed in an informal setting between friends. I figured I owed him sealed lips on the subject.” Tupper frowned again, obviously his default expression. “Thinking on that now, maybe I made a mistake.”
I waited for him to go on.
“Maybe Walter would still be alive if I’d spoken up.”
“You believe he started drinking after that unpleasant phone call, then slipped and fell.”
“And banged his head right there,” Tupper said, pointing toward that blood smear between the two evidence flags. “If I were a betting man, and I’m not, I’d wager the autopsy report will come back with a high blood alcohol level.”
I checked the positioning of Walter Reavis’s body again. “This is the way he was found?”
“The body hasn’t been moved an inch, as far as I know. Everything in the office is exactly as it was when we got here.”
Now I wished we could open the blinds to let in more light so I could see better. “I’m no expert, Detective, but the gash on his head doesn’t appear to match the contours of that desk edge, at least not exactly.”
Tupper put on his reading glasses to check the spot again, then took them right off when he realized they weren’t helping. “Yes, ma’am, I see your point. Wonder how the MSP missed that,” he said, referring to the Maine State Police.
“They probably wouldn’t have much longer, not once the crime scene technicians have a go at the place. I think we’re looking for a potential weapon with a sharper and more concentrated edge. Also, when someone falls forward and bangs his head,” I said, imitating that motion on another section of the desk, “the natural reflex is for the head to pop back straight upward. Impact strong enough to be fatal would’ve had to be flush, which means he could have been walking, or stumbling, for the door when he heard the phone ring. He started back toward his desk and slipped, and then the desk broke his fall.”
“Makes sense, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Except that means he wou
ld have approached the desk on this angle to grab the phone from this side,” I said, again simulating the action. “And if that were the case, approaching the only way he really could have, he would have fallen to the left, not to the right, after impact.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Amos Tupper said, scratching his chin.
“It’s a possibility, Detective. Another, connected possibility is that the killer wanted to make it look like an accident, so after the fact he smeared some of Walter Reavis’s blood right there,” I finished, pointing to the dried blood smear on the lip of the desk.
“Then what killed him?”
I swept my gaze about the office, focusing on the shelves and various keepsakes on display. “I’d look for an object that meets the general contours of the wound on Mr. Reavis’s forehead.” My eyes locked on one of the shelves. “Like that trophy up there or that paperweight with the stone dollar bill.”
Tupper’s gaze followed mine. “‘The buck keeps going,’” he read out loud, squinting. “Seems likely the killer would’ve taken it with him, though, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe. But then he, or she, would’ve had to find a way to dispose of it or risk being caught with it in his, or her, possession. The killer probably thought the ruse was sufficient, might have even been counting on the fact that someone investigating would know about that gin bottle.”
“I was the only one on the force who knew about that, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“You’re also the only detective in Appleton and thus certain to catch the case.”
“And given that plenty in town don’t think I could catch a cold, the killer figured I wouldn’t notice anything awry.”
“The murder weapon’s still here, Detective. I’d bet on it. Unless . . .”
Murder, She Wrote--A Time for Murder Page 8
