Amos Tupper looked at me like he was hanging on my every word. “‘Unless,’” he repeated.
“Unless the killer brought the weapon with him.”
“You think they had an appointment or something, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“I don’t know about an appointment, but I keep coming back to that heated phone call I overheard. Maybe the killer came over straightaway unannounced to continue the argument in person. Does the school have any security cameras that might show us something?”
“I’ll check,” Tupper said, making a note in his memo pad after touching the ballpoint to his tongue for some reason. “And I’ll be certain to make sure that the crime scene team checks every object that isn’t nailed down for blood residue, since the killer would have almost surely wiped down the murder weapon.” Tupper nodded to himself, his sleepy eyes showing a bit more life. “Mystery writer, you say . . .”
“Just according to one of my students.”
“Well, I’d say you’d make a pretty darn fine detective.”
“Thank you, but I think I’ll stick to teaching.”
“Well, if you ever change your mind . . .” He looked taller as he moved for the door, with something of a spring in his step. “Now then, I’d better go tell those state police boys that their initial findings require some tweaking. If you turn out to be right, I guess I won’t seem so dumb to them anymore.”
“You mean, if we turn out to be right, Detective.”
He led me toward the door. “Mrs. Fletcher, I believe you and I make a great team.”
“Why, thank you, Detective.”
He looked shy all of a sudden, like a boy trying to ask a girl to dance. “Would you mind if I contacted you to keep you informed of our progress?”
“Not at all. I’d appreciate it, in fact. Let’s just hope we don’t have to make a habit of this.”
Chapter Ten
The present
Amos Tupper was a detective?”
I nodded. “He was indeed, Mort.”
“Now I’ve heard everything.”
“You say that a lot when we work together.”
“I know. For good reason. I can see why you’re such a successful author, Jessica, given that you never seem to repeat yourself.” He looked at me, as if needing more convincing about at least one part of the story I’d just told him. “Detective Amos Tupper? Really?”
Amos, of course, had gone on to become sheriff of Cabot Cove, taking the job just before Frank’s passing and remaining in it for a number of years before turning the reins over to Mort Metzger. Having tired of police work after twenty years on the job, he’d left the Appleton police department shortly after Walter Reavis’s murderer was brought to justice. He drove a bus for a time before growing bored and applying for the sheriff’s job in Cabot Cove, once it came open, never imagining that the one murder he’d investigated during his time in Appleton was just a warm-up for what he would face in Cabot Cove.
“Returning to the present,” Mort said, “Ginny’s mother went back to using her maiden name of Demerest after the divorce. Madeline Demerest, but she goes by Maddie.”
“Should we call ahead to tell her we’re coming?”
“And spoil all the fun of surprising her?” Mort challenged me. “We used to have a saying in New York: If they don’t know you’re coming, they can’t be ready for you.”
“This isn’t Manhattan,” I reminded him.
“Last time I checked, Jessica, murder was murder. And it just so happens, Maddie Demerest never leaves her home, because her work is her home.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Mort smiled. “I think I’d rather keep you in suspense again. Give you a taste of your own medicine.”
* * *
* * *
“Ever hear of the Portland Head Lighthouse?” Mort asked me as we crossed the New Hampshire–Maine border just past the Portsmouth travel circle.
“The one in Fort Williams Park commissioned by George Washington himself?”
“Can’t put anything over on you, can I?”
“I’ve lived in New England for most of my life and Maine for the bulk of it, Mort. But what does Maddie Demerest have to do with the Portland Head Lighthouse?”
Mort explained that the still-active light and fog signals were actually maintained by the Coast Guard these days, leaving the mother of the late Ginny Genaway to manage the rest of the complex. And one of the fringe benefits of managing the popular tourist attraction—which comprised an actual working lighthouse, a museum, and a gift shop—was an apartment carved out of the current Keepers’ Quarters, built in 1891. Upgrades and improvements to the facility had been frequent in the years since its construction, such maintenance crucial to keeping the lighthouse fully functional and vital as ever in steering boats away from the rocky Maine coastline, especially in fog. The facility had continued to operate toward that end after being fully automated in August 1989. So although Maddie Demerest had lived at the facility for three years now, she had nothing to do with its continuing operation beyond her tour guide, museum director, and gift shop duties.
“Does she know about her daughter?” I asked Mort as the point containing the lighthouse came within view.
“State police paid her a visit up close and personal this morning. At last check she was still on the premises, tours canceled and the museum closed for the day.”
“MSP happen to inquire about her whereabouts last night, Mort?”
“Ever the suspicious one, aren’t you?”
I shrugged. “It’s my nature.”
“Mine, too. I thought that would change when I moved to Cabot Cove, but old habits die hard.”
“Good thing, given that spike in the murder rate that accompanied your arrival.”
“You’re blaming me for that?”
“If the shoe fits . . .”
Mort slowed his SUV as we approached the entrance to the Portland Head Lighthouse parking lot, which was understandably deserted, except for a single Maine State Police cruiser. “You know, I think you’re right about Amos Tupper, Jessica. He must not have been as dumb as everyone thinks; he was smart enough not to tell me what being sheriff of Cabot Cove was really like.”
We parked and climbed out of his SUV. The MSP officer left behind to watch over Maddie Demerest must have spotted us, because he approached across the parking lot, hitching up his gun belt.
“Sheriff Mort Metzger from Cabot Cove, Officer,” Mort said by way of introduction. “And this is Jessica Fletcher.”
The officer nodded my way before turning all of his attention to Mort. “Cabot Cove being where the murder of this woman’s daughter took place.”
“Within our jurisdiction, anyway,” Mort corrected. “Is she able to talk?”
“She’s not sedated or anything, if that’s what you mean, and I haven’t seen any alcohol in evidence. So, other than shock and grief, she’s definitely able. We offered to take her to the coroner’s office, your town, or anywhere else. It seemed strange she didn’t want to go.”
“According to reports, she and the victim have been estranged for some time,” Mort told him. “I couldn’t tell you the last time they saw each other or even spoke.”
“Living so close to each other, with her daughter down in New Hampshire and all?”
Mort frowned. “Yeah. Go figure.”
“Let me tell Ms. Demerest you’re here.”
* * *
* * *
The first thing I realized about Maddie Demerest, mother of Ginny Genaway, was that she was a smoker. I detected the telltale odor as soon as we climbed the interior stairs of the building—which had once served as the lightkeeper’s quarters in its entirety—toward her apartment. The smell got stronger the higher we climbed, and when Maddie responded to Mort’s knock on her door with a cigarette in her hand, it w
asn’t hard to figure out why.
Mort took off his cap. “Ma’am, I’m Sheriff Mort Metzger from Cabot Cove. I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
The woman stole a glance at me, as if wondering what I was doing there, before fixing her gaze on Mort. “You’re the one who found the body.”
“Not me, Ms. Demerest. One of my officers. He noticed her car parked alone at this rest stop.”
Scenic overlook, I almost corrected Mort before stopping myself.
“But Mrs. Fletcher here,” Mort continued, gesturing toward me, “was probably the last person to see her alive.”
“Besides her killer, you mean,” Maddie Demerest managed, brushing away some tears she seemed surprised were there.
She uttered a sigh that drifted off with the smoke from her latest drag. Maddie must’ve been in her late fifties or early sixties, but her thin frame and slovenly appearance made her look at least ten years older.
“Why don’t we move this inside?” I suggested. “I could fix us some tea or coffee while you speak with Sheriff Metzger.”
She opened the door all the way. “I don’t want any of either. What I could use is a stiff drink, except I gave it up years ago. I thought it would help me reconnect with the one kid I had left, but sometimes things are too broken to glue back together.”
I kept my eyes fastened on Maddie as I stepped with Mort through the door. “We’re aware of your losing your son in the Middle East, but you have another daughter, don’t you?” I asked, recalling the photo from Ginny’s apartment in Manchester.
“My older daughter, Lisa Joy.” She nodded. “Left this part of the country for someplace in the South, if you can believe that, as soon as she could after her father’s death. Last I heard, she was teaching somewhere in Alabama.” She took another deep drag of the cigarette and coughed out the smoke, retching. “Following in her father’s footsteps,” she added after getting her breath back. “Strange, given that she hated him as much as she hated me.”
“Your older daughter was a junior at Appleton High at the time of your ex-husband’s murder—is that correct?” I asked.
She looked at me oddly, the smoke from her cigarette wafting up between us. “Who are you, again?”
“Jessica Fletcher, Ms. Demerest.”
Mort cleared his throat. “I thought bringing a woman along would be a good idea.”
“Which doesn’t explain what you’re doing here either, Sheriff. If you came to inform me of my daughter’s death, you’re several hours too late.”
“I thought you might know something that can help us find her killer.”
“Ms. Demerest,” I picked up, “it’s been my experience that oftentimes relatives and others close to victims of violent crime know something without necessarily being aware of it until it’s revealed in the process of a conversation.”
“Your experience? But you’re not here as a cop, just a woman—isn’t that right?”
“Mrs. Fletcher has assisted numerous investigations in Cabot Cove as well as in many other locations,” Mort interjected by way of explanation.
A brief flash of recognition struck Maddie Demerest’s expression. “Oh, I remember now. You taught at Walter’s school. You were working with that detective who was investigating his murder for the Appleton police. You ended up becoming a mystery writer, rich and famous now because that investigation set you on your way.”
I let her remark pass. This woman had lost her son to a roadside bomb and a daughter to estrangement. I didn’t yet know the depth of her estrangement from Ginny, whether it reached the level it had with Lisa Joy. I guess it didn’t matter at this point. Madeline Demerest was a sad woman who’d tried to drown herself in booze and was now charring her insides with cigarette smoke. Her appearance indicated she was long past caring, and I wondered how she’d managed to weather three years there giving tours of the lighthouse, which meant smiling a lot, no easy task for her by any estimation.
“When was the last time you spoke to your daughter?” Mort asked her.
“What’s it matter now?”
“I was hoping she may have given some indication of what brought her to Cabot Cove, ma’am,” Mort persisted.
“Not to me, she didn’t, Sheriff. I have no idea of what you’re talking about. You’re making me regret even letting you in.”
I took a step sideways, partially positioning myself between them. “Why don’t we sit down in your parlor over there? Or, better yet, the kitchen. I could make you that tea.”
“I’ll stand if you don’t mind, Mrs. Fletcher. I don’t want the two of you getting comfortable.”
“I had coffee with your daughter Ginny yesterday. We met on the pretext of an interview for the local high school’s newspaper she claimed to be a reporter for.”
“And you believed her?”
“She did look the part, yes.”
Maddie Demerest lit a fresh cigarette and dropped the lighter back into the pocket of the shapeless sweater she was wearing, which draped over her narrow, bony shoulders. “What did she want from you exactly?”
“I can’t tell you because I’m not sure, not exactly. But she seemed interested mostly in her father’s murder.”
“After all these years?”
“I’ve been asking myself that question ever since learning she wasn’t who she claimed to be, Ms. Demerest.”
She narrowed her gaze on me. “You were at his funeral, my ex-husband’s. I remember seeing you there. You introduced yourself to me.”
“I’m sorry I don’t remember. Would you mind if I asked you a question?”
“We’re both standing here.”
“How would you describe your daughter Ginny’s relationship with her father?” I asked, changing the subject.
“As our youngest, she missed him terribly. I think he got a great deal right with her that didn’t necessarily happen with Lisa Joy and Gavin, our son.”
“According to Ginny’s ex-husband—”
“You’ve been to see that hoodlum?” Maddie Demerest interrupted, her features flaring. “That criminal who took advantage of her?”
“I don’t think she saw it that way, Ms. Demerest.”
Maddie looked away from me and back toward Mort. “Are we finished here, Sheriff?”
“I believe we are, ma’am. I would like to reach out to your other daughter, though. Do you have a contact number for Lisa Joy down in Alabama?”
“I never did. I couldn’t even tell you if she lives there anymore. I can’t let myself care, Sheriff. If I do, I’ll start drinking again. The one thing I’ve accomplished in all these years, the one good thing, was climbing on the wagon. Would you like to know how I got this job?”
Maddie looked back at me and I nodded.
“I was planning on jumping out of the light tower. But I wasn’t sure it was high enough, and I didn’t want to get it wrong, the way I’d gotten so many other things wrong. So I applied for this job instead. Fitting in a strange way, given that Lisa Joy had been obsessed with lighthouses. She used to paint them, build models, collect photographs. And now I’ve been living in one for, oh, the last three years. What do you make of that, Mrs. Fletcher?”
Just then I noticed a framed photograph of her with all three of her children. Since her son was in his Marine uniform, I assumed it was one of the last taken before he was killed by a roadside bomb and her older daughter left home for good.
“Do you think we could borrow that, Maddie?” I asked her.
She handed me the whole frame without giving it a thought. “Here you go. Knock yourself out.”
I think Mort had had about as much as he could take. “Thank you for your time, ma’am,” he said, fitting his sheriff’s hat back on as he angled back toward the door. “We’d best get going now.”
“Aren’t you going to promise that you’ll catch my daughte
r’s killer?”
“I can promise I’ll do everything I can.”
The woman nodded, her gaze so distant that she didn’t even seem to be in the room anymore. “That’s the problem with everything, Sheriff: It’s seldom enough.”
* * *
* * *
We sat in silence inside Mort’s SUV for a few moments before heading back to Cabot Cove. The last of the day’s light was bleeding from the sky and it would be night before we got there.
“Remember that Cadillac you used to drive, Mort?”
“The red Eldorado? How could I forget?”
“You know, you never once gave me a ride in it.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to make Adele jealous.”
“I didn’t think you were going to last, Mort. I was afraid Cabot Cove wasn’t the retirement you’d been hoping for.”
“It wasn’t—not at first, anyway. But after the war and the NYPD, I realized too much peace and quiet would have driven me up the wall.”
“And how do you feel now?”
“Like I would’ve been better off with the wall,” Mort said, stopping just short of a smile.
I watched him check an e-mail message that had just come, using his fingers to make whatever he was reading bigger on the screen.
“Ballistics report just came in,” he said, still eyeing the message. “The bullet that killed Ginny Genaway was a nine millimeter. Powder burns on the passenger-side headrest confirm the shooter was seated in the passenger seat when he shot her to death.”
“Just like we figured.”
Mort nodded. “Right. All we’ve got to do now is figure out who pulled the trigger.”
Chapter Eleven
Seth is waiting for us at Mara’s,” Mort continued, gunning his engine after reading another e-mail. “He says he has big news to share.”
“It’s only big news if it helps us solve the case.”
“Patience, Mrs. F.,” Mort said.
Murder, She Wrote--A Time for Murder Page 9
