Murder, She Wrote--A Time for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “We need to find Ginny’s older sister, Lisa Joy, Mort.”

  “Even her mother doesn’t know where she is.”

  “Madeline Demerest doesn’t impress me as someone with a lot of initiative left in her tank.”

  “Good thing you have enough for her and ten other people, then. But her elder daughter appears to be someone who doesn’t want to be found.”

  “For starters, we know she was teaching in Alabama.”

  “Do we, Jessica? Pardon me for not taking that woman at her word.”

  “No one drops off the map for good these days,” I reminded him, and took from my bag the photograph Maddie Demerest had given us. “And at least now we’ve got her picture.”

  “Sure, from when she was in high school in braces and pigtails.”

  “No braces or pigtails, Mort,” I told him.

  * * *

  * * *

  Mort had a minor emergency he had to attend to, thanks to a call he’d just received, so he dropped me off and I went inside Mara’s to meet Seth Hazlitt ahead of him. He was seated at the same table in the luncheonette as yesterday and pretty much every other day. Someone else was also at the table, but I didn’t recognize Cabot Cove High School principal Jen Sweeney until she turned around at my approach.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” she greeted me, rising politely, “how nice to see you again.”

  “You, too, Ms. Sweeney.”

  “I was just discussing Career Day with Dr. Hazlitt. He’s agreed to be our keynote speaker this year.”

  “Well,” I told her, “the good doctor is never at a loss for words.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Seth groused. “And I promise to make it better than that snooze fest Mrs. Fletcher delivered last year.”

  “You’d best figure on the day running long,” I warned Jen Sweeney. “I’ve heard him speak, and he tends to get a tad long-winded.”

  “That’s only because I have a lot of important things to say. You’ll see, Ms. Sweeney, ayuh.”

  She looked toward me. “I trust we can count on your participation again, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Of course,” I told her. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I hope the real Kristi Powell signs up for one of my presentations.”

  “I’ll do my best to see that she does.”

  “Tell her I cover journalism, too, and how to transition to fiction writing, particularly novels.”

  “I think she’ll find that most interesting. I know you influenced a great many young writers in your time teaching at the school. Some of their books share the local-author shelf with yours.”

  “Just as they did in my house. I’m going to order fresh copies, and they’re going to be the first things I put back on the shelves as soon as I move back in.”

  She looked up at me, the admiration stretched across her expression clearly genuine. “On the chance you ever consider giving teaching a whirl again, Mrs. Fletcher . . .”

  “That means so much to me, Ms. Sweeney. But it’s been so long, I think I’m best off just sticking to Career Day presentations.”

  “Nonsense. You could reach students whose interest in most subjects doesn’t amount to a hill of beans these days. Believe me—I know.”

  “I’m sure you do, being on the front lines every day.”

  Jen Sweeney pushed her chair back and stood up again. “Please forgive me for intruding on whatever plans you all made,” she said to both Seth and me.

  “Pie and coffee don’t qualify as a plan,” Seth told her. “They qualify as survival.”

  * * *

  * * *

  But his evening, as opposed to afternoon, slice of pie was long gone, and he was into what looked to be his third cup of coffee, judging by the number of stray Splenda wrappers soaking in the saucer. Mort passed Jen Sweeney and tipped his cap to her on his way through the door. Under Seth’s caustic stare, he took the chair she’d just vacated.

  “Took you long enough,” Cabot Cove’s favorite doctor and resident curmudgeon said by way of greeting. “Normally, I’m getting ready for bed right now.”

  “It’s only eight o’clock, Seth.”

  “I start getting ready for bed early,” he said, casting me a faux-derisive stare. “The coroner sent over Ginny Genaway’s complete medical history with her autopsy report. And there’s something in it you may find interesting: She was under a psychiatrist’s care.”

  “Got a name for that psychiatrist?”

  “Yes, and I already took the liberty of dropping him an e-mail.”

  “A little forward, wouldn’t you say, Doc?”

  “No more than you making me the medical officer of record for Cabot Cove. That’s what the address label said. It would’ve been nice if you’d shared the news with me, Mort, that I’d been blessed with such a prestigious title, especially given that I’m not the only physician in Cabot Cove now.”

  “Don’t go all high and mighty on me, Doc. I couldn’t remember the names of the others, so you were my first and only choice.”

  “Should I be flattered?”

  “What did the psychiatrist say when you reached him?” I said, breaking into their exchange.

  “E-mailed me back that he couldn’t break doctor-client privilege.”

  “It doesn’t extend beyond death,” Mort reminded him.

  “Which might explain why he said to have local law enforcement contact him directly. I told him I was acting in an official capacity and made an appointment to see him on your behalf.” Seth looked my way. “I didn’t mention that you’d be coming along on Friday, too, Jess.”

  “I haven’t been invited yet.”

  “Consider yourself invited, then, unless you’re busy Friday.”

  “I think I can squeeze this into my schedule.”

  Mort checked the pie selections on the menu. “Where’s the psychiatrist located?”

  “Brookline, Massachusetts. Beacon Street, to be more precise.”

  “A long drive for nothing, if he hasn’t got anything worthwhile to say,” Mort groused. “Glad it’s you and Mrs. F. handling this part of the investigation.”

  “Why’s he calling you ‘Mrs. F.’ again?” Seth asked.

  “It brings back happy memories of the days before Mort realized what he was getting into here,” I told him.

  “Speaking of memories, Doc,” Mort said, folding his arms before him on the table, “did you know Amos Tupper was a detective in Appleton before putting on his Cabot Cove sheriff’s badge?”

  “No, I don’t believe I did.”

  “Good. Jessica can tell you all about it on that drive to Brookline.”

  Seth scratched his fork over the plate to scrape up the remaining scraps of his strawberry-rhubarb pie. “Maybe it is a waste of time.”

  “Why don’t I just ride my bicycle?” I snapped at them both. “If I leave now, I might make it by early next week.”

  “How’d you like to be a sheriff’s deputy for the day?” Mort asked me. “That way, we can make it official.”

  “You’re just worried that I’ll be able to get more out of this psychiatrist than you.”

  “Why should this case be different from all the others?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Mort had some catching up to do at the office, so Seth drove me back to Hill House in one of his ancient Volvos. He bought one after another, usually every three years, always used, each model somehow seeming older than the one that preceded it. His pat explanation for this was that he preferred cars as old as he was—until they broke down, that is.

  I’d barely gotten settled inside my suite when a knock fell on my door. I opened it, stupidly without checking the peephole, to find standing there a pair of men I’d never seen before in my life.

  “Could we have a word with you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Tha
t depends on who you are.”

  The two men looked at each other, turning their heads in perfectly synchronized fashion like puppets controlled with the same string.

  “Vic Genaway sent us,” the original speaker said, and I had the distinct sense he’d be the one doing all the talking.

  “That doesn’t tell me who you are.”

  “Yes, it does,” the man said. “Mr. Genaway sent us up here to keep tabs on the investigation into his wife’s murder, lend our assistance if it comes to that.”

  “What’s that mean, ‘lending your assistance’?”

  “If it comes to that,” the man repeated as if I’d grasp his meaning more clearly the second time. “Mr. Genaway only wants to make sure that justice is done, Mrs. Fletcher. Hey, you’re a mystery writer, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “My wife loves mysteries. You think you could sign a book for her? I don’t have one with me now but . . .”

  “I’ve got some books on hand. Why don’t you gentlemen come inside?”

  They looked at each other again, as if surprised I’d invited them in. I noticed that the man who’d done the talking left the door open just a crack, as if to reassure me I had nothing to fear from them, which I’d managed to conclude already. Men like this, when they intend to do you harm, don’t normally knock on the door.

  I picked up a copy of my most recent hardcover from the coffee table in the living room portion of my Hill House suite, sat down on the couch, and readied a pen.

  “And whom should I make it out to?”

  “Norma—that’s my wife.”

  I started in on the inscription. “And what’s your name?”

  “Joe. But don’t include me. It’s for my wife. She’s going to be thrilled. Wait until I tell her I met you. What’s your real name, anyway?”

  “Jessica Fletcher.”

  “You don’t have a fake one you write under?”

  I handed Joe the book so he could see the name displayed above the title. “I write under ‘J. B. Fletcher.’ The B stands for Beatrice.”

  He held the book as if it were a precious gem. “She’s gonna be tickled pink. So excited she might just drop dead.”

  I tried to stop my mouth from dropping.

  “That was a joke, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Oh, of course,” I said, forcing a chuckle.

  “We’re staying at a motel just outside of town,” Joe told me, exchanging a glance with his silent partner. “I’ll give you my cell number, in case you need to reach us.”

  “And why would I need to reach you, Joe?”

  He picked up the pen I’d used to inscribe the book for his wife and he jotted down on the top of a Hill House memo pad a number with a 617 area code, used in Boston.

  “You never know when something might come up,” he told me.

  “Like what?”

  “Like something you’d need to reach us about.”

  “That’s what Mr. Genaway sent you down here to do? Nothing more?”

  “Not right away, anyway.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  Joe looked at me, his eyes not blinking. “Yes, you do, Mrs. Fletcher. Mr. Genaway just wants to make sure that whoever killed Mrs. Genaway pays for it.”

  “I believe that’s the job of the courts.”

  “Sure. But sometimes the law isn’t up to the task, so Mr. Genaway sent somebody who is.”

  “And you expect me to keep you informed about our progress on the case—is that it?”

  “At this point, Mr. Genaway wants to make sure you stay safe so you can bring his ex-wife’s killer to justice.”

  “Like I said, that’s the sheriff’s job, Joe, along with the state police.”

  “Mr. Genaway doesn’t trust them, ma’am. He trusts you. Our instructions were to get acquainted and let you know we’re around.” Joe started to backpedal for the door with a copy of my latest book tucked under his arm, his silent partner falling into step alongside him. “So, you got my number. You need it, use it. Don’t hesitate.”

  “You think I’m really in danger?”

  “Mr. Genaway does.”

  “Why on earth?”

  “He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. A word of friendly advice, though: Mr. Genaway is usually right about this kind of thing. And don’t say it’s his imagination, ’cause, believe me, he hasn’t got one. If he thinks you’re in danger, it’s a safe bet he got word about something. That’s why he sent us—insurance against that something.”

  I speed walked to the door, eager to be rid of my guests. “Please thank Mr. Genaway for his concern next time you talk to him, Joe. And assure him I’m doing everything I can to find out who killed his ex-wife.”

  Joe cast me a sidelong smile. “He already knows that, Mrs. Fletcher. You have a good night now.”

  He smiled again from the hallway, just before I eased the door closed.

  * * *

  * * *

  Maybe the incident should have left me scared, at least rattled, but it hadn’t. I knew Vic Genaway meant me no harm, just as I knew he’d dispatched these men to Cabot Cove because of how much he’d truly loved his ex-wife. I’d caught a glimpse of that when he’d discussed the argument they’d had that led to their ultimate estrangement after Ginny had struck him with a golf club. I could imagine how helpless he felt, a man used to wielding all sorts of power cooped up in a jail cell. I felt truly bad for him, though I couldn’t explain why exactly.

  I checked the peephole to make sure my new friends were gone and then pulled out my old phone directory, which I’d filled up in the days before cell phones became the fashion. I was late coming to that technology, just as I had been late coming to computers, flat-screen televisions, and pretty much every other new form of technology available. I thumbed the address book to the Ts and pressed a number into my phone, hoping it hadn’t been changed.

  “Hello,” a familiar voice I hadn’t heard in a very long time said, telling me the number hadn’t changed.

  “How are things in Kentucky, Amos?”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Why, Jessica Fletcher!” said Amos Tupper. “As I live and breathe! It’s wonderful to hear your voice.”

  “Yours, too,” I told him. “I can’t tell you how much.”

  “You managed to run Mort Metzger off yet?”

  “Not quite. But you’ll be happy to hear he curses you out every single day for retiring.”

  “I’ve been doing some constable work out in these parts. Nothing like the old days in Cabot Cove, though.”

  “I wouldn’t expect it would be, Amos.”

  “Anyways, I wanted you to know I’ve been keeping my nose in it, in case you need my advice on a current case.”

  “I do indeed, but on an old case, not a new one: the murder of Walter Reavis.”

  “Well, I’ll be, our very first murder investigation, Mrs. Fletcher. That was a time, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Say, you remember that time we took the bus to that police convention where you were supposed to be the featured speaker?”

  “Only to be waylaid by murder when a storm washed out the road and we were stranded at that diner.”

  “Waylaid by murder . . . Make a nice title for a book, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would indeed.”

  “Say, how about the case where we—”

  “I was calling about the Reavis murder, Amos.”

  He sighed. “Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher. Living with my daughter and her family’s not exactly a recipe for stimulating conversation. And Maine’s got Kentucky beat six ways to Sunday, for sure. Remind me next time I retire to move near a coastline. It just doesn’t feel right being landlocked like this and—” He stopped himself suddenly, as if he’d yanked his words bac
k with a leash. “Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher. I get to rambling on, it takes a lot more than a washed-out road to get me to stop.”

  “I understand, and I miss you, too. The truth is, Mort Metzger doesn’t value my assistance nearly as much as you did.”

  “Really?”

  “No, but I thought I’d say it to make you feel good.”

  We shared a laugh, and I plopped into a chair to continue our conversation.

  “So, what is it I can do for you, Mrs. Fletcher? What is it about a twenty-five-year-old murder case that’s got you calling out of the blue?”

  “Another murder,” I told him. “Walter Reavis’s younger daughter.”

  “You don’t say. How can I help?”

  “Well, Amos, I’m a little cloudy on some details. I was hoping I could tell you what I remember, and that you could correct anything I’ve got wrong.”

  “Be glad to. My memory’s not what it used to be, but when it comes to murder, my mind’s like a steel trap. So what is it you’d like to tell me?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Twenty-five years ago . . .

  You were right, Mrs. Fletcher!”

  “Detective Tupper, is that you?” I said, holding to my ear the newfangled cordless phone we’d just bought.

  “Yes, yes! About that trophy on the shelf in Principal Reavis’s office, I mean. We found blood on the statue part that’s a match for Walter Reavis’s blood. It was the murder weapon, for sure, and I’m the one who found it!” Amos Tupper said, sounding almost giddy.

  It had been nearly thirty-six hours since I’d identified Walter Reavis’s body for him. I’d been correcting papers at the kitchen table, and now I stood up, shocked that my intuition had been correct. Walter Reavis’s funeral was the following day; school was scheduled to be in session only in the morning in order to let interested faculty and students attend.

  “What about fingerprints, Detective?”

  “Wiped mostly clean, but we were able to pull a partial print of someone who’s not in the criminal database. My guess is the killer forgot to wipe the part of the trophy he must have been holding when he wiped the rest of it down. The killer tried to do the same with the blood, but there were enough traces to positively identify it as belonging to the victim, even before it turned out the head of the figurine was a perfect match for the fatal head wound.”