Murder, She Wrote--A Time for Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  Joe smirked again. “This is the boss we’re talking about.”

  “Did he tell you why I’d be stopping by, Joe?”

  “Not beyond the fact that it had something to do with Mrs. Genaway. May she rest in peace.”

  He crossed himself, with Nails mirroring him yet again.

  “Mr. Genaway, the boss, mentioned you’d been following his ex-wife for some time.”

  “You mean watching her. And it was for her own good.”

  “He mentioned that, too.”

  “Boss told us to help you in any way we could.”

  I pushed my chair in farther under the table. A server came over, looking surprised that I’d joined the only other customers in the place, and I ordered a tea.

  “I was curious where she was spending her time the past, say, month or so,” I said after the server had taken her leave.

  “Nowhere special or out of the ordinary, for the most part.”

  “What about not for the most part?”

  “If you’re talking outside her routine, I’d say a trip she made to Appleton. Right, Nails?”

  Nails didn’t respond while I processed what Joe had just told me.

  “Appleton, Maine?”

  “Is there another?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Me either. That’s why I asked.” Joe narrowed his gaze on me, sending a thin chill up my spine. “The look on your face says you think that might be important.”

  “It’s the town where she grew up. Her father was the principal of the high school in Appleton when she was a little girl. He was murdered in his office.”

  Nails perked up a bit at mention of the word “murder.”

  Joe looked like he missed the cigarette he’d just pressed out. “Wait. Mrs. Genaway’s father was murdered?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “Boss never told us. I guess he didn’t think it was important.”

  “With good reason. It was twenty-five years ago. But she must’ve had some reason for going to Appleton. . . . When was it exactly?”

  Joe pulled a notebook from a pocket he had wedged it into. He wet his fingers and flipped pages until he came to the one he was looking for. “Six days ago—no, that’s not counting today,” he corrected himself. “Make that seven. Yeah, seven.”

  I did the math, and something occurred to me that I placed on the back burner for now. “What did Mrs. Genaway do while she was in Appleton, Joe?”

  “She wasn’t there for the sights. I can tell you that much. She stopped at the newspaper office and several other places, like she was looking for something. Oh, and she stopped off and talked to some people. I wrote down the addresses for the boss if you’d like them.”

  “I would, indeed.” I paused long enough to meet Joe’s stare, forgetting Nails was sitting there next to me. “You weren’t really following Mrs. Genaway to protect her, were you?”

  “Yeah, we were protecting her from herself. Make sure she didn’t do something that would upset the boss. You know, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  I didn’t, but I nodded anyway.

  “You think whatever she found out in Appleton is what brought her to Cabot Cove?” he asked me.

  “I’m not sure, Joe. The time frame would seem to suggest that, and maybe I’ll have a better idea once I learn whom she spoke to in Appleton and what exactly she was looking for there.”

  He weighed my words, not looking too impressed by my intentions. “People go back to the scene of the crime—could be they’re chasing ghosts. Hey, maybe she was looking for her father’s killer.”

  “Her father’s killer has been in jail for almost twenty-five years. Whatever brought her to Appleton, it wasn’t about solving his murder.”

  “And who did solve it? Was it you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  I ignored his question, my gaze fastened on his open notebook. “Those addresses, Joe.”

  Instead of copying them down, he tore the sheet out altogether. “Knock yourself out,” he said, handing it to me.

  * * *

  * * *

  I climbed back into Mort’s SUV, noticing he’d hitched his holster outside his department-issue jacket.

  He followed my gaze. “Hey, once a Marine, always a Marine. Excuse me for not trusting your newfound friends.”

  “Whether I trust them or not, it turns out they may have served our investigation well,” I said, and handed him the slip of paper with the addresses that Ginny Genaway had visited in Appleton.

  “What’s this?”

  “Apparently, Ginny made a trip to Appleton the week before she was murdered. Those are the addresses she made stops at.”

  Mort regarded them with his professional gaze. “Your new friends tell you that?”

  “Apparently, they were tailing her for their boss.”

  “Pity the man who crosses Vic Genaway. . . .”

  “I was hoping you could get me the names associated with these,” I told him, “as in who lives at the addresses.”

  “I figured that out all on my own, Mrs. F.”

  I was starting to get used to his calling me that again. “How’s Adele, by the way?” I asked, referring to Mort’s wife.

  “I didn’t tell you she’s taken an administrative position with the Reserves?”

  “Once a Marine, always a Marine, right?”

  His eyes met mine across the seat. “I wish you’d keep that in mind when you’re driving me crazy.” Mort fired up the engine while I fished my phone from my bag. “Anybody I know?” he asked me.

  “Playing a hunch about one of those stops Ginny Genaway made.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I checked my phone for recent calls and redialed the number I’d used to call in my RSVP for Wilma Tisdale’s retirement party at the Cabot Cove Country Club.

  “Hello,” her already familiar voice greeted me.

  “Wilma, it’s Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Jessica! We don’t hear from each other in twenty-five years, and now twice in two days!”

  “That’s why I’m calling, Wilma. I need to ask you some frank questions. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not,” she said after a pause just long enough to tell me my suspicions that something was off here were well-founded. “I’m an old, soon-to-be retired schoolteacher. What could I possibly have to hide?”

  “Did you hear about the murder here a couple nights back?”

  “The woman shot at the rest stop?”

  “Scenic overlook, actually, but yes. It was our old principal Walter Reavis’s younger daughter.”

  My statement was greeted with silence, broken only by Wilma Tisdale’s rapid breathing.

  “Are you there, Wilma? Are you all right?”

  “Er, yes. I’m just having trouble processing this. After all these years, it brings it all back, doesn’t it? I haven’t thought about that poor girl since her father’s murder.”

  “You mean, until last week, don’t you?”

  More silence and this time I kept talking after turning on the speaker so Mort could hear both sides of the conversation.

  “Ginny Reavis, now Ginny Genaway, came to see you last week, didn’t she, Wilma?” I said, playing my hunch that Wilma Tisdale’s was one of the addresses where Ginny had stopped in Appleton as witnessed by Joe and Nails on her ex-husband’s orders.

  “How did you know?”

  “You’re aware of who her husband is.”

  “She mentioned a bit about him.”

  “He had men following her. I just spoke with them.”

  “They’re in Cabot Cove?”

  “Close by. She came to see you last Wednesday. My invitation to your retirement party must’ve been mailed either Thursday or Friday, perhaps even over the weekend. I think you decided to invite me beca
use you wanted to talk about Ginny’s visit, and you thought the party you’d already scheduled for right here in Cabot Cove would provide the perfect opportunity.”

  Wilma didn’t bother confirming or denying my assertion.

  “You should know,” I continued, “that Ginny interviewed me, pretending to be a high school student, the day she was murdered. She wanted to know all about my first murder investigation, and we both know what that was.”

  “She didn’t look like a high school student when I saw her, Jessica.”

  “In retrospect, I must’ve seen what I expected to. I suspect she would’ve made a pretty good actress, given how well she played the part. What did she want from you, Wilma?”

  “Information about her older sister, Lisa Joy, whose life was apparently anything but joyful.”

  “Explaining why she left home and never came back. So, what made Ginny come to you?”

  “Did you know I tutored Lisa Joy?” Wilma asked me.

  “No.”

  “All through middle school, and high school, too, right up until her father’s murder, when she seemed to lose interest in everything. Besides her parents, I probably knew her better than anyone. Moody all the time and depressed a good portion of it. I can count on my fingers the times I saw her smile. Today, she’d be a prime candidate for antidepressants, but they weren’t being as widely prescribed in those days, especially to children.”

  “That’s not the subject at hand today,” I said. “I believe Ginny came to Appleton looking for something, and I think she thought you could help her.”

  “Well, I . . .”

  I could hear her choking up on the other end of the line. “It’s okay, Wilma. There’s no way you could have known what was going to happen, and you shouldn’t think for one minute that whatever you told her had anything to do with her death.”

  “I didn’t tell her anything, Jessica. I couldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she had gotten it in her head that her older sister had murdered her father.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “She thinks you caught the wrong person,” Wilma finished as I locked stares with Mort and wondered what he made of such an assertion, not at all grounded in the facts of the case.

  “That makes no sense,” I reminded her. “The real killer confessed to the crime.”

  “Ginny didn’t believe that. She was convinced Lisa Joy Reavis was the real killer. She pumped me for everything I could remember about the days following her father’s death. She was especially interested in what you’d shared with me and what I’d observed. You’re right about the invitation. I should’ve invited you anyway, but it had been so long, and what would a famous person like you want with a party at a club we could only afford because it’s off season?”

  “I’m not famous, Wilma. I’m just a mystery writer and, like you, a former teacher. I would have loved to come under any circumstances, and I’m looking forward to seeing you and all the rest of my old friends from Appleton.”

  “But you never came back to visit after you moved to Cabot Cove. We thought you’d moved on, forgotten us.”

  “After Frank’s death . . .” I said, listening to my own voice trail off. “Well, let’s just say everything changed. It was only a couple of years after we’d moved here. I’d landed a full-time job teaching at Cabot Cove High. Things couldn’t have been better until he got sick.”

  “I’m sorry for even bringing it up,” she said, her voice cracking over the speaker.

  “You were kind enough to come to the funeral, Wilma. And you’re right. I should’ve done a better job of keeping in touch. But for me Appleton and the murder of Walter Reavis were linked inextricably. Then I started writing, and it was like my whole life started over again. Can you remember anything else Ginny asked you about, some of the specifics perhaps?”

  “Not much, because I really wasn’t able to help her. I think, more than anything, she wanted me to confirm that her sister was capable of such a thing.”

  “And did you? Do you believe she was?”

  “Of murder? My stars, how would I know? I was a teacher and the girl’s tutor, not her psychiatrist.”

  “Ginny came to you first, Wilma. She made three other stops after leaving your house, one being the high school. My guess is you provided the addresses for the other two.”

  “Jim Dirkson, the man who replaced Walter as principal, was one.”

  “He’s still in Appleton?”

  “Retired a few years back and still living in the same house. Plays a lot of golf these days when the seasons allow.”

  “Who was the other person?”

  “Tyler Benjamin.”

  “He’s still in town?”

  “Moved back a few years ago.”

  “He’d be . . .” I did the math in my head. “He’d be in his early forties now.”

  “He still talks about you, Jessica, what might have happened to him if it wasn’t for you. He never contacted you when he returned?”

  “I’m sure he’d prefer to forget everyone associated with such a terrible time for him, including me, and who can blame him?”

  I heard Wilma take a deep breath. “I heard that detective you worked with became sheriff of Cabot Cove.”

  “Amos Tupper,” I said with a nod, even though she couldn’t see me. “He retired a few years back.”

  “What’s his replacement like?”

  “Old, crotchety, and prone to taking naps behind his desk in the middle of the day,” I said, looking at Mort, who waved a reproaching finger at me.

  “Why now, Jessica?” Wilma asked. “Why after all these years did Ginny Reavis come to believe her older sister was a killer?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out,” I told her. “But don’t worry, Wilma. I promise it won’t spoil the party on Saturday.”

  * * *

  * * *

  After we’d said our good-byes for now, I looked back at Mort.

  “‘Old, crotchety, and prone to taking naps behind his desk’ in the afternoon . . . Really?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “No, I said ‘prone to taking naps in the middle of the day,’ not the afternoon.”

  “Thanks for the clarification,” he said, shaking his head. “Why do I think the murder of this high school principal twenty-five years ago and the murder of Ginny Genaway the other night are stuck together like peanut butter to the roof of my mouth?”

  “You call that a simile, Mort?”

  “Never mind what I call it. I think it’s time you told me more about the murder of Walter Reavis, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Twenty-five years ago . . .

  You were right again, Mrs. Fletcher. Everything you said turned out to be right. I just arrested Walter Reavis’s murderer!

  The suspect, I realized as Detective Tupper continued, was not a jealous husband or a woman scorned, as those rumors about Walter may have suggested, but a student at Appleton High. Specifically, a football player with behavior issues named Tyler Benjamin. Walter had expelled Tyler for threatening a teacher, a decision supported by the superintendent and the school board. It was his third, and most serious, transgression of the fall, and it was determined that he was too much of a risk, a ticking time bomb, to remain in the building.

  I knew Tyler from one of Bill Gower’s English classes. He was a handsome young man with strong looks that were both haunting and brooding. He had played linebacker and running back on the football team, all state in both positions, and had been on the verge of deciding between multiple scholarship offers from colleges. Of course, being expelled destroyed all those opportunities.

  I’d never had a problem with him, in class or otherwise. He wasn’t a very good student, but he handed in his assi
gnments on time and was diligent in studying for tests, even though he never managed higher than a B minus.

  “Tyler Benjamin blamed Principal Reavis for ruining his life, Jessica,” Amos Tupper was saying. “His expulsion meant he was banned from school grounds, but Jim Dirkson reportedly saw him lurking about when he was about to drive off just short of five o’clock.”

  “Is ‘lurking about’ the way he described it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It was starting to get dark, and Dirkson says it looked like Tyler was hiding behind the corner of the building, like the kid was waiting for him to leave.”

  “Did Dirkson explain why he just let Tyler go and didn’t approach him?”

  “He said he intended to write it up first thing the next morning. The truth is, Mrs. Fletcher, I believe he was scared to confront Tyler Benjamin, and from what I’ve heard about the kid, I don’t blame him. Which brings me to the murder weapon.”

  Something about the narrative Detective Tupper had provided didn’t sit right with me. Something felt off, but I kept listening instead of pondering further.

  “That partial print we found on the trophy that wasn’t in the system? Tyler Benjamin’s was a perfect match.”

  “Do you recall what kind of trophy it was, Detective?”

  “I remember the football that we found clutched in the victim’s hand.”

  “It was the district championship trophy from this season.”

  “Yes. I was at the game. Right around Veterans Day, as I recall, just before the boy was expelled.”

  “So it stands to reason that it would’ve been presented to Tyler as team captain. So of course his fingerprints would be on it.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s possible,” Tupper said after a pause.

  “Would it be possible for me to speak with the young man, Detective?”

  “I don’t think the chief would approve of that.”

  “Do we have to tell him?”

  “No,” Tupper said hesitantly, “not necessarily.”

  “I was one of the boy’s teachers, you know.”

  Tupper sighed, and for some reason, I could picture him shaking his head. “No bad kids in the world in your mind, are there, Mrs. Fletcher?”