“Oh, Mrs. Belcher.”
“It’s Fletcher. But please, call me Jessica,” I told her, just as I had during my last visit.
I moved to one side of Maddie Demerest while Seth took the other.
“Now, let’s get you upright.”
“I don’t need your help.”
But Maddie struggled to get to her feet and relented to let us guide her to the couch set directly before the television.
“Thank you. I’m not used to that, you know, saying ‘thank you.’ It feels kind of nice to have someone to say it to.”
“I wish we were here under better circumstances,” I said, sitting down on one side of Maddie, while Seth sat down on the other.
Maddie swallowed hard. “This is about my older daughter, Lisa Joy, isn’t it?”
“How did you know?”
“Because I’ve been waiting for this visit for a long time, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Jessica,” I corrected her. “It turns out Lisa Joy was killed in a car accident outside Tuscaloosa fourteen years ago.”
Her eyes flickered, the only reaction I could spot. “So long ago . . . I guess I knew, at least suspected, but why wasn’t I informed?”
“The car caught fire, Maddie,” I told her. “The police had trouble identifying the body. And by the time they did, contacting next of kin must’ve fallen through the cracks.”
Seth eased himself closer to the sofa arm to better regard Maddie. “You need to get that lump on your head checked out for a possible concussion. I can call the rescue squad if you like.”
“I’m fine. Just the same headache I’ve had for as long as I can remember.”
The sadness that permeated Maddie Demerest’s very being was palpable. She was a woman who’d withdrawn from the world only to have it chase her back down in the wake of her younger daughter’s murder and elder daughter’s death.
“Can I ask you something about your daughter Ginny?” I asked her.
“As long as you don’t expect much of an answer.”
“Did you see her sometime between five and six months ago?”
“You asked me that last time you were here, didn’t you?”
“Not in so many words.”
“The answer’s still the same. She wanted nothing to do with me, and I can’t really blame her.”
I decided to try another tack as Seth looked on, his expression held so tight, it looked as if his jowls were frozen in place. “Would you describe Ginny as being close to her older sister?”
“I would indeed, Mrs. Fletcher. She was devastated when Lisa Joy moved away to college and never came back. You might say she lost her father and her sister at the same time, or pretty close. Then her brother was killed in the Middle East. She was always far closer to Walter than she was to me. I already told you that, didn’t I?”
“I believe you did. Were you aware Ginny was seeing a psychiatrist?”
She almost laughed. “Isn’t everybody these days?”
“She broke off her treatments around six months ago, around the same time she seemed to develop a new fascination with her older sister.”
“Did she know Lisa Joy was dead?”
“I don’t know how she could have, Maddie. Ginny also developed a renewed interest in her father’s murder.”
Her eyes widened a bit. “Come to think of it, she called me around six months ago. Visited, too. I’d forgotten all about it, or maybe I thought I’d dreamed it. That happens sometimes. She had this crazy idea that the wrong person had been jailed for Walter’s murder. She had gotten this notion in her head that Lisa Joy had done it.”
I tried to recall why Amos Tupper and I had never interviewed Lisa Joy Reavis at the time of her father’s murder. I guess we hadn’t seen the need with the suspects we already had lined up.
I recalled those fragments of a headline from the Cabot Cove Gazette we’d found in Ginny’s apartment. “Did Ginny mention what triggered this belief all of a sudden?”
“I don’t think so. If she did, I don’t remember.”
“Do you remember anything else about those calls, maybe visits, from Ginny?”
“She thought I might be in danger.”
“From whom?”
Maddie’s expression turned quizzical. “You know, Jessica,” she said, finally calling me by my first name, “she didn’t say.”
* * *
* * *
“Well,” Seth said when we were back outside, “that went well.”
“Whatever’s going on here,” I told him, “I think I’ll know a lot more after tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow?”
“Wilma Tisdale’s retirement party, Seth. And I think there’s plenty the guest of honor hasn’t told me yet.”
Chapter Twenty
Evelyn Phillips had returned my call, but I’d been with Maddie Demerest, so I’d missed it. I tried her back and left another voice mail. She was always terrible about returning her messages, so I made sure to tell her this time that I needed to talk to her about Ginny Genaway’s murder. Murder always stoked Evelyn’s interest, and she wouldn’t be able to resist a potential scoop.
Both Seth and I had been exhausted upon returning to Cabot Cove around eight o’clock, too tired even to eat. I don’t even remember climbing into bed at Hill House. I checked my phone the next morning, but there were no messages from Evelyn Phillips, and I was starting to think ahead again to Wilma Tisdale’s retirement party that night when Seth called.
“You’re not going to believe it, Jessica,” he greeted me.
“Why do so many of your calls begin with that line?”
“Because with you, there’s always a lot nobody can believe. In this case, it’s the fact that the Cabot Cove Gazette website is down, so I can’t search the back issues for the rest of that headline. I was thinking of trying the library first thing tomorrow and taking a gander at the hard copies back in our general time frame.”
“Don’t bother, Seth. The library only keeps the hard copies for a month.”
“I’m assuming you haven’t reached Evelyn Phillips yet.”
“You’re assuming right.”
“And since their offices are closed on the weekend, this may have to wait until Monday.”
“We may not have until Monday,” I told him. “I think this is all going to come to a head tonight at Wilma Tisdale’s retirement party.”
“What makes you say that?” Seth asked me.
“The fact that she didn’t invite me until Ginny Genaway paid her a visit with a ton of questions about her late sister.”
“Lisa Joy Reavis again,” he said in a way that left me picturing him shaking his head. “All roads seem to lead back to that family. You know what I’m starting to think?”
“That Maddie Demerest, formerly Reavis, is the killer.”
“Mind reader!”
“I had the same thought myself.”
“Still entertaining it?”
“I never did, Seth—not seriously, anyway.”
“Way to rain on an old man’s parade.”
“Did you notice anything about the parking lot when we got to the lighthouse earlier today?”
“No.”
“Of course you didn’t. Because there was nothing there, including cars, meaning Maddie doesn’t own one, so how would she have gotten to that scenic overlook outside Cabot Cove?”
“I’m hanging up now, because I have nothing left to say.”
“Good night, Seth.”
I’d no sooner laid my cell phone down on the table than there was a knock on the door to my suite. I opened it to find Mort Metzger standing there.
“You opened the door without checking the peephole first,” he said, taking off his hat as he entered. “What were you thinking?”
“You mean, because there’s
a murderer loose?”
He rolled his eyes. “Around these parts, there always seems to be a murderer loose. I think I should have retired to someplace quieter, like Afghanistan, Mrs. F.”
“Ugggghhhhhhh . . .”
“Bothers you, doesn’t it?” Mort said with a smirk.
“What do I have to do to get you to stop?”
“Solve this case, because I don’t have a single lead left, other than this retirement party you’ll be attending.”
“And how did you know I didn’t check the peephole?”
Mort winked. “I have my ways. I’m a trained investigator, remember?”
“Really? I’ll try to keep that in mind. And just so you know, if you do put in for work in Afghanistan, Amos Tupper is ready to claim his old job back.”
He frowned. “He couldn’t do any worse than I’ve been doing, with the blank I’ve drawn following up Ginny Genaway’s murder.”
“Nothing’s panned out on your end?”
He shook his head. “The tire print we lifted from the space next to her BMW at that rest stop—”
“Scenic overlook,” I interrupted to correct him.
“—is standard equipment on maybe a hundred different car models. The victim’s prints were the only ones found in her car, and before you ask me, yes, we dusted the passenger-side door handle, both inside and out. Wiped clean.”
“Anything more on the death of Lisa Joy Reavis?” I asked him, recalling the information that I’d passed on from Harry McGraw about butane being identified on the tire that had blown.
“If you’re referring to the possibility that somebody caused that accident, and thus killed her, no. The police in Alabama had no reason to suspect foul play, so there’re no evidence reports, or evidence itself, left at all to inspect. A dead end, Jessica.”
“Not entirely, Mort. If Lisa Joy really was murdered, that makes three family members to go with a son killed in action overseas, which leaves only the mother alive.”
“You make her for a suspect?”
I shrugged. “Seth and I found her passed out on her apartment floor. She’s a mess, Mort, and if she’d killed her daughter at that rest stop—”
“Scenic overlook, you mean.”
“—the stench of stale cigarettes would’ve made Ginny’s car smell like a bar in the old days.”
“Good point,” he acknowledged. “But who does that leave us with?”
“Wild hunch?”
“I’m up for anything.”
“Delve deeper into the death of Walter Reavis’s son.”
“The soldier awarded a posthumous Purple Heart and Medal of Valor?”
“I checked, Mort. It was a closed casket, so maybe, just maybe . . .”
“Yup, that’s wild, all right.”
“I’m fresh out of options.”
“Don’t tell me the famous J. B. Fletcher is stumped.”
“J. B. Fletcher is never stumped, because she makes everything up. Jessica Fletcher, on the other hand . . .” I said, letting the rest of my thought drift.
“When you solved your first murder all those years ago in Appleton, was it this hard?”
“Not even close.”
* * *
* * *
When yet another knock fell on my door just after Mort departed, I did check the peephole and found none other than Joe and Nails, operatives of Vic Genaway, standing there. I still opened it without hesitation.
“Thought we’d check in, Mrs. Fletcher,” Joe said, speaking for both of them as always.
“I don’t have any updates, Joe.”
“I’m sure you would’ve contacted us if you had, right?”
“You give me too much credit. Even if my efforts prove successful, I imagine Ginny Genaway’s killer will face the traditional justice system once he or she is caught. And it’s not within my control to change that.”
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit. I’m halfway through another of your books. You’ve really got a knack for this stuff.”
“As a fiction writer.”
“And where exactly is the line between fiction and fact? Because in your case, they appear to be the same thing.”
“Except my imagination can’t conjure up Ginny’s killer. Reality follows its own rules, for better or for worse.”
I could tell from his expression that my remark had sailed right over Joe’s head. “What’d you get out of the psychiatrist?”
“Are you watching me?” I asked him.
“Maybe it’s Ginny’s shrink we’re watching. She’s not one of Mr. Genaway’s top ten favorites.”
“Dr. Sackler can’t be blamed for the problems she was trying to help Ginny resolve.”
“I’m with Mr. Genaway when it comes to shrinks.”
“They’re certainly not for everyone, Joe.”
I wondered in that moment if his next question might pertain to the visit Seth and I had paid to Ginny’s apartment, where we’d found those newspaper headline fragments, but that part of our trip had seemed to escape his prying eyes.
“I notice psychiatrists have appeared in several of your books. You ever make one of them the killer?”
I nodded. “A number of years back, in Ashes, Ashes, Fall Down Dead.”
“How’s Ginny’s shrink compare to that one?”
“A man instead of a woman, for one thing. And a clear motive for murder, for another.”
“Know what I think, Mrs. Fletcher? I think you’ve got the killer sniffed out. You might not have all the clues you need yet, but you’ve got a solid notion for sure. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong.”
He smirked. “Yeah, well, when you’re ready to spill, Nails and I will be waiting. Meanwhile, we’ll make sure no harm comes to you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“No? Was it some other writer who nearly got burned up with her house not too long ago and got shot at scaling the Cabot Cove bluffs not long after that?”
“I sincerely doubt anything like that will befall me this time.”
“Don’t be so sure of that, Mrs. Fletcher,” Joe warned. “Whoever’s out there doing the killing seems to be getting a genuine taste for it. That means you could be their next bite.”
* * *
* * *
I have to admit I woke up Saturday morning feeling a bit of excitement over that evening’s retirement party for Wilma Tisdale, as well as trepidation. I’d be seeing many of the guests, my colleagues at Appleton High, for the first time in twenty-five years. While my final days at the school had been dominated by the investigation into the murder of Walter Reavis, they had also been a wonderful time in my life. Frank had surprised me by purchasing 698 Candlewood Lane, and raising Grady might’ve been hard work at times, but having him around brought the kind of joy to our lives that only a child can bring.
After the accident that had killed Frank’s brother, we felt duty bound to take the boy in when his mother’s state of mind made raising a child impossible for a time. But he ended up enriching and fulfilling our lives in ways a childless couple like us could have scarcely imagined. So I found myself of two minds about tonight’s party. On the one hand, I hoped to rekindle more pleasant memories of my time at the school, apart from the murder that had marked the end of my service there. On the other hand, though, I was convinced Wilma Tisdale had something more, even plenty more, she wanted to share with me.
I thought about what my former colleagues would look like after so many years and studied myself in the full-length mirror on my Hill House suite’s bathroom door, wondering how I compared. Leaving nothing to chance, I made an appointment with Loretta Speigel, owner of the local beauty salon and irreverent gossip, to have my hair done.
“Reunion party?” she quizzed two hours later as she went at my freshly washe
d locks with a pair of long scissors. “I’d love to be a fly on that wall.”
“I’ll probably be the only one you know there, Loretta.”
“That’s why I’d love to be a fly on the wall—just to see your face, for one thing. How your mouth drops when you see what’s become of your old friends after so many years.”
“I’m not sure how many of them I’d call friends. Even without being privy to the invite list, I can tell you there’s not a single one I’ve kept in touch with.”
“Hmmmmmmmm,” Loretta reacted, giving me that look of hers. “That tells me Jessica Fletcher has an ulterior motive for going tonight.”
“Now, what would make you think that?”
“Simple arithmetic, Jessica. I add the fact that everyone in town’s talking about you digging into the murder of that mobster’s wife to the fact that you’re going to a retirement party for someone you barely know. That adds up to a clear connection.”
“What else has the town been saying?”
“Well, there’s been some talk about a couple of thugs out of Boston being spotted here and there, and some speculation that a full-fledged mob war may have spread to Cabot Cove of all places.”
“Please assure everyone they have nothing to fear from bullets flying from rival gangs across Main Street, Loretta. Tell them that’s not the case at all.”
She leaned in closer to me. “Then what is the case, pray tell? You know you can trust me to keep a secret.”
I was spared having to respond to that when Seth Hazlitt barged into the shop, instantly uncomfortable in a salon filled with all women. He spotted me in Loretta’s chair and made a beeline my way, his gait stiff and careful.
“Come for a trim, Seth?” I greeted him.
“Never mind that,” he said, straightening his khaki suit jacket with all eyes upon him. “The Gazette’s website is back up.”
“That’s good.”
“No, Jess, that’s bad. I spent the morning reviewing every page of every issue starting five months ago and going back all the way to six in search of that partial headline we pulled from the trash in the girl’s apartment.”
Murder, She Wrote--A Time for Murder Page 18
