A Little Yuletide Murder (15 page)

“All I can say is you’d better get this committee workin’ pretty fast,” Seth said disgustedly. “From what I hear, the vultures will be descending on us any minute.”

With that, the door to the courtroom opened, and two young men and a young woman entered. The men carried portable video equipment, including lights and a microphone dangling from a long boom. The young woman, obviously the reporter, led them up the center aisle and to the front of the courtroom.

Mayor Shevlin looked down from where he sat at the judge’s bench and asked, “Who might you be?”

“Roberta Brannason, Fox News.”

Shevlin straightened his tie and buttoned his suit jacket. “Welcome to Cabot Cove,” he said in a voice usually heard only when he was campaigning.

“Thank you,” Ms. Brannason said. “Who runs things around here?”

“Pardon?” Shevlin said.

“Who’s in charge? We’re here to cover the Santa Claus murder.”

Shevlin looked to where Seth Hazlitt and I sat. He frowned, pursed his lips, then turned to the reporter and said, “I’m the mayor of Cabot Cove. But I suppose you’d like to speak with our sheriff, Morton Metzger.”

The lights held by one of the two young men came to life, and the cameraman, the videocamera propped on his shoulder, began recording.

“I’d like to speak with a lot of people,” Ms. Brannason said, “starting with the person in charge of your Christmas festival.”

“That would be Ms. Hoye,” Shevlin said, indicating Priscilla, who went to the TV crew and introduced herself.

“We’d like to interview Jessica Fletcher, too,” Brannason said.

“She’s sitting right over there,” Priscilla said, pointing at me.

The reporter, followed by her two colleagues, came to where I sat with Seth. “Roberta Brannason,” she said, extending her hand. Seth and I stood; I shook her hand.

“I’m glad you’re in town, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Brannason. “I understand you travel a lot.”

“Usually I do, but this Christmas I’m staying close to home.”

“I understand you might be doing a book about the murder.”

“I’m afraid you’ve received faulty information.”

Ms. Brannason turned to her crew and said, “Let’s get a wide shot of this room and the people in it,” then turned to Shevlin. “Is this meeting about the festival and the murder?”

“Well, yes and no. Actually, we knew you were coming and—”

Brannason ignored him and instructed her crew where to position themselves.

She turned again to me and asked, “After we get some wide shots, I’d like to go where I could interview you in private, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I’m afraid I’m not about to become an interview subject, at least not where this tragic incident is concerned.”

By now, with the meeting thoroughly disrupted, people had gathered around us.

“You probably know more about the case, Jessica, than anyone else, except for the sheriff and the district attorney,” a woman said.

“Oh, no, you’re wrong.”

“Is the sheriff here?” Brannason asked.

“No,” Seth Hazlitt said. “Got better things to do than hang around waiting for somebody with a camera and a microphone.”

Ms. Brannason ignored him and asked me again if I would consent to an interview. Before I could answer, Jack Decker, the magazine publisher, who’d joined our little knot of people, said, “I think that’s a splendid idea.”

I glared at him.

“Jack may be right,” Seth chimed in.

The reporter waited for the crew to join her.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” I said, overtly checking my watch. “I have an appointment.”

“What’s your phone number?” the reporter asked.

“It’s ... I’m in the book. Excuse me.”

Seth followed me to the courtroom door. “Where are you runnin’ off to in such a hurry?”

“I have an appointment with ... with Dr. Colarusso.”

“You just had your teeth cleaned.”

“I know, but I feel a sudden toothache about to come on.”

He looked at me quizzically, but didn’t say anything else. I left the courtroom, walked briskly down the hall to the front door of town hall, and stepped outside. The sky was deep blue and without a cloud, the sunshine bright and glistening off the snow. I walked a block to a public phone, stepped inside the booth, pulled a scrap of paper from my pocket on which I’d written a number, and dialed it. A man answered.

“This is Jessica Fletcher. I’m calling from Cabot Cove. Dr. Seth Hazlitt called you on my behalf.”

“That’s right, he did,” the man said gruffly.

“I’d like very much to talk to you ... today, if at all possible.”

There was a long silence.

“What time would be convenient for you?” I asked.

“I’m not sure we should be having this talk, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I know how delicate the topic is, Mr. Skaggs, but as you know, someone’s life may hang in the balance.”

After another prolonged silence, he said, “Noon? At my office?”

“That would be fine. Can you give me directions?”

After he had, I hung up and stepped out into the lovely December day. My temptation was to call Skaggs back and cancel our appointment. But I knew I couldn’t do that, now that I’d put things into motion. I had no idea where the visit would lead, but if it would shed any light on what had happened to Rory Brent, I owed it to him, to his family, to Jake and Mary Walther—and to myself—to pursue it.

Thomas Skaggs lived in the town of Salem, about forty-five minutes south of Cabot Cove, just over the county line. I considered asking Dimitri to drive me there, but decided that discretion was the better part of valor in this situation. I checked the bus schedule and caught the eleven o’clock, which made a stop in Salem on its way to New York City.

I hadn’t traveled on a bus in years, and found the experience enjoyable, although I suppose I might not have had the same reaction were I taking a longer trip. The ride was smooth and without incident; forty minutes later, I got off in front of Salem’s small town hall.

I stopped someone on the street and asked for directions to the address given me by Skaggs. This friendly citizen gave me a big smile and informed me it was only two blocks away. I thanked her and walked slowly in the direction she’d indicated. Minutes later, I was in front of a prewar, two-story brick building in what appeared to be a residential area. I looked around; it was the only commercial building within sight.

I approached and read names on small brass plates affixed to the right side of the door. There were six occupants of the building, all of them having something to do—at least according to their names—with social work or counseling. The name at the top of the row was Here-to-Help, the organization run by Mr. Skaggs.

I stepped inside and looked at a directory on the wall. Here-to-Help was upstairs in office number six. I climbed the stairs, went to the door with the organization’s name on it, and knocked. A woman’s voice said, “Come in.”

I stepped into a cramped reception area, where a middle-aged woman with carefully coifed silver hair sat behind a metal desk.

“Yes?” she asked.

“I’m Jessica Fletcher. I have a noon appointment with Mr. Skaggs.”

“Oh, yes, we’ve been expecting you. I can’t tell you what a pleasure this is, Mrs. Fletcher, to actually meet you in person. I’ve read most of your books—Mr. and Mrs. Skaggs have, too—and we love them. Imagine, you living so close and never having met you. This is an honor.” She got up, came around the desk, and extended her hand. “Let me tell Mr. Skaggs you’re here.”

“Before you do that, I’m a little unsure of what Here-to-Help does.”

“Oh, I think Mr. Skaggs would be the best person to explain that to you. But basically, we’re a resource for young men and women who’ve made a wrong turn in life and need some sort of restructuring.”

“You mean counseling?”

“Yes, we do a great deal of that, too. But primarily we point them in the direction of other agencies that can more directly help them, depending upon the problem they bring to us.”

The door opened, and we both turned. Standing in the doorway was a mountain of a man with a black beard, ruddy cheeks, and glasses tethered to his neck. He wore a rumpled tan safari jacket over a blue denim shirt, jeans, and sneakers.

“Jessica Fletcher?”

“Yes. You must be Mr. Skaggs.”

“Tom Skaggs, and I would appreciate it if you would call me Tom.”

“Provided you call me Jessica.”

“We’re already off on the right foot,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice. “Please, come in.”

His office wasn’t much bigger than the reception area, but it had a comfortable feel to it because of the dozens of framed autographed photographs on the walls. I glanced at a few, which were pictures of him with familiar political faces.

“My personal rogues’ gallery,” he said. “You don’t get paid a lot in this business, but you do meet a lot of important and self-important people. I keep telling the bank that holds the mortgage on my house that these pictures are worth something, but they never seem to agree.”

I laughed. “I suspect there are millions of people with that same problem, doing important good work, but not being recognized for it by bankers.”

“Well said. Please, sit down.”

I took one of six director’s chairs that formed a semicircle to one side of his desk. He plopped into a large, high-backed leather swivel chair and propped one sneaker—it had to be size fourteen—on the edge of the desk. “Well,” he said, “I have a feeling you’re about to cause me to break one of my most stringent rules.”

“Which is?”

“Never to discuss anyone who’s ever stepped through this door.”

“I can understand and appreciate that, Tom, but I’m sure you agree that the circumstances make it the perfect time for you to break that rule.”

“You may be right. From what I’ve been told by Seth Hazlitt, this could represent one of those extenuating circumstances. I believe in the law, but sometimes it has to be broken if the cause is great enough. Same goes for bureaucratic rules. Fill me in. Seth did his usual shorthand explanation. I suspect that you, being the great writer you are, will do a better job of weaving the tale.”

“I’m not sure being a writer will help me in this situation, but I’ll try to be concise. I’m a great believer in the old adage, ‘If I had more time, I would have written less.’ ”

His laugh was as big as his body. “I like that,” he said. “Go ahead. I’m all ears.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the murder of Rory Brent, a successful farmer in Cabot Cove, and a man loved by everyone in town.”

“Santa Claus at your yearly festival.”

“Exactly. Our sheriff has made an arrest in the case, a gentleman—another farmer—named Jake Walther.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about that, too.”

“Jake Walther is disliked by many people,” I said. “He’s an unpleasant sort of man, rough-hewn and without what might be termed a warm and fuzzy personality. He was immediately suspected of the murder, mostly because of having rubbed people the wrong way. The deceased’s son, Robert, claims that Jake Walther threatened his father, said he was going to ‘blow his brains out.’ ”

“Sounds like the motive was there.”

“Oh, yes, if the son is to be believed. At first, our sheriff only
questioned
Jake Walther in connection with the murder. Jake claimed to have had an alibi provided by his wife’s brother, Dennis, who lives with them on the farm. But then Dennis changed his story and said he’d been threatened by Jake if he
didn’t
provided that alibi. I should mention that Dennis is somewhat impaired. He’s the sort of person who will agree with anything in order to not offend. There’s speculation that our sheriff might have pressured him into changing his story, although I tend to dismiss that theory, knowing our sheriff as I do.”

“I’m sure you’re right in that assessment, Jessica, although it’s possible, isn’t it, that your sheriff influenced this fellow, Dennis, without meaning to.”

I nodded. “Yes, that is always a possibility. I brought a young lawyer into the case, and he was confident Jake Walther would be released, based upon the grounds the sheriff and district attorney were using to hold him—nothing more than the deceased’s son’s claim that there was bad blood between the two men, and that Dennis had changed his story and says Jake threatened him. But then the county police discovered a footprint in the barn where Mr. Brent was murdered, and they further claim that Jake Walther owns a pair of work boots with a unique characteristic in the sole, some sort of tear or rip that matches the print found in the barn. Based upon that, he’s being formally charged with the murder.”

I sat back, confident I’d accurately portrayed the situation.

Tom Skaggs, too, leaned back and ran his hand over his beard. Finally, he came forward in his chair, placed his elbows on the desk, and cradled his chin in his hands. “I take it you aren’t convinced that this Jake Walther committed the murder.”

I shook my head. “No, that’s not quite right. I don’t know whether Jake Walther killed Rory Brent or not. Based upon this new piece of evidence involving the boot, I have to go with the sheriff’s decision to charge him with the crime. On the other hand, there was such an obvious rush to judgment that I must wonder whether even our sheriff, and the district attorney, have been unduly influenced by public condemnation of Jake Walther. I’m not trying to clear him of anything. But I’m also determined that an innocent man not be charged with a heinous crime. We have the Christmas festival coming up, and you know how important that is not only to us in Cabot Cove, but to thousands of others who’ve come to depend upon our festival as an affirmation of the Christmas spirit.”

Skaggs pondered what I’d said, stood, then went to a gray metal, four-drawer file cabinet in a corner of the office, where he withdrew a folder. He returned to his desk and opened the file.