A Little Yuletide Murder (18 page)

Seth showed me a list of Christmas stories he’d jotted down on a yellow legal pad. “I especially like this one,” he said, pointing to the title, “ The Dog That Talked at Christmas.’ ”

“I don’t think I’m familiar with it,” I said.

“Lovely story. About a dog that breaks the canine code of silence. You know, all dogs can talk, but they know that if they do, they’ll have to go to work.”

“Who wrote it?”

“Wonderful writer named Laurie Wilson.”

“Fun,” I said, laughing. “What are the other stories you’d like to do?”

“Got a couple of others, Jessica. Not as well known as the standard ones. Ever hear of ‘A Christmas to Remember,’ by a fella named Coco?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Nice story. Santa comes to help a brother and sister fix a broken star on their Christmas tree.”

“And does he?”

“And does he
what
?”

“Fix the star.”

“Of course he does. He’s Santa Claus.”

“A happy ending. Good. That’s two. I was thinking of ‘Carl’s Christmas.’ ”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“By a wonderful writer named Alexandra Day. It’s about a dog named Carl who—”

“ ’Nother dog story.”

“They’re always the best. Carl is put in charge of a family’s baby and takes the child on a Christmas tour of everything wonderful about the season. Beautifully illustrated, too.”

“Speaking of illustrations, I got Cynthia to agree to blow up pictures from the books we use, maybe even project ’em on a screen.”

“That’s a wonderful idea. What’s next?”

We eventually decided on five stories—“Nut-cracker Ballet,” the Christmas staple “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” “The Dog That Talked at Christmas,” “The Lonely Snowman,” and “The Littlest Christmas Elf.”

By the time we finished, it was almost eleven-thirty.

“Well, this was a fruitful session,” I said, “but I have to run. I’m due at the Walther farm in a half hour.”

Seth fixed me in a quizzical stare. “Didn’t know you were goin’ out there, Jessica. What brings this on?”

“I forgot to mention it. Mary called and asked that I speak with her.”

“Strange,” Seth said.

“Why?”

“Now that Jake is back home, I wouldn’t think there’d be any reason for you to go out to see Mary. Did she say what she wanted to talk about?”

“Just that she was worried. I suppose she needs a female shoulder to lean on. Even though Jake has been let go, this still must be a terribly stressful time for her. For all of them.”

“I suppose it would be. Sure you don’t want to think twice about it, Jessica?”

I stood, put on my coat and hat, and went to the front door. “I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t go out there, Seth. I feel sorry for Mary and want to be as much help as possible, especially at this time of year. To be facing these sorts of troubles at what should be a joyous season makes it doubly difficult.”

“Why don’t you stop by here on your way back home. I’d like to hear what transpired.”

“If I have time. Will you call Cynthia with the list of stories?”

“
Ayuh
. Do it the minute you’re gone. How are you gettin’ there?”

My laugh was involuntary. “I forgot to call Dimitri,” I said. “Silly of me. Can I use your phone?”

“No need. I’ll drive you.”

“I wouldn’t put you out like that.”

“No trouble at all.”

“But I don’t know how long I’ll be there. I don’t think you should come in with me.”

“I won’t wait—just drive you there and drop you off. You can call Dimitri for a ride back.”

“All right,” I said. “But we’d better get going. I don’t like to be late—to anything.”

We drove slowly to the Walther farm, taking in the scenery as the village slowly melted into countryside. Seth was deep in thought; I eventually asked him what he was thinking.

“I was thinking how unsettling this whole Rory Brent business is. I mean, everybody points a finger at Jake Walther. He’s questioned by Mort, then arrested. They’re going to let him go, but then they discover a footprint in Rory’s barn that matches one of Jake’s work boots. The D.A. decides that’s enough evidence to charge him with the murder. But then the lab experts can’t agree whether the footprint really matches the boot, so they let Jake go. I suppose what I’m wishin’, Jessica, is that it would be resolved one way or the other—right now! Either Jake Walther killed Rory Brent and is officially charged with the crime, or he’s absolved of any guilt. This town needs some closure.” He turned and looked at me. “You agree?”

I nodded. He was right. With the Christmas festival getting closer and closer, not having a resolution to Rory’s murder made things that much worse. Which is not to say that I would want Jake Walther falsely accused in order to neaten things up. But if Rory Brent’s murderer had been identified beyond a reasonable doubt, it would go a long way to putting to rest the minds of a lot of people in Cabot Cove.

Seth was the first to spot the vehicles parked on the road in front of the Walther farm. There was a television remote truck with a huge antenna protruding through its roof, and three cars. People milled about.

“Damn press,” Seth said, slowing down.

“Not unexpected,” I said. “Everyone knows that Jake Walther has been released and is confined to the farm. That’s where the action is, at least as far as the media is concerned.”

Seth pulled to the side of the road and stopped, then started to make a U-turn.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Heading back to town. You don’t want to be in the middle of this media feeding frenzy.”

I put my hand on his arm. “No, I’m going in to see Mary Walther. I promised, Seth. I suspect she needs me, and I want to be there for her.”

His sigh said many things, mostly that he was frustrated with me. Nothing new there.

“Drop me in front of the farm,” I said, “and go back into town. Take care of whatever it is you have on your agenda. They can’t make me talk to them, and I won’t. I’ll simply go into Mary’s house and spend some time with her. Okay?”

“You are a stubborn woman, Jessica Fletcher,’” Seth said, turning the wheel and proceeding toward the other vehicles.

“I know,” I said. “But you’re still my friend, aren’t you?”

Seth chuckled. “Can’t imagine anything you could do to change that,” he said. “If you have trouble gettin’ hold of Dimitri, give me a call and I’ll come back out to get you.”

“Fair enough.”

When I opened the door to get out of Seth’s car, those standing in front of the farm immediately headed in my direction, led by the Fox TV reporter, Roberta Brannason.

“Mrs. Fleltcher, good to see you. Did you get my message?”

I lied. “No. Did you call me?”

“Yes. I got your answering machine. But it doesn’t matter because here you are.”

“Yes, here I am,” I said.

“Did you come to see Jake Walther?” she asked.

“I’m here to see his wife, Mary. Excuse me. I have an appointment with her.”

I started to walk up the narrow, rutted road leading past the first house on the property, in which Jake lived, and to the middle house, where Mary—and, now that she was home from college—where Jill Walther lived, too. I glanced at Jake’s house as I passed. There was no sign of life. The curtains were closed. So was the door. Then I noticed smoke wafting from a metal chimney pipe jutting up through the roof. Someone was there, presumably Jake.

Ms. Brannason and members of her crew fell in step behind me.

I stopped halfway up, turned, and said, “Please. Mary Walther is a friend of mine, and I’m here on a social visit. I have nothing to say to you, so I suggest you go back to your vehicles and continue waiting for something to happen. It’s not going to happen with me, I assure you.”

I started to resume my walk when Ms. Brannason grabbed my arm. Her action angered me; I turned and glared at her.

“Mrs. Fletcher, all I’m trying to do is my job. I don’t want to intrude on your life. I know that you’re a famous personality, and I respect that. But I don’t understand why you won’t talk to me for even just a few minutes. You probably know more about what’s going on with Mr. Walther and the investigation than anybody else in town, except maybe for the sheriff and the district attorney. What are you
hiding?”

“Hiding? I’m not hiding anything. But if I were, it is my right to do so. I understand that you are doing your job, and I’m not looking to hinder that. But it doesn’t mean that I’m under any obligation, legally, ethically, or morally, to talk to you about this tragedy that has occurred in a place I love very much. Maybe later today, or tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m running late for a date with a friend. Have a good day, Ms. Brannason.”

I stepped up onto the porch of the house, hesitated, then knocked on the door. I heard sounds from inside. Eventually, the door opened, and the frame was filled by Mary Walther.

“Hello, Mary.”

“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, holding open the door.

“I’ll come in only if you call me Jessica, or Jess.”

“I know, you’ve said that before. I’m sorry. Please come in ... Jessica.”

I stepped into the small, spartan living room. I didn’t immediately notice that another person was present, sitting in a wooden chair in a comer to my right. I turned and looked. It was Dennis Solten, Mary’s brother.

Dennis hopped to his feet and lowered his head so that his eyes were directed at my feet. He held a crumpled hat in his hands and wore soiled bib overalls and heavy boots.

“Hello, Dennis,” I said.

He managed to glance at me past the top of his head, nodded, muttered something unintelligible, and returned his focus to the floor.

“I hope you don’t mind that Dennis is here, Jessica,” Mary said. “I thought you might be interested in something he has to say.”

“I’m always happy to see Dennis,” I said. “I remember the good work you did around my house, Dennis. As a matter of fact, there are some things I could use help with now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled.

“Please, let me take your coat,” said Mary, reaching out. I slipped out of my coat and handed it to her. As she went to another comer of the room to hang it on pegs protruding from the wall, I took the moment to glance about the room. Although it wasn’t particularly attractive, there was a certain warmth and comfort to it that was appealing.

“Please, sit down,” I said to Dennis. He did as he was told.

“I made some tuna salad and tea,” said Mary.

“I’m really not very hungry, but if it’s made, I’d love some. Tuna is one of my favorites.”

“It’s with real mayonnaise I make myself,” said Mary. “I know I should offer some with low fat—everybody seems to be eating low-fat things these days—but I’ve just never gotten into that.”

“Sometimes I think people are into it a little too much,” I said. “Homemade mayonnaise will be just fine.”

Mary went to the kitchen, leaving me alone in the room with Dennis. It was obvious he was not about to initiate conversation, so I took the lead.

“How have you been, Dennis?”

“Pretty good, I guess,” he replied, not looking at me.

“I suppose you were very busy when Jake was away from the farm.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You must be happy to have him home again.”

“Yes, ma’am, only . . .”

I sat forward in my chair. “Only what?”

“Jake, he’s ... he’s sort ’a mad at me.”

“Is he? What is he mad about?”

“About what I said to the sheriff.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. The problem was that there was confusion about what you said. First you claimed you were working with him the morning of Mr. Brent’s murder, but then you said something else. And if I’m not mistaken, you said Jake threatened you if you didn’t tell that original story.”

Dennis didn’t answer, just slumped a little more in his chair and nervously twisted the brim of his hat. It was then I realized that he and I were not completely alone. I turned; Mary stood in the kitchen, peering into the living room.

“Dennis and I were just chatting about Jake’s being home,” I said to her.

She seemed surprised that I’d noticed she was listening, and said, “That’s nice. Would you like tea, or I have some raspberry lemonade.”

“Tea would be fine.”

“I’ll only be a minute,” she said, disappearing from my view.

Dennis and I sat silently until I said, “Mary said you might have something interesting to tell me, Dennis.”

He squirmed in his chair and tightened his grip on the hat.

“Dennis? What was it you wanted to say?”

I glanced over my shoulder; Mary had positioned herself again so she could observe and listen.

Dennis drew a series of deep breaths, rolled his eyes around looking at everything but me, then said into the air, “I wasn’t with Jake that morning.”

“That’s what you told Sheriff Metzger the second time. Did Jake really threaten you if you didn’t originally claim that you were with him?”

I don’t know what he said, but it seemed to indicate an affirmation.

“Why are you repeating this to me now?”

“ ’Cause ... ’cause Mary will tell you I’m not lyin’.”

I turned once again in the direction of the kitchen, but Mary wasn’t there this time.

I returned to Dennis. “What do you mean that Mary will tell me you aren’t lying?”

“ ’Cause she knows where I was that morning. She was with me.”

I sat up straight and processed what he’d said. Why hadn’t Mary come forth before with information that would prove that Dennis had not been with her husband the morning of the murder?

I turned in my chair and looked up at Mary, who now stood directly behind my chair. “Dennis says that—”

“It’s true, Jessica. Dennis wasn’t with Jake that morning.”