A Little Yuletide Murder (2 page)

“Saw him yesterday,” Seth said. “Down to Charlene’s Bakery. Looked healthy enough to me.”

“He must have been detained. Maybe some emergency at the farm.”

“Ayuh,”
Seth muttered.

A few minutes later, when Jim Shevlin invited further comments from the audience, Seth stood and asked why Rory Brent wasn’t there.

“I had Margaret try to call him at the farm,” Shevlin said. Margaret was deputy mayor of Cabot Cove. He looked to where she sat to his right.

She reported into her microphone, “I called a few times but there’s no answer.”

“Maybe somebody ought to take a ride out to the farm,” Seth suggested from the floor.

“Good idea,” said Shevlin. “Any volunteers?”

Tim Purdy, a member of the Chamber of Commerce, whose business was managing farms around the United States from his office in Cabot Cove, said he’d check on Rory, and left the hall.

“You can always count on Tim,” said Seth, sitting.

The meeting lasted another half hour. Although there was disagreement on a number of issues, it warmed my heart to see how the citizens of the town could come together and negotiate their differences.

Coffee, tea, juice, and donuts were served at the rear of the hall, and I enjoyed apple juice and a cinnamon donut with friends, many of whom expressed pleasure that I would be in town for the festivities.

“I was wondering whether you would do a Christmas reading for the kids this year, Jessica,” Cynthia Curtis, director of our library and a member of the town board, said.

“I’d love to,” I replied. “Some traditional Christmas stories? Fables?”

“Whatever you choose to do,” she said.

But then I thought of Seth, who was chatting in a far comer with our sheriff and another good friend, Morton Metzger.

“Seth usually does the reading, doesn’t he?” I said.

“Oh, I don’t think he’d mind deferring to you this year, Jess. It would be a special treat for the kids to have a famous published author read Christmas stories to them.”

I suppose my face expressed concern about usurping Seth.

“Why don’t you do the reading together?” Cynthia suggested. “That would be a different approach.”

I liked that idea, and said so. “I’ll discuss it with Seth as soon as we leave.”

Seth and Mort approached.

“Feel like an early lunch?” Seth asked.

“Sure. Nice presentation, Mort,” I said, referring to the report he’d given about how the police department would maintain order during the festival.

“Been doing it long enough,” he said. “Ought to know what’s needed. ’Course, never have to worry about anybody gettin’ too much out of hand. Folks really pick up on the Christmas spirit around here, love thy neighbor, that sort of thing.”

We decided to have lunch at Mara’s Luncheonette, down by the water and a favorite local hang-out. The weather was cold and nasty; snow was forecast.

“I hope Mara made up some of her clam chowder,” I said as the three of us prepared to leave. “Chowder and fresh baked bread is appealing.”

We reached the door and were in the process of putting on our coats when Tim Purdy entered. I knew immediately from his expression that something was wrong. He came directly to Sheriff Metzger and said something to him we couldn’t hear. Mort’s face turned serious, too.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“There’s been an accident out at Rory’s place,” Purdy said.

“An accident? To Rory?” Seth asked.

“Afraid so,” said Purdy. “Rory is dead!”

“Rory is dead?” Seth and I said in unison.

Purdy nodded, grimly.

“Means Santa’s dead, too,” Seth said.

He was right. My eyes filled as I said, “I’m suddenly not hungry.”

Although the sad news of Rory Brent’s death had taken away any appetite I might have had minutes earlier, I succumbed to Seth’s insistence that I go with him to Mara’s, if only to keep him company. Sheriff Metzger had immediately left for Brent’s farm to investigate the situation.

By the time we got to Mara’s—only ten minutes or so after learning the news from Tim Purdy—the report of Brent’s death had reached every corner of Cabot Cove.

“What terrible news,” Mara said as we entered her small, popular waterfront eatery. “Can’t hardly believe it.”

“We’re all in shock,” I replied as she led Seth and me to a window table.

“Any word on how he died?” Mara asked.

“Not so far as I know,” said Seth, adding, “Rory was a big man, carried too much weight. Hauling around that kind of tonnage puts a strain on the heart. I told him every time he came in for a checkup to drop a few pounds, but he’d just laugh and say he liked having more of him for folks to love.”

I couldn’t help but smile at that reference to Rory Brent. He was perpetually jovial; people like him warm the hearts of others. He’d be missed, not only because our familiar Santa Claus wouldn’t be here this Christmas, but because we wouldn’t be the recipients of his sunny disposition the rest of the year.

Seth and I sat in silence after Mara left us to greet new customers. We looked out the window onto the town dock and beyond, where a heavy, wet, cold fog had settled in over the water, obscuring all but the nearest boats. I thought of Rory’s wife, Patricia, as shy and reticent a person as her husband was gregarious.

Patricia Brent stayed pretty much to herself on the farm, running the household and addressing every one of her husband’s needs. A dutiful wife was the way to describe her, although I was sure she had many other dimensions than that. They had a son, Robert. Thinking of him made me wince.

Robert Brent, who’d just turned eighteen, did not share his father’s positive reputation around town. A brooding young man, he’d had more than one run-in with Sheriff Mort Metzger, usually after a night of drinking with his buddies. Although he lived on the farm with his mother and father, people who knew them better than I did said he seldom lifted a finger to help out, preferring instead to sit in his room, reading magazines about guns and hot automobiles and the military. I don’t think I’d ever had a conversation with the younger Brent, my direct contact with him consisting only of an occasional greeting from me on the street, which was usually not returned.

He was different from his father in another way, too. Robert Brent was as thin as his father was corpulent. To further set him apart—perhaps a continuation of his teenage rebellious years—he had shaved his head, making the contrast with his father’s flowing white hair that much more dramatic. But although I was not particularly fond of Robert Brent, my heart went out to him at that moment, as well as to his mother, Patricia. As traumatic as Rory’s death was for the community, it was surely devastating to them.

Seth ordered his usual, a fried clam sandwich and small green salad. Mara had made clam chowder that day, and I ordered a bowl, nothing else.

“I assume it was a heart attack,” I said idly, tasting the chowder which was, no surprise, superb.

“Perhaps,” Seth said. “Or stroke. I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Will there be an autopsy?” I asked.

“I suspect so. Doc Treyz will probably be asked to do one, considerin’ the sudden nature of Rory’s death. Standard procedure in cases like this.”

I looked up at him and said, “I didn’t realize that. I thought it was standard procedure only when the cause of death was suspicious.”

“Ayuh,”
Seth said, taking another bite of his sandwich, which he’d slathered with Mara’s homemade tartar sauce. “We’ll just have to see what Mort comes up with, whether he labels it suspicious. Eat your chowder, Jessica, ’fore it gets cold as outdoors.”

We fell silent for a few more minutes until I said, “Not a very cheery Christmas for Patricia Brent.”

“I wouldn’t argue that with you,” Seth said, sitting back and wiping tartar sauce from the comer of his mouth with a napkin. “Never easy losing someone any time of year, but especially tough around Christmas.”

“I wonder who’ll be chosen to be Santa this year,” I said.

“Up to the committee,” Seth said.

“Cynthia Curtis suggested that you and I read Christmas stories to the kids together this year.”

His eyes went up. “Did she now?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t think of joining you unless you really wanted me to.”

“Seems like a right good idea, Jessica. I like it.”

I drew a deep breath and also sat back in my chair. Funny, I thought, how quickly we return to mundane, everyday matters so soon after someone dies. Here we were discussing the Christmas festivities as though nothing had happened to Rory.

Seth evidently sensed what I was thinking because he said, “Life goes on, Jessica. That’s the way it was meant to be by the good Lord up above. Festival is real important to Cabot Cove. Rory would have wanted us to get on with it, make it the biggest and best ever. Coffee?”

Mara had made pecan pie that morning. I passed it up, but Seth enjoyed a hearty serving. We finished our coffee and had stood to leave when Mort Metzger came through the doorway. He was immediately asked by others about what information he had concerning Rory Brent’s death, but he ignored them and came to us.

“Cup ’a coffee, Mort?” Seth asked.

“Don’t mind if I do,” our sheriff said, removing his Stetson hat and sitting heavily in a third chair at the table.

Mara came to take our new order, but lingered at the table after we’d told her we wanted three coffees. Mort ignored her presence and said, “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a little Yuletide murder on our hands.”

Seth and I looked at each other, eyes narrowed, brows furrowed.

“Rory Brent has been murdered?” Mara said loudly.

Mort nodded, looked up at her, and said, “Seems that way, Mara. Got any pecan pie left?”

She left the table. Seth and I leaned closer to Mort. Seth said, “Now, Morton, be a little more specific. Are you certain it was murder?”

“Certainly looks that way to me, Doc. Gunshot to the left temple. Didn’t exit the other side, so the bullet is still in his brain. Must have dropped instantly.”

I said, “Why are you so sure it was murder? Couldn’t it have been suicide?”

“Surely not, Mrs. F. No weapon at the scene. Of course, I’m saying he was shot based upon my examination of him. Could be something else was involved along with a gun. Doc Treyz will have to come to that determination. The ambulance boys were out there real fast, took poor old Rory away.”

“Where was the body?” I asked.

“Out in one of his barns. The big one at the back of the property.” A puzzled expression crossed Mort’s face. “Funny,” he said, mostly to himself.

“What’s funny?” Seth asked.

“Rory was out there in shirtsleeves. No coat, no hat, no gloves. Can’t imagine him trekkin’ all the way from the house out to the barn in this weather without winter clothing.”

“Maybe he just ran out there to get something quick,” I offered.

“That barn has got to be a half mile from the house. You don’t run out there to get something quick,” Mort said.

I didn’t argue with him.

“How’s Patricia?” Seth asked.

“She wasn’t there,” Mort said.

“That’s unusual, isn’t it?” I said. “She seems always to be at the farm.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Mort, sticking his fork into the pie Mara had set in front of him. “His crazy kid was there, though.”

“Was he the one who discovered the body?” I asked.

“According to Tim Purdy. Tim said he got out there just a few minutes after Robert found Rory in the barn. Robert said he was about to call my office when Tim arrived. Says he figured since Tim was coming back to town to tell us, there was no need for him to make a call.”

“I assume he was upset,” I said.

“You can’t prove it by me, Mrs. F. That kid is a real foul ball. Just had that dumb, placid expression on his skinny little face. Didn’t hardly say nothing.”

“What was he doing when you arrived?” Seth asked.

“Sittin’ in his room, reading magazines.”

“After just discovering that his father had been killed?” I said, unable to keep the incredulity from my voice.

“Like I said, he’s a strange-o. The only thing he said was about Jake Walther.”

“What about Jake?” Seth asked.

“He said I should go arrest the old son-of-a—no need to repeat his profanity,” Mort said, looking at me. “He said I should arrest Jake for killing his father.”

“Does he know that for a fact?” I asked.

Mort shook his head and ate more pie.

“Everybody knows Rory and Jake Walther had bad blood between them,” Seth said.

“But that doesn’t matter,” I said. “What would cause Robert Brent to immediately accuse Jake of having killed his father?”

“Beats me,” Mort said. “I told the boy I’d be back to question him.”

“Did he mention his mother?” I asked.

“Says she went to visit somebody. A cousin. Well, I’d better get back there and get answers to some questions I didn’t get around to asking. I suppose seeing good ol’ Rory lyin’ dead in his barn shook me up a little. Not supposed to, being an officer of the law and all that. But I’m human.”

“Mind if I come along?” I asked.

“I suppose not, Mrs. F., although there’s not much to see. My boys took pictures of the scene and did all their measuring before the ambulance took Rory away. Just a crude sketch on the dirt floor where he was found.”

“I’d like to go,” I said. “Maybe Patricia Brent is there and could use some comforting. You know, woman-to-woman.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Seth said. “I’d come with you, too, except I’ve got a full slate of patients this afternoon, starting—” He looked at his watch. “Starting ten minutes ago. Excuse me. Call you later at home, Jessica.”