A Little Yuletide Murder (3 page)

The landscape of Cabot Cove has changed quite a bit over the years I’ve called it home. It still retains a small-town charm, but is no longer the sleepy little coastal Maine village it once was.

The change isn’t especially apparent downtown because most of the shops continue to be owned by individuals, rather than chains and large corporations. The best coffee shop is not a Starbucks, and the largest clothing store is called Charles, not the Gap or Eddie Bauer or Jos. Bank.

But as you leave the center of town and proceed north on an extension of Main Street, the effects of “progress” become readily apparent. All the major fast-food companies have an outlet along that stretch of road, and there are now two strip-malls housing a couple of major department stores and trendy boutiques. However, unlike many towns and villages across America, the opening of the malls did not put local downtown merchants out of business. Cabot Coveites are a resilient lot, one of many things I love about living here.

I sat in the front seat of Mort’s sheriffs car and watched the sights go by as we continued north until the malls, hamburger places, and gas stations faded from view and we were in tranquil farm country. The area doesn’t support the farming industry as it once did, but there are still plenty of hearty souls who, having had their farms handed down from generation to generation, continue to work the soil and take from it both enough money to live, and a psychic pleasure only farmers understand.

As we approached Rory Brent’s spread, Mort said, “I just keep thinking of poor ol’ Rory no longer being alive. I really liked that man. I suppose everybody in town did.”

“That’s a fair assessment, Mort. Not only was he likable, I was always impressed at his skill at farming. It’s not an easy way to make a living, but he certainly seemed to have the knack.”

“No thanks to that worthless kid of his,” Mort grumbled, turning into the long, tree-lined road leading up to the Brent house, which sat majestically on a rise, affording views in every direction of the hundreds of acres surrounding it.

Not that there was much to see that day. The clouds had lowered, obscuring the horizon.

We pulled up in front of the house and got out. The Brent residence looked the way a farmhouse should look. An inviting covered porch spanned the front. The main part of the house was painted a pale yellow, the shutters and front door a forest green. It was more than a hundred years old, but had been meticulously maintained. The paint was fresh, the grounds manicured. The only artifact giving away its twentieth-century occupants was a huge satellite dish off to one side.

We stepped up onto the porch, and Mort knocked. When no one responded, he knocked again, louder this time. A chill went through me as I stood there, and I pulled my coat a little closer about me. Eventually, the door opened, and we faced Rory and Patricia’s son, Robert.

“I said I’d be back,” Mort said. “Did your mom return yet?”

“No,” he replied flatly, the morose, sullen expression never changing on his thin, sallow face.

“You haven’t heard from her?”

“No.”

“Well, Mrs. Fletcher and I are going back out to the barn. You aren’t planning to go anywhere, are you, Bob?”

“No.”

With that, he closed the door, leaving us standing on the porch. Mort mumbled something under his breath—I assumed it was just as well that I didn’t hear what he said—and we came down off the porch, went around the side of the house, and headed for the barn that was partially veiled by the low clouds. Two vehicles were parked in front of it, one a marked police car, the other a vehicle without markings.

“The boys are still going over the scene,” Mort said as we trudged along a narrow path. We’d almost reached the barn when one of Mort’s deputies stepped outside.

“Just wrappin’ things up here,” the deputy said.

“Who belongs to that other car?” Mort asked.

“County police,” the young deputy replied. His name was Tom Coleman; he’d been a Cabot Cove police officer for less than a year.

“How’d they get involved so fast?” Mort asked, leading the way into the barn.

“Didn’t ask ’em,” Coleman said, closing the door behind us. Not that it mattered whether the door was open or closed. It was as cold in the barn as it had been outside.

Two men in suits stood by the crude outline of where Rory’s body had been. Mort introduced himself, and they did the same.

“I wish you hadn’t had the body moved so quickly,” one of them said.

“Didn’t see any need to leave him lyin’ on the ground,” Mort said. His attempt to keep annoyance out of his voice was unsuccessful. “I horsed him right out of here.”

The two county officers looked at each other. One asked, “Did you personally examine the body before it was removed?”

“Of course I did,” Mort said. “Took a real close look at it. Checked the area for any physical evidence, weapons, notes, things like that. Nothing there. Checked for footprints. Didn’t see any that wouldn’t have been made by the deceased.”

“Was the door to the barn open?” one of the men asked.

“Ayuh.
I wasn’t the one who discovered the body.”

“You weren’t?”

“No. The son did. A fella named Tim Purdy came back into town and reported that Mr. Brent was dead. That’s when I came out here. Didn’t know whether it had been an accident or what. When I got here, I took a close look at Rory’s head. Single bullet hole to the left temple. No exit wound. No weapon. Checked for rigor. Body was getting cold, but still had a little heat left. Rigor was just setting in. I pegged time of death between two and four hours earlier.”

Mort had obviously done the right thing when investigating the scene, and I was proud of him. There are people who sometimes view the Cabot Cove police department as being run by country bumpkins, but that certainly isn’t true. Although Mort occasionally comes off as being unsure of himself, he’d kept pace with scientific advancement in police work ever since he became our sheriff years ago, and has a mind that is a lot keener than is sometimes apparent at first meeting.

The men had been talking to Mort as though I didn’t exist. Suddenly, they seemed to discover I was there and looked at me.

“This is Jessica Fletcher,” Mort said.

“The famous mystery writer,” one of the county officers said, extending his hand.

“I don’t know about famous, but I do write murder mysteries,” I said.

“Any special reason you’re here?” the other officer in civilian clothes asked.

“No. Mort told me what had happened out here, and I came along. Rory Brent was a friend of mine, a much loved individual in Cabot Cove.”

“I just thought you might be out here getting material for your next mystery novel,” the officer said, smiling.

“Never entered my mind,” I said.

They turned their attention again to Mort. “Interview any suspects?” he was asked.

“Talked to the son, Robert. He’s up in the house. The wife, Patricia, went downstate to visit a cousin, according to the son. Says she was due back a couple of hours ago.”

One of the men said to the other, “Let’s go up and talk to the kid.”

“Now hold on a second,” Mort said. “This murder occurred in my jurisdiction, and I’m responsible for the investigation. Perfectly fine for you county fellas to get involved with the autopsy, that sort of thing. But when it comes to questioning people, I’ll take care of that.”

Mort and the men looked at each other without another word being spoken. Finally, one of them said to the other, “Let’s go,” then turned to Mort. “We’ll be back.”

“I’ll be looking forward to seeing you again,” Mort said.

As we prepared to leave the barn to return to the house, Mort instructed his deputy to remain there until relieved. The front of the barn had been cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape. “Nobody comes in here unless he’s official. Got that, Tom?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come on, Mrs. F., let’s go have a chat with Mr. Robert Brent.”

When we were outside, I asked, “Are you sure you want me with you when you question him?”

“I wouldn’t if I was about to question him. But I just intend for him and me to have a little chat. Nothing wrong with you being there while we chat, is there?”

“I suppose not.”

A few soft snowflakes had begun to fall from the leaden sky. We’d just rounded the comer of the house when Dimitri Cassis pulled up in his taxi. Dimitri is a Greek immigrant who’d settled with his family in Cabot Cove after buying the local taxi service from Jake Monroe, who’d retired. He is a handsome, hardworking man who’d been readily accepted into the community. Because I don’t drive, I use his service often, to the extent that I have a house account I pay monthly.

He jumped out of the taxi and opened the rear door, through which Patricia Brent exited, carrying a small tapestry overnight bag.

“She doesn’t know,” I said quietly to Mort. “My God, what a shock this will be.”

Patricia was as small a person as her deceased husband had been big. She was birdlike and wore old-fashioned long, flowered dresses. She kept her graying hair up in a tight bun. When she spotted us approaching, a puzzled frown crossed her face.

“Hello, Patricia,” I said. “Jessica Fletcher.”

“ ’Afternoon, Mrs. Brent,” Mort said, tipping his Stetson.

“My goodness,” Patricia said, suddenly smiling. “What are you doing here?”

“Afraid we have some bad news,” said Mort.

“Bad news?” She said to Dimitri, “I’m sorry. I forgot to pay you.”

We watched as she fished money from her purse and handed it to him. He appeared to not want to leave, now that he had heard there was some bad news being reported. But he also instinctively understood that as long as he was present, that bad news was probably not going to be voiced. He thanked her, said hello to Mort and me, got back in his taxi, and drove away.

Patricia took a deep breath, pulled herself up to her maximum height, which was not more than five feet, and said, “Well, now, what is this bad news you have?”

“Maybe we’d better go inside,” Mort said. “Starting to snow. Catch a chill out here.”

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll put on a pot of tea—unless you’d like something stronger. We always keep a few bottles in the house, although neither Rory nor I drink.”

Mort and I thought the same thing, that their son certainly didn’t fall into his parents’ teetotaling habits.

We followed her into the house and stood in a large foyer. She placed her bag on the floor, removed her coat, and looked in the mirror, touching hair that had been blown during the taxi ride. “Please, take off your coats,” she said.

“Ma’am, I don’t think we will be having any tea,” Mort said. He looked at me; I gave him a look that said we should take off our coats and go to a more comfortable setting to break the news. He picked up on my silent message, removed his jacket, helped me off with my coat, and we went with Patricia to the living room, a large, pleasant space, dominated by a huge hooked rug, antique pine furniture, and hundreds of knick-knacks.

“Please, sit,” she said. “Tea will only take a minute.”

“Mrs. Brent, I—”

Mort’s words were lost in the room as Patricia suddenly disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

When she was gone, Mort turned to me and said, “Something strange going on here, Mrs. F.”

I nodded.

“Here poor ol’ Rory is shot dead not more than six or seven hours ago. I say we got bad news, and she just sits us down in the parlor and goes in to make tea. The son knows what happened, but he doesn’t even bother coming down to be with his mother when she finds out.”

“I suppose people handle these things in different ways,” I said, not really meaning it, but groping for something to say in defense of the Brent family.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Mort said. “Hate to be breaking the news to her alone.”

Patricia returned from the kitchen, now wearing an apron.

“Only take a minute for the water to boil,” she said, sitting primly in a straight-back chair across from where we sat side by side on the couch. “Now, what is this bad news you have to give me? It has to do with Rory, doesn’t it?”

An uncomfortable glance passed between Mort and me before I said, “Patricia, Rory is dead.”

She lowered her head and looked at hands clasped in her lap. She remained in that position for what seemed a very long time, and neither Mort nor I said anything to intrude. Finally, she looked up and said, “What happened? Did he have a heart attack?”

Mort cleared his throat before saying, “Not exactly, ma’am. You see, Rory died out in the barn. He was ... well, no sense beating around the bush. He was shot dead.”

A tiny involuntary gasp came from Patricia Brent. Her eyes went into motion, looking, it seemed, for some answer in corners of the room.

“You say Rory was shot,” she said. “Did he kill himself?”

The directness of the question took us both aback. Mort answered, “No, ma’am, it looks to me as though someone killed your husband.”

“Oh, my God,” she said so softly we barely heard her. “Who would want to do something like that to Rory?”

“That’s what I intend to find out,” Mort said, injecting official tone into his voice.

“Does Robert know?” she asked.

“Yes, he does,” Mort replied. “He’s upstairs. At least, he was.”

“Poor boy,” she said. “Terrible to lose your father that way.”

I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable at her demeanor. She was without affect, her voice a monotone, her eyes seldom blinking.

“Mrs. Brent, Robert told us you were downstate visiting a relative,” Mort said.

“Yes. My cousin Jane.”

“Down there overnight?” Mort asked.

“No. I took the bus first thing this morning. Jane fell and hurt her ankle. In a big cast, I went down to help out a little bit, but really wasn’t needed.”