A Little Yuletide Murder (9 page)

“Jessica, how wonderful of you to come. Right on time, I see, but that’s no surprise. I’ve always suspected that mystery writers have to be punctual and organized.”

I laughed. “Why would you assume that?”

“Because in order to write a good murder mystery, the writer has to have an organized mind to stay on plot, or else the reader is cheated. Don’t you agree?”

“Well,” I said, taking off my coat and tossing it on a chair piled with books, “I do tend to be a relatively neat and organized person, although I’m not sure that extends to my writing. At any rate, it’s good to see you, too.”

He realized I didn’t have any place to sit and quickly emptied another chair of its books and file folders. “Tea?”

“That would be lovely, if it’s no bother.”

“No bother at all. Back in a jiffy.”

He returned with two steaming mugs, handed me one, and settled behind his desk. “So, Jessica Fletcher, who killed Rory Brent?”

The bluntness of his question surprised me, and I didn’t have a ready answer. I did say, “My guess is as good as yours, Bob, or anyone else’s for that matter. A shocking event.”

“Certainly was. I didn’t know Mr. Brent, although I think I met him once or twice in passing. Seemed like a nice fellow. Played Santa Claus every year, didn’t he?”

“Yes, and was wonderful at it. A shame you didn’t know him better. He was a delightful man, not a mean bone in his body.”

“A shame bad things always seem to happen to nice people.”

I nodded.

“Lots of speculation in Cabot Cove about who killed him,” he said.

There was no escaping it. Here I was for the purpose of discussing a class I would teach, and the conversation immediately went to Rory Brent’s murder, and rumors floating around town about who did it.

“Do you know this Jake Walther fellow?”

“Yes, but not well. No one knew Jake very well because he preferred it that way. I know his wife a lot better.”

“From what I hear, it’s an open-and-shut case.”

I looked at him skeptically. “I hardly think that, Bob. The man was questioned, but not arrested. He has an alibi.”

“He does?”

“Yes. His wife’s brother, who lives on the property with them.”

“I hadn’t heard that. Good for him. I mean, lucky for him to have an alibi.”

I thought back to what Tony Colarusso had said about Dennis Solten not being a terribly reliable alibi, and wondered what conclusion Mort had reached after speaking with him.

“I was thinking just before you arrived, Jessica, about the potency of rumor, especially where murder is concerned. Have you ever dealt with that in one of your books?”

I shook my head. “I’ve written so many I have trouble remembering specifics about some of the earlier ones. Yes, as a matter of fact I did deal with rumors in a small town. The rumor became so pervasive that an innocent man was charged with murder.”

I hadn’t thought about that book in connection with Rory Brent’s murder. But now that I had, the entire plot, and many scenes dealing with it, came back to me.

“Ah ha,” Bob said, sipping his tea. “You could have a situation here where fact follows fiction.”

“I don’t think one has anything to do with the other, except as a coincidence.” I then decided I might as well ask, “What’s the latest rumor you’ve heard?”

“Obviously, I’m not as up to speed as you are. I had no idea Mr. Walther had an alibi. What I heard was that he was taken into custody and retained overnight at the jail by Sheriff Metzger.”

I thought back to the circumstances that led Mort to slap cuffs on Jake and bring him into town, but wasn’t about to talk about it.

Bob said, “I’ve read a number of your books, as you know, but I don’t recall the one you mentioned.”

“Written a long time ago, early in my career,” I said. “It was called ... let me see ... it was called
The Hanging Vine.
I think I originally called it The
Hanging Grapevine,
but my editor considered it awkward. He felt readers would get the connection without including the word ‘grape’ in it.”

“I’ll have to read it.”

“I’ll drop off a copy next time I’m here. So, Bob, tell me about this minicourse you want me to teach.”

I called Dimitri Cassis forty-five minutes later and asked him to pick me up. Bob Roark walked me to the foyer of the administration building, where we chatted about the weather and the upcoming Christmas festival until Dimitri pulled up in his vintage station wagon.

“I’m excited about the course,” I said, shaking Bob’s hand.

“To have someone of your reputation teach at a community college is a real feather in the cap—a feather in my cap. I really appreciate it.”

“What’s the college doing concerning the festival?”

“Lots. Musical and theater groups putting on performances. Should be fun, although the murder of Santa Claus takes the edge off it.”

“I know what you mean, but I’m determined it won’t, if only out of deference to Rory’s memory. He would have wanted the festival to go on as big and bright as ever.”

 

The first thing I always do when entering my home is to check the answering machine. The little red light was blinking, indicating I had received a call. It turned out to be my publisher, Vaughan Buckley, calling from New York. His Buckley House had been publishing my novels for the past ten years, and I was one of those rare, it seems, writers who is blissfully happy with my publisher and the job it does publishing and marketing my books. Over those ten years, Vaughan and his wife, Olga, had become dear friends, and I often stayed with them in New York when visiting there. I returned his call immediately.

“Jessica, how are you?”

“Fine. I got your message. I was at a meeting. I’m going to teach a creative writing seminar at our local community college.”

“Good for you. Keep your eyes open for the next John Grisham.”

“I’ll do my best. You called. How’s Olga?”

“Tip-top.”

“What’s up?”

“A brilliant idea from your publisher.”

I laughed. “One of many.”

“I read about the murder of that farmer in your town. His name—yes, here it is in the story, Rory Brent.”

“A tragedy,” I said. “He was a wonderful man, loved by all. He’d played Santa Claus at our annual Christmas festival for the past fifteen years.”

“So the story indicates. That was the peg the writer hung the article on, that a beloved Santa had been gunned down in tranquil Cabot Cove, Maine.”

“I didn’t think it would interest the press outside of this area,” I said.

“An AP story, out of Bangor. So, what’s the latest on it?”

“No suspects,” I said. “A few accusations, and many rumors, but no one arrested. At least as far as I know.”

“Who’s being accused?” Vaughan asked.

“A fellow named Jake Walther. Jake is another farmer. An unpleasant sort, not liked by many people in town. The deceased son claims Jake killed his father, but has nothing to support that. Sheriff Metzger interviewed Jake at length and released him. From what I hear, Jake has an alibi, and Mort was checking it today. I haven’t heard how it came out.”

“What’s your take on it, Jess?”

“I don’t have a take on it, Vaughan. Unfortunately, I got drawn in when Mort originally went out to talk to Jake. I’m friendly with Jake’s wife, Mary, and she asked me to help. Jake was acting irrationally because he’s convinced everyone believes he killed Rory, and no one will believe that he didn’t. I suppose I can’t blame him, although he’s brought a lot of it on himself because of his sour disposition. As we say in Maine, he’s ‘some ugly.’ ”

Vaughan laughed. “ ‘Some ugly.’ Certainly descriptive enough. You folks up there do have a knack for turning a phrase.”

“On occasion. Frankly, Vaughan, I’m trying to put it out of my mind and focus on the upcoming holidays. I’m going to be reading Christmas stories to children as part of the festival. You remember my friend Dr. Seth Hazlitt?”

“Of course. How is he?”

“The same as always. He usually does the reading, but this year I’m going to share the stage with him. Should be fun.”

I wish I could be there.”

“You can, but hotel rooms are at a premium. You and Olga are always welcome at my place.”

“I’ll talk to her, maybe plan to come up for a few days.”

“I’d love it. So, what’s this brilliant idea you’ve come up with?”

“That you shelve plans for your next novel, and instead do a true crime book based upon this murder of Santa Claus.”

“That never would have crossed my mind. I’m not a true crime writer.”

“But you could be. It would be a nice change of pace, wouldn’t it, dealing with fact rather than having to conjure up plots and characters? There they are, right in your lap. You know them, and you certainly know the setting in which this took place. Make a great book.”

“I don’t think so, Vaughan.”

“Don’t come to an instant decision. Promise me you’ll think about it for a day or two. Readers love murder stories that take place in small towns, involving small-town people. People getting knocked off in big cities are a dime a dozen, but not when Santa is murdered three weeks before Christmas.”

“I’ll think about it only because the brilliant idea came from you. But don’t count on it. Talk to Olga about coming up and spending a few days during the festival. You’ll love it.”

I spent the next hour bringing down Christmas decorations from the attic, where I keep them from year to year. Vaughan’s call had reminded me that there were, indeed, only three weeks left until Christmas, which meant I’d better get busy writing cards, making a gift list and, in general, pulling myself together for the holiday season.

I was in the midst of reviewing my Christmas card list when Richard Koser called. Richard is a successful professional photographer who’d taken the photographs of me that appear on my book jackets. He and his wife, Mary Jane, are superb chefs, adventuresome kitchen partners whose culinary expertise range from Indian to Thai, Tex-Mex to down-home New England clambakes. Once, I attended a dinner party at their home, featuring an array of Indian foods—dishes like hommos bi tahini and chicken cous cous, and a dessert called galactaboureko—none of which pleased my pedestrian palate. I’m sure the food was superb, and my reaction was not intended to be judgmental. Richard and Mary Jane understood. “Indian dishes are an acquired taste,” they had graciously said.

“Just as long as you invite me to other dinner parties that aren’t Indian,” I had said.

The one to which I’d been invited that evening would feature, according to Richard, an unusual approach to New England cooking, and I’d been looking forward to it since being invited two weeks ago. Besides excellent food, parties at the Koser home were always spirited and enjoyable.

“Just making sure you’ll be coming tonight,” Richard said.

“Absolutely,” I said. “Who else will be there?”

“The familiar and the unfamiliar,” he said, laughing. “My agent from Boston and his wife are in town and staying with us. Friends from New York are also up for a few days, staying at Jim Rich’s Inn. Doc Hazlitt promised to come by, and Mort and his wife are joining the party.”

“Mort? I’m surprised. I didn’t think he had much time for socializing these days.”

“Because of the Rory Brent murder?”

“Exactly.” I tried to catch myself before asking the next question, but failed. “What do you hear about the murder, Richard?”

“Not very much. I’ve been holed up in my darkroom all day, except for a quick trip to the barber. Word there is that Jake Walther did it.”

I quickly changed the subject. “What’s this special approach to New England cooking well be enjoying tonight?”

Another laugh. “I want it to be a surprise. And no hommos bi tahini. That’s a promise. Seven?”

“See you then.”

Although I enjoy cooking, I would never claim to be a particularly successful or inventive chef. That’s why I enjoy being around people who are, like Richard and Mary Jane Koser. For this particular evening, they’d used a recipe for baked oysters taken from a cookbook called
The Accomplished Cook: Or, The Art and Mystery of Cookery,
published in September of 1664, more than three hundred years ago. Pages from it had been reproduced verbatim in another book called
Maine Coastal Cooking,
published more recently by Down East Books, a Maine publisher.

Our hosts parboiled the oysters in their own juices, washed them in warm water, dried them, seasoned them with pepper, nutmeg, yolks of hard eggs, and salt, wrapped them in a wonderful homemade piecrust, and baked them in the oven. It was a superb entree; everything else served was on the same level of excellence.

Following dessert, we sat in the living room, where Richard served cordials. My antenna had been up during dinner to pick up any conversation about Rory Brent’s murder, and the speculation that Jake Walther was the murderer. To everyone’s credit, dinner-table conversation touched upon every subject except the murder.

But once in the living room, Seth Hazlitt raised it. “Well now, Morton,” he said, “we’ve all been on our best behavior this evening.”

“How so?” our sheriff said, sitting on a couch next to his wife.

“Not a word about Rory’s murder. But I’ll bet my bottom dollar that everyone here has a question for you.”

Mort looked at me before saying, “I figure you’re right, Seth, and I appreciate everybody holding their tongues. No sense asking me questions. I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”

“Who’s Rory?” Richard’s cousin asked.

“A local farmer who was murdered the other day,” Seth said.

“Murdered?” the cousin said, looking at me. “I thought the only murders that happened in Cabot Cove were in your books, Jessica.”

“Generally, you’re right,” I said, “but this time it was for real.”