Trick or Treachery (12 page)

Mort closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “The only statement I can give is that there’s been a murder, and that our office is investigating. I’d appreciate it, Pete, if you held off on reporting any of this for twenty-four hours, till after I finish the interviews.”

“Mort, you know how unrealistic that is. The word will be all over town by sunup, and the TV and newspapers will be on the case not long after that. Sorry, Mort, but I can’t do it.”

“Well then, no speculating, huh? Just stick to the facts. And if anyone calls with information about the case, give ’em this number.” He handed Pete a card.

“Of course.”

“I know you’re used to asking the questions, Pete,” Mort said, “but when there’s a murder, I do the asking.”

“Shoot,” Pete said.

“Roberta, you and Pete were here all evening. See anything unusual, anything might shed some light on what happened down at the Rose Cottage?”

“Can’t say that I did,” she responded.

“You, Pete?”

“No. The only thing I saw were people having a good time. What’s your read on it, Mort? I assume that nut out there, Tremaine, is at the top of your suspect list.”

“I don’t have such a list—yet. You have any contact with the victim since she moved here?”

They both denied having ever met Matilda. But then Pete said, “I heard she was down at the newspaper, looking through clips in the morgue.”

“That so?” Mort said. “Know what she was looking for?”

“Horace told me she was diggin’ into articles on Tony Scott’s death.”

Mort glanced at me before asking, “How come Horace wasn’t at the party?” Horace Teller is publisher of the
Cabot Cove News,
our weekly newspaper.

“Out of town,” Roberta answered. “Visiting his son in New York.”

“I see,” Mort said. “Well, unless you’ve got anything else to say, you’re free to go.”

“Sure I can’t get a statement from you, Mort?”

“Yup, I’m sure. Safe home.”

Harold escorted the Walters out of the library, and Mort placed his elbows on the desk and rested his head in his palms.

“Don’t you think it’s time to call it a night?” I suggested, getting up to stretch my legs. My right foot had fallen asleep.

“Can’t leave just yet, Mrs. F. The others I can get to later, but Mr. Tremaine has some questions to answer, plenty of ’em.”

“Of course,” I said. “Shall I go tell everyone they’re free to leave, and have Harold or Wendell bring Mr. Tremaine in?”

“Thanks, Mrs. F., I appreciate the help. By the way, I’m intending to inspect the cottage tomorrow.” He massaged his neck and rolled his head. “I’ll be back out here around ten. You’re welcome, as usual, to join me.”

“I’ll take you up on that, Mort. I’m interested in seeing Ms. Swift’s home. You learn a lot about people from the way they live.”

The occupants of the Marshall living room were barely awake when I entered. Wendell was close to falling asleep on his feet, arms crossed, head leaning against the wall. Paul Marshall stared into space, his book resting on his chest, half glasses perched on his nose. His daughter had drawn her chair up to the French writing table; a pillow from the sofa cushioned her dark head on the table’s sleek surface. Her two swain, if that’s what they were, sat slumped on sofas on opposite sides of the room, fighting to keep their eyes open. And Seth snored, not so gently, in his wing chair. The scene was peaceful, if a bit noisy, but something was not right. The room was chilly, and I noticed the patio doors were ajar. And then I realized immediately what was amiss. The chair in which Lucas Tremaine had been sitting was empty.

He was gone.

The sun came up far too early the next day, even for this usually early-to-bed, early-to-rise lady. I’d been early to bed, all right, but it had been early in the morning, not early in the evening. I was contemplating getting out of bed when the ringing of the telephone jangled my nerves and forced me upright.

“Mrs. F.?”

“Good morning, Mort. At least I think it’s a good morning.”

“I take it you and the doc got home all right.”

“Yes, we did, and I was happy to be here. Did you find Mr. Tremaine?”

“Ayuh. Got to be one of the strangest characters I’ve ever met. He sneaks away from the scene of the murder but doesn’t go very far. Wendell and Jerry hightail it over to that place he calls his spiritual headquarters and there he is, sitting on a chair out front waiting for them. Gives them a big greeting and says he figures they’re there to get him, walks over to the squad car, gets in and says, ‘Let’s go.’ ”

“Where is he now?”

“In jail. I’m holding him as a material witness. I can only hold him for so long. Would have to charge him with Ms. Swift’s murder or some other crime to keep him any longer. That’s the law.”

“Did you question him?”

“We had a few words last night when they brought him in. He says he crashed the party because he likes good parties. He’s a smug son-of-a-gun. I asked him why he left, and he said he got bored. Always got a big smile. Gives me the creeps.”

“Have you spoken with anyone else this morning?”

“Got a call from Paul Marshall. He’s coming in to talk to me this afternoon.”

“That’s good. What about the young people—Erica, Jeremy and Warren?”

“Not sure if they’ll be coming with Marshall or not. Marshall said he has to go out of town on business. Wants to ‘get this over with’ were his words.”

“How long does he plan to be gone?”

“Said two or three days. Intends leaving after we have our talk. What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t worry about him, Mort. He has his daughter and business here.”

“That’s the way I figure it.”

“Did he mention if he was taking Warren Wilson with him?”

“Didn’t say. Well, just wanted to let you know I’m heading for the Rose Cottage. Still planning on joining me?”

“I’ll be there,” I said, pushing my toes into my slippers and lifting my robe from the foot of the bed, “but it’ll take me a half hour or so to put myself together.”

“No rush,” he said. “You come on along whenever you can. I’ll be there a while. I’ll bring a Thermos of coffee, now that you taught me how to make it.”

“Sounds fine. Would you like me to stop off for doughnuts on my way?”

“Sure thing. Doughnuts are one of the basic food groups in law enforcement.”

I laughed and rang off. Tying the belt of my robe, I started for the kitchen when something stopped me. I looked back at the phone. What was it? I replayed our conversation in my mind, but there was nothing out of the ordinary there. Maybe after I showered my mind would be a little clearer, I decided.

 

Sassi’s Bakery was buzzing with news of the murder when I arrived on my bike. Brenda Brody, who worked for the Cabot Cove magazine, was there buying a coffee cake.

“I know you don’t believe in such things, Jessica,” she said with a sniff, “but Lucas Tremaine predicted that The Legend would rise up and terrible plagues would descend on Cabot Cove, and just look what’s happened. It’s happening just the way he said it would.”

“Brenda, tragic as it is, one murder could hardly be considered a plague. And no spirit wielded the weapon that killed Matilda Swift.”

“And what’s making the dogs howl every night? Dogs are sensitive to ghosts, you know.”

“Never having encountered a ghost and a dog at the same time, I’m afraid my experience is limited.”

“You can scoff, but Mr. Tremaine has been very helpful to me. I believe he has a direct line into the spirit world, and I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

Direct line! That was what I was trying to remember this morning. “I’m sorry to break off this conversation, Brenda, but I’ve got to run. Nice seeing you.”

Mort was already at the Rose Cottage when I arrived carrying a bag of doughnuts. He was holding a clipboard and making notes.

“The state guys finished dusting the place, and we’ve got lots of Polaroids and a video, so we don’t have to worry about disturbing the scene,” he said as I followed him down the hall into the combination kitchen-dining room.

“You know what occurred to me this morning after I spoke with you?” I said, arranging the doughnuts on a plate.

“What’s that?” Mort picked up a powdered doughnut, one of his favorites I knew.

“It was the telephone line.”

“Ayuh, what about it?” He took a bite.

“It was clear,” I said. “There was no static. That was the first phone call in weeks in which I didn’t have to fight to have my voice heard over the noise on the line.”

Mort chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “That’s right. Funny, it happening right after Ms. Swift got killed.”

“I can’t imagine there’s a connection,” I said. “I’m sure the telephone company has fixed the problem. But it did cross my mind.” I debated a doughnut and decided to forgo the extra calories. “Where do we start?” I asked.

“I’m going to check out the kitchen area,” Mort said, eying the doughnut plate. “Why don’t you look around and see if there’s a desk where she kept her papers.”

A decorator’s touch was evident in the main room. It was naturally cozy, given its small size, but also exhibited a certain sophistication. Large pink flowers on a chintz fabric covered the loveseat and matching armchair positioned in front of the brick-and-stone fireplace. The furniture was placed on a rose-patterned rug that snuggled up to the flagstone hearth and polished brass fender. Red-and-pink striped curtains were pulled back with brass rosettes, and embroidered red and pink roses were sprinkled across the upholstered valance. The effect could have been cloying, but the professional hired by Paul Marshall knew just when to pull back. The coffee table and side tables were burnished walnut, and their dark wood contrasted boldly with the flowery theme, saving the room from being too sweet. I reminded myself I was not here to admire the decor, and studied the remainder of the room, looking for clues to Matilda Swift’s personality and, more important, to why someone would want her dead.

While Mort took inventory in the kitchen, I sat down on the loveseat. There was no desk in the room, but on the coffee table in front of me was a large green lacquered box. I lifted the lid and was surprised to find several stacks of envelopes arranged by date and secured with rubber bands. Matilda Swift didn’t get much mail, I thought, if she was able to keep it in a decorative box. I flipped through the envelopes and contemplated opening some. I suffered a natural reluctance to read someone else’s mail. I certainly wouldn’t want strangers going through my papers and personal items. But, I reminded myself, this is an unusual circumstance. A killer was at large. Were Matilda Swift able to speak for herself, I was sure she’d tell us she wanted her killer found and brought to justice.

I examined the mail. The pieces were mostly bank statements and invoices that she’d marked “paid” in a bold hand. They included her rent and utility bills, telephone, life insurance and cable television. In the “to be paid” pile, there was a bill from Charles Department Store for gardening supplies, and another from a local market for groceries, but nothing from credit card companies. The mail was evidence of a modest life, and I wondered if she’d always lived that way. I pulled out one envelope and put it in my pocket. Drawing papers from one of the statements, I scanned the column of figures. The accompanying cashed checks corresponded to the bills I’d already seen. I replaced the statement in the pile and pulled out the next one. I continued reading until Mort emerged from the kitchen.

“Find anything?” he asked, leaning over the back of the loveseat to see what was in my hand.

“I may have,” I replied, lifting up a statement I’d put aside. “See this bank charge?”

“Ayuh.”

“It’s for a safe-deposit box. Did you find any keys in the kitchen?”

“Didn’t see any. You think they’d be there?”

“There’s no table in the hall, so my guess is she’d keep her keys in the kitchen.”

We trooped into the kitchen and went to a four-drawer cabinet.

“Already checked these,” he said. “Guess it won’t hurt to look again.”

The top drawer held flatware and a few small utensils. The one beneath it was filled with basic kitchen paraphernalia—knives, spatulas, wooden spoons and the like. Drawers three and four were occupied respectively by potholders and dish towels, boxes of plastic garbage and storage bags, aluminum foil, plastic wrap and wax paper. We examined the contents of each drawer carefully—no keys.

“Everyone I know has a junk drawer in the kitchen,” I said, “or some other box or container for all the little things you want to keep but don’t know where to put.”

“Maureen keeps coupons and thumbtacks and extra keys, stuff like that, in a big cookie jar.”

We both eyed a white china canister on the counter. Mort flipped the latch that held it closed and peered inside. Smiling, he reached into it and withdrew a large chocolate chip cookie. “Want one?” he asked. “Maureen’s got me on a diet.”

“I’ll pass,” I said, methodically opening and closing the kitchen cabinets, not sure what I was looking for. In a tall, narrow pantry were several more canisters matching the cookie jar. I picked one up, shook it, and looked inside. Tea bags. The next one rattled when I pulled it off the shelf. I grabbed a dish towel from the third drawer, laid it on the countertop and tipped the canister contents onto it.

“Why’d you need a dish towel?” Mort asked, standing next to me at the counter.

“So nothing will roll away,” I responded, looking over my cache. There were a few keys, empty key rings, magnets advertising local shopkeepers, a child’s yo-yo, an old screwdriver, six pennies, some folded brown paper and a leaky pen. Trying unsuccessfully to avoid getting ink on my fingers, I picked out three keys from the collection. Two were of the old-fashioned skeleton key variety; the third looked like it might fit the front door lock. No safe-deposit box key. I picked up the brown paper and carefully unfolded it. It was half of a tiny envelope. The letters “ANK” were stamped in black ink.