Trick or Treachery (16 page)

Richard emerged from the darkroom. “See any you’d like, Jess? I’ll make you up some prints.”

“Just this one,” I said, indicating the one with Lauren.

“Why that one?”

“Nothing special, Richard. Lauren wasn’t supposed to have been at the party but—” Whatever I said would be grist for conversation around town the next day. I kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Richard. I’ll tell you all about it next time I see you. Have to run.”

“Before you go,” he said, “take a look at these.” He held up eight-by-ten prints that were still wet from processing.

“What are they?” I asked.

“I was around town a few days ago shooting stuff for my architectural series. I’m still working on that book I told you about, vintage buildings of New England.”

“The book’s a great idea, Richard, only I don’t see any houses of particular historic interest in these shots.”

“I know. There aren’t any. While I was wandering around, I saw the deceased.”

“Ms. Swift?”

“Yeah. She’s intrigued me ever since she moved to Cabot Cove. Strange-looking lady, I’m sure you’ll agree. Anyway, I had a long lens on my camera and snuck a couple of shots of her—without her knowing, of course.”

I leaned closer to the prints and narrowed my eyes. “Is that her?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“What happened? Was your camera malfunctioning?”

“No. It was working fine.”

“But she’s out of focus.”

“And everything else is in focus,” he said.

“It’s as though there’s a mist surrounding her, gauze, like the way they used to photograph fading movie queens through lenses smeared with Vaseline.”

“I know,” he said. “Beats me why these shots came out this way.”

“Well, there’s got to be a tangible explanation for it, a physical reason.”

We looked at each other, and I wondered whether he was thinking what I was thinking. He satisfied my curiosity. “Maybe she’s The Legend, Jess,” he said, laughing.

I didn’t laugh.

 

No one seemed to be at home at the Wandowski cottage when I arrived and leaned my bike against the gate, but then I heard a child’s voice coming from the wooded area at the side of the house. A moment later, Lauren and her daughter, Julie, emerged from the trees, the child swinging her lunchbox and chattering animatedly. Both saw me at the same time. Lauren looked worried, but Julie raced to me and sang out, “Hi! You’re the lady who came here with the policemen, right?” She stopped in front of me and her smile faded as she remembered that day. “My mom told me Mrs. Swift died. She was a nice lady. Did you like her? Daddy didn’t like her. But she was nice to me. She let me bake cookies with her.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t know her very well,” I said, smiling at the child’s unbridled enthusiasm. Lauren was approaching, so I quickly asked, “Who else was baking cookies with you when you visited Mrs. Swift, Julie?”

“The pretty lady from the big house was there, but she didn’t help much. I did all the mixing,” she piped up proudly.

“That’s enough, Julie,” her mother said, reaching for her daughter’s shoulders and turning her toward the cottage. “I’m sure Mrs. Fletcher has more important things to discuss. You go on in.” She gave her a little push. “Take a snack. I’ll be right there.”

Lauren looked ill at ease. “I wasn’t expecting company . . .” She trailed off, her eyes following Julie, who waved at me as she opened the cottage door and slipped inside.

“I won’t keep you long,” I said, handing Lauren the photo Richard had given me. “Your husband said you didn’t attend the party, but I’m pretty sure that’s you.” My finger pointed to the corner of the picture.

Lauren’s face became red, and she stammered as she handed the picture back. “Bob, uh, I mean . . . what I mean is we couldn’t get anyone to stay with Julie, so we took turns at the party.”

“Why would your husband lie to Sheriff Metzger about that?”

“Oh, God.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I told him we’d get in trouble. He didn’t want the sheriff to know he’d left the party to allow me to come because . . .”

“Because that would have given him the opportunity while he was away from the party to kill her. He did threaten Ms. Swift the day your daughter was with her, Mrs. Wandowski.”

“I know he did, but he didn’t kill her, Mrs. Fletcher. I know my husband. He has a temper at times, but he could never kill anyone. Oh, my God,” she wailed. “How could this have happened to us? Are you going to have him arrested? He’s innocent. I know he’s innocent.”

I wasn’t sure of Robert Wandowski’s innocence, but I didn’t want to further upset his wife. “Why don’t you have Bob tell the sheriff the truth,” I said. “It will be much better if it comes from him.”

She wiped tears from beneath her eyes and nodded stiffly. “I’ll do that. I promise. I’ll have him go straight to the sheriff’s office when he gets home from work.”

She backed toward the cottage while I went to where I’d left my bicycle. “I promise,” she called out from the doorway as I got on the bike and rode away, looking back over my shoulder to see Julie Wandowski’s little face in the window.

 

The sheriff’s office sounded like a big city police station when I walked in the next morning. Phones were ringing nonstop, and Wendell, Harold and Marie were all talking at once. With her hand on one still-ringing phone, Marie rested the receiver of another on her shoulder and said to me above the hullabaloo, “Mort had to go down to the state police barracks to pick up the lab report on Matilda Swift. A tanker truck overturned down on the highway—a big oil spill—and the press is calling about the Swift investigation.”

“Did the blood type match Ms. Swift’s?” I asked.

Marie nodded.

“Can I help?” I asked.

“You can pick up any ringing phone. Just take a message and one of us will call back.”

I grabbed a pad and pen from the nearest desk, seated myself in a rolling chair and answered a phone with, “Cabot Cove Sheriff’s Office.”

“This is George Walker. Is Sheriff Metzger there, please?”

“I’m sorry, the sheriff is out of the office at the moment. May I take a message for him?” I asked, writing down his name.

“Yes, ma’am, you may. I’m with the United Insurance Company in Salem, Massachusetts. The sheriff called me about one of our clients, Matilda Swift. Ms. Swift had a life insurance policy with us, and I understand she has passed away.”

My heart started beating quickly. “Yes,” I said.

“That reminds me, I’ve got to call her lawyer. Do you need his name?”

“Yes, the sheriff will need that.”

“His name is Stuart Shippee. He’s here in Salem, too.” He gave me the lawyer’s phone number.

I wrote down the information, then asked, “Mr. Walker, did the sheriff leave word what other information he needed from you?”

“Not specifically, Officer, but I assume he’ll want to know the name of the beneficiary and the amount of the death benefit.”

I stalled for a moment, debating whether or not to correct his impression that he was speaking with a police officer. He took my hesitation to mean I was waiting for the answer.

“Let me see,” he said. “I believe the amount of the policy is five hundred . . .” I heard him shuffle some papers. “Thousand. Yes, five hundred thousand.”

I let out a breath. Matilda Swift may not have lived as modest a life as I’d originally imagined.

“And the beneficiary?” I coaxed.

“The beneficiary is her nephew in California. I’m not sure the address is current, but his name is Scott something. No, that’s not right.” I heard him turn a page. “Here it is. That’s his last name. Scott. The beneficiary is Jeremy Scott.”

I called the number for the attorney, Stuart Shippee, which Matilda Swift’s insurance agent had given me, and was surprised when he picked up personally on the first ring.

“Hello?” he said in a voice that told me he was an elderly gentleman.

“Mr. Shippee?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Jessica Fletcher. I’m calling from Cabot Cove, Maine.”

“Oh?”

“I was given your name and number by George Walker, an insurance agent for a Matilda Swift. Unfortunately, Ms. Swift died recently. I was told you were her attorney.”

“Yes, that’s correct. She died, you say?”

“Yes. She was murdered.”

“Oh, my.”

“Mr. Walker told me that Ms. Swift’s beneficiary on her life policy was someone named Jeremy Scott.”

“Yes?”

“Is that true?”

“I wouldn’t know. I put Matilda in touch with George because she needed a life insurance policy. I wasn’t involved in writing the policy. You say she was murdered?”

“Yes. The day before yesterday.”

His sigh was long and deep. “Oh, my,” he said again. “Has the murderer been apprehended?”

“I’m afraid not. Mr. Shippee, I was wondering whether—”

“What did you say your name was?”

“My name? Jessica Fletcher.”

“The mystery writer?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my. This is indeed a pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve read every one of your books. I’ve been a lover of murder mysteries for many years.”

“I’m pleased to hear that, Mr. Shippee. It’s always nice speaking with someone who’s read my books.”

What I didn’t bargain for was that this nice man was such a fan of murder mysteries that he consumed the next fifteen minutes discussing the relative merits of mystery writers. He was partial to the British—P. D. James, Ruth Rendell, Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers, although he admitted to a fondness for the American hard-boiled Chandler and Hammett, as well as a variety of recent best-selling writers, including me. He spent a few minutes analyzing my strengths and weaknesses as a writer before allowing me to return to the reason for my call.

“Mr. Shippee,” I said, “did Matilda Swift leave a will?”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“I realize it hasn’t been probated yet, but I wonder if you could tell me who the heir to her estate is.”

“I believe that wouldn’t be out of order, Mrs. Fletcher. Do you prefer the cozy brand of mystery, or the police procedural?”

“Ah . . . let me think about that, Mr. Shippee, while you look up Matilda Swift’s heir.”

“Yes, of course.”

I heard him humming, and opening and shutting drawers. He came back on the line and said, “Here we are, Mrs. Fletcher. Yes, I remember my conversation with Ms. Swift when we drew up the document. She said she didn’t have any close family. There was a brother, I think, but he’d died in some sort of industrial accident shortly before she came to me for a will.”

“That would have been shortly after Halloween of last year,” I said.

“November. Yes, that would be after Halloween. She said she would have left her estate to her brother had he lived but—well, we can’t always have things go the way we would like them to go, can we?”

“No.”

“Her brother had a son, she mentioned, her nephew. She’d never met him, but wanted to leave what she had to him. He lived somewhere in California. She wasn’t sure where.”

“And his name is Jeremy Scott.”

“You are absolutely right, Mrs. Fletcher. An impressive demonstration of deductive powers. Do you know this young man, have an idea where he might be found?”

“I’m not sure, Mr. Shippee, but I believe I’ll be able to find out for you very quickly.”

“That would be appreciated. Do you know of Ms. Swift’s burial plans? I’ll need an official death certificate to begin the probate process.”

“Because her death was a murder, Mr. Shippee, her body won’t be released for some time.”

“To be expected. Will you be visiting Salem, Mrs. Fletcher? I would enjoy sitting down together and discussing the current state of the murder mystery with you.”

“No immediate plans, Mr. Shippee, but if I ever do get to Salem, I’ll look you up.”

“That would be wonderful, a great pleasure for me. Good day, Mrs. Fletcher. Thank you for calling.”

That confirmed it. Jeremy Scott was Matilda Swift’s nephew, which made his father, Tony, her brother. I sat back and formulated questions.

Did Jeremy know Matilda was his aunt? Probably not originally, since the attorney, Shippee, indicated that Matilda claimed never to have met her nephew. But did she know Jeremy was in Cabot Cove when she elected to move here? If so, had she told him who she was once she arrived?

It couldn’t have been a coincidence that Matilda Swift rented the Rose Cottage on the Marshall estate, the same cottage that her brother, Anthony Scott, had occupied until his death. Or was it?

Matilda had drawn up her will shortly after Tony Scott died in the fire at his lab. Obviously, she knew of his death. Who had told her? Had she read it in the papers? It wasn’t likely that Scott’s demise would have been news in Salem, Massachusetts.

The best source for at least some of the answers was Jeremy Scott. I was tempted to pick up the phone, call Jeremy and ask him outright. But I held back on that urge.

Instead, I called Richard Koser at his home office. Besides his involvement in photography and gourmet cooking, he could be generally found hunched in front of an elaborate computer system.

“Richard, it’s Jessica. Can I bother you again?”

“You’re never a bother. What’s up?”

“A technical question from a distinctly non-technical person. Would the U.S. Trademark and Patent Office have a Website on the Internet?”

“Sure. Everybody else does. Why?”

“Mind if I pop over?”

“Not at all.”

 

I sat with Richard in front of his large-screen monitor and watched him access the Internet, then go to the home page, as it’s called, for the Trademark and Patent Office.

“What do you want me to look up, Jess?”

“I’d like to see whether anyone has applied for a patent on BarrierCloth.”