What was especially appealing was the view from a large bay window, aptly named because it overlooked the bay.
The books in the bookcases didn’t appear to have been placed in any particular order—alphabetically, or by size or topic. Like people who peek into medicine cabinets when visiting other’s homes, I peruse books. While you may not be able to judge a book by its cover, you can often judge a person by his or her collection of books. Cynthia’s literary taste ran to Tom Wolfe’s
Bonfire of the Vanities;
Thoreau’s
Cape Cod; Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus;
Amy Tan’s
The Kitchen God’s Wife; Paris Trout
; Shakespeare’s
Twelfth Night;
Agatha Christie’s
The Man in the Brown Suit; the Sand and Foam
by Kahlil Gibran; and
Coffee, Tea or Me?,
that frothy little tale of airline stewardesses (they call them flight attendants now) from twenty-five years ago. The entire bottom row of the shelves housed travel guides. Cynthia Warren was certainly eclectic in what she chose to read.
I was drawn to a small wooden table with a glass top on the other side of the room, on which was displayed an unusual piece of pottery, pre-Colombian in appearance, but modem at the same time. The potter had made good use of metallic yellows and greens to create a stunning work of art. I enjoy pottery, and began collecting it ten years ago, picking up a piece wherever I travel to remind me of the city, state, country, or island I’d visited. Before that, it was miniature spoons, then coffee mugs, and finally Christmas tree ornaments. It was when my display racks for the spoons and mugs overflowed, and my Christmas tree bowed unnaturally under the weight of too many ornaments, that I turned to pottery. This was a beautiful piece, another example of Ms. Warren’s good taste. A small, cherry writing desk sat in a comer in front of the large bay window, a perfect setting for creating a letter or note, or in my case if I lived here, a manuscript page. Unlike the rest of the downstairs, the desk was messy. Not dirty, but heavy with papers. I reached in my pocket for my half-glasses, put them on, and read the papers on top of various piles. A pink slip of paper caught my eye, and I leaned closer to read it. It was a Cape Cod Savings Bank deposit slip in the amount of ten thousand dollars. The account was in Cynthia Warren’s name. She’d made the deposit yesterday. She evidently had a good job, or profession. The house testified to that.
The mood in Malcolm’s office later that afternoon was grim. No surprise. A vibrant young woman had been brutally murdered, reason enough for the funereal atmosphere. But on top of it, a young man, Billy Brannigan, on trial for his life, had lost his only alibi.
We all sat there without saying anything, waiting for Malcolm to break the silence. The only sound was the incessant ringing of the telephone, which was being answered by an answering machine.
Malcolm was slumped in his chair behind his desk, watery eyes fixed on the desktop, tie yanked open and hanging crookedly over his belly.
“Malcolm, maybe we should—”
He waved off Rachel Cohen’s words.
“I just thought that—”
“Can’t be,” Malcolm muttered to himself.
“Where’s Billy?” Georgia Bobley asked tentatively, as though her intrusion into the great attorney’s thoughts might result in a spear through her heart.
“My house,” Malcolm said. “Linda’s with him.”
“That’s good,” said Jill Farkas, never looking up from her laptop computer.
“Damn it!” Malcolm said with force. He got to his feet, went to the small bar, and poured himself a large glass of whiskey.
We looked at each other as our leader emptied the glass with one long swallow.
“Looks like the prosecution’s got itself a guardian angel,” he growled.
“The lobby’s filled with reporters,” George Bobley said.
I winced when I thought he was about to pour himself another drink, but he didn’t. The emptied glass seemed to have loosened him up, like oil freeing a rusty hinge. He was out of his reverie, wheels almost visible as they spun in his head. “What’d the DA say?” he asked Rachel Cohen.
“They want Judge Wilson to revoke Billy’s bail.”
Malcolm guffawed. “What the hell do they think, Billy went and killed his only alibi?”
“They’ve been chafing ever since he was given bail, Malcolm. You know that. The DA’s up for reelection. He’s making a case out of allowing accused murderers to walk around free on bail.”
“If Ritchie calls in, put him through,” he told Georgia, who sat next to the answering machine noting callers who’d identified themselves. Ritchie Fleigler had stayed on the Cape; I’d been brought back to Boston by my driver, Cathie, who’d been dispatched to pick me up the minute Malcolm learned about Cynthia Warren. Court had just broken for lunch when the call came through, and Judge Wilson had honored Malcolm’s request for a recess until the following morning.
Malcolm paced, stopping at the bar but resisting the temptation to pour another. “They want to play that game,” he said, “we can play games, too. Hell, who’s to say that our esteemed district attorney isn’t so anxious for a conviction in the Brannigan case that he had Ms. Warren killed?”
“That’s pretty far-fetched,” Rachel said.
“So’s the notion that Billy might have killed his girlfriend, to say nothing of his ticket out of a life sentence.”
“We should have a statement ready for the press,” Georgia offered.
Malcolm looked at me. “How about it, Jessica?”
“Write a statement?”
“You’re the only writer here.”
“I write murder mysteries. Not press releases.”
“Why not hold an impromptu press conference downstairs?” Rachel suggested. “They’ll be hounding you for a statement anyway.”
“Make sense?” Malcolm asked me.
I nodded.
“Rachel, start writing a motion for a mistrial,” Malcolm said. “Georgia, go downstairs and tell the media vultures to expect a statement in an hour. Jill, can you run an analysis of how each member of the jury is likely to react to Ms. Warren’s death?”
“I’m doing that now,” she said, her eyes glued to the laptop’s small screen, fingers flying over the keys.
Ritchie Fleigler called in frequently from the Cape, the last call after a conversation he’d had with the Harwich chief of police, an elderly gentleman named Steven McPartland who’d arrived at Cynthia Warren’s house shortly before I was picked up by Cathy. McPartland was a kindly man. I pointed out the sleeping old dog on the porch, and asked what would happen to him.
“I’ll take him home with me,” McPartland said without hesitation. “Got an old-timer myself. They’ll get along.”
“Any leads?” Malcolm asked Ritchie. “Any suspects?”
His frown indicated that the answer to both questions was negative.
Rachel Cohen left at six to file the motion for a mistrial.
Georgia Bobley asked if she could leave, too. “I have a date,” she said, “but I can—”
“No, you go enjoy your date, young lady. There’s another pretty gal down in Harwichport who won’t be going out on any more dates. Enjoy it while you can.” She left under that ominous cloud.
Jill Farkas printed out a report on a small ink-jet printer attached to her laptop. Malcolm studied it. “Looks like we chose wrong in a few cases,” he said.
“Not originally,” she replied, obviously pricked by his criticism. “How could I have forecast the death of our star witness?”
“Of course you couldn’t,” Malcolm said. “This will be helpful. Go on, get on home. Should be an interesting day in court tomorrow.”
She left without saying good-bye to me.
“So, Jessica, here we are.”
I smiled. “Yes, Malcolm, here we are. I should be running, too. I know you want to get home to Billy and—”
“In due time. Frankly, as upsetting as this day has been, I’m in the mood for a good dinner. Like French food?”
“Almost as much as clambakes and corn on the cob. But I’m very tired. The impact of finding Ms. Warren’s body this morning is starting to hit me.”
“Good French food will help. Come on, there’s an excellent place near here.”
It was while riding down in the elevator that Malcolm remembered he’d promised to make a statement to the waiting press. They were there in droves, and he talked for twenty minutes. When he was through, they turned to me and started firing questions.
“Sorry,” Malcolm said. “Mrs. Fletcher has no statement at this time—nor do we have time for questions. Have a pleasant evening.” He took me by the arm and led me through the lobby doors and to the street.
“Will Brannigan’s bail be revoked?” a reporter yelled after us.
Malcolm’s response was a wave of his hand.
“Mrs. Fletcher, you discovered the body this morning,” another reporter shouted. “What was your reaction?”
Malcolm stopped, turned, and said, “She was obviously delighted and pleased to come upon an unfortunate young woman who’d been butchered. Made her day. Good God, man, where is your sense of decency?”
The reporters and television cameras followed us to Julien, a darling little French restaurant a few blocks from the office. We were seated in Queen Anne wingback chairs in the high-ceilinged room that had once been a bank’s board-room. Malcolm told me Boston’s first French restaurant had been opened on this same site in 1794.
“Everything in Boston has history attached to it,” I said after ordering a glass of white wine; Malcolm had a martini, straight up.
“Here’s to bad luck, Jessica,” he said, holding his glass up to mine.
“I’d rather drink to Ms. Warren,” I said. “And to Billy Brannigan. What are his chances now that she’s no longer his alibi?”
“Not good. Then again, life’s what happens while you’re making other plans. I read that somewhere. But I’ve faced worse situations,” he said. “You haven’t had much to say since this morning, Jessica.”
“Because I didn’t know what to say. What words are there?”
“We have to remember one thing, Jessica. Cynthia Warren might be gone, but there’s another life at stake. Billy Brannigan.”
“I know that,” I said. “Life goes on. So does a trial.”
“Exactly. When you were at her house this morning, did you see anything unusual?”
“No.”
“I just thought with your track record solving crimes, you might have picked up on something others would miss.”
“There was one thing,” I said.
Malcolm put down his drink. “What was that?”
“A deposit slip.”
“Ms. Warren’s deposit slip?”
“Yes.”
“For how much?” he asked.
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“When was it deposited?”
“Yesterday.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“It certainly is.”
“Any idea of the source of the money?”
“No.”
“Interesting.”
I ordered the ragout of New England scallops with puree of white beans and truffles, and Malcolm had a salmon souffle.
By the time I escorted Malcolm from the restaurant into the glare of TV lights and the blinding flash of still photographers’ strobes, he was quite drunk. I was concerned I might have to support him as we made our way to the waiting limousine, but he managed on his own. The reporters fired a barrage of questions at us, which we ignored. As I was about to climb in the backseat with Malcolm, a young man asked, “Is he drunk?”
I turned, haughtily drew myself up to full height, and said, “Of course not. Mr. McLoon is very tired, as might be expected. Besides, he—he hasn’t had a drink all day.”
As the driver headed for the Ritz-Carlton to drop me off, two thoughts weighed heavily on me.
The first was that I’d run away from home and joined a circus: “Step right up and see the mystery writer-turned jury consultant and the alcoholic defense lawyer hang by their fingertips from the world’s highest trapeze.”
The second was how protective I’d become of Malcolm McLoon.
I suddenly missed Cabot Cove with a passion.
My next novel be damned, I thought.
Sorry, Vaughan, but learning how our jury system works is becoming too painful.
I glanced over at Malcolm, who’d fallen asleep against the limo’s door.
I wanted to go home.
Chapter Twelve
“Please rise. Court is in session. The honorable Judge Walter Wilson presiding.”
The courtroom was crowded, and a long line of disappointed spectators lined the sidewalk outside. The section designated for the press was filled. There was a palpable tension in the air as Judge Wilson entered and took his place at the bench.
The jury was not present. The morning’s agenda would be focused upon the death of Billy Brannigan’s alibi, Cynthia Warren, and its impact upon the trial.
“Good morning,” Wilson said gruffly.
“Good morning,” we replied.
Wilson said, “The unfortunate event yesterday, the death of an important defense witness, has prompted a motion by the defense for a mistrial. Or, failing that, a two-week continuation. I’ll hear oral arguments this morning on that motion.”
“Here goes nothing,” Malcolm whispered to me. That he was bristling with energy and resolve was remarkable, considering his condition last night.
I looked over at Billy Brannigan sitting next to Malcolm. His handsome young face was without expression. Georgia Bobley had told me early that morning that Billy had been on heavy-duty tranquilizers since learning of Cynthia’s death. He’d slept at Malcolm’s house. Linda, Malcolm’s receptionist, had watched over him because he’d expressed suicidal thoughts. She hadn’t dared sleep until Billy was showered, dressed, and in a limo heading for the courthouse that morning.
“Mr. McLoon?” the judge said, ready to hear Malcolm’s argument in favor of the written motion delivered by Rachel Cohen the night before.
Malcolm went to the podium. “Good morning, Your Honor,” he began, his voice matching the grave expression on his face. “Given yesterday’s sad death of Cynthia Warren, a beautiful young woman who’d planned to marry the defendant, and who was with him on Cape Cod the night of his brother’s unfortunate and distinctly premature demise, the defense’s ability to fairly and effectively present his case has been terminally compromised. Cynthia Warren was a pivotal witness, Your Honor. That she was with the defendant the night of Jack Brannigan’s murder isn’t hearsay. It’s a fact, and she would have stated that fact in this courtroom. Not only do I consider it patently unfair to be asked to defend William Brannigan without Cynthia Warren’s testimony, there is the parallel dimension of how convenient her death is for the people. One might even—” Whitney James was on her feet.