Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice (16 page)

“My question is when are we going to wake up? When are we going to see through what the backers of the women’s shelter claim, that they
help
women? Truth is, if Mrs. Joshua Wolcott hadn’t visited the shelter a few nights before she shot her husband dead, he’d still be alive today.”

Edwina jumped to her feet. “Untrue! How can you make statements like that?” she said loudly. She appealed to the mayor. “This man has no idea what he’s talking about. He’s presenting his opinion as if it’s a fact and it’s not.”

The mayor pounded his gavel a few times on the wooden table and asked her to take her seat. “There will be time for you to have your say, Ms. Wilkerson. Right now Councilman Mauser has the floor.”

Mauser glared at Edwina before continuing. “The truth hurts,” he said. “It always does. But the reality is, Mrs. Wolcott went to the shelter and complained about the way her husband was treating her. Nobody even knows whether she was telling the truth or not.”

“This is insufferable,” Edwina piped up from where she sat.

“Please, Edwina,” the mayor said.

“Sorry,” she sang out, clearly not sorry at all. Edwina leaned over and whispered to me, “I tell you, Jessica, that man is lucky I don’t carry a gun.”

“Edwina!” I whispered back, frowning at her.

“Point is,” Mauser continued, “claiming to be abused by her husband gave her the excuse to kill him. That’s what she’s gonna argue in court. You’ve all heard about it, I’m sure. ‘Self-defense,’ she says. I say, bull hockey! You better believe me: You keep pumping taxpayer money into that so-called shelter and you’re supporting a place that gives people an excuse for taking the law into their own hands. I move that we cease funding the shelter, effective immediately.”

I was surprised that Mauser received a smattering of applause from some in attendance. To me, his argument was absurd; how could any thinking person support what he was suggesting? But I reminded myself that in a democracy, people of various viewpoints and beliefs are free to express themselves, and to vote the way they see things, as skewed as their visions may be.

Two other members of the council spoke after Mauser, a man and a woman, each expressing support for the shelter, before the mayor threw open the floor for public statements. Edwina, who’d been fairly bouncing in her seat, was first to approach the microphone in the center aisle. She cited statistics both statewide and local to bolster her arguments that Cabot Cove needed such a service. She surprised the attendees by saying that women were not the only ones in town to use the shelter’s services, that men could be victims of abuse as well. Finally, she read from a study that concluded that municipalities that aggressively addressed domestic abuse prevented violence and were able to lower their crime rate and realize a financial savings overall.

A smattering of citizens followed Edwina and expressed their views, all of them positive about continuing funding, with one exception, a muscular young man wearing a tight T-shirt and jeans who said that he agreed with Mauser. He didn’t give a reason for his opinion, simply said, “Councilman Mauser is right,” and left.

“Who’s that?” Edwina asked me.

“I don’t recognize him,” I replied. “Perhaps he’s new to town.”

A vote was taken, and again Mauser was the only council member voting to rescind funding for the shelter. Most people left the room following the vote, but a few dozen of us moved into an adjoining room where coffee, tea, soft drinks, and cookies from Sassi’s Bakery were available, a tradition established years ago. I expected that Mauser would quickly depart, but he didn’t. He took a position at the end of the table holding the refreshments and continued his diatribe about the shelter with anyone who would listen. Seth and I had served ourselves and joined Mort and Maureen Metzger at the other end of the table. Harry McGraw had accompanied us but now shifted in Mauser’s direction. He stood behind a couple who were arguing with the councilman until they walked away. I sidled closer to hear what Harry was about to say.

“Mr. Mauser, Harry McGraw,” he said, extending his hand. Mauser took it. “I’m a private detective working for Cy O’Connor.”

“Is that so?” Mauser said. “Working to get the murderer off, you mean.”

Harry smiled. “You might put it that way, Mr. Mauser, only it seems to me that she had a right to do what she did.”

Mauser’s already red face darkened a shade or two. “Nobody has a right to kill another person,” he said.

“I agree,” said Harry, “only sometimes a person’s driven to it, you know, takes enough abuse—” He paused. “Or gets scammed by a guy who takes your money, a guy like her husband.”

Mauser paused and cocked his head.

“You know what I mean,” McGraw continued. “I mean, this Wolcott guy took a lot of people for a ride, the way he did you.”

“What are you talking about?” Mauser said. “I don’t know where you get your information.”

“Part of my job is to see whether there might be other people in this lovely town who had a motive to kill Wolcott.”

“Are you suggesting that . . . ?” Mauser sputtered to a halt.

“I’m not suggesting anything,” said McGraw. “But you’re a leading citizen in Cabot Cove, on the council and all. I’m sure you’d want to see justice done,
real
justice.” When Mauser didn’t respond, Harry said, “Am I right?”

It was apparent from my vantage point that Mauser struggled to get himself under control. When he had reined in his temper, he said in a voice that passed for moderation, “Mrs. Wolcott shot and killed her husband. The women’s shelter implanted in her the evil notion that it was all right to pull the trigger. End of story, Mr. . . . ?”

“McGraw. Harry McGraw. Pleasure meeting you, Councilman. Maybe we can get together sometime and talk about how Wolcott ripped people off. By the way, how much did he take you for?”

“Good night, Mr. McGraw,” Mauser said and lumbered away, hunched forward, his briefcase under his arm. Harry picked up a cookie, took a large bite, and came to us.

“Well, that was certainly direct,” I said, although I wasn’t entirely surprised. Bluntness was among McGraw’s many personality quirks. He would not have made a good diplomat.

“Just wanted to give him a chance to back off on his stance about the murder and the shelter. Did you watch him? He didn’t say it, but everything about him tells me that he was ripped off by Wolcott.”

“You didn’t really expect him to admit it, did you?” I asked, laughing.

Mort Metzger, who’d stood by quietly while witnessing the exchange, finally said, “What was that all about?”

“Harry was fishing to see whether Mr. Mauser was another of Josh Wolcott’s victims of financial malfeasance.”

Mort’s expression was a melding of confusion and discomfort. He took my elbow and moved me away from the others. “Look, Mrs. F.,” he said, “I know that you have this notion that somebody else killed Josh Wolcott, somebody who he cheated.”

I started to say something, but he cut me off with, “Mind a word of advice?”

“When have I ever said no to you, Mort?”

“Fair enough. I’ve always appreciated it when you’ve come up with information that helped me out with a case, but I really think you should butt out of this one.”

“I’m listening.”

“Okay, let me tell you why,” he said. “One, Myriam Wolcott has admitted that she killed her husband. That alone should be reason enough. But I’ll give you another. For your friend to confront Dick Mauser like that was pretty darn rude, if you ask me. Yeah, I know he’s a difficult guy, a bully even, but he’s an important member of the community. There’s nothing to be gained by getting him all riled up.”

“What if Myriam was pressured to confess?” I asked. “What if she’s lying?”

Mort looked at me as though I’d lost my mind. “What reason would she have to do that, Mrs. F.? Why would anybody say they killed somebody if they didn’t?”

“Come on, Mort. As a policeman, you know there have been lots of people who’ve made false confessions to crimes. They all have their reasons for doing what they do, even if we don’t know what they are.”

And I intend to keep looking for Myriam’s reason until I’m proved wrong,
I thought.

“Be that as it may, this is not the big city, and Myriam Wolcott is not one of those crazies who confess to crimes they didn’t commit,” Mort said. “She even told us where she threw the gun. I’ve got my guys checking out that part of the river.”

“And when did she have time to throw the gun in the river?” I asked. “Before or after she was on the phone with nine-one-one saying that someone had shot her husband?”

Mort gave me an exasperated look. “My suggestion is that you back off and accept what looks to me like an open-and-shut case. She claims that she did it in self-defense, and that’s good enough for me. The jury will decide if she was justified. For me, the case is closed and I’d appreciate it if you’d not muddy the waters.”

“You’ve made your point, Mort.”

“Yeah, but did I get through to you?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Good. No offense?” He cocked his head and gave me a charming smile to show there were no hard feelings.

“Of course not.”

“One more piece of advice?”

“Mmmmm?” I hummed noncommittally.

“Call off your buddy McGraw. Let him do whatever work he’s supposed to do for Cy O’Connor and go back to Boston.”

“I’ll pass along your recommendation,” I said.

“Good. Now that that’s settled, how about coming to the house for dinner day after tomorrow? Maureen’s got a new recipe for scallops. It’s pretty good.”

“Thanks, Mort. I’ll check my schedule and call.”

I recounted our conversation to McGraw as he drove me home.

“Maybe he’s right,” McGraw said.

“And maybe he’s not. I’m not the one who hired you,” I said, “but I’m still convinced that Josh Wolcott might have been killed by someone other than his wife.”

“I don’t know whether you’re right or not,” he said as he pulled into my driveway, “but as long as I’m here, I’ll keep nosing around.”

“Cy won’t like it,” I said as I opened the door.

“No reason for him to know,” McGraw said, shrugging his shoulders. “Hey, what are friends for? Anyway, I have a hunch
I
want to follow.”

“What’s that?”

“I think that this Mauser character really wants Mrs. Wolcott to be convicted of the murder.”

“Why would he want that?” I asked.

“Maybe because he knows that she didn’t do it and wants to protect somebody else.”

“Such as who? Himself?”

“Just a thought,” Harry said, grinning. “Catch up with you tomorrow.”

Chapter Eighteen

I
t snowed overnight, coating everything in white. I’d checked the weather on TV before going to bed and was told that the forecast was for ample sun and moderating temperatures. I assume that the meteorologist pushed the wrong button and was referring to Miami or Phoenix.

An unexpected snowfall wasn’t the only surprise that morning.

A headline in the morning newspaper trumpeted, “Bail Granted.” A report by Evelyn Phillips and James Teller revealed that Cy O’Connor had submitted a motion to Judge Mackin to grant bail for Myriam Wolcott, and the judge had agreed—provided she wore an ankle bracelet, was restricted to her home with the exception of medical emergencies and visits with her attorney, and turned over her passport, which was a moot point since she didn’t have one. The article said the district attorney had protested, claiming that since Myriam had already killed once, she posed a threat to her family and neighbors. Judge Mackin ignored the DA and ordered Myriam released. The news pleased me. At least Myriam would be in her own house and with her children until her trial, which the paper informed me would commence months from now, in August.

A less official bit of news came from Edwina Wilkerson.

“They’re here,” she said breathlessly when I picked up the phone.

“Who’s here?”

“The EPA inspectors. They’re about to test the river near Mauser’s factory.” She sounded gleeful. “I can’t wait for them to nail that miserable excuse for a human being, fine him ten million dollars, and put him out of business.”

I knew that Edwina had been keeping tabs on the arrival of the EPA people. I also knew that her loathing for Richard Mauser now exceeded rational boundaries.

“I’ll buy the whole town a drink when he’s run out of town,” she was said to have told Mara at her dockside luncheonette according to others who were there.

“They haven’t found anything yet,” I told her.

“Oh, but they will,” she countered.

I realized that it was impossible at that moment to have a reasonable conversation with her about Mauser and changed the subject to the latest about Myriam.

“I didn’t know that,” she said. “That’s wonderful news. I’ll bet Mauser is tearing his hair out.”

So much for changing the subject.

I’d no sooner ended that conversation when Harry McGraw called.

“Good morning,” I said.

“No, it isn’t. I came out this morning to find two of my tires slashed.”

“Oh, Harry, that’s terrible. Who could have done such a thing?”

“Beats me. Remember that young guy who stood up and said he agreed with Mauser about the shelter?”

“Yes. I’d never seen him before. Why?”

“When we came out of the meeting, I saw him hanging around my car, like he was looking it over.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“No crime in what he was doing. I’ve got a guy from a local garage bringing over two new tires. Hey, I didn’t think people did stuff like this in Cabot Cove.”

“We’re not without our problems.”

“Last time I was here you were bragging about how little crime there is, but you’ve got a woman who shoots her husband, a flimflam financial adviser who steals widows’ pensions, and a guy who gets his jollies cutting up tires.”

“Have you called the sheriff’s office?” I asked.

“No, but I will. What’s on your plate today?”

“I haven’t put it together yet. Do you have a suggestion?”

“I may have some news for you if you’re going to be around.”