Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice (18 page)

The woman we’d seen walking the dog stopped at the curb in front of Stephanie’s house and waved to her. Stephanie raised a hand halfheartedly in return and turned to the door. “I don’t want to give the neighbors anything to talk about,” she said. “You’d better come in.”

The inside of the house was small and dingy. The front entrance led straight into the living room. A slat on a venetian blind was broken and dangled from the cord. A dirty plate and a half-empty bottle of water sat on a coffee table in front of a TV set on which a soap opera played silently. We could see two other rooms off the main one. Access to the kitchen was on the back wall, and to the right was the door to the bedroom, through which the unmade bed was visible. Stephanie walked to the bedroom door, shut it, and returned to us.

“All right, get to it,” she said as the three of us stood awkwardly in the center of the room.

“You and your husband rushed to Myriam’s home the night Josh was shot,” I began.

“So? What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing at all,” I said. “I’m sure that you and your husband were a source of much-needed comfort for Myriam.”

My comment was met with a chilly silence, her stance the same as when we’d first met her in front of the house.

“Myriam reached out to you even before calling nine-one-one, so am I correct in supposing that you and your husband had a good relationship with Myriam and Josh?”

“Robert and Myriam get along,” she replied.

“What about Josh? Did you have a good relationship with him as well?”

That question caused a change in her posture. She sank down in one of two stained white swivel club chairs and swung back and forth, a twisted smile on her face. “What are you trying to get at? He was our brother-in-law. He was Myriam’s problem, not ours.”

McGraw, who stood next to me, his eyes taking in everything, said, “Yet your husband must have been pretty upset the way his brother-in-law handled his finances.”

Stephanie got to her feet. “You know about that?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “It’s pretty common knowledge.”

What she said next came as a surprise, both in content and in tone. “That phony con artist screwed us royally!”

“That must have been terrible for you,” I said.

“How much did he take you for?” Harry asked.

She didn’t answer. Playing for time, she picked up a T-shirt that was draped over the arm of her chair, balled it up, opened the door to the bedroom, and threw it on the bed.

I took the chair that was a match to hers, my mind going in two different directions. I couldn’t help but wonder how this woman’s staunch, patrician mother-in-law reacted to her daughter-in-law’s lifestyle and language. At the same time, I wanted to learn more about the relationship between this family and Josh and Myriam Wolcott. “You weren’t the only ones that your brother-in-law scammed, Mrs. Caldwell,” I said.

“Seems he had a habit of stealing from his clients,” McGraw added. “There are plenty of them in Cabot Cove.”

“He was a swine,” Stephanie said, nearly spitting with disgust. She paced the room. “He almost wiped us out. Robert took all the money his father left him when he died and handed it over to his big college-man brother-in-law to invest.” She almost growled as she said it. “His father had left us a beautiful vacation home in Calais. We were in seventh heaven. Robert’s agency was never that profitable, and we were always scraping to make ends meet.” She grabbed the water bottle from the table, unscrewed the cap, and took a swig. “Robert sold the place and gave Josh the money. I pleaded with him not to, but he’s stubborn . . .” She paused before adding, “And not too bright. Josh blew every cent of it, every last cent. I could have died when Robert finally got up the courage to tell me that the investments Josh put us in had collapsed, were worth nothing.” She became more animated. “I hated him.”

“Josh?”

“Yeah, Josh. And Robert, too.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“It ruined the marriage; that’s what it did,” she said, her eyes flaming. “I don’t know why I even stay here.” She threw herself into the chair opposite mine.

“Did Myriam say anything the night that you and your husband drove to her house, anything to indicate that she’d shot Josh?”

“Myriam is a wimp. But she did it, right? She confessed.”

“Did she confess to you that night?”

“Not to me, but we were never close. I just felt sorry for the kids. They were both crying. I stayed with them while Robert talked to Myriam.”

“Did Robert tell you that Myriam confessed to him?”

“No, but she told the cops. Isn’t that enough?”

“Yes,” I said, “but there’s some doubt in my mind whether she’s telling the truth.”

“Why? The guy beat her up, didn’t he? We knew it. If Robert ever did that to me, I’d . . .”

I thought she might begin to cry, but instead she drained the last of her water and sat sullenly, eyes directed at the empty bottle held on her lap in both hands.

“I know this is upsetting to you,” I said, “and we won’t stay much longer. But by any chance had you and Robert been to Myriam’s house earlier that evening, before Josh was killed?”

“What are you getting at?” she snapped.

“Had he, or possibly the both of you, been there earlier?” I pressed.

She fixed me with a threatening stare as she said, “Are you suggesting that maybe
we
shot him?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, only asking a question.”

Harry sensed that I’d moved the conversation into a controversial area and said, “Like Mrs. Fletcher says, I’m a detective working for Myriam Wolcott’s lawyer. I’m trying to get everybody’s timeline straight, that’s all. If you weren’t there earlier, you weren’t there, pure and simple. I suppose you’ve got people who’ll testify that you were home until Mrs. Wolcott called.”

“Get out!” Stephanie barked.

Harry held up his hands and said, “Hey. Take it easy. Just asking a simple question. It’ll come up in court.”

“Out!” Stephanie shouted.

“Thanks for your time,” McGraw said, ushering me toward the exit.

Stephanie pushed ahead of us to the front door and flung it open, only to have Robert Caldwell step into the room.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, anger written on his face.

“Just leaving,” Harry said, smiling.

“What did you tell them?” Robert yelled at his wife.

“Nothing, just what a loser you are and how you blew everything we had. I’m glad he’s dead.”

“These people are strangers. Just keep your mouth shut. Are you going to broadcast the news all over the neighborhood? It’s none of their business.”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

McGraw and I left and walked quickly to his car, their combative voices carrying clearly across the street. Harry pulled away and headed back in the direction of Cabot Cove.

“Man,” he said, “that guy Wolcott sure fouled up a lot of people, even in his own family.”

“He certainly did,” I said. “I keep thinking about the mother. She has a daughter who married a wife beater and scam artist who hurt many people including his own in-laws, and a son who isn’t very successful in his business, who squandered money, and who is married to a woman who’s angry and resentful. I can’t say that I like Mrs. Caldwell, but I understand a little better why she’s so committed to the facade she puts on.”

“You always see the best in people, don’t you, Jessica?”

“I’m not sure that’s true, Harry. It’s just that as I get older, I’m more respectful of the human dilemma, our failures and foibles and the hurdles we’re called upon to face from time to time.”

“Know what I think?” he asked.

“Tell me.”

“I think Mrs. Wolcott is lucky to have somebody like Jessica Fletcher on her side and looking for the truth.”

“Somehow I don’t think she’ll see it that way.”

Chapter Nineteen

I
’d promised Harry a home-cooked meal as a thank-you for his assistance, but first he wanted to stop in to see Sheriff Metzger to report his slashed tires. The deputy at the desk told us that the sheriff was being interviewed. I thought that someone from the
Gazette
might be with him, but the deputy said, “Those TV folks from
The Hour
are here.”

“Do you think they’ll be much longer?” I asked.

“Shouldn’t be,” he replied. “They’ve been in there for more than an hour already, and . . .”

The door opened and a four-person film crew preceded Mort into the waiting area.

“Hi, Mrs. F.,” Mort said. “McGraw.”

“Hello, Mort. Will you have a minute when these folks leave?”

“Jessica?”

I turned to see a familiar face, Clay Dawkins. I’d met Clay in New York years earlier when he was a TV producer for one of the networks. He’d produced a documentary on the popularity of murder mysteries, and I was one of the authors interviewed for the show. We’d kept in touch until he announced one day that he was leaving New York City for a job with a TV station in Burlington, Vermont, and we’d lost contact.

“Hello, Clay,” I said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“A pleasant surprise and a timely one,” he said. “I intended to call you later today.” He ushered me away from the others. “Your sheriff is a great guy. I let it drop that I knew you, and he told me that you’re involved in some way with the murder investigation.”

I stole a glance at Mort, who was talking with McGraw.

“Not officially,” I said, “but I’ve been looking into it.”

“For a book?”

“Not this time. I happen to know the accused, Myriam Wolcott.” I hesitated before whispering, “I have some doubts about her having killed her husband.”

“She confessed, didn’t she?”

“Yes, she did,” I said and left it at that. “But tell me about you. The last I heard, you were headed for Vermont. I didn’t know that you’d ended up in Bangor with
The Hour
.”

“I’m new to the production, moved to Bangor just a month ago. It’s a fine show. But, Jessica, you changed the subject, and now you’ve piqued my interest.”

“How so?”

“The documentary we’re doing is about domestic abuse, which seems to be reaching epidemic proportions, if the statistics are accurate.”

“The statistics are likely to be inaccurate,” I said, “since so many cases go unreported.”

“In this case it ended up with the murder of the abusing spouse. As far as I know, there’s no question that she shot her husband, but you say there is.”

“There’s always a question in cases like these. It’s just my opinion. I don’t have a lot to go on, and I can’t claim many who agree with me.”

“I’d like to know more.”

“How long will you be in town?”

“About four days. Depends on how the interviews go. I just had an idea. How about an on-camera interview with you?”

“Oh no! Thanks, but no.”

“Okay, but I’d really like to pick your brain about your theory that the accused might not be guilty. It could add an interesting dimension to the story.”

“Happy to share whatever I know,” I said, meaning it. I decided on the spot that I needed all the assistance I could muster if I was to get to the bottom of things. Harry McGraw was proving to be a help, but having a savvy TV producer asking his own set of questions around town certainly couldn’t hurt.

“What are you doing for dinner?” I asked.

“No plans yet. Find a local spot to eat with the crew.”

“I can’t invite the whole crew,” I said, “but you’re welcome to come for a home-cooked meal. What do you think?”

“Sounds appealing.”

“Good.” I gave him my address and asked him to be there at seven.

While Clay and I talked, Harry filed a report with Mort regarding the damage done to his car, after which we left.

“What did the sheriff say about your tires?” I asked Harry once we were in my kitchen and I’d started preparations for dinner.

“He took the report but said he doubted whether the guy would ever be caught.”

I gave Harry a bourbon and soda and left him to watch TV in my office while I fussed in the kitchen—salmon filets, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a salad were on the menu for the evening. Clay arrived promptly at seven, and after he’d been served a drink we settled in my living room.

“Must be an interesting life being a private eye,” Clay told Harry.

“Can be,” Harry said, “only most of the time it means hanging around watching some straying husband or wife, or watching bartenders rip off the house. So you’re doing a show on the murder that happened here in good old peaceful Cabot Cove, Maine.” He checked me for a negative reaction but didn’t receive one.

“The murder’s a big part of it, but it’s not the main story,” Clay said. “We’re using it as a jumping-off point to look into domestic abuse in general. It’s a big topic these days. I’d like to interview people involved with your women’s shelter, which I understand is controversial.”

“The only controversy,” I said, “is whether the town should continue funding it. You should speak with Edwina Wilkerson. She’s the shelter’s director. And Dr. Seth Hazlitt. He was the one who originally proposed that a shelter be established here.”

“I have those names on my list,” Dawkins said. “What about this guy Richard Mauser?”

“He’s a member of the town council and is against providing funding. He’s quite vehement about it.”

“Then I could get the other side of the story from him.”

“I’m sure he’d be happy to oblige.”

“I’ll see if I can set up an interview with Mr. Mauser tomorrow,” Clay said.

“He could be too busy these days,” I said. “The EPA is investigating whether his factory has been polluting the Cabot Cove River. A team from the agency has arrived in town.”

“Never a dull moment in Cabot Cove, huh?”

“Afraid not,” I said.

“How about coming along with us when we do the interview, Jessica?”

“I don’t think Mr. Mauser would appreciate that.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Clay said. “I’ll make you one of the crew. Take notes, look official.”

“If you think it would be okay.”

“I do,” said Clay. “I have a feeling that you’re going to help us come up with an even better documentary than we’d planned.”