A Deadly Judgment Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Teaser chapter

  RACE TO THE DEATH

  It was getting dark. I found the street and paused at the comer.

  Last chance to change your mind, Jess, I told myself. I pictured Judge Molloy ordering me jailed if she found out I’d talked to a juror. But then I thought of the housewife, Juror Number Seven, being run down by the hit-and-run driver just two days earlier, and of my conversation with her family that revealed she did not believe Billy Brannigan had murdered his older brother. My resolve returned. No backing down now.

  I looked up the one-way street. A car slowly approached. Plenty of time for me to cross. But as I stepped off the curb, the roar of its engine froze me in my tracks. I turned. It was bearing down on me at racetrack speed....

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, April 1996

  20 19

  Copyright © 1996 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is

  a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All Rights Reserved.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  eISBN : 978-1-440-67345-0

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  For Sandy, Bernadette, and all the wonderful people at The Animal Inn. If their love of and care for four-legged animals were applied to the human species, what a lovely world this would be.

  Chapter One

  I saw it as a speck on the distant horizon, a tiny insect hovering in the hot haze of the day. It came closer, growing larger, and I could see how the earth’s heated thermals caught it, bounced it about a bit, then allowed it to stabilize before the next updraft took hold.

  “Oh, dear,” I said to myself as I watched Jed Richardson maneuver to keep his small single-engine plane on an even keel as it approached Cabot Cove’s airport, such as it is. I’d flown with Jed on a number of occasions, never completely comfortable—there’s something to be said for the large wings and powerful engines of commercial jet aircraft—although I knew Jed was an excellent pilot, his skills honed over twenty years with a major airline until he retired and started Jed’s Flying Service, ferrying Cabot Covers to Bangor and Boston to catch flights elsewhere, taking tourists on airborne sightseeing trips, and operating a flying ambulance service when someone was critically ill and in need of a major hospital center. A consummate professional.

  If only his planes were bigger.

  Jed had turned into his downwind pattern in preparation for landing the Cessna 182; I knew from him that you always landed a plane into the wind to provide maximum lift under the wings. He banked left until it was time to turn into the wind, which was blowing pretty hard, then slowly descended to the runway, the wings on both sides moving high and low to compensate for shifts of wind as he maintained control until the moment of touchdown, smooth as silk, flaring out and killing power to the engine as the wheels touched with a tiny puff of smoke, came up, then stayed down for good.

  I waved as Jed taxied the aircraft to where I stood next to the small one-story white Quonset hut that served as Cabot Cove’s terminal. The window on the passenger side opened and an arm reached out to return my greeting. I was glad to see them on the ground. I would have hated to lose my publisher, Vaughan Buckley, to an airline accident.

  Jed killed the engine and the single prop came to a jerky standstill. He jumped out and came around to open the passenger door. Vaughan stepped onto a strut and then down to terra firma. He was as trim as always, looking especially cosmopolitan in his navy sports jacket, pressed tan chinos, argyle socks, and Windexed brown loafers. He and his wife, Olga, always turn heads on the street. She’s a former model—tall, svelte, and sophisticated. And with a heart to rival Mother Teresa.

  As he approached, I detected a slight limp. No, on second observation he walked like someone who’d just come off a rough sea voyage and was trying to find his land legs.

  “Jessica,” he said, extending his hand.

  “My goodness, Vaughan, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Turbulent ride?”

  He looked back to where Jed was tying down the Cessna, lowered his voice, and said, “ ‘Turbulent’ is a gross understatement. Glad to be on solid ground again.” His smile was weak. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Jess. We sat on the runway at Logan for quite a spell waiting for a long line of real planes—big planes to take off. But Jed had enough flying stories to help pass the time. Interesting man. Maybe has a book in him.”

  “Which I’ve been telling him for years. Anyway, it’s wonderful to see you. Welcome to Cabot Cove
.”

  This marked the first time Vaughan had visited me on my turf. I’d originally suggested he fly to Bangor and have a limo drive him to Cabot Cave. But, surprisingly, at least to me, he asked whether the small airline I’d mentioned in a scene in one of my books, operated by a crusty Maine native named Jed Richardson, would pick him up in Boston. I was tempted to talk him out of that plan. Somehow, I couldn’t see my erudite publisher enjoying a couple of hours in one of Jed’s puddle jumpers. He’s strictly a first-class traveler, not the roughing-it type. He, Olga, and their two dogs, Sadie and Rose, live in a spacious, exquisite apartment in the Dakota, an elegant building on the Upper West Side of Manhattan that overlooks Central Park, the same building where John Lennon and Yoko lived until Lennon was shot to death outside the main gate.

  But he’d opted for Jed’s Flying Service, and here he was, safe and sound, if not a little shaky.

  Jed drove us into town in his Plymouth Voyager.

  “Hungry?” I asked as we entered town.

  “Believe it or not, I am, Jess.”

  Jed laughed. “Gave your stomach a bit of a tumble,” he said.

  “Not at all,” Vaughan said. “It’s made of cast iron. I grabbed a muffin at LaGuardia before I caught the early shuttle. It’s time for dinner according to my internal clock.”

  “Then I would say a second breakfast is very much in order,” I said. “Mind dropping us at Mara’s?”

  “Not a problem,” Jed said.

  “Mara’s is a local institution,” I told Vaughan. “Good solid food and plenty of local color.” I was pleased to see that some color of a different sort had returned to his cheeks.

  “Join us?” I asked Jed.

  “Nice of you, Jessica, but can’t. Got to pick up a compass I had serviced over to Wiggins’s shop, put ‘er in one ’a the aircraft. See you later, Mr. Buckley. Catchin’ a four o’clock shuttle back to New York?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “We’d best leave here ‘bout two. I’m plannin’ to use a bigger bird, twin engine 310H Cessna, just out ’a her regular inspection. Give you a more comfortable and faster ride back. She’ll cruise at two-twenty, two-thirty.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Vaughan said, unfolding his lanky frame from the minivan. “And thanks for a nice ride here. Think about doing a book, Mr. Richardson. I’d be interested.”

  “Good afternoon, good morning, whatever,” Mara said from behind the counter in her postage-stamp size restaurant. “And good day to you, Mr. Buckley,” she said without having been introduced to him. She wiped her arthritic right hand on her stained apron and extended it to him.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Vaughan said.

  “I suppose I’ve talked a lot about your visit, Vaughan,” I said. “Cabot Cove isn’t like New York. Everyone in town knows my esteemed publisher is visiting me today.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “Up here,” Mara said, “you’re a pretty big fish in a wee little pond.”

  “And in New York I’m just one fish in a school of millions of minnows.”

  “No offense,” Mara said.

  “None taken. You’re right. And I’m delighted to be here.”

  “Are we having breakfast or lunch?” Mara asked.

  “Vaughan and I looked at each other. “Heard a lot about you from Ms. Fletcher, Mr. Buckley,” said Mara. “Seems to me you’re the blueberry pancake sort ‘a fella.”

  Vaughan’s smile was broad and genuine. “Sounds wonderful,” he said. “And, please call me Vaughan.”

  As Mara led us to a small table covered in a red-and-white check plastic tablecloth, she asked, “Usual low-calorie special for you, Jess?”

  “Not today, Mara. I think I’ll join Vaughan. Make it two stacks of blueberry pancakes.”

  “You have quite an influence on our town’s first lady,” she said to Vaughan.

  “I certainly hope so,” he replied, holding out my chair.

  After settling down at the table and taking in his surroundings—there were a few fishermen who’d just returned from a run, and some tourists—Vaughan said, “Cabot Cove is delightful, Jess, as I knew it would be. As magical as you’d painted it. Picturesque seaside town, quaint, friendly but with enough hustle and bustle to make even a Manhattanite like me feel at home.”

  “You’re here during the tourist season,” I said. “Come back in the dead of winter. Not much hustle and bustle then.”

  We sipped our coffee while I waxed a little more poetic about my town. He listened intently; Vaughan Buckley was a good listener, one of his many endearing qualities.

  “You know, Jess, Olga and I have been looking for a country home. A real getaway place, and I mean away. Of course, we have the house in the Hamptons. It’s nice there, but it seems like the entire publishing world feels the same way. Hard to escape in the real sense of the word. I’m thinking that Cabot Cove would be the perfect place to have a retreat. You know, come up and hibernate for weeks at a time. Sadie and Rose would love it.” He chuckled softly. “I’m not sure Olg would want to become a regular passenger of Jean Richardson, though. She gets motion sick on elevators.”

  I laughed. “It looked to me as though you might have been a little queasy yourself when you got out of the plane this morning.”

  “No, not at all.”

  He finished his coffee. Why is it men can’t admit to something like motion sickness? I wondered. I know few who can. Like not asking for directions when lost.

  I fielded Vaughan’s questions about fishing in the area, shopping, hospitals, and theater, sounding very much like a real estate agent. It would be wonderful if he and Olga had a home here. They’re two of my favorite people.

  On the other hand, one of the reasons I still live in Cabot Cove is because, although you can make the trip in half a day, this sleepy town is a million miles from New York. Here I can be someone other than the famed mystery writer, the role I’m forced to play when in New York and other cities promoting my books. I like living in two separate worlds—Jessica Fletcher Number One: decent fisherwoman, maker of homemade jams and to-die-for iced tea, and wearer of thick, woolly, cable-knit sweaters. And Jessica Fletcher Number Two: famed mystery writer, Chanel earrings, silk chemise blouses, expert at making reservations, savvy shopper, and as-good-as-the-next-guy at finding a cab at rush hour. If I had to give up one for the other, I’d opt for Jessica Number One, the Cabot Cove version. It’s the real me. As my mother always said, “Be true to your colors, Jessica.”

  Although Vaughan raved about the pancakes, he went easy, leaving half a stack on his plate before calling it quits, which Mara would probably take personally.

  “Well, Jess, I suppose it’s time we get down to business,” Vaughan said after the plates had been cleared (Mara’s expression confirmed what I’d expected), and our cups had been refilled with her signature strong, aromatic coffee.

  I was glad to get to the real reason for Vaughan’s trip to Cabot Cove. He’d never visited me before, and the fragile, paranoid ego of a writer—any writer—this writer was working overtime. Not that I was concerned that my longstanding relationship with Buckley House was in jeopardy. The tales of my books ranked me high on the publisher’s bottom line. But I hadn’t come up with an idea for my next work because, frankly, I didn’t have a clue as to what it would be. I’d toyed with myriad plots, none of which stood up to scrutiny upon reflection. Was Vaughan Buckley about to prod me to come up with my next book, even chastise me for having become—well, lazy, perhaps? Or had he brought worse news? No matter how successful my books had been, it was always possible—my insecurity level seemed to increase with each passing minute—for any publisher to decide that an author’s string had run, that her books no longer appealed to that large baby-boomer population, that her ...

  “Okay,” I said, “time to talk business. You didn’t come all the way to Cabot Cove for pancakes.”

  “But not a bad idea,” he said, laughing. “Jess, I came here today to disc
uss your next book. I think the next J. B. Fletcher best-seller should revolve around a murder trial.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s the hottest genre in publishing. The O.J. Simpson trial. Susan Smith. Grisham. Turow. One best-selling novel after another set during a trial. I think ifs time you tapped into that interest.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I understand what you’re saying, but although it may be the hot genre right now, it isn’t my genre. I haven’t the foggiest idea about murder trials other than what I follow in the papers. For me to write a book with a plot that relies heavily on trial procedure, I’d have to dedicate an awful lot of time to research. Maybe even sit through an entire trial to pick up the nuances, soak up the mood, study the judge, the jurors. And believe me, Vaughan, murder trials in Cabot Cove are few and far between. We haven’t had anyone tried for murder here in years. I’d like to keep it that way. So should you if you’re serious about buying a home here.”

  Vaughan laughed. “Not a high crime rate, I take it.”

  “An occasional stolen chicken. Graffiti on the bridge.”

  “I love it. Look, you know what a fan you have in me. I would never insist that you heed my suggestion about what sort of plot to use in your next book. You’re the expert in that area, not me. All I ask is that you think about it.”

  “Of course I will. I just don’t think—”

  “Not now.” He checked his watch. “How about a walking tour of Cabot Cove?”

  “Sure. We can stroll toward my house, stop there for some iced tea for which I’ve achieved a modicum of local fame, and lunch if the walk spikes your appetite.”

  We said good-bye to Mara—“You didn’t like the pancakes, Mr. Buckley?” “They were wonderful, just so filling”—and started walking.

  Later, over iced tea on my patio, he said, “Looks like it’s time to hook up with Mr. Richardson for the flight back.”

  “He’ll be by in fifteen minutes to pick you up. It’s been such a pleasure having you here, Vaughan.”