Murder, She Wrote Page 12

  Helen shook her head. “Me? No. Alice, Brian ever mentioned any other names to you?”

  “Honestly, I don’t remember. I might have heard him talk about a Steve once, but I don’t recall if he was one of the gang or someone they were giving a hard time to. Brian used to try to keep the others from preying on the nerdy ones—you know, the smart kids—but he wasn’t always successful.”

  Helen raised an eyebrow at Alice. “You’re thinking your husband wouldn’t want you to identify who his friends were, aren’t you?”

  “No. No. Really. I just never knew their names.”

  Helen looked at me. “Likely story.”

  “I think I hear Emma,” Alice said, pushing back her chair and hurrying from the room.

  “She didn’t hear nothin’,” Helen said, sipping her tea. “I know that child like the back of my hand. Been raising her since she was seven. She knows those names. If I come to remember any of ’em—or get her to tell me—where do you want me to call you? I don’t believe in protecting lawbreakers, and those boys saw every law as a challenge. Only his love for Alice straightened Brian out. That and trying to prove Mr. Pelletier wrong. He’s still working on that one.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Harvey Richardson’s Gas-and-Go was on the road leading out to the airport. I had passed it many times but never had occasion to stop in there. The station was self-serve when it came to pumping gas, but it had a full-service mechanic on duty, around the side of the building where the garage bays were open and country music poured out loud enough to muffle most car engines.

  I parked my bike near the front door, which another customer held open for me as he left. A young man sat behind the cash register inside a small office that also sold windshield wiper blades, hanging air fresheners, and other automotive accessories. Several soda and candy machines lined one wall for those too busy to stop in town for a snack.

  “Hi, Josh,” I said, reading the young man’s name tag. “Is Harvey Richardson in today?”

  He shook his head but didn’t look up from the smartphone he was typing into with his thumbs.

  “When do you expect him back?”

  “Didn’t tell me.”

  “Does he usually come in every day?”

  “Sometimes.”

  He was too young to remember when Brian and Darryl and friends were getting in trouble, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask questions. “I’m trying to find someone who used to work here about a dozen or so years ago. Would you know the names of the people who worked here before you came?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Do you think your mechanic might know?”

  “Dunno. You could ask.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jeff Grusen.”

  “Has he worked here for a long time?”

  “Not long.”

  “More than a year?”

  “Probably.”

  That didn’t look promising. “Then, may I leave a note for Mr. Richardson for when he does get back?”

  A shrug.

  I scribbled a note on the pad of paper I always carry, folded it, and held it out to the clerk, whose head was still buried in the phone. I cleared my voice, and finally he looked up. “Will you remember to give it to him?” I asked.

  “I guess.”

  “I’m asking, Josh, because it’s important that I speak with him. I’m relying on you to be responsible. Mr. Richardson must think you are a responsible person or he would never leave you in charge of his business.”

  Josh straightened in his seat and put down his phone. “I guess.”

  “I’m sure. Now, here’s the note. I’ve left my phone number. I know that you’ll make sure that Harvey Richardson gets this.”

  “Okay, Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Fletcher, J. B. Fletcher.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, I’ll make sure old Harvey gets this.”

  I felt myself sigh. Trying to capture the attention of young people on their cellular phones was not an easy task. “Thank you very much, Josh.”

  I walked my bicycle around the side of the building to the air pump and put down the kickstand. I glanced over to the garage. A portion of the garage floor had been excavated to accommodate the installation of a lift. There was a car up on the lift, and the mechanic was standing in the pit peering up into its interior parts using a flashlight. I hoped he would be more helpful than the clerk. After all, he couldn’t read text messages on his phone and work on a car engine at the same time, could he? There was only one way to find out.

  I unscrewed the valve on the tire, dropped it in my pocket, and pressed my fingernail down on the stem until I heard the hiss of air as it escaped. The mechanic was still craning his neck to look up into the engine. I pinched the tire of my bike to be sure I’d taken enough air out, walked into the open bay, and leaned down to see the back of the mechanic’s head.

  “Excuse me,” I shouted over the music.

  The mechanic, whose age was almost impossible to gauge thanks to a cap covering his hair, didn’t answer.

  I walked to the front of the car, squatted down, and waved. I would have done a little dance if I thought it would catch his eye. I debated jumping down into the space where the mechanic stood, but I didn’t want to alarm him. Eventually, he looked up, raised gray brows, then frowned at me. I couldn’t tell if he was growing a beard or if the shadow on his face was a result of grease marks.

  “Can I help you?” he shouted.

  “I hope so,” I shouted back. “Are you Jeff?”

  “Wait a minute.” He put down the flashlight, climbed up out of the pit, grabbed a paper rag from a dispenser box, wiped his hands, and turned down the radio.

  I shook my head. I would be deaf in no time if I listened to music at that volume all day. I gave the mechanic a quivery smile.

  He was taller than I’d realized, and younger. His brows were blond, not gray. He looked to be Brian’s age and my heart sped up at my luck, but quickly subsided. According to Josh, the mechanic hadn’t been here long, so maybe he was new to town.

  “What can I do for you? Where’s your car?”

  “I don’t have a car. It’s my bike,” I said, waving toward where it stood by the air pump. “I think I have a flat.”

  “You need a gauge?” he asked, pulling one from his breast pocket and offering it to me.

  “A what?”

  “An air pressure gauge to measure the air pressure in your tires?”

  “Is that what I’m supposed to use?”

  “Oh, for Jupiter’s sake.” He threw his dirtied rag into a can and stalked to where my bike gently listed near the air hose.

  “Thank you so much,” I said, jogging after him. “You must think me a silly old woman, but I’ve never had to do this before. You see, my husband, my late husband, used to take care of all these mechanical details for me, so I never needed to learn them myself.”

  “It’s not hard. I’ll show you just what to do, so next time you can put the air in yourself.” He kneeled down by my bike. “See? Here’s your problem. Your valve cap is missing.”

  “My what?”

  “Your valve cap. The thing you screw into this stem that keeps the air from escaping. You might have a slow leak in the valve.”

  “It’s so nice to meet someone so helpful. Have you worked here a long time? I don’t remember seeing you before.”

  “You come here often?” he muttered, smiling to himself. He checked the air pressure using his gauge. “Your air’s definitely low.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “There’s a number on the side of your tire tells you what the pressure should be. Then you check it with the gauge, like this, and if you need more air, you push the top of this hose on the stem until it starts inflating the tire. Want to try it?”

 
“You do it. You’re better at it than I am. By the way, I used to teach in the high school, but you don’t look familiar. Did you grow up in Cabot Cove?”

  He shook his head, laughing. “I grew up here all right, but I spent most of my school days in juvie. Am I shocking you?”

  “Juvenile detention.” I made a tsking noise. “Thank goodness you’ve outgrown it.”

  “I’m glad you think so. There’s others in this town . . . never mind.” He stood and put the gauge back in his pocket. “I probably have another one of those caps I can contribute to the cause,” he said, walking toward the garage. “Otherwise you’ll be back here before you know it. Just give me five minutes to find one in the drawer.”

  “Thank you,” I said, following him. “You’ve been so helpful. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been here. How much do I owe you?”

  “Owe me? Nothing. It was nothing. Just wait while I find you another cap. We always have a dozen of them around.”

  “At least let me buy you a soda. It’s Jeff, right? I wouldn’t forgive myself if I couldn’t do something nice for you, Jeff.”

  “Yeah, it’s Jeff.” He stopped, exasperation clear on his face. Finally, he sighed. “Okay, while I’m looking for your cap, you can get me a can of Moxie. They have them in the machine in the office.”

  I returned moments later with two cans of soda. I handed him one and opened the other for myself, settling on a battered leather desk chair next to the tool case he was pawing through in search of a valve cap.

  He winced. “That’s not the cleanest, just so you know.”

  I shrugged. “Too late now.” I smiled at him. “Tell me, Jeff. Did you happen to know Stinky Jepson when you were in juvie?”

  “Stinky! How the heck did you know Stinky?” His face lit up, then sobered. “Oh, I know.”

  “He’s been in the news a lot lately, hasn’t he?”

  “Yeah. The sucker.”

  “Did you know him then?”

  “Sure. We were in a rough gang together.”

  “Really?”

  “We used to call ourselves ‘the five musketeers’ after an old movie we saw on TV. We’d camp and cook out down near the railroad tracks. Stinky would whittle swords out of branches and try to interest us in fencing and knife throwing. Guess that didn’t turn out so good for him.”

  “Do you still keep in touch with the other guys? Brian Kinney? Who else?”

  He counted on his fingers. “Stinky, me, Brian, Hank, and Cory.” He let out a whoosh of air and returned his attention to the drawer. “Brings back memories.”

  “You’re too young to be so nostalgic. Don’t you still get together with some of these guys?”

  “Nah. Cory joined the army. Last I heard he was in Afghanistan. Brian and Hank must live somewhere in town, probably. We don’t keep up. We’re pretty much scattered to the wind.”

  “Too bad. Do you know if Stinky’s parents are still in Cabot Cove?”

  “Ah! Got one.” He held up a valve cap, identical to the one in my pocket.

  I put out my hand and he dropped it in my palm.

  “Want me to put that on for you?”

  “I think I can manage that much,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. What did you ask?”

  “I was asking if Stinky’s parents still lived in town.”

  “I don’t remember his having parents. His aunt Darcy lived up in the trailer park. He stayed with her a lot.”

  “I don’t think I ever met her. Darcy Jepson, you say?”

  “She was his aunt but must’ve been on his mother’s side. I don’t remember her last name.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll find her.”

  “Why are you looking for Stinky’s aunt?”

  “I’m not. I’m looking for Stinky.”

  “You and every cop in Maine. Hey, are you a cop or something?” He eyed me warily.

  I laughed. “No such thing.”

  “Rumor has it he’s holding the sheriff’s wife. My girlfriend heard it at the post office.”

  “I heard that, too.”

  “So why are you looking for Stinky’s aunt Darcy?”

  “The sheriff’s wife is a friend of mine. I’d like to see her get back home safely.”

  “And you think Aunt Darcy can help?”

  “I won’t know until I find her.” I stood, brushing off the seat of my pants, and dropped my soda can in the recycle bin. “Thank you, Jeff. You’ve helped me a great deal today.” I held up the valve cap.

  “Yeah. Don’t lose that. And thanks for the soda.”

  “An even exchange,” I said, walking to my bike, where I screwed the cap Jeff had given me into its proper place. By the time I climbed on my bike, he had turned up the radio to deafening levels and I was grateful to pedal away.

  Special to the Cabot Cove Gazette

  SHERIFF’S WIFE MISSING!

  AUTHORITIES FEAR SHE MAY HAVE BEEN TAKEN HOSTAGE

  MANHUNT FOR ESCAPED KILLER CLOSES IN ON CABOT COVE

  Maureen Metzger, wife of Sheriff Mort Metzger, disappeared on a camping trip to Moon Lake, where she was participating in the Cabot Cove Derby Days. Mrs. Metzger, who was staying in a cabin owned by Mayor James Shevlin, was a guest of mystery writer Jessica Fletcher, who reported her missing Sunday afternoon to the Warden Service division of the state’s Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife. This newspaper has learned that efforts by the K-9 unit have been unsuccessful so far in locating Mrs. Metzger, who authorities now fear may have been kidnapped by Darryl Jepson, the convicted murderer who escaped from the penitentiary in Warren earlier this month. Jepson is also suspected in the killing of attorney Wesley Caruthers, whose body was discovered after the convict’s escape.

  Mayor Shevlin announced that the governor has called in additional state police to assist in the search, and noted that agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation are also on the case. Helicopter teams have been combing the camping areas around Moon Lake, and roads leading into Cabot Cove are being patrolled by various policing authorities. Residents are advised to expect delays at the checkpoints, where all vehicles are subject to search.

  “This is a difficult time for our community,” Shevlin said. “We’re asking residents to please be on the alert and to report any suspicious activity to the police.”

  Annabelle Lodge, president of the board of education, said there are no plans to date to postpone the start of the school year, which is two weeks away, despite calls from worried parents. However, summer school classes were dismissed early and the extra-credit wilderness course that had been due to start next Monday has been canceled until further notice.

  Regarding local travel restrictions, downtown merchants have expressed dismay at the damper they’re putting on back-to-school sales, but the Chamber of Commerce is promising extended retail hours once the situation is resolved. When that will take place, however, is still up in the air.

  Both Sheriff Metzger and Mayor Shevlin promised an update at their next daily press briefing. Efforts to reach Mrs. Fletcher for a comment were unavailing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Back in my kitchen by noon, I put the newspaper aside and took up my hastily scribbled notes on the names of Jeff Grusen’s “five musketeers” and the little, if anything, I knew about each. The gas station mechanic had been free with information about his boyhood friends, which not only endeared him to me, it made me deduce that he had a clear conscience about his own activities during those days. I hoped I was right. I had first names, but not all the last names: Darryl Jepson, Brian Kinney, and Jeff Grusen. But who were Hank and Cory? Cory was a veteran. He shouldn’t be too hard to look up. Maybe Harvey Richardson knew Hank.

  I could give the list to Mort, but I didn’t know if it would mean anything all these years after the grocer’s death and Darryl Jepson’
s murder conviction. But one or more of these men—boys at the time—had agreed to meet up with Jepson at the mini-mart and may or may not have been his accomplices in the crime. Was the information pertinent now? More important, would it help to find Maureen?

  The timer went off and I got up to check the pot roast I had in my slow cooker. Mort Metzger had appeared on the television news looking haggard. I knew he hadn’t been eating well since Maureen joined me up at Moon Lake, and now that he was struggling with fears about her disappearance it looked as if he wasn’t eating at all. I’d left a message at the sheriff’s office for him to come for dinner, or if he was too busy, I’d pack a sandwich for him to take with him. I hadn’t heard back, but when I told Seth of my plans, he said he’d stop by as well to see how Mort was doing, and bring a blueberry pie from Sassi’s Bakery.

  I’d left a note on my front door saying I was not available for comment, and let the answering machine pick up my calls so I could screen them. Nevertheless, someone had rung the doorbell several times. I knew it wasn’t one of my neighbors, who would more likely simply come in through the back porch without a by-your-leave. It was probably one of the reporters camped out on my lawn who’d kept me a virtual prisoner in my house since I’d returned from the Gas-and-Go. If I was tempted to report them to the sheriff’s office, I reminded myself that Mort had a lot more to worry about than someone invading my privacy. I did pick up one telephone call that I had been expecting—or at least hoping would come in.

  “Jessica? Harvey Richardson here,” a voice said into my machine. “I see you left me a message at the station today.”

  I grabbed the phone. “Hello? Harvey? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Thank you so much for returning my call.”

  “No problem. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m trying to track down the boys who were friends with Darryl Jepson when he was growing up in Cabot Cove. I understand you employed some of them back then.”

  “Got one working in my garage right now. Did you meet Jeff Grusen?”

  “I did.”