Murder, She Wrote--A Date with Murder Read online

  What I saw next left me reaching for the phone, unable to get a dial tone until I finally pressed nine, followed by the number for the sheriff’s station.

  “Mort,” I said after his receptionist got him on the phone, “I’ve found something you need to see.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “There!” I said, freezing the screen again so Mort could see what was revealed from his position standing over my shoulder.

  “What?”

  “You didn’t see it? Watch again.”

  “What am I supposed to be seeing?” he asked as I pushed the bar just slightly backward again.

  I’d felt a cool rush of air when he stepped into the offices of Simpson Realty, the first scents of fall trailing Mort inside. Amazing in these parts how nature seems to know that summer really ends with Labor Day. I thought I even detected woodsmoke in the air beyond, someone nearby having lit a fireplace, perhaps to welcome autumn. Before you knew it, we’d be talking about foliage and the looming first snow.

  “You need to see it for yourself,” I told him, stopping at just the right point before starting the video again.

  I figured having him come straight over to Eve’s office made the most sense, since the sheriff’s station was just down the street and I knew Eve wouldn’t have stepped out just for a coffee. She’d linger and loiter about, talking to as many passersby as she could, as was her custom.

  “Stop the picture!” Mort exclaimed suddenly.

  And I did so at the very point the man in the Cabot Cove Catering outfit emerged from the kitchen, seeming to tuck something back into his pocket.

  “Can you zoom in, Jessica?”

  I think that’s called a “spot shadow.” It took me a while to position the mouse properly and click while holding the correct keys down. But soon the screen around the man’s torso filled the entire square, and when I ran the few seconds of footage again in slow motion, both Mort and I could clearly see him tucking something back into his pants pocket.

  “By golly,” Mort said, utterly deadpan, as if unaware he was probably the last person on earth to use that expression.

  “That was my thought, too.”

  “Can’t see exactly what it was he put in his pocket there.”

  “No. I tried a bunch of times before you got here.” I shook my head. “Nothing. What we’re looking at is all there is.”

  I enlarged the picture captured on the screen to include a not quite front-on shot of the man who’d slipped something into his pocket. Blown up much beyond this, it would be too grainy to be of any use to anyone.

  “Can you sharpen the picture up a bit, give us a better look at him?”

  “I can’t, but somebody better versed and who has the software certainly could.”

  “Come to think of it,” Mort said, standing up straight again, “I think the station has the software, courtesy of Homeland Security.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “We were allocated twenty thousand dollars a few years back. The software was part of the package we purchased. Now, if I can only remember who trained on it . . .”

  My gaze wandered back to the screen as Mort pondered. I pictured the man captured only in a blur following Hal into the kitchen and doing something to him that induced his heart attack. But what Eve had accidentally recorded would be useless if we couldn’t get a better look at him.

  As if on cue, the front door opened, dragging more of the fall air with it, and Eve Simpson returned with a cutout tray containing her coffee and my tea. She smiled at the sight of Mort, then fixed her eyes upon me.

  “Did I miss anything?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Mort called Becky Thayer, owner of Cabot Cove Catering, and asked her to meet us at the station in an hour, enough time, we hoped, for Mort to make use of that magical software Homeland Security had supplied to get a better look at our potential suspect. It turned out that Billy Simms, the town’s youngest deputy, had been the one trained on the software, and Mort called him in from patrol to take a seat in the sheriff’s office behind the computer Mort used as little as possible.

  Billy was still fiddling and diddling when Becky Thayer arrived, giving Mort and me a chance to explain to her what we needed. Becky had started to respond when Billy burst out of Mort’s office, fresh color printout in hand. Mort snatched it from his grasp and I joined him a few steps from where Becky was seated to get a look at his handiwork.

  “The software first sharpens the fragment as best it can,” he explained to us, “and then extrapolates the rest. So what you’re looking at is maybe half actual footage and half fill-in-the-blank.”

  “Extrapolate,” Mort said as he studied the picture. “You learn that word at the training seminar down in Boston?”

  “As a matter of fact . . .”

  The face of the man revealed was utterly flat, the complexion somewhere between pale and sallow, the expression quietly intense in a way that made him appear scary. He had black hair combed straight back, his features meshing in a way that made me think of a Halloween mask. I wondered if this was really the man we were looking for or whether he was indeed wearing some kind of disguise.

  Mort and I looked at each other, exchanging a shrug, after which he moved back toward Becky Thayer and laid the picture down before her.

  “Do you recognize this man from the crew that staffed the Wirths’ Labor Day party?”

  She looked at the picture, then shifted it about to take better advantage of the light sprayed by a single desk lamp in addition to the overheads. “I’m afraid not, Sheriff, but we were so busy that day, I contracted out some jobs to the temp agency we use in Boston. We could certainly send the picture to them to see if they could be of more help.”

  “Why don’t you leave their name and number with my receptionist? I’ll contact them first thing in the morning.”

  Becky rose from the desk chair. “Tell them I referred you. They’ll be cooperative if they want to continue getting my business.”

  “I appreciate that,” Mort said. “Truly.”

  Becky looked as if she was about to take her leave, then didn’t. “Tell me, Sheriff. Might this have anything to do with . . .” She let her voice trail off and then shook her head. “Never mind. I don’t think you can tell me.”

  “You’re right. I can’t.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “What now?” I asked, back in Mort’s office after Becky Thayer was gone.

  He laid the picture down on his desk. “I run this through the national criminal databases to see if we can get a match. If this man’s ever been booked and fingerprinted for anything, anything at all, he’ll be in the system.”

  “Could you make a copy of that picture for me?” I asked him.

  Instead of complying, Mort snatched up the picture from his desk. “Simms has already inputted this electronically through the proper channels. Unlike the cases on television, it’ll take some time to see if there are any results.” He started to hand me the picture, but stopped short. “Care to tell me what you need this for?”

  “No.”

  “That’s what I figured,” he said, and handed it to me.

  * * *

  • • •

  I arrived unannounced at Babs’s house, one of Mort’s deputies having dropped me off. Babs greeted me, clearly exhausted after such a long, draining day. The house was otherwise empty, save for Alyssa and Chad, who were seated in the kitchen, still wearing the more formal clothing they’d donned for the funeral, except Chad’s shirt was missing its tie. Babs was more than happy to retire upstairs, so I had them to myself.

  “I need something else,” I said, taking the chair next to him, opposite Alyssa.

  He flashed that wry grin of his at me. “What are you paying your research assistants these days?”

  “Wit
h the favor of not telling the mother of your girlfriend that the guest room bed wasn’t slept in last night.”

  Chad and Alyssa exchanged a nervous glance, one that seemed to say, How did she know that?

  “Gotcha!” I said.

  They relaxed immediately, Chad breathing an audible sigh of relief.

  “Your secret’s safe with me,” I added, patting Alyssa’s forearm.

  “So what can I do for you in return?” Chad asked me.

  I eased the computer-generated picture from my bag and unfolded it, thinking that Chad looked kind of naked without his laptop in front of him, and then laughed inwardly at the quip I was glad I hadn’t shared.

  “Is there any way you can find out who this man is?” I asked, sliding the picture in front of him.

  “What’s wrong with his face?”

  “Computer enhanced.”

  “The computer needs its software updated,” he said, studying the picture carefully.

  I shrugged, wondering how long ago Homeland Security had actually provided it to Cabot Cove. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to share them.”

  Chad’s eyes flashed their familiar glint. “They might not all be exactly legal.”

  “Wise choice, then,” I said, pushing myself up out of my chair.

  Alyssa’s eyes followed me. “Jessica?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does this have something to do with what happened to my father?”

  I wasn’t about to lie to her, but the last thing she needed right now was to hear my suspicions. I tried to look as reassuring as I could.

  “That’s what we’re going to find out, dear.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  My wake-up call the following morning came from Mort, a good thing since I’d somehow managed to oversleep. I’d decided to walk home the night before from Babs’s house to clear my head and enjoy the crisp, cool air. A bad idea, as it turned out, since I kept hearing footsteps and car engines at every turn, sharp memories of being knocked off my bike bringing the throb back to my head.

  “I spoke to the temp agency Becky Thayer uses in Boston,” I heard Mort say, as I shook the grogginess from my mind. “And guess what?”

  “You e-mailed them the picture,” I started, clearing my throat, “and they’ve never seen the man before. Have no idea who he is.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Because you’re so predictable. Whenever you say ‘Guess what?’ it’s not good.”

  “And that makes me predictable? Have you read your own books lately?”

  I sat up all the way and stretched my free arm. “I think we’re missing the point here.”

  “I was waiting for you to say that.”

  “And I’ve said it. Because we now have a very real indication that Hal Wirth was murdered.”

  “Guess what?”

  “More bad news, Mort?”

  “The man pictured drew a blank with all the criminal databases, too. He’s clean as the driven snow.”

  “It wasn’t a very good picture,” I reminded. “A little light on features.”

  “I’ve sent it to the FBI to see what magic they might be able to work.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “Never do. I think when they see a request stamped ‘Cabot Cove,’ they cringe, given our murder rate.”

  “Must be something in the air.”

  “I actually have another explanation, Jessica: We’re all characters in one of your books and none of this is really happening. It only exists in your mind.”

  “Then I should be able to tell you how it ends, but in this case I can’t.”

  “How about just the next chapter?”

  “Already working on that, Mort,” I said, wide-awake at last. “What do you suppose that man was tucking back in his pocket? Do you think it could’ve been a syringe?”

  “You’re reading my mind again.”

  “Because you’re such an open book.”

  “One of yours is sitting on my night table, by the way.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t remember. But they’re all the same anyway, right?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Since I lacked Alyssa’s cell phone number, I called Babs to ask her if Alyssa and Chad were still there.

  “I need to ask you something, Jessica,” she said, after confirming they were. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I said, lamely crossing my fingers.

  “Yes, you do. Something’s going on about Hal and Eugene Labine that has to do with whatever you’ve been talking to Alyssa and Chad about. You think I didn’t notice?”

  “I was hoping you didn’t,” I confessed.

  “I need to know.”

  “Do you trust me, Babs?”

  “Of course I trust you.”

  “Then believe me when I tell you there’s nothing you need to know, at least not yet.”

  “On one condition, Jessica—that you answer a question for me. Was Hal murdered?”

  “I’m . . . n-not sure,” I stammered.

  “What can you tell me? You need to tell me something. You can’t put me through this. It’s like losing him twice.”

  “Has Lawrence Pyke been able to learn anything about those loans Hal took out?”

  “Not a thing. The money seems to have vanished. Lawrence suspects gambling debts or some shady business dealings Hal managed to keep secret all these years that he finally had to settle. It makes no sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” I agreed.

  “You have to get to the bottom of all this, Jessica. I don’t have anyone else I can turn to.”

  “Count on it, Babs. Count on it.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “I haven’t been here in years,” Alyssa said, her eyes agape as she took in the sprawling first floor of my home.

  Much too large, I knew, for a single person, and requiring constant maintenance. But I couldn’t bear to part with it. Too many memories, and I never considered myself the type to move to one of those fancy waterfront condos or single-level, cookie-cutter homes in a fifty-five-plus community. This was home, where I’d done the bulk of my writing and where my memories of Frank were the strongest. As much as anything, I couldn’t bear entertaining the notion of giving it up because it felt like I’d be betraying him, making me keenly aware of what Babs must be struggling with over the loss of Hal. That sense of kinship between us redoubled my resolve to get to the bottom of what was going on, as the pieces of the puzzle kept falling together without revealing a discernible picture.

  “Is this where you write your books?” Alyssa continued.

  For a moment, her youthful enthusiasm made me see the little girl I remembered, instead of a nearly grown-up, beautiful young woman. She had the boundless enthusiasm and youthful imagination that were part and parcel of being a writer, and in that moment I wanted nothing more than to guide her on that path. I found myself envisioning her rushing over with her first published book in hand, the two of us celebrating a moment she’d cherish for the rest of her life.

  “Can you show me your office?”

  Alyssa’s question lifted me from my trance. “I call it a study.”

  Chad, meanwhile, was gazing about more absently, as if disappointed by the visible lack of technology. I thought he was smirking at my old RCA Victrola record player I’d had painstakingly restored, but he broke into a smile.

  “That’s real, isn’t it? Not one of those new ones you can buy on Amazon.”

  “Oh, it’s real, all right,” I told him. “And I’ve got the bills to prove it.”

  “Man,” he said, running a hand
over its smooth wood finish, “this is something.” He spotted my collection of LPs battling for space with books in my built-in bookshelves and lovingly eased one of the cardboard sleeves out. “This is incredible. You like jazz?”

  “My late husband did; I inherited my love of it from him.”

  Chad traded that LP for another, then put that one back, too, and removed a folded-up piece of paper from the pocket of his jeans. He unfolded it, revealing a much more detailed image of the man pictured at the Wirths’ barbecue who I was convinced had murdered Hal. The image had been sharpened to a significant degree. The man’s face didn’t look like a Halloween mask anymore. But his skin looked more like smooth ceramic than flesh, almost like flesh-toned porcelain, fragile and ready to crack. And whatever program Chad had used had swallowed the whites of the man’s eyes and left them totally black.

  “I think I’ve figured out a way for you to pay my consulting fee, Jessica,” he said, eyeing my albums again.

  “That’s good,” I told him. “Because I find myself in need of your services again.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I asked Alyssa to let me speak with him alone, not bothering to explain that I didn’t want to risk making her an accessory to what might be a crime. She didn’t look happy to be left out of whatever I wanted to discuss with her boyfriend, but respected my wishes and traipsed upstairs to the office I called a study, while Chad and I adjourned to the kitchen.

  “Are you able to hack into government databases?” I asked him, positioned so I could see if Alyssa strayed close enough to hear our conversation.

  “Depends on which ones you mean.”

  “Homeland Security, TSA specifically.”

  “As in airports?”

  “As in airports.” I nodded. “Both Logan and Portland, Labor Day or the Sunday before.”