Murder, She Wrote Read online

  I put on my belt as well. “And now that you’ve been dragged back into business?”

  “I love it!” She chuckled. “I suppose I shouldn’t say that. The circumstances are far from ideal. Wes was murdered, after all, but I was really looking forward to examining his papers and using my years of experience to pick up on all the legal errors I know he must have made.”

  “You might want to offer your services to the district attorney’s office as a disinterested legal expert.”

  “Now, there’s a plan. I’ll get hold of them after I help Peggy empty the office. There’s a veterans’ group that takes used furniture.”

  “What about where Wes lived?”

  “His apartment? His son, Cory, is staying there. He was at the funeral.”

  “Yes, I saw him. He seemed to be—well, he seemed more angry than grieving.”

  “I suppose that having Wes Caruthers as a father might make any son angry,” she said. “And as they say, the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Wes was always itching for a fight. Rumor has it that Cory also has a combative personality. He received a less-than-honorable discharge, I’m told, something about getting into brawls on the base where he was stationed.”

  “I’d heard he’d served in Afghanistan,” I said, thinking of what Jeff Grusen had passed along. Was this a case of the Cabot Cove rumor mill making up an excuse for Cory’s bad behavior? “He’s out of the service?”

  “Evidently, but who knows what the truth is? In any case, I don’t know how long he’ll be able to stay where he is.”

  “You mean in Wes’s apartment?”

  Sharon nodded. “It wouldn’t surprise me if Wes was far behind in his rent when he died. Peggy said he seemed to let everything slide in the last year or so. Bit of an alcohol problem, you know. She got tired of taking the dunning phone calls and kept threatening to quit, but he prevailed on her to stay. I think she felt sorry for him despite how problematic he could be.” She laughed. “He asked her to keep copies of his keys, including to his apartment in case he ever lost them. He was forever losing his keys, according to her.”

  “So was she the one who let the police into his office and apartment after he was killed?”

  “The office, yes, but I think Cory must’ve opened his apartment for them.”

  Sharon pulled into the parking lot next to Peppino’s, a popular downtown Italian restaurant, and we went inside, where the proprietor’s son, Joe, directed us to a private room in which several people milled about waiting for the buffet to be set up.

  While Sharon went to take care of details, I found a seat at an empty table set for four. I kept my attention on the doorway in the hope that Cory Caruthers or John Pelletier would arrive, but they weren’t among the people who came through. I took out a notebook with the intention of jotting down a few questions to ask when I was joined by FBI Special Agent Ian Perle.

  “Mind if I sit with you for a few minutes?” he asked.

  “Not at all.”

  “Funny to find you here,” he said, pulling out the chair opposite mine and sitting.

  “Why would you find that humorous? I live here. Wes Caruthers was an attorney in town and—”

  “A friend of yours?” he asked, interrupting me.

  “No, I wouldn’t say that he was a friend exactly.”

  “But he represented friends of yours.”

  “Yes, he did, but only a few times. Why are you here?” I asked.

  “I told you we haven’t forgotten about Caruthers. With Jepson still on the loose, and with the sheriff’s wife missing, we wanted to see who would show up this morning.”

  “And who did?”

  “You would know more about the people who were at the funeral than I would. I was hoping you might share that information with me.”

  “I didn’t see you there,” I said.

  “I stayed in the car. What about the people who were at the grave site? Anyone you found particularly interesting?”

  I cocked my head. “Are you by any chance asking for my help, Agent Perle?”

  He sat back as though I’d startled him. “Would that be so unusual?”

  “I don’t know. Does the Bureau allow ordinary citizens to become involved in its cases?”

  “All the time. Besides, according to what I’ve been told you’ve given assistance to the Bureau before. A former buddy of mine, retired now, said you helped him solve a case where an old and ineffective antimalarial drug was being passed off as new and shipped to Africa.”

  I smiled. “How is Rick Allcott?”

  “Living on his boat and happy as a clam at high tide.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like a real Downeaster.”

  “Maybe I’ve been here too long. So, is it a deal? Can I count on you to pass along any pertinent information you uncover?”

  “If I can figure out what’s pertinent, I’ll be happy to,” I said.

  He smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  He stood and tossed his business card on the table. “In case you didn’t keep the last one,” he said.

  Sharon arrived just as Perle was leaving.

  “Who was that handsome man?” she asked, dropping into the seat Perle had vacated.

  “His name is Ian Perle,” I said, sliding his card into my bag. “He’s with the FBI, part of the team the Bureau has sent.”

  “I hope he and his team get to the bottom of things.” Her shudder was exaggerated. “Can you believe what’s happening in sleepy Cabot Cove, Jessica? Bad enough there’s an escaped killer on the loose, but poor Maureen Metzger has gone missing. I feel so sorry for her husband. The man must be beside himself.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head.

  “I’m sure this is a difficult time for him,” I said, reluctant to talk about Mort. To change the subject, I asked how preparations were going at the restaurant.

  “They’re a joy to work with,” she said, brightening. “They promise to double the pasta dishes if a bigger crowd materializes. Peggy is at the door greeting the ‘mourners.’ I say that facetiously. I don’t know where Cory went. He should be here. After all, he was the deceased’s only flesh and blood that we know of. Did you check out the food? Do you think it’s enough?” She patted her red Shirley Temple curls. “It won’t be good for my waistline if I have to take half of this home.”

  “You can always send some over to the sheriff’s office,” I said. “Those guys are working round the clock and don’t get much time for a dinner break.”

  “What a good idea!”

  “What’s a good idea?” Gazette editor Evelyn Phillips asked, pulling out a chair and joining us. She set down her plate of penne alla vodka and draped a napkin over her knees.

  “Jessica suggested we send the leftover food to the sheriff’s office since they’re working extra shifts,” Sharon said.

  “Nice gesture. Do you mind if I write it up? I can say that Wes Caruthers always worked well with law enforcement and would have appreciated knowing that he’d done something nice for the officers.”

  “Let me check with Peggy. She’s the one running this show,” Sharon said, getting up. “Back in a moment.”

  “Do you think there’s really vodka in this?” Evelyn asked.

  “Supposed to be,” I said, “but they probably cook all the alcohol out of it.”

  Evelyn scooped up a forkful and savored it. “It’s delicious! How are you, Jessica? You’ve been dodging my calls.”

  “I’m fine, Evelyn. Thanks for asking.”

  She grunted as she took another taste of the pasta. “You’re not denying that you’ve been avoiding me, are you?”

  “I’ve said ‘No comment’ to all press inquiries,” I replied, “but I still have reporters hanging out across the street f
rom my house.”

  “Why so closemouthed? Did you have a fight with Maureen before she took off?”

  I looked at her incredulously. “A fight with Maureen? Of course not. Why would you even think such a thing? In fact, I wanted to stay behind and keep her company Sunday morning, but she insisted I go out fishing with the guide.”

  “Bet you’re sorry now.”

  “Very.”

  “Why didn’t you stay with her?”

  “Why should I have? Maureen reminded me that she was a strong, capable woman, which she is, and was perfectly content staying alone for a few hours.”

  “But then she was gone when you got back.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “How would you feel, Evelyn, if a friend staying with you went missing?”

  “I would be worried that she was captured by a convicted murderer.”

  “Then you don’t need to ask me that question.”

  “Don’t get your back up, Jessica. It’s not my fault Maureen is missing, nor is it my fault an escaped killer is roaming the woods around Cabot Cove. It would be my fault, however, if I ignored the biggest story that ever landed in my lap. The Gazette’s readers deserve to learn everything that’s going on. Do you know that there are some people in town cowering in their homes, afraid to go out to buy a quart of milk in case they run into Jepson?”

  “Don’t you think that reaction is a little extreme?”

  “I think it’s nuts, but what I think is irrelevant. I’m just reporting on what’s happening around me. The state is stopping every car on the roads out of town and making them pop open their trunks. Some people who have been inconvenienced have said that’s nuts, but the troopers are acting out of an abundance of caution. If they happen to open a trunk in which Maureen Metzger is tied up and with duct tape over her mouth, I’ll be the first in line to cheer them.”

  “So will I,” I said, wincing at the image.

  “Did Agent Perle ask you to assist the FBI with their investigation?”

  I’d been uneasy that Evelyn might have seen Perle talking with me.

  “He was just passing along greetings from a mutual friend,” I said, stretching the truth.

  “Uh-huh.” She ran the side of her fork around the plate to catch every bit of the pasta sauce, closed her eyes as she finished the dish, and hummed her approval. “I wish I could cook like that, but my mother was more the type to make macaroni and cheese from a box, a far cry from this.”

  “You could learn,” I said.

  “I’ll leave that to Maureen. Maybe I can convince her to give me some cooking lessons when she gets home.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be happy to.”

  “Oh, by the way, did you see that John Pelletier was at the funeral today? I asked him if he was a friend of Caruthers’s, but he brushed me off.”

  “I understand he’s a gruff individual,” I said.

  “Not if you’re buying a Mercedes,” Evelyn said. “Then he turns into Mr. Charm. Not that I’d know this firsthand, of course, but it’s nice to know he has that ability.”

  Sharon rejoined us and said Peggy Abelin was delighted to have Evelyn write about the family of Wes Caruthers donating food to the sheriff’s office. “She said Wes could use all the positive publicity he could get. Not that he’ll know, poor soul. Peggy asked if you’d give Cory credit even though he’s not here to confirm the donation.”

  “No problem,” Evelyn said. “I think I’ll talk with Peggy now. It’s nice to have someone welcome my questions.” She leaned over and patted my arm. “Chin up. We’ll get her back.”

  I felt my eyes well up but managed a nod.

  “What was that all about?” Sharon asked.

  “Maureen Metzger,” I said, clearing the lump from my throat. “Evelyn’s been asking me for a statement and I’ve been ducking her calls.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have left you alone at the table with her had I known.”

  “No apologies necessary,” I said. “Evelyn is a friend of long standing, and we understand each other. We’re both worried about Maureen and looking to learn as much as we can. We just address it in different ways.”

  “Different missions, huh?”

  “Exactly,” I said, managing a smile. “I’ll have to remember to use that phrase the next time Evelyn pressures me for information.”

  Sharon beamed. “Cy Senior used to say I had a way of getting to the heart of a controversy. What a wonderful man he was, and as honest a lawyer as you’ll ever meet. I hope you’ll let me know if I can help.”

  “You can help,” I said, lowering my voice. “May I talk with you privately later?”

  She looked at her watch. “You really need to talk with Peggy, and she could use a break around now. Let me introduce you.”

  Peggy Abelin sagged against the side door of Peppino’s, the strain of the day’s events showing in her face.

  “Do we still have enough food?” she asked Sharon when the two of us approached.

  “We’ll be eating penne alla vodka till the cows come home,” her friend replied. “Have you met Jessica Fletcher? She was a good friend of my late boss, Cy O’Connor.”

  “I certainly know your name,” Peggy said, extending her hand. She was a neatly dressed small lady with a cap of brown curls, wearing a navy blue suit and no-nonsense black lace-up shoes. She reminded me in both looks and demeanor of a very strict math teacher I once knew who brooked no misconduct in her classroom. I had both admired and feared her, and I wondered if Peggy Abelin had the same effect on Wes Caruthers’s clients.

  “Jessica has some questions for you and I thought you wouldn’t mind taking a break from staffing the door to talk,” Sharon said to her.

  “Not only don’t I mind, Sharon, I’m desperate to sit down. I’m starving. Didn’t have time for my oatmeal and blueberries this morning and I’m fading fast.”

  “Why don’t I get you both a nice big portion of the penne before we give the rest of it away? There’s a little table by the kitchen door where no one will disturb you, and I won’t tell anyone you’re there.”

  Peggy and I did as instructed, happy to put Sharon in charge of our lunch. I was also grateful to be away from Evelyn’s prying eyes, not to mention the curiosity of Agent Perle.

  “So, did you know my poor boss?” Peggy asked as we slid into the seats of the table Sharon had pointed out.

  “Perhaps more by reputation than personally,” I said.

  She chuckled. “Oh, dear, that couldn’t be good.”

  “How long did you work for Wes?” I asked.

  “On and off for twenty years.”

  I sat back surprised. “I didn’t realize you were his secretary for that long.”

  “Don’t let me mislead you,” she said, as Sharon placed two bowls of pasta at our places with a cheery “Buon appetito.”

  We waited for Sharon to leave before Peggy resumed her story.

  “You were saying you didn’t want to mislead me,” I reminded her.

  “I worked for him for twenty years, but it wasn’t twenty years of continuous work. He must have fired me a dozen times.”

  “But he kept hiring you back?”

  “I was the one he always came crawling to when he offended yet another secretary who quit over his disorganization, foul language, or irresponsibility, or found it embarrassing to have to bail him out of jail after a drunken brawl.”

  “That’s quite a list of offenses,” I said.

  “You would think a lawyer would know how to talk himself out of a tricky situation, but when Wes was in his cups, he lost whatever skills he ever had, if he ever had them.”

  “And you were willing to put up with his bad behavior?”

  “I thought of myself like the guy who cleans up after the
elephant in the circus parade.”

  “That sounds horrible.”

  “Someone has to do it. And don’t you worry, Jessica. I charged him for it. When he couldn’t get anyone else to come in, he always returned to me.”

  “And you never turned him down.”

  “Not at those prices. I’m sorry if I’m coming off as grasping, but I could make more money rescuing Wes than at any other job in town. He was willing to pay my salary until he sobered up enough to realize he could get another secretary for a lot less. Then he would fire me with great flourish and we’d start the process all over again. It hasn’t been a bad way to make a living, if a little uncertain.”

  “What exactly did you do for him as a secretary?”

  “Mostly damage control, plus the usual office duties: backing up the files, keeping the books, the calendar, renewing his license, paying the bills when there was any money.”

  “How did he earn any money if he couldn’t stay sober?”

  “He had periods of sobriety, especially when he was broke. Most of the other lawyers in town try to get out of assigned cases, but Wes welcomed them and a few of the judges would throw cases his way for old times’ sake.”

  “Had you backed up his files last Friday?” I asked.

  “It’s automatic. All his peripherals are synced.”

  “Does that mean you could gain access to what was in his files, if you needed to?”

  “I suppose I could. Not the hard copies, of course. The police took those.”

  “Could you find out for me who his last phone calls were to or from?”

  “Sure, but it will take a little while.”

  “Do you happen to remember if he had any appointments scheduled for the day he died?”

  Peggy shook her head. “He didn’t. He’d gotten in a few checks and decided to take the morning off to celebrate his good luck by fishing. He’d even signed up for the derby the next day.”

  “And where were you at the time?”

  “At the bank depositing the money. I told Sheriff Metzger this.”

  “I’m sure you have,” I said.

  She chuckled again. “I wanted to make sure the funds cleared so I could write a check to myself and get Wes to sign it. Ironic, huh? And now I’m arranging all this for no pay.”