Murder, She Wrote Read online

  “Do you think Wes could have been drunk the morning he was killed?”

  “If he wasn’t, he was probably planning to correct that situation later in the day.”

  “Do you happen to recall who paid Wes, whose checks you were depositing?”

  “Oh, sure. That would have been Pelletier Motors. They sent in a check every month.”

  “Had Wes bought a car from them?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Did he do legal work for the company?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “How do you explain the payments, then?”

  “I figured Pelletier must have been paying Wes for some past service that happened when I wasn’t his secretary. I never really knew what. But now that Wes is dead, I suppose it doesn’t really matter anymore.”

  But it mattered to me.

  Chapter Twenty

  After lunch with Peggy, I lingered among the guests at the postfuneral luncheon hoping to see Hank Thompson, or the lady who had spoken to Cory Caruthers, or the son himself, but most of the faces were unfamiliar. At least I had an idea why John Pelletier had been at the funeral. He’d had some kind of relationship with Wes, the exact nature of which it would be interesting to know. With not a lot else to show for my time, I called Dimitri’s Taxi Service and waited outside Peppino’s to be picked up.

  “Home, Mrs. Fletcher?” my driver asked.

  “Not at the moment,” I replied. “You know that trailer park on the way out of town?”

  “You mean the one calling itself Ocean Heights Mobile Homes?”

  “That sounds right,” I said. “Please take me there.”

  “Do you have an address? There’s gotta be fifty or sixty trailer homes up there.”

  “Is there a management or rental office?”

  “There should be.”

  “Let’s start with that.”

  A sign at the entrance to Ocean Heights Mobile Homes indicated there was no vacancy. Looking for anyone who might guide us to a manager’s office, we drove up and down the winding lanes of neatly kept ranch-style trailers, most of them painted white and each with its small garden and narrow porch leading up to the side entrance. The park wasn’t as attractive as other neighborhoods in Cabot Cove, nor was it the vision of squalor that Brian had painted when he’d told me the story of his father sending him for a bottle of gin. The roads were nicely paved and there was a little stream that ran along one side of the property, bordered by willow trees and the occasional park bench. Here and there residents had put up wind chimes or birdhouses or garden gnomes to personalize a space identical to the one next door except for the house address painted in large black numbers on the wall of the short end.

  As we approached a section of wider homes, I remembered that Mara’s cook lived here. He had said to look for the last trailer up the hill owned by Mrs. Luce, who was a longtime resident.

  I had the driver let me out at a bus stop next to an empty lot—apparent not only by its lack of a home but by its unmown state—and arranged for him to meet me at the same spot when I called to be picked up.

  The day was warm and still, and I was grateful to have an opportunity to walk after the funeral and sitting at the luncheon. The trailer park was arranged so that each home had a driveway long enough for one car in front. There were cars in many of the driveways, and strains of music or sounds from television shows were audible. I ambled by but no one was outside working in their garden or sitting in a rocker on the porch, and I hesitated to knock at a stranger’s door.

  The wider homes were on slightly larger lots and were located uphill from their narrower neighbors. I wondered if this was a less-than-subtle ranking of the residents. The road through this section doubled back on itself as it climbed the hill, and I was grateful when it ended in a circular cul-de-sac where I could catch my breath. Another bus stop was located at the turnaround, and I happily sank down on the bench and drew a bottle of water from my bag. I also checked my cell phone, but there was no update to the message Mort had left me the day before.

  There were three houses that could qualify as the “last one up the hill,” two of them painted white, the third a soft blue. As I stood making up my mind which to approach first, a car pulled into one of the driveways, and an elderly lady got out, leaning on a cane. She was dressed all in black and I wondered if she might have been at the funeral that morning.

  I hurried over, calling out “Excuse me” and waving.

  She looked up from her bag, in which she had been rummaging for her keys, and waited, keys in hand, until I reached her.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I hope you can,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher and I’m looking for Mrs. Luce. Would you happen to be she?”

  She gave a bark of a laugh. “‘Would you happen to be she,’” she mimicked. “You sound like an English teacher. Bet you were one, right?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was an English teacher at one time.”

  “I can always tell. Yessiree.”

  I persevered. “And are you Mrs. Luce?” I repeated.

  She laughed again. “Clear as day you’ve never met her or you wouldn’t ask. What do you want her for?”

  “Someone suggested I speak with her since she’s lived here a while and might know of others who lived here years ago.”

  “Well, I certainly can’t help you there. I only moved in six months ago. Nice enough place. Better than an old-age home. The neighbors keep to themselves. I’d prefer if they were a little friendlier but that’s the way it always is with newcomers, isn’t it? You want a cup of coffee while you wait for her?”

  “Which house is hers?”

  “The blue one, of course.”

  “Why ‘of course’?”

  “Because it’s one of the original ones. She was grandfathered in under the old rules when the new owners decreed every house be painted white. Stubborn thing she is. I like her.”

  “How do you know she’s not home now?” I asked as I followed the lady who had yet to give me her name up the walkway to her porch.

  “Ain’t it obvious? No car in the driveway. Boy, you’d make a terrible detective, Jessica.”

  “I guess I would,” I replied, hiding a smile. “May I ask your name?”

  “Didn’t I give it to you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m Harriet Bliss,” she said, putting her key in the lock and pushing open the door. “Call me Harriet. Mr. Bliss passed on some years ago, but it’s not so bad. I can do what I want now. Put your bag over there,” she said pointing at a bench with an embroidered cushion of flowers and butterflies. “Made that cushion myself, from a kit, of course. Took me forever, but I’m very proud that I finished it.”

  “It’s lovely,” I said, glancing out her window to the driveway of the blue house.

  “Don’t fret now. I’ll leave a message on her machine to come collect you when she gets in.”

  “Thank you,” I said, following her to a tiny kitchen with a built-in booth opposite the sink and stove.

  She waved me into the booth. “Coffee or tea?” she asked putting up a kettle of water.

  “Tea, please.”

  “Glad you said that. I only have instant coffee. Dreadful stuff, but my nephew must have his coffee when he comes to visit.” She picked up a wall phone and dialed a number. “Dee? I’ve got a friend of yours over here. Step in when you get back.”

  “I’m not really a friend of hers,” I said when she’d hung up.

  “Oh, I know that, but she’s hardly likely to come over if I say, ‘There’s a stranger here to see you.’ Sounds like someone from the police. You’re not from the police, are you?”

  “No, I’m not,” I said, smiling.

  “Didn’t think so. Pegged you as an English teacher right away, didn’t I?
”

  “You did. Is ‘Dee’ Mrs. Luce’s first name?”

  “Yup! Short for Dorothy. I don’t have a nickname. Never did.”

  “Have you lived in Cabot Cove for a long time, Harriet?” I asked.

  “Told you I only moved in six months ago. Are you having problems with your memory?”

  “I remember what you said, but you could have lived elsewhere in town before relocating here.”

  “Could’ve, but didn’t. We lived inland. Ran a little bed-and-breakfast over in Bridgeton. Good three-season place. Got the hunters and fishermen in the summer, the leaf peepers in the fall, and the skiers and dogsledders in the winter. Only time I got to rest was the spring, mud season. Course I got lots of time to rest now.”

  “Are you looking for things to do?” I asked. “Because our senior center offers lots of activities and courses.”

  “Do I look that old to you?” she asked indignantly.

  “They have a gym and a pool,” I said, wondering what topic of conversation was not going to set her off. “I take some of their classes.”

  Thankfully, the whistle of the kettle interrupted us, and I stole a glance out the window while Harriet fussed with the tea bags and mugs.

  “So where do you live, Jessica?” Harriet said, putting the mugs on the table. “You take lemon? If you do, you’re out of luck. I don’t have any.”

  “This is fine as it is,” I said, wondering how soon I could politely take my leave.

  “Did you hear me? Where do you live?”

  “I have a house on Candlewood Lane, not too far from downtown.”

  “‘Not too far from downtown,’” she echoed. “Is that important?”

  “It is for me. I don’t drive, so—”

  “You don’t drive?” She let out a cackle. “I’m ninety-two and I drive. What’s wrong with you?”

  “It’s a long story why I never learned to drive, but I do fly a plane, so in a sense, it makes up for it.”

  “Well, aren’t you a surprise.”

  There was a knock at the door and I heaved a sigh of relief as Harriet went to answer it. I slipped out of the booth, took a sip of my tea, and rinsed my mug in her sink.

  “Was that you who left me a message, Harriet?” a voice at the door said.

  “Course it was me. Who’d you think it was?”

  I lifted my shoulder bag from the bench, came up behind Harriet, and gave Mrs. Luce a big smile. “Your neighbor has been so hospitable,” I said to her. Turning to my hostess, I added, “I’m very grateful, Harriet. Thanks so much.” I squeezed around her to step out on the porch. “I left the mug in your sink. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Of course, it’s okay. Where else would it go?”

  I followed Mrs. Luce down the steps and across the lawn toward her house, pausing only to look back and wave good-bye to Harriet, who was watching us closely.

  “And just who are you?” Mrs. Luce asked under her breath.

  “My name is Jessica Fletcher. I was hoping to speak with you for a few minutes. I won’t keep you long.”

  “I trust you don’t mind if we sit at my picnic table in the backyard. I’ve heard your name but I don’t really know you and, unlike my neighbor, would prefer not to invite a stranger into my house.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I’ll go anywhere convenient for you.”

  We settled at a round metal table at the rear of her property overlooking the stream.

  “You look familiar,” she said, cocking her head. “Why?”

  “Perhaps because we were both at Wes Caruthers’s funeral this morning.”

  She shrugged. “That must be it.”

  Dorothy Luce was a much younger woman than I had anticipated, in her early fifties at the most. She was still dressed in the black suit she’d worn to the graveside services but was no longer wearing the hat with the veil.

  “I saw you talk—or try to talk,” I amended, “to Cory Caruthers. Is he related to you?”

  “No. I’ve just known him a long time, that’s all.”

  “And do you know his other friends as well?”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as Hank Thompson, Brian Kinney, Darryl Jepson.” I let the last name linger in the air.

  “I’m not sure I want to answer your questions, Mrs. Fletcher. What is your interest in this matter? Are you a private investigator?”

  “I’m a private citizen and a good friend of Maureen Metzger. She was my guest at Moon Lake this past weekend. Maureen is Sheriff Metzger’s wife. She disappeared and I think Darryl Jepson may be holding her hostage. I’m simply trying to find people with a connection to him so I can get him a message.”

  “And you think I have a connection?”

  “I don’t know; do you?”

  Her eyes dropped to her fingers, where she twisted a ring that she wore. “What message did you want to pass along?”

  “I want him to know that I’m willing to negotiate a settlement, that I’ll serve as a messenger—a go-between, if you will—between him and the authorities. I don’t want him to get hurt, nor do I want my friend Maureen to be hurt. I’ll gladly trade places with her. He can hold me hostage while we’re trying to settle this peacefully.”

  “Why come to me?”

  “I know that Darryl spent a lot of time with his aunt Darcy, who lived in this trailer park.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Jeff Grusen.”

  She gave a soft laugh. “You should have been a detective, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Please call me Jessica.”

  “All right, Jessica. You’re looking for Darryl’s aunt Darcy. What else did Jeff tell you?”

  “I know the names of all the five musketeers and have been trying to find one who knows where Darryl may have gone to hide out.”

  She shook head vehemently. “I don’t know where he’s hiding out.”

  “So you are Darryl’s aunt Darcy?”

  She sighed. “I go by Dee now.”

  “But you are his aunt?”

  “We haven’t seen each other in years. Once he got sent away, he cut all ties.”

  “Even so, he would recognize your name and hopefully still holds some affection for you.”

  She gave a soft snort. “I wouldn’t count on that. What did you think I could do to help you?”

  “I hoped you could give me a message that I could pass along to him so he would trust me enough to allow me to see for myself that Maureen is safe. She was badly sunburned the last time I saw her and not feeling well. If he’s been keeping her on the run, she must be worn out, exhausted, sick, in danger of collapsing.”

  “If she collapsed, he’d have to let her go.”

  “Assuming he didn’t kill her.”

  She winced at my words.

  “Weak, left alone in the forest, lost. That would not be an improvement in Maureen’s condition,” I said. “She’s not familiar with the woods around Moon Lake, hasn’t been exploring them since she was a child as he has, doesn’t know how to break into a cabin if she could even find one. She could die of exposure or from an animal bite or starve to death. Do you want her death on your conscience? I don’t want it on mine.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just give me a message to pass along and something of yours he would recognize to prove it came from you.”

  She sighed heavily. “The police have already asked me questions about Darryl, where he might have gone, things like that.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that,” I said.

  “I told them the same thing I’m telling you. I haven’t seen Darryl since he was sent to prison. I have no idea where he might be. I was shocked when I heard about his escape. It was foolish of him to do that, but he was always prone to do foolish things.”

  As sh
e reflected, her expression changed. This was not easy for her.

  “You have to understand, Jessica, Darryl was basically a good kid. Oh, he and his buddies all got into trouble, but nothing terrible. Then he hit puberty and this dreadful thing happened to him.” She began to cry. “He couldn’t stand it. He would shower three times a day, try covering up the odor with cologne, which only made it worse. None of the doctors could help him. One of them actually told him he was imagining it. But at school, all the kids teased him, called him Stinky, even his best friends, but at least they didn’t abandon him, until . . .”

  “The mini-mart.”

  “They all promised to be there and only one of them showed up,” she said, shaking her head. “They never came to the trial to support him either.”

  “They were planning to steal food for a picnic,” I reminded her, “so it wasn’t as if they were innocently shopping.”

  “That’s what the police said. I’m not sure. Darryl had enough money to pay.”

  “The security tape showed him putting items in his pocket, Dee.”

  “I know. But even so, I certainly don’t think he planned to kill for them. Olberman, the grocer, had been vicious in his name-calling. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that names don’t hurt. Sometimes they’re worse than a beating. He threatened to shoot Darryl if he didn’t leave, said he was ‘stinkin’ up the joint,’ told him his money was no good there, that he didn’t even want to touch a bill that Darryl had held in his fingers.”

  “You said he threatened to shoot him. Was the grocer armed?”

  “I know that he had a gun, only I couldn’t say if he pointed it at Darryl.”

  “It’s important information if your nephew thought he was being threatened.”

  “Well, it’s too late now. It was Darryl’s knife that killed him. There wasn’t ever any doubt of that. Darryl told me later he threw it hoping to disarm him. Instead, he wounded him badly and Olberman died later from loss of blood. Darryl and his stupid knives. He loved those knives, thought he was a pirate in some movie, like Errol Flynn, somebody like that. Just a kid’s imagination running wild.”