Murder, She Wrote Read online

  Although I’d lived in Cabot Cove and had fished its myriad lakes and streams for years, I hadn’t realized until Maureen went missing just how vast and dense the surrounding woods were. If Brian’s map could be of aid in any small way, Mort had to have it—and have it fast.

  As we turned into the parking lot of headquarters, my optimism level went up a few notches. Mort’s official cruiser was parked in front of the main entrance; unless he’d been driven somewhere by a deputy, chances were he was in his office.

  “You’ve been a big help, Alice,” I said as I prepared to get out of her car.

  “I just want to see Brian back home safe,” she said. “Please tell Sheriff Metzger we know he was foolish to have done what he did.”

  “I’m sure Brian thought he had a good reason,” I said, hoping to comfort her.

  I was about to close the door behind me when Alice said, “And I hope Mrs. Metzger is okay. I didn’t mean to leave her out.”

  I forced a smile. “We all hope that, Alice. Thanks for the ride.”

  A deputy on desk duty looked up when I approached. “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.

  “Hello, Jerry. Is the sheriff in?”

  He nodded. “But he doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “I see. Well, maybe he’ll allow me to have a few minutes with him, just a few.”

  I could see wheels spinning in Jerry’s head and knew what he was thinking. If Mort had left instructions not to be disturbed, Jerry could be in for a tongue-lashing from our sheriff if he violated that order.

  “Just tell him that Jessica Fletcher needs to speak with him and that she has something that might help in the search for his wife.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, seeing that it’s you.” He got up and disappeared in the direction of Mort’s office. After a few minutes passed, I wondered whether Mort would refuse to see me. But then Jerry returned. He was smiling, a good sign.

  “Go on back, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.

  Mort was standing at a large map of Cabot Cove and its surroundings into which a series of different colored pushpins had been inserted.

  “Come on in, Mrs. F.,” he said, not turning. He pushed a few new pins into the map, stepped back, surveyed the map, and turned to me.

  “Have a seat,” he said, taking his chair behind the desk. “Jerry says you have something important to show me.”

  I unfolded the map Alice and I had found behind the other map in Emma’s room.

  “What’s this?” Mort asked as he put on half-glasses to read it.

  “It’s a map Alice and I discovered at their house,” I explained. “Alice told me Brian was frustrated at not being allowed to help in the search.”

  Mort grunted. “And Alice was okay with you handing over this map?”

  “She was. She worries about her husband putting himself in danger. You can understand that.”

  “And who would this helper you mentioned be?”

  “It’s just a guess on my part, but I think he could be another guide, named Hank Thompson.”

  “Okay, so Kinney has this map and maybe is with Thompson. You think these circled spots on the map are places they planned to meet up?”

  “That’s a reasonable assumption,” I said. “But it could also indicate where Brian thinks he might find Darryl Jepson. If that’s true, it could also mean that—”

  “That it’s where Maureen might be, too,” he said, finishing my sentence.

  He got up and carried the map I’d given him to the larger map on the wall. He used his index finger to indicate on the larger version the location of the marks that Brian had made on his smaller map.

  “That’s rugged terrain,” Mort mumbled, more to himself than to me.

  “Is it?”

  “That section of the woods is pretty much all mountains, Mrs. F. The search teams haven’t gotten to it yet.”

  “Because it’s impassable?” I asked, realizing when I said it that if Jepson had chosen a difficult section of the woods, it hadn’t been impassable for him—and hopefully not for Maureen.

  Mort returned to his desk and sat in silence. It gave me a minute to scrutinize him. While he’d been gaunt, his eyes sunken, when he’d come to dinner at my house, he was even more so now.

  “Why do you think Brian knows more than we do where Jepson might be holed up?”

  “He and Jepson and their pals used to roam those woods as teenagers, Mort. It may be a shot in the dark, but I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that Brian is on to something. Alice said he complained to her that the authorities were locking up their best searcher. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “He broke the law, you know,” Mort said grimly, “violating his house arrest.”

  “Yes, I know, Mort, but I believe he’s trying to help you find Jepson and, of course, Maureen.”

  “I’ll level with you, Mrs. F., every hour that passes means less chance of finding Maureen alive.”

  “Don’t think that way, Mort. Maureen is no wilting flower. She’ll make sure to stay strong so she can come home to you.”

  Whether I was as confident as my statement sounded didn’t matter. I hated seeing my good friend fall into a pessimistic funk.

  He seemed to realize that his sinking mood wasn’t helping anything. He came forward in his chair and said, “Thanks for bringing this. I’ll head up to Moon Lake and get together with the guys leading the search.”

  “I’d like to come with you,” I said.

  “No way, Mrs. F. If we do manage to find Jepson, the last thing I want to worry about is you.”

  “I’ll stay out of the way, Mort. It’s just that—”

  “Forget it!” he said with finality. “I’ll have one of my men drive you home.”

  “There’s no need for that, Mort, but thanks anyway.”

  He grabbed his Stetson from a wall peg and we walked outside together.

  “Looks like rain is coming,” he said, squinting at the overcast sky. “Sure you don’t want a ride home?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, fully understanding Brian’s frustration at not being able to help. But if I couldn’t convince Mort to let me participate, I’d have to be patient and find another way.

  He snugged down his hat. “Thanks for bringing the map, Mrs. F. I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.”

  I watched him get in his squad car, shout into his radio, and drive away. Mort Metzger was a good and decent man, devoted to his job and the people he served. My heart went out to him in his moment of unbearable grief as he not only was charged with finding and apprehending an escaped murderer but faced the possibility that his wife was in that murderer’s hands. I shuddered at the thought that Maureen Metzger might no longer be alive. But I also feared that Mort might take drastic action instead of giving Jepson a chance to negotiate his way out of the predicament he’d put himself into, a situation that could add threats to Maureen’s life, assuming she was still alive.

  I walked down to the docks, thinking to stop into Mara’s Luncheonette to distract myself while I imagined the authorities combing Brian’s map and deciding where to start.

  On the street behind me, a police car, siren wailing, lights flashing, sped out of town, pursued by two media trucks trying to keep up.

  “Sounds like something’s happening,” Mara said, as I entered and took a seat at the counter two stools down from Barnaby Longshoot.

  At Mara’s words, two reporters abandoned a table, throwing down cash and rushing out the door.

  “Iced tea, Jessica?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mara.”

  “What about you, Barnaby?”

  “Sure thing, Mara.”

  While Mara poured my iced tea, the cook pushed through the door from the kitchen carrying a bin of freshly washed dishes to leave for the busboy to put away. He depo
sited the bin on the counter and nodded at me. “Ever have time to look up Mrs. Luce?” he asked me.

  “Yes,” I said. “Her neighbor, Mrs. Bliss, was very helpful. She let me wait until—” I could feel the blood drain from my face as I realized that Dee’s note to Jepson and the piece of smoky quartz that was his lucky stone were still zipped into a side pocket in my shoulder bag. Mort had given me such short shrift when I’d delivered the map that I’d forgotten all about passing them along to our sheriff and the search party. My whole plan to switch places with Maureen depended on Jepson getting the note from his aunt and his “lucky stone” that proved it was from her.

  “I’ll pay you later, Mara,” I called out, swinging off the stool at the counter and hurrying out the door.

  “I’ll start a tab for you.”

  Outside, more sirens filled the air. When I burst into police headquarters, the radio was blasting. “We think we have them cornered. Sheriff Metzger has called for backup from the wardens and state police. The whole area is cordoned off. The press are warned to stay out of the vicinity. Reports will be forthcoming. No one, repeat no one, will be allowed within a mile of the cabin. All roads are blocked off. Any unauthorized personnel found within the search zone will be summarily arrested.”

  A group of reporters surrounded the front desk, demanding more information and shouting into cell phones as they gleaned tidbits from the radio reports.

  “Jerry, you have to call the sheriff. I forgot to give him something and it’s vital that he have it.”

  “I can’t call him, Mrs. Fletcher. We’re in a siege right now.”

  I ran outside and dialed Mort’s cell number, but of course he declined to answer my call. I left a detailed message hoping he would take the time to listen, and returned inside hoping I hadn’t been overheard by anyone else.

  Five minutes later Jerry beckoned to me and led me to the hallway off which the offices were located. “The sheriff just called. He said he wants me up there. Gladys will cover the desk. The sheriff said for you to give me the message for Jepson and I’ll deliver it to him. He’ll know what to do with it.”

  “Oh, no, he won’t,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t get arrested for obstructing justice. “I go with the message or it doesn’t go. You can tell Mort I said so.” I took Jerry’s arm and pushed him toward the back door, where, if there were any left, the police cruisers were parked.

  “You’re going to get me in trouble, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Trust me, Jerry. If anyone gets in trouble, it’ll be me. Mort knows that I’m assertive when I have important evidence.” I pushed him out the back door just as Gladys came inside. A civilian dispatcher, Gladys was always on call when all the uniformed deputies were on assignment.

  “Hi, Jessica,” she said, waving. “Had a hunch I might see you here.”

  “Hi, Gladys. Cross your fingers this will be over tonight.”

  Jerry rolled his eyes. “I hope you’re right, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “I’d like to keep my job.”

  “You’ll be the hero of the day,” I assured him, as we climbed into the last marked car in the lot.

  The radio crackled and Mort’s voice came over the line. “Metzger, here. Are you on the road, Jerry?”

  “Yes, Sheriff.”

  “And you have Mrs. Fletcher with you?”

  Jerry flashed me a worried look. “I do, Sheriff.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t be able to keep her away.”

  “I didn’t exactly hold him at gunpoint,” I said. “But, Mort—”

  “Did you do this on purpose, Mrs. F.? You were right there with me. You could have handed over the important message and let me do my job.”

  “I wish I could admit to being that conniving,” I said, “but frankly I simply forgot I had the note and the stone.”

  “What stone?”

  “It was Jepson’s lucky stone, a piece of smoky quartz, a last memento. His aunt gave it to me so I could prove to him the message was truly from her.”

  “And what do you think this is all going to mean?”

  “Is Maureen in the cabin with Jepson?” I asked.

  “We think so, but we’re waiting for a drone to get a look inside to confirm her presence without jeopardizing any personnel.”

  “I want to talk with him, to convince him to let me switch places with Maureen. That way we can get Maureen medical help, but Jepson will still have a hostage to hold for negotiations. I’m hoping he’ll see the value in that.”

  “You’re dreaming, Mrs. F. You’ll just be giving him a bigger weapon—two hostages to threaten to kill. With that philosophy, we could hand over the whole town. At what point do we get him to surrender? Or do we have to kill him to stop his escape?”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I’ve been in cars that were driven fast before, but never like the squad car driven that day by Mort Metzger’s deputy, Jerry. He turned on the siren and flashing lights and pulled from the parking lot in front of headquarters, tires squealing. I struggled to put on my seat belt and saw that he hadn’t bothered with his.

  “Your seat belt,” I shouted over the roar of the engine and the sound of air coming through my open window.

  “What? Oh.”

  How he managed to buckle up without slowing down was a tribute to his dexterity.

  There were many times during that wild ride that I considered asking him to slow down. Maybe my fear was exacerbated by not being a driver and wondering how he could control the car at the speed he was going. All I could think was that if we had an accident, the note and the meaningful stone I carried from Jessup’s aunt Darcy would be worthless to Mort and his men. But I didn’t say anything as he drove on the shoulder of some roads, swerved to avoid slower-moving cars, and at one point even drove on the wrong side of the road, causing oncoming traffic to pull over to give him clear passage. I pressed my fists against my stomach to stave off nausea from the car’s sudden movements, abrupt stops when the way wasn’t clear, and when he took curves on two wheels—well, maybe not literally but it felt that way.

  I was terrified during the ride but tried to focus on what Mort had said, that they thought someone else was in the cabin with Jepson. Was it Maureen? It had to be, and I silently repeated a simple prayer over and over that it was. My mind went into overdrive. If Maureen was in the cabin with Jepson, what shape could she be in? Had he injured her? Had they had anything to eat?

  I could only imagine what was going through Mort’s mind at that moment. His mission, and that of the other police personnel, was to capture Jepson and return him to prison, a task complicated by the possibility that Mort’s wife was being held hostage by the escaped murderer.

  The deputy turned off the main road and started up a steep incline, a dirt road barely wide enough for the vehicle. We splashed through deep pools of water from the rain that had fallen the previous evening; at times he had to stop before slowly circumventing a fallen tree or a rock that had slid onto the road, which seemed to become even narrower, if that were possible. Trees and bushes on either side encroached on our progress, causing the deputy to swear under his breath.

  “Are you sure this is the way?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t offending him.

  “Yes, ma’am. This is where the sheriff told me to come.”

  At one point the road leveled out but then began another ascent. The car’s front wheel hit a large rock and I was sure that it would stop us. It didn’t. The deputy forged ahead until . . . until we reached a plateau where dozens of official vehicles were parked haphazardly, doors open, flashing roof lights casting shafts of macabre light in every direction, radios on at top volume. We came to a stop. I looked at the deputy and managed a smile.

  “Thank you,” I said weakly, realizing that I’d dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands and that my legs were shaking. I wondered whether they would support me when I exited th
e car.

  “No problem,” the deputy said, returning my smile.

  I got out, thinking that I was very glad that I didn’t drive, that I had no desire to learn how to drive, and that I had just received a hundred-point lesson on why my usual modes of transportation were infinitely preferable to careening around behind the wheel of a vehicle that was every bit as dangerous as a lethal weapon.

  I leaned against the car until I was confident that my legs would work and took in the scene before me. The cabin was located on a bluff, the area surrounding it seemingly empty. Yet I could see black helmeted police snipers perched in a half-dozen trees looking down on the roof. On the ground behind the cabin, technicians were setting up giant lights aimed at the windows. If the standoff lasted into darkness, the whole area would be illuminated to keep anyone from sneaking out without being seen.

  I walked in the direction of Mort’s sheriff’s car with its distinctive markings. He intercepted me.

  “Well, I see you managed to get here,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said breathlessly, stifling the temptation to suggest that he had a deputy who belonged on a NASCAR track.

  “Give it to me.”

  “What?”

  “The note for Jepson from his aunt.”

  “Yes, of course, but I think that—”

  “Maureen’s in there with that madman,” Mort said.

  “She is? Definitely? She’s all right?”

  “I don’t know how all right she is, but at least she’s alive—and I want to keep her that way.”

  My reaction had been one of joy, but it quickly changed to match what I was sure were Mort’s thoughts. His wife was still being held hostage by a convicted murderer. Jepson had sworn vengeance on our sheriff, according to Brian Kinney. Jepson still had time to take out his hatred of Mort on Maureen.

  “Have you seen Brian Kinney?” I asked cautiously.

  “That punk? Yeah, he’s over there with the wardens unit. C’mon, Mrs. F., give me this all-important letter.”