Murder, She Wrote Page 20

  “Her husband, he’s the one who did me in, him and that crackpot attorney.”

  I shook my head. “No,” I said, “Sheriff Metzger was only doing his job. I agree with you about the attorney, Caruthers, but the sheriff—”

  “Caruthers,” Jepson mumbled scornfully.

  “I know that he was a bad attorney, Darryl, and you have every right to be angry with him. But not the sheriff.”

  I was tempted to add, of course, that Jepson had been convicted of killing the mini-mart owner because, in fact, he’d been guilty of the crime, but I didn’t want to engage him in that sort of debate, or any debate for that matter. Even if Caruthers had been a better, more conscientious attorney, the jury probably would have still found Jepson guilty. But if Caruthers had fought for his client, perhaps generated a modicum of sympathy for Jepson and the hardscrabble upbringing he’d experienced, the jury or the judge might have cut him some slack. From everything I’d heard about the trial, though, Caruthers hadn’t even tried, and I had a feeling I knew why.

  “Caruthers is dead,” I said matter-of-factly.

  “He is?” Jepson said.

  “He was murdered.”

  His laugh came in a short burst. “Somebody did him in before I could get to him, huh?”

  Then, as though coming up with an important realization, he added, “It wasn’t me. I didn’t kill him.”

  “I know that,” I said. “Look, Darryl, there’s nothing to be gained for you by keeping us here. Maureen needs medical help. So do you. Aren’t you hungry, tired of running? Why don’t you give me the rifle and we can all walk out of this cabin? I assure you that neither Sheriff Metzger nor anyone else wants to hurt you,” praying that the words I was saying were the truth.

  It appeared that Jepson was about to pass out. He put his hand to his head and swayed, then reached to steady himself against a wall.

  “Please,” I said. “Let’s do the right thing.”

  I detected a slight smile on his craggy face, covered with a week’s growth of gray beard. He said, “My aunt Darcy wrote me a nice note, a real nice note. She always loved me, more than I can say about anybody else in my family.”

  “I know,” I said, approaching him, my hand outstretched. “Let’s go, Darryl.”

  “I never wanted to hurt nobody, even when they called me Stinky.”

  “Your friends used that name affectionately,” I said.

  He sat on a low stool and fought to put his battered feet into a pair of boots. I winced as he groaned against the pain he was experiencing. Then he stood, closed the gap between us, and handed me the rifle. It happened so suddenly that I almost refused to accept it. But I did, hating the feel of the weapon in my hands. I’ve never owned a gun nor wanted to.

  “Can you walk okay?” I asked Maureen, who’d witnessed what had transpired in silence, shivering against a cold that only she could feel in the stifling hot cabin.

  “I think so.”

  Aware that Jepson was watching us, I led Maureen across the room and to the door, opened it, and stood to allow the dozens of police to see that it was us, hoping one of them didn’t panic and pull the trigger. Confident that everyone understood, I guided Maureen through the door and onto one of the stone slabs that served as a step. I sensed that Jepson had followed and now stood directly behind us.

  “It’s Jessica Fletcher and Maureen Metzger,” I shouted, feeling Maureen slipping from my grasp and tightening it to keep her erect.

  We stepped down to the second slab and walked a few feet to where Mort and the others stood. Jepson came down the steps and stood at Maureen’s side.

  Mort didn’t hesitate. He quickly started in our direction, his handgun drawn and ready to be used. As he neared, I looked in Jepson’s direction. I couldn’t believe what I saw. He’d pulled a knife from the waist of his pants, raised his arm, and threw it with force in Mort’s direction. But before it found its intended mark, Brian Kinney, who’d stood only a few feet from the sheriff, flung himself between the two men and took the knife in his right shoulder. Simultaneously, a contingent of state police rushed at us and wrestled Jepson to the ground, pushing me out of the way and releasing my hold on Maureen, who’d slumped to her knees, letting out an eerie cry of pain and relief. Mort scooped her up while EMTs from two waiting ambulances immediately descended on Brian, who sat on the ground moaning, his hand pressed to his wounded shoulder.

  “We need more medical help here,” Mort shouted, gently settling Maureen on the ground. “Stat!”

  An EMT broke away from Brian, as another team hurried up the hill and came to where Maureen sat, leaning against her husband, tears quietly sliding down her cheeks.

  “It’s okay, hon,” Mort crooned to her while the tech took Maureen’s blood pressure. “You’re safe now. I’ll get you home as soon as I can.”

  “Oh, Mort. I thought I’d never see you again.”

  I moved off to get out of the way of all the police and emergency personnel and to give the reunited couple some privacy.

  “Mrs. F.?” Mort called out.

  I turned around.

  “Thanks.” He shook his head as if searching for words. “Just, thanks!”

  I smiled.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I am now.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I watched as all the commotion evaporated as if it had never been there. Two ambulances left within minutes of each other, bound for Cabot Cove Hospital, one holding Brian Kinney, the other carrying Maureen Metzger, with her husband, Mort, aboard. Darryl Jepson was handcuffed and hustled into a state vehicle that would transport him back to prison, where he would receive medical attention, too. Above, the rotors of a helicopter stirred up the dust as the chopper lifted into the sky and flew back to home base. The huge emergency vehicles, topped by satellite dishes, departed one by one, the cacophony of their radio transmissions fading in the waning day.

  “Ready to go, Mrs. Fletcher?” Mort’s deputy asked.

  “May I have a few moments, please, Jerry?”

  “Sure. Take your time.”

  I waited while state crime scene personnel exited the cabin after photographing the scene and taking away what little evidence remained inside.

  “We’re going to string some tape here so if you want to look you can, but please don’t touch anything,” one said to me.

  “I’ll be careful not to,” I replied.

  I climbed the stone stairs and entered the jail Jepson had used to hold Maureen. What I had once thought was eau de bear lingered in the air. Funny, I thought. I had been so focused on my hopes for a prisoner exchange and a peaceful ending to the hostage-taking, I hadn’t even noticed the odor my first time inside.

  I turned in a circle, impressing the vision of the cabin on my memory so that I would never forget this day, especially the relief and gratitude I felt for Maureen’s rescue and for the recapture of Jepson.

  “Ready, ma’am?”

  “Yes. Thank you for letting me look inside.”

  As Jerry walked downhill toward the few remaining vehicles parked in the scrubby grass, I gave the cabin one last look and noticed something resting among the pebbles of the path. I leaned down and picked it up. It was Jepson’s lucky stone. It must have fallen from his pocket when the state troopers tackled him before escorting him to the police van. I hoped he still had the note from his aunt Darcy that had incited such an emotional reaction in him. Chances were that it was among the items the crime scene techs had saved in plastic bags. At least he’d had a chance to read it, and it had given him some comfort.

  It was difficult not to feel sorry for Darryl Jepson, for his dreadful condition and the teasing he had endured at such a vulnerable time in his life. But as even his aunt Darcy had admitted, he’d made terrible choices and had acted rashly, striking out as he had this afternoon when the prudent co
urse of action would have been to submit quietly. Now, he faced a whole new raft of charges that would lengthen his time in prison—and his misery.

  I was certain that Mort Metzger would charge Jepson in Wes Caruthers’s death. I was also certain, however, that Jepson’s fingerprints would never be found on the attorney’s boat because—well, because I didn’t believe that he’d killed him, and I thought I knew who did.

  “Would you like me to turn off the radio, Mrs. Fletcher?” Jerry asked as we started out.

  “That’s not necessary, Jerry, but I would appreciate a slower ride into town than the hair-raising one you gave me earlier.”

  Jerry grinned, and our return to town took twice as long as the trip up to Moon Lake, if not longer. I let the recaps of the day’s activities coming over Jerry’s radio lull me, and I felt my eyes beginning to close as each law enforcement unit thanked the others for their service and signed off.

  Jerry dropped me at my house. I’m always grateful to arrive home after being away on a trip. Of course, this had hardly been a trip—only one day—but the feeling of relief and welcome I enjoyed as I opened my front door was palpable. I was also delighted to see that the little contingent of press that had haunted the area across the way was gone.

  One of the cruiser’s radio transmissions had mentioned a joint press conference at Town Hall to be held the next day, with all the participating law enforcement services present. I made a mental note of the time and place, but decided that I could use my time more profitably.

  I nibbled on leftover pot roast and vegetables, sorted through the mail that had been gathering in both my mailbox and my e-mail box, and listened to my voice mail messages—returning only a few that I felt were important.

  Evelyn Phillips called begging for a statement. I told her I would think it over and get back to her.

  Peggy Abelin called to say she had the information I requested and left me the name.

  And Seth Hazlitt called to say he’d admitted Maureen to the hospital and that he would pick me up in the morning on his way to check up on her. No “would you like to join me,” just an assumption that I would. He was right.

  But first sleep, deep, wonderful sleep. I hadn’t closed my eyes peacefully since Maureen’s disappearance and was looking forward to a restful night, and I imagined that Mort felt the same.

  * * *

  “I trust you slept well,” Seth said in greeting as I opened the passenger door of his sedan early the next morning.

  “Very well,” I said. “I’m glad I set the alarm clock, though, or you would have been out here throwing pebbles at my window.”

  “Lucky you I didn’t. My aim with pebbles is not the most accurate.”

  “Have you spoken with Maureen this morning?”

  “Not yet, but the shift nurse reported that she had a quiet night, only waking in a nightmare once. They soothed her with a cup of chamomile tea and she fell right back to sleep.”

  Seth parked in the doctors’ parking lot and I accompanied him into the building.

  “Best I see her alone at first, Jessica,” he said when we entered the lobby.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Maureen is a strong woman,” he replied, “but she’s been through a terrible ordeal. I want to make sure she’s emotionally strong before seeing anyone who shared that ordeal with her. After all, you were instrumental in her release from that madman, Jepson.”

  “Whatever you say, Seth.”

  “I shouldn’t be long. I’ll call you when it’s time for you to see her.”

  I passed the time waiting to hear from him by reading that day’s special edition of the Cabot Cove Gazette. Evelyn Philips had done a fine job of summing up the tumultuous events of the past few days; her interviews with Mort Metzger, Brian Kinney, FBI Special Agent Perle, and members of the state police imbued the long article with a sense of immediacy and provided readers with a clear understanding of what had happened and why. Naturally, Evelyn was eager for an interview with me because of the role I’d played, but I’d given her a simple statement instead, expressing my relief and gratitude to all the federal, state, and local organizations who had contributed to the search efforts. As far as I was concerned, the only thing that mattered was that Maureen was no longer a captive.

  I didn’t mention that I hoped Maureen had emerged unscathed, at least physically, if not mentally. Maybe it was because I harbored some guilt over having agreed to take her on the fishing trip to Moon Lake. Maybe it was because the thought of reliving that tense scene with Jepson was anathema to me. The days since her disappearance, and her eventual release, had taken an emotional toll on me, too, although it was nothing when compared to what that poor woman had endured. I was just glad that it was over, and wanted it locked in the dustbin of my past. Evelyn eventually said that she understood and stopped pestering me for more, for which I was grateful.

  I’d just finished the article when a candy striper at the desk said, “Mrs. Fletcher, Dr. Hazlitt is on the phone for you.”

  “Seth?” I said. “How is Maureen?”

  “A little thinner and a few scratches, but she’ll be fine. All the tests have come back negative. She’s looking forward to seeing you. Room three-twelve.”

  “I’ll be right up.”

  Maureen was sitting up in bed having her vitals checked by a nurse when I walked into the room. The minute she saw me she put out her arms and started crying. I went to her and wrapped her in a hug. “Hey,” I said, “cry all you want, but it’s over.”

  “Because of you,” she managed through her tears. “And just in time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He swore he was going to make me his mountain wife and that I’d never see Mort again. I pleaded with him but he just ignored me. Told me he’d never had a wife and promised we’d have a sunset ceremony. I was terrified.”

  “Well, enough of that, then,” Seth interrupted. “He’s a sick man. You’re safe now. It didn’t happen. Will never happen. I’ll be discharging you first thing tomorrow. What you need today is to enjoy a full day of gourmet hospital food, together with all the spa treatments Cabot Cove Hospital is famous for.”

  Maureen and I both chuckled at his facetious statement.

  “That’s a sure way to dry the tears,” said the nurse as she wrapped her stethoscope around her neck. “What spa treatment did you have in mind, Dr. Hazlitt? The facial where we smear petroleum jelly on your face, or physical therapy where we make you circle around the unit with the hospital gown hanging open at the back? We can ask the cook to come up with his specialty, soft scrambled eggs and Jell-O. That the kind of spa day you had in mind?”

  “Well, I’ll admit the food is a tad less than gourmet,” Seth said, “but at least someone else will be cooking for her.”

  Maureen brought herself under control and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Poor Mort,” she said. “He looked awful when he visited me. He’s skin and bones.”

  Seth laughed. “I’d hardly say he’s that, Maureen, but I’m sure he’ll appreciate some of your home cooking when you’re up to it. I trust he heeded my advice and took the day off. Hopefully he’s sound asleep.”

  “Poor baby,” Maureen said.

  “He’ll be fine,” I assured, “and so will you.”

  She started to say something but tears interrupted. “It was so awful,” she said through her sobs.

  “Ayuh, it was that,” Seth said, “but try to put it in the past, Maureen. What’s important now is the future, get you up and out of here and back to your normal routine.”

  She managed a smile. “That sounds so good,” she said.

  I asked Seth to drop me at Mort’s office instead of taking me home.

  “Don’t think our esteemed sheriff followed my orders to get some sleep, huh?” he said.

  “There’s something I need to run past him,�
�� I said.

  “Whatever you say, Jessica.”

  As we passed through town, we saw preparations under way for the next day’s fishing derby festivities. Signs and balloons were everywhere. A stage had been set up in the town park, where Mayor Shevlin would welcome the crowd and the prizes would be awarded for that year’s winners.

  “Maureen looks good considering what she’s been through,” I said as he drew up in front of headquarters.

  “And how about you, Jessica?” Seth asked. “You’ve been through an ordeal, too.”

  “Me? I’m fine. Knowing that Maureen is back safe and sound, and that Darryl Jepson is behind bars again, is what counts.”

  It was no surprise to me that Mort hadn’t heeded Seth’s advice. Instead of sleeping off a stressful event and resting up from the effects of four sleepless nights, he was talking on a speakerphone to a rapt audience of deputies when I entered his office. He gave me a wave and a thumbs-up.

  “Well, you’ll hear all of this again at the press conference this afternoon,” he said into his phone’s built-in microphone. “There’s a lady just walked in that I owe a big vote of thanks to. So, let’s get back to work, ladies and gentlemen. Good job.”

  “You don’t look any worse for wear,” I said as I took a chair in his office.

  “Had myself a good sleep, Mrs. F., not a long one but good enough.” His deputy Jerry poked his head into the office. “Can you rustle up a cup of coffee for our guest?” Mort said to him. “And one for me, too?”

  I thought about declining the coffee but decided this was likely to be a long day. A cup of hot coffee, even the headquarters variety, was appealing.

  Mort dropped into the chair behind his desk with a big sigh. “What a triumph!” he crowed. “Look what we accomplished, Mrs. F. We rescued a hostage, captured an escaped prisoner—and a convicted killer at that—and now I can charge Jepson in Caruthers’s murder. Like they say at the track, we hit the trifecta!”

  “I’m pleased for you, Mort, and the way things turned out, but I think you might be jumping the gun on one of those races.”