Murder, She Wrote Page 21

  I didn’t know whether he hadn’t heard me or chose to ignore what I’d said, because he didn’t respond.

  “What I mean, Mort, is—”

  “I owe you a big debt of gratitude, Mrs. F. Sure, we would have eventually had the same outcome without that map you found in Kinney’s house and the note from Jepson’s aunt, but it would have taken a few more days to wrap things up.”

  “Thank you, Mort. As I was saying—”

  Jerry returned with two mugs of coffee and a pitcher of cream. “We splurged this morning to celebrate,” he said, “real cream, not the powdered kind.”

  I sipped slowly, allowing Mort some time to come back to earth. I put my hand in my pocket and felt Jepson’s lucky stone, which I intended to return to his aunt Darcy along with my personal account of what had taken place. But first I had to convince Mort to open his mind to the possibility of another killer besides Jepson in the Caruthers case.

  “I had a call from Peggy Abelin yesterday,” I said.

  “Who’s she?” Mort asked.

  “Wes Caruthers’s former secretary.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah, I interviewed her after we found the body. Nice lady. Don’t know how she could have worked for that guy.”

  “Yes, she told me you’d spoken with her.”

  “We checked out her story with the bank and she can account for her time.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she can.”

  “So what did she say when she called you?” he asked, taking a gulp of the coffee.

  “I had asked her if she could look up who might have called Wes the day he died or who he might have called on that day.”

  Mort nodded. “Good thinking, only it was unnecessary. Caruthers might have talked to a lot of people that day, but so what? Jepson was the one who killed him, and he sure wasn’t talking on the phone to anybody. He didn’t even have a cell phone. No, Mrs. F., it was Jepson all right who killed Caruthers. He had the motive and he was on the loose at the time of the murder.”

  I pressed on. “Peggy gave me the name of a caller who’d twice spoken on the phone with Caruthers just hours before he died.”

  “Not unusual,” Mort said. “As bad an attorney as Caruthers was, he had clients who either didn’t know better or couldn’t afford a better lawyer.”

  “True,” I said, “but I came across another piece of information about this caller that should give you reason to talk with this individual.”

  “You’re beating around the bush, Mrs. F. That’s not like you. What would you like me to do? This is going to be a very busy day with wrapping up all the paperwork and state reports, plus the upcoming fishing derby festivities and all. I can’t waste time on speculation when it could be postponed to another day.”

  “I understand that, Mort. Give me ten minutes to lay out for you what I believe happened to Wes Caruthers.”

  Mort groaned, then sighed, but after going through those indications of his pique he agreed to hear me out and did so without interrupting. When I was finished making my case, he came forward in his chair. “I’m not sure what you say proves that this individual is guilty of killing Wes Caruthers, but you’ve got my attention, Mrs. F.”

  “That was what I was hoping for,” I said.

  Mort stood and grabbed his Stetson from where it hung on the wall.

  “Let’s go have a chat with this guy,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Red, white, and blue triangular pennants attached to the antennas of the hundreds of cars on the lot fluttered in the breeze as Mort and I pulled up in his cruiser. Placards in car windows advertised special pricing on the variety of secondhand luxury vehicles, and signs flanking the front entrance invited buyers inside to see the latest models. A large sign had been strung over the entrance: FISHING DERBY SPECIALS.

  John Pelletier, who’d been outside chatting with one of his salesmen, greeted us as we exited the car and walked toward the entrance to the sprawling corner property.

  “All hail the conquering hero,” he said heartily, extending his hand to Mort and nodding at me. “Are you here to look for a welcome-home gift for your wife, Sheriff? I have just the thing, a sweet little sports car she’ll just love tooling around town in. Let me show you this baby. It’s red. Women love red. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Fletcher? That color is my number one seller with the fair sex.”

  “We’re not buying a car today, John,” Mort said sternly. “We’d like to talk with you somewhere private about a serious matter.”

  Pelletier’s smile evaporated.

  “Okay. Absolutely. You bet. I always have time for our local law enforcement.”

  Pelletier ushered us into his showroom, a hushed atmosphere, all marble and glass, with classical music playing softly in the background.

  “My office is over there,” Pelletier said, pointing at a glass-windowed space with a high counter overlooking the showroom. His upbeat tone was less so now, and his wide smile was gone. “Go right in,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute. I want to tell my secretary to hold my calls.”

  “Can’t you call her from your office?” Mort asked.

  “Oh, sure, of course, of course.” His chuckle was forced. “Make yourselves at home,” he said, struggling to sustain his cheerful expression as he went behind the counter and picked up his phone. “No calls, Rita,” he said sharply. He came around the counter. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to close the shades. I get the feeling that this is going to be a serious discussion, although I can’t imagine what it could be about.”

  At Mort’s nod, Pelletier picked up a remote and activated blinds sandwiched between two panes of glass that slowly lowered, casting the room in shade. He switched on an overhead light and leaned back against the counter. “Clearly this is not a social visit. What can I do for you, Sheriff? I’m a busy man and I know you are, too. By the way, congratulations on bringing that nut Jepson to justice. He’s back where he belongs, behind bars.” Then, as though he knew the reason for our visit, he said, “I can’t believe that he killed Wes Caruthers. Wes may not have been the best lawyer to come down the pike, but he didn’t deserve to die. Jepson really must have had it in for Caruthers because of the way he botched his murder conviction.”

  Mort nodded at me.

  “Mr. Pelletier,” I said, “last Friday, when Wes Caruthers was killed, you were the last person he spoke with. Why was that?”

  “I was? Really? Well, maybe I was. So what?”

  “Were you also the last person he saw before he died?”

  “How would I know? The man was a drunk, always looking for a handout.”

  “And apparently he could rely on you for one,” I said. “Wes’s secretary tells me that she cashed checks from Pelletier Motors on a regular basis.”

  “Checks? What checks? What makes you think I knew about those checks? My secretary often signs checks in my name.”

  Mort held up his hand. “I find it hard to believe that a successful businessman like you wouldn’t be aware of a sizable amount of company money being given away regularly without your approval. What did Caruthers do to earn such loyalty?”

  Pelletier thought for a moment before answering. “He did a little work for me in the past,” he said weakly.

  “What kind of work?” Mort asked.

  Another pause before he replied, “Legal work, of course.”

  “Peggy, his secretary, says that Caruthers never did any legal work for you,” I said. “All the checks from Pelletier Motors to Caruthers—and there were quite a few of them—were labeled ‘miscellaneous.’”

  “I’m not in the mood for playing games, John,” Mort said.

  “What’s the big deal? He did some work for me. I paid him. And when he was down and out, I helped him out.”

  “So you’re saying it was purely generosity on your part?” I said. “You’re sure that he w
asn’t blackmailing you?”

  Pelletier guffawed. “I’m a law-abiding, upstanding citizen in this town, Mrs. Fletcher, as pure as the driven snow.” He guffawed again for added emphasis. “What could he possibly blackmail me about?”

  “How about throwing a case for you?” Mort said, his eyes focused on Pelletier.

  “If that’s all you have to base this accusation on,” Pelletier said, “it’s not much.”

  “Where were you last Friday morning?” Mort asked.

  “Right here. Go ask my staff.”

  “What would you say if we have a witness who will attest that you were somewhere else?” I asked

  “And where else would I be?”

  “At home, feeding your bloody clothes into the washing machine, and on the boat where Caruthers was killed.”

  “Your prints were on the boat, Mr. Pelletier,” Mort said flatly.

  I glanced at Mort. That was news to me. But I’d seen Mort do that in previous cases, make a claim that wasn’t true to get a suspect to open up.

  Pelletier’s face paled.

  “Helen was very insulted that you didn’t trust her enough with your laundry,” I added. “She says that it was the first and only time you did your own laundry. Was it to prevent her from seeing Caruthers’s blood on your clothing, to cover up evidence?”

  Pelletier’s expression changed from defensive to conspiratorial. He gave us the sort of smile I’m sure he used when charming a potential car buyer, leaned close, and said, “You’re after the wrong man, Sheriff. Caruthers is the one you should be questioning, not me. He was a swine, a real lowlife, and a nasty drunk to boot. Of course you can’t question him because he’s dead.” He straightened as he added, “Thanks to me. I’ve saved the town a lot of aggravation, to say nothing of money, by getting rid of Caruthers.”

  “So you’re admitting that you murdered him?” Mort said.

  “Murdered him? Come on, give me a break. Look, I went to see him on the boat, but I never intended to kill him.”

  “What did you intend?” Mort asked.

  “He was bleeding me dry. I just wanted to stop the blackmail.”

  “But apparently he wasn’t cooperating,” Mort said.

  “He laughed at me. Can you believe it, after all these years of saving his butt, he laughed at me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I wanted to punch his lights out. I grabbed him by the collar and socked him in the jaw. I think I knocked a tooth out.”

  “How did he end up in the water?” I asked.

  “He fell backward and hit his head on the railing. I made a grab for him but he fell overboard anyway, and my shirt was full of his blood.”

  “So you’re saying it wasn’t your intention to kill him?” Mort asked.

  “Kill him? No, of course not.”

  “But you didn’t call the police to report that he’d gone overboard. They might have been able to save him.”

  “I guess I panicked. I’d never been in a situation like that before.”

  “Panicked, and lifted him over the side,” I said, “hoping he would sink and give you time to create an alibi.”

  “Come on, you’re sophisticated people,” Pelletier said. “Don’t you understand? I have a reputation to protect in Cabot Cove. And don’t forget I have plenty of clout in this town. I voted for you for sheriff every time you ran. As for what happened to Caruthers, I figured the escaped convict, Jepson, would be blamed, considering how much he hated Caruthers, and I’d be off the hook. It’s no big deal. Caruthers was a bad guy and I took care of him.”

  Mort shot a glance at me, the first since we’d entered Pelletier’s office.

  “What was he blackmailing you for?” I asked.

  Pelletier laughed. “For paying him to throw the case against Kinney.”

  My expression mirrored my confusion.

  “I paid Caruthers to make sure that Kinney ended up behind bars.” Another laugh. “I’ll say this for Caruthers, he did a good job of that. He put up the worst defense for Kinney that anyone could imagine and cut backroom deals with the DA. It worked out for Wes’s son, Cory, too. Got the kid off the hook for the grocery incident. Kinney was convicted and sent away—which was exactly what I wanted to happen.”

  It took me a second to get over the disgust I felt. “Didn’t you feel bad that because of you an innocent man spent seven years in prison?”

  “Bad? Are you kidding? I wanted that punk out of my daughter’s life. I would have done anything to make sure that happened.”

  “That punk you’re referring to saved my life yesterday,” Mort said.

  “Yeah? He’s still a punk.”

  Mort stood. “You’re about to be arrested,” he said. “And, by the way, thanks for helping me solve an old mystery.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The culmination of Cabot Cove’s annual fishing derby is always a joyous affair, but this year’s event had special meaning.

  Maureen Metzger was alive! And safe at home.

  In a sense the celebration was as much for her safe return as it was for the winners of the derby.

  “So Wes Caruthers’s murder has been solved, thanks to J. B. Fletcher,” Seth said when I told him about Mort’s and my confrontation with the wealthy car dealer.

  “I really did nothing, Seth. Once I knew that Caruthers and Pelletier had spoken just an hour before Caruthers died and that right after Caruthers died Pelletier came home and washed his own clothes—wouldn’t let the housekeeper, Helen, touch them—the rest was easy.”

  “Easy for you,” he said.

  “I’m beat,” I said. “I think I’ll take the advice you gave Mort and catch a nap.”

  “Best medicine there is,” Seth said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I made myself a cup of tea but didn’t drink it. Fatigue suddenly washed over me, and I kicked off my shoes and stretched out on my living room couch. I fell asleep immediately and probably would have slept into the night had it not been for the ringing phone. It was Tim Nudd from Nudd’s Bait & Tackle Shop, who would be presenting the fishing prizes at the next day’s event.

  “Hope I’m not taking you from something,” he said.

  “I’m just getting up from a nap, Tim.”

  “I’ll make it short,” he said. “I know that Maureen Metzger is in the hospital.”

  “Yes, but she’ll be—”

  “Keep a secret?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Maureen’s catch is the winning one in the rainbow trout category.”

  “That’s wonderful. She’ll be so pleased.”

  “The problem is that with her in the hospital she won’t be able to come up on stage to accept the prize.”

  “I don’t think there’ll be any problem, Tim,” I said. “Dr. Hazlitt plans on releasing her first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “I didn’t know that. But in the event there’s a complication and she can’t be there, I was wondering whether you, as her close friend, would accept the prize on her behalf.”

  “I’d be willing, of course, but her husband, Mort, is a more logical choice.”

  “I know, but you know how grumpy the sheriff can be, Jessica. Besides, you’re the person who saved her life. It’d be only fitting that—”

  “I did no such thing, Tim. Look, if Mort declines to accept on her behalf, then I’ll be pleased to do it. Want me to ask him?”

  “Would you? He and I—well, he and I don’t get along these days.”

  “I’ll be happy to. But this is all probably unnecessary. I have every confidence that Maureen will be out of the hospital and at the awards ceremony.”

  I slept like a log that night—what an apt metaphor for a sound sleep—and awoke early the next morning. The sun was coming up, which meant good weather for the wrap-up of the C
abot Cove fishing derby.

  I made myself an unusually large breakfast—stress invariably makes me hungry—and got ready to join other Cabot Covers and tourists at the festivities. Despite my efforts to focus on what was in store that day, I couldn’t help but ponder the sordid aftermath of the past few days.

  That John Pelletier had actually killed Wes Caruthers because the unsavory attorney had been blackmailing him was a shocking revelation for the community. Pelletier had been a successful businessman in town for many years; how many citizens had purchased their vehicles from him? Yes, he was known as a dour, even sour man who turned on the charm only when it came to a sale of an automobile, but to think of him as being capable of killing someone was unfathomable. Of course, he hadn’t confronted Caruthers with murder on his mind. Striking him and causing the drunken attorney to fall into the water and drown certainly wasn’t premeditated. But he had caused Caruthers’s death, failed to call for any help, and would be held accountable.

  Brian Kinney’s decision to shuck his ankle bracelet and take it upon himself to track down Darryl Jepson wasn’t the smartest move he could have made, but his motives were pure. After all, his map had led the authorities to where Maureen was being held captive, leading to her freedom. Mort had reluctantly agreed to not charge Brian with any violation of his home confinement. After all, the young man had stepped in front of a knife aimed at our sheriff. I had a feeling that over time, he would soften his view of Brian and accept him for what he was: a troublemaking teenager who’d been mistakenly convicted of murder and was now a law-abiding married man with a child and a second on the way.

  But as Seth Hazlitt had told Maureen, all that was past tense. What was important now was to move ahead, put those unfortunate incidents behind us, and enjoy a bright, sunny day in Cabot Cove, Maine.

  Seth had intended to drive me to the event in town, but he called to say that he’d been called to the hospital for an emergency and would meet up with me later. I used Dimitri’s Taxi Service, and one of his drivers delivered me to the center of town where things were already underway. The high school band was tuning up, a few out-of-tune trumpet players’ dissonant sounds like chalk on a blackboard. Hopefully they’d get in tune before the event commenced.