Murder, She Wrote--A Date with Murder Read online

  It was an empty threat, spoken in haste, but Evelyn didn’t know that and mustered no reply, allowing me to compose myself over the dead air.

  “You might be right, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, dispensing with the familiarity of using my first name. “I admit the timing is . . . regrettable and suppose the story, the truth, can wait. But there will be a time, and you and I both know there’s a story here you can’t quash with your threats.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “What do you think you know about Hal Wirth’s business dealings?”

  “Will you comment on the record?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’ll have to wait for the story to run to find out. And it will run, I promise you that.”

  “Maybe you’ll win a Pulitzer,” I said to the younger woman. “A regular Woodward and Bernstein rolled into one.”

  “Who?” Evelyn asked.

  I hung up the phone, glad that, if nothing else, I’d at least delayed her running the story for a while.

  I rose from the couch and wandered into the kitchen, wondering if I was any better than Evelyn for seeing dark doings in Hal’s dealings and untimely death, reading too much into that letter I hadn’t even finished and whatever mysterious conversation Hal had engaged in with Seth Hazlitt. Everybody confided in Seth because he never betrayed a confidence. I should’ve known better than to have even asked him. When your life requires you to live inside your imagination, sometimes you just can’t help seeing something that isn’t really there.

  I knew I’d never be able to fall back to sleep now and decided to ride my bike to Mara’s Luncheonette, which stayed open until midnight, to grab one of Mara’s famous muffins to have for breakfast.

  It was a beautiful night, and I heard the faint songs of whip-poor-wills as I pedaled. Their music was a sound I had always taken for granted. I was oddly comforted by the consistency of the call, a dependable trill that satiated the organizational portion of my mind as I counted the cries and retorts, wondering what they might be communicating. Babs had said that they returned to Maine during summers to mate, which made me remember she’d lost her mate forever.

  Mara’s was winding down for the night, but I heard voices from the newly built terrace behind the restaurant when I chained my bike. There I found my friends Tim Purdy, head of the Cabot Cove Historical Society; Mort Metzger, the local sheriff; and Mort’s wife, Maureen. They were huddled around a table with a round of beers.

  A man I didn’t recognize sat alone a few tables away, nursing a cocktail with his head down. He wore a beige jacket and a black felt hat, and was scribbling words in a notebook as my friends rose to welcome me.

  “I was just on the phone with Seth,” said Mort. “He told me about Hal. How awful! I hope Babs is okay. How’s she doing?”

  “Hanging in there,” I said. “Devastated, of course, but she has plenty of friends to help keep her spirits up, and her daughter Alyssa’s coming home tomorrow.”

  “That’s good,” Tim Purdy said. “Babs and I have been getting closer this past year and Hal’s death struck a real chord with me.”

  “Babs told me that you two have been cataloguing the local birdlife. She pointed out that the whip-poor-will population is coming back. I heard them singing on my bike ride over.”

  “That’s right.” Tim laughed. “Between you and me, I had no idea what the heck a whip-poor-will was until Babs and I embarked on this project. Now I know why I can’t sleep at night.”

  “I hope we don’t all catch a case of insomnia.” I smiled, so glad in that moment I’d decided to ride over there.

  “If I don’t sleep tonight, it’ll be because of Evelyn Phillips,” Maureen said.

  “You spoke with her?”

  “She was here maybe ninety minutes ago, snooping around and probing us for information on Hal’s indiscretions, marital and otherwise.”

  Evelyn must have called me as soon as she left, I calculated.

  “Impersonating a journalist, no doubt,” I couldn’t help but say, not bothering to add she’d pestered me as well.

  “Want a drink, Jessica?” Mort asked. “Last call’s come and gone, but I have some clout in these parts.”

  “No, Mort, but thank you. I just came to clear my head and grab a muffin for the morning.”

  I sauntered up to the counter, pretending not to notice the man at the corner table rising to follow me. In a close-knit community like Cabot Cove, all strangers stood out, but something about this one made him stand out even more.

  The waitress, meanwhile, was nowhere to be found, and the cook had just poured water over the grill to cool it down, releasing a curtain of thin steam that drifted toward me.

  “Excuse me—are you Mrs. Jessica Fletcher?”

  I turned to find the stranger standing right alongside me at the counter. “That would depend on who’s asking.”

  He settled onto the stool next to where I was standing, his face caught by the wafting steam, which dimmed his features and made his skin look shiny. I was still able to discern a pair of eyes that looked too small for his face, set deep in his head over a pug nose and a mouth that similarly looked too small. His teeth, too, looked tiny when he smiled at me, and they carried the brown stains of a cigarette smoker. He had thinning hair pasted to his skull in patches and some beard stubble marking his face.

  “It’s an honor to meet you,” he said, through the steam that had settled between us, nothing threatening or ominous in his voice. “I’ve heard about you over the years. I was hoping I’d get the chance someday to meet Cabot Cove’s most famous resident.”

  I could smell bourbon on his breath, accompanied by the stench of cigarettes lifting off his clothes. “I hope you don’t mind being disappointed.”

  “I’d ask you to sign a book for me had I brought one.”

  “And who would I inscribe it to if you had?”

  “I’m Lawrence Pyke, Hal Wirth’s attorney,” the man said. “I’ve driven up from Boston to speak with Barbara about some issues regarding Hal’s estate, which—as you might have guessed, being such a dear friend, according to Hal—Barbara is inheriting in full.”

  I hadn’t known that, but nodded anyway.

  “And this whole business with Hal’s ex-business partner,” the man continued. “Such a nasty state of affairs I thought he’d put behind him.”

  “Oh, yes.” I nodded, still pretending, in this case that I hadn’t glimpsed that handwritten letter from one Eugene Labine. “Truly unfortunate. Regrettable,” I added, leaving it there.

  “What do you know about that?”

  “About what?”

  “Hal Wirth’s business partner.”

  “What makes you think I’d know anything about him?”

  “The fact that you’re such good friends with Barbara.”

  “Hardly something that would make me privy to her husband’s business affairs.”

  Lawrence Pyke leaned forward—a little, which seemed like too much. “Barbara always spoke of you as a pragmatic woman. She needs an astute ear, such as your own, to guide her in these difficult times. She is an effervescent spirit, but naive, I think. And now, with the responsibility of taking over Hal’s corporation falling on her—well, let’s just say things might get hairy.”

  “Babs is a brilliant and headstrong woman. I don’t think you have anything to be concerned about.”

  “I do hope so. I have only affection for Barbara. Hal’s old partner is . . .”

  “Is what, Mr. Pyke?”

  I could see the man claiming to be Hal Wirth’s lawyer fishing for words. “There’s no easy way to say this. He was scorned after Hal screwed him out of the business they cofounded, and recently stopped making good on the financial settlement they agreed upon.”

  “I’m not aware of any such thing.”

  “A structured settlement whereby Hal
would make regular payments to his former partner, Eugene Labine, which he did for several years until they stopped abruptly a little over a month ago.”

  “Strange that you’d be sharing information I’m sure is privileged with a stranger.”

  “You’re not a stranger, Mrs. Fletcher. I thought we’d already established that, and I’m only looking out for Babs’s best interests.”

  “Well, Mr. Pyke, I am indeed a stranger to the interests of Hal’s estate, and my concern for Babs doesn’t include being made privy to her husband’s private affairs.”

  “Then Mrs. Wirth has said nothing about those affairs to you?”

  “I believe I just made that clear.” I should have let things go there but, again, couldn’t help myself. “Tell me, Mr. Pyke, are you Hal’s lawyer or the estate’s lawyer?”

  “Both, I suppose.”

  “Don’t suppose, please. Because it occurs to me that those pursuits may represent a conflict of interest. Perhaps I should inform Mrs. Wirth of that fact.”

  Pyke stiffened, the steam riding him like an aura. “I’m sure she has other things on her mind tonight.”

  “There’s always tomorrow, Mr. Pyke.”

  “As her friend—”

  “Tell me again how you even know we’re friends.”

  Pyke tried for a smile that didn’t quite come. “It’s in Barbara’s best interests that you share with me anything you may have learned about her husband’s business dealings prior to today, anything potentially awry, for instance.”

  “I never took an interest in Hal’s business dealings. And, excuse me for saying this, but you don’t sound like a lawyer looking after the interests of a departed client’s wife.”

  Pyke slid off the stool and stood close enough for me to almost be able to name the brand of the whiskey on his breath.

  “Be a friend to Barbara, but steer clear of issues pertaining to her husband. It’s for your own good and hers.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Just a bit of advice from someone who knows the territory and who has your best interests at heart.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  Pyke smiled, showcasing twin rows of tiny teeth. “I know your books, and now I know you. Be a friend to Barbara,” he finished. “Be a friend, and nothing more.”

  Lawrence Pyke took his leave, eyeing me all the way to the door. I waited for it to shut behind him before I returned without my muffin to the table, where Mort Metzger was looking at me with his cop’s eyes.

  “Who was that?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure” was all I could say, still staring at the closed door.

  Chapter Five

  “And this one?” I asked Babs as we took stock of Hal’s possessions the following day, at her insistence.

  The memories of my brief and disconcerting conversation with Lawrence Pyke had faded somewhat, and I had avoided any mention of our encounter at Mara’s Luncheonette the night before, figuring Babs had enough on her mind. Surely, he’d been in contact with her by now to begin the process of getting Hal’s affairs in order. I purposely steered clear of the issue to prevent causing Babs any further strain, especially since keeping herself active was proving to be the best therapy.

  We were standing in Hal and Babs’s bedroom, staring at an abstract portrait of a woman formed of thick oily smudges, which reminded me of a crude Van Gogh. As best I could discern through the hodgepodge, the female subject of the painting was not Babs.

  “That’s Hal’s work, believe it or not. He tried his hand at painting seven or eight years ago. It didn’t stick.” She laughed. “But I agreed to hang this to indulge his ego.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “Has Hal’s lawyer made contact with you about settling the estate?”

  “Several times. I’m expecting him shortly as a matter of fact.” Her face crinkled in concern. “There’s so much to get in order. Hal had so many dealings across the state, and across New England—Boston, Providence, Worcester—and it’s all much more complicated than I could have ever realized. I tried to make sense of what I could dig up last night, when I couldn’t sleep, but didn’t get very far.”

  “When’s Alyssa due home?”

  “She got here late last night, after you left. She’s running a few errands right now. I wanted her out of the house for a while—thought it best. We had a long conversation about her father last night, and what needs to be done over the next couple months. She’s insisting on taking the rest of the semester off, tells me Boston University has agreed not to charge her and she’ll be readmitted without question next spring.”

  “She’ll have time to read my latest book, then,” I said. “The first draft is finished and she can be my first critical read.”

  That drew a smile from Babs. “I remember her reading your books when she was, what, ten or eleven?”

  “Twelve, I think.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled. I was planning to put her to work around the house, but reading your latest manuscript sure beats that.”

  “When’s the lawyer due?” I asked Babs, hoping I wasn’t snooping too much.

  She looked toward a clock radio with a bright red LED display set on a night table. “Any minute now. Hal named me executrix of his will and I’m inheriting his entire estate. Pyke wants to do an accounting and inventory of Hal’s paperwork. It’s all down in the basement, where he kept his office here, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to go down there yet.”

  “Perfectly understandable, under the circumstances.”

  Babs swallowed hard. “Would you come down there with me, Jessica? Would you come down there with me now, before Pyke arrives?”

  “Of course. Say no more.”

  She led me down a flight of narrow hardwood stairs to a basement I had never seen in the ten years I’d visited the Wirths’ beautiful home. The decor upstairs was sleek and modern, minimalist: stainless steel appliances, sharply angular furniture, and walls graced with pieces of modern art. But descending into the basement was like regressing a century and a half. The floor was uneven and unfinished. I was grateful to be wearing hard shoes, because splinters jutted from the cracks between the floorboards, which were lodged with lint, crumpled pieces of trash, crumbs, and other refuse.

  One of the walls of the walkout basement was brick and indented in the middle by the imprint of an old fireplace that had since been filled with cement. There was a sliding glass door that did not quite mesh on the opposite wall. It clearly hadn’t been washed for years, and it led out to a small overgrown terrace. The terrace was enclosed by a wooden fence, and I did not see a gate, so no one could access it from the yard during, say, one of the Wirths’ annual Labor Day parties. The only sign that the terrace was even used, what with the victory of weeds over the entirety of its terrain, was an ashtray situated on a glass outdoor table beneath an umbrella, brimming with half-smoked cigarettes, telling me something else I didn’t know about Hal: that he’d been a smoker.

  “It’s me,” Babs chimed in as I formed that thought.

  “What?”

  “I’m the smoker. Hal knew, but not Alyssa. I’m swearing you to secrecy here.”

  “Done.”

  “Scout’s honor?”

  “I was never a Scout.”

  Against the third wall, there was a desk and two large filing cabinets on either side, with a unit of shelving above, which held office supplies, a printer, paper, the works. The paint in the room was white, but water stains riddled the surface, which was turning a sickly yellow. Clearly, this had been the original basement of the old house leveled to make room for the Wirths’ mansion.

  “Hal always threatened to renovate things and clean the basement up, but never got around to it.” Babs’s tone was again apologetic, as she bent down to pick up stray papers scattered on the floor. “I guess he preferred keeping it
as his man cave.”

  “I can see that,” I said.

  “The way things worked out, this became more a place for personal projects and to just escape—from me, among other things, I suppose.”

  “I can hardly believe that,” I said, taking pains to make sure my expression showed nothing of my knowledge of the rumors that Babs and Hal were having some marital difficulties, and that Hal might have been engaged in an affair.

  “Everyone needs their privacy, Jessica. You of all people should understand that, given the insular nature of your work. This was Hal’s way of replicating that, I guess.”

  Her tone had grown glum again and I felt a need to keep the conversation going. “What’s in the filing cabinets?” I asked.

  “Somewhere in here are his financial records, mingled among a myriad of documents and personal material. I was hoping you’d be able to look through the folders and begin categorizing everything.”

  She pulled a set of keys from her pocket and opened the first cabinet before I had an opportunity to answer.

  “Of course, Babs. Whatever I can do to help.”

  She handed me the keys. “This small one opens all the drawers.”

  She sidestepped back toward the stairs, a clear indication she much preferred that I handle this chore on my own, both to spare her the pain and so she could get on with other things.

  “I just remembered I have some more calls to make,” Babs said as if reading my thoughts. “If you don’t mind, of course.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” I said, quite comfortable down there, where I might find some inkling of the enigmatic doings that had characterized Hal Wirth’s final months and days.

  “I can’t thank you enough, Jessica. And I mean that sincerely.”

  “Go make those calls, Babs,” I told her. “I’ll be fine down here.”

  She smiled and clambered up the old stairs, leaving me alone in Hal’s dingy basement with a silver key in my hand and eight drawers full of who-knew-what to sift through and categorize. I took a folder from the drawer Babs had already opened, labeled “Tax Returns—2002,” and a cursory glance at the remaining folders revealed, predictably, the annual tax records for every year since Hal founded his company.