Murder, She Wrote: Domestic Malice Read online

  “I hope that expression on your face doesn’t mean you’re upset with me,” Tim said after we’d been seated.

  I told him about the phone call from Mr. Quaid.

  “It doesn’t surprise me,” was his response.

  “It doesn’t?”

  “No. Do you know Mrs. Judson? She’s a friend of Elsie Fricket.”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Josh Wolcott convinced her to turn over the money her husband had left her when he died. It was a disaster. Most of it disappeared, including money she received from remortgaging her house. It was almost paid off, as I understand it, but he convinced her to take out a home equity loan on the promise of big profits. He wiped her out. She had to go live with her daughter.”

  “Then the man was an out-and-out thief. Did she bring charges against him?”

  “I believe she complained to whoever licenses financial planners, but it was already too late to recoup any of her savings. Anyway, later they determined that he operated within the law, but probably only barely.”

  I fell silent.

  “Jessica?”

  “What? Oh, sorry. I was thinking about what you just told me and the phone call I received.”

  “Hate to sound crass, but at least Wolcott won’t be scamming anyone again.”

  “You read about his wife being charged in his death.”

  “Sure.”

  “It occurs to me that there are probably more than a few people with a motive to have killed him.”

  “If Mrs. Judson and Mr. Quaid are any example, Jessica, you may be right.”

  “I’m sure they’re not the only ones.”

  We shifted conversational gears for the rest of lunch. As we stood outside Peppino’s, Tim asked whether I’d had second thoughts about writing a new chapter for the town history.

  “Afraid not, Tim.”

  “Even with this new case? Might not be the wife, you know. You already have another possible motive.”

  “That someone Josh Wolcott cheated might have gotten revenge? I don’t know, but it’s a possibility. I’ll have to think more about it.”

  Which turned out to be an understatement. It seemed that there was nothing else I could think of as the day progressed. I took a walk around town to work off the shrimp scampi and ended up in front of police headquarters. Should I drop in on Mort Metzger and see whether he was interested in the thoughts I’d been having about the Wolcott murder?

  Sure. Why not? Mort has always been gracious when I deliver my two cents about an ongoing case, although there have been times when he’s become what I suppose could be termed “pleasantly testy.”

  Trusting that he was in a good mood, I went inside, told the deputy at the desk I wished to see the sheriff, and waited for Mort to respond to his call.

  “To what do I owe this visit, Mrs. F.?” Mort asked as I entered his office.

  “Just thought I’d stop by and say hello,” I replied. “Hope it’s not an inconvenient time.”

  “Oh, no, not at all, Mrs. F. I’m just sitting around doing crossword puzzles and reading magazines.”

  His sarcasm wasn’t lost on me. I smiled, sat in the only chair without papers piled on it, and said, “Mort, I know you’re up to your neck with the Wolcott murder, but that’s why I’m here. You’ve charged Myriam Wolcott with the murder?”

  “Yup.”

  “Mind if I ask what you’re basing it on?”

  “I never mind when you ask anything, Mrs. F., so long as you don’t mind if I don’t answer.”

  “I never have minded. Mort, I know that the fact that Myriam was an abused wife gives you a motive.”

  He nodded.

  “And?” I said.

  “And what?”

  “Is that all you have—the motive?”

  “You really know how to hurt a guy, Mrs. F. You don’t really think that I’d accuse someone of murder if all I had was the motive, do you?”

  “I apologize,” I said, “and I realize that you aren’t about to tell me what other evidence you have. But I’d like to offer a suggestion where motive is concerned.”

  “Always glad to have your input.”

  “I’ve come to learn that Josh Wolcott angered a number of people over the years because of harm he’d done them as their financial adviser.”

  Mort’s expression was noncommittal.

  “So,” I said, “I just thought I’d let you know what I’ve learned.”

  “And I appreciate it, Mrs. F. Hope your feelings aren’t hurt that I already knew about Mr. Wolcott’s financial consulting business and that he’d conned some people.”

  “Then you’re way ahead of me.”

  “Yup,” Mort said, leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms across his chest, a Cheshire cat’s grin on his broad face. “I’ve already started looking into those folks who might have carried a grudge against Wolcott. Of course, that’s sort of a wild-goose chase. As far as I’m concerned, he hit his wife one too many times, and she got even.”

  “You haven’t found the weapon, have you?” I said.

  “Nope, but the lab just finished examining the bullet that killed him.”

  “I understand that Wolcott was an avid hunter and had an extensive gun collection in the house.”

  “But all the weapons are accounted for. He had them registered.”

  “Including his handguns?”

  “How would you know about that?”

  I hesitated before saying, “His wife told me. She said he’d lately been leaving one of them lying around in various rooms in the house.”

  Mort came forward and made a note on a yellow legal pad. “What else did she tell you?”

  “That she hated hunting.”

  “He wasn’t shot with a handgun.”

  “No?”

  “It was a .308 Winchester bullet, popular with deer hunters.”

  “How can you be sure that he registered every gun he owned, Mort?”

  “I’d say that chances of him not registering one is small, real small. He was a model gun owner.”

  I withheld a satisfied smile. What was occurring with Mort followed a pattern that I’d enjoyed before. Once you engaged him in a conversation about a case, his initial rigidity melted away and he became more talkative, asking questions of me as well as answering my questions of him. As long as I had him in a chatty mood, I intended to keep it going.

  “Has the state forensics lab finished analyzing what was on the computer taken from the house?” I asked.

  “You know about that, too, huh?”

  “Just scuttlebutt.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re working on it as we speak. Two computers.”

  “Two? That, I didn’t know.”

  “One the wife and kids used; the other he had in his office.”

  “His office computer could provide you with other suspects, people whose money he may have mishandled.”

  “That’s possible, Mrs. F., only don’t put too much faith in that. What’s on the computer Mrs. Wolcott used is more likely to be important.”

  I waited for him to say more. I had the feeling that he’d been made aware of something on the personal computer that wasn’t exculpatory for Myriam but chose not to elaborate. His silence confirmed it for me.

  Our give-and-take ended when Mort received a call and had to leave the office.

  “Thanks for your time, Mort,” I said.

  “My pleasure, Mrs. F. If you come up with any other information, you’ll let me know.”

  “Of course,” I replied.

  On my way out, I asked whether I could see Myriam Wolcott.

  “I guess so,” Mort said, “provided you get an okay from her attorney.”

  “I’ll check with Cy,” I said.

  “And provided she wants to see you.”

  Chapter Ten

  A car I hadn’t seen before was parked directly in front of my house. As I groped in my shoulder bag for my key, the driver, an older man wearing a suit and tie, got out
and waited for me at the foot of my driveway.

  “Jessica Fletcher?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This is for you, ma’am,” he said as he handed me an envelope.

  “What is this?”

  “A subpoena, ma’am.”

  As I inserted the key in the door, I heard the phone ring. By the time I got to it, my answering machine had kicked in and Edwina Wilkerson’s voice said, “Jessica, it’s Edwina. I need to talk to you. I just received . . .”

  I picked up the phone, which stopped the machine’s recording. “Hello, Edwina,” I said. “It’s Jessica. I just came through the door.”

  “I’m so glad you’re there. I received a subpoena a half hour ago and—”

  “I just received mine,” I said. “I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet.”

  “It’s from the county DA. She wants to depose me in the Wolcott case.”

  I thought back to what Mort had said about the possibility of being subpoenaed.

  “Mine must say the same thing.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Comply with it.”

  “It’s not right. What happened that night with Myriam should remain private.”

  “I agree with you in general, Edwina, but she’s now been charged with murdering her husband, and we’ve been issued subpoenas. That changes things.”

  “They’ll use it to say that she had a motive to kill him.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “We should get together and discuss what we’ll say.”

  “That’s not a good idea,” I said. “We don’t want to make it seem that we collaborated on our statements. The district attorney could make an issue of it.”

  She sighed deeply and audibly. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “Have you had any contact with Myriam?”

  “No, I haven’t, but I intend to ask her attorney for permission to visit her in jail.”

  “Poor thing. She didn’t kill Josh. She didn’t kill anyone. She was an abused woman, that’s all.”

  I didn’t say anything to indicate that I agreed with her. I wanted to believe what she’d said, but there was nothing tangible to prove that Myriam was innocent of the crime. Until there was . . .

  I’d been opening my envelope while talking with Edwina and saw that the subpoena directed that I make myself available at the district attorney’s office Monday at ten a.m.; Edwina’s deposition was scheduled for eleven that same morning.

  “I just had a thought,” she said. “Maybe Myriam’s lawyer can fight our subpoenas.”

  “I doubt that he could, Edwina. Look, let’s just do what we’re legally required to do and leave it at that.”

  “I still think that . . .”

  I hurried Edwina off the phone with a promise to check with Myriam’s lawyer and settled at my desk to call Cy O’Connor’s office. Sharon Bacon answered.

  “Hi, Sharon. It’s Jessica Fletcher. Is he in?”

  She lowered her voice. “He’s here but he’s in conference.”

  “Mrs. Caldwell, Myriam Wolcott’s mother?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Purely a guess. I’d like to speak with him about permission to visit Myriam in jail. Could you pass that request along and ask that he call me?”

  “Shall do.”

  O’Connor called back fifteen minutes later.

  “Did Sharon tell you why I’d called?” I asked.

  “Yeah, she did. Mind if I ask why you want to see Myriam?”

  I told him of the visit Myriam paid me the day before she was arrested. “She said she needed support, Cy, and I feel that the least I can do is provide it.”

  “There’s no doubt that she can use someone’s support. Sure, I’ll arrange for you to visit anytime you wish, within prescribed hours, of course. Give me a call whenever you want to see her and I’ll set it up.”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  He seemed to hesitate. “I guess that would work. While we’re on the topic, Jessica, would you be available to meet with me after you’ve visited her?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Good. There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you. Give me fifteen minutes to call the sheriff’s office to set it up, and I’ll get back to you.”

  Cy’s request that we get together after I’d visited his client in prison gave me something else to ponder. He and I didn’t have any pending legal matters, so he likely wanted to discuss Myriam’s case. The question was why. Maybe it had to do with the subpoena I’d received. Was he aware that it had been issued and delivered? Did he want to discuss what I would say during the deposition?

  My musings reminded me of a day I’d spent with a British judge during a trip to London. Despite the fact that the American system of jurisprudence is based upon the British system, there are major differences. This particular judge was appalled that American lawyers were allowed to prep witnesses prior to their testimony or depositions. A British lawyer would find him- or herself in serious trouble should he or she do that. I was similarly surprised that this same judge, and all others in the British system, routinely sum up evidence for the jurors as they interpret it prior to the jury going into its deliberations. Not wanting to offend him and possibly end our informative discussion by expressing my discomfort with this practice, I simply tucked the knowledge away for use in a future book. As they say, we speak the same language as our British cousins—or do we?

  Cy was as good as his word. The phone rang fifteen minutes later.

  “Done,” he said. “Sheriff Metzger is expecting you at ten.”

  When I arrived at police headquarters the next morning, O’Connor was waiting for me.

  “I didn’t expect to see you until later,” I said.

  “I thought Myriam might be more comfortable if I tagged along. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “We have a few minutes before they bring her to an interview room,” he said. “Let’s go outside and talk.”

  We stood beneath an overhang in front of the building.

  “First,” he said, “I want to thank you for taking an interest in Myriam and her case.”

  “No thanks are necessary,” I said. “She’s suffering and asked for my help. I feel it’s the least I can do.”

  “She’s mentioned you a number of times during our conversations and told me about the night she spoke with you and Ms. Wilkerson at the shelter.”

  “That was a privileged conversation, but since Edwina and I both have been subpoenaed, I’m afraid the details of that night will be made public.”

  “I’ll be present during your deposition,” he said. “Standard procedure.”

  “Mind if I ask a question before we go in?” I said.

  “Shoot.”

  “Why did you take this case?”

  He broke into a boyish grin. “I know why you’re asking. Criminal law isn’t my specialty. But I’m afraid that to answer that I’ll have to delve deeply into my psyche.”

  “Digging into psyches is something I do with regularity in my books.”

  “We don’t have time for a full-scale excavation at the moment,” he said, glancing at his watch again. “But if you’re free for dinner tonight . . . ?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “I won’t keep you out late. I want you rested up for your deposition.”

  “It’s not until Monday.”

  “And I’ll be there to make sure the DA doesn’t go over the line.”

  “Then we’ll all have to be on our toes. Let’s go see your client.”

  Chapter Eleven

  A haggard Myriam Wolcott was led into the room where Cy and I had already taken seats. The deputy who delivered her indicated that she was to take a chair on the opposite side of the table from us. “Please don’t touch the prisoner,” she instructed.

  I saw Myriam shiver.

  “Hello, dear,” I said. “I hope it’s all righ
t with you that I’ve come to visit.”

  She muttered something and nodded. I’d expected that she’d be dressed in some sort of prison garb, but she wore gray slacks, a pale blue sweatshirt, and sneakers.

  O’Connor took his seat and said, “Mrs. Fletcher asked me for permission to see you, Myriam. I was sure that you’d agree to it.”

  Another nod from her.

  “When you visited me at my house,” I said, “you said that you needed some support. Well, that’s why I’m here. Are they treating you all right?”

  “They don’t beat me, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said O’Connor through a forced laugh.

  Until that moment, Myriam appeared to have been in a fugue state. She suddenly came forward in her chair and exclaimed to me, “I didn’t kill Josh! You have to believe me.”

  Before I could reply, O’Connor leaned in and said, “I’m sure Mrs. Fletcher knows that you’re innocent. What’s important is that we convince a jury.”

  His words caused her to shake. She sat back, folded her arms about herself, and sniffled. “A jury?” she said. “A trial?” She came forward again. “I don’t want that. I don’t deserve that. I didn’t kill anyone. Why won’t they let me out? What’s happening with my children? No one will tell me anything.”

  I began to question my decision to visit. Rather than contribute comfort and support, my presence seemed to be upsetting her. I shifted in my chair and pondered how to leave gracefully.

  “You have to keep up your spirits, Myriam,” O’Connor said, “stay optimistic. I know it’s hard for you to do that sitting here in jail, but it’s important. I already explained that the courts are closed and until they open, you can’t be officially charged and we can’t ask for bail. But I have confidence we’ll have you out of here soon. I’ve only just started putting together your case and—”

  “And what do you know about putting together a murder case?” she growled, her expression stern.

  I watched O’Connor’s face. If her pointed question stung him, it didn’t show. He smiled easily and said, “Don’t you worry. I know my job. But as I’ve told you, anytime you want to bring in another lawyer, all you have to do is let me know. Until then, if you’ll write down your questions”—he slid a piece of paper and a pen in front of her—“I’ll do my best to find the answers for you.”