Murder, She Wrote Read online

  “I think she took the trail down by the lake. It leads over to Jim Shevlin’s other cabin.” I held up the strands of hair I’d found. “I’m assuming her hair caught on a branch while she was walking through the woods.”

  “Show me where you found it.”

  “There’s something strange, though.”

  “What is it?”

  As we walked downhill to the lake, I told him about the missing knife and the open ice chest.

  “Why would she need a knife?”

  “Perhaps for any food she was carrying,” I said, “but I don’t know why she needed to empty the cooler.”

  We took the path that followed the lake’s perimeter. I showed Mort the branch where I’d found Maureen’s hair.

  “How long do you figure a couple of hairs would last on this branch?” he asked.

  “Not long if there’s a wind, or if some birds building a nest found them first.”

  “Okay. Let’s keep going.”

  We walked in silence, keeping watch for anything else that might indicate whether Maureen had trod this path. There were a few branches and limbs that were split, but I wasn’t sure how recently they’d been broken, and I found some green leaves on the ground that hadn’t had time to dry out.

  We eventually reached a clearing. Up ahead was the mayor’s other cabin. Mort trotted up the steps to the front door.

  “I was here this afternoon,” I said. “The cabin is locked and all the windows are shuttered.”

  “The place was locked, huh?” Mort said, turning the knob and putting his shoulder to the door. It swung open with a squeal.

  “It was locked,” I said, joining him on the porch. “I know it was.”

  Mort pulled out his service revolver and motioned for me to be quiet. He stepped across the threshold. “Maureen, honey? It’s me. Are you here?” He disappeared inside, reemerging moments later, his gun back in its holster. “No one’s here, but there’s a rancid smell, like spoiled food or maybe something died under the floor.”

  “May I see?” I asked.

  The cabin was a duplicate of the one Maureen and I were staying in. I immediately sensed the same odor that Mort had mentioned. It was the same smell as the one I’d detected before. No, it’s not a bear, I thought.

  While Mort examined the main room, I checked the bunk room and bathroom.

  “Someone was here recently,” he called out. “There’s water in the sink.”

  The cots were not made up. Sheets and blankets were folded at the foot. I was about to turn away when I spotted something beneath the cot. I bent over, placed my hand on the object, and slid it toward me. I gasped. It was one of the books I’d encouraged Maureen to read.

  Mort heard me and came to the bunk room door. “What is it, Mrs. F.?”

  “She was here,” I said, holding up the book. “I lent this to her this morning.”

  “Why would she leave it here?”

  “Maybe she forgot about it. Or—”

  “What?”

  “Maybe she wanted us to find it,” I said, wincing at the sudden knot in my stomach.

  Mort and I looked at each other with alarm.

  “Yeah, maybe, but all she had to do was leave a note or—”

  “Maybe she wasn’t able to write a note,” I mused, “and if that’s the case, she might be—”

  Mort didn’t stay in the cabin to hear the rest of what I was conjuring about Maureen’s sudden and frightening disappearance. He stepped out on to the small porch and barked into the radio that he wore on his shoulder, “This is the sheriff. Get a couple of deputies up to Mayor Shevlin’s cabin on Moon Lake. Yes, that one, and make it fast. We’ve got a problem here.”

  Mort leaned against the porch railing, removed his Stetson hat, and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. Concern was written all over his square, rugged face.

  I forced a smile, although it didn’t reflect what I was thinking and feeling at that moment.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised to see Maureen suddenly emerge from the woods,” I offered, my words also not representing what I was really thinking.

  “Well, if she does,” he said, descending the steps, “she’d return to the cabin where you’re staying, so let’s get back there.”

  “Maybe she’s there right now,” I said, following him to the path along the lake.

  Mort stopped. “That’d be nice, Mrs. F., really nice, but don’t count on it. Let me ask you something. Was Maureen—well, did she seem all right mentally?”

  “Mentally? Yes. She’d suffered a bad sunburn. That’s why she decided to take the morning off from fishing.”

  “Yeah, she told me about that,” he said as he resumed walking. “But I’m thinking sometimes too much sun can—well, you know, it can affect your mind.”

  “I know that,” I said, “but she made perfect sense this morning before I left with the guide. I’d have noticed if she wasn’t thinking clearly. She did talk about her uncle Basil. I’d never heard her mention him before.”

  Mort smiled in spite of his worry. “She always trots out Uncle Basil when she feels the need for someone to back up her arguments. I never met the guy, but according to Maureen he’s an expert on everything.” The smile faded from his lips and he fell silent.

  “Have you made any headway in the search for the escaped convict, Darryl Jepson?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Jepson,” I said. “Have you—?”

  “You’re thinking the same thing that I am?” he said.

  I’d hesitated raising the possibility that Jepson, who was now known to be in the Cabot Cove area, might be involved in some way with Maureen’s disappearance. But I had a hunch that Mort was already rolling that possibility over in his mind.

  “I’m afraid that I am,” I said.

  “It never occurred to me when Maureen was set to leave on this fishing trip that she’d have to be on the lookout for an escaped murderer. Bears? Sure. An angry moose? You bet. But if Jepson has done anything to her, I’ll—”

  He turned away but not before I saw that his eyes had filled.

  “Let’s think positively, Mort,” I said, my heart going out to him. “Maureen is fine. There’s got to be a reasonable explanation for why she wandered off.”

  He nodded, inhaled deeply, replaced his Stetson on his head, and walked down the trail, and I knew that my feeble attempt to ratchet down the anguish he felt had done little to mitigate it.

  It certainly hadn’t for me.

  Chapter Twelve

  It wasn’t long before Jim Shevlin’s cabin on Moon Lake that Maureen and I had shared and its environs were crawling with members of law enforcement. Mort Metzger’s call for deputies had resulted in two of them arriving. Minutes later the Maine state police were represented by three troopers. Two game wardens from the law enforcement division of the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife showed up as well.

  After photographing the cabin and the prints I’d pointed out on the floor and dusting for fingerprints, one of the wardens, Brandon Peabody, questioned me.

  “You say you went out fishing with your guide, Hank Thompson, and left your friend alone?” he asked, taking notes on a pad.

  “Yes, but it was only for three hours,” I said.

  “How long before you reported her missing?”

  “I waited a while at the cabin hoping she’d return. When she didn’t, I went looking for her. Hank Thompson came back several hours later—”

  “When was that?”

  “I’d say that it was around three o’clock, although I’m not certain of the time. I requested that if he saw you or one of your colleagues, he let you know that Maureen may have lost her way.”

  “Which he did.”

  “I understand that Sheriff Metzger called in the report t
o your office as well.”

  “But now you think that Mrs. Metzger isn’t simply lost,” Peabody said, rolling his pencil between his fingers. “You suggest that she might have been taken hostage by the escaped prisoner?”

  “I don’t like to think that’s possible, Warden Peabody, but it can’t be ruled out until we find her. The sheriff considers it a possibility, too.”

  “Do you have any evidence to support that suspicion?”

  “I don’t have any direct evidence,” I said, shooting a glance at Mort, who was outside the cabin talking with one of his deputies and a state police officer. “I noticed that a large knife was missing from the cabin and that our ice chest had been emptied of food. There was a heel print on the floor I couldn’t connect with anyone we knew. Later, Sheriff Metzger and I found a book that I’d lent to Maureen beneath a cot at another cabin owned by Mayor Shevlin and—”

  “How do those things convince you that Jepson abducted Mrs. Metzger?”

  “They don’t convince me that Darryl Jepson has kidnapped Maureen, but I’m pretty certain someone has. Right now we’re taking into account every possible reason for her absence, and Jepson being loose in the area can’t be ruled out. I think that both Sheriff Metzger and I started considering that possibility when we searched Mayor Shevlin’s second cabin and found the book. I had been there earlier in the day and there is no doubt in my mind that the cabin had been locked. I had tried to push the door open and rapped loudly with my knuckles. If Maureen had been inside alone, she would have responded. But she didn’t. If, however, someone was in the cabin with her and possibly threatening her, it’s understandable why she wouldn’t have been able to reply. In retrospect, I now believe that she left us a message the only way she was able to—by leaving the book.”

  While Peabody jotted notes on his pad, I added, “There’s also the smell.”

  “What smell?”

  “The sheriff and I both detected a smell in the cabin, the same odor I had noticed in this cabin yesterday when we returned from fishing.”

  “Couldn’t it be from your fishing clothes?” the warden offered. “The aroma of fish is pretty powerful.”

  “But this smell was different,” I said. “Sheriff Metzger told me that Jepson had a condition that results in acute body odor.”

  “A condition?”

  “A medical condition. You’ll have to ask him to get the medical name of it. I hadn’t known that about Jepson, but I do recall hearing a former friend of his refer to him as ‘Stinky.’ I just chalked it up to a nickname boys give each other to tease.”

  We were joined by a member of the state police contingent who’d heard part of our conversation.

  “And who would that friend be?” the state trooper asked.

  “Brian Kinney,” I replied. I was reluctant to give him Brian’s name, but when asked a direct question by law enforcement, I give direct answers.

  The warden pushed up the bill of his green cap and wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead. “Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, we may need to talk with you again. Please keep yourself available.”

  “I was planning to stay here all week,” I said.

  The state trooper shook his head. “Sorry, but that’s not possible. We’re going to have a lot of search personnel out, and we don’t want to have to worry about civilians. We’re asking all local campers to stay home while we conduct the search. We don’t want to give Jepson—if that’s who’s behind your friend’s disappearance—the opportunity to take other hostages.”

  “The derby is over, so most of the fishermen will have left anyway,” Peabody said. “We’ll let you know when it’s safe to come back. Sheriff Metzger said he would have someone drive you into town.”

  The warden and state trooper joined Mort and other men outside while I packed my duffel bag. I would let our sheriff decide what to do with his wife’s belongings. I didn’t know when, if at all, I would be able to return, so I gathered everything I’d brought with me except canned food and bottled drinks, which I left for the next guest. I hoped whatever car would take me back could accommodate my bicycle. It’s my main form of transportation; leaving it behind would make my life at home more difficult.

  I sat on my cot and looked around. Maureen’s fishing vest still hung on the wall. I sighed. Should I have refused her demand to stay here by herself? She would have been upset but would have gotten over it. Would the prospect of trying to take two women as prisoners have discouraged Jepson, if he was involved? If I hadn’t agreed to let her to keep me company for the weekend fishing derby, she would be safe at home. Seth Hazlitt had predicted dire circumstances—he often does that—but even he couldn’t have envisioned Maureen getting lost or being kidnapped as one of the dangers of camping.

  Had she been kidnapped? It was beginning to look that way.

  When I stepped out onto the porch, Mort and other men were poring over a topographic map of the area around Moon Lake. They had circled the two cabins and were establishing grids for search crews to use in their hunt for Maureen.

  A lineup of vehicles filled the grassy driveway. A four-wheel-drive Jeep was parked next to Mort’s cruiser and to the one that had delivered his deputies. An all-terrain vehicle had been left near the entrance to the trail that connected both cabins. A pair of state police cars had pulled around to the side of the cabin, their lights still flashing.

  The sound of a helicopter overhead caused everyone to look up.

  “Darn it!” Mort growled. “That engine noise will alert Maureen’s kidnapper. The faster we get that thing out of here, the better I’ll feel.”

  Mort took off his Stetson, waved at the pilot, and pointed to the dirt road. He trotted downhill, still waving as the air turbulence churned up by the chopper’s rotors flattened the tall grasses on either side of the lane.

  The helicopter teetered from side to side before settling on the ground. The pilot left the engine on, the rotors spinning, and opened the door on the side. A woman in the same uniform as the game warden who’d interviewed me hopped out. She ducked beneath the still-spinning blades and ran forward, leading a black-and-tan dog wearing a red collar with a badge attached, as well as an orange vest that appeared to be padded, or probably bulletproof.

  As the helicopter took off again, Mort and the new officer walked up the hill to the cabin. She was a stocky woman with her straight black hair in a single braid pulled over her shoulder.

  “This is Warden Gabrielle Ong,” Mort said, introducing the dog handler.

  She nodded to me and the others.

  “And this is Tigger,” Ong said, stroking the dog’s head.

  Tigger leaned forward and gave me a sniff.

  “He’s a Belgian Malinois.”

  “Kind of looks like a small German shepherd to me,” Mort said.

  “They probably share a common ancestor,” Ong said. “We use both breeds, and sometimes a Labrador retriever as well. The Malinois is a high-energy dog. They’re known for their intensity, endurance, and intelligence. This pup here is an excellent tracker.”

  “Our K-9 unit has earned a boatload of citations,” Warden Peabody added. “We were among those helping out in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. Gabby was there with a different dog. Nice to see you again, Gabby.”

  “Same here, Brandon.”

  “We’ll be looking for the sheriff’s wife,” Peabody told her, nodding toward Mort.

  Ong’s brows registered her surprise, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Okay, so how do we go about this?” Mort asked.

  “Let’s start with how many hours your wife has been missing,” Ong said. “That way we can figure about how far away she could’ve gotten in that time frame. We know pretty well how fast someone can walk through the woods. If they’re lost and maybe retracing their steps, and stop for a while, we can determine a rough search area. Was your wife an ex
perienced hiker, Sheriff?”

  Mort swallowed. “No. I couldn’t say that she was—I mean, is.”

  “Well, who saw her last?”

  “That would be you, Mrs. F.”

  All eyes turned to me.

  “I went out fishing with our guide this morning. I’d say we left sometime between seven thirty and eight. But you talked with her after I left, Sheriff. What time was that?”

  Mort took a deep breath. “Yeah, I did. She . . . she called me. What time was it? I think it was around eight, maybe a little later. I’d just gotten to my office and was briefing my deputies, right, Evan?” Mort’s eyes scanned the group. “Where’s Evan?” he asked.

  “Right here, Sheriff.” Mort’s deputy raised his hand from the back of the crowd.

  “What time was the briefing?” Mort asked.

  “Eight to eight thirty, Sheriff,” Evan replied.

  Mort looked at Gabby Ong. “Okay, so I spoke with her right after, at eight thirty.”

  “And did she sound okay? Was her voice calm? Any indication that someone else might be there with her, threatening her?”

  “No! She was happy. Oh, she said she got a bad sunburn, so she was going to take it easy this morning: nap, read, and maybe go out again this afternoon. She’d caught a trout and wanted a chance to get a bigger one.”

  “Okay, so we have her here at eight thirty. When was she reported missing, and who reported her?”

  “That would be me, Warden Ong,” I said. “I returned around eleven, and she wasn’t here.”

  “Did she indicate to you where she planned to go when you talked with her this morning?”

  “No. I gave her a book to read and expected she was going to stay in the cabin, or at least nearby while I was gone. She wasn’t here when I got back. She didn’t leave any notes, but the sheriff and I found the book in another cabin on the other side of the lake.”