Trick or Treachery (19 page)

I leaned back in my chair and stared at the fire. It had a soothing effect. When it had burned down to glowing embers, I padded down the hall to my bedroom and knew I’d finally be able to sleep. But what I wanted more, as I slipped out of my robe and slippers and climbed beneath the covers, was for the rest of the night to go quickly.

 

“Joe? It’s Jessica Fletcher.”

“Good morning, Jessica,” attorney Joe Turco said. “What’s this I hear about you becoming one of my client’s clients?”

“Pardon?”

He chuckled. “Lucas Tremaine. He tells me you joined the séance last night.”

“That isn’t exactly accurate. I was there as an observer but—”

“No need to explain, Jessica. If you’re uncomfortable about it, I promise my lips are sealed.”

“I’m not uncomfortable, Joe. I—it doesn’t matter. You said you’d check on a corporation I’m interested in buying stock in, Nutmeg Associates.”

“Right. I did check it. It’s incorporated in Vermont, a privately held corporation so no details are available. Is it going to be a hot stock? Should I buy some when it goes public?”

“Ah, I really don’t know. You don’t know who’s behind the company?”

“Sorry, no names.”

“Well, thanks, Joe. I appreciate the effort.”

“Any time. Say, tell me, what’s one of his séances like? I figure I should know, being his lawyer and all.”

I smiled as I said, “Very impressive. For two hundred dollars you can talk to family members who’ve died, maybe even a great-great-grandmother.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Yes. Thanks again.”

I waited a few minutes before making my second call of the morning. “Marshall-Scott Clothing,” the operator answered pleasantly.

“I’m calling Warren Wilson.”

“Please hold.”

Another woman came on the line. “Mr. Wilson’s office.”

“This is Jessica Fletcher. Is Mr. Wilson in?”

“I’ll see.”

He immediately took the call. “Jessica, this is a pleasant surprise.”

“I’m not certain if you can help me, Warren, but I thought I’d ask. I’m interested in investing in a company you might know.”

He gave forth that warm, pleasant laugh. “The only company I know anything about is this one, Jessica, and I’m not so sure about that anymore.”

“I think you’re being modest. Warren, is Nutmeg Associates a subsidiary of Marshall-Scott Clothing?”

There was silence.

“Warren?”

“Nutmeg Associates? No, it’s not one of our subsidiaries. We have a few divisions, but none called Nutmeg Associates.”

“Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they say.”

“You want to invest in this company?”

“I was considering it.”

“What business is it in?”

“Uh, I’m not sure.”

“Some advice?”

“Sure.”

“Learn all you can about a company before putting any money into it. Too easy to get burned, especially with the smaller start-ups.”

“You’re right, I’m sure. I suppose I have some more investigating to do.”

“I wish you well.”

While waiting for the mail to arrive, I called Information in Burlington, Vermont, and received the number for Excel Laboratories. A receptionist put me through to a gentleman who introduced himself as Cameron Douglas, supervisor of the fabric testing division. I asked whether he could update me on the testing of BarrierCloth for the trademark office.

“I’m afraid that’s privileged information, Mrs. Fletcher,” Douglas said pleasantly.

“I can understand that,” I said. “I’m a writer researching my next book and—”

“Oh, I’m aware of who you are, Mrs. Fletcher, and I wish I could help. But my hands are tied.”

“Of course. And I must admit I’m wearing my writer’s hat as a bit of a ruse. I have an interest in Nutmeg Associates and was curious whether the patent and trademark would be going through based upon favorable test results. The inventor, Anthony Scott, was a friend of mine.”

“Yes. Well, flammability issues are always problematic when patents are being sought. Safety is of paramount concern and . . . I, ah, wish I could be more helpful, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I appreciate being given any time at all,” I said. “Thank you, and have a good day.”

I couldn’t be sure, of course, but his tone said to me that the formula for Tony Scott’s BarrierCloth had failed the test, at least the formula submitted to the patent and trademark office by Nutmeg Associates of Vermont, whoever they were.

I skimmed the mail—nothing of particular interest—and headed off on my bicycle for the Marshall estate. Instead of approaching it from the front, I circumvented the sprawling property and entered through a break in a low stone wall, following a narrow path through the cemetery toward Rose Cottage. Rather than go there, however, I veered to my left and went to the barn, where I’d found the shovel and rag containing the blood, which I now knew was the same type as Matilda Swift’s. DNA tests would confirm the blood was hers, I was sure, but those results were still weeks away.

I got off my bike at the rear of the barn and put down its kickstand, then came around to the front, hoping to see Artie Sack. My timing was good. He’d just arrived after doing chores up at the main house.

“Good morning, Artie,” I called.

He seemed startled to see me there, avoiding my eyes and mumbling a return greeting.

“Have a minute to talk with me?” I asked.

“No, no, got lots to do here, lots to do.”

“I won’t take much time, Artie. We can talk while you work. You know, we’ve known each other for quite a while now. You always make my small garden look so lovely in spring and summer.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, entering the barn, with me on his heels.

“The sheriff says you were very helpful, Artie. He said he likes you.”

Artie turned and looked at me with sad eyes. I wondered for a moment if he might start to cry, but he didn’t, just picked up a rag and started cleaning garden hand tools.

“The sheriff says he understands why you picked up the shovel, cleaned it, and put it away in the barn. You didn’t want people to think you’d been careless with a tool. Right?”

“Yes, ma’am. I seen it layin’ right on the edge of the cemetery and picked it up real fast. Didn’t want nobody to think I’d left it there, careless like.”

“That’s one of the things Mr. Marshall appreciates about you, Artie, how careful you are with everything.”

“Try to be, try to be.”

“You didn’t know there was blood on that shovel, did you?”

He shook his head energetically. “No, ma’am, I did not.”

“But you knew Ms. Swift had been killed.”

He said nothing.

“Artie,” I said, coming close to where he stood at a workbench, “you aren’t in any trouble. No one is blaming you for anything. But you can be a big help to me and the sheriff. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, to help solve a murder?”

“I would.”

“Ms. Swift didn’t deserve to die. She seemed like a nice woman, although a lot of people didn’t like her. Did you like her?”

“Uh-huh, I liked her, liked her . . . a lot.”

“I thought so. Did you spend much time with her?”

“Some. We talked sometimes, when I tended to the roses.”

“You do such a beautiful job with the roses, Artie. She must have liked living in the cottage close to them.”

“She liked it, told me she liked it.”

I paused and watched his methodical buffing of the garden tools before continuing. “She liked to bake cookies, didn’t she?”

“Yes, she did, baked cookies.”

“Did you ever have any of the cookies she baked?”

“They were good. Best cookies, best ones.”

“I bet they were.”

I was about to ask my next question when he stopped cleaning the trowel in his hands and started to cry. I put my hand on his shoulder and felt his body quiver beneath his green army surplus jacket.

“Is it that she’s dead, Artie?”

He sniffled and said, “Yes.”

“You liked her a lot, didn’t you?”

He blew his nose in the rag he’d been using, then turned it over and resumed his chore.

“Artie,” I said, “do you know anything that would help me—us—find out who killed Ms. Swift? Wouldn’t you like to do that? Wouldn’t that make you feel very very good?”

“Ms. Swift liked me,” he said, his voice so muffled I barely understood his words.

“She liked you? Of course she did. Everyone likes you who knows you, Artie.”

“I try to be nice, only people aren’t always so nice to me. She was real nice to me.” He turned and looked at me, and a trace of a smile replaced his tears. “Know what she said to me, Mrs. Fletcher, said to me?”

“No, what, Artie?”

“She said she trusted me, trusted me more than most people.”

“It must have felt good to hear that.”

“Like to be trusted, like it. Made me feel good.”

“Of course it did.” I thought for a moment, then said, “Did Ms. Swift trust you with secrets, Artie?”

He nodded: “Uh-huh, uh-huh.”

“A special secret, an important one?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I would never have wanted you to tell anyone about that secret before, Artie, because Ms. Swift trusted you to keep it concealed.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But now that she’s dead, I know she’d want you to share that secret with people who can find the bad person who killed such a nice woman.”

His brow creased in thought.

“She’d want that very much,” I said. “When she shared her secret with you, she had no idea some bad person would kill her.”

“I bet she didn’t, no, she didn’t.”

“Let’s you and I find that bad person, Artie. The sheriff would be so proud of you for helping him.”

Without another word, Artie left the workbench and walked to a far corner of the barn, where he started to move heavy wooden boxes piled on top of one another. When he’d removed the last one, he bent over and came up with what looked to me from where I stood like a piece of plastic the size of a sheet of paper. On closer examination, it was a plastic sleeve containing a typewritten letter addressed to Matilda Swift.

“Did you read this, Artie?” I asked.

He looked sheepishly at the ground and shook his head. “I don’t read so good, Mrs. Fletcher. Get the words all confused, all confused. Ms. Swift said to hide this real good so nobody’d ever see it except . . . except like you said, she died and I guess it’s the right thing to give it to somebody like you.”

“Yes, Artie, you did the right thing. Ms. Swift would have been very proud of you, and the sheriff will be, too. Now, I’m going to take this letter home with me. Is that all right with you?”

“It’s all right, all right.”

“Good. But I’ll be back and let you know how you helped the sheriff and me find the bad person who killed your friend, Ms. Swift.”

“That’ll be good.”

He began cleaning tools again, and I left the barn, cycling home as fast as I could to read the letter in my library. I studied it a half dozen times before dropping it on the desk and saying aloud, “That’s it!”

“Peter, it’s Jessica Fletcher. Calling too early?”

“For me? You know better.”

Which was true. Peter Eder, conductor of our symphony orchestra, is an inveterate early riser.

“Peter, I need an actress.”

“Don’t we all? What do you need an actress for?”

“To play The Legend at a private party I’m giving tomorrow night.”

“Am I invited?”

“Not to the performance, but you’ll certainly be on the guest list for the post-production party.”

“Good. Then I’m happy to help. The Legend? You’ll need a tall, willowy type.”

“Preferably, although she won’t be close enough to the audience for that to matter.”

“How about Sophia Pavlou?”

“I saw her in last year’s
Streetcar Named Desire.
She was wonderful.”

“Sophia will make it big one day. What’s the job pay?”

“Pay? I hadn’t thought about that.”

“I’m sure she won’t charge you too much. You know actors and actresses, always looking for work. I can call her.”

“That would be wonderful. See if she can meet me this afternoon at the theater. I’ll have the costume and makeup with me.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

He did, ten minutes later. Sophia would be at the Cabot Cove theater at three.

My next call was to the Cabot Cove fire station.

“Is Chief Mann there?” I asked the man who answered.

“Yes, ma’am.” He shouted for Richard Mann, our fire chief, to come to the phone.

“Chief Mann.”

“Dick, it’s Jessica Fletcher.”

“Hello, Jessica. Hope you’re not calling to have me put out a fire at your house.”

“Oh, no, nothing that dramatic. Dick, I’m doing some research for a new book. The plot involves arson, and I thought you might share a little of your technical expertise with me.” Although Cabot Cove’s fire department was small by comparison to those of larger towns and cities, Chief Mann’s reputation as an arson investigator was national. He’d been called to many other places as a consultant when arson was suspected, and he seemed to be always attending workshops and seminars to keep up with the latest thinking and technology.

I suppose Cabot Cove is like many smaller towns across America in that we attract top people from every profession and walk of life once they’ve made their marks, and have decided to seek a slower pace. Dick Mann is a prime example of it, having retired as Boston’s fire chief after twenty distinguished years to come to our town and take over our department.

Mann laughed. “How could I say no, Jessica, once you’ve accused me of being an expert? What would you like to know?”

“I was thinking about the fire last Halloween at Marshall-Scott Clothing’s lab.”