Trick or Treachery (10 page)

“Daddy, please, you’re not helping things,” Erica said.

“Don’t you talk to me in that tone, young lady. I’ll—”

“Mr. Marshall,” Mort interrupted smoothly, ignoring the insulting comment, “I’ll need your guest list. Do you have a copy handy?”

“No. Alice, my secretary, handled the invitations. She went home an hour ago.”

“Well, I’d be real appreciative if you’d give her a call and have her run that list over to the office first thing tomorrow morning. And maybe Miss Marshall would be kind enough to make some coffee, if it wouldn’t be too much bother.”

“It’s no bother at all, Sheriff.” Erica stood, obviously relieved to get away from her unpleasant companions.

“I’ll be just another fifteen minutes or so,” Mort said. “Wendell, start taking down IDs.” He swung open the patio doors and disappeared past them.

“Erica,” I said, “I’ll give you a hand with the coffee.”

“I’ll help you, Erica,” Warren said, jumping to his feet. Jeremy grabbed his sleeve. “Mrs. Fletcher is already helping her,” he said. “They don’t need you.”

“Who do you thinking you’re talking to, Scott? I’m not one of your marketing flunkies.” He wrenched his arm from Jeremy’s grasp.

“No, you just think you can get ahead by romancing the boss’s daughter.”

“Cut it out, both of you!” Paul ordered.

Erica and I walked down a hall to the rear of the house. “Everyone’s tired,” I said, trying not to sound as though I was, too. “Jeremy and Warren will get over it once they’ve gotten some sleep.”

“I doubt that, Mrs. Fletcher. They hate each other. Ever since Jeremy learned that Warren and I have been dating, he’s been very cold to me.”

“Jealous?”

“If he is, it’s only because he’s ambitious, too. They don’t care about me, either of them. It’s all business. Jeremy came here from California to make sure no one steals his father’s formula. He wants the patent and the royalties.”

The cold, matter-of-fact way in which she delivered her analysis of the situation took me aback for a moment. Surely, I thought, the motives of both Jeremy and Warren couldn’t be that calculating. Had this pretty young woman become so jaded, so cynical, that she was incapable of accepting affection from men who were interested in her? If that was the case, had her relationship with her father been so strained that it had led her to this hardened view of life? It was clear from things she’d said earlier that she and her father did not enjoy the most cordial of parent-sibling relationships. What was behind that? I wondered. Was Paul Marshall so domineering that he’d stripped his daughter of her ability to love? I hoped not.

Erica pushed open a swinging door leading into a huge kitchen. Unlike the formal room we’d just left, the atmosphere in this one was cheery and comfortable with tile floors from the local quarry, hanging plants in front of tall windows, fruitwood cabinets and modern stainless steel appliances. A long country table that served as a work space held clean trays, bowls and utensils from the evening’s buffet.

At one end of the room a curved extension lined with windows jutted out into the garden. Inside it, a round table was covered with a pale yellow linen cloth and set for breakfast for three. I remembered that Jeremy was a house guest, and thought the tension between the young people must make for some uncomfortable meals.

“I was hoping there was some leftover coffee from the party, but they must have thrown it out already,” Erica said. She crossed to a large coffee urn on a sideboard near the alcove and lifted the lid. “Oh, look, it’s already set up for tomorrow. That’s a bit of luck.” She flipped the switch. “We told the staff they didn’t have to come back till noon tomorrow to finish the clean-up. Mrs. Sack must have done this. She’s Artie’s sister-in-law. Do you know Artie?”

“Oh, yes, a nice man and a wonderful gardener. He does work for me, too.”

“I keep forgetting that Artie works for others in the village. Anyway, Mrs. Sack is our housekeeper, and she always sets up the morning coffee in the evening before she leaves. It looks like she made extra in case we had guests. Should be plenty.”

Erica sighed as she sank into one of a quartet of wicker chairs surrounding the small table. “Please, Mrs. Fletcher, sit down. You must be tired, too.”

“I am, but the aroma of the coffee is already waking me up. Shall we get the cups ready, and milk and sugar?”

“In a minute. I don’t think I can lift my arms right now.”

“Point out where everything is and I’ll get what we need.”

“Just sit for a minute,” she said, a small, weary smile crossing her pretty face. “Please. We’ll do it together once the coffee’s brewed.”

I took the chair closest to her.

“What an awful evening,” she said.

“Did you know Matilda Swift very well?” I asked.

“I didn’t know her at all. She moved here several months ago after the cottage was redone. My father fixed it up after Tony died. He gutted the whole place, and then had a decorator come in to furnish it. That’s when the magazine people did the story on the rose garden.”

“You must have spoken with her at some point,” I said, not wanting to sound as though I was prying. “She was your neighbor.”

“Not really. A nodding acquaintance at most. She kept to herself. Tell me, Mrs. Fletcher, have you lived in Cabot Cove all your life?”

“It certainly feels that way,” I said, “although there was a time when I was still teaching that I moved down south.” I laughed. “Massachusetts. ‘Down south’ as Mara at the luncheonette would say.”

“Were you away long?”

“I taught there for several years, but when I met my husband, Frank, he was eager to move to Cabot Cove. I’d told him so many stories about how wonderful my hometown was, he wanted to see if it could possibly be as idyllic as my descriptions. But we were talking about Matilda.”

“The only time I ever lived away from home was during college, but that was only as far as Connecticut.”

“Well, you’re young yet. About Matilda—”

Erica rushed on as if she hadn’t heard me. “My mother’s family came from there, but I really haven’t had much contact with them. I think they didn’t like my father, and when my mother died—I was just a baby—they didn’t bother to keep in touch.” She twisted sideways in her chair so she could prop her arm on its back and rest her chin in her hand.

“I only met your mother once, I believe,” I said. “A lovely woman.”

“I don’t remember her at all. When I was little, Jeremy’s mother was like family to me, but then she moved away, taking Jeremy, and I never saw her again.”

“It must have been difficult for your father, as a single man, raising you alone. He’s done a wonderful job.”

“Well, he always had plenty of help,” Erica said, her voice suddenly hard. “Mrs. Sack has been here over twenty years, and there were a series of nannies, most of whose names I can’t even remember.”

I had mixed emotions. On the one hand, I wanted to gain a better understanding of what had shaped Erica Marshall, why she was so bitter toward her father. On the other hand, intensely personal family matters made me uncomfortable. And, of course, the murder of Matilda Swift was certainly center stage this night.

Erica’s eyes were flashing. She was wide awake now. She stood and went to the coffeemaker. The red light was on, indicating the brewing was completed.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said, joining her at the counter and helping to arrange cups on two trays.

“Everyone always worries about my father. ‘Poor Paul, having to raise a child by himself.’ ‘Poor Paul, losing his best friend and partner.’ ‘Poor Paul.’ ‘Poor Paul.’ ” Her voice had taken on a singsong sound. “Poor Paul, my foot,” she said, stamping on the tile floor. “He’s hard as nails. He only pretends to miss Tony. Nothing gets to him.”

Still fuming, she filled two carafes and wrenched open the refrigerator door, pulling out a container of milk and setting it down hard on one of the trays, next to a sugar bowl.

“We’ll save the niceties for another time, shall we,” she said sharply, lifting a tray and turning from me.

 

Wendell had completed his task of getting basic information from everyone when I reached the living room and placed my tray down next to Erica’s on the French writing table. Everyone perked up at the promise of caffeine and poured themselves cups of coffee. I did, too, but only a half cup—I still held out hope for a few hours’ sleep later on—and resumed my seat by the fireplace, near Seth Hazlitt. Erica sat in a Chippendale chair far removed from her two angry pursuers. Her legs were crossed at the ankle, and one foot bounced up and down at a fast tempo.

“Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes, Wendell?”

“I know who you are and all,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “I figure I don’t need to ask you questions.”

“Oh, I think you’d better get a complete record for Sheriff Metzger, Wendell. Ask me whatever you’ve been asking the others.”

“I suppose you’re right, ma’am.” He pulled a pencil from his uniform jacket pocket and opened a spiral-bound pad.

“What would you like to know?” I asked, placing my cup and saucer down and looking into his earnest face.

As I spelled my complete name for him, he carefully printed it with the kind of neat pen-manship his grade school teachers would have been proud to see. He wrote my name, address and telephone number, each on a separate line in his narrow notebook, then looked up at me. “You’re not planning to go out of town any time soon, are you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“No, Wendell. I’ll be in Cabot Cove through Thanksgiving. I may take a day or two in New York in December to see my agent and do some holiday shopping, but if the investigation is still going on, and you and the sheriff say so, I can put off the trip.”

A worried look crossed Wendell’s brow. “I sure hope we’ve solved the murder before then.”

“We all hope that,” I agreed.

Mort returned a few minutes later. The cool draft that came through the French doors with him freshened the air, and the sounds of rustling clothes and clearing throats indicated that everyone was ready for what would come next.

“Sheriff,” Robert Wandowski said from his corner of the room, “can you question me first? My wife must be frantic by now.”

“Why don’t you give her a call?” Harold suggested. “I’m sure Mr. Marshall won’t mind.”

Paul looked at his employee as if surprised to see him still here. “No, no, of course not. Go ahead, Bob.”

Wandowski shook his head. “Can’t do that. I’d wake my daughter. She’s a light sleeper. Then I’d have two hysterical females to deal with when I get home. C’mon, Sheriff. You’ve got to start with someone. I barely know most of these people, and I sure didn’t know that lady, either, hardly at all. Only time I ever saw her you were there, and—”

Joan interrupted. “Look here, Sheriff, he’s not the only one who wants to go home.”

“I think we should go in alphabetical order,” Jack Decker said, grinning.

“I’ll decide who goes first,” Mort said. “Mr. Marshall, is there another room I can use for interviews, some place private?”

“There’s the library,” Paul said. “I’ll show you where it is.”

Mort and Harold followed Marshall out into the hall, and Wendell moved to stand by the exit. Silence descended once again as everyone collapsed back into their seats.

I watched as Lucas Tremaine surveyed the guests from his vantage point in the center of the room. Wisps of his long hair had escaped from its leather thong, and a five o’clock shadow—it was now well after midnight—considerably darkened his cheeks and jaw. Even in the headless moose costume, he was a commanding presence. He could have been handsome; his features were fine, almost pretty, but there was a hardness to his face that contradicted them. The expression in his gray eyes was derisive and calculating. I wondered what he was thinking.

Paul Marshall returned, paused at the doorway, then went to his seat, carrying a book. “Might as well read something while I’m waiting,” he said.

“Are there more where that came from?” Joan asked.

“You wouldn’t have any magazines back there, would you?” Marilou Decker said.

Paul’s response was to take out a pair of half glasses, open the small volume, and, ignoring everyone, begin to read.

Harold reappeared and came to me. “The sheriff would like to see you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Damn, he didn’t listen to a thing I said.” Bob Wandowski spat, smacking his right fist into his left palm, then resuming his pacing in the corner.

I followed Harold to the front hall and down a wide corridor, the clicking of our heels on the rose-colored marble floor echoing off the vaulted ceiling. We stopped before a pair of carved walnut doors with large brass knobs. Harold pushed one open and stepped aside, allowing me to enter. He followed and closed the door behind us.

Paul Marshall’s library was lovely. I’d been in it before for one civic meeting or another, but it never failed to warm me. Two dozen cherrywood bookcases holding thousands of books dominated three walls. I knew from previous visits that one shelf held several well-thumbed mysteries by J. B. Fletcher, as well as books of the same genre by Agatha Cristie and P. D. James. Heady company.

Mort had taken the high-backed chair behind Paul Marshall’s desk. He looked tired but determined, and a little silly in his party costume. I realized I must look silly, too. “The Legend” was still walking but definitely bedraggled, and I felt the sudden need to remove the gray fright wig and give my face a good scrubbing. Mort must have read my mind. “There’s a lavatory through there, Mrs. F., if you want to wash up,” he said, indicating a door in the corner.

I made my escape, returning a few minutes later with my own coiffure, albeit a bit flattened, and my natural complexion.

“That’s better,” I said, taking a seat in a leather armchair and dropping the wig in my lap. I fished my reading glasses out of my pocket and looped the cord attached to the ear-pieces around my neck.