Free A Little Yuletide Murder by Jessica Fletcher Page A

pieces of crunchy French bread, and settled down at my kitchen table for one of my favorite meals. Although it had stopped snowing, it was still gray and raw outside, a perfect day to stay indoors. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the luxury of spending the afternoon there. I was due at our local community college at three to meet with Bob Roark, dean of the creative writing department. He’d approached me a month ago to see whether I would be willing to teach a minicourse in mystery writing. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have had to decline his offer because of the press of my own writing schedule. But as it turned out, I didn’t plan to start my next book for at least three months, which gave me plenty of time to do those pleasurable things I too often never get around to. I enjoy teaching young writers, and have been doing more and more of it over the past few years, including New York University in Manhattan, and individual one-day seminars at other institutions of higher learning.
    The clams were succulent—no surprise. After mopping up the last few drops of broth and butter with the final scrap of bread, I returned to correspondence I’d been working on the night before when Mary Walther’s arrival had interrupted the process. I wrote letters until quarter of three, when Dimitri Cassis arrived with the taxi to take me to the college.
    “What is new about Mr. Brent’s murder, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked once I’d gotten in the backseat and closed the door.
    “I really don’t know, Dimitri.”
    “Did Mr. Walther do it?”
    “Why do you ask that?”
    “Everyone says he did.”
    “Well, Dimitri, just because everyone says so doesn’t mean it’s true. I don’t think anyone knows who killed Rory Brent, although I certainly hope they find out as soon as possible.”
    He pulled out of my driveway, and we rode in silence for a minute before he said, “I don’t like Mr. Walther.”
    “Have you had a problem with him?”
    “Oh, yes. When I first came to Cabot Cove, I drove him to his house from town. He said he would go in the house and get money, but he never came out.”
    “That’s not very nice,” I said. “What did you do? Did you knock on his door?”
    “No, Mrs. Fletcher, I did not think I could do that. I had only been here a few months, and had bought the taxi from Mr. Monroe two weeks before. I did not want to make trouble.”
    “Well, people should be paid when they provide a service. Is that the only time you were involved with Jake Walther?”
    “Yes, ma’am, although I have seen him many times in the town. He’s not nice to people.”
    “Yes, I know. He isn’t very pleasant.”
    We said nothing else until Dimitri pulled up in front of the administration building on the community college campus.
    “Put it on my bill,” I said.
    “Of course,” he said. “You are my best customer.”
    “I’m glad to hear that.”
    “Mrs. Fletcher?”
    “Yes?”
    “I would not be surprised if Mr. Walther killed Mr. Brent.”
    “And I would be very sad.”
    He nodded and said, “I understand. You will call for me to pick you up?”
    “Yes. It should be in about an hour.”
    I’d met Dean Robert Roark shortly after his arrival in Cabot Cove. He’d come to our community college from the English Department of Purdue University, where he’d been rated the department’s most popular and effective teacher. Having been born in Maine played a major role in his decision to leave a comfortable Midwest teaching position to take over a department at a two-year community college. No matter what his motivation, he quickly became a valuable asset not only to the college, but to the community at large.
    I judged him to be forty years old. He had long blond hair the consistency of corn silk, and was blessed with boundless energy and enthusiasm. My first experience with him was when he put together a conference featuring Maine writers. I remember distinctly being impressed with how many writers showed up.