Free Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice by Donald Bain Page A

miscarriage of justice.
    One Thanksgiving, a drifter, Hubert Billups, arrived in town, and his constant presence on the road outside my house had set me on edge. I hosted a dinner that Thanksgiving; the guest list included my dear friend from London, Scotland Yard inspector George Sutherland, a number of friends from Cabot Cove, and at the last minute Mr. Billups. He was found stabbed to death a few hours after dessert, and because he had been a guest, I was drawn into the investigation, with George at my side.
    Then there was the murder of a local lobster broker just prior to our annual lobster festival, when I was not only immersed in finding the killer, but also a target myself.
    The most memorable murderous moment occurred leading up to Halloween. Tim Purdy conducted an annual Halloween ghost tour, the highlight of which was a recounting of the “Legend of Cabot Cove.” Her name was Hepzibah Cabot. Her husband, a sailor, who was away for extended periods, had had a fling with another woman while on a trip. Hepzibah learned about it, confronted him when he returned home, chopped off his head, and committed suicide by throwing herself into the sea. She became a legend because over the decades people reported seeing her in various places, Cabot Cove’s own resident witch. On this particular Halloween a strange woman, Matilda Swift, rented a cottage on an estate owned by a friend of mine, and her otherworldly behavior had tongues wagging. She was found murdered in her cottage while the annual Halloween costume ball at the estate was under way, and I ended up looking behind the costumes worn by the people at the party—and at their motives—to help identify the killer.
    Maybe Tim was right. Maybe the town’s history should include its less illustrious moments, just as long as I wasn’t the one writing about them. Recalling them was unsettling enough.
    The weather had cleared and the temperature had risen, a welcome harbinger of the spring that would follow. I rode my bike into town, parked it in front of police headquarters, and went to Mort’s office in the relatively new building. He was meeting with a deputy when I arrived and I waited out front until he was free.
    “Thanks for stopping by, Mrs. F. Sorry I couldn’t send a car for you. All my deputies are out on the Wolcott case.”
    “No problem, Mort. I enjoyed the ride into town.”
    “One of these days you should get yourself a driver’s license.”
    “Maybe I will,” I said, “but it isn’t high on my priority list.”
    He chuckled and went to the coffee machine that sat on a shelf behind his desk. “Coffee? Tea?”
    “Neither, thank you.”
    He poured himself a coffee, resumed his seat behind the desk, leaned forward, and said, “So, you know all about the problems Mrs. Wolcott had with her husband.”
    My raised eyebrows and cocked head reflected my surprise.
    “The women’s shelter,” he said. “I’m told that you were there when she came in after her hubby beat her up.”
    “Mind if I ask who told you that?”
    “Don’t mind at all. In questioning a neighbor of the Wolcotts, one of my deputies picked up that she’d gone to the shelter. Not sure if it was the wife, Mrs. Wolcott, or one of the kids who told the neighbor. And I got it that you were there from someone else closer to the scene. But it’s true, right? You were there?”
    I did a quick calculation about whether admitting I’d been present violated the rules of privacy at the shelter. I decided that even if it did, I couldn’t lie to the police, and said, “Yes, I was there, Mort. Why do you ask?”
    “Well, Mrs. F., knowing that Wolcott beat up on his wife is kind of an important thing to know, wouldn’t you say?”
    “It certainly is for his wife.”
    “What did she tell you that night?”
    “Now, Mort,” I said, “you know that you’re treading on a sensitive issue. Women who come to the shelter are assured that what transpires there is privileged