Free Trick or Treachery by Jessica Fletcher Page A

flat.”
    Mort stood. “Anybody see anything around here could’ve been the weapon?” He extended his hand to assist Seth to his feet.
    As onlookers swiveled in search of a possible weapon, Joan Lerner dropped to her knees. “Here, kitty, kitty,” she called softly.
    A large black cat, back arched, was rubbing its side against the corner of the cottage. Large yellow eyes gazed warily at the intruders in its domain.
    “Ah, the witch’s familiar,” Peter Walters muttered. “The spirit that accompanies her everywhere.”
    His wife swatted his arm. “Peter, you’re as bad as those people in town. This is no time to kid.”
    As Joan moved slowly toward the cat, it gave out with a yowl, quickly turned around, tail high, and disappeared behind a hedge.
    “We can’t just leave the cat.” Joan frowned, brushing mud off her hands. “There’s no one here now to feed it.”
    I didn’t mention that cats are natural hunters and that this one looked like it could easily find prey. Instead, I said, “I’ll call Artie Sack later. He’s the gardener who lives on the estate. I’m sure he’ll be glad to care for the cat. He’s always over here pruning and watering the rose bushes. In fact, he’s right over there.” I pointed to where Jeremy, followed by Artie, trotted back from the Marshall mansion.
    “Good, Jessica,” Joan said. “I would have worried.”
    Jeremy Scott went straight to Mort. “I had some trouble getting through,” he panted, out of breath. “The line was full of static. Artie here found me a phone that worked. They’re on their way.”
    Artie blushed at what he perceived as a compliment. He looked down and shuffled his feet, then saw the body and cringed. A moan escaped his lips. He squeezed his eyes shut and began rocking back and forth, hugging his shoulders and making mewling sounds. Mort put his arm around him and turned him away from the body. “It’s okay, Artie,” he said, “nothing to do with you. Go on home. You’ve already helped enough.”
    A few minutes later, flashing lights were seen in the circular driveway of the Marshall home, and we were joined by two of Mort’s uniformed deputies, one with a camera dangling around his neck and carrying a heavy box, the other holding a small black bag from which he pulled a roll of yellow crime scene tape. They were followed by a pair of white-coated EMS technicians toting a stretcher, and the county’s medical examiner, Alfred Gillo, who’d been appointed to that post only six months earlier.
    “Where’s Harold?” Mort shouted at one of the deputies.
    “I got hold of him, Sheriff, and filled him in. He should be here soon.”
    “Where was he?”
    “Down the quarry road, helping a motorist with a flat. You know how rough that road is.”
    “What about the state guys, Jerry? We’re gonna need security help overnight, and crime scene personnel.”
    “Called them, too. Should be a couple ’a cars here soon.”
    Jerry put down his heavy load, which, it turned out, contained a battery pack and lights. He set up the lights and plugged in the cords, then pressed a switch. A brilliant white light instantly flooded the scene, demarcating everything in its path from pebbles in the mud to the now-crusting blood in Matilda’s hair, and casting deep shadows where its illumination failed to reach. The front of the Rose Cottage lit up like the scrim for a fashion magazine photo shoot.
    “Don’t think we need to tent the scene, Sheriff,” Jerry said. “Not fixing to rain again tonight.”
    Squinting against the sudden brightness, Mort nodded and started barking instructions, ordering our group to move farther away from the lighted area so the officers had room to work.
    “Jerry, take your photos so these guys can continue doin’ their job,” he said, pointing to the EMS crew.
    “Right, Sheriff.”
    “Wendell, get out the spray paint so you can mark the position of the body when Jerry’s finished takin’ pictures.”
    “Yes, sir.