Read Online A Little Yuletide Murder by Jessica Fletcher - Free Book Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
Ads: Link
Seven
My clock radio went off at seven the next morning, as it always did. I kept it tuned to Cabot Cove’s only radio station, owned and operated by friends of mine, Peter and Roberta Walters. Pete did the morning show himself, weaving in interesting, often amusing tidbits of local news with pleasant music that reflected his own taste—and mine—mostly big band music and singers like Sinatra and Bennett, Mel Torme and Ella Fitzgerald.
But this morning I was awakened to the strains of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” I stayed in bed until the song ended. Pete came on with his deep, pleasant voice and said, “Good morning Cabot Coveites. This is your humble morning host reminding you that you have twenty-three shopping days until Christmas.”
That reality caused me to sit up straight. Christmas seemed to start earlier and earlier each year, usually right after Thanksgiving, but even earlier in some instances. I wasn’t sure I liked that, but since there was nothing I could do about it, I didn’t dwell upon it.
I got up, put on slippers and robe, and went to the kitchen, where I turned on the teakettle and retrieved from a bag a cinnamon bun I’d bought the day before at Charlene Sassi’s bakery. As I waited for the water to boil, I looked out my window at the rear patio, covered by what I estimated to be three inches of snow. You get good at judging the depth of snow after living in Maine for a while. The two bird feeders I’d hung near the window were doing a landslide business, my little feathered friends fluttering about them in a feeding frenzy.
The teakettle’s whistle interrupted my reverie. Armed with a steaming mug of tea and the cinnamon bun, I went to the living room and turned on the television. The Today Show was on; the guest was an economist forecasting how well merchants would do this holiday season. I wasn’t interested in that, so I shut it off and returned to the kitchen for the more esthetic show being put on by the birds. But as I watched them, thoughts of Jake Walther and what had occurred at his house last night took center-stage.
Judging from the way things had gone, my assumption was that Jake had been detained, at least overnight, in Mort Metzger’s four-cell jail, which he was fond of referring to as his “Motel Four,” the humor undoubtedly lost on those forced to spend a night there.
I also thought of Mary Walther, poor thing, having to face what had become the town’s apparent consensus that her husband had murdered Rory Brent. I desperately hoped it wasn’t the case, that whoever shot Rory was a stranger passing through, a demented, vile individual who had no connection to Cabot Cove. But I had to admit that Jake’s sudden move toward his weapon caused me to wonder whether there might be some validity to the rumor that there was bad blood between them, and that he’d killed Rory because of it. The contemplation made me shudder.
Our local newspaper was on the front steps. I brought it inside, made a second cup of tea, and read the paper from cover to cover. Originally, it had been a weekly. But the town had grown sufficiently to prompt its publisher to turn it into a daily paper, usually dominated by news of births and deaths, local events, and the goings-on of various citizens, but with an impressive national and international section culled from wire services to which the paper subscribed. Plans for the Christmas festival occupied two entire inside pages. Rory’s murder took up most of the front page.
The reporter had tried to interview Mort Metzger, but our sheriff had simply replied, “No comment.”
Good for him, I thought. What could he possibly say at this stage of the investigation?”
But a spokesman from county law enforcement was willing to speak, at length. I recognized the picture of the officer that accompanied the article. He’d been at Rory’s barn when Mort and I arrived.
There was a biography of Rory, highlighting the fact that he’d
My clock radio went off at seven the next morning, as it always did. I kept it tuned to Cabot Cove’s only radio station, owned and operated by friends of mine, Peter and Roberta Walters. Pete did the morning show himself, weaving in interesting, often amusing tidbits of local news with pleasant music that reflected his own taste—and mine—mostly big band music and singers like Sinatra and Bennett, Mel Torme and Ella Fitzgerald.
But this morning I was awakened to the strains of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” I stayed in bed until the song ended. Pete came on with his deep, pleasant voice and said, “Good morning Cabot Coveites. This is your humble morning host reminding you that you have twenty-three shopping days until Christmas.”
That reality caused me to sit up straight. Christmas seemed to start earlier and earlier each year, usually right after Thanksgiving, but even earlier in some instances. I wasn’t sure I liked that, but since there was nothing I could do about it, I didn’t dwell upon it.
I got up, put on slippers and robe, and went to the kitchen, where I turned on the teakettle and retrieved from a bag a cinnamon bun I’d bought the day before at Charlene Sassi’s bakery. As I waited for the water to boil, I looked out my window at the rear patio, covered by what I estimated to be three inches of snow. You get good at judging the depth of snow after living in Maine for a while. The two bird feeders I’d hung near the window were doing a landslide business, my little feathered friends fluttering about them in a feeding frenzy.
The teakettle’s whistle interrupted my reverie. Armed with a steaming mug of tea and the cinnamon bun, I went to the living room and turned on the television. The Today Show was on; the guest was an economist forecasting how well merchants would do this holiday season. I wasn’t interested in that, so I shut it off and returned to the kitchen for the more esthetic show being put on by the birds. But as I watched them, thoughts of Jake Walther and what had occurred at his house last night took center-stage.
Judging from the way things had gone, my assumption was that Jake had been detained, at least overnight, in Mort Metzger’s four-cell jail, which he was fond of referring to as his “Motel Four,” the humor undoubtedly lost on those forced to spend a night there.
I also thought of Mary Walther, poor thing, having to face what had become the town’s apparent consensus that her husband had murdered Rory Brent. I desperately hoped it wasn’t the case, that whoever shot Rory was a stranger passing through, a demented, vile individual who had no connection to Cabot Cove. But I had to admit that Jake’s sudden move toward his weapon caused me to wonder whether there might be some validity to the rumor that there was bad blood between them, and that he’d killed Rory because of it. The contemplation made me shudder.
Our local newspaper was on the front steps. I brought it inside, made a second cup of tea, and read the paper from cover to cover. Originally, it had been a weekly. But the town had grown sufficiently to prompt its publisher to turn it into a daily paper, usually dominated by news of births and deaths, local events, and the goings-on of various citizens, but with an impressive national and international section culled from wire services to which the paper subscribed. Plans for the Christmas festival occupied two entire inside pages. Rory’s murder took up most of the front page.
The reporter had tried to interview Mort Metzger, but our sheriff had simply replied, “No comment.”
Good for him, I thought. What could he possibly say at this stage of the investigation?”
But a spokesman from county law enforcement was willing to speak, at length. I recognized the picture of the officer that accompanied the article. He’d been at Rory’s barn when Mort and I arrived.
There was a biography of Rory, highlighting the fact that he’d
Similar Books
