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

“I’ll be waiting.”
    * * *
     
    Edwina drove the way she did everything else in life—fast! You got the feeling that she viewed each day as possibly her last and intended to cram a lifetime into it. But I didn’t comment as she sped along the road leading out of town and to the community where the Wolcott house was located.
    It was a split-level, identical to all the other homes on the block, the lawn and small flower garden in front as perfectly maintained as the neighbors’ yards. We pulled up to the curb and I took note of a small yellow car parked across the street. The sun was in my eyes and I squinted to see if I recognized the driver who sat stoically behind the wheel. It was James Teller, from the Gazette . I waved and he returned the gesture.
    But it was another vehicle that more fully captured my attention, a marked Cabot Cove police cruiser containing two officers, one a familiar face, a deputy sheriff who’d been with the department for a number of years, the second unfamiliar to me. There was also a black Lexus sedan with a Maine license plate parked in the driveway.
    Edwina and I got out of her car. A white granular substance coated a spot in the driveway that I assumed was there to cover Josh Wolcott’s blood. Although the newspaper article had said that crime scene tape had been strung, it had been removed, a positive sign where Myriam was concerned. Teller had told me that she was considered a “suspect,” which I chalked up to his youthfulness. A “person of interest”—a more neutral designation and one meant to indicate that many people were being questioned—was the politically correct term these days and was more likely the way Myriam was being viewed at that juncture, unless evidence surfaced to make her an official suspect.
    Two red bicycles—one a larger boy’s model, the other a smaller one meant for a female rider—were piled together in front of the two-car garage. While the lawn and garden were manicured, the house was starting to show some neglect; white paint on the garage door had started peeling, and the trim around the front door was doing the same. A screen on the front window was torn as if someone had put a fist through it.
    Edwina rang the bell.
    We heard movement before the inside door was cracked open by Myriam, who peered questioningly at us through the screen door.
    “Hi, Myriam,” Edwina said.
    “Yes, hello,” Myriam said as she unlatched the door. Warm air enveloped us as we entered. It was dark inside; no lights were on and the drapes were tightly drawn.
    “I’m so sorry about Josh,” I said, giving her a brief hug.
    “Yes,” Edwina said. “This is a terribly difficult time for you.”
    “Thank you for coming,” Myriam said weakly. She wore tight-fitting jeans, a white blouse underneath an open brown cardigan, and running shoes.
    Myriam led us into the living room. “Please sit down.” She flipped a wall switch, and two table lamps came to life. “I don’t have much in the house, haven’t had a chance to go shopping, but I do have some tea I can make, and there’s cookies.” She smiled. “My neighbor brought over a plate just now. She said there should always be cookies around with kids in the house.”
    I was saddened to see how little support Myriam was getting from the community. Had Josh died of a disease or in an accident, the ladies of Cabot Cove would have dropped off more casseroles and cakes and other dishes for the grieving family than they could possibly consume. Thank goodness one neighbor had the compassion to bring something for the children.
    The lack of provisions spoke to how ill at ease Myriam’s neighbors must be, given the circumstances of her husband’s death. But I was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps the presence of a squad car was keeping them away, and when it disappeared (along with Teller’s vehicle) the neighborhood would rise to the occasion. At least I hoped so.
    “Nothing for me,” I