Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice Read Online Free PDF Page B

he wasn’t working tuned into police, fire, and aviation frequencies. “Alfred said that he heard a call go out to the police last night at about nine, nine thirty, for a possible gunshot victim at the Wolcott house. He stayed tuned and heard Sheriff Metzger call back to headquarters for the medical examiner and a crime scene unit to be dispatched. The sheriff said on his call that it was a homicide, and named Josh Wolcott.”
    “Do they have any suspects?”
    “Not that I know of, but, Jessica, do you think that—I hate to even consider it—do you think that Myriam might have shot him?”
    “Let’s not jump to conclusions, Edwina.”
    She was not the only one to call about the shooting.
    By nine my phone was virtually jumping off its base. Every time I tried to squeeze in a shower, it rang, friends calling to ask whether I’d heard about Josh Wolcott. Each caller had information to impart, although it was obvious that just about everything they had to offer was based upon rumor and innuendo. They all wanted to know whether I had any information about the event, assuming, I suppose, that a writer of murder mysteries has some magical insight into real crime. I fended them off as politely as I could and finally grabbed a quick shower, dressed, and managed coffee and an English muffin before the next call.
    It was Seth.
    “Yes, I heard,” I replied to his question. “Edwina called me earlier. Do you have any factual updates?”
    “I notice you injected the word ‘factual,’ Jessica. I assume the rumor mill is running amok.”
    “That’s putting it mildly.”
    “Well,” Seth said, “I did have a brief conversation with Doc Foley.” Dr. Rolland Foley was a physician in town who doubled as the medical examiner. Seth often filled in for him when he was away. “From what he says, Wolcott was gunned down in his driveway last night, single shot to the chest.”
    “What sort of weapon?” I asked.
    “Not sure at this juncture, Jessica. I gather that the weapon wasn’t found at the scene.”
    “The family must be devastated.”
    “Ayuh. Did you know the Wolcotts well?”
    “No,” I replied. I almost added that I’d been at the women’s shelter two nights ago when Myriam Wolcott walked in but held myself in check, certain it would constitute a breach of confidence, murder or no murder.
    “I knew Mr. Wolcott,” Seth said. “He wasn’t a patient of mine, but he tried to get me to hire him as my financial adviser a coupla years ago.”
    “He did the same with me,” I said. “He was nice enough, but I told him right away that I didn’t intend to change advisers.”
    “Same here. I had a funny feeling about what he was trying to sell.”
    “You, too?”
    “Ayuh. Whenever somebody tells me that he can triple my profits, it raises my wariness antenna.”
    “Frankly, Seth, I had the same reaction.”
    “I did a little checking after he left the house. He was a certified financial adviser, all right, but there have been a few complaints filed against him, claims that he misrepresented what he was offering.”
    “Sorry to hear that,” I said, “but I suppose it doesn’t make any difference now that he’s gone.”
    “Unless somebody who filed a claim against him got sore enough to take drastic action.”
    I hadn’t thought of that in the hubbub of that morning. Of the basic motives for murder, money ranks right up near the top along with jealousy, revenge, and envy, not to mention being a battered spouse.
    Seth excused himself to answer another call but was back on the line quickly.
    “Sorry, Jessica,” he said. “One of those infernal telemarketers wanting to sell me some jo-jeezly thing I don’t need or want. I told her that I was busy but that if she’d give me her home phone number, I’d call her this evening while she’s eating dinner.”
    “What did she say?” I asked, laughing.
    “She hung up.”
    “Good for you, Seth,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
    I’d no sooner put