Murder, She Wrote: Domestic Malice

Informationen zum Autor Jessica Fletcher Klappentext HOMEGROWN HOMICIDE Jessica is volunteering at the Cabot Cove women's shelter when a woman walks in bruised physically and mentally. Her husband is a well-respected businessman in town. Could this paragon of virtue be abusing his wife? Despite Jessica's support and advice, the woman refuses to stay at the shelter, press charges, or even report the abuse. But a few days later the entire town is shocked to hear that domestic abuse has turned to murder. Investigating the crime, Jessica soon discovers that the woman's family has secrets and lies that go beyond domestic violenceand that the real killer may be hiding behind a wall of silence that could send the wrong person to prison....The only thing that this so-called women's shelter does is to foster disharmony in otherwise harmonious households here in Cabot Cove. For the Cabot Cove town government to be providing financial support to it is a travesty, a prime example of the misuse of taxpayer funds. The speaker was Richard Mauser, owner of a metal-fabricating factory in an industrial park alongside the Cabot Cove River, and an elected member of the town council. Mauser, age sixty, was a bombastic naysayer whose fiery speeches during council meetings were often the butt of jokes for those in attendance, but this didn't deter him from offering his opinion on anything and everything. He was a large man with a shock of copper-colored hair fringed with gray, and whose suitshe always wore a suit and tie to meetingstended to be a size too small for his bulky frame. His white dress shirts pressed into the folds of his neck, and his face reddened whenever he took the floor and railed against whatever was being considered, shouting down those who disagreed with his positions and disparaging anyone who dared challenge him. This night was no different. I'd had a previous engagement and hadn't planned on attending the meeting, but when I heard that renewing funding for the women's shelter would be on the agenda, I canceled my plans. Now I sat in the front row along with Edwina Wilkerson, a former social worker at the hospital and a friend of many years, who'd spearheaded the establishment of the shelter two years earlier. Edwina was one of those women who seemed to be in perpetual motion, and her wiry frame attested to her active life. She was coiled like a snake as Mauser spoke; I was ready to grab her should she leap up and attack the man. We've been sold a bill of goods, Mauser shouted, told by the usual do-gooders in town that we even need a shelter forhe paused and smirkedfor the fair sex. Well, let me tell you the facts. Let me differentiate between reality and fancy. The only thing the women's shelter accomplishes is to give women an excuse for leaving their hardworking husbands and adding to the divorce statistics. You want to talk about family values? I'll tell you about family values, and this shelter isn't it. Now, frankly, I don't give a damn whether these do-gooders want to run a shelter and pay for it out of their own pockets or collect donations from anyone they can hoodwink, but Cabot Cove has no business allocating funds to help sustain this travesty of morality. He glared at our mayor, Jim Shevlin, who sat with a small smile on his lips. Jim had had to put up with Mauser's mad rants for the years that he'd been mayor, and I admired him for his calm patience. Mauser ran out of steam and sat heavily in his chair. That man is a heart attack waiting to happen, Dr. Seth Hazlitt, who sat on the other side of me, muttered. The man is despicable was Edwina's whispered editorial comment in my ear. We've heard from Mr. Mauser, Mayor Shevlin said. Let's open the discussion and hear other viewpoints. Edwina quickly got to her feet. First of all, she said, I deeply resent the way Dick Mauser has charac...

Autorentext

Jessica Fletcher

Klappentext

HOMEGROWN HOMICIDE

Jessica is volunteering at the Cabot Cove women's shelter when a woman walks in bruised physically and mentally. Her husband is a well-respected businessman in town. Could this paragon of virtue be abusing his wife?

Despite Jessica's support and advice, the woman refuses to stay at the shelter, press charges, or even report the abuse. But a few days later the entire town is shocked to hear that domestic abuse has turned to murder.

Investigating the crime, Jessica soon discovers that the woman's family has secrets and lies that go beyond domestic violence—and that the real killer may be hiding behind a wall of silence that could send the wrong person to prison....

Zusammenfassung
HOMEGROWN HOMICIDE
 
Jessica is volunteering at the Cabot Cove women’s shelter when a woman walks in bruised physically and mentally. Her husband is a well-respected businessman in town. Could this paragon of virtue be abusing his wife?
 
Despite Jessica’s support and advice, the woman refuses to stay at the shelter, press charges, or even report the abuse. But a few days later the entire town is shocked to hear that domestic abuse has turned to murder.
 
Investigating the crime, Jessica soon discovers that the woman’s family has secrets and lies that go beyond domestic violence—and that the real killer may be hiding behind a wall of silence that could send the wrong person to prison....

Leseprobe
“The only thing that this so-called women’s shelter does is to foster disharmony in otherwise harmonious households here in Cabot Cove. For the Cabot Cove town government to be providing financial support to it is a travesty, a prime example of the misuse of taxpayer funds.”

The speaker was Richard Mauser, owner of a metal-fabricating factory in an industrial park alongside the Cabot Cove River, and an elected member of the town council. Mauser, age sixty, was a bombastic naysayer whose fiery speeches during council meetings were often the butt of jokes for those in attendance, but this didn’t deter him from offering his opinion on anything and everything. He was a large man with a shock of copper-colored hair fringed with gray, and whose suits—he always wore a suit and tie to meetings—tended to be a size too small for his bulky frame. His white dress shirts pressed into the folds of his neck, and his face reddened whenever he took the floor and railed against whatever was being considered, shouting down those who disagreed with his positions and disparaging anyone who dared challenge him.

This night was no different.

I’d had a previous engagement and hadn’t planned on attending the meeting, but when I heard that renewing funding for the women’s shelter would be on the agenda, I canceled my plans. Now I sat in the front row along with Edwina Wilkerson, a former social worker at the hospital and a friend of many years, who’d spearheaded the establishment of the shelter two years earlier. Edwina was one of those women who seemed to be in perpetual motion, and her wiry frame attested to her active life. She was coiled like a snake as Mauser spoke; I was ready to grab her should she leap up and attack the man.

“We’ve been sold a bill of goods,” Mauser shouted, “told by the usual do-gooders in town that we even need a shelter for”—he paused and smirked—“for the fair sex. Well, let me tell you the facts. Let me differentiate between reality and fancy. The only thing the women’s shelter accomplishes is to give women an excuse for leaving their hardworking husbands and adding to the divorce statistics. You want to talk about family values? I’ll tell you about family values, and this shelter isn’t it. Now, frankly, I don’t give a damn whether these do-gooders want to run a shelter and pay for it out of their own pockets or collect donations from anyone they can ho…