Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice by Donald Bain Page B

was a knock on the door and the deputy opened it. “There’s another visitor,” she said. “The prisoner’s mother.”
    Before we could say anything, Mrs. Caldwell pushed past the deputy and stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her bosom, anger etched on her face.
    “Madam, you have to wait your turn,” the deputy said.
    “Hello, Mrs. Caldwell,” O’Connor said, standing. He waved at the deputy. “It’s all right. Let her in.”
    Mrs. Caldwell pointed at me. “Why is this woman here?”
    O’Connor looked at me; I suppose that my puzzled expression matched his.
    “You may leave now, Myriam,” her mother said. “Tell the deputy to take you back inside. This meeting is over.” She glared at O’Connor. “I’ll be at your office in twenty minutes, and I expect to see you there.”
    Cy’s face was flushed, and I waited for him to say something in defense of our being with his client. But he held his tongue, and Mrs. Caldwell stormed out.
    Myriam slowly pushed out of her chair and shuffled over to the deputy, holding out her wrists so the officer could cuff her before returning her to her cell.
    “I don’t believe what just happened,” I said, watching as a demoralized Myriam was led away.
    O’Connor sat grim faced, his fingers rolling rhythmically on the tabletop.
    “Do you have an explanation for what occurred?” I asked.
    “Probably, but it will take a while to put it in plain words.”
    “I have all the time in the world.”
    He managed a tight smile and shook his head. “Are we still on for dinner?”
    “Yes.”
    He stood, closed his briefcase, and said, “I’ll pick you up at seven? I know you don’t drive.”
    “Seven will be fine,” I replied.
    He left me alone in a room filled with questions.

Chapter Twelve
     
    C y O’Connor arrived at my house at the stroke of seven, bounded from his racing green sports car, and rang the bell.
    “Right on time,” I said.
    “A family trait,” he said. “My father was a stickler for being prompt, claimed that people who ran late were just looking for attention.”
    “He makes a good point,” I said. “Where are we going to dinner?”
    “The Katahdin Club, if it’s all right with you.”
    “That’s fine,” I said. “You’re a member?”
    “Yeah. Dad was. When he died, his membership passed to me. I’ve kept it up. Good for business.”
    The Katahdin Country Club was named after Maine’s Mount Katahdin, the state’s highest peak, the centerpiece of Baxter State Park. Henry David Thoreau once climbed the 5,268-foot-high mountain and wrote about it in a chapter from The Maine Woods , although he spelled it “Ktaadn.” Regardless of the spelling, the club was the second of two golf clubs to open in Cabot Cove once the town had begun to experience growth.
    Its development was not without controversy. Many people in town objected to a pristine tract of land along the coast being developed for the privileged few, and they fought vigorously against it. It was eventually decided, however, that the area needed such a facility, and the plans were approved—but with a provision written at the last minute. In order for the private Katahdin Club to open and for its wealthy members to enjoy an eighteen-hole golf course designed by a leading architect, the developers were obliged to create a second eighteen-hole golf course on an adjacent tract of land that would be open to the public. That seemed to satisfy both sides, and the two facilities have flourished ever since.
    A young man in a valet’s uniform took the car from O’Connor, and we entered the club beneath a long red canopy that stretched from the door to the circular drive. O’Connor, beautifully dressed in a gray suit, blue shirt, and multicolored tie, walked quickly and with a spring in his step, and I had to hasten my pace to keep up with him. He was greeted by other club members as we approached the maître d’, who led us to a table in the dining room with floor-to-ceiling