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firmly on the floor.
    “Sure you don’t want something?” I asked. “Perhaps some wine?”
    “No, thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m afraid this is not a social visit.”
    “Please call me Jessica,” I said. “We know each other well enough for that.”
    Mary Walther and I established a bond of sorts two years ago when her daughter, Jill, was about to graduate from high school. I’d taught a workshop that spring for students who’d achieved honor status in their senior English class, and Jill Walther was one of them. She was a shy girl, with a head of frizzy hair and who wore very thick glasses. When I read her first short story, I was immensely impressed with her talent and insight. This was a young woman who was definitely college potential, and who could, if she followed the right path, become a fine writer.
    I encouraged her; she seemed to respond to my praise. One day she lingered after class, and we had a chance to discuss her future. She wanted to go to college, but her father didn’t have the money to send her. Although she didn’t state it, I sensed that even if Jake Walther had the funds to pay for her college education, he wouldn’t do it.
    I decided to help. I wrote to the dean of creative writing at New York University, where I’d taught on occasion, sent him copies of Jill’s stories, and urged him to consider a full scholarship for her. He came through. Jill was thrilled at the news, although her father’s reaction was not as positive. Eventually, Mary Walther managed to choreograph things so that Jill could go off to New York City and begin her college studies. She kept in touch through letters, and whenever she was home made it a point to visit me.
    Mary Walther, not a terribly demonstrative person, was relatively lavish in her gratitude to me, and we’d maintained that good relationship ever since, not a close friendship by any means, but a warm feeling for each other.
    “Not a social visit?” I said, taking a chair across from her and leaning forward to indicate my interest in what she was about to say. When she didn’t speak, I said, “Would I be correct in assuming you’re here because of what happened to Rory Brent?”
    She closed her eyes for a second, opened them, and said, “Yes.”
    “Well, suppose you tell me what’s on your mind.”
    She said flatly, “I’m afraid there is going to be big trouble.”
    I sat back and sighed. “Oh, I’m sure there will be. We don’t have many murders here in Cabot Cove. My hope is that Rory was killed by someone passing through, not anyone who lives here.”
    “They’re saying Jake did it,” she said in that same low voice bordering on masculine.
    “Yes, I’ve heard the rumor. People shouldn’t jump to such conclusions.”
    “Jake isn’t much liked in these parts,” she said.
    I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “I suppose people consider him to be ... well, consider him to be a little angry at times.”
    “People don’t give him a fair chance to be liked,” she said.
    I didn’t necessarily agree with her, but didn’t want to get into a debate.
    She continued. “Jake’s always been a hardworking man, Mrs. Fletcher. Hard work and not much to show for it. He gets bitter at times, mad at what the good Lord has dealt him.”
    I thought of other people I knew who’d been dealt a losing hand in life, too, but who, if they were bitter, didn’t wear it on their sleeve the way Jake Walther did.
    “Jake can be down right jo-jezzly at times. I wouldn’t deny that.”
    Jo-jezzly was a popular Maine term for someone who was ornery or cussed. It seemed an apt description of Jake Walther.
    “Not always easy living with him. I would say that for certain.”
    “Mary, you said there was going to be big trouble. Do you want to explain that a little further?”
    She replied, “Jake knows what folks are saying about him and Rory, that they didn’t get along and that Jake was the one who shot him. Jake says nobody is going to take him