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the receiver down when I heard a plop at the front of the house. I opened the door and picked up that day’s edition of the Cabot Cove Gazette . The bold banner headline screamed at me: “It Was Murder.” I took the paper inside and laid it on my kitchen table. Evelyn Phillips must have been up all night putting together the story, although she shared the byline with James Teller, a young reporter whom she had hired fresh out of college with a journalism degree from the University of Southern Maine in Portland. I’d stopped by the office a few days after he’d started working there and Evelyn had introduced us. I was immediately taken with James’s youthful exuberance and energy, which undoubtedly had been helpful in coming up with the story overnight.
    According to their article, the 911 operator had received a call at 9:07 from the Wolcott residence. The caller was Myriam Wolcott. The conversation with the operator was replayed in the story:
    “Nine-one-one.”
    “This is—oh my God—there’s been a shooting,” Myriam was reported to have said.
    “A shooting. Where?”
    “At my house. It’s . . .”
    “What’s the address, ma’am?”
    Myriam managed to get it out.
    “Is the victim with you now?”
    “Yes. No, he’s in the driveway.”
    “Is he alive, ma’am?”
    “No. I don’t know. He’s been shot.”
    “Do you know the victim?”
    “Of course I do. It’s my husband.”
    “Is the shooter still there? Are you in danger?”
    “No, he’s not here. I mean, I don’t know who shot him. Please hurry. Send help. Please!”
    “Can you see if he’s still alive, ma’am, breathing? I’ll notify the proper authorities. I’m sure they’ll be there shortly.”
    According to the article, Sheriff Metzger was called at home and immediately met up with a deputy who’d responded to the 911 call. After surveying the crime scene, the sheriff called for backup, the medical examiner, and a crime scene team. Dr. Foley arrived fifteen minutes later and confirmed that the victim, Joshua Wolcott, was indeed dead.
    Evelyn Phillips and her new hire, James Teller, had also gone to the scene and reported what they’d witnessed. Two patrol cars were parked at the foot of the driveway, their lights flashing. Evelyn and Teller were able to get close to the victim before another deputy arrived and helped establish an off-limits boundary using crime scene tape. Prior to being banished to the perimeter, the reporters were able to get off two snapshots in which the deceased was seen lying in a pool of his own blood next to his vehicle, his face covered with a cloth presumably placed there by the police. He was on his back; the driver’s door of his gray SUV was open, leading the writers to speculate whether he was gunned down as he was about to get into the car.
    Although neither Evelyn nor Teller was able to gain access to the house, an anonymous source—my guess would be one of the EMTs — said that the victim’s wife, Myriam, and their two children, a teenage boy and a younger daughter, were huddled on a couch. Another couple was with them, later identified as Mrs. Wolcott’s brother, Robert, and her sister-in-law, Stephanie, who lived sixty miles down the coast.
    Attempts to question Sheriff Metzger were stonewalled. “I have nothing to say at this moment,” the sheriff replied. “This is an ongoing investigation.”
    Evelyn and her new journalist had done a good job reporting the incident, considering its fast-breaking nature. Aided by the photos, I kept visualizing the grisly scene as I settled in my home office and checked e-mails that had come in overnight. I was in the midst of that task when the phone rang once again.
    “Mrs. Fletcher. It’s James Teller at the Gazette .”
    “Hello, James. I’m just reading your coverage of Josh Wolcott’s murder. I must say that you and Evelyn did a thorough job.”
    “I spent most of last night at the scene of the crime and have been trying to dig up