Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote)

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Any preferences for dinner?” McQuesten asked. “Aside from chili?”

  Kathy and I shook our heads.

  “Like moose meat?”

  We shook our heads again.

  “I didn’t think so. I’ll make a reservation at Bar Harbor. Best food in Ketchikan as far as I’m concerned. Really fresh seafood.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Kathy.

  I started to laugh.

  “What’s funny?” Kathy asked.

  “I just realized that we can all loosen up now. It’s over! We found your sister.”

  “And Aunt Dolly’s gold.”

  “Yes, that, too. Aunt Dolly’s gold.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wilimena and Kathy Copeland stood side by side at the entrance to the newly renovated Cabot Cove senior citizen center. Mayor Jim Shevlin and a few other local politicians joined a hundred townspeople at the dedication. The sun shone brightly, and the air was ripe with the first hints of spring.

  It had been a year since my Alaskan adventure. While the passage of time had put distance between me and those tumultuous days, the memories were never far from my consciousness.

  Kathy had stayed in Ketchikan for six weeks while her sister healed. After two operations on her leg, Willie was cleared to leave the hospital and fly with Kathy back to the East Coast, where she went through months of difficult rehabilitation at a physical therapy center just outside of Cabot Cove. Although the doctors in Alaska and the therapists in Maine had done a splendid job, she would walk with a limp for the rest of her life, and often used a cane. I’m not sure she really needed it, but it gave her a modicum of confidence whenever she ventured out—like on this day in early May.

  I’d kept in touch with Trooper McQuesten by phone and through e-mails. Howard Winslow, aka Bill Henderson, had been indicted for the murder of the man who’d gone overboard, whom we knew as John Smith (his real name was Jerry Quincy). He’d also been charged in the murder of Maurice Quarlé, although McQuesten told me that the evidence in that case was weak. And, of course, there was an indictment for attempted armed robbery of Wilimena’s gold. A trial was set to begin any day in Juneau.

  I’d also had communication with Bobby Borosky, our crusty pilot who’d been wounded by Howard Winslow. A doctor told me that it had been touch and go for a couple of days. Borosky had lost a considerable amount of blood and had gone into shock; they’d twice given him last rites. But he’d eventually pulled through. However, the damage to his right shoulder was extensive, and the best he could hope for was minimal use of it—not a good thing for a bush pilot. Wilimena had used a portion of the money generated by the gold to pay all his medical expenses and to set up a fund to supplement the disability payments he would draw for the rest of his life. I had nothing but fond memories of the man, and of my impromptu flying lesson in his vintage DeHavilland Beaver.

  Speaking of fond memories—I corresponded with Gladys Montgomery for the first three months after I’d returned to Cabot Cove. Her e-mails were witty and profound. Although I doubted whether we would ever see each other again, I felt close to her and was greatly saddened when, after not hearing from her for a month, I received an e-mail from a daughter informingme that her mother had succumbed to a massive heart attack while on the Glacial Queen. I was glad it had happened aboard the ship. It was what she would have wanted.

  “Ready?” Mayor Shevlin asked Wilimena.

  “I think so,” she said.

  “Then go ahead and cut it!”

  Wilimena used an oversized ceremonial pair of scissors to cut the yellow ribbon stretched across the senior center’s doorway. As the two ends of the ribbon fluttered to the ground, a loud, sustained round of applause erupted, causing Willie to wave a hand back and forth. “No, no,” she said, grabbing her sister’s hand and raising it into the air like a prizefighter who’d just defeated an opponent in the ring. “If it wasn’t for my courageous big sister,” she shouted to the crowd, “none of this would have been possible.”

  I stood to the side with Seth Hazlitt, Mort Metzger and his wife, the mayor’s wife, Susan, and Kathy’s attorney, Michael Cunniff.

  “It’s a wonderful thing Wilimena and Kathy have done,” Mort said.

  “Very generous,” said Seth. “Sets a good example for our youngsters.”

  “And benefits our seniors,” Susan said.

  Wilimena’s gold had been converted into a sizable amount of cash, almost a million dollars. She’d followed through on her promises to some of the Glacial Queen’s crew members to send them gifts once she’d found the gold. While undergoing rehab for her leg, she’d asked me what Kathy and she might do to benefit the community. She’d decided to settle in Cabot Cove to be near her sister and had purchased a small condominium in a new complex that had been built on Lake Cabot.

  “I think just having you two live here is good enough,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “We want to do something tangible for Cabot Cove. What’s needed? We have all this money and—well, frankly, I won’t be needing most of my half. My globe-trotting days are over. I’ve lived a fool’s life for far too long. All I want to do is settle down here and be—what should I say?—settle down here and be normal.”

  A week later, I brought up her question at a meeting of the town planning commission. Its members suggested that an abandoned office building be renovated and converted into a much-needed new senior center, and that’s what was done, thanks to Wilimena and Kathy’s generosity. The Copeland Senior Center was now open for business.

  Following the opening ceremony, a luncheon was held to celebrate the new addition to our growing town.

  “Maybe it should have been named Aunt Dolly’s Senior Center,” Willie quipped to those at the head table.

  “I still say it should have had your name on it,” Kathy said.

  “It does,” Willie said. “Copeland. You and me, Kathy.” She gave her older sister a hug. “I’ve been such a fool.”

  “No, you haven’t,” Kathy said. “You’ve lived your life the way you wanted to live it. I admire that. Don’t you, Jessica?”

  I had to laugh. “I admire the fact that you survived it,” I said. “I had my doubts about that until we found you in that cabin.”

  We all went our separate ways after lunch. Seth drove me home. I pulled the day’s mail out of my mailbox and went inside to peruse it. One envelope caught my eye. It was from my publisher in New York City. Inside was a smaller envelope that had been addressed to Buckley House. It was handwritten, with a Seattle, Washington, postmark. I opened it and removed a note written in neat, precise handwriting.

  Dear Mrs. Fletcher: I hope you get this. I write from a psychiatric hospital outside of Seattle. You may remember me. I was the one who accused you of stealing my book idea and attacked you at the Seattle Mystery Bookshop. They gave me permission to write this note to you because they thought it should be part of my treatment, acknowledging my behavior and asking forgiveness. I am doing well, and hope you are, too. I use my time here to write a novel of my own. When I finish, I would like to send it to you. I am sorry for what I did.

  Sincerely,

  Walter Munro

  It was good of him to write, I thought as I sat in a recliner, extended my legs, and closed my eyes. Mr. Munro’s note reminded me that I was due to submit an outline for my next novel to Vaughan Buckley, my publisher. Maybe I could use a historical setting in Alaska. Maybe it could take place at Dolly Arthur’s bordello.

  Maybe I could pattern a character after Bobby Borosky and use Trooper McQuesten as inspiration for my cop hero. Maybe . . . maybe . . .

  My final thought before drifting off was—it’s good to be home.

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  “By the Old Lord Harry, it seems to get hotter every day, and no relief in sight.”

/>   Seth Hazlitt wasn’t exaggerating. A front had stalled just off the coast, trapping a flow of hot, humid air coming from the southwest and turning Cabot Cove into a sticky, steamy mess. The temperature had broken records from as far back as they’d been kept, and the forecast for the next several days was more of the same. You couldn’t help but notice a discernible rise in tempers as people slowly moved through their days, perspiration dripping down their necks, eyes stinging from the polluted, stagnant, greenish air, seeking out any place that had a high-efficiency air conditioner. Fortunately, Mara’s Luncheonette, where I sat with Seth and Sheriff Mort Metzger, had an AC that kept up with the heat.

  I’d met them for breakfast that morning to discuss the upcoming Fourth of July weekend celebration. As a physician, Seth was concerned with the well-being of citizens who might overdo things in the heat. “Folks don’t realize how heatstroke can sneak up on you,” he said, motioning for Mara to refill his coffee cup. “Too many damn fools go runnin’ around in this weather, and before they know it, they’re in the emergency room bein’ treated.”

  Mort agreed. “The mayor’s got us putting up notices around town warning people to take it easy until this heat wave breaks, but it doesn’t look like it will until after the Fourth.”

  “I’ve heard people suggest we cancel some of the events,” I offered.

  “Hard to do that, Mrs. F,” said Mort. “You know how folks around here feel about Independence Day. They take it real serious.”

  “Like the rest of the nation,” I said, “and rightly so.”

  Mara brought a pot of coffee to the table and filled Mort’s and Seth’s cups. “More tea, Jessica?” she asked me.

  “I don’t have time,” I said, “but thanks, anyway.”

  “What’s your rush, Mrs. F?” Mort asked.

  “Errands, and some correspondence to catch up on. I’ve been like everyone else these past few days, moving in slow motion.”

  “Best way to be,” Seth advised.

  “But not much gets done,” I said.

  I reached for my purse, but Seth waved me off. “My treat, Jessica,” he said.

  “Well, thank you, sir,” I said, and prepared to leave. But Mort stopped me with, “Look who’s here.”

  Coming through the door was Amos Tupper, Cabot Cove’s former sheriff. After Amos retired, he moved to Kentucky to be near family. Mort, who’d been a police officer in New York City, replaced Amos and took up residence in Cabot Cove with his wife. I loved Amos, and still do, but I had to admit—not for public consumption, though—that the efficiency of our police department had improved since Mort arrived, bringing with him his New York street smarts. Cabot Cove had grown considerably, and with that growth had come a predictable increase in crime. Nothing major for the most part, thank goodness, but challenging enough to warrant a more—how shall I say it?—a more energetic approach to the job of keeping the town’s citizens safe and happy.

  “Hello, there, Amos,” Seth said, struggling to get up from his chair, which was wedged against the wall.

  “No need to get up for me,” Amos said, coming to our table and shaking everyone’s hand. He plopped down in the vacant seat next to me.

  “We heard you were coming,” said Seth. “Just wish you’d brought better weather with you.”

  “It is hot,” Amos confirmed, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “You must be breaking all sorts a’ records.”

  “Ayuh,” Seth said. “That we are.”

  “How are things with you, Mort?” Amos asked.

  “Not bad, Amos. Got things pretty much under control. Getting ready for the Fourth.”

  Amos ordered a short stack of Mara’s signature blueberry pancakes and coffee. “I had trouble finding a place to stay,” he said to no one in particular. “Looks like Cabot Cove’s Fourth of July celebration is attracting more people than ever.”

  Seth, Mort, and I looked at each other.

  Amos was right. While our annual Fourth of July weekend was always a major event in Cabot Cove, this year promised to be the biggest yet. But not everyone was pleased with that. Past celebrations had always been festive but manageable in size and scope. This year was decidedly different, thanks to Joseph Lennon and his corporation, Lennon-Diversified, Ltd.

  Lennon had moved his corporate headquarters from Massachusetts to Cabot Cove a year ago, wooed in part by a generous tax incentive designed to entice companies to relocate to Maine. He’d purchased the area’s biggest building in our largest industrial park and expanded it to a size that had become a source of consternation for many citizens. The park itself was situated on a prime parcel of waterfront land. Originally, the property was to be turned into a multiuse area, with light industry and residential units coexisting side by side. But Lennon and his battery of lawyers managed to get the zoning law changed, allowing Lennon to conscript a large portion of the land directly on the water for his expansion plans. The rear of his building sloped down to the water’s edge, where he added a promenade and dock for his employees’ enjoyment. It was off-limits to others. Next to the building was a spacious grassy area that also went down to the water. Lennon designated it as a public park, which took the edge off his land grab at the rear of his building.

  He hadn’t created as many new jobs as had been expected. That was bad. On the other hand, he’d lowered the tax base. That was good. And he was a generous contributor to the town’s various social and civic organizations, another plus for him and his company.

  But there was a cost for his generosity. He’d injected himself into every aspect of our lives, using his clout as a major taxpayer, and his wealth, to influence countless decisions that otherwise would have been made by town leaders. Our Fourth of July celebration was a prime example of Lennon’s looming presence and overbearing personality and tactics.

  In previous years, we’d been perfectly content to have a small fireworks display, provided by a company in Bangor. Nothing special, but just right for a town the size of Cabot Cove. This year Lennon had persuaded our town leaders that we should set an example for the rest of Maine by presenting a pyrotechnics display to rival the famed New York and Washington spectaculars. Any arguments against it fell by the wayside when Lennon agreed to foot the bill and to make all the arrangements. He contacted Grucci, the world’s most famous fireworks display company, and booked a twenty-five-minute show that cost seventy-five thousand dollars. Grucci had provided fireworks displays for many presidential inaugurations and for myriad Olympics. “Grucci is the best,” Lennon announced in a press release after the deal had been made. “It’s time Cabot Cove awoke from its slumber and joined the big time.”

  Lennon hadn’t stopped with the elaborate fireworks display. Because he was the major tenant in the industrial park, he’d co-opted it for the Fourth as a site for a rock-and-roll concert to take place before the fireworks. And he’d used his influence with state officials to arrange for a flyover of F-16s from the Maine Air National Guard base. No doubt about it. The man thought big.

  But Cabot Cove in “the big time?”

  That didn’t sit well with a number of people in town, although there was another contingent that welcomed this infusion of energy backed by big money. Seth Hazlitt was firmly in the camp taking the position that Cabot Cove should preserve its roots as a smaller community whose growth was steady and controlled. Mort seemed ambivalent, which reflected his position as the sheriff, who wasn’t supposed to take sides in such debates. As for me, I accepted Mr. Lennon’s right to spend his money any way he wished, as long as it wasn’t used for negative purposes. What did bother me was a series of rumors about the man’s personal life and business activities that were less than complimentary. But I kept in mind that they were, after all, just rumors.

  “How’s the family?” Mort asked Amos.

  “Doin’ well, Mort. I like it down there. Got a bunch of hobbies. It’s nice to come back to Cabot Cove, though. Can’t believe how much the town has grown.” He waved to Barney Longshoot, w
ho was sitting at the counter.

  “Well,” Seth said, “time for me to be going. I’ve got a full day of seein’ patients.”

  After promising to catch up with Amos later in the day, Seth and I walked toward the door. We’d almost reached it when it opened and in walked Dr. Warren Boyle.

  “Good morning, Doctor,” Seth said as the handsome young physician stepped aside to allow us to leave.

  “Good morning, Doc,” Boyle said. “Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Hello, Dr. Boyle.”

  “I think I lost a few pounds just walking over here,” Boyle said, flashing a boyish grin. “I thought Maine wasn’t supposed to ever get this hot.”

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you read,” Seth said, the edge to his voice telling me that he wasn’t making small talk.