Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote)
Page 26
“Good advice, Doc,” said Boyle. “You tell your patients that?”
“Most of them know it without me having to tell them. Have a good day, sir.”
“You, too,” Boyle replied. “Stay cool, Mrs. Fletcher.”
Seth and I stepped outside into what felt like a sauna.
“Arrogant young fella, isn’t he?” Seth muttered.
“More self-assured than arrogant,” I suggested.
“All the same to me. Drive you someplace?”
“Home, if you don’t mind.”
Like many residents of Maine, I had never considered air-conditioning a necessity. Sure, there were bound to be some days during the summer that became uncomfortably hot, but strategically placed fans usually did the trick. We’d had an unusually warm summer a few years ago, though, which prompted me to purchase two window air conditioners for my home on Candlewood Lane, one for the kitchen, the other for my study, where I do my writing. I wouldn’t have bothered had I not been a writer and someone who enjoys cooking. I function just fine in hot weather as long as what I’m doing doesn’t involve thinking. But my kitchen and my writing room had become uncomfortable that summer, and I found myself focusing more on how hot I was than on the dishes I was creating or the words I was putting on the page.
As Seth drove up Main Street from the harbor, the air coming in the open windows of the car thickened. Away from the waterfront breezes, it gathered heat from the buildings and pavement and pressed down upon us like a flatiron. Seth switched on the air-conditioning and in tandem we closed our windows, eager to escape the blistering temperature. Cocooned in the cooling space, I thought about what had transpired at Mara’s that morning.
It was good to see Amos Tupper again, and I was glad he would be in Cabot Cove through the Fourth of July weekend. He and Mort Metzger seemed to get along nicely, although there was bound to be some tension between them. I think Amos was envious of Mort’s more modern approach to solving crimes, and Mort probably wished he was viewed as warmly as Amos had always been. No matter. They were both good men, and I counted my friendship with them among my blessings.
The growth of Cabot Cove had taken many directions, including an influx of new physicians, some of them Maine natives looking to set up practice, others emigrating from larger cities in search of a less stressful lifestyle. It wasn’t long ago that Cabot Cove’s citizens had to travel to larger cities like Boston, Bangor, and New York when in need of a specialist. That certainly had changed. We now had a good representation of specialists in our area, and they were welcomed by everyone, including old-time doctors like Seth Hazlitt.
Seth pulled up in front of my house, turned the ignition to off, and faced me. I patted his hand. “Thanks for the lift. Don’t forget dinner at my house tonight.”
“Wouldn’t miss it, Jessica, not with lobster salad on the menu.”
Seth turned his car around, and I waved as he drove away. I felt a certain sadness. Oh, well, I thought as I pulled mail from my mailbox and carried it inside. The first piece I opened was a mailing from the Boyle Medical Center announcing that a dermatologist from Boston would soon be joining the practice, offering a full array of beauty treatments, including Botox injections and skin abrasion “for a lovelier you.”
I sighed and tossed the mailing in a wastebasket. Yes, Cabot Cove was growing. No doubt about that. The question was whether everything connected with that growth was for the better.