Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade

by Jessica Fletcher

  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.

  Dr. Warren Boyle’s arrival was a little different. Besides relocating his company from Massachusetts to Cabot Cove, Joseph Lennon had also imported the young Dr. Boyle, and he made no secret that he’d financed the move. He’d spent a million dollars or more to set up Boyle’s practice in a spacious wing of Lennon-Diversified’s corporate headquarters, with a separate entrance and parking facility. I’d joined many who’d been invited to an open house at Boyle’s new facility, and couldn’t help but be impressed with its sparkling exam rooms, the colorful art collection on the walls, nurses who looked as though they’d just stepped out of a photo shoot for a major fashion magazine, and the array of high-tech, state-of-the-art diagnostic equipment. Seth was with me on that visit. As we drove back into town, his silence spoke volumes.

  “Quite a facility he has,” I said on that day.

  “Ayuh, that it is.”

  “He seems pleasant enough.”

  “He’s got a nice way about him,” Seth agreed.

  “It must have cost a fortune for all that equipment,” I said.

  “Pocket change for Mr. Lennon,” said Seth.

  “But a worthwhile reason to spend some of his money,” I said. “Supporting health care is always worthwhile.”

  Seth grunted and kept his eyes on the road. I knew when not to force conversation with my friend of so many years, and I dropped the subject.

  It was obvious that Seth was not especially pleased that Dr. Boyle had set up shop in Cabot Cove, which surprised me. Seth himself had added a young physician to his practice, Dr. Jennifer Countryman—“Dr. Jenny” to their patients— and had discovered to his surprise that he was grateful to share some of the responsibilities and gain himself some well-deserved time off. He’d also been extremely welcoming to other new doctors who’d decided to practice in our area. He’d made himself available to show them around and to introduce them to our citizens, and had never uttered a negative word about any of them, at least not in my presence.

  But Boyle’s arrival was different. Maybe it was because of his link to Joseph Lennon and the elder man’s bullying ways. Maybe it was because Boyle advertised his services on an almost daily basis in our local paper and in publications from nearby towns. He had flyers distributed throughout our business district. The headline on all his marketing materials read: 21ST-CENTURY MEDICINE COMES TO CABOT COVE. I suppose that by extension, one could take from the flyers and ads that he considered medicine as practiced prior to his arrival to be hopelessly old-fashioned and out-of-date. Obviously, that message didn’t sit well with local physicians like Seth.

  “Did you see his ad in the Gazette? You’d think he’s set up a regular Mayo Clinic here in town.” Seth had had little to say for the duration of the ride home from Mara’s, but he’d obviously been brooding about Dr. Boyle.“ ‘Medicine for the Twenty-first Century’ indeed! Makes it sound like we’re still puttin’ leeches on people to draw out the bad blood.”

  I laughed. “Aren’t you?” I asked playfully. “It shouldn’t affect you, though, Seth. The way Cabot Cove is growing, there’ll never be a shortage of patients to keep every doctor in town busy.”

  He pulled up in front of my house, turned off the ignition, and faced me. “I’m not concerned about that, Jessica. It’s time I cut down my schedule anyway. But I hate to see good people flocking to somebody like Dr. Boyle when they don’t need to. Mrs. Carson informed me yesterday that she’ll be seeing Boyle from now on for her bad back. The only thing she needs for that back is for her lazy husband to do some of the heavy lifting around the house. Of course, that didn’t sit well with her. She says the good Dr. Boyle has scheduled a whole mess of scans to get to the bottom of her back problem. Imagine what that’ll cost. Wasted money, I say.”

  “Well,” I said, injecting lightness into my voice, “she’ll probably be back in your office once she realizes that Dr. Boyle doesn’t have the answer for her aches and pains.” 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. Warren Boyle’s arrival in town had obviously forced Seth to face the fact that he was aging and would one day have to take down the M.D. shingle that he displayed so proudly in front of his home. He was probably right in assuming that Boyle considered older physicians like himself to be medically behind the times, which certainly wasn’t true in Seth’s case. He was always off at some medical conference catching up on the latest research, and his library contained anything and everything new that was published in his field.

  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.

  I went into the bathroom and peered at myself in the mirror. Was I a candidate for Botox or skin abrasion? If so, I wasn’t about to admit it. Not that I have anything against plastic surgery or other beauty treatments. If people feel better because they think they look better, good for them. For me at that moment, the face I’d arrived with on this earth was perfectly fine, thank you. But there were those lines around the eyes . . .

  Chapter Two

  I settled in to do what I’d planned to do, catch up on correspondence. Most of it was in the form of e-mails, which I find frustrating. After deleting dozens of unwanted messages from charlatans looking to sell something—or to inject a virus into my computer should I be foolish enough to open their attachments—I set about responding to legitimate messages. As a former English teacher, I admit to impatience with sloppy writing, and e-mails certainly encourage it. People dash off messages without having the opportunity to see what they’ve written on paper before sending it, and the mistakes in much of their writing testify to the problem with this. While I respond to e-mails with my own e-mails, I also try to send notes by “snail mail.” Why? Because going to the mailbox, pulling out an envelope, opening it, and reading what’s inside is infinitely more pleasurable than reading what comes up on a computer screen. At least it is for me and for a number of my friends.

  After an hour of this, I closed the computer, made myself a light lunch, called Ron Silver, owner of Cabot Cove’s biggest and best lobster pound, to tell him I’d be picking up my order in a few hours, and headed downtown to a series of meetings to which I’d committed. Because of the heat, I considered calling a taxi rather than riding my bicycle, but decided to brave the weather. By the time I reached the city hall, however, I wished I’d reconsidered. My blouse was stuck to my back, and my hair had collapsed in the humidity. After attempting to put myself back together in a ladies’ room, I walked into Mayor Shevlin’s conference room, where a committee comprising two dozen men and women had gathered to put the final touches on plans for our Independence Day festivities.

  “Hello, Jessica,” Kathy Copeland and her sister, Wilimena, said as I came through the double doors. Kathy and I had been Cabot Cove buddies for many years, but I really got to know her when we traveled together to Alaska. Wilimena, known to friends as Willie, had disappeared off a cruise ship there, and
Kathy and I retraced Willie’s steps in the hope of finding her. We were successful, but not until after a harrowing week. Willie had gone to Alaska in search of a stash of gold allegedly left her by a distant relative. She’d found it—and almost lost her life in the bargain.

  Until that Alaskan adventure, Wilimena Copeland had defined the term “flighty.” She’d been married multiple times, and had vanished for months on end when pursuing her latest paramour. To say that her near-death experience in Alaska had sobered her approach to life would be an understatement. She’d settled in Cabot Cove, used much of her gold money to refurbish our senior citizens’ center, and was now a valued member of the community. Injuries suffered in Alaska had left her with a bad leg, and she used a cane most of the time. That Alaskan escapade had also had a profound impact on me; in fact, it became the basis of the plot in the last novel I’d written, Panning for Murder. As writers are fond of saying, “Everything gets used.”

  Our mayor, Jim Shevlin, called the meeting to order, and we took seats around the large conference table. After thanking everyone for coming out in the heat to attend, he turned the meeting over to Cynthia Welch, who held the title at Lennon-Diversified of vice president of strategic planning and marketing. “As you all know,” our youthful mayor said, “Ms. Welch has been the point man—oops, point woman—for Mr. Lennon and his generous support of this year’s celebration of the Fourth. I’m also sure you realize that we’re in very capable hands. Cynthia, the floor is yours.”

  I judged Ms. Welch to be in her late thirties or early forties. She was strikingly beautiful by any definition, slender and statuesque with long, coal black hair that cascaded down her back, and a classically chiseled face that was a palette for expertly applied makeup. She wore diamond earrings, a pale yellow linen suit and white blouse, and heels so high I marveled that she could walk upright. I’d been introduced to her on a few occasions, and came away each time realizing that she was, indeed, a formidable woman. Any glass ceilings in her future were sure to be shattered.

  “Thank you for being here,” she said from a podium that had been wheeled in, “and for your hard work to make the weekend a success.” A screen behind her promised an audiovisual presentation. “We’re getting down to the wire now,” she said, “and there are lots of loose ends to be tied up. The black binder in front of each of you is the battle plan we’ve come up with to—”

  “Battle plan?” Chester Carlisle growled. “What the hell is that?”

  Chester, a large, imposing, crusty seventy-three-year-old member of the town council, had been one of the few on the board who’d voiced his displeasure with Lennon-Diversified taking over our Fourth of July celebration. Chester seemed always to find something wrong with decisions made by the council. Seth Hazlitt was known in town as a bit of a curmudgeon—Cabot Cove’s resident Andy Rooney—but Chester made Seth look like a mild-mannered pussycat.

  Cynthia smiled. “Just a term we use in business to choreograph major events, Mr. Carlisle. I’m sure you’ll agree that this Fourth of July in Cabot Cove certainly ranks as one of them.”

  Chester started to argue the point, but a young man in a gray suit, who remained glued to Welch’s side wherever she appeared, said sternly to Chester, “Please give Cynthia the courtesy of your quiet attention, sir!”

  Chester grumbled something under his breath, but fell silent as Ms. Welch continued.

  “The entire day and night are laid out in those binders, minute by minute,” she said proudly. “In addition, I’ve prepared a PowerPoint presentation that will give you a visual sense of how things will proceed—the downtown parade, the musical groups, the high school theatrical troupe with its reenactment of events of this special day many years ago, the rock concert, fireworks—all of it. Joe Lennon wants things to go off without a hitch, and since he’s financing this entire event, I’m sure you all agree that we owe him that.”

  I glanced at Kathy, who raised her eyebrows. Ms. Welch’s comment about Lennon-Diversified financing our Fourth of July weekend was heavy-handed at best, if not offensive. I looked around the room. Most people didn’t seem to react the way Kathy and I had, although Jim Shevlin had an expression on his face that was a cross between boredom and resignation. I’d had a conversation with Jim soon after the council had voted to accept Lennon’s offer to bankroll the holiday, and he’d expressed his reaction to the vote. “I’m not sure this is the way to go, Jessica,” he told me. “It’s as though Lennon and his people—and his money—want to take over Cabot Cove. Next thing you know, he’ll be financing a move to impeach me and put himself in the mayor’s office.”

  I had laughed and said, “If he did that, Jim, the town would be up in arms. Let’s give Mr. Lennon the benefit of the doubt and take him for what he claims to be, a wealthy man who wants to contribute to his community.”

  That seemed to salve Jim’s concerns. But as the weeks went by, I wasn’t sure that I believed what I’d told him anymore.

  Now Ms. Welch forged ahead with her talk, augmented by an elaborate slide show that filled the screen with graphs, maps, and bulleted points, all accompanied by Lennon-Diversified’s logo. When she wrapped it up twenty minutes later, she asked, “Any questions?”

  “I’ve got one,” Chester said. “What in hell are we having a rock-and-roll concert for? That’s not the sort of music people around here enjoy.”

  “I’ll answer that,” said the young executive who’d quieted Chester the first time. “Mr. Lennon believes in bringing together all age groups in the community and feels that to just continue doing what was done before creates a chasm between young and old. It’s no secret that too many talented young people leave Cabot Cove for more exciting venues. Mr. Lennon is committed to correcting this.”

  Chester, who didn’t always hear well, turned to the person next to him and asked, “What’d he say?”

  “He said that— It doesn’t matter, Chester. I’ll explain later.”

  Ms. Welch and her male colleague presented such a formidable presence that questions were few. There was one about how traffic would be handled; the reply was that Sheriff Metzger and his officers had everything under control, and traffic would move smoothly. Another question had to do with plans in the event it rained. That query was dismissed by Ms. Welch with a wave of her hand. “It won’t rain,” she said. “And if it does, procedures are spelled out in your battle plan.” She checked her watch. “Thank you for coming today, and for your attention. Let’s make this Fourth of July a day of national pride for all Cabot Cove citizens.” With that, she walked out of the room, leaving her compatriot behind to pack up the audiovisual equipment.

  “What do you think, Jessica?” Kathy asked me as people stood, milled about, and exchanged reactions to the meeting. When I didn’t respond immediately, she said, “It’s all so cold and impersonal, not like planning town events used to be.”

  I had to agree with her. While meetings of previous planning committees had been much more raucous, with lively disagreements occasionally spilling over into arguments, at least they had involved the participation of a large cross-section of the Cabot Cove populace. And no one was ever denied the opportunity to express his or her opinion. Suggestions may not have been accepted, or even warmly received, but they all had a fair airing.

  “It’s like something George Orwell might have written, ” said Wilimena. “Lennon sounds like the original Big Brother.”

  “I was thinking precisely the same thing,” Kathy said.

  “He’s managed to take over the town, and no one seems interested in stopping him,” Wilimena continued.

  “Chester certainly would if he could,” Kathy said.

  I looked to where Chester was engaged in a heated discussion with Mayor Shevlin and other council members. While I agreed with Chester’s response to the takeover of Cabot Cove’s Independence Day by Joseph Lennon and his people, there was little that could be done about it at this late date, and I wished he would tone down his displeasure. There were those
in town who felt Chester was “losing it,” a stance with which I didn’t agree. He was irascible and loud, and tended to swear too much for my taste. But he meant well and was passionate in his love for Cabot Cove and its traditions.

  Chester Carlisle had been born and raised in Cabot Cove. He’d gone off to college in New Hampshire, but he returned to his birthplace immediately after graduating and took over the management of his family’s auto parts dealership. He’d been involved in civic affairs for as long as I’d lived there and had once run for mayor, losing a close election to his competitor. He’d been encouraged to run again by friends and family, but his initial foray into politics had soured him on seeking elected office—at least temporarily. He’d been content to manage the business and volunteer for myriad town committees. Now a widower and retired, with his son in charge of the auto parts company, Chester was freer than ever to get more deeply involved in the town. The problem was that over the years Chester had become steadily more entrenched in his views, rarely allowing a dissenting opinion to sway him. Rumor had it that he’d also become a heavy drinker, which, if true, would only serve to fuel his naturally combative nature. But, as anyone who’s ever lived in a small town knows, rumors often circulate even though they may have no basis in fact. I’d witnessed plenty of tantrums on the part of Chester Carlisle, but I couldn’t say that he appeared inebriated at any time, at least not in my personal experience with him.