“It looks like we’ve got a bunch of brave souls here this morning,” he said, adding a laugh. “Never say that Cabot Covers are weak.” Another well-placed laugh, just long enough to make its point. “Actually, this demonstration was a last-minute decision I made. I thought that as long as the famous Gruccis were going to be here showing off their spectacular fireworks, you might enjoy seeing how they do it—although I’m sure they won’t share all their secrets.”
Two young men in jeans and T-shirts carrying a variety of items joined Lennon on the stage. Immediately following them was a middle-aged man wearing a shirt on which GRUCCI was emblazoned.
“It’s hot,” Lennon said, “so I won’t take any more of your time. “My son, Paul, whom many of you know, will take over from here. Let me finish by saying that this Fourth of July in Cabot Cove will make the nation sit up and take notice.” He turned as a young man in a three-piece suit whom I assumed was his son came out of the building and walked to the microphone. His father never looked at him; he simply left the stage and disappeared.
Paul Lennon spoke into the microphone. “You heard what Joe said, so we’ll get right to it.” He beckoned the oldest of the three men from Grucci to join him, and played the role of a talk show host, asking questions he read from a clipboard. He started by asking about the history of fireworks.
“Well, actually they go back to the second century BC, in China,” the man replied. “They were originally used in religious celebrations, but were eventually adopted by the military for warfare in the Middle Ages. They called them ‘flaming arrows.’ Around the tenth century, the Arabs came up with gunpowder, which spawned the invention of cannons and guns. But rockets were also used to deliver explosive charges against enemies. Every time we sing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ and the famous line ‘and the rockets’ red glare,’ we’re singing about rocket warfare.”
“How do fireworks work?” Paul Lennon read from the paper on the clipboard and wiped his brow with a white handkerchief.
“It’s pretty complicated,” the Grucci representative said. “I’ll be taking you over to our launch area to show you how things are constructed and carried out. Let me just say that the shells have more than one chamber, each one separated from the others by cardboard disks and ignited by timed fuses. Packed into each chamber are the effects we want to achieve from each rocket—stars, streamers, special effects like whistles and loud explosions. Each shell has to burst open with a lot of force once it reaches its desired altitude. The longer the cardboard shells resist the explosion, the bigger the display will be.”
He went on in response to Paul’s questions. Much of what he said was highly technical and, frankly, uninteresting. Someone from the audience shouted a question: “How high do fireworks go?”
“Good question,” said the Grucci rep. “Ten-inch and twelve-inch shells can go up to as high as thirteen hundred feet. They’re the ones whose displays are pretty much symmetrical. Eight-inch shells are really popular because they produce patterns in the sky, like butterflies, five-pointed stars, and the like. Five- and six-inch shells get up to about six hundred feet. Those displays in the finale that are loud and colorful are generally made from three- and four-inch shells. Adding some titanium to the mix produces those brilliant white flashes that bring about all the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs.’”
After a few more questions from people in the audience— the number had thinned considerably, and only sheer determination kept me from bolting—we were led to where the experts from Grucci would launch their fireworks display as the culmination of Saturday’s celebration. Ms. Welch’s assistant, Dante, was there, talking to one of the crew. Paul had disappeared, probably desperate to get out of the heat.
I’d had no idea that it took so many people to put on such an event. There must have been a dozen people from Grucci working steadily to get things ready, including large trays filled with sand into which steel pipes were sunk.
“This is where it all happens,” our guide said. “The shells are placed in these steel casings and are attached to wires that provide electrical connections to fire a lift charge that sends the shells up into the air. That charge also lights a time fuse at the base of the shells that controls when during its flight it will explode.”
He ended his talk with, “I want you all to know that our most important priority is safety, for our own people and for the residents of wherever it is we’re putting on shows. We’ve worked closely with every government agency in Cabot Cove and the state of Maine to make sure that everything goes off without a hitch. I see Sheriff Metzger is here, and I want to personally thank him for his cooperation and that of his fine police force. And let me not forget Cabot Cove’s excellent fire department. It’s been a joy to work with them, and everything is right on schedule for a great show Saturday night. Our thanks to Joseph Lennon of Lennon-Diversified, and his very knowledgeable staff. Now, go home and cool off.”
A wonderful suggestion, I thought.
“Need a ride home?” Kathy asked.
“If you don’t mind.”
“I’ve got to get out of this heat. It’s killing me.”
We were walking to her car when a commotion caught our attention. A group of four people were approaching the stage carrying crude homemade signs protesting the fireworks display.
“Oh, my,” I said when I saw that the small contingent was led by Chester Carlisle.
Mort Metzger left where he’d been conferring with the two EMTs and stopped Chester and his friends. The woman who’d passed out now sat on the ambulance’s gurney and appeared to have recovered, aided by bags of ice pressed to her forehead and neck. Kathy and I turned to watch the sheriff.
“Now, just what in the devil do you think you’re doing, Chester?” Mort asked.
“Protesting this fiasco,” Chester said.
“Why would you want to protest something positive like a fireworks display on the Fourth of July?” Mort asked.
“I’m not against fireworks,” said Chester, “but I am against one man taking over the town and calling all the shots.”
“Mr. Lennon is being generous, that’s all,” Mort answered. “Let’s not stir up trouble, Chester. The town’s excited about this Fourth and doesn’t need you throwing a wet blanket over it.”
“The Fourth of July celebrates our freedoms,” a woman with Chester said, “including freedom of speech.” I didn’t know her name, but I had seen her around town now and then, in the supermarket or at Weinstein’s Pharmacy.
“That may be true,” said Mort, “but it doesn’t mean you can disrupt things. Now, why don’t you good folks go on home with those signs and just enjoy the weekend that’s coming up.” He gestured to Kathy and me. “Like Mrs. Fletcher and Ms. Copeland are doing.”
Chester said to me, “I’ve heard you talk about how you like Cabot Cove’s small-town character, Jessica. The town’s growing too damn fast, and that’s a fact. People like Lennon and all his money are ruining it.”
“That’s up for debate, Chester,” I said. “I do like Cabot Cove’s atmosphere. That’s why I choose to live here. And I’m not pleased with some of the growth that’s taken place. But it’s the sort of thing that’s best considered in a structured forum, not out here in this—in this—in this dreadful heat.” I smiled. “Mort is right,” I said. “Let’s just enjoy the upcoming weekend and take a look at the town’s growth once it’s over.”
“She makes sense,” Mort told Chester.
Chester looked to where the young “roadies” were setting up their equipment onstage under an immense canvas top. “Bunch a’ hippies,” he growled. “We don’t need their kind comin’ in here and causin’ trouble.”
Mort turned to look at the activity on the stage.“Doesn’t seem to me that they’re making any trouble. Just because their hair is long and—”
Chester cut him off. “We’ll leave, Sheriff,” he said, “but you mark my words. Before this weekend is over, you’ll have your hands full—and a full jail
.” He and his friends turned and walked away.
“I worry about the man,” Mort told us. “He gets more irrational every day.”
Kathy and I didn’t reply.
“You okay, Ms. Copeland? You look a bit flushed.”
“I’m just hot, Sheriff. I’ll be fine as soon as I get in my air-conditioned car.”
“Well, I’d better be going, then,” Mort said, touching the brim of his Stetson. “You ladies have a good day.”
I took a few steps in the direction of the parking lot, but Kathy stopped me with, “Wait a minute, Jessica. I really don’t feel well. I’m a bit dizzy.”
I came back to her and saw that her face had reddened, and sweat ran down her cheeks. “It’s this heat,” I said. “Come on. Let’s go into the Lennon building. It’ll be cool in there.”
We climbed a short set of wooden steps to the stage, crossed it, and walked through the doors into the building, where a blast of frigid air hit us, causing us both to let out sighs of relief and pleasure.
“Heavenly,” I said. “Feeling better?”
“Instantly,” Kathy said. “I thought I was going to faint out there.”
I took in the vast lobby with its gleaming marble floors and walls. It was an atrium, with a stained-glass window high above creating a crazy-quilt pattern of multicolored lights on the white floor. At the far end was a long marble desk, behind which sat a woman. I could see her blond hair but not her face. I thought about going over and starting a conversation, but I never had the chance.
“Something I can do for you?” a gruff male voice asked us. It belonged to a gentleman in a gray uniform. A patch on his chest read, SECURITY: LENNON-DIVERSIFIED.
“Yes, thank you,” I said. “My friend was feeling faint from the heat and we came in to get cool. Is there some place to sit for a minute?”
“No, ma’am. And unless you have official business, you’ll have to leave.”
Official business? I thought. You’d think we’d wandered into a top-security government facility.
“It sounds like we’re in the Pentagon,” Kathy said, echoing my thought.
“Really, sir,” I said. “You can’t grant us a minute to cool down?”
“Afraid not,” said the guard, indicating the doors leading outside.
“It’s all right, Jessica,” Kathy said, tugging on my arm. “I don’t want to stay.”
I nodded at the guard and wished him a pleasant day.
As we crossed the marble floor, I looked to a far wall and saw two sturdy closed doors beneath a large red sign: NO ENTRY—SECURED AREA.
“What’s behind those doors?” I asked.
“Have a good day, ladies,” was his only response.
At that moment, the doors flew open, banging back against the marble walls. Joseph Lennon came striding out, Cynthia Welch close on his heels. “Joe, you promised me. You can’t renege now, not after all I’ve done for Lennon-Diversified, for you. I’ve put fifteen years into this company, turned down other opportunities.”
“I told you I have no choice in the matter.”
“Of course you have a choice. It’s your company, isn’t it?”
“Cynthia, you’re a lovely lady, but—”
“Don’t patronize me, Joe. I’m not one of the little chip-pies you keep to amuse yourself. We’re far beyond that, you and I.”
“Cynthia, this is a corporate matter. I have a board to report to.”
“You handpicked everyone on that board. Make them listen to you. Make them— It’s her, isn’t it? She’s muscling me out.”
“She has nothing to do with this.”
“You’re lying. I can always tell when you’re lying.”
Paul Lennon ran after the pair. “Hey, I’m part of this conversation. I have a say in this, too. I’ve been working my butt off for you.”
Lennon whirled on his son. “You have no say, do you understand? None whatsoever. Your opinion is worth nothing. You’ve bungled three deals in the last six months. You’re an embarrassment. You have no talent, no brains, not even common sense. I can’t afford your incompetence.”
Paul seemed to shrink into his body. “Then why—”
“Shut up!” Lennon had caught sight of Kathy and me. Even from the far side of the hall, I could see him smooth out the tension in his face and put on a polished smile. He waved Cynthia and Paul away, saying, “Get out of here. We’ll deal with this later,” and walked toward us.
“Ladies, is there something I can help you with? Roger? What is going on here?” Lennon’s eyes hardened as they fell on the security guard.
“I was just escorting them out, Mr. Lennon.”
“And why were they here?”
I spoke up. “Hello, Mr. Lennon. We just came in to cool off. My friend Kathy here was feeling faint, and we took advantage of your lovely lobby to escape from the heat.”
“It’s Mrs. Fletcher, isn’t it? I believe we’ve met before.”
“Yes. This is my friend Kathy Copeland.”
“Ms. Copeland, are you feeling better now?”
I knew he was trying to be gracious, but he couldn’t quite control the edge in his voice.
“Much better, thank you. Your . . . um . . . Roger was just . . . um.” She threw a quick smile at the guard.
“I’m so glad to hear he was helpful.”
“Yes,” Kathy said.
“We were just on our way out,” I said, taking Kathy’s arm. “Thank you, Roger. No need to walk us out, Mr. Lennon.”
But he put a hand on my elbow and guided Kathy and me to the door. Roger trailed behind him, nervously gnawing on his thumb. Kathy and I stepped out onto the stage, momentarily blinded by the harsh sun.
“Not a very friendly way to run a business, is it?” Kathy said to me as the door closed with a whoosh.
“Not at all.”
“That was some fight. I wonder what it was about. Ms.
Welch is always so calm and collected. I thought she was going to go for his throat.”
“They obviously didn’t see us,” I said absently. “What was it again that Lennon-Diversified produces?”
“I have no idea.”
“I read about the company when it moved to Cabot Cove, but I can’t quite remember. Something to do with investing in companies—biomedical research, perhaps. Was it pharmaceuticals? I’ll have to look it up when I get home.”
“Whatever it is,” Kathy said, “it’s not customer-friendly. What’s so secret that we couldn’t stand in the lobby to cool off?”
“I suppose Roger was just doing his job,” I said. “Sometimes a little power goes to a person’s head. How are you feeling?”
“Much better. Come on, let’s go before I feel faint again.”
We got in Kathy’s car, and as we started to pull out of the parking lot I looked back at what was happening on the stage. The technicians from Grucci had left, but the young men with the band were busy stringing cables and securing huge speakers on stands. The air-conditioning in the car hadn’t started to work yet, but I felt a sudden chill. What was intended to be a joyous celebration of our nation’s freedom—and that day in 1776 in Philadelphia when members of the Second Continental Congress adopted the final draft of the Declaration of Independence—had suddenly become for me an ominous occasion. Previous Fourth of July celebrations in Cabot Cove had been spirited, yet carefree days, filled with a sense of patriotism and gratitude for having been born in our wonderful country. That feeling would always be present, of course. Nothing could ever take it away. But something was distinctly different this year. Maybe it was the scope of the celebration that tainted it. Maybe Chester’s protest had taken away some of the joy of anticipation. Maybe seeing the true colors of Joseph Lennon emerge had done it. I didn’t know what it was, couldn’t pinpoint it at that moment as Kathy drove me home, but I felt it nonetheless.
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade Page 5
