I couldn’t resist. “Oh? I thought you were Seth Hazlitt’s patient.”
“I was until recently. He’s—well, Seth is a fine man and all that, but I’m afraid he’s fallen behind the times medically.”
“Really? I’ve always found him to be very much on top of things.”
She became conspiratorial. “Well, Jessica, that may be your experience, but it isn’t mine. I told him about my chronic fatigue and all he did was draw blood and put me on iron pills. I’m anemic, you know.”
“I didn’t know, Agnes.”
“Well, it’s true. He sent me for a bunch of tests last year and this year, and the only answer he had was to put me on iron pills and vitamin C, which he says helps absorb the iron in my body. The pills didn’t help one bit, and then—and then he wanted to poke a needle in my back to see if I had some rare disease he mentioned, something with a big fancy name, Walder Macro-something or other. That’s when I decided to change to Dr. Boyle. He’s got me on special nutrients he invented and sells right there at his offices. Have you been there, Jessica? State-of-the-art everything, and modern. Frankly, I don’t think Seth Hazlitt knows what he’s doing half the time.” Her voice lowered even further. “I think he might be getting senile.”
“Agnes! That’s ridiculous,” I said, louder than I’d intended, only to draw curious looks from the others in the shop. I brought down my voice level. “Seth Hazlitt is anything but senile. He’s one of the brightest and most astute men I’ve ever known.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion, Jessica.”
One of Charlene’s counter help called Agnes’s number, and she walked away, leaving me very upset. How many others had Agnes talked to about Seth’s alleged senility? It wouldn’t take much for that rumor to spread all over town, as far-fetched as it was. That’s the trouble with rumors. It doesn’t matter if they’re true or not at the outset. Give them enough time to fester, and involve enough people, and it isn’t long before they become what’s construed as the truth, and all the denials in the world won’t change it.
I bought my cinnamon bun, hot out of Charlene’s oven, and swung by the library to put the final touches on a program to be held there on Saturday morning prior to our Independence Day Parade. Lee Walters, our head librarian, had come up with the idea to hold a discussion about the First Amendment geared to younger readers, and I’d agreed to be on the panel. Lee and I met for only fifteen minutes; everything was in order and there was little to discuss.
“Plans for the evening, Jessica?” Lee asked as I prepared to leave.
I told her about the unexpected arrival of my FBI friend from Washington and our dinner plans. “Seth Hazlitt is joining us,” I added.
“How is Seth?” she asked, her brow furrowed in exaggerated concern.
“Fine. Why do you ask?” I knew the answer the moment I asked the question.
“I’ve heard he’s having some—I don’t know how to put this gently—I’ve heard that he’s having some—well— some emotional problems.”
“Lee, let me assure you that none of that is the least bit true.” I shook my head. “I can’t believe that well-meaning people in this town are willing to spread such nonsense.”
“I didn’t mean to anger you, Jess,” Lee said.
“I’m not angry, Lee, but I am dismayed. There’s simply no basis to that at all. Let’s drop it. The program Saturday morning has really shaped up, thanks to you. See you then.”
She walked me outside.
“I forgot to tell you,” she said, “that Lennon-Diversified is donating money to refurbish the kids’ reading room.”
“That’s wonderful. It can use some sprucing up.”
“Money!” Lee said. “It always comes down to money. Fortunately, Joseph Lennon picked Cabot Cove to relocate his business. He’s so generous.”
I headed home, where I showered and settled in my den to do more work on the outline. But I couldn’t concentrate. My mind kept shifting from the task at hand to Seth. His situation had all the marks of a “perfect storm.” He loses a few patients and is understandably unhappy about it. At least one of those patients decides he’s lost his touch as a physician and tells others, which prompts them to tell still others. Pretty soon, there are hundreds of people who’ve heard that Seth Hazlitt “is losing it,” and is demonstrating signs of encroaching senility. That will cause more patients to seek other physicians, which will further depress Seth, and that, in turn, will fuel even more rumors. The classic vicious circle.
He didn’t deserve it, and I made a silent pledge to myself to try and think of ways to counter it. I was immersed in that mental exercise when it was time to leave for dinner with Seth and Richard Allcott. Just what the doctor ordered—good food, good wine, and good conversation about more pleasant things. A relaxing evening.
At least that was my expectation.
Chapter Five
When I arrived at the restaurant shortly before six, Richard Allcott was already at the bar chatting with the resident bartenders, Randy and Kathy.
“The famous Jessica Fletcher,” he said, sliding off the barstool and taking both my hands in his. “You look terrific.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I might say the same about you.”
“Then by all means do,” he said, smiling. “I’m always receptive to a compliment.”
“I see you’ve already met Randy and Kathy.”
“Bartenders are my favorite people,” he said. “They not only know how to make drinks, they have a finger on the pulse of wherever it is they ply their profession.”
“And what did they tell you about Cabot Cove?”
“Just that if Jessica Fletcher wanted to run for mayor, she’d be a shoo-in.”
We were greeted by the younger Joe DiScala, Joe Jr.
“Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “Glad you’ll be joining us tonight.”
I introduced him to Allcott. As I did, the door opened and Seth entered.
“Dr. Hazlitt,” Joe said, shaking Seth’s hand. “Always good to have a doctor in the house in case a customer swallows a fork.”
“Afraid I’m not a fork specialist, Joe. They’d be on their own.”
We were seated at a corner table.
“I’m so pleased I decided to make a stop in Cabot Cove,” Allcott said after we’d ordered wine, with Seth making the final selection at Allcott’s insistence. “It’s wonderful seeing Mrs. Fletcher again, and to have made your acquaintance, Doctor.”
“It’s Jessica and Seth,” I counseled.
“Fair enough,” Allcott said. “Please call me Rick.”
“Jessica tells me that you spent years with the FBI,” Seth said.
“That’s right, Seth. Twenty years. Twenty very good years.”
“You a lawyer or accountant?” Seth asked.
“No. The bureau dropped that requirement before I joined. I came out of the University of Wisconsin with a degree in English lit. I intended to go on for my master’s and maybe even a Ph.D., but a friend had just joined up with the house-that-Hoover-built and suggested I might like it. No, it was more than a suggestion. He challenged me to apply, and I took the challenge. Glad I did. I liked what I did for those twenty years, catching the bad guys, making the country safer.” He laughed and waved his hand over the table. “I know, that all sounds very Pollyanna, but it represents how I feel.”
“Nothing wrong with following lofty ideals,” said Seth.
“Do you have to retire after twenty years?” I asked Allcott.
“No. I could have stayed on. But my love of books and reading came back to haunt me. I decided to shift gears in my life and find the time to read all those books I never got around to. I don’t regret that decision, although I will admit that I sometimes miss the action.”
The conversation progressed smoothly as we enjoyed a lavish antipasto platter, followed by an entrée we all ordered on my recommendation, one of the restaurant’s signature dishes, Chicken Peppino. Eventually, the subje
ct of Joseph Lennon and his company became the topic of our conversation. After Seth and I had briefly recounted for Rick how Lennon-Diversified had relocated to Cabot Cove, and how its founder and CEO had become a highly visible citizen of the town—to say nothing of generous— Rick said, “Sounds like Cabot Cove struck it rich.”
“Not always a good thing,” Seth said.
“Oh?”
“Nothing’s ever all good or all bad,” my doctor friend continued. “You take the bitter with the sweet. Yes, sir, there’s no doubt that Mr. Lennon has done some good things for the community. He—”
“Lee, at the library, told me this afternoon that he’s putting up the money to refurbish the children’s reading room,” I threw in.
“That’s nice,” Seth said to me, then turned his attention back to Allcott. “You see, Rick, while Mr. Lennon is tossing his money around, he’s also changing lots of things about Cabot Cove, changes that aren’t necessarily for the better.”
That led to a discussion about how growth, unless controlled, can do more harm to a community than good, and whether there’s a danger in having a few people, especially those with deep pockets, exert undue influence over a town. It was a good debate, with Seth and Rick carrying the brunt of it. I was content to listen, and to offer an occasional comment.
I was happy that I’d thought to invite Seth to join us. His mood seemed bright throughout the meal—until Joe Jr. came to the table with a second bottle of wine, the same vintage and year as the one we’d ordered earlier.
“We didn’t order another bottle,” I said.
“Compliments of Dr. Boyle and his guests,” Joe said.
We all looked in the direction of Joe’s head nod. Seated at a large table at the opposite end of the room was Dr. Boyle, accompanied by Cynthia Welch, Lennon’s son and daughter, and the young man named Dante who’d been at the presentation the previous day. Boyle raised his glass to Seth, whose response was a blank expression.
“Please thank Dr. Boyle,” Seth said, “but we’re getting close to leaving.”
I watched Joe Jr. deliver the message to Boyle, who made a gesture that said it was irrelevant to him whether we accepted his gift or not.
“A colleague?” Rick asked.
“I suppose you might say that,” said Seth.
Fortunately, Seth’s mood picked up again. Over espresso and a fruit platter, the topic turned to baseball, something about which both of my male companions for the evening knew a great deal, and their views were passionate. It turned out that Rick was a Red Sox fan. Seth had been a Red Sox fan for as long as I’d known him, and their analysis of the current season was spirited and good-natured. They both vied for the check, ignoring my offer to add money to the pot. Seth prevailed, but only after it was agreed that we would enjoy another meal together at Rick’s expense.
We’d been early arrivals and had our choice of tables. But as we got up and headed for the door, we saw that all the other tables were now occupied, and there was a short line of people waiting, undoubtedly pleased that we were leaving. Joe Sr. intercepted us and asked, “Was everything okay?”
“Ayuh,” Seth replied. “Always is.”
“Come back soon.”
We stood outside the restaurant, reluctant to have the conversation end. “Is it just my imagination or has it cooled off a bit?” I asked.
“Humidity seems down a scrid,” Seth said.
“You’re not imagining it,” Allcott said. “But I bet you have a fertile imagination to write books the way you do.”
“That she does,” Seth said.
Seated inside, I hadn’t been as conscious of the contrast between the physical appearances of Seth and Rick as I was now. With them standing together I could see that Seth made two of the retired FBI special agent. Both Seth and I were taller than Allcott, who I noticed tended to rise up on his toes and lean forward and up, perhaps in an effort to make himself look taller.
“Drop you somewhere, Rick?” Seth asked.
“No, thank you,” he replied. “I have a rental car in the lot over there.”
“How did you get here tonight, Jessica?” Seth asked. “Ride your bicycle?”
“Your bicycle?” Allcott said.
“Jessica doesn’t drive, but she does have a bicycle,” Seth explained. “Not only that—the lady has a private pilot’s license.”
“You do?” Rick said. “You’re constantly full of surprises. That’s wonderful. You don’t drive a car but you can pilot a plane.”
“I’m a beginner pilot,” I said. “Strictly a novice.”
“Nevertheless, I’m impressed.”
“Drive you home, Jessica?” Seth asked me as we walked to the lot adjacent to the restaurant.
“If you don’t mind,” I said.
“Seth, if it’s okay with you, let me drive her,” Rick said. “Give me a chance to see more of Cabot Cove.”
Seth looked at me.
“That would be fine,” I said. “Thank you.”
I thanked Seth for dinner and said I’d be in touch with him tomorrow. He started to say something when a sound from behind a parked automobile caused the three of us to turn. Facing us was a young man dressed in black, including a dark woolen cap pulled down low over his brow. At first, I thought how odd it was to wear a hat on such a hot night. But then light glinted off the most striking feature about him—the very long, lethal knife in his hand.
“Money,” he said. “Come on, give me what you have.”
Seth pulled me behind him and took a step toward the would-be thief. “Listen to me, young man,” he said, “put that foolish thing away and—”
The man lunged, swinging the knife in an arc in front of him, the blade of his weapon catching Seth on his wrist. Seth stumbled back and looked at his blood flowing freely onto the asphalt. Before I could do anything—go to Seth to help him, scream, run—Rick Allcott moved so quickly he became a blur. In what seemed an instant, the man with the knife was on his back on the ground. The knife had hit the pavement and slid a dozen feet away. Rick stood with his foot on the attacker’s throat. “You make one move, jerk, and you won’t breathe again.”
“Gorry,” Seth exclaimed as he pressed his good hand against the wound.
“We have to get you to a hospital,” I said.
“What about him?” Seth asked, indicating the man beneath Allcott’s foot.
A couple who’d just backed out of a parking space stopped. “What’s going on?” the man behind the wheel asked.
“Please call 911,” I said. “We need the police and an ambulance.”
“Just the police,” Seth said. “I don’t need a hospital.”
Allcott had turned our attacker onto his stomach and held his arms behind his back, causing the knife wielder to complain that he was in pain.
“You’ll be in a lot more pain if you don’t shut up,” Rick warned.
By now, word of the assault had traveled inside the restaurant, and people flocked through the door to see what had happened.
“You okay, Mrs. Fletcher?” Joe DiScala asked.
A siren could be heard and grew louder.
I stood next to Seth, who was bleeding profusely despite his attempt to stem the flow by applying pressure to the wound. He sagged against me and I braced myself to provide support.
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade Page 7
