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

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Who’s the emergency room doctor who treated Seth Hazlitt?” she asked. “I’ll want to get an update on his condition.”

  I gave her his name, and Rick and I went to his car. Safely inside, Rick shook his head and laughed. “So much for my visit to the bucolic Cabot Cove,” he said.

  “It may be hard to believe in light of tonight’s events,” I said, “but Cabot Cove is usually a quiet town. It’s a wonderful place to live, where people not only know each other but look out for their neighbors—”

  “A perfect example of small-town America, huh?” he said, starting the engine. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  But Cabot Cove was changing. Did my description still hold true? Or was it just wishful thinking?

  Chapter Seven

  It was a fitful night’s sleep. Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the vision of the attack outside the restaurant, and of the injury to Seth. It kept playing over and over and of the injury to Seth. It kept playing over and over in my mind like a loop of videotape on a machine without a PAUSE button.

  I finally gave up and got out of bed at five, my pajamas damp from the bedroom’s uncomfortable temperature. I turned on the air conditioner in the kitchen, along with a small TV I have there, and put the kettle on. News of the attempted mugging had reached one of the Bangor TV stations. A female anchor reported that mystery novelist Jessica Fletcher and Seth Hazlitt, one of Cabot Cove’s leading physicians, had been the victims of an assault outside a popular restaurant. I suppose they didn’t have a photo of Seth in their archives because the only picture that flashed on the screen was one of me taken at a mystery writers’ panel I’d chaired in Bangor earlier in the year. Surely, I thought, there has to be more pressing news to report than a thwarted attack by a drug addict wielding a knife. The anchor ended with, “According to eyewitnesses, the attacker was subdued by an unnamed man who’d been in the restaurant with Mrs. Fletcher and Dr. Hazlitt.”

  My thoughts shifted to Rick Allcott and the way he’d subdued our attacker. His action had been so quick that I was sure the knife wielder hadn’t had a chance to use his weapon on him. The fury of Allcott’s attack was especially surprising to me, considering his slight physique. He hardly looked like a man capable of making such a concerted physical response, nor did his demeanor give a clue to that capability. A good lesson learned, I thought, as I prepared my tea. As the saying goes, you can’t tell a book by its cover—or a man by his appearance.

  I heard the twin thumps of both newspapers landing on my steps, and fetched them. No surprise that last night’s incident dominated the front page of the Gazette. Evelyn Phillips’s story was straightforward, as her stories usually were, but I was dismayed by the accompanying pictures. One was a shot John Shearer had taken of me just outside the hospital. He’d caught me with a puzzled expression on my face, framed by lank hair, and— Let’s just say it wouldn’t be one I’d choose for the back cover of one of my books. More upsetting was a photo taken through a window of Seth Hazlitt in his hospital bed. You really couldn’t make out that it was Seth, but the caption identified him. What a terrible invasion of privacy, I thought. Seth would be furious, especially because the photo was adjacent to a dramatic picture of Dr. Boyle in white coat, stethoscope draped around his neck, and evidently taken by a professional portrait photographer. I didn’t relish hearing the explosion I knew would take place when Seth saw the newspaper.

  Naturally, Mort Metzger was quoted at length. So were Peppino’s owner, Joe DiScala; the couple who’d been leaving the parking lot and witnessed the assault; Lennon-Diversified’s Cynthia Welch; and, of course, Dr. Warren Boyle, who told Evelyn, “I can only say that it was fortunate that I had decided to have dinner at Peppino’s that night, and was able to play a small part in saving Dr. Hazlitt’s life. His death would have been a tragic loss to the Cabot Cove medical community.”

  As innocuous as the doctor’s comments were, I had what I can only describe as a crawling sensation on my skin. I have nothing against anyone who takes advantage of situations to garner publicity, and by extension promotes his or her business. Maybe it was my love for Seth Hazlitt that generated within me an unreasonable dislike of Dr. Boyle. The man had never done anything to me to spawn such feelings, and I suffered a bout of guilt. Similarly, I had no tangible reason to dislike Joseph Lennon. He had demonstrated considerable generosity toward the town I love, and had gone out of his way to provide for its citizens. Certainly, Chester Carlisle’s response to Lennon’s largesse was extreme and uncalled-for. I may have witnessed Lennon in a particularly unflattering moment, but that didn’t mean he was always cruel to his son. People often say things in anger that they regret upon reflection. I hoped that was the case with Lennon and his son, Paul. I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  Still . . .

  Maybe my feelings grew out of the changes that seemed to be swirling around me. I’ve always prided myself on being adaptable. When you travel as much as I do, you’d better be good at adapting to change. Had growing older diminished my flexibility, rendering me unable to go with the flow and to recognize change as inevitable, and often for the good? I hoped not.

  I shook off my conflicted thinking (aided by the cool air from the air conditioner), showered, and settled in to resume work on the outline for my next novel. I waited until eight to call the hospital, and was connected to Seth’s room.

  “Good morning, Seth.”

  “Looks like another scorcher,” he replied. “I can see the heat right through the window.”

  “I suppose so. How are you feeling?”

  “Just fine, thank you. They say they’ll be releasing me at ten. Did you read that flapdoodle in today’s Gazette? I was near to popping my gourd when I saw it. What a nerve, taking a picture of me in the hospital.”

  I laughed. “You looked good.”

  “What was good was that no one could recognize me. And that handshaker Boyle, boostin’ himself on my misfortune. Savin’ my life, huh? Why, that man is lower than whale droppings, lower than—”

  “How are you getting home?” I asked, trying to derail the gourd-popping I could see coming.

  “Jim Shevlin is picking me up. Nothing like a hands-on mayor. He’ll have my vote again, but I suppose he already knows that.”

  “I’m sure he does. What can I bring?”

  “Yourself, Jessica. I have something I want to run by you.”

  “Oh?”

  “And I won’t be discussin’ it on the phone. What time are you free this morning?”

  “Anytime you say, Seth. I made a date to meet Rick Allcott for breakfast at nine. I want him to experience Mara’s blueberry pancakes before he leaves Cabot Cove.”

  He chuckled. “He’ll never leave once he tastes ’em. Interesting fellow. He took that young punk down without breaking a sweat.”

  “All that FBI training. We’re lucky he was with us.”

  “You make sure to thank him for me.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  He was silent a moment. “I suppose you want me to thank Boyle, too.”

  “He tried to be helpful, Seth.”

  I heard him cough and mumble something. “I didn’t catch what you said.”

  Seth cleared his throat. “I’ll call him later and express my appreciation.”

  “Yes, that would be a nice thing to do. Can you believe that tomorrow is the Fourth of July? The years just fly by.”

  “I wish the heat would break before the festivities,” Seth said. “It will take a toll on our seniors, at least those foolish enough to stand outside. Are you planning to attend that rock-and-roll concert and the fireworks?”

  “Are you suggesting that this senior shouldn’t?”

  “I’m suggesting nothing of the kind, Jessica. You’ll come to my house after your breakfast with Mr. Allcott?”

  “You should be home by eleven. I’ll come by a little before noon.”

  “Have to get off now. The nurses are here to make sure I’m st
ill alive. See you later.”

  I made some progress on my outline, which pleased me, and was about to phone for a taxi to take me to Mara’s when Mort Metzger called.

  “Sorry to bother you, Mrs. F, but I was wondering whether you’d be able to come by headquarters today.”

  “I’ll make the time. What’s it about?”

  “Well, I never got a formal statement from you last night. I have to add that to the file.”

  “Of course.”

  “And the DA wants to put the fellow who attacked you in a lineup. He wants you and Mr. Allcott to see if you can pick him out. He wants Doc Hazlitt to participate, too, but I figured he probably wouldn’t be up to it, at least not for a couple of days.”

  “I can’t say for sure, but that’s a good assumption, Mort. I’m seeing Seth around noon. I’ll mention it to him. Does the district attorney really think a lineup is necessary? There were so many witnesses. Surely there isn’t a question about who did it.”

  “That’s the way I see it, Mrs. F, but it seems our young drug addict comes from a pretty well-to-do family upstate. His father’s hired a hotshot attorney.”

  I sighed. “Of course I’ll view the lineup. Have you spoken to Richard Allcott?”

  “About the lineup? Not yet.”

  “I’m on my way to have breakfast with him. Maybe we can come by together after that. Will you be able to put together a lineup that quickly?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem by, say, eleven. The kid’s attorney is here in town, and I can press some of my men into service. Some of them are not much older than the kid.”

  “Eleven it is,” I said, realizing as I did that I was making assumptions where Rick Allcott was concerned. Maybe being a former FBI agent would preclude his taking part in a lineup. I’d have to ask, and I wondered whether Mort had queried the defense attorney about it, too.

  Rick Allcott was already at Mara’s Luncheonette when I arrived. Judging from what I saw as I walked in—he was at the counter, chatting with townspeople, a half-consumed cup of coffee in front of him—he’d been there for a while and had made friends. He jumped off the stool and greeted me.

  Mara, a pot of coffee in each hand, walked past us. “Good morning, Jessica,” she said over her shoulder. “You don’t look at all like you were the victim of an armed attack last night.”

  “Looks can deceive,” I said. “It’s very much on my mind.” I turned to Allcott. “I see you’ve made yourself at home.”

  “Everyone wants to know more about what happened,” he said, sweeping his hand toward his companions at the counter. “I’ve been filling in Barney Longshoot and Spencer Durkee here.”

  Evelyn Phillips won’t need to put out her newspaper tomorrow, I thought. That pair were notorious gossips, not that they would admit to gossiping. They just liked to “discuss the news”—all over town.

  We were interrupted by some people who wanted my version of events. I forced a laugh and waved them off. “I’d just as soon forget about it,” I said.

  “How’s Seth Hazlitt?”

  “Doing fine. He’ll be home from the hospital this morning.” I turned to Allcott. “Let’s grab a booth before they’re all taken.

  “I’m sorry your initial visit to Cabot Cove turned out this way,” I said after we’d been seated. “I’m sure you assumed that the baseball game at Fenway would be the most exciting part of your trip.”

  He grinned. “Not to worry,” he said.

  Mara served us coffee, and I ordered blueberry pancakes for both of us. “Mara, the owner, adds something special to the pancake batter,” I told him, “that makes her pancakes extraordinary.”

  “What’s her secret?” he asked.

  “She refuses to reveal it.”

  “Nothing an ex-FBI man loves better than a mystery. I’ll have to see if I can detect her secret ingredient. So, Jessica Fletcher, what’s on tap for today?”

  “How about a police lineup?”

  His eyebrows went up. “About last night?”

  I gave him a summary of what Mort had told me, and asked whether being a retired FBI special agent would keep him from participating.

  He shook his head. “No problem as far as I’m concerned, although I assume the kid’s lawyer will raise a stink.”

  “I suppose we’ll just have to see,” I said, and he agreed to accompany me to police headquarters after breakfast.

  “You were right about the pancakes,” he said, taking his final forkful. “Your friend Mara ought to start a franchise. They’re the best. Haven’t figured out the secret ingredient yet—I’ll just have to order them again and again until I do.”

  “People have been trying to ferret out that information for years. Mara claims it’s how she keeps us coming back. And I don’t think she’s wrong. Our chamber of commerce always mentions Mara’s blueberry pancakes as one of Cabot Cove’s many treasures.”

  Business was brisk at the luncheonette. Not only were the regulars there, but tourists streamed in and out, keeping Mara and her staff hopping. Our breakfast was interrupted a few times by people wanting to talk about the unfortunate incident and inquiring about Seth, but for the most part we were left alone.

  “Seth wanted me to thank you for coming to his rescue last night, Rick,” I said as we lingered over coffee. “I’m sure he’ll thank you in person when you see him next.”

  He shrugged. “It was an automatic reaction, you know, like a reflex. Let’s drop it. You and the doctor were telling me over dinner about this benefactor, Joseph Lennon.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He moved his company to Cabot Cove and has been very active in the community. Not personally. But he’s been extremely generous in funding various civic projects.”

  “I gathered from the conversation last night that his generosity isn’t necessarily appreciated by everyone.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “There are his detractors who feel he’s corrupting the town and using his money to reshape its character to his own liking.”

  “What does his company do?” Rick asked.

  “No one seems quite sure,” I replied. “The Gazette noted that the ‘Diversified’ in ‘Lennon-Diversified’ is like saying they have their fingers in a lot of pies. I remember hearing they had something to do with pharmaceuticals. At least that’s what I’ve been led to believe. His philanthropic involvement with Cabot Cove is high profile, but that doesn’t extend to his business.”

  “Interesting,” Rick said.

  As he said it, Chester Carlisle entered the luncheonette.

  “There’s one of Lennon-Diversified’s leading detractors, ” I told Allcott as Chester came straight to where we sat. Now that he was closer, I could see what was written on the front of his yellow T-shirt: LENNON OR LENIN?

  “Good morning, Jessica,” he boomed. I saw that he had at least two dozen of the shirts draped over his arm.

  “Good morning, Chester,” I said.

  “Care to buy a T-shirt? Got ’em in all sizes, only fifteen bucks.”

  “I don’t think so, Chester,” I said, wanting to add that he would probably end up fomenting trouble by parading around town in it.

  “Who’s your friend?” he asked.

  I tried to ignore the question, but Chester slid into the booth next to me, hugging the pile of shirts to his chest. His breath smelled strongly of mouthwash. Had he been drinking? Were the rumors true?