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

by Jessica Fletcher

  Paul looked up sharply. Denise put her hand on her son’s shoulder to keep him from speaking, and the thought crossed my mind that Cynthia had underestimated Joseph Lennon’s wife. Denise kept her voice soft, but her eyes were hard on the younger woman. “Just who on the board has made such promises?”

  “Obviously, I’d rather not say at this time. But I assure you I will do my best to make sure Lennon-Diversified is positioned to do well in the future. And, of course, Paul will always have a place in the company as long as I’m in charge.”

  “How kind of you. But I am afraid you have counted your chickens a bit early. Perhaps if Joseph had lived, you might have been able to convince him to side with you, and together with a few board members, you may have outvoted me and gotten your wish. But now that he’s dead, you see, Joseph’s share in the company has been left to me. Together with my original votes, I currently have the controlling interest in the company. The board cannot overrule me.” Mrs. Lennon let the news sink in before adding, “I will consider keeping you on, provided you sign an agreement promising to ensure that Paul learns everything he needs to know to take over. If this is too difficult for you, I will understand, of course.” She stopped there.

  Cynthia rose abruptly from her chair, her chest heaving. “I will . . . I will think about it and let you know.”

  Dante returned the chair to its original position.

  “By tomorrow,” Mrs. Lennon said. “And, Cynthia?” Her voice stopped Ms. Welch as she was about to walk out. “I’ve instructed Roger to let all the employees have the rest of the day off today and told him to lock up. Lennon-Diversified will be closed tomorrow in tribute to Joseph Lennon.”

  “But I’ve got deadlines to meet, shipments to get out.”

  “They can wait a day, while we honor our founder, and while you decide if you’ll remain with the company.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rick Allcott was sitting up in his hospital bed when I stopped in to see him. Tethered to several IV bags hanging from a pole, he looked drawn, but gave me a big smile. “Jessica, what a nice surprise. I hear I owe my recovering health to you and Dr. Hazlitt.”

  “You certainly may credit Seth,” I said. “All I did was to bring in your insurance card.”

  “I’ll bet it wasn’t easy to find, either,” he said. “And I’m especially grateful you thought to bring my toiletry kit. Can’t tell you how wonderful it was to wash up this morning and use my own toothbrush. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

  “A little weak, but I’ll pull through.”

  "“Malaria is a disease that takes quite a toll on the body, I understand.”

  “So you know about my diagnosis.”

  “An exotic disease in Cabot Cove is always news. It was all over the hospital in no time, and it was even mentioned in this morning’s Gazette—without your name, of course.”

  “Too bad they didn’t use my name,” he said. “I haven’t had my fifteen minutes of fame yet.”

  “It wasn’t a front-page headline,” I said. “It was a small item, reassuring the community that malaria is not contagious. I imagine Mrs. Thomas at Blueberry Hill was particularly relieved.”

  “She’s a nice lady. I’m sorry if I scared her. Please, Jessica, pull up a chair. I feel rude being in bed while you’re standing. I know you have some questions for me. I can see it in your face.”

  I wondered what it was about my face these days that caused people to assume they knew what I was thinking and feeling—first Dr. Boyle’s nurse, Mandy, and now Rick Allcott. But there was no use fretting over whether my facial expressions were revealing my inner thoughts. I did have questions for Rick, and he was inviting me to ask them.

  “I do have a few things I’d like to talk about with you,” I said, taking the hospital-issue vinyl chair that was next to his bed.

  “Fire away.”

  “I have a feeling you came to Cabot Cove under false pretenses. Care to comment?”

  “It’s your fault I’m here,” he said with a smile. “Your portrayal of Cabot Cove was so appealing, I knew I’d have to see the town for myself. And it is indeed the perfect vision of small-town Americana, especially the parade that you so colorfully described to me at the conference.”

  “It took two years before the appeal of my hometown’s description sank in and you decided to check it out in person?”

  “I told you, I just retired and now I have the time to travel. Why would you doubt me?”

  “You’ve been telling me one lie after another since you arrived,” I said. “Either you enjoy spinning yarns, in which case I will start to doubt the impression I formed of you two years ago, or you’re up to something and don’t want me to know about it.”

  Rick laughed. “What have I lied about?”

  “The Red Sox, for one.”

  “You don’t believe I’m a Red Sox fan? I’ve been following them ever since I got a Ted Williams glove for my seventh birthday.”

  “You may indeed be a fan of the Sox, but you didn’t stop in Boston to watch a game before arriving in Cabot Cove in time for Independence Day. They were on a ten-day road trip when you claim to have seen them in Fenway Park.”

  The smile on Rick’s face became an ironic one. “I was hoping you hadn’t checked their schedule.”

  “I didn’t. News of their road trip was all over the radio and television. Maine doesn’t have its own major-league baseball team. Everyone here follows the Red Sox.”

  “Is that all? All right, I didn’t go to the stadium. I was eager to come up here. What’s the big deal? I’m branded a liar for that?”

  “When we were walking on the shore after the fireworks and Amos told us about his trip to Africa, you acted as if you’d never been there. In fact, you told us you’d love to see it one day.”

  “So?” His smile had now disappeared.

  “Your passport was in the same sneaker as your wallet.”

  “And you looked at it?”

  “I did. You visited Sierra Leone last year. That’s in Africa. And three weeks ago you were in Zimbabwe, where you must have contracted an apparently difficult case of malaria.”

  “You’re a hard lady to fool.”

  “Why would you want to?”

  He leaned back against the pillow and sighed.

  “You’re not retired from the bureau, are you?” I asked.

  His head came up. “Now why do you say that?”

  “I think you’re still working for Uncle Sam. You showed the police your FBI ID and you’ve obviously kept up with your martial arts skills; otherwise I doubt you’d have been able to attack and disarm that mugger so efficiently the night you saved Seth from further harm. I think you’re working on a case in Cabot Cove, and unless I miss my guess, I’d say it has to do with Lennon-Diversified.”

  “Sheesh, Jessica. Would you consider coming to work for the bureau? We could use more investigators with your powers of logic.”

  “Compliments won’t get you out of this, Rick.”

  “You’re only partially right. I am officially retired from the bureau. Put in my twenty years, qualified for the gold watch, if the national budget would ever supply them. But the bureau does hire back its retirees as independent contractors, especially if they’ve been working on a case for an extended time. No sense in putting another agent through a steep learning curve if it isn’t necessary.”

  “And you’ve been investigating Lennon-Diversified for a long time?”

  “If I reveal a government secret to you, you have to promise you won’t share it with anyone—not with Seth, not with Amos, not even with Mort.”

  “I won’t make that promise if it’s going to hinder a murder investigation. Mort needs to be informed if a different governmental organization is asserting jurisdiction, especially if it’s impeding work on his case. There’s a man being kept in jail as we speak, who very well may be innocent. Is innocent, in my view.”

  “I can�
��t speak for Carlisle’s guilt or innocence.”

  “Can’t you? I didn’t see the T-shirt you bought from Chester when I was looking for your wallet. It wasn’t among your clothes.”

  “It’s in my car. Boy, you really went through my things, didn’t you?”

  “You might still be in the emergency room hallway if I hadn’t.”

  “You’re right. I apologize. I know you’re upset, but I really can’t discuss this with you. It’s an official matter.”

  “Out of curiosity, where is the gun that goes with the ammunition clip I found in your other sneaker?”

  I watched as color flooded Rick’s face. “It was stolen from my room.”

  “Does Jill Thomas know?”

  “God, no. I would never tell her I left a gun in the room. She would freak out.”

  “Did you report it to the police?”

  He shook his head. “Look, Jessica, I can’t think of anything more humiliating than an FBI agent’s being relieved of his weapon. It should have been on my person, but with the hot weather, there was nowhere to conceal it. Besides, I figured no one would break into my room in Cabot Cove, of all places in the world.”

  “Are we going to discover that the gun used to kill Joseph Lennon and found in Chester Carlisle’s car is FBI issue?”

  Rick crossed his arms. “Before you accuse me, did you check to see if the gun they found in Carlisle’s car is registered to him?”

  “Are you trying to buy some time?”

  “It’s a legitimate question.”

  “No, it’s not. Maine doesn’t require gun registration, and as an FBI agent working in the state, I assume you know that. So I’ll ask again. Was your gun used to kill Lennon?”

  Rick threw his head back on the pillow. “I hope not, but it’s possible.”

  “If it’s the same gun, will the police be able to trace it to you?”

  “No way. It’s not registered, and there are no identifying marks on it.”

  “When was your gun stolen?”

  “You mean when did I realize my gun had been stolen? The night of the murder, when I returned to Blueberry Hill from your house and checked to see if it was where I’d hidden it. That’s when I discovered it missing.”

  “Yet you never reported the theft to Mort?”

  “I had a feeling it might have been used in the murder, and I didn’t want to claim it just yet.”

  “Could that be because you killed Lennon yourself and tossed the murder weapon into the back of Chester’s car?”

  “I know it may look that way to you right now, Jessica, but I swear that’s not the case. And as soon as I get out of here, I’ll go talk to Mort and tell him about the gun.”

  “How long are you going to be in the hospital?”

  “Seth didn’t say, but let me talk to your sheriff. It should come from me.”

  “Am I supposed to hold on to information about crucial evidence in this case until you feel you’re well enough to walk out of here? How do I know you won’t skip town and leave Chester languishing in jail?”

  “Look. I’ll call up the sheriff and see if I can get him to release the old man, or at least get him to let Carlisle out on bail. I offered before to work with Mort’s office on this case, and I swear I’ll help him find the real killer.”

  “I’ll give you time to talk with the sheriff,” I said. “But if you don’t tell Mort your gun is missing, I will.”

  “What’s this all about?” Seth stood in the doorway looking from Rick’s face to mine. “Are you upsetting my patient, Jessica?”

  “I think the upset is mutual,” I said, standing.

  “Well, visiting time is over for today. This man needs his rest if he’s to get better.”

  “Then I’ll leave him in your competent care,” I said.

  Rick looked at me imploringly. “I didn’t do it, Jessica. Do you believe me?”

  “I hope that’s the truth, Rick,” I said. “But I don’t know that I’m ready to believe anything you say.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Jessica? It’s Jed Richardson. The Cessnas are back in service, and since I have some time, I thought I’d give you a call and see if you want to go up for an hour or two today.”

  I took the phone to the window and looked out at a beautiful blue sky. “You know, Jed, I think that’s a wonderful idea. I need to keep my skills sharp. I’ll see you in about an hour.” Smiling, I hung up the phone.

  Yesterday had been a long and difficult day. While my visit to Mrs. Lennon had been informative, my confrontation with Rick Allcott had been just the opposite. I’d left the hospital feeling guilty that I’d harassed a sick man and frustrated that I hadn’t been able to get answers from him. One thing was clear: The FBI was here in Cabot Cove on official business. Rick wouldn’t admit it, but I was convinced it had to do with Lennon-Diversified. At one time the company had been the target of a fraud investigation by the Food and Drug Administration. Those charges had never stuck. Had the FBI sent Allcott to Cabot Cove to follow up? He had visited Zimbabwe around the same time the Lennons had been there. It couldn’t be a coincidence. If Rick’s gun had been used to kill Joseph Lennon—something I couldn’t prove yet—who had fired the fatal shot? Rick? He’d been at the fireworks, but I had no idea with whom he’d met up or whether he’d left at any time and wandered off behind the building to confront Lennon.

  Unless someone had seen him.

  But the hundreds of people there all had their eyes trained on the brilliant displays. The loud pop of a 10 mm gun would never have been heard above the explosions in the sky. And if Rick’s gun truly had been stolen, who could have taken it? Who had access to his room other than Jill Thomas and her maid? Dante had visited the inn to arrange for rooms for the company’s visitors—or so he told Jill. According to my friend MaryJane, who worked at Lennon-Diversified, the company rarely had visitors. If Dante went to the inn to break into Rick’s room, did that mean he knew who Rick was and why he was here?

  Had Mrs. Lennon really gone straight from the airport to her lavish home, skipping the fireworks show altogether? She was now in charge of Lennon-Diversified. Had that been her goal all along? Had she believed her husband was cheating on her, perhaps with Cynthia Welch? She’d hinted that he had an eye for a pretty woman, and she was determined that her son would head up the company. While Cynthia Welch may have underestimated Denise Lennon, I certainly did not.

  Or had Cynthia Welch tried an end run around both Lennons to ensure her place running Lennon-Diversified? Without his mother’s support, Paul was no match for Ms. Welch’s forceful personality. But then again, Paul had been badly treated by his father. Was Joseph Lennon’s death merely the revenge of an abused child? Could Paul’s sister, Josie, also have a motive? It didn’t seem logical that she would kill the parent who supported her stage career, but murder is rarely logical.

  And where did that purveyor of a closetful of pills, Dr. Warren Boyle, stand now that his benefactor was gone? Would he gain or lose by Joseph Lennon’s death?

  I’d gone home that night with my head ringing with questions but without any answers. I’d left a message at the sheriff’s office for Mort, but I hadn’t mentioned Rick’s gun. Instead, I asked him to call Rick at the hospital and told him that Allcott had something he needed to discuss with him. I would give Rick a chance to come clean with Mort, and I hoped he’d do it.