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

by Jessica Fletcher

  The door I’d seen her go through was steel, like the one that led to the veranda in the back of Lennon-Diversified. Wouldn’t it be ironic if I’d walked all the way through Dr. Boyle’s office only to end up outside at the back of the building? Amos would be happy about that, I thought. I turned around and tried to re-create in my mind the directions I’d taken since entering Dr. Boyle’s practice. I’d come in on the side of the building and walked straight through the door from reception. The new dermatology suite was to the right; the hallway to the examining rooms and Dr. Boyle’s office angled to the left. No, it wasn’t possible that this door led to the outside. If my calculations were correct, it would open directly into the backroom operations of Lennon-Diversified.

  I put my bag on the floor, turned to face the door, leaned in, and placed my ear against the steel. There was a hum made by some machine, but I didn’t hear any voices. I tried the doorknob. It rotated easily in my hand. I took a deep breath and knocked loudly but didn’t wait for someone to open the door. I opened it myself.

  Bright light left me blinking.

  I let the door close behind me and took a step into the room, which was absent of any staff but filled with shipping materials and machinery whose functions were not clear to me. Everything I saw was oversized. There were huge tables piled with cardboard containers and enormous rolls of bubble wrap. Suspended on rods hanging from the ceiling were gigantic spools of clear plastic, the ends dangling. And there were wooden pallets all around me with boxes stacked higher than I was tall, all of them swathed in plastic wrap.

  The hum I’d heard through the door came from a small machine, part of a labeling mechanism, or so it appeared. Brown bottles were lined up on a conveyor belt, and a roll of self-stick labels was arranged so that as the next bottle moved forward, the new label would be applied. The machine had stopped, but the motor was still running. Next to the machine was a vat of clear liquid—it looked like water—in which sealed bottles of pills were submerged. The liquid had dissolved the glue that held the labels on— apparently its purpose. A large trash bin lined in plastic held a soggy mass of labels. I plucked one from the bin and put on my glasses so I could read the silver and red label. It said LD CHLOROQUINE. I assumed the “LD” stood for “Lennon-Diversified.” Seth had said chloroquine was an antimalarial drug. I couldn’t reach the roll of new labels on the machine to see what they said, but a search around the mechanism yielded the same sealed bottles in an open box. A different label had been affixed to these. It read simply LD ANTIMALARIAL. They’re relabeling the bottles—but why?

  The sound of a conversation drifted in to me from somewhere, the voices becoming louder as the people approached the room. There wasn’t time to retreat through the door I’d used. Instead, I ducked behind a pallet and hoped I wouldn’t be seen.

  “When’s the truck coming?” a man’s voice asked.

  “Should be here any minute,” a woman’s voice responded, “but this is absolutely the last shipment. I can’t take a chance on getting caught. It’s just not worth it.”

  “Don’t be such a worrier, sweetheart. You have a great future ahead of you. We’ll take care of the mother and the kid, and you’ll be back on top again.”

  “That’s what you said the last time. I’m sorry I got involved with you. You must be mad.”

  “Don’t pull a Miss Innocent act with me. I know all your secrets. I’m not alone in this. You’ve been with me every step of the way.”

  “I had no idea what you planned.”

  “You knew. You just didn’t want to acknowledge it. You prefer to do your dirty work from a distance, don’t you? But if you want to keep things the way you like it, you have to take action. You weren’t unhappy when you thought it was going to benefit you.”

  “You’re the one who was afraid things were going to change. I could have managed him and made it work. I’ve handled her before, and I could do it again.”

  “Well, it’s too late now, and I’m not going to lose everything I’ve worked for. I have a lot invested in this. With them out of the picture, we’ll have a lot more leverage. Did you empty out the safe?”

  “Yes. They should be on their way to the airport soon. They’re flying out at five.”

  “Good. We just need to load up the pallets and get to Peppino’s. I want to be drinking a martini when the news comes in.”

  A thunderous crash startled me, but my gasp was covered by the deafening noise made by the motorized crank lifting the giant garage doors. There was a loud clunk as the doors reached the ceiling, followed by a beeping sound. I peeked around the side of the pallet to see a large truck backing up. Cynthia Welch and her supposed assistant, Dante, watched as the truck nestled closer to the loading dock.

  The truck driver and his helper vaulted themselves up onto the dock and began wrestling the first pallet onto the truck. If they intended to take all the pallets, my hiding place would be exposed.

  “There are seven altogether,” I heard Cynthia say. “These five, and those two over by the green door.”

  I glanced at the door I’d come through. It was green. My stomach dropped. I didn’t dare look out again. What if they saw me? How could I explain my presence? Warm air from the outside poured in, mixing with the cooled air inside. The air conditioner cycled on, and a cold draft flowed down over me from the register above my hiding place. I shivered. What would happen next? Were they armed? What if Amos blundered in? He’d said he would come after me if I wasn’t back in ten minutes. How long had I been here? I looked at my watch. It was far longer than ten minutes. I was in trouble now.

  “Okay, only two more pallets left.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Hey, lady, we don’t have enough room for those last two pallets.”

  “Are you sure?” Cynthia asked.

  “Nonsense! I’m sure you can fit them in,” said Dante.

  “Look, man, I’m only the truck driver. Come see for yourselves.”

  Never had more welcome words been spoken. I was crouched behind the pallet farthest from the door. Praying that they were gathered around the back of the truck, I scooted over to the other pallet. My heart pounded. I stuck my head out to see where they were. Dante had climbed into the back of the truck and was directing the driver and his assistant on how to rearrange their load. Cynthia Welch, her arms crossed and foot tapping, watched the proceedings.

  Keeping my eyes on their backs, I inched over to the green door, felt for the knob and pulled, opening a space just wide enough for me to slip through. Once inside, I held on to the door and closed it gently to keep it from slamming shut and alerting Dante and Welch to my presence. Then I grabbed my bag that I’d left on the floor and hastened through the doctor’s office, out his front door, and up the hill to the parking lot. I flung myself into the passenger seat of Amos’s car. “We’ve got to get to the airport, ” I said, breathing heavily.

  Amos didn’t look up from his book. “I’m almost to the end of the chapter,” he said.

  “Amos,” I said, trying to catch my breath, “please put down the book. We have to go. Right now. The airport.”

  “All right,” he said, a disgusted look on his face. “But I don’t see what can’t wait two paragraphs. The shark was just about to strike.”

  “We have to get to the airport right away. I think a bomb has been planted on the Lennon-Diversified plane, and we’ve got to stop it from taking off.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” He threw the book into the backseat, started the engine, and pulled out of the lot in front of the truck that was lumbering up the hill from the loading dock.

  “Wait! Slow down. I want to get the number of that truck.” I released my seat belt, twisted around, and held on to the headrest, trying to see the numbers on the license plate.

  “Make up your mind, Miz Fletcher. First you tell me to get to the airport as fast as I can, and now you’re telling me to slow down. Which is it?”

  “Both,” I said, plunging my hand into
my bag and groping for a pen. “Got it!” I slumped back in my seat. “Now, let’s get to the airport.” I scribbled down the truck’s identification and snapped my seat belt into place.

  Amos radioed Mort as we got on the highway to the airport.

  “I’m in the patrol car,” Mort said. “I was just about to drive out to Lennon-Diversified. Did Mrs. F come up with anything new?”

  “Yup, she thinks there might be a bomb on the company plane. We’re on our way to the airport.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” Mort said. We heard his siren over the radio, and soon heard it in person.

  “Darn rental car wasn’t made for speed,” Amos said as Mort’s cruiser passed us on the road. “I’ve got my foot to the floor.”

  I rummaged in my bag for my cell phone and dialed Jed Richardson. “Jed, it’s Jessica. Has the Lennon-Diversified plane taken off yet?”

  “Not yet. Mrs. Lennon and her son and daughter were a little late getting here. But I think they’re aboard now.”

  “Jed, you have to keep that plane from taking off.”

  “You’re breaking up, Jess. Could you repeat that?”

  “Don’t let that plane take off,” I shouted into the phone. “Can you hear me?”

  “Did you say not to let the plane take off?”

  “Yes! Stop the plane. It can’t take off.”

  “How am I supposed to do that, Jessica? They’re already taxiing to the end of the runway.”

  “Jed! There’s a bomb on board.”

  “You’re breaking up again, Jess. Oh, looks like the police are here.” The line went dead.

  “Take that next right,” I instructed Amos.

  “But, Miz Fletcher, the airport exit is another half mile.”

  “This road goes to the end of the runway,” I said, pointing. “Please. Hurry!”

  Amos followed my directions, and we bumped over the unpaved road, reaching the far end of the runway. I could see the headlights of the Lennon company Gulfstream as it rounded the turn to take its place at the head of the runway. The whine of the engines reached our ears as the pilots revved them up in preparation for takeoff.

  “Keep going!”

  “There’s no more road, Miz Fletcher, just grass.”

  “If you cross this section, you’ll be right on the runway.”

  “But what if the plane takes off? They’ll crush us.”

  “They should be able to see us. The only way we can keep them on the ground is to block their way. If you put your hazard lights on, that will help.”

  Amos pushed the button, and the front and back lights flashed on and off. We bounced over the grassy lane and skidded onto the tarmac. Then, racing along the side of the blacktop, we put our arms out the windows and waved them at the plane. Amos pressed his hand down on the horn, an ineffectual signal. It would never be heard over the aircraft’s engines.

  We saw Mort’s cruiser off to the right, the red light spinning on the roof, siren screaming. He was trying to catch up to the plane. Not far behind him was Jed’s red truck, horn blaring.

  The jet started forward, picking up speed.

  “Amos, pull in front of the plane. They’ll have to stop.”

  “Miz Fletcher, if I live through this, I’ll never complain about my quiet life again.”

  Amos jammed on the brakes and pulled the wheel sharply to the left. The car spun around and landed squarely in the path of the oncoming plane. We jumped out, waving our arms in the air, and ran to the side of the runway. If the plane hit the car, it would be totaled, along with the plane and the people in it. I saw the pilots gesticulating inside the cockpit as they managed to swerve to avoid hitting the car. The wind coming off the wings nearly knocked us down. I heard them reverse the engines. The tires shrieked as pressure was applied and rubber was left on the runway. But the plane came to a stop just before the blacktop ended and the grass began.

  Mort’s patrol car sped by us, Jed in close pursuit, and they pulled up next to the plane.

  Amos and I got back in the car and drove to where the Gulfstream sat. The stairway had already been lowered and the captain came out of the plane yelling, his fist in the air. “What in blazes are you crazy people doing? You almost killed all of us.”

  “Get everyone off the plane,” Mort yelled. “Right now.”

  “What is going on?” Mrs. Lennon stood in the doorway, her son and daughter looking over her shoulder.

  “Now!” Mort yelled. “Hurry up. Get down here. Get in the car.”

  “You’d better have a good explanation for this, Sheriff,” Mrs. Lennon said, taking her time on the stairs. “Paul, call our lawyer. I want him here now.”

  “Move!” Mort shouted.

  “I’m going as fast as I can,” she said. “It’s not easy to walk down these stairs in high heels.”

  Mort opened the rear door of the cruiser and waved Denise and her children in.

  “Are we under arrest?” Paul asked.

  “No time for questions,” Mort said. To Jed, “Get that other pilot into your truck and drive the two of them back to the office. I’ll meet you there.”

  Amos and I stood behind the open doors of his car. Mort jogged past us, and did an about-face at the last minute. “You’d better be right, Mrs. F, or we’ll be in for a major lawsuit. My job won’t be worth a dime if I stopped a private plane from taking off for no good reason.”

  I climbed in Amos’s rental car and breathed a sigh of relief. He turned the car around and drove slowly away from the Gulfsteam. The sleek jet sat at the end of the runway, its engines off but lights on, the stairway hanging out of its side like a gaping wound.

  “Miz Fletcher? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you, Amos. You did a splendid job.”

  “Just so you’re okay.”

  We followed Mort’s patrol car and Jed’s red truck up the runway. Because we were the last car in the procession, we were the first vehicle to feel the tremor when the Lennon-Diversified Gulfstream exploded, shooting flames a thousand feet into the air, the blast breaking windows in the airport office and, as I later learned, the reverberation heard in houses as much as a mile away. The smell of burning jet fuel filled the approaching night, the conflagration eerily illuminating, then scorching, the surrounding landscape. Our three vehicles rushed to shelter behind the airport hangars to escape the pieces of burning debris that floated down.

  I can’t say exactly how long it took, but the response of the Cabot Cove Volunteer Fire Department was swift and professional. Mort called in two more deputies and left Jed at the airport to supervise the cleanup in his office. The rest of us drove into town to sort out the events.

  Only four days ago, Joseph Lennon had been murdered while the fireworks he so generously financed marked the celebration of our nation’s birth and thrilled the spectators in his adopted hometown with brilliant flashes of color lighting the night sky. A different spectacular explosion almost took the lives of his wife and children, as well as the pilot and copilot. Thankfully, they all escaped harm. Now it was time to bring those responsible for the murder and the attempted murder to justice.

  Chapter Twenty

  The sheriff’s office was jammed with people, all talking at the same time, most of them on cell phones, some voices louder than others, trying to be heard over the insistent ringing of the telephones. Mort hunted around for extra chairs while Amos called Charlene Sassi at her bakery and asked her to send over coffee and doughnuts. Mrs. Lennon, insisting she was fine, had collapsed in Mort’s desk chair and was being tended to by the Cabot Cove EMS unit. Her son was on his cell phone, calling family members to report what had happened. The pilots were giving their version of the incident to the deputies. And Evelyn Phillips, who’d sent her photographer to the airport, paused in her interview with Josie Lennon to take a picture of the girl’s mother with a cell phone.