by Donald Bain
“Not at all.” I laughed. “I guess I’m just accustomed to seeing you at the restaurant and don’t expect to find you anywhere else.”
Mara rolled her eyes. “I know I work long hours, but believe it or not, I do have a life.”
“Of course you do. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“No offense taken.” She nodded at the newspaper I held. “I was kidding about solving the murder, of course.”
“Of course.” I smiled, refolded the paper, and put it back on the stack by the window.
“I know you may not believe this since I was so snippy about all the attention going to Brad Fowler and his new restaurant, but I was sorry to hear about the health inspection finding.”
“How did you learn about it?” I asked on a sigh.
“Are you kidding me? Kitchen workers are the worst gossips out there. And you’d better not tee them off. They have ways of getting even you wouldn’t believe.”
“I think I’d rather not hear about those,” I said.
“Never in my kitchen,” she said. “I keep a sharp eye on my staff, and I’ll tell you something else. I also keep a sharp eye on that health inspector. Harold Greene always has his hand out.”
“What do you mean? Does he ask you for bribes?”
“Not me. Never me. I wouldn’t give him the time of day. But I’ve heard about others who paid their way out of a failing grade.”
“Oh, dear. That’s not good news.”
“They’re probably not the places you patronize anyway. But when that guy comes walking through the door, I follow him around like a bird dog. I don’t let him do a thing unless I’m watching closely. He hasn’t pulled any fast ones on me, but I’m not so sure Brad and Marcie were as careful around him as I am.”
“What are you saying, Mara?”
“Just that you can’t always believe the health inspector’s report. They might not have had any mice at all. He could have been testing them. And when they didn’t offer him any shut-up money, he made them regret it.”
“That’s awful! Have you ever reported this inspector to the proper authorities?”
“No.” She laughed. “First of all, I’m no whistle-blower. I don’t want to rock the boat. You don’t know how high up the corruption goes. Second, I’m not Jessica Fletcher. I may suspect this guy is a crook, but I can’t prove it, and I don’t have the time to try.”
“Next!” Debbie called out, and I realized it was my turn at the counter.
“Nice to see you, Mara.”
“You, too, Jessica.” She lowered her voice. “Tell Brad and Marcie I said to keep their heads up. It’ll blow over.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, but I wasn’t certain if Mara was talking about the health inspection or the rumors about who committed the murder.
When I got home, I called Seth Hazlitt.
“Caught me on the way out,” he said. “I’ve got a couple of patients in the hospital I need to check on, including that fellow who was attacked. He doesn’t have a local doctor. The hospital wants me to take on his case.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“No, but why?”
“I’d like to see how he is.”
“You can always call the nurses’ station.”
“I’d like to see him for myself. Of course, if you’d rather I didn’t—”
“I don’t mind taking you, Jessica, but I can’t guarantee you’ll be able to see him.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Okay. I’ll swing by and pick you up in ten minutes.”
Seth reminded me during the short drive to the hospital that the man who’d been beaten, Warren Shulte, had been placed in a private room, with an order that no one aside from medical personnel or law enforcement were to be granted access to him.
“Why do you think that is?” I asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said as he turned into a parking lot reserved for hospital staff. “You were there when the agent from the FBI arrived. What did he say—something like ‘he’ll take over?’”
“Or words to that effect. Who is this Mr. Shulte who demands such secrecy and protection?”
Seth pulled into a space reserved for physicians and shut off the ignition. He turned to me and said, “You didn’t want to come here today to see how this Shulte character is doing medically. You wanted to come with me because you’re determined to get an answer to your questions about him and why he’s being given special treatment. Am I right?”
I held up my right hand. “Guilty as charged,” I said.
“And,” he said, “to continue my hypothesis, you thought that you could use my credentials at the hospital to wheedle some information out of somebody, maybe even Mr. Shulte himself.”
“You know me too well, Doctor.”
“Considering how difficult it is to know the real Jessica Fletcher, I take that as a supreme compliment.”
Seth asked me to wait in the lobby while he went to the physicians’ locker room and slipped a white coat over his shirt and tie. When he returned he said, “You go get yourself a cup of tea at the canteen while I check in on my patients. I’ll collect you there and we’ll go up to see how Mr. Shulte is doing. If they let you in, fine. But you can’t pretend to be my nurse.”
“Would I do that?”
Seth raised one eyebrow at me. “Wouldn’t put it past you.”
I had just sipped my last drop of tea when he returned and joined me at the small table. “I spoke with Dr. Keane, who examined Shulte in the ER. He says aside from two cracked ribs and a broken nose, he’ll live.”
“That’s good to hear. Did Dr. Keane say anything else about him?”
“Only that there’s a deputy from the sheriff’s department sitting outside the room to keep people away.”
“With the exception of medical personnel,” I offered.
Seth narrowed his eyes as he looked at me. “I can see where this is going,” he said. “I already told you no medical disguises. I’m not about to jeopardize my standing in this hospital to help you satisfy your insatiable curiosity.”
“You have such a warped view of me,” I said.
Seth coughed and grumbled, “I hope I won’t regret this. Well, come on. Let’s see if Mort’s deputy can be manipulated. But if he balks, you leave. Right?”
“Right you are, sir.”
Seth repeated his instruction on our way to the elevator, “If Mort’s deputy gives you a hard time about accompanying me into the patient’s room, you’ll have to accept that. I don’t want to cause a scene.”
“I understand perfectly, Seth. I’ll be the model of discretion.”
I couldn’t read his expression, whether he believed me or found my assurance amusing. But he didn’t say anything as the elevator doors opened and we walked down a quiet hallway in a secluded wing of the hospital. At the end sat Mort’s uniformed deputy, Chip, a familiar face around town, who was engrossed in his cell phone. He looked up as we approached, stood, and said, “Good morning, Dr. Hazlitt.”
“Good morning.”
“And to you, too, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“It’s a lovely morning,” I said, and waited for Seth to make the next move.
Seth headed for the door to Shulte’s room. “I’m going in to see my patient.”
I followed, but the deputy stopped me with, “Ah, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m not sure you’re supposed to go in there.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m going on rounds with Dr. Hazlitt this morning. Isn’t that right, Seth?”
Seth mumbled something and pushed open the door.
A puzzled expression crossed Chip’s face. I smiled broadly at him and said, “Only be a few minutes.”
The deputy watched us enter without saying anything else.
The room was cool and seren
e. Sunlight filtered through a partially open blind. A nurse, who had just finished taking the patient’s blood pressure and temperature, greeted us as she noted the results on the chart and then left.
“Good morning, sir,” Seth said.
Shulte was propped up in bed on pillows. His face was gray, his eyes sunken. Stubble on his cheeks and chin added to his pale look. Bruises testified to the thrashing he’d endured.
“I’m Dr. Hazlitt. I’ve been assigned to care for you as your physician. Feel free to ask any questions.”
Shulte shifted in bed, which caused him pain. He moaned.
“You just relax,” Seth said as he checked what was written on the chart. “Those broken ribs are bound to cause you a lot of discomfort. Expect it’ll take several weeks before the pain is gone completely.”
Shulte looked at me.
“I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “I was the one who found you and called nine-one-one.”
“Thank you,” he said softly, as though it hurt to speak.
“I’m glad I was there at the time,” I said. I glanced at Seth before saying, “I also saw the two men who I believe attacked you.”
His eyes widened and he licked his lips. “Punks!” he said in a stronger voice.
“They were dragging you from the back of the restaurant owned by Gerard Leboeuf,” I said.
“Punks!” he repeated. “Mobsters.” His face twisted into a snarl. “Leboeuf! He’s another one. I’m glad he got his.”
The vehemence in his tone struck me as though it were physical.
I checked Seth for a reaction to see whether he disapproved of my continuing to question Shulte, but he had his head buried in the chart, which said all I needed to know.
“Mr. Shulte,” I said. “Mr. Shulte?”
The patient’s eyes were fixed on a scene only he could see.
“Mr. Shulte?”
“Huh?”
“That’s not your name, is it?” I asked.
“What’s not my name?”
“Your name isn’t Shulte, is it?”
“Who told you?”
“You didn’t seem to recognize it when I called it.”
Shulte or whoever he was sighed. “I knew I’d never remember that name. Never been good with names.”
“Why would you need another name?”
The patient waved his hand in disgust.
Seth’s eyes moved up from the chart and he speared whoever-he-was with a look.
“That’s just the name I used when I got out of New York.” The weakness he’d displayed when we’d first arrived was now replaced with resolve. He struggled to straighten up despite the pain and pointed a finger at me as though to make sure that I was listening closely. “I had to leave New York to save my life, you understand.”
“For heaven’s sake, why?”
“The wiseguys who bankrolled Leboeuf, that’s why. I knew everything. I was the great man’s accountant for years, since he opened his first restaurant—with money from ‘investors,’ he called them.”
“Then you’re aware of the rumors about Mr. Leboeuf’s using his restaurants to launder illegal money.”
“Of course I know about it, but I’ll deny it if I have to testify.”
“Hate to interrupt,” Seth said, “but if your name isn’t Shulte, what would you like me to call you?”
“Name’s Compton, Charles Compton, CPA.”
I thought of Special Agent Anthony Cale. Had Mr. Compton changed his name because he’d entered the Witness Protection Program?
I asked.
He managed his first smile since we’d arrived. “Heck no,” he said, shaking his head. “The Bureau wanted me to be a witness against Leboeuf, but I wasn’t about to bite the hand that fed me. But when the goons behind Leboeuf got wind that the FBI was talking to me, I figured I’d better make tracks. That’s what I did.”
“Using an assumed name,” I said.
“Just a precaution.”
“Where have you been living?” Seth asked.
“Different places. I was with a daughter for a while, but I didn’t like putting her in jeopardy, so I moved here, there, and ended up out on the east end of Cape Cod.”
“You left New York because you were afraid for your life?” I asked.
“Right.”
“And you felt safe there?”
“Safe as anywhere. Had a little place I rented. Good view of the road, although I always looked over my shoulder whenever I ventured outside.”
“But the FBI would have protected you in its Witness Protection Program,” I offered.
His guffaw morphed into a cough and became a groan. “Look,” he said, after catching his breath, “I may not be the brightest bulb in the socket, but I don’t trust the Feds any more than I trusted Leboeuf.”
“You don’t have to worry about him any longer,” Seth grunted. He looked at his watch and raised his eyebrows.
I got the message and quickly asked, “If you wanted to get away from Leboeuf and his men, why did you come here to Cabot Cove and go to his restaurant?”
“I’m wondering that myself right now,” Compton said. “When I heard that the big-shot chef had been killed—and I sure as shootin’ wasn’t sad about that—I decided to confront his wife for the money I was owed. I’ve been living hand-to-mouth and figured I had nothing to lose by seeing if Evie would make it right. I helped set her up in business. We used to be good buddies.” He leaned back against the pillow and sighed. “I’ve made a lot of bad decisions in my life, and this was another one. When I told her why I was there, she told those two jerks who keep an eye on things for the ‘investors’ to get rid of me.”
“They could have killed you,” I said.
“They wouldn’t do that. At least not as long as I have the goods on Leboeuf and the funny money that’s behind him. That’s why they’re afraid of me.”
“Not so afraid that they hesitated to tear the stuffing out of you,” Seth said. “Have you given that information to the FBI?”
He shook his head. “The way I figure it, that information is my life preserver. It stays with me.” He pointed at his head.
“If that’s the only place your evidence is,” I said, “it only gives them more of a motive to get rid of you.”
“Look, I’m not that stupid, sweetheart. It’s all written down in the safe in my attorney’s office. If I die, he knows what to do. That’s my ace in the hole. Leboeuf’s goons know that, but what they don’t know is who my attorney is.”
As I pondered the wisdom of what Compton considered his “ace in the hole,” the door opened and FBI Special Agent Cale entered.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded.
“I’m checking on my patient,” Seth said mildly. He plugged his stethoscope into his ears and placed the chest piece over Compton’s heart.
“What are you doing here?” Cale asked me.
“I saved this gentleman’s life. I wanted to make sure he was okay.”
“Well, now that you’ve seen for yourself that he’ll live, you can leave.”
Mort’s deputy poked his head in the open doorway. “Everything okay here?”
Cale speared him with a frosty look. “I thought I told you no one was to visit him. Why did you let her in?”
“It’s Mrs. Fletcher,” Chip replied. “Everybody knows her, and she was making rounds with the doctor.”
“You can wait for me outside, Jessica,” Seth said. “I need a little time with my patient.” He directed that last comment at Cale.
Several minutes later Seth joined me where I’d lingered in the hallway outside the door. The FBI agent had spent the time dressing down the deputy. I felt sorry for the young man whom I knew I had tricked into letting me go where I wasn’t supposed to be.
Cale broke away from the
deputy. “What did he tell you?” he asked Seth, pointing at the door.
“Can’t reveal what we discussed,” Seth said. “Doctor-patient privilege.”
“I don’t mean what you talked about medically. What else did you talk about?”
“Coming, Jessica?” Seth asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Good seeing you again, Agent Cale.”
I could feel Cale’s eyes boring into our backs as we walked down the hall and waited for the elevator.
Seth returned his white lab coat, and we left the hospital and got in his car.
“Satisfied?” he asked as we pulled from the lot.
“It was an eye-opener,” I said. “If I understood him correctly, according to Shulte—I mean Compton—those two young men who work for Leboeuf are members of organized crime.”
“Ayuh.”
“Either one of them might have killed him.”
“Possible.”
As we pulled into my driveway, Seth said, “You heard Compton say that he’s been looking over his shoulder everywhere he goes.”
“Yes, I heard that.”
“My advice to you, Jessica Fletcher, is that you do the same.”
Chapter Seventeen
As soon as I walked in the house, I went to my desk and made notes about everything Compton had said about Leboeuf and their former relationship. I had no idea at that juncture, of course, that one day I would be writing a book about the murder and would find these notes helpful. For the moment I was concerned only that I not forget things in the event they proved useful to the authorities in solving the Leboeuf murder.
Once I’d recalled what had transpired in the hospital room and got it down on paper, I sat back and thought about what it all might mean.
From what I knew of the man, Gérard Leboeuf had made plenty of enemies over the course of his career. According to Mr. Compton, Leboeuf owed him money. I wondered how many others the chef may have taken advantage of—even defrauded—not to mention those he had forced out of business with his tough tactics. Notwithstanding his denials, Compton feared for his life to the extent that he had bolted from New York and had been living a low-profile existence ever since, constantly looking over his shoulder. From what he’d told Seth and me, as Leboeuf’s accountant he’d been in a position to know everything about the restaurateur’s fiscal dealings, including the source of the financing with which he’d launched his dining empire, as well as the allegation that he’d used his restaurants to launder money. Compton understood that such inside information could get a man killed, which motivated his skipping town. Perhaps he’d figured with Leboeuf dead, he was safe in confronting Eva over the money owed him. What he hadn’t counted on were the two bodyguards, if that’s what they were, who seemed to be tickled to have the opportunity to exercise their muscles against an aging man.