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

by Jessica Fletcher

“Have you met Lennon’s son?” Jim Shevlin asked.

  “No.”

  “Nice enough young man,” Susan said. “He works with his father.”

  “He came off more like a servant than a son,” Jim said. “The old man says jump, the son asks, ‘How high?’ ”

  Susan raised an eyebrow at her husband. “It wasn’t that bad,” she said.

  “Made me uncomfortable,” was Jim’s response.

  “What do you think of plans for the Independence Day weekend?” Tim asked.

  “They’re elaborate,” I said.

  “Puts us right up there with Washington and New York,” Susan said.

  “And Lititz, Pennsylvania,” Tim said.

  “Where?” It was a chorus.

  “Lititz,” Tim said. “They have a candle festival every Fourth, thousands of candles floated in water by the kids. They even choose a Candle Queen.”

  “Flagstaff, Arizona, has an interesting celebration,” Jim said. “A three-day American Indian rodeo. Seems fitting considering they were here before us.”

  “Anybody know why our signatures are called our ‘John Hancocks’?” Tim asked.

  “Because he signed the Declaration of Independence,” the mayor answered.

  “More than that.” Tim was in his element—history was his passion. “John Hancock’s signature was big and ornate. You can’t miss it on the document. By the way, he was the first to sign the Declaration of Independence.”

  “More pie?” I asked Seth, who’d been strangely quiet throughout dinner and ever since.

  “No, thank you. I’ve had my fill.”

  “How are things in the medical biz, Doc?” Jim asked.

  “Gettin’ worse every day,” was Seth’s reply. “If the government has its way, we’ll spend more time in medical school learning how to fill out forms than being taught how to cure people.”

  “Is it that awful?” Ellen asked.

  “Ayuh, it certainly is.”

  “What do you think of the new physician, Dr. Boyle?”

  Seth shrugged. “Maybe I will have just a dite more of that pie, Jessica,” he said, his lack of response to the question speaking volumes.

  Ellen cocked her head. “Molly Wynn says you refused to give her a prescription she wanted,” she said, keeping the subject of medicine on the table. “She said she was switching to Dr. Boyle.”

  Tim frowned at his wife, but she ignored him. Everyone waited for Seth’s reply.

  “That she did,” Seth said. “She came in after seeing one of those infernal TV commercials from a pharmaceutical company and told me she wanted to try the drug they were pushing. I told her she didn’t need it. Got herself all in a huff and left the office. She’s not the only one. I’ve got people comin’ in all the time wanting me to prescribe some drug they’ve seen on TV, whether it’s good for them or not. In some cases it’d even be dangerous for them to take it.”

  There was general agreement with what he’d said.

  “What do you think of the scans Dr. Boyle is offering?” Ellen asked. “Tim and I are considering having them. He’s offering a special this month.”

  “See what I mean?” Seth grumbled. “Either you or Tim have some symptoms requiring a scan?”

  Tim and Ellen looked at each other.

  “No,” Tim said.

  “The pie is especially good, Jessica,” Seth said, ending the discussion and downing his final forkful.

  “I’ll tell Charlene Sassi you liked it.”

  The night concluded with a discussion of the meeting that had been held that afternoon, and Chester Carlisle’s behavior at it.

  “He’s so volatile,” our mayor said. “I thought he was going to physically attack that young exec from Lennon-Diversified.”

  “I’ve been telling Chester for years that he’s got to curb his anger,” Seth said. “Even suggested he see a shrink. He didn’t take too kindly to that bit of medical advice.” Seth chortled. “Thought he might take a swing at me right there in the office.”

  After everyone had left and I’d restored order to the kitchen, I settled in my air-conditioned study and turned on the TV news. After a succession of national stories, the anchor team turned to local Maine coverage. At the end of a report about a heated debate in the state’s legislature over a proposed bill, Joseph Lennon’s face filled the screen. A team from the Bangor station had come to Cabot Cove to cover the upcoming Independence Day weekend, and the female reporter asked Lennon why he had chosen to turn what had always been a modest celebration into one rivaling those of big cities.

  “I’ve put together a more ambitious celebration because Cabot Cove is now my home, and home to my corporation. This is the twenty-first century, and Cabot Cove should recognize and embrace that reality. We’re going to be doing everything in a big way, and the Fourth of July fest is just the beginning.”

  “How have the town’s old-timers responded to your efforts? ” Lennon was asked.

  “They love it!” he said, flashing a radiant smile. “Wouldn’t you?”

  The announcer’s face filled the screen.“More coming up on the Red Sox road trip after these messages.” The news-cast gave way to commercials, and I turned off the set. As much as I embrace progress, provided it’s achieved in an orderly and reasonable way, I did not agree with Lennon’s characterization of what Cabot Cove had been and was, nor did his bravado proclamation please me. I couldn’t help but think of that wonderful old tune written by someone I’d had the pleasure of meeting long ago, Sy Oliver, who’d created so many great arrangements for the big bands of Jimmie Lunceford and Tommy Dorsey. He’d written, “Tain’t What You Do (It’s the Way That You Do It).”

  Not only an infectious tune, but a sage bit of advice from which Mr. Joseph Lennon could learn a thing or two.

  Chapter Three

  I awoke on Thursday morning with a hangover—not the alcoholic variety, but one from a sweaty, uncomfortable night’s sleep. I’ve never enjoyed sleeping in air-conditioning and had resisted adding a third window unit for my bedroom. A portable fan, as well as an attic unit, drew in fresh, albeit warm, air from outside, but nothing did the trick in this heat wave. All the fans seemed to do was to circulate hot air around me as I tried to sleep.

  The sun was creeping over the horizon when I got out of bed, put on the kettle for tea, and retrieved the local newspaper from the front steps, along with the New York Times and the Boston Herald.

  The large front-page story in the Cabot Cove Gazette was, of course, the upcoming Fourth of July weekend (no major crimes had occurred the night before to preempt the space). The Fourth was on a Saturday, two days away. Joseph Lennon’s picture was there—no surprise—along with a piece about how plans for the event were progressing smoothly. I studied Lennon’s photograph closely. It was obviously a professional portrait, the lighting dramatic, his expression one of serious concern for all living things. The times that I’d met him, I hadn’t taken particular notice of his eyes, but had been content with a more overall impression. He was a good-looking man with prominent cheekbones and a full head of heavily gelled black hair. He wasn’t tall, probably five feet, seven or eight inches, but he carried himself taller. His tan was perpetual, undoubtedly the result of artificial means. I’d noticed in one of Dr. Boyle’s mail pieces that he had established as part of his growing medical practice a tanning salon and massage therapy facility. I found it strange that a physician would promote tanning by machine, given all the negative things written about such procedures. Maybe he’d established the tanning salon to provide his benefactor, Joe Lennon, with easy access to a healthy-seeming, year-round glow.

  Now I peered into his eyes. They were dark, bordering on black, and narrow. Mean eyes? I hated to make such a judgment on the basis of a photo in a newspaper, but it was the first thought that came to me.

  I read the rest of the paper, pausing at a full-page advertisement run by Dr. Boyle in which he endorsed the scans Ellen Purdy had mentioned: a carotid artery scan, an abdomi
nal aortic aneurysm scan, and a peripheral arterial disease scan. You could order them separately, but if you opted for all three, you saved twenty-five dollars. I had no idea whether such scans were beneficial or whether they would save lives. I had to assume they would. But it wasn’t long ago that doctors and lawyers were prohibited from advertising their services by their sanctioning bodies, the American Medical Association and the American Bar Association. Ads like this one were another example of things changing before our very eyes. Change for the better? Maybe. Maybe not.

  After showering and dressing in loose-fitting clothing and sandals, I called Jim at Charles Department Store, a small but remarkable establishment that seemed to carry everything you could possibly want or need, as well as things you’d never thought of.

  “Good morning, Jim. Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Good morning, Jessica. Managing to stay cool?”

  “No, and that’s why I’m calling. You don’t happen to have in stock a small air conditioner that will cool my bedroom, do you?”

  “Oh, Jessica, I wish I did. We’re sold out. I do expect a shipment next week, but this heat wave will probably break by then.”

  “Let’s hope so,” I said. “But put one aside for me anyway. I might as well be ready for the next one.”

  “Shall do, Jessica. Have a great day.”

  I’d no sooner hung up than the phone rang.

  “Morning, Mrs. F,” Sheriff Metzger said. “Sleep well?”

  “As a matter of fact, I didn’t, Mort.”

  “Too hot, huh? I know just what you mean. Makes you sleepy in the day, and keeps you up all night.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You should get an AC for your bedroom. That’s the most important place for AC. Got to have a good night’s sleep.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me. I just ordered one from Charles. What’s up?”

  “I thought you might enjoy seeing how fireworks are done. Joe Lennon has arranged a demonstration by the fellas from Grucci out at the industrial park.”

  “Sounds interesting. What time?”

  “Eleven.”

  “I’m free until one. I’ll be there.”

  After turning the air-conditioning unit in my study up full blast, I called a local cab company to arrange to be picked up at ten forty-five, then went back to work on an outline for my next murder mystery that was due the following week. Coming up with compelling outlines is like pulling teeth for me. Writing the entire book is so much easier than sketching out a plot. I’d been working on this particular outline for two weeks, and knew I had at least another week’s work ahead of me. Maybe it was the blessed cool of the room, but this morning’s efforts seemed to go smoother than on previous days. I glanced up at my bird clock. A gift from a friend, it featured different, authentic birdcalls sounding on the hour. The big hand was almost on the white-breasted nuthatch; time to get ready to leave, but the thought of vacating the comfortable room wasn’t appealing. I mustered my courage and exited my house.

  “Where to, Mrs. Fletcher?” Nick asked.

  “The industrial park on the north.”

  “Going for the fireworks display?” Nick had been driving a taxi in Cabot Cove for at least ten years and seemed to know everything that was going on in town. His cousin Dimitri, who owned the cab company, now served as dispatcher for his growing business, rarely taking the wheel of one of his vehicles himself.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought I might hang around myself and learn something,” he said, “although with this heat wave, lots of people who ordinarily wouldn’t be calling for a taxi are doing just that.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I’ll be fine just as long as I don’t get caught up in a traffic jam and overheat,” he said.

  Yes, Cabot Cove certainly had grown. The notion of traffic jams was a fairly recent phenomenon, caused in part by industrial parks like the one in which Lennon-Diversified was located. A number of such parks had also sprung up outside of town, and many Cabot Covers had found employment at them, meaning a commute that, at times, caused congestion during our version of rush hour—nothing like what New York or Los Angeles experienced, but something to which we’d not yet grown accustomed.

  Nick pulled into the industrial complex, where a large stage had been set up in front of Lennon-Diversified’s impressive marble building. The stage was just as it had been depicted on Cynthia Welch’s PowerPoint audiovisual presentation the previous day. What hadn’t been on the screen was the beehive of activity going on around the stage. A bus had pulled up close to it, and young men were busy hauling out what appeared to be massive pieces of amplification equipment and toting them up onto the stage. It must be the band, I thought, as Nick maneuvered to where a group of perhaps thirty people stood.

  “This is fine,” I said.

  I signed the chit—I have an account with the taxi company and am billed monthly—and got out. Nick laughed. “Sure you don’t just want to go home, Mrs. Fletcher, and stay cool? Must be fifteen degrees hotter here in the park. It’s all the asphalt. It retains the heat.”

  “No, as long as I’m here I might as well stay. Thanks, Nick.”

  “Pick you up?”

  “I’m sure I’ll get a lift from someone. Are you staying?”

  If he was considering it, his ringing cell phone changed his mind. “Got to go,” he said. “Mrs. Kalisch needs a ride out here to Dr. Boyle’s office.”

  Dr. Boyle, I thought, and Seth Hazlitt immediately came to mind.

  Agnes Kalisch had been a patient of Seth’s for as long as I’d known her. Had he sent her to Dr. Boyle for a second opinion or for some sort of specialized testing? As far as I knew, Boyle was a general practitioner like Seth—a primary-care physician, in today’s parlance. Was Seth’s practice about to go the way of small businesses in towns and cities across America, falling victim to large discount chain stores and fancy new approaches to doing business— or practicing medicine? I hoped not.

  “Hey, Mrs. F,” Mort Metzger called. Kathy Copeland was with him, and they came to where Nick had dropped me off.

  “Hot enough for you?” Mort asked, removing his Stetson and wiping his brow with a handkerchief.

  “More than hot enough,” I replied. I asked Kathy where her sister, Willie, was.

  “Smarter than I am,” she responded. “She says she’s staying in the condo for the duration of the heat wave.”

  “She’ll miss the fireworks and the concert,” Mort said.

  “I don’t think she meant it,” said Kathy. “You know Willie, always overstating things.”

  We joined the rest of the crowd that had gathered in front of the stage. Mort had assigned uniformed officers to various positions for crowd control, although the heat had obviously dampened the spirits of many who would otherwise have shown up. There wasn’t much of a crowd to control.

  “When is it going to start?” Kathy asked. “I’m wilting.”

  “Seems it’s about to,” Mort said. “Excuse me. Looks like somebody passed out over there.”

  He was right. A woman was prone on the ground, surrounded by concerned onlookers. Someone had had the foresight to arrange for an ambulance to be on hand, and its EMTs immediately went to work reviving the woman. Kathy and I watched as Mort took charge of the situation, but our attention was soon drawn back to the stage. Joseph Lennon had just come out of his building and now stood at a microphone. He was dressed immaculately in a tan suit, blue shirt, and green tie. What I especially noticed was that he seemed as cool as though it were an early fall day. There didn’t seem to be a drop of perspiration on him, and I thought of the character, played by E. G. Marshall in that wonderful film Twelve Angry Men, who never perspired in a sweltering jury room, even when tempers heated up.