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

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Chester,” I said, “we were just about to leave and—”

  “How about you?” Chester asked Rick. “Fifteen bucks.”

  “Sure,” Rick said.

  “Please,” I said to Rick, “there’s no need—”

  “No, no, it’s okay,” Rick said. He pulled out his wallet.

  “You look like a small to me,” Chester said.

  “Medium,” Rick said.

  “Suit yourself,” Chester said, handing Rick a shirt. “They’re roomy.”

  Rick handed Chester the money. “Now,” he said in a low, firm voice, “it’s time for you to leave.”

  Chester ignored him and said through a crooked grin, “What a’ you think of the shirts, Jessica? I dropped a couple of them off at Lennon’s building, gave ’em to the security guy there. Thought the guy would bust a gut. Got tossed out but got my point across. See if he can push us around next time—”

  This time, Rick leaned close to Chester and whispered something in his ear. The older man started to say something, but pulled back from Allcott. “Okay, okay,” Chester said. “Take it easy. I don’t mean no harm.”

  Chester got up and stood, as though not sure what to do or where to go next.

  “Nice meeting you,” Allcott said.

  We watched Chester thread his way through a knot of people waiting to pay at the register, take an empty stool at the counter, and hold up one of his shirts for Barney and Spencer’s inspection.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” I told Rick.

  “Nothing to apologize for,” Rick said. “Every town has someone like your friend.”

  “He’s one of our council members, not really my friend,” I said, sorry that I felt the need to make such a disclaimer. “He’s not a bad man. It’s just that—”

  “Jessica, Jessica,” Allcott said shaking his head. “It was nothing.” He smiled and looked at the shirt he’d bought. “Nice souvenir to take back with me.”

  “I can think of better ones.” I looked at my watch. “Time to head for police headquarters.”

  Mort Metzger was in the lobby to greet us when we arrived.

  “Appreciate you doing this, Mrs. F,” he said to me, “but I’m afraid we’ve got a problem with Mr. Allcott. The kid’s attorney has turned thumbs-down on his taking part in the lineup.”

  “No surprise,” Rick said. To me: “You go ahead, Jessica. I’ll stroll around outside for a while.”

  “Shouldn’t take more than a half hour,” Mort told him.

  “Good. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

  I followed Mort to the rear of the building, where Cabot Cove’s district attorney, Frank Curtis, waited along with the accused’s lawyer, an intense young man named Jay Garland.

  “All set?” Mort asked.

  Everyone said yes, and we were taken into a darkened room with a large one-way pane of glass embedded in one wall. A dark maroon curtain covered it.

  “You were one of the alleged victims?” Garland asked me.

  “I was the victim of an attempted mugging last night, yes,” I said, feeling a prick of annoyance at my experience being branded “alleged.”

  “The parking lot was dark, wasn’t it?” Garland asked.

  “There were lights,” I answered.

  “It happened pretty fast?” was Garland’s next question.

  “Yes, it happened fast,” I said.

  “Are you done examining the witness?” Curtis said scornfully.

  “Go ahead,” said Garland.

  Mort instructed someone on the other side of the glass to open the curtain and to bring in the men who would be in the lineup. Now we looked into a brightly lighted room with thin horizontal black stripes set a foot apart on a white wall to indicate the height of the participants. A door to the side opened and four young men entered. One of them was our assailant. Not only did I recognize him, but the bruises on his face added weight to my identification. I also recognized two of the other men in the lineup, though. They were Mort’s deputies, wearing dark civilian clothing similar to that worn by the young man who’d attacked us.

  “Well, Mrs. Fletcher?” Frank Curtis asked. “Do you see your assailant among them?”

  “Yes,” I responded. “It’s number three.”

  “Who are the others?” Garland asked Mort.

  “A couple of my deputies and—”

  “Your deputies?” Garland snarled. He turned to me. “How long have you lived in Cabot Cove, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “A long time,” I said.

  “Do you recognize the sheriff’s deputies there?” He waved a manila folder in the direction of the lineup.

  I glanced at Mort, who grimaced.

  “Yes,” I answered truthfully. “Numbers one and four.”

  “This is a joke,” Garland said.

  “I may recognize the sheriff’s deputies,” I said, “but that hasn’t influenced my identification of the young man who attacked us. If you want someone who doesn’t know the deputies, why not allow Richard Allcott to try? He’d never been to Cabot Cove before the attack and didn’t know anyone in town.”

  “An ex-FBI agent?” Garland said, snorting. “Not on your life. I’m out of here.” He stormed from the room.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have used the guys,” Mort said to Curtis, “but you wanted it done fast.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Curtis said, slapping the sheriff on the back. “There were plenty of other witnesses besides Mrs. Fletcher. It’s open-and-shut.”

  The others left the building, but I sat with Mort in his office until it was time for Allcott to return. The lineup had taken only fifteen minutes.

  “Sorry it didn’t go better,” I said.

  “Like Frank used to say, it doesn’t matter. Ready for tomorrow?”

  “The Fourth? I suppose so. You?”

  “We’re set to go. The state is supplying extra officers to handle the crowds. The town has really filled up for the weekend, lots of tourists here to catch the rock-and-roll show and the fireworks. I’ll say this for Mr. Lennon—he knows how to throw a party. Looks like it may be bigger than the Lobsterfest, and that was a big deal.”

  Cabot Cove’s annual lobster festival took place in the fall and attracted an enthusiastic crowd despite the fact that it was officially after the peak summer tourist season. The townspeople were very proud of the Lobsterfest, although it would need to go a far way to match the one in Rockland that took place more than a month earlier than ours and was world renowned. I hoped our folks would be equally as proud of this year’s Fourth of July celebration.

  I told Mort about Chester and his anti-Lennon T-shirts.

  “Chester’s going off the deep end,” Mort said, shaking his head sadly. “T-shirts comparing Lennon with the dictator Lenin? That’s really dumb. Had he been drinking?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Another shake of the head. “Best thing for him would be to sleep it off, to go to bed and stay there until the whole thing is over.”

  If only.

  “What’s on your schedule the rest of the day, Mrs. F?”

  “I’m heading for Seth’s house when I leave here. He’s due back from the hospital. Jim Shevlin is driving him.”

  “Well, give Doc my best. I suppose there’s no sense bringing him in for a lineup after what just happened.”

  I reminded Mort that he wanted a formal statement from me.

  “How about you write one up and drop it off? I’ll formally accept it when you do.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Mort laughed. “Should be a good one, considering that you write for a living.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  When I walked into the reception area, Allcott was coming through the door. “How’d it go?” he asked.

  As we exited the sheriff’s office I gave him a brief description, and he frowned when I mentioned the deputies in the lineup.

  “Your sheriff should have anticipated the lawyer’s objection.”

  �
�He was under pressure to set up a lineup quickly.”

  “Where are you off to next?”

  “Seth’s house.”

  “Mind if I tag along?”

  “Of course not, only—”

  He read my mind. “You’d rather be alone with your friend,” he said. “I understand. I’ll drop you off.”

  “Thanks for the ride—and for understanding.”

  As we drove, Allcott said he thought he’d spend the afternoon browsing around the town. “Free for dinner?” he asked as we pulled up in front of Seth’s house.

  “Afraid not,” I replied. “I’m going to a friend’s house. I can call and ask whether—”

  “No, please. I think I’ll make it a quiet night at the inn. Your friends, the owners, are serving up lobster tonight. I’ll enjoy a drink in my rocking chair, a good dinner, and pick up where I left off in a book I’m reading—one of yours, as a matter of fact.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “Maybe you’ll sign it before I leave?”

  “Happy to.”

  Following my directions, he pulled up in front of Seth’s house and came around the front of the car to open the door for me. “My best to Dr. Hazlitt,” he said. “See you tomorrow? Another round of blueberry pancakes?”

  I laughed. “Not for me. Once a week is all my waistline can tolerate. But I’ll meet you at Mara’s at nine. We can go from there to the parade. It starts at ten.”

  “Great. A classic small-town Fourth of July parade. I love it.”

  I watched him drive away before knocking on Seth’s door and opening it. “Seth?” I called.

  “Back here,” he responded.

  I walked through the main part of the house to the small den, to which my friend often repaired when he wanted a quiet, peaceful place to read and think. He was leaning back in his favorite armchair, newspaper spread across his chest, glasses perched on the end of his nose. He started to rise.

  “Don’t get up,” I said, sitting on a hassock. “Did I wake you?”

  “Might have drifted off a bit. Hospital rooms are so damned noisy; can’t get a wink in all night. Every time I start to doze off, here comes another nurse, poking me, taking my temperature or blood pressure. Amazing anyone gets well in a place like that.”

  “You look fine.”

  “I feel all right,” he said. “Whoever’s blood they gave me must have been an athlete, bright red and full of oxygen. Sure to give me plenty of pep.”

  “That’s good to hear. Have they told you to take it easy for a few days?”

  “Of course they did. They tell that to everyone. But I’ve got a full afternoon of patients.”

  “Maybe you should—”

  “What, Jessica? Call Dr. Warren Boyle and ask him to cover for me?”

  “Where’s Dr. Jenny?”

  “Downstate, visitin’ her folks. She offered to come back up, but I told her no. And I’m not calling Dr. Boyle.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting anything of the kind, and you know it.”

  “I’m not so sure you think it’s a bad idea.”

  “I think it’s a terrible idea. Now, you said you wanted to discuss something with me.”

  “Ayuh. You might recall that I told you I was speaking with someone from Bangor who specializes in selling medical practices.”

  “Yes, I do recall that.”

  “Well, I’ve made up my mind to go ahead and do it.”

  “And just what prompted this decision, if I may ask?” I said, knowing what he was about to say.

  “Time marches on, Jessica, and it’s passed this chicken-soup doctor by.”

  “Seth Hazlitt,” I said, “that is absurd!”

  “Oh, is it, now?”

  “Yes, it is. You’re at the top of your game, Seth. You have the benefit of experience to go with your insights and training. I remember when I attended that medical conference with you in Los Angeles. You received an award for your diagnostic excellence. You’re the best diagnostician there is, and hundreds of people have benefited from it. Half of this town, at least those who go back more than a few years, have you to thank for their health and well-being. You’re constantly attending conferences and seminars to keep up with the latest advances in medicine. You’re not ready to retire, plain and simple. You are not ready to retire!”

  A tiny smile crossed his lips. “The heat’s got you all fired up this mornin’, Jessica.”

  “No, you have me fired up, Seth. Should I stop writing because I’m on the wrong side of fifty?”

  “Now, that’s not a fair question, not an apt analogy.”

  “Of course it is. I’m at the top of my game, too. I have lots of fans out there who are waiting for my next book, just as you have lots of men, women, and children waiting for appointments with you. They need you, Seth.”

  He grunted and looked out the window at his garden, which he tended with care.

  “Will you at least give it some more time before taking any action?” I asked, placing my hand on his good arm.

  “Ayuh, Jessica. But not too much time. I suppose you know that Harriet is plannin’ to retire.”

  “Yes, she told me.”

  “Not sure what I’ll do without her.”

  “You’ll find someone else just as capable and caring. That’s what you’ll do.”

  He folded the newspaper, put it aside, and slid forward on the chair.

  “Need a hand?” I asked.

  “I certainly do not, but thank you anyway.”

  He got to his feet and winced against a pain. “Back’s been actin’ up lately,” he said. “Those god-awful hospital beds would cripple anyone.”

  “Want me to make some lunch, or pick something up?” I asked as we walked to the side of the house in which his medical offices were located.

  “Not especially hungry, Jessica. You go on about your business. I’ve got to get ready for the first patient.”

  I said I’d be back in touch later that day. I stepped out into the heat of midday. I was satisfied that my little pep talk had had some impact on him, although I didn’t suffer any delusions. A confluence of events had hit him at once, and his depression was very real. Like all of us (except for the young and foolish), he was well aware of his mortality. On top of that was the arrival in Cabot Cove of an aggressive young doctor who was energetically marketing his services, and by extension siphoning off patients from Seth, and probably from other physicians, too. My encouragement not to sell his practice and retire would have only a momentary impact.