That truth sat heavily with me all the way home.
Chapter Eight
Could it be?
When I awoke the following morning, the air coming through my window was actually cool. I got up, put on a robe, and stepped out onto my back porch. Sure enough, the oppressive heat wave that had gripped Cabot Cove and much of Maine for days had broken, just in time for our Independence Day celebration. The cooler air brought a smile to my face, and I sat on the porch and reveled in it.
It’s remarkable how our lives are affected by weather. The heat and humidity had sapped everyone’s energy, judging from the way people moved and spoke. I was no exception. This morning, my spirits had markedly picked up, and I looked forward to riding into town and taking part in the day’s festivities, starting with the library panel.
I considered calling Seth to see if he felt up to joining Rick Allcott and me at Mara’s, but thought better of it. Chances are he would have agreed, and it was undoubtedly better for him to stay at home and give his wound another day to heal.
Allcott was already at Mara’s and engaged in conversation with a group of people, including our former sheriff, Amos Tupper, when I arrived. I joined them as Rick was finishing a story about one of the cases he’d worked on during his career as an FBI special agent.
“Good morning, Miz Fletcher,” Amos said.
“Good morning, Amos. Been enjoying yourself?”
“Yes, I certainly have. The town has changed a lot since I was last here.”
“Well, it’s been quite a few years now,” I said. “Change is inevitable, I suppose. Would you like to join Mr. Allcott and me for breakfast?”
“Don’t mind if I do, as long as the FBI won’t be listening in on us.” He laughed to reinforce that he was joking, and Rick laughed, too, although without much conviction. We took a booth that gave us a view of the dock and the flurry of boating activity that was taking place. It seemed that the break in the weather had injected a powerful dose of energy in everyone.
“Mr. Allcott told me earlier about what happened to you and Seth the other night,” Amos said. “ ’Course, I read about it in the Gazette, and that’s all everybody seems to be talking about.”
“That’s past tense, Amos,” I said, “and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“How’s Doc Hazlitt?”
“Doing just fine. He started seeing patients the day he came home from the hospital.”
Thinking of Seth and the conversation we’d had the previous day threatened to dampen my mood, but I willed away any negativity.
“There’s that old fool,” Amos said, pointing out the window to where Chester Carlisle stood wearing his anti-Lennon T-shirt and hawking them to passersby.
“Oh, my.” I sighed.
Chester’s pile of shirts was considerably smaller than it had been the previous day, so he must have found some takers in town.
“I was chatting with Sheriff Metzger yesterday,” Amos said. “He says Chester’s become the town clown.”
“I think that’s overly harsh,” I said, “although he has been acting oddly lately.”
“Must be the booze,” Amos said.
“That’s just a rumor,” I said. “One I hope isn’t true.”
Chester Carlisle had been a good and decent man for years, a valuable member of the community. Recently he’d become eccentric. Was it age? Had he begun to show signs of dementia of some sort? That was possible. Of course, if he had taken to drinking, that wouldn’t help. I hated to see him become a laughingstock, and wondered if there wasn’t some means of confronting him in the hope of bringing about a change. I made a mental note to ask Seth about that. Chester was, as far as I knew, still one of Seth’s patients.
Allcott weighed in on the subject of Chester. “I’d be concerned about him if I were you,” he said to me and to Amos.
“Oh, I am,” I confirmed.
“Not just for him,” Rick said, “but for the community. I’ve worked closely with some of the bureau’s best criminal profilers, and people like your Mr. Carlisle, while viewed with amusement—you know, just a harmless old fool—can sometimes turn deadly.”
“Deadly?” Amos and I said in unison.
Allcott nodded. “They keep deteriorating until one day they snap and hurt somebody.”
“He’s right, Miz Fletcher,” Amos said, his expression suddenly serious. “He knows what he’s talking about.”
“I hate to think that,” I said, and I meant it. At the same time, I couldn’t dismiss what the retired FBI special agent was telling us. Maybe confronting Chester and getting to the bottom of his character change was more pressing than I’d previously thought.
The sound of a marching band tuning up drifted through the door as people arrived and left.
“The parade will be starting soon,” I said. “Let’s get a front-row seat.”
The sidewalks up and down Main Street were filling up fast as we left Mara’s and found a good location from which to view the marchers. The townsfolk always turned out for a parade, and we could see the whole range of Cabot Cove’s population, from our most venerable senior citizens down to infants in carriages. Some people had brought lawn chairs and set them up along the parade route. Youngsters crowded together, sitting on the curbs, and waited for the parade to begin, waving little flags that had been distributed by the chamber of commerce. There were young fathers with children perched on their shoulders and mothers with babies on their hips. A group of teenagers hung out in front of the empty firehouse trying to look cool, and ended up chasing each other in and out of the empty bays. The fire trucks always led the parade.
Our civic organizations had worked for weeks building floats with a Fourth of July theme, and they could be seen at the end of the block getting ready to move. The route would take them down the length of Main Street, then bear left, snaking through some of the residential streets close to town, and reemerging at the dock, where a small stage, festooned in red, white, and blue, had been erected. A microphone and speakers had been set up. What would an Independence Day parade be without a few speeches at its conclusion?
We were joined by Kathy and Wilimena Copeland, and Ralph Mackin and his wife, Lorraine, at whose house I’d enjoyed dinner last night. Ralph was an attorney, as well as one of the town’s judges.
“Do you think Joe Lennon arranged for the better weather?” Ralph asked jokingly.
“From what I hear, he’s capable of it,” was Amos’s comment.
“They’re starting,” Kathy said.
The volunteer firemen on the hook and ladder pounded on their big brass bell and waved to the crowd as the fire engine slowly rolled down the street. They had placed a stuffed toy Dalmatian in the front passenger seat, its head sticking out the window. After the fire engine, walking behind a color guard, came Mayor Jim Shevlin and the town council, Chester Carlisle among them, looking cheerful for a change, and wearing a white cotton shirt that covered the message of his yellow T-shirt.
There’s nothing like a parade to bring people together and to instill a sense of pride in where we live. The high school marching band in their colorful uniform, led by drum majors and majorettes and the school cheerleaders, strutted their stuff for an appreciative audience of all ages. The kids whooped and hollered, and the adults applauded, snapped pictures, and shouted greetings to their participating children as they passed.
“This is great,” Rick Allcott said after the final float had moved past us, and the band’s music began to fade. “Like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting.”
“I’m so glad you’re here to enjoy it,” I said. “I suppose we’d better head down to the dock and be there when they arrive.”
We joined the crowd and slowly made our way back to the dock. Chester Carlisle must have left the parade before its conclusion because he was there selling his T-shirts, or at least attempting to. The crowd around him seemed to be getting a kick out of what he was saying.
“. . . and Mr. High-and-Mighty
Joe Lennon will get his comeuppance, you mark my words. We don’t need his kind here in Cabot Cove!”
A few people applauded, and someone said, “You tell ’em, Chester.”
I started to move our little group away when Mort Metzger and a deputy suddenly stepped into the circle surrounding Chester.
“That’s enough, Councilman,” Mort said. “Time to move on.”
“I got a right to be here like everyone else,” Chester countered.
“Afraid not, sir,” Mort said. “Got a call you’re making a public nuisance of yourself. Besides, you don’t have a permit to be selling things down here on the dock.”
“Never heard of needing a permit.” Chester’s voice was harsher now, his posture more belligerent.
“Well, that’s the law, and you probably voted for it. I’m going to tell you one more time, nicely. Please take those T-shirts and go home before you end up spending the Fourth of July in jail.”
Chester pulled himself up to full height, which made him considerably taller than the sheriff. By now, of course, all attention was away from the stage and focused on the confrontation. I looked back at the stage and saw Cynthia Welch and the young man, Dante, who always seemed to accompany her. They were obviously to be part of the ceremonies when the parade arrived, and were both intently watching the scene playing out between Chester and Mort.
“Last chance, Chester,” Mort said. “Either you leave peaceably, or I take you in.”
“What the hell is going on here?” Chester barked. “Who are you working for, Joe Lennon or Cabot Cove? This is a free country, and I have a right to say what I want, and to wear any damn shirt I choose.”
“That does it,” Mort said, motioning to his deputy to grab Chester.
“Get your hands off me,” Chester said, shrugging off the deputy. “I’m leaving, but I won’t forget this, Sheriff. You and Mr. Joseph Lennon will pay for embarrassing me like this.”
Chester, followed by some of his friends, stalked off and got in his silver Chevy Blazer. Cynthia Welch glanced at her assistant and the pair exchanged a private smile as Chester took off.
Mort turned to me. “Hated to do it, but this is no time for him to be causing a ruckus.”
I was relieved to see Chester leave, although I hoped he wouldn’t make trouble for Mort with the other members of the town council. The sheriff is appointed by the town council. Chester did have the right to be there and to make his statement about Lennon-Diversified, but perhaps not to sell T-shirts. I’m a fervent defender of the First Amendment and have taken a stand many times in its defense. Of course, there are always exceptions to free speech. It isn’t okay to yell “Fire” in a crowded theater simply because you feel it’s your right to do so. Then again, I also feel there’s a time and a place for everything, and protesting Joseph Lennon at an event he was sponsoring would only tarnish our Independence Day celebration.
“Who called to complain about Chester?” I asked.
“Don’t recall if he gave his name,” Mort replied.
“You did the right thing, Sheriff,” Allcott said.
“Appreciate that, coming from an ex-FBI agent,” Mort said.
We all turned as our mayor, Jim Shevlin, took the stage and spoke into the microphone. “May I have your attention? The parade will arrive here shortly. In the meantime, I want to introduce Ms. Cynthia Welch of Lennon-Diversified, the company that’s financed a lot of the events we’ll be enjoying today. Speaking of that, don’t forget that the rock-and-roll concert will begin at seven out at the industrial park, followed by a spectacular fireworks show put on by the world-famous Gruccis.”
Cynthia took the microphone and launched into prolonged praise for her employer and its plans for Cabot Cove. Had Chester still been there, he might have heckled her speech. Of course, it was possible that he had simply moved to another location and could hear everything being said from the stage. Cynthia eventually introduced Josie Lennon and Robin Stockdale, who brought their youthful actors and actresses onstage for their pageant celebrating the meaning of Independence Day. The kids were charming, of course, and everyone seemed to thoroughly enjoy their performance despite the recorded rock-and-roll music. They left the stage to sustained applause and whistles as the parade finally arrived. The speeches continued until everyone had had a say, and the crowd finally dispersed.
“Where to?” Kathy Copeland asked me.
“Home,” I said. “I have a ton of things to catch up on before heading out to the park this evening.”
I’d taken my bike downtown, and, grateful for the break in temperature, I rode it back home, where after answering e-mails and other correspondence, I lay down on the couch in the study and promptly fell asleep, awakening at five to the ringing phone. It was Seth.
“How are you getting to the fireworks tonight?” he asked.
“Hadn’t thought about it,” I said sleepily.
“Wake you?”
“Yes, but that’s all right. Time I got moving anyway.”
“I’ll pick you up at six thirty,” he said.
“No, you won’t. You have no business going out and—”
“I’ve never been known to miss a Fourth of July fireworks show, Jessica, and I’m not going to start now. Remember, the doctor knows best. Bring along a couple of those folding canvas chairs you have. Harriet packed a picnic basket for us. Nice of her. I’m packing those headphone contraptions so we won’t have to actually listen to the music, if you can call it that.”
I smiled but said nothing. He was obviously feeling a lot better than the last time I’d spoken with him.
“Jessica? You there?”
“Yes, Seth, I’m here. It sounds fine. See you at six thirty.”
The conversation ended, and I took a shower, dressed in appropriate clothing for an outdoor concert and fireworks display (being sure to tuck some potent bug spray in my bag), pulled two chairs from where I kept them on the back porch, and went outside to enjoy some fresh air. It promised to be a spectacular sunset, judging from the vivid, striated colors already forming on the western horizon. I silently reminded myself, as I often do, how lucky I was to live in such a wonderful place and to be surrounded by good, caring friends. I hadn’t been especially keen on attending the concert—the downtown parade was always my favorite part of the Fourth—but I do enjoy a good fireworks display.
I leaned over to pull some weeds from around my petunias, and tossed them in a bucket by the corner of the porch, dusting off the dirt from my hands. There was something gnawing at me that I couldn’t put a finger on, a vague, unsettling feeling that took the edge off my excitement.
Silly, I thought, focusing on the fact that Seth was feeling better.
“On with the show!” I said aloud as I returned to the house to wash up and get ready for Seth’s arrival. I looked forward to a relaxing evening beneath the stars.
But it was not to be.
Chapter Nine
Although I caught Seth wincing once or twice from a stab of pain where his arm had been cut, he was otherwise in what could only be described as a jovial mood when he picked me up—at least jovial for him. I wanted to ask whether he’d had a change of heart about selling his practice, but thought it better not to bring up the subject and possibly spoil his elevated spirits.
The large grassy area to the right of the Lennon-Diversified building, now a public park, was already filling with tourists and townspeople, who’d set up folding chairs of every variety and color or spread blankets on the ground. It was a glorious night, with a welcome crispness to the air. We chose a spot next to where a number of friends, including Kathy and Wilimena Copeland, had gathered for a communal picnic dinner. Spirits were high, and the sounds of laughter, which had been noticeably absent during the oppressive heat wave, were again heard. Naturally, many people stopped by to inquire about Seth, who assured them that he was feeling fine. I wondered whether he’d decided to come this night to make the point that he was still capable of handling his usual bus
y medical practice. If so, his attempt was successful. The outpouring of concern and affection for him was heartwarming, and I had to believe that it would confirm to him that he was very much needed.
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade Page 11