As the time approached for the band to start, I looked around for Chester Carlisle, hoping that he’d taken Mort Metzger’s sage advice and stayed home. I didn’t see Chester, but there were some of his bright yellow T-shirts here and there in the crowd. I found it ironic that people were willing to enjoy the concert and fireworks, courtesy of Joe Lennon’s generosity, but at the same time felt the need to thumb their noses at him.
Amos Tupper joined us, using a spare chair that Jack and Tobé Wilson had brought with them. Jack was one of Cabot Cove’s leading vets, and Tobé worked alongside him in their practice. She could be seen now and then around town walking their pet pig, Kiwi, one of many animals they personally owned and upon which they lavished care.
Seth’s nurse, Harriet, had prepared fried chicken, salad, rolls, and miniature crab cakes as appetizers. Seth had contributed a thermos of lemonade to go along with the iced tea I’d brought and the walnut cookies I’d baked for dessert. All in all, it was good being with close friends to celebrate this monumentally important day in our nation’s history and the remarkable events that led up to it.
Cynthia Welch, Lennon-Diversified’s VP, stepped onto the stage, followed by Joe Lennon and his son and daughter. Mayor Shevlin was up there, too, along with a few members of the town council—but not Chester—and various other community leaders.
“Where’s your friend, Mr. Allcott?” Seth asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “We hadn’t made any plans for tonight. I was going to call the B and B where he’s staying— Blueberry Hill—but I fell asleep. I’m sure he’s around here someplace. He obviously doesn’t have any trouble making friends.”
Ms. Welch’s voice boomed through the myriad immense speakers set up for the band. “Good evening, and happy Independence Day.”
The crowd cheered.
She introduced Joseph Lennon, who stepped forward and doffed his baseball cap in recognition of a slightly less enthusiastic cheer. Welch went on to extol the virtues of her boss and his company, careful to wrap her comments into praise for the Cabot Cove community and its leaders. Mayor Shevlin waved at everyone, but was not given an opportunity to say anything. Like most speakers, Welch rambled on a little too long before introducing the Lennon children, Paul and Josie. Paul didn’t have much to say. He welcomed everyone on behalf of the company and quickly turned the mike over to his sister. He could be heard saying, “Make it snappy; they’re almost here.”
Josie gushed about how thrilled she was to be able to introduce the band, “but first we have a surprise for you.” She cupped her hand over her eyes and looked up into the sky. The roar of jet engines filled the air, and seconds later four F-16 fighter planes, their wingtips looking as though they were touching, came from over the water and thundered above us, eliciting a sustained gasp from everyone, young and old alike. As the rumble of the engines faded, the audience broke into a spontaneous ovation.
“That man must have a lot of influence,” Amos said, to nodding heads all around.
Josie grinned. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, my favorite band in the whole wide world—the Snake Days!”
“The what?” Seth asked as the five members of the band bounced onto the stage and got ready to perform their first number. “The Snake Days?”
I confirmed that he’d heard right, as the drummer, who sat behind the largest set of drums imaginable, began a rhythm for the rest of the young musicians. They launched into a raucous, deafening song that didn’t have a discernible melody, at least to my ears, but whose beat got everyone in the audience moving, toes tapping time and hands coming together in unison.
“Here,” Seth said, handing me a set of headphones with foam earpieces, similar to those distributed on planes when the movie comes on. “Got ’em from one of my patients. Says she uses them when her kids are whining. ” I smiled and placed them over my ears, providing some defense against the music’s electronic assault. As the concert progressed, I took note of others in our vicinity. The younger people obviously liked the performance better than our older citizens, numbers of whom removed themselves from in front of the bandstand to positions farther away from the speakers. They were replaced by the band’s teenaged fans, who crowded together at the bottom of the stage, clapping and jumping in time to the beat. All in all, everyone seemed in a festive mood. I do admit that when the band completed its final tune of the evening, and the leader shouted good night, a wave of relief came over me. I handed the headphones back to Seth, who simply said, “Snake Days, indeed! Nothing but a lot of noise!”
I didn’t debate it with him, both because I agreed—and because it wouldn’t have mattered if I didn’t.
It was now dusk, and in the sky, a band of pale blue hugged the western horizon. It was time for the fireworks. The first few rockets shot up from where the Grucci technicians plied their trade behind the stage, followed by an increasingly rapid barrage that filled the nighttime sky above the stage and over the water with a cacophonous report. I put my hand out and Seth dropped the headphones back in my palm and I replaced them on my ears. Even muffled, I could still hear the customary oohs and aahs that accompanied the dazzling displays, each launch louder and more colorful than the last.
I do love watching the luminous trails of light as they soar into the sky, and the vibrant sprays that cascade over our heads. At the same time, with each explosion and flash, I can’t help but think of people in war-torn areas of the world for whom hearing such thunderous blasts is part of a frightening daily routine. For them, it’s not a show. It’s grim reality.
“That was terrific,” Amos said as the acrid odor of spent explosives drifted over the area.
“Not for dogs and cats,” Tobé Wilson said. “I hope everyone had their pets secured. We get in a lot of strays on July Fourth. There are always animals who break loose and run away, terrified by the noise.”
As we started packing up, Rick Allcott approached. “Here you are,” he said. “I looked for you earlier, but with this crowd—”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We should have arranged to meet someplace.”
“No problem,” he said. “I fell in with a nice group of people, all tourists like me.”
I introduced him to the Wilsons and the Copeland sisters, who were folding their chairs.
“How’s the arm, Doctor?” Allcott asked Seth.
“Just fine, sir. Just fine.”
“Looks like you’re getting ready to call it a night,” Allcott said. “I hate to see it end. Anybody game for a nightcap?”
“Afraid not,” Jack Wilson said. “I’ve got some early surgery to perform tomorrow.”
“Don’t forget the pancake breakfast at the firehouse,” Willie said.
“We’ll be there,” Tobé said. “At least I will if Jack can’t make it. Will we see you there, Jessica?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said, and bade them good night.
“Are the firemen’s pancakes as good as Mara’s?” Rick asked.
“Not even close,” Seth said, “but the town supports the volunteers just the same.”
“They’re not bad,” I said, tucking the dishes and paper napkins back in the basket. “Just no secret ingredient.”
“So, Seth, will you join us for a drink?” Rick asked.
“Nope, but thanks. I’ll need a good sleep to get over that infernal music. The Snake Days! Hah!” He looked at me. “You should go, Jessica. Allcott’s been deprived of your company all evening. Ought to give the gentleman a little more of your time, since he’s only here for a short stay.”
I’ve known Seth Hazlitt long enough, and well enough, not to prolong a discussion once he’s made up his mind about something. Besides, even if there had been no Snake Days music, he needed to catch up on his sleep.
“We’ll just help you bring everything back to the car,” I said, “and then we’ll be on our way.”
“Mind if I join you?” Amos Tupper asked.
“Sure! The more the merrier,” Allco
tt said.
“You’re always welcome, Amos,” I said.
We carried the chairs and picnic basket to Seth’s car and loaded them inside. “I’ll drop your chairs off tomorrow, ” Seth said.
“No rush,” I said. “I won’t need them until next year’s Fourth of July. Drive carefully.” We watched him pull away.
“Where to?” Amos asked.
“I certainly don’t want any more food,” I said. “I feel like I’ve eaten an entire fried chicken. If you don’t mind, what I really need is a good walk. That folding chair gave me a crick in the back.” I arched against a stiffness in my back and neck.
“I’m up for that,” Rick said.
“Me, too,” said Amos.
We left the parking lot and strolled back to where we’d witnessed the concert and fireworks. There were still a few stragglers sitting in their chairs or on their blankets, evidently not wanting to end the evening either. The band’s “roadies” were busy breaking down the equipment on the stage, and members of Cabot Cove’s sanitation department had begun their cleanup work. I spotted Mort Metzger issuing orders to some of his uniformed officers, and we went to him.
“Quite a show, huh?” Mort said after dismissing his men.
“Spectacular,” Amos agreed.
“What are you folks still doing here?” our sheriff asked.
“Walking off fried chicken,” I said.
“I never had a chance to have dinner,” Mort said, his eyes scanning the diminishing activity. “Fried chicken sounds pretty good just about now.” He waved his arms in the air. “Hey, kids, get away from those wires on that stage.” He hurried off to keep several youngsters out of harm’s way. I hoped he’d be able to get home soon and grab some dinner.
Rick Allcott, Amos Tupper, and I walked down to the water’s edge and strolled along, away from the Lennon-Diversified building. Light from a waning crescent moon danced off ripples in the water. Because we were outside town and its downtown lights, the sky was especially clear, millions of stars shining against an almost black scrim.
“Miss being sheriff here?” Rick asked Amos.
“Once in a while,” said our former top law enforcement official, “but I get to travel some. Keeps me from being bored. Went on a safari tour to Africa coupla months ago with the senior center.”
“Amos! How exciting,” I said.
“It was.”
“Always wanted to visit Africa,” Rick said. “Sounds like an ideal retired life.”
“Also do some bass fishing, and some woodworking.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I’d forgotten that you’d started building furniture when you were here, Amos.”
“I really enjoy it,” he said with a gentle laugh. “I love the feel of the wood and the look of the grain. Then again, Miz Fletcher, I sure do miss the people in Cabot Cove. Finest bunch of people I’ve ever known. It was good to see Doc Hazlitt feelin’ better.”
“He’s a trouper,” I said.
“How about you, Allcott? You miss being an FBI agent?” Amos said. “You seem a little young for retirement.”
“I put in my years,” Rick said. “Sometimes I miss the action, but on lovely nights like tonight, I remember what I enjoy most about being retired—peace! There wasn’t a lot of it when I was with the bureau. Nothing like in Cabot Cove. I can understand why you choose to live here, Jessica.”
“It’s my little slice of heaven.”
“Even with the growth, and the changes that come along with it?” Rick asked.
“Even with that,” I said.
I estimated that we’d gone almost half a mile before Amos suggested we turn back. Now we were walking toward the Lennon-Diversified building, whose marble facade caught the moonlight, giving it an ethereal aura, like some religious temple in another part of the world, or an imposing marble government building in Washington, D.C., home of many such edifices.
“Anyone care for a cup of coffee or tea back at my house?” I asked.
“Sounds good to me,” Amos said.
“Count me in,” said Rick.
As we started up the gentle hill toward the lot where Amos and Rick had parked, we heard the sound of sirens.
“Some fool must’a had too much to drink and wrapped himself around a pole,” Amos offered.
“Or around someone else’s car,” Rick said.
“Oh, dear,” I said. “I hope not.”
The sound came closer, two sirens now. We were within a hundred feet of Rick’s car when flashing lights came into view. A few seconds later, their source became evident as two marked cars raced down into the lot from the road. One was Mort Metzger’s sheriff’s vehicle. They came to a halt a dozen feet away, and Mort and three deputies exited.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“Got a report of a body down behind Lennon’s building, ” Mort said.
“We were just down near there,” I said.
“Did you see anyone?”
“No,” we chorused.
Mort led his men down the hill. We didn’t make a conscious decision to follow them. Amos, Rick, and I simply fell in line, our reflexes on autopilot. We saw the men disappear around the rear of the office building, where exterior lights had come to life, bathing the sweeping veranda, promenade, and dock in harsh white light. Two people stood together on the dock as Mort and his officers narrowed the distance between them. We stopped a respectful distance away, but close enough to hear what was said. I recognized one of the men awaiting the sheriff’s arrival by his uniform, a Lennon-Diversified security guard. The other person was the young man, Dante, who seemed always to be at Cynthia Welch’s side.
“Where?” Mort asked in a loud voice.
“Down there,” the guard replied.
They all headed in the direction indicated by the guard, the far end of the dock. We moved with them.
“Right there!” the guard announced, and pointed toward the water.
Flashlights were trained on the object of their focus, and we strained to see what it was. We knew it was a body, of course, because Mort had said it was. The question was, Whose body was it?
After a few seconds, Mort retraced his steps in our direction.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“Is he dead, Sheriff?” Amos asked.
“Afraid so,” Mort responded.
Rick, Amos, and I stared at Mort.
“Joe Lennon,” he said flatly.
“Strange time a night to go swimmin’,” Amos said.
“You folks didn’t see anything at all?”
“No,” I said. “Nothing.”
“Well,” Mort said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d stay around in case you remember something. I’ve got to call Doc Hazlitt.”
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