“Why Seth?” I asked, thinking our friend was probably in bed already.
“The ME’s out of town on vacation,” Mort explained. “I need a doctor here.”
It wasn’t long ago that Cabot Cove didn’t have a medical examiner. Instead, we had a coroner, the last one being the owner of the town’s largest funeral home. This wasn’t unusual, I knew. Most towns and smaller cities have lay-people who function as coroners—morticians, fire chiefs, taxidermists. But as Cabot Cove grew, the town council voted to fund the office of a medical examiner. Our first— our current one—moved here after a successful career as the medical examiner in Worcester, Massachusetts. He’d retired from that post and readily accepted our position because it promised not to be too heavy a load on him in his retirement. Prior to his arrival, Seth had functioned as ME on occasion, as had other physicians in town. Seth was board-certified as a forensic medical examiner, one of many certifications he held.
“I’m sorry to get Doc Hazlitt out so late,” Mort said, “what with him being hurt and all.”
“Isn’t there another doctor who practices nearby?” Rick asked.
“Dr. Boyle,” Mort replied. “Don’t want him involved in the investigation, though,” he said as he walked away and placed the call to Seth.
Of course, I reasoned. Dr. Boyle was intimately involved with Joseph Lennon. Mort was being prudent in not bringing Boyle into it, at least not at this juncture.
We sat on a low wall until Seth arrived, carrying the bag that he kept ready for when he was called out on ME duties.
“Mort says he’s got a floater,” he told us before going down to where the body had been discovered.
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry he had to call you so late.”
“No bother at all. I was still up,” Seth said. “I’d better get to work.”
He returned a half hour later.
“No doubt about it?” I asked. “It is Mr. Lennon?”
“Ayuh.”
“A homicide?” Rick Allcott asked.
“Not at liberty to say,” Seth replied. He leaned in closer. “But I’d guess he didn’t put the bullet in his head himself. I have to get down to the morgue and get the process started.”
As Seth got in his car and drove away, an ambulance arrived, manned by two EMTs, who handled the removal of Lennon’s body. It was placed in the rear of the ambulance and the driver sped away. Mort came over to us.
“Looks like you picked a fine time to come back to Cabot Cove, Amos,” he told our former sheriff. “This is going to be a tough one.”
“Any help I can provide, I’m happy to,” Amos said.
“How was he killed?” I asked, knowing the answer but looking for confirmation.
“Looks like he was shot, but that’s unofficial, Mrs. F.”
As he said it, one of his deputies came from the crime scene carrying a clear plastic evidence bag. I pushed away from the wall and stopped him. “What’s that?” I asked.
“What’s what, Mrs. F?” Mort said, joining me.
I pointed to the portion of a yellow T-shirt visible through the plastic. Some of the lettering on it was also readable—. . . NON, NOT LENIN. “Oh, dear,” I said. “That’s one of the T-shirts Chester Carlisle was selling.”
“I know,” said Mort. “Looks like Chester and I had better have a little chat. We found that shirt floating in the water next to Mr. Lennon.”
Chapter Ten
Murder has a way of changing one’s plans.
Rather than having tea or coffee at my house, we followed Mort to headquarters, where we were offered a cup of station house brew, which we all politely declined. I knew from previous experience that the coffeepot at our sheriff’s office had likely been on all day, and the result was a viscous liquid closer to shellac than anything Juan Valdez would have been proud to offer. Of course, Amos knew that, too, as did Rick, from having spent a portion of his professional life in station houses.
We settled in Mort’s office, and he asked us to write out a statement of what we’d seen during our nocturnal walk. That reminded me that I’d promised to write a statement regarding the attack in the parking lot at Peppino’s. I’ll deal with that later, I decided. The statements we gave concerning what we’d seen on this night were uniformly short. We’d seen nothing.
“Did you ever get any dinner, Mort?” I asked.
“Got called away just as I was sitting down.”
“You must be starving by now,” I said.
He patted his stomach. “I guess I can afford to lose a pound or two. I’ll get something later.”
“You said that yellow T-shirt was found with the body?” Rick said.
“That’s right. Two of my men are picking Chester up as we speak.”
“It was a gunshot?”
“Right again. I suppose nobody heard it because of the fireworks.”
“Or the concert,” I said. “The music was very loud. I wonder—”
“You wonder what, Mrs. F?” Mort said.
“I wonder if it was planned that way, that whoever shot Mr. Lennon intended for the report of the gun to coincide with the noise of the fireworks display so it wouldn’t be noticed.”
“If that’s true,” Rick said, “how would that same someone know that Lennon would be outside his building when the fireworks were going on?”
“Good point,” Amos said.
“Since he was hosting the concert and the fireworks, it’s not unreasonable to assume he would want to stay for those activities,” I said. “It could have been relatively easy to draw him away with a message.”
“That’s true, Miz Fletcher,” Amos said. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
“Okay, if we’re speculating, he could have been shot inside his building,” Mort said, “and the killer could have used a silencer so even if we hadn’t had fireworks, the gun wouldn’t have been heard.”
“That’s a possibility,” Amos said. “What about that, Miz Fletcher?”
“I doubt whether an outsider would have been able to kill him inside the building,” I said. “I know from experience that security there is extremely tight. And if the assailant used a silencer, that would indicate it was a professional job. The yellow T-shirt would tend to contradict that theory.”
“Why’s that, Miz Fletcher?”
Rick answered, “Mrs. Fletcher is probably thinking that if someone wanted to implicate Chester by leaving his T-shirt on the scene, that person would have to be someone who knows the people in town, not a stranger sent here for the sole purpose of killing Joe Lennon.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“Unless, of course, it was Chester,” Mort said, “which, frankly, is what I believe. He was bad-mouthing Lennon left and right, carrying on like a commuter stuck in rush-hour traffic on the Long Island Expressway.”
An officer poked his head through the door. “Got a reporter on line two, Sheriff. Won’t speak to nobody but you.”
“Here we go,” Mort said wearily, slowly shaking his head and staring at the light on his desk phone. A second line lit up, followed immediately by the third and final one.
“I think we’d better leave,” I said.
“Hang on. Let me just take this,” Mort said. He looked at Amos. “How much longer were you planning to stay, Amos?”
“End of the week, or close to it,” Amos replied. “I can stick around if you think you can use me.”
“I’ve got a feeling I’m going to need all the help I can get on this one,” Mort said as the officer reappeared and announced that there were media calls on all three lines.
“I’m happy to give a hand,” Amos said.
“Good. I might deputize you.”
Rick Allcott said, “I’m willing to help out, too, if that makes any sense.”
“And you know you can count on me,” I said. “Not that you need my help.”
“I’d better start answering these calls,” Mort said. “Appreciate it if you’d hang around a while.”
We went from his office to the central waiting room. Seth Hazlitt had just arrived. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
We explained.
“Looks like I’m back in the saddle,” Amos said proudly. “Mort’s going to deputize me.”
“Do tell,” Seth said, peering over his glasses, his brows flying up. Seth had always liked Amos personally— everyone did—but he was never especially impressed with Amos’s law enforcement abilities when he was sheriff of Cabot Cove. Of course, that was back when Cabot Cove was a much sleepier place than it is now. Amos’s primary strength was his warm relationship with virtually everyone in town, and his ability to cajole potential lawbreakers into not making fools of themselves. Mort Metzger had some of that ability, too, but Amos had honed it to perfection.
“What’s your initial finding?” Rick asked Seth.
“Keep it in this room?” Seth responded.
“Of course,” we replied.
“The deceased was shot at close range, no more than nine or ten feet, I’d say. A single shot. The bullet’s still in his brain. Once it’s removed, the lab folks will analyze it.”
The door opened and the Gazette’s Evelyn Phillips and her photographer, John Shearer, burst into the room.
“Is it true?” Evelyn asked. “Joe Lennon has been murdered?”
“You’ll have to ask that question of the sheriff,” Seth said.
Shearer started snapping pictures of us.
“Cut that out!” Seth growled. “I think it’s time we got out of here.”
“Good idea,” I said. “The offer still stands for tea or coffee back at my house.”
“I’m more in the mood for something stronger,” Rick said.
“I have that, too,” I said. I pulled Seth aside. “Shouldn’t you be getting home, Seth? You’re only out of the hospital one day.”
“Stop your fussing over me, madam! I’m fine.”
“Then you’re well enough to come and have coffee with us.”
Seth frowned at me. “Got any of that ice cream left that I like?”
I smiled. “There might be some in a corner of the freezer. You’ll have to come and see.”
“I have to fill out my preliminary report for the sheriff. I’ll be by after that.”
I went to Mort’s office, where he was fielding media calls. He capped his hand over the mouthpiece and looked up at me. I quickly told him we were leaving, and where we’d be.
He nodded and returned to his caller.
“I’d best stay here,” Amos said when I returned to the waiting room. “Mort will want to deputize me tonight, and I’d better be on hand.”
“Suit yourself,” I said, looking at my watch. “Come by later if you like. I don’t think any of us will get to bed early tonight.”
Rick drove us to my house. I put on the kettle for me and poured him a snifter of cognac.
“You’ve had quite a visit to Cabot Cove,” I said absently as I rummaged in the cabinet for a box of herbal tea. I didn’t want caffeine keeping me up when I finally did get to bed.
“Almost as exciting as a home run in the bottom of the ninth with two outs to win the World Series,” he said, chuckling.
“I’m having trouble believing this,” I said. “Our Independence Day celebrations have always been joyous events with happy endings. I suppose I could accept someone dying because of an auto accident, or a fall at home, but murder? Of one of Cabot Cove’s leading citizens?”
“He may have been a leading citizen, but from what you’ve told me he wasn’t the most popular guy around town.”
“Controversial, yes. Heavy-handed in his support of some of our institutions? Again, yes. But who would hate him enough to kill him?”
“What about your town character, Chester? He of the yellow T-shirts?”
“He comes easily to mind, of course,” I said, “because of the shirt found at the scene. But why would Chester shoot Lennon? He didn’t even know him—he just resented some of the things he’d done. It doesn’t make sense.”
Rick said nothing. He sat back in the easy chair and sipped his cognac.
“I remember what you said at Mara’s,” I said, “about someone slipping off the deep end.” I wrapped my arms about myself against a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.
We continued talking, the subject changing now and then, but always coming back to the events of that evening. I found myself waxing poetic about Cabot Cove and what it meant to me, and to everyone else I know fortunate enough to call it home. Rick was a good listener, and encouraged me with my tales. At one point, I outlined what I knew about Chester Carlisle, which was quite a bit. I stressed that he’d always been a productive and positive force in the community.
“Except for those yellow T-shirts trashing Lennon,” Rick said.
I agreed that finding one of the shirts at the murder scene was, at best, problematic for Chester, but I also pointed out that he’d been selling the shirts. “Dozens of people might have bought those shirts, Rick. You did.”
“So I did.”
“I suppose it will be up to Mort and his men to learn who the others were.”
“The only person who can testify to that is Chester,” Rick said. “Whoever killed Lennon obviously won’t admit to having purchased one.”
Again, I agreed. My guest had a logical mind, no surprise considering his years with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We were still discussing Chester when Seth arrived.
“Tea or coffee?” I asked him after the three of us settled in at my kitchen table. “A drink?”
Seth shook his head, scowling at me.
“Can I interest you in some ice cream?”
“Ayuh. You can.”
I smiled. Seth was an inveterate ice cream lover. I always keep some handy in case he stops by. “Rick, would you like ice cream, too?”
“None for me, thanks.”
I set a bowl of coffee-and-vanilla ice cream in front of Seth, along with a spoon and a napkin.
“Much obliged,” he said.
“Rick and I were discussing the murder, and the possibility that Chester Carlisle might have been involved.”
“Chester?” Seth said.
“You know about the T-shirts,” I said.
“Damned fool,” was Seth’s reaction. “He’s gotten increasingly ornery the last year or so, but he’s no murderer.”
“Mort is bringing him in for questioning.”
“I suppose he has to, but you’d have a far way to go to convince me that Chester Carlisle is a killer. He might annoy someone to death, or give him a poke in the nose. But murder? Not possible.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said. “Lennon was probably killed by someone passing through town, someone who doesn’t live here, like that young man who attacked us.” I silently hoped that was the case.
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade Page 13