I expected Seth to fade fast, considering what’d he recently gone through, but he remained alert and fully engaged in the conversation. The emphasis eventually shifted from Cabot Cove and the night’s tragedy to Rick’s life as an FBI special agent. He was in the midst of a story about having led a task force that had indicted a major financial services firm for fraud when there was a knock at the door.
“Hello, Amos,” I said. “Come in. We’re still here.”
“What’s new at headquarters?” Seth asked our former sheriff.
“Have you been deputized?” I asked.
“I sure have been, Miz Fletcher.” He turned to Seth. “They brought Chester Carlisle in.”
“We knew they would. Mort told us that,” I said.
Amos shook his head. “Boy, things have sure changed since I was runnin’ the show here. Mort’s got that fancy new audiovisual system down at headquarters. Everything Chester said was videotaped, and recorded, too.”
“He’s already been interrogated?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Mort had me sit in on it, wanted my insight. I’ll tell you, old Chester Carlisle has got himself in some bucket of worms.”
We looked at him to continue.
“I suppose that now that I’m an official deputy, I shouldn’t be talking about the case to outsiders. But I know and trust you folks.” He stopped and looked at Rick Allcott.
Rick held up both hands. “Who’s more trustworthy than me? I’m ex-FBI.”
“Well, that’s all right, then,” Amos said. And in a tone intended to thwart any listening devices that might have been installed in my house, he whispered, “They found the gun used to kill Mr. Lennon.”
“That was quick,” Seth said. “Where was it?”
But I’d already guessed the answer.
Amos straightened up. “In Chester Carlisle’s car.”
Chapter Eleven
Amos’s announcement that the murder weapon had been discovered in Chester Carlisle’s car brought all conversation to a standstill. It was Seth who broke the silence. “How do they know it’s the gun used to kill Lennon?” he asked. “The bullet’s still in Lennon’s brain. They’ve got to match it with the weapon, and that’ll take time.”
“That’s right, Doc,” Amos said, “but how much of a coincidence is it that Chester’s got a handgun? He claims it’s not his, says he’s never owned one. Seems to me that he’s incriminating himself left and right.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions, Amos,” I said.
“Well, I’m not the only one,” he responded sheepishly. “Sheriff said the same thing to me.”
“Mr. Carlisle denies owning it?” Rick asked.
“Yes, sir. Flat-out denies it.”
“Have they done a GSR—a gunshot residue test—on him?” Rick asked.
“First thing Mort did, used the adhesive strips that come in the testing kit. Has to send it out for some new specter testing or something like that.”
“It’s called a SEM test,” Rick said. “Scanning electron microscopy.”
“That’s it. ’Course if old Chester washed his hands or used some other cleaner, the gunpowder might not show up. Mort’s gonna hold him as a suspect. He’s got a few days until he has to officially charge him.”
“Has Mort begun questioning people at Lennon-Diversified? ” I asked. “They obviously had easy access to Mr. Lennon, and would have known his schedule.”
“Only one I know of was the guard, Miz Fletcher,” Amos said. “He’s the one who reported the body.” He looked at the empty bowl next to Seth. “Was that ice cream?”
“Yes. Would you like some?”
“I would. My throat’s a little sore.”
We talked for another half hour until everyone, as though cued, announced it was time to leave. I watched them drive off in their respective cars before switching on the TV to listen to the news as I washed up the few dishes, glassware, and cups. As late as it was, I wasn’t about to get ready for bed leaving dirty dishes in the sink. I was drying the snifter in which I’d served Rick’s cognac when the news anchor came on to announce that a suspect had been detained in the murder of industrialist Joseph Lennon. “His name has not been released,” she said, “but we have it from good sources that he is a longtime resident of Cabot Cove. The victim had recently moved his corporate headquarters to Cabot Cove. Stay tuned for more details as they become available.”
The room was cool when I climbed into bed; maybe I wouldn’t need that air conditioner I’d ordered after all. I lay awake for the next hour listening to neighbors setting off their own mini-fireworks displays and the gleeful sounds of children, up too late, laughing. I could see occasional bursts of a rocket in the sky outside my window and heard the accompanying explosions, and as Tobé had predicted, the frantic barking of dogs.
At what point in the Grucci fireworks display had another explosion gone unnoticed? The loud crack of a handgun being fired, its deadly missile finding its mark in the head of Joseph Lennon, his body tumbling into the water? I visualized that scene, over and over, until sleep finally trumped my imagination.
I slept soundly, but not long enough. I looked at the clock radio on the table next to the bed—six a.m. Since I’d gone to bed so late, I’d intended to sleep in that morning, at least until seven. I considered staying in bed. Maybe I’d be lucky and fall back to sleep. But it didn’t take more than a few minutes before I gave it up, threw on my bath-robe and slippers, padded into the kitchen, and made some tea to go with a bowl of mandarin oranges I had in the fridge. What day is it? I silently asked myself. Sunday, I answered. The proverbial day of rest. There wouldn’t be any rest for many Cabot Cove citizens, including Chester Carlisle, Mort Metzger and his police department, and anyone and everyone else involved in the Lennon murder investigation.
I waited until eight to call Seth to see whether he’d be going to the firehouse pancake breakfast, a post- Independence Day tradition.
“I’ll pick you up at nine fifteen,” he said.
When we arrived, children were clambering all over the fire trucks, which were parked on the street in case they were needed for their true function. The front of the fire station was filled with people crowding around the long folding tables that had been set up in the driveway. Red, white, and blue plastic tablecloths fluttered in the breeze, kept from flying away by the plates and platters of pancakes, sausage, bacon, scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, and an assortment of home-baked goods. The doors of the station house had been thrown open, and more folding tables were set up inside to accommodate those who preferred to eat their pancakes and sausage sitting down—including Seth and me. Aside from the food, everyone gathered outside the firehouse seemed to have one thing on their mind: Joseph Lennon. There were, of course, myriad theories, and the town’s rumor mill was already in high gear and picking up steam. To my dismay, too many in the crowd had already mentally tried and convicted Chester Carlisle of the killing. I pointed out to some that it was too early to come to such a conclusion. But while those with whom I spoke feigned agreement, I sensed that the door was closed. Word had already spread that a handgun found in Chester’s car was the murder weapon; the fact that sophisticated tests would have to be conducted before any weapon could be linked to the shooting seemed irrelevant to them.
Seth and I found two spaces at a table and slid into the seats. To my consternation, Agnes Kalisch sat across from us next to Audrey Williams, Elsie Fricket, and Mary Carver, whom I knew from the Friends of the Library group. A patient of Seth’s for forty years, Agnes had dealt him a serious blow when she switched to Dr. Boyle. Seth was gracious, however.
“Agnes,” he said, nodding at her. “I hope you’re feeling well. Those pills Dr. Boyle gave you help your fatigue?”
Mrs. Kalisch glanced at her companions, coughed delicately, and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Actually, they haven’t started to work yet,” she said. “Dr. Boyle says they take some time, and I should have faith. He says they’ll kick in a
ny day now.”
“For your sake, I hope they do,” Seth said. “What’s he giving you?”
“I don’t know, supplements of some kind. Big capsules. They’re a little difficult to swallow. They come in a silver and red bottle. Do you know them?”
“I doubt it,” Seth said. “You have to be careful with supplements. They’re not regulated by the government. Some manufacturers are not as meticulous as others in what they put in them.”
“Dr. Boyle says he has them made up especially for him,” Agnes said. “Mrs. Carson is taking them, too.”
Seth’s brows rose. “I didn’t know she was suffering from fatigue.”
“Oh, she isn’t. She has a bad back. But Dr. Boyle says his capsules will help her, too.”
Seth carefully cut his pancakes. “An all-purpose panacea, no doubt,” he muttered under his breath.
“What was that?” Agnes asked.
“Nothing. Nothing. Give her my regards.” He speared a bite of sausage.
Agnes took her empty plate and left the table. Mary Carver’s eyes followed her. “She’s not doing well, Dr. Hazlitt,” she said. “Loses her energy every afternoon. I’m worried about her. Did you see the dark circles under her eyes?”
“Ayuh, I saw them.”
“Can’t you help her?”
Seth’s lips were tightly pressed together as he shook his head. He looked up at Mary, and I could see the sadness in his eyes for just an instant. Then it was gone, his expression stern again. “Not if she doesn’t want me to.”
Mary followed Agnes Kalisch out, and Audrey and Elsie left soon after, all apparently ill at ease with the conversation. It looked as if Seth and I might be left alone, but two seats were soon claimed by Rick Allcott and Amos Tupper.
“You’re lookin’ a bit green about the gills this morning, ” Seth said to Rick. “You feel okay?”
“Not enough sleep,” Rick replied. “You guys kept me up way past my bedtime. I’m usually an early-to-bedder. I’ll make up for it tonight.”
“How did you two hook up this morning?” I asked.
“We agreed to last night,” Rick said. “I offered to help Amos and the sheriff any way I can, and thought I’d stay close in the event there was something I can do. It looks like there isn’t, but I’m available.”
“What’s new in the case, Amos?” Seth asked.
Amos glanced around the firehouse before answering. He leaned in close and said in a low voice, “Lennon’s family is really putting the pressure on Mort. His wife flew back from wherever she was—someplace up in Canada, I think—and showed up at Mort’s office bright and early this morning. Mort’s been up all night talking to those vultures from the media. I offered to take over handling those calls, but he says it’s his job. I suppose it is, but the man’s got to get some sleep.”
I was aware that a lot of people were milling about inside and that many eyes—and ears—were trained on us. Word that Amos Tupper, our former sheriff, had been deputized by Mort had made the rounds, along with all the other scuttlebutt about the murder. Amos had now become a prime source of information to further fuel the rumors.
“That’s not all,” Amos continued. “Somebody who works at the Lennon company—some big-shot VP, I guess—is putting up a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information that leads to nailing the murderer. Seems silly to me, considering we’ve already got Chester behind bars.”
“Amos!” I said, unable to keep exasperation from my voice. “You know he’s innocent until proven guilty.”
“I know, Miz Fletcher, but sometimes solving a murder isn’t as complicated as you make it in your books. I’ll give Chester the benefit of the doubt, but I’ll be—” His cell phone rang. Amos patted his pockets till he located the one that held his phone.
“Hello? Yup, Sheriff, I’m at the firehouse with Allcott, the doc, and Miz Fletcher. Sure. Want us to bring you some breakfast? Okay. Hold on.”
He handed the phone to me.
“Good morning, Sheriff.”
“Morning, Mrs. F. Hate to interrupt your meal, but I was wondering if I could ask a favor.”
“Of course.”
“Think you and the others could come by headquarters after you leave the firehouse?”
“I can’t speak for everyone here, but I’ll be happy to.”
“I’ve got a videotape of the questioning I did of Chester Carlisle last night. Nope, correct that. We’ve got a DVD recorder now. No more tapes. Anyway, I thought you might pick up something from it that I didn’t see. Wouldn’t mind if Allcott was here, too. He mentioned that he attended the FBI’s training on criminal profiling, serial killers, things like that. Just between us, Mrs. F, between the press, the victim’s family, and that lady executive from Lennon-Diversified, there’s a lot of pressure on my back. It’s worse than trying to squeeze into a subway car at five o’clock. I could use some extra hands.”
I held the phone aside and asked Rick and Amos if they’d come with me. They readily agreed.
“Come with us, Seth?” I asked after Amos concluded the call.
“No. Mort asked for you three, didn’t ask for me. Besides, I’ve got a pile of paperwork to wade through today. That’s all I seem to do these days, fill out forms, copy forms, send out forms. Give me a call later and tell me how things are going.”
“We will,” I said.
“And you,” Seth said, pointing at Rick. “Try to get a nap in this afternoon. I don’t like your color.”
“He looks fine to me,” Amos said.
“But you’re not a doctor. Do I tell you how to do police business?”
“I’ll get some rest, I promise,” Rick said, ushering us outside.
Amos and I filled two paper plates for Mort. If he’d been up all night, it was likely he’d never had a chance to eat. As we left the pancake breakfast, Evelyn Phillips intercepted us. She and her photographer had been standing with a group of newspeople, including a remote truck from a Bangor TV station. She broke away from the group when she saw us and approached me.
“So, Jessica, come on, what’s the scoop?”
“The scoop?”
“Have you learned anything more? We can’t let those Bangor folks beat us at our own story.”
“I’m not an investigator, Evelyn. Nothing I say would be official.”
She stepped in front of Amos, blocking his path. “You’re official. I know that Sheriff Metzger deputized you,” she said. “What’s the latest with Chester Carlisle?”
“Can’t discuss an ongoing case.”
Evelyn guffawed. “Don’t tell me you haven’t shared what you know this morning with Jessica Fletcher.”
Amos scooted around her, keeping an eye on the other newspeople. They had been watching Evelyn, and now moved away from the remote truck and closed in on us.
“No comment,” Amos said, sounding terribly official indeed.
Evelyn turned to Rick Allcott. “Is the FBI now involved? ” she asked.
Rick flashed a wide, warm grin. “No comment,” he said.
“Oh, come on,” Evelyn said, rolling her eyes. “The citizens have a right to know.”
“Then they’ll have to get it from Sheriff Metzger,” Amos said, leading us to the parking lot.
The other newspeople dropped away when they saw Evelyn turn back to the firehouse.
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade Page 14