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

by Jessica Fletcher

“Can you imagine the gall of that woman?” Amos said. “She tried to get Mort to let her interview Chester last night in jail.”

  “Evelyn’s just doing her job,” I said. “I enjoy reading her accounts of what goes on in Cabot Cove, although I must admit I’m not exactly happy when I find myself in the middle of one of her stories. However, she’s a good journalist and has really turned the Gazette around since she’s been here.”

  “If you say so,” Amos muttered. Obviously I hadn’t changed his view.

  Mort was waiting for us in the reception area at headquarters.

  “Glad you folks could come,” he said, lifting off the paper plate I’d used to cover his breakfast. “For several reasons. This looks great.” He bit down on a piece of bacon and closed his eyes in pleasure. “Mmm. Thanks!” he said, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “Got the preliminary autopsy report back. It’s pretty straightforward. Nothing in the lungs. One shot. Gone! Lennon was dead before he hit the water. We had them send the bullet to ballistics.”

  “How’s Chester?” I asked.

  “Complaining, claiming he had nothing to do with Lennon’s murder. I got him dead to rights, but I want to be certain I’m not missing anything. Ready to watch my questioning of him last night?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said.

  Amos, Rick, Mort, and I sat in one of the interrogation rooms. Mort turned on a TV monitor and adjusted the lights so there wasn’t a glare on the screen. In the film, Chester sat at a table opposite Mort. Amos was in a chair a few feet behind Mort. The camera shot the scene from slightly above them. The sound was not wonderful, but their words were audible, at least enough to be understood.

  MORT: So, Chester Carlisle, you’ve been read your rights under the law. Do you understand them?

  Chester nodded.

  MORT: Okay, would you please spell your name for the record.

  Chester spelled his name.

  MORT: You’ve agreed to answer some questions without a lawyer present.

  CHESTER: C’mon, c’mon, let’s get this over with. I want to go home.

  MORT: I know you’re not happy to be here, but I’ve got a job to do. Joseph Lennon was shot to death tonight, and you’re under suspicion of murder.

  CHESTER: I already told you I didn’t do it.

  MORT: Yet you’ve made it pretty clear how much you hated the man.

  CHESTER: I didn’t like the man. Won’t deny that. Damned rusticator comes to town flingin’ his millions around and taking over everything.

  MORT: He wasn’t a tourist. He moved here.

  CHESTER: For how long? He’s probably got homes from here to the Pacific. Cabot Cove was just a place for him to flaunt his money, ruin the place for everyone else, and then leave us with that white elephant on the water. What are we going to do with that marble palace once he moves on to the next playground?

  MORT: I don’t want to argue the merits of Lennon-Diversified. I want to know if you killed the man.

  CHESTER: I told you I didn’t. Why in hell would I shoot him?

  MORT: Because of what you just said about not liking what he’s done to the town.

  CHESTER: That doesn’t prove anything.

  MORT: What about your T-shirts, Chester? The one you’re wearing, and the ones you sold comparing Mr. Lennon to that Soviet dictator Lenin?

  Chester chortled, which brought on a wheeze and then a coughing spasm. He took a white handkerchief from his pants pocket and blew his nose lustily.

  CHESTER: Pretty clever, weren’t they? Got the point across real good. These shirts were just for fun, Sheriff. Can’t you take a joke?

  MORT: I’ll be asking the questions, Chester. Now, where were you last night during the fireworks?

  CHESTER: Home.

  MORT: I’ve got two people who say they saw you down watching the fireworks.

  CHESTER: Who said that?

  MORT: Never mind who. If I have to, I’ll bring them into a court of law and they’ll swear they saw you there, Chester, and I bet I’ll have half a dozen more swear to the same thing by tomorrow.

  Chester screwed up his face, scratched his head, and tugged at the round collar of his shirt.

  CHESTER: Well, maybe I did come down for a little while. I got a right to see the fireworks, don’t I? Paid for them with my tax dollars—at least they used to. I didn’t stay long. Burned me up to see that ugly building. Any fireworks sponsored by that bastard Lennon are—

  MORT: Go on, Chester.

  Chester must have realized that a display of temper wasn’t going to do him any good. He crossed his arms and slumped down.

  CHESTER: I’ve got nothing more to say.

  MORT: You might be interested in knowing that we found the gun that was used to kill Joe Lennon.

  Chester sat up straight.

  CHESTER: Godfrey mighty! Why didn’t you say so? That’s good news. Whoever owns that gun is the guy you’re after. Lets me off the hook.

  AMOS: Not so fast, Chester. That gun—

  Mort put up his hand to silence Amos.

  MORT: I’ll handle the questioning, Deputy Tupper. Now, Chester, that gun I just mentioned was found in your car.

  CHESTER: That’s a lie.

  Chester sprang up from his chair and it looked like he might physically attack Mort. Amos got to his feet, too, but Mort again waved him off.

  MORT: Sit down, Chester, and if you do that again, I’ll have you cuffed.

  Chester flopped back down into his chair.

  CHESTER: If someone took my rifle to kill Lennon, he had’a had stolen it when I wasn’t looking.

  MORT: I didn’t say it was a rifle.

  CHESTER: A shotgun, then.

  MORT: Didn’t say that, either.

  CHESTER: I don’t own a handgun, Sheriff, never have, never will. I got a rifle to go hunting now and again, and a shotgun I use to keep those pesky squirrels away from the bird feeder, but I’ve never owned a handgun in my life.

  MORT: You know what I think? I think you’re lying. I think you hated Joseph Lennon so much, you got a handgun. You took that handgun to the fireworks, and maybe waited till Mr. Lennon walked behind his building, and you followed him, and when you got him in front of you, you held him at gunpoint until a rocket went off and no one would hear. And then you shot him. In the head. That’s what happened, isn’t it?

  CHESTER: That’s not true!

  MORT: You shot him and then you went home and pretended that you’d never gone to the fireworks. But you lied about that. And if you lied about that, why shouldn’t I think you’re lying right now about killing him?

  CHESTER: Because I’m tellin’ the truth, dammit. I want a lawyer. You’re tryin’ to get me to confess to something I didn’t do.

  MORT: You can get a lawyer. That’s your legal right, Chester. But I’m betting your fingerprints are all over that gun, aren’t they? And if you wiped them off, we’ll find another way to prove that it’s your weapon.

  CHESTER: This isn’t right, Sheriff. I didn’t kill nobody, and you know it. Someone is trying to blame me for something I didn’t do. Amos, you’ve known me for years. I wouldn’t kill anyone.

  AMOS: Just because you didn’t before doesn’t mean you wouldn’t now. People change.

  MORT: You got a lawyer in mind, Chester? You can call him if you want.

  CHESTER: Only lawyer I know is the town attorney. Fred Nidel. Handles the county’s business, too. But I don’t think he’d want a piece of this.

  MORT: Maybe he can suggest somebody. You can use that phone over there.

  The screen went black. Mort shut off the DVD and turned up the lights.

  “Well, what do you think?” he asked.

  None of us spoke for a few seconds. Then I said, “I believe him, Sheriff. I don’t think he killed Joseph Lennon.”

  “Based on what, Mrs. F?”

  “I can’t put a finger on it exactly. But it’s too neat. It’s too easy to point at Chester because he’s been so vocal in opposing Lennon’s activ
ities in town. And if he killed the man, why would he leave the murder weapon in his car for anyone to find it, or allow himself to be seen at the scene of the crime, for that matter? Here’s a man who spent a good portion of his life devoted to community service. Just because I don’t always agree with his point of view doesn’t mean I overlook his contributions to Cabot Cove, or in any way doubt his sincerity. He may have a misguided way of expressing his discontent, but that doesn’t make him a murderer. I’m sorry, I just don’t buy it. I know that’s not really helpful, but that’s my visceral reaction.”

  “Visceral?” Amos said.

  “Gut instinct,” Mort translated.

  Amos turned to Rick Allcott and asked what his reactions were.

  “I’m reluctant to disagree with Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “considering her track record for solving crimes. I—”

  “She’s been wrong sometimes,” Mort said, casting a swift glance at me. I smiled and nodded.

  “But,” Rick continued, “your Mr. Carlisle comes off to me like a guilty man.”

  “That’s the way I see it, too,” Mort said.

  “From my experience, I’d say he could be classified as BPD.”

  “What’s BPD?” Amos asked.

  “Borderline personality disorder,” Rick replied. “Carlisle exhibits many of the symptoms: impulsive acts, recurring threats, unstable deportment, ego defense, rage, tantrums, obsession, self-deception, mood swings. All the signs are there and I’ll tell you this: A lot of crimes are committed by BPD individuals. Better be careful, Mort, or he’ll get off on an insanity plea.”

  “I don’t care what he pleads,” Mort said, “as long as I got the right guy.”

  “You’ve got the right guy,” Rick said. “Think about this. Here you have a man, a pillar of the community for many years, and now he’s getting on in years. He’s retired, so he doesn’t have that same sense of self-worth he had when he was younger and earning money. He serves the town, but his opinions aren’t sought anymore. People lose respect for him, maybe ridicule him behind his back, or even to his face. It rankles. He takes up a cause no one else cares about, makes a fool of himself in public. He gets angry, obsessed with the one he thinks is causing him to lose face with his peers. You take all these factors and put a gun in his hand. It’s no surprise to me that he uses it.”

  I hated to admit it, but Rick had come far too close in his description of Chester’s recent behavior. And as a former FBI agent, he’d been exposed to a lot more criminal profiles than I had. I shouldn’t have doubted his assessment, but something still didn’t ring true.

  “I certainly don’t have your experience with the criminal personality, gentlemen,” I said, “and I’m far from infallible. But I just feel it’s too soon to assume you’ve caught the killer. After all, there are others who might have had the motive, to say nothing of the opportunity, to shoot Mr. Lennon. Have you spoken with his wife and his children?”

  “His wife was in Canada the night of the fireworks,” Mort said.

  “Presumably,” I countered. “I’d talk with her anyway. And what about others who worked closely with him? Miss Welch and her assistant. And there’s Dr. Boyle.”

  “Dr. Boyle?” Mort said, sounding as though I’d lost my mind.

  “Who’s Dr. Boyle?” Amos asked.

  “He’s a new doctor in town,” Mort said. “The way I understand it, Mrs. F, is that he owes his practice to Lennon. Hardly a motive to kill his benefactor.”

  “All very true,” I said. “And I don’t mean to tell you gentlemen how to do your jobs, but if I were in your place, I think I’d do a lot more investigating before I decided to indict Chester Carlisle.”

  I sensed from the expression on Mort’s face that I’d gone too far. He didn’t need me to tell him how to proceed in a murder investigation, nor was it my place to do so. Still, I felt I’d been right in what I’d suggested. Based upon everything I knew so far, which admittedly wasn’t much— and despite Rick’s analysis of Chester Carlisle’s personality and motives—I was immovable in my belief that my good friend the sheriff had settled on the most obvious of suspects without first ruling out others.

  “I assume you’ve interviewed people close to the victim, ” Rick said.

  If Mort was annoyed with yet another intrusion into his “business,” he didn’t show it. He pulled a narrow notebook from his pocket, flipped up a few pages, and replied, “I checked with the guys from Grucci. No one saw anything. I’ve already spoken to the wife, and the security guy for Lennon-Diversified. Whatshisname? Moss. Roger Moss, the one that found the body. We tested his gun. It was never fired. I’ve got others coming in this afternoon.” Mort peered at me. “And I’ll be questioning Dr. Boyle and his staff tomorrow. Okay, Mrs. F?”

  I returned his smile.

  Mort turned to Rick Allcott. “I’m especially interested in your take on things, Agent Allcott. You obviously have a lot of experience in judging character and criminal behavior.”

  “Happy to help in any way I can,” Rick said, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. He looked apologetic. “It’s a bit chilly in here.”

  “I got the air conditioner cranked way up because of the temperature this past week,” Mort said. “Probably can turn it down a notch now that the heat wave’s broken.”

  Amos stayed with Mort. I asked Rick to drop me at the Cabot Cove airport. “I’m in the mood for a flight,” I explained. “I have my private pilot’s license, but don’t get nearly enough time to use it.”

  “I’m impressed,” he said.

  “So am I,” I said, laughing. “There’s nothing like an hour up there by myself to put things into perspective.”

  “Care for a passenger?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “But thanks for offering. I’ll get a lift home from Jed Richardson. He’s a former airline pilot who settled here in Cabot Cove and runs his own air charter service. He gave me my flight instruction.”

  “Well, in that case, I think I’ll go grab that nap Seth suggested. I am feeling a little ‘peek-id’ as you Mainers say.”

  I studied his face. He did look washed-out. “Feel better, ” I said.

  Jed had left a sign on the window of his office that he’d be back in fifteen minutes. I told Rick I was content to wait, and watched him drive off after we’d agreed to touch base by phone later that afternoon. It was a beautiful day, and I passed the time waiting for Jed by walking up and down the row of small private planes parked at the airport, which was growing all the time.

  Our local airport had served as an air base during the Second World War. The town had allowed grass to grow over the longer runways that could accommodate larger aircraft, but smaller jets of the varieties used by corporations and companies that sell shares in the use of such planes were able to land there. And there was talk of rehabilitating the original tarmac, of reclaiming the longer runways, and of reopening the portions of the airport that had gone to seed. Not everyone was happy about that. Those opposed cited the increased noise. Others saw the runway extension as a way to induce more companies to relocate to the area. Most agreed that new business was good for Cabot Cove. Where agreement stopped was in just how fast the town should grow—and how far.

  At the end of one row of planes was a twin-engine jet with LENNON-DIVERSIFIED painted on its sides and tail. I’d seen it parked at the airport before, and Jed had told me that it was the largest jet aircraft certified to land and take off on the existing runway. It was a sleek plane, state-of-the-art in every way. It was too high off the ground for me to peer into one of the oval windows, but I was walking around admiring the design when I saw Jed pull up in his red pickup.