When in doubt, clean, I told myself, and while my tea grew cold, I picked up a sponge and scrubbed the kitchen sink, even though I’d gone over it pretty thoroughly earlier in the morning. I’d finished all the countertops and was starting on the refrigerator when Seth called back.
“You’re too late,” I said. “I’ve just ruined a perfectly good manicure cleaning everything in sight. How’s the patient? Is it the flu?”
Going straight to the point, Seth said, “What do you know about your friend here, Jessica?”
“Not much more than you,” I replied. “We met a few years ago in Washington at a conference on forensics that the FBI held for writers. I hadn’t heard from him after that until he called from Blueberry Hill to tell me he was in town. Why do you ask?”
“He doesn’t have the flu.”
“Then what does he have?”
“Malaria.”
“Malaria?”
“Ayuh. Told me he picked it up in Alaska. ‘Mosquitoes as big as birds up there.’ I can believe it. But he didn’t get malaria from those mosquitoes no matter what size they are. It’s too cold up there for Plasmodium falciparum.”
“That’s the malaria parasite, I take it?”
“You are correct. That’s the one responsible for the most severe form of malaria, which is what I suspect our patient has. Even with the right mosquito, if the temperatures aren’t high enough, the parasite cannot complete its growth cycle. And Alaska is not known for its balmy weather.”
“If he didn’t contract malaria in Alaska, where did he get it? And why would he lie about it?”
“That’s the mystery,” Seth said. “That’s your department, not mine. Fortunately, we had an antimalarial drug in the hospital pharmacy. I’ll fix him up. When he’s lucid, you can ask him.”
“When do you think I can see him?”
“Not sure. Right now he’s still in the emergency room. We don’t have a bed for him yet.”
“Is the hospital that full?” I asked.
“No, we have room, but the EMTs forgot to bring Allcott’s wallet, and Admitting wants his insurance information before they make him at home in the medical unit.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“That’s the health-care bureaucracy for you.”
“Why don’t I go over to Blueberry Hill? I’ll get his insurance card and bring it to the hospital.”
“Was hoping you’d volunteer.”
“You know you could have asked.”
“Didn’t want to impose.”
“You never impose. I’ll call a cab and have the driver wait while I find Rick’s wallet. I’ll see you in the emergency room.”
“I’ll be here,” he said. “Must be a full moon. I had two other patients pop in while I was tending Allcott.”
Jill Thomas was printing out the bill for a couple from Danbury, Connecticut, who were checking out of the inn. “I hope you had a pleasant stay,” she said, handing them the itemized sheet.
“It was wonderful, Jill. Cabot Cove is so charming. Maria said it would be. That parade was just like the ones I remember as a child. And the fireworks. Wow!”
“I’m so glad you came for the holiday,” Jill said. “You must say hello to the Moreys for me when you see them. Jack and Maria are old friends. Please thank them for recommending us.” Catching sight of me, Jill smiled and said to her guests, “Would you please excuse me for a moment?” She pulled a key from the board behind her and reached out to hand it to me. “It’s number four, Jessica,” she said. “You don’t mind if I don’t go up with you, do you?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Take care of your guests. I won’t be long.”
I climbed the stairs to the second floor and looked for the room numbers. Blueberry Hill was more properly a bed-and-breakfast than a true inn, although Craig had added extra bathrooms to the six-bedroom Victorian house to make it more appealing to visitors. The floors were oak, stained a dark color, and creaked pleasantly when walked on. Jill had installed etched-glass wall sconces and laid a beige-and-blue Oriental runner over the boards to lighten up what otherwise would have been a gloomy hallway. The walls were cream-colored, and the paneled doors and trim matched the stain of the floors.
I found number four, inserted the key, and let myself into a large bedroom with a four-poster bed. The linens had been stripped off, and a new set lay on the mattress until Jill or the maid could get to it. I imagined Jill wanted to air the bedding before she remade the bed, perhaps even spray some germ killer, although I don’t know how effective it would be on fabrics. Opposite the bed and under a window that looked out over the rear garden was a small desk with a lamp and a chair. To the right was a tall armoire. The room had no closet. I peeked into the bathroom, but there was only one personal item in sight. Rick had placed his black leather Dopp kit on top of the commode. It was open and contained the usual toiletries— toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, comb, deodorant, nail clippers. I zipped it up and took it with me, figuring he would appreciate being able to brush his teeth when he was feeling better.
I didn’t find his wallet in the desk drawers, so I opened the armoire in hope of better luck. It was a large piece of furniture, mahogany, with an arched top and double doors kept closed with a lock and key. Inside, a rod to hang clothing spanned the top half, and six drawers, three on each side, filled the bottom. A pair of sneakers and two pairs of shoes sat on top of the drawers. Rick had several jackets, slacks, jeans, and a Windbreaker hanging up, and the drawers contained folded shirts, shorts, socks. It was a full wardrobe, and surprisingly more than I would have expected he’d need for an extended weekend. I patted down his jackets and slacks in case he had left his wallet in a pocket. Finding nothing, I went drawer by drawer until I’d checked them all. By chance I moved one of his sneakers and found it heavier than I expected. I pulled back the tongue and there inside the toe were Rick’s wallet and passport. I flipped open the passport to his picture. It had been taken several years ago, and a younger face than I’d seen the other day looked back at me. Inside, pages were stamped by the countries he’d visited: France, Germany, Sierra Leone, the Czech Republic, and on the last page, Zimbabwe. What an interesting life an FBI agent has, I thought.
I picked up the other sneaker. Something metal had been stuffed in the toe. I shook it out. It was an ammunition clip. I don’t know why I was shocked. Rick was a former FBI agent, after all. But the evidence that he still carried a gun was disturbing. He was on vacation, wasn’t he? Why would he need a gun to watch a baseball game or attend an Independence Day parade? And where was the gun this ammunition fit into?
I checked to make sure Rick’s insurance card was in his wallet, placed it and his passport in the Dopp kit, then locked the room and returned the key to Jill at the front desk.
“I hope you found what you needed,” she said.
“I did.”
“Mary and I were nervous even going into his room. After the EMTs took Mr. Allcott, we stripped the bed right away. If one of us gets sick, we’re really in trouble. It’s so busy this time of year.”
“Are you all booked up?”
“We’ve been booked since April. I’ve had to turn people away, even local businesses that needed rooms. I told that fellow from Lennon-Diversified that we couldn’t guarantee a room for his company visitors with all the advance reservations.”
“Someone from Lennon-Diversified was asking for a room?”
“Yes, what was his name? Something foreign sounding.”
“Dante?”
“That’s it. Such a nice young man. He wanted to see the rooms anyway, in case we got a cancellation. Mr. Allcott has the biggest room, but he’d just gone out, so I couldn’t ask him to show it. I gave Dante the keys to two and three instead. He must have liked them; he said if we got a vacancy to let him know.”
Nick held the door of the taxi for me, and I slid into the backseat. “We’re off to the hospital now, right?” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes,” I said again. And more, I thought.
Chapter Fourteen
Since the sheriff’s office was on the way to the hospital, I asked Nick to wait while I ran inside to deliver my eyewitness account of the attempted mugging that resulted in Seth’s injury. Mort was sitting at his desk reading a report.
“Nice to see you, Mrs. F,” he said. “Put it right there.” He nodded at a pile of papers, to which I added mine. “I was just reading a lab report and thinking about you. Have a seat.”
“I wish I could,” I said. “I have a taxi waiting outside—”
“Don’t you want to hear the results of Chester Carlisle’s GSR test?”
“GSR?” I said. “Oh, right. The gunshot residue test. Well, yes, of course.” I perched on the edge of the chair, hoping he would be brief.
Mort turned the report around and offered it to me. “See this?” he said, pointing to the concluding paragraph.
“Says ‘positive’ for gunshot residue. That’s enough for me to keep Mr. Carlisle in jail on suspicion of murder.”
I sighed. “I don’t suppose these kinds of tests can tell the difference between a gun fired in a crime and a gun fired to scare squirrels away from the bird feeder, can they?”
“You’re a tough one to convince,” Mort said. “But I feel a lot better knowing I’ve got the right man. We now know that Chester fired the gun we found in his car, and as soon as we have the ballistics report back, we can prove that’s the gun that was used to kill Lennon.”
An argument was on the tip of my tongue, but I thought better of it.
“By the way, Mrs. F, Maureen said if I saw you to invite you to dinner tonight.”
Maureen was Mort’s second wife and an enthusiastic, if not exactly accomplished, cook. She was famous, or perhaps “infamous” was the right word, for her culinary experiments, which was why a box of Charlene Sassi’s doughnuts could always be found in Mort’s office. I cast around for an excuse. “That’s very nice of her, but—”
“She invited Amos Tupper to come, and she likes to have even numbers at the table. Frankly, Mrs. F, you’d be doing me a real favor.”
I’d received more gracious invitations to dinner before. But it would be an opportunity to discuss the case further, and Mort and Maureen were good friends. “Of course,” I said. “How nice of Maureen to think of me. What time would you like me there?”
We arranged for me to be at the Metzgers’ house by six. I thanked Mort for letting me see the test results, and left to apologize to Nick for keeping him waiting.
Only two chairs were occupied when I entered the seating area outside the hospital’s emergency room. In one, a little girl with a tearstained face sat in her father’s lap, clutching a well-loved doll. What looked like a kitchen towel was wrapped around her hand and I assumed that whatever injury she had sustained was underneath the covering. Several seats down, a teenager sprawled in his chair, flipping through a sports magazine. Two skateboards were on the floor next to his feet. From his demeanor I gathered he was waiting for someone who was already inside receiving help.
A triage nurse sat behind a glass window, which she slid to one side when I approached.
“I’m looking for Dr. Seth Hazlitt,” I said. “Is he available?”
“Are you Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes.”
“He’s with a patient right now, but he told me you’d be by. You have Mr. Allcott’s insurance card?”
I handed her Rick’s card.
“If you don’t mind waiting, Mrs. Fletcher, Dr. Hazlitt said he’ll see you when he’s free. He shouldn’t be too long.”
“I don’t mind waiting,” I said.
“I’ll let him know you’re here.”
I sat across from the little girl and smiled at her. She looked at me with sad eyes and held up her bandaged hand. “I have a boo-boo.”
“I see that,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
Her father smoothed her flyaway hair and looked at me. “Caught her hand in a door, racing after her brother,” he said. “She knows she’s not supposed to run in the house. Don’t think it’s anything more’n a bruise, but didn’t want to take the chance.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said.
“Wanna see it?” the little girl asked.
“Now, Chloe,” her father said in a soft voice.
“That’s all right,” I said. I looked at the little patient. “If you would like to show it to me, I’ll be happy to see it.”
She unwound the cloth to reveal a small hand clutching a plastic bag of frozen corn. “Mama put cut corn on it,” she said.
“Cut corn?” I asked.
Her father looked sheepish. “We use the frozen corn for all the kids’ bruises and sprains. We don’t eat it. That bag’s just for sprains and bumps and anything that needs icing. It’s more flexible than ice cubes.”
“What a clever idea,” I said.
Chloe held up her hand. It was a little red from holding on to the frozen bag, but didn’t look to me as if there were any serious injury.
At the sound of the glass window sliding open, we all turned our heads. “Mr. Fry, the doctor will see Chloe now,” the nurse announced. Father and daughter walked to the double doors that led to the ER examining rooms. Chloe turned and waved to me, and I waved back. “Good luck,” I called.
A few minutes later, a young man with a sling came through the same doors and used his good arm to signal his friend. “It’s nothing,” he said, going over to him. “Just a bone bruise.”
“Yeah, but what about that?” his friend said, eyeing the sling. “Can we still practice?”
“We’ll work around it.”
His friend shrugged. “Your funeral,” he said, picking up the skateboards.
I hope not, I thought, as they walked out of the waiting area, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Young people can be so cavalier about their health. The exuberance of youth combined with the unfounded but absolute conviction that nothing bad will happen to them spurs them to take the kinds of chances those of us with more experience would never attempt. That could explain why so many extreme sports had worked their way into the public consciousness, even appreciation, in recent years. Seth and I had cringed while watching snowboarding competitions in the last Olympics. And I knew from the Cabot Cove Gazette that the town council was contemplating a skateboard section in the local park. “Better to give the skaters a recreational environment in which to practice at their own peril,” Mayor Shevlin had been quoted as saying, “than deal with the property damage, not to mention personal injury risks of them riding down the banisters in front of the high school.” Even though the mayor’s logic was sound, I didn’t believe the proposal stood much of a chance of passing. And I wasn’t sure how I would have voted were I sitting on the council in their place. I could hazard a guess at how Chester Carlisle might vote, if he ever returned to his seat on the council.
Seth interrupted my musings.
“Ah, good to sit down,” he said, sinking into the chair next to mine and running a hand over his close-cropped white hair.
“Busy day for you?” I said.
“Not bad.”
“How’s the injury?” I asked, nodding at his still-bandaged wrist.
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade Page 18