A hot bath, a cup of tea, and a light dinner had done little to calm my mood, and I’d slept fitfully. But by morning I was feeling better. The prospect of going up in the air sounded delightful. Being at the controls of a plane heightens your senses, making you aware not only of the beauty of the landscape below but also of the infinite sky above and your small place in this universe. Perhaps alone, with only the buzz of the engine to intrude on my thoughts, I could unravel this twisted knot. And if I couldn’t, at least I would have nurtured my spiritual side and achieved the practical goal of keeping up on my flying skills.
Jed was behind the counter when I entered his office. Two men in aviator uniforms lounged on his battered couch, flipping through the old issues of the Cabot Cove Gazette that were piled on a wooden coffee table that had been naturally distressed by years of boot heels propped on it.
“Remember this guy?” one of them said to his colleague, pointing to the paper. “Didn’t he hitch a ride to Zimbabwe with Welch once?”
“Yeah. He looks familiar.”
“Jessica, there you are,” said Jed. “Hey, guys, remember I was telling you about J. B. Fletcher, our homegrown novelist and fledgling pilot? Well, not so fledgling anymore.”
The two men dropped their reading material and jumped to their feet. “That’s Captain Andy Baron,” Jed said as the taller of the two men shook my hand. “And his copilot, Jerry Fitzpatrick.”
“Nice to meet you both,” I said. “Please, sit down.”
“Andy and Jerry are the crew for the Lennon-Diversified Gulfstream,” Jed said.
“It’s a beautiful plane,” I said, taking a folding chair that was next to the couch. “Are you flying out, or did you just get in?”
“Out,” Captain Baron said. “You heard about our boss, Joe Lennon?”
“Everyone in Cabot Cove knows what happened,” Jed said.
“We were supposed to pick up Mr. Lennon’s body and take it to Vancouver for burial, but the cops haven’t released it yet. I think Mrs. Lennon wants to bring the kids back to British Columbia. That’s where their principal residence is.”
“Or else she’ll have us fly to Zimbabwe. She’s got family there,” Jerry said. “We were told to fuel up, but not where we’re going.”
“Did Mrs. Lennon call you herself?” I asked.
“Never does,” Andy put in. “It was someone from the office. We don’t know the itinerary or even who we’re carrying. We’re stuck here waiting for our passengers. That’s the life of a corporate pilot. You’re on call all the time. It’s always hurry up and wait.”
“And wait and wait.” Jerry winked at the captain. “But, as we always tell each other, the money is good and the plane is great.”
“Were you the crew that brought Mrs. Lennon here?”
“Yeah, we always fly her. But if we have too many hours, a second crew takes over,” Andy said.
“The company insists they follow the same FAA regulations as commercial pilots,” Jed added. “They can’t fly more than a certain number of hours per week, and not at all if they’ve had a drink within twenty-four hours of takeoff.”
“It’s nice,” Jerry added. “A lot of corporate pilots never get a break. We know that once we hit our mark, we get some time off.”
“When did you get in?” I asked.
“On the Fourth,” he replied. “Just in time to see the fireworks.”
“Great show,” Andy said. “You see it, Jed?”
“Of course. Everyone in town was there.”
“Was Mrs. Lennon there, too?” I asked.
Andy and Jerry looked at each other and shrugged. “I guess,” Andy said. “Dante picked us up here and dropped her at the house before he left us at the hotel. She wanted to freshen up. I thought he was going to circle back to take her to the show. Mr. Lennon was expecting her. At least that’s what Dante said.”
Ronnie came into the office holding a box. “All fueled and ready to go,” he told the pilots. “I did the windshield, too. And some guy delivered this package for you.”
“Thanks, kid,” Andy said, taking the box. “Appreciate the hard work.” He handed Ronnie a folded bill.
“Thank you, sir.”
Andy looked at the box. “It’s addressed to Mrs. Lennon.”
“Who’s it from?” Jerry asked.
“Doesn’t say. I’d better go stow this aboard.”
“How about a couple of games of gin?” Jerry asked. “I want to win back the money I lost to you last week.”
“Never happen. You’re a lousy cardplayer, but if you want me to take you to the cleaners again, I’m happy to do it. We should have a couple of hours before they get here.”
The pilots stood and put on their caps. “See you later, Jed. Nice meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” I said.
Jed came around the counter and handed Ronnie the keys to his truck. “I need you to go into town to pick up that fuel pump. The receipt’s in the glove box.” He turned to me. “You ready to go up, Jess?”
“You know, I’ve changed my mind, Jed. I’m going to hitch a ride into town with Ronnie. Maybe I’ll come back a little later.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. I’m sorry if I put you out.”
“No trouble at all. Women’s prerogative. Just sing out if you change your mind.”
“I will. Oh, do you mind if I take these?” I picked up the Gazettes the pilots had been reading.
“Help yourself. They’re pretty old, though.”
“That’s all right. I like old news.” I left Jed scratching his head, surely thinking I was daft, and walked out with Ronnie.
Chapter Eighteen
A mos was sitting at Mort’s desk reading an adventure novel when I entered the sheriff’s office. He put his finger in the book to hold his place when he saw me. “How do, Miz Fletcher?”
“Fine, thanks, Amos. How are you?”
“Not too bad. Nice and cool in here. Mornin’ paper says we’re in for another heat wave comin’ through.”
“I hope it’s not as bad as the last one.”
“Supposed to go up way past ninety tomorrow.”
“Oh, my. I’d better stop by Charles Department Store to see if they got in the air conditioners Jim said they had on order.”
“Can’t be worse than down south. Called my cousin back home. He says it’s hotter ’n blazes, but I’ve got an AC in my workshop, so I don’t mind the heat.”
“Does that mean you’ll be leaving us soon, Amos?”
“Mebbe. I’d like to wrap up this murder case before I go, but it isn’t lookin’ promising right now.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you should know. You left the message for the sheriff. Mort spoke to Rick Allcott this morning. Right after that, he went on over to the hospital to get an official statement. Said he might have to let Chester out on bail this afternoon. Chester was mighty happy, I can tell you.”
“I’m sure he is,” I said.
“We’re not too busted up about lettin’ him out, either. He was the most complainingest prisoner I ever met. He griped day and night. Nothin’ was right. The bed was too soft. The temperature was too cold. The food was horrible, even though Mort’s wife has been making home-cooked meals just for Chester. Glad I never had occasion to put him behind bars when I was sheriff.”
“Well, when you get to be a certain age, it’s harder to adjust to changes in your life,” I said. “Besides, I’m inclined to think no one is really comfortable in jail. I hope he gets to sleep in his own bed tonight.”
“If he doesn’t have air-conditioning at home, he may be sorry he left here.” Amos folded down a corner of the page of his book and set it aside. “Is there anything I can do for you, Miz Fletcher? I don’t imagine the sheriff will be back for some time.”
“I wanted to talk to him about taking a look around inside Lennon-Diversified, but they’re closed today in memory of Joseph Lennon.”
“Wh
at do you expect to find?”
“I’m not sure, but the company was investigated for fraud in the past, and I have a feeling that whatever they were up to then may still be going on.”
“What kind of fraud?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know.”
“Judge won’t grant a search warrant without probable cause. Doesn’t sound like you got any.”
“I don’t suppose the murder itself is enough reason to justify examining the premises.”
“Lennon was killed in back of the building. We could always justify examining the scene of the crime. Don’t need a search warrant for that.”
“Amos, you’re brilliant.”
“I am?”
“Is the crime scene tape still up?”
“I believe so.”
“Any chance you could take me over there?”
“Now, Miz Fletcher, I’m not going to get in trouble with the sheriff, am I?”
“We’d only be going to take a look at the scene of the crime. What could he object to?”
“I guess he wouldn’t mind. I could tell him you had some ideas about the murder. You’re pretty good at comin’ up with new ideas.”
“Thank you, Amos.”
He pushed himself up from the desk, tucked his book in a pocket, wrote out a note for Mort, and instructed the other deputy to be sure to give it to the sheriff when he returned from the hospital. Outside, Amos escorted me to an unmarked car and held open the front passenger door. “I hope I’m not going to regret this,” he said.
Amos pulled into a space in the parking lot that served both Lennon-Diversified and the town park that the company’s owner had given to Cabot Cove. There were several cars in the lot, and I noticed some people flinging a Frisbee on the greensward that had held the hundreds who’d come to watch the fireworks, courtesy of Joseph Lennon. It was a pleasantly warm afternoon, but I could feel humidity creeping in, a harbinger of the heat wave to come. We walked down the hill toward the cement footpath that wound around the building. I trotted to the front entrance and tried to open the door. It was locked. I cupped my hands over my eyes and leaned against the glass to see into the atrium. Sunlight filtered down from above. The hall was empty. The security guard was not on duty.
“We’re not goin’ inside,” Amos said when I rejoined him on the path that led around the side of the building with the loading dock and to the back.
“Doesn’t look like we could if we wanted to,” I said. “Let’s take a look at the crime scene and see if anything strikes us.”
The yellow tape the officers had put up the night of the murder still circled the veranda and part of the promenade and dock where Joseph Lennon had been shot. Fluttering in the warm breeze, the tape was intact except at one corner of the building, where either it had broken away or someone had pulled it down; the free end lay curled on the stone blocks like a yellow snake. We walked through the gap, across the veranda, and down the steps toward the water. Dark stains on the dock showed where Lennon might have been positioned when the bullet hit him in the head, knocking him backward into the bay, and where his body had been dragged from the water back onto the dock before being carried away by the medical team.
If Rick’s gun was the murder weapon, it strongly suggested premeditation. Lennon had died instantly. The autopsy hadn’t shown any water in his lungs, which would have been there if he was still alive when he sank into the cold water. How clever the killer was to wait for a fireworks display to cover the murder. No one had heard anything, and no one had seen anything. Had there been an argument? Or had the assailant sneaked up behind Lennon as he watched the fireworks from the waterfront, calling out his name at the last minute to cause the victim to turn in the killer’s direction?
I pivoted at the end of the dock to take in the view of the Lennon building. It was a sleek marble block with a steel door that would likely allow employees to step out onto the veranda without having to exit from the front entrance. An addition jutted out on the right side of the building. A door on that side led to the office of Dr. Boyle. On the day of my appointment with him, I had left Lennon-Diversified and had walked around the outside of the building to get there.
“Seen enough, Miz Fletcher?” Amos said.
“I suppose.”
We walked up the dock toward the building. I went straight to the steel door and tugged on the handle. It didn’t budge.
“Locked,” I said to Amos.
“Good! Ready to leave, Miz Fletcher?”
“Let’s go this way,” I said, “so we can see the other side of the building.”
“Don’t see how that’s going to make any difference, but if you insist.”
“Lennon-Diversified is closed today,” I said. “I wonder if that means Dr. Boyle’s office is also closed.”
“Could be. It’s Wednesday,” Amos said, catching up with me as I strode along the rear of the building toward the doctor’s office. “Lots of doctors close their offices on Wednesday. In Kentucky, it’s hard to get time on the golf courses on Wednesdays.”
We rounded the corner and walked up to the door leading to Boyle’s practice. A sign on the glass said the office was closed for the day. Nevertheless, I pulled on the handle. To my amazement and Amos’s consternation, the door was unlocked. I held it open for Amos.
“Now, Miz Fletcher, you said you were satisfied just seeing the crime scene. The sign says they’re closed. No need to be goin’ in and disturbing the place.”
“You can wait in the car if you prefer, Amos. I won’t be long. I’m just going to see if Dr. Boyle is in. I have one or two questions for him.”
“I think I’ll do just that,” he said, patting the pocket that held his book. “But if you’re not out in ten minutes, I’m comin’ in after you.”
“I won’t keep you that long,” I said.
The lights were out in the reception area, but the interior door to the examining rooms was unlocked. I walked down the carpeted hallway and called out Dr. Boyle’s name. No answer. Dr. Boyle’s office was dark and unoccupied. I flipped the wall switch on. His desk was clear, no stacks of files, or X-rays on the light box, or other materials to indicate he was working on what should have been his day off. I turned off the light and continued down the hall to the large area housing his diagnostic equipment. There were no windows in this space, and only the barest light filtered in to reflect off the large machines. Tiny spots of green and red on operating panels gave minimal illumination in the glass-enclosed computer room that overlooked the space. I squinted, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. It was here that I’d seen Dr. Boyle speaking with the woman who might have been Mrs. Lennon or Ms. Welch. She had hurried through a door on the opposite side of the room. Since his visitor hadn’t come in through the front door and reception area, either she was already on the premises— perhaps working in a back room—or there was a connection from his office to the main building. I skirted the equipment, putting my hand up to keep from banging my head on a large metal arm that jutted out from its side. It swung out of the way.
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade Page 22