Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade (10 page)
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Authors: Jessica Fletcher,Donald Bain
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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“Nothing wrong with following lofty ideals,” said Seth.
“Do you have to retire after twenty years?” I asked Allcott.
“No. I could have stayed on. But my love of books and reading came back to haunt me. I decided to shift gears in my life and find the time to read all those books I never got around to. I don’t regret that decision, although I will admit that I sometimes miss the action.”
The conversation progressed smoothly as we enjoyed a lavish antipasto platter, followed by an entrée we all ordered on my recommendation, one of the restaurant’s signature dishes, Chicken Peppino. Eventually, the subject of Joseph Lennon and his company became the topic of our conversation. After Seth and I had briefly recounted for Rick how Lennon-Diversified had relocated to Cabot Cove, and how its founder and CEO had become a highly visible citizen of the town—to say nothing of generous— Rick said, “Sounds like Cabot Cove struck it rich.”
“Not always a good thing,” Seth said.
“Oh?”
“Nothing’s ever all good or all bad,” my doctor friend continued. “You take the bitter with the sweet. Yes, sir, there’s no doubt that Mr. Lennon has done some good things for the community. He—”
“Lee, at the library, told me this afternoon that he’s putting up the money to refurbish the children’s reading room,” I threw in.
“That’s nice,” Seth said to me, then turned his attention back to Allcott. “You see, Rick, while Mr. Lennon is tossing his money around, he’s also changing lots of things about Cabot Cove, changes that aren’t necessarily for the better.”
That led to a discussion about how growth, unless controlled, can do more harm to a community than good, and whether there’s a danger in having a few people, especially those with deep pockets, exert undue influence over a town. It was a good debate, with Seth and Rick carrying the brunt of it. I was content to listen, and to offer an occasional comment.
I was happy that I’d thought to invite Seth to join us. His mood seemed bright throughout the meal—until Joe Jr. came to the table with a second bottle of wine, the same vintage and year as the one we’d ordered earlier.
“We didn’t order another bottle,” I said.
“Compliments of Dr. Boyle and his guests,” Joe said.
We all looked in the direction of Joe’s head nod. Seated at a large table at the opposite end of the room was Dr. Boyle, accompanied by Cynthia Welch, Lennon’s son and daughter, and the young man named Dante who’d been at the presentation the previous day. Boyle raised his glass to Seth, whose response was a blank expression.
“Please thank Dr. Boyle,” Seth said, “but we’re getting close to leaving.”
I watched Joe Jr. deliver the message to Boyle, who made a gesture that said it was irrelevant to him whether we accepted his gift or not.
“A colleague?” Rick asked.
“I suppose you might say that,” said Seth.
Fortunately, Seth’s mood picked up again. Over espresso and a fruit platter, the topic turned to baseball, something about which both of my male companions for the evening knew a great deal, and their views were passionate. It turned out that Rick was a Red Sox fan. Seth had been a Red Sox fan for as long as I’d known him, and their analysis of the current season was spirited and good-natured. They both vied for the check, ignoring my offer to add money to the pot. Seth prevailed, but only after it was agreed that we would enjoy another meal together at Rick’s expense.
We’d been early arrivals and had our choice of tables. But as we got up and headed for the door, we saw that all the other tables were now occupied, and there was a short line of people waiting, undoubtedly pleased that we were leaving. Joe Sr. intercepted us and asked, “Was everything okay?”
“Ayuh,” Seth replied. “Always is.”
“Come back soon.”
We stood outside the restaurant, reluctant to have the conversation end. “Is it just my imagination or has it cooled off a bit?” I asked.
“Humidity seems down a scrid,” Seth said.
“You’re not imagining it,” Allcott said. “But I bet you have a fertile imagination to write books the way you do.”
“That she does,” Seth said.
Seated inside, I hadn’t been as conscious of the contrast between the physical appearances of Seth and Rick as I was now. With them standing together I could see that Seth made two of the retired FBI special agent. Both Seth and I were taller than Allcott, who I noticed tended to rise up on his toes and lean forward and up, perhaps in an effort to make himself look taller.
“Drop you somewhere, Rick?” Seth asked.
“No, thank you,” he replied. “I have a rental car in the lot over there.”
“How did you get here tonight, Jessica?” Seth asked. “Ride your bicycle?”
“Your bicycle?” Allcott said.
“Jessica doesn’t drive, but she does have a bicycle,” Seth explained. “Not only that—the lady has a private pilot’s license.”
“You do?” Rick said. “You’re constantly full of surprises. That’s wonderful. You don’t drive a car but you can pilot a plane.”
“I’m a beginner pilot,” I said. “Strictly a novice.”
“Nevertheless, I’m impressed.”
“Drive you home, Jessica?” Seth asked me as we walked to the lot adjacent to the restaurant.
“If you don’t mind,” I said.
“Seth, if it’s okay with you, let me drive her,” Rick said. “Give me a chance to see more of Cabot Cove.”
Seth looked at me.
“That would be fine,” I said. “Thank you.”
I thanked Seth for dinner and said I’d be in touch with him tomorrow. He started to say something when a sound from behind a parked automobile caused the three of us to turn. Facing us was a young man dressed in black, including a dark woolen cap pulled down low over his brow. At first, I thought how odd it was to wear a hat on such a hot night. But then light glinted off the most striking feature about him—the very long, lethal knife in his hand.
“Money,” he said. “Come on, give me what you have.”
Seth pulled me behind him and took a step toward the would-be thief. “Listen to me, young man,” he said, “put that foolish thing away and—”
The man lunged, swinging the knife in an arc in front of him, the blade of his weapon catching Seth on his wrist. Seth stumbled back and looked at his blood flowing freely onto the asphalt. Before I could do anything—go to Seth to help him, scream, run—Rick Allcott moved so quickly he became a blur. In what seemed an instant, the man with the knife was on his back on the ground. The knife had hit the pavement and slid a dozen feet away. Rick stood with his foot on the attacker’s throat. “You make one move, jerk, and you won’t breathe again.”
“Gorry,” Seth exclaimed as he pressed his good hand against the wound.
“We have to get you to a hospital,” I said.
“What about him?” Seth asked, indicating the man beneath Allcott’s foot.
A couple who’d just backed out of a parking space stopped. “What’s going on?” the man behind the wheel asked.
“Please call 911,” I said. “We need the police and an ambulance.”
“Just the police,” Seth said. “I don’t need a hospital.”
Allcott had turned our attacker onto his stomach and held his arms behind his back, causing the knife wielder to complain that he was in pain.
“You’ll be in a lot more pain if you don’t shut up,” Rick warned.
By now, word of the assault had traveled inside the restaurant, and people flocked through the door to see what had happened.
“You okay, Mrs. Fletcher?” Joe DiScala asked.
A siren could be heard and grew louder.
I stood next to Seth, who was bleeding profusely despite his attempt to stem the flow by applying pressure to the wound. He sagged against me and I braced myself to provide support.
As a marked car from the sheriff’s department screeched around the corner and came to a hard stop near us, Dr. Warren Boyle suddenly appeared at our side. He reached for Seth’s hand to better see the source of the bleeding, but Seth said, “No, I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” said Boyle. To me: “He’s going to bleed to death if we can’t stop the hemorrhage.” He glanced around. “Get me a clean napkin,” he yelled at Joe Sr., who ran into his restaurant and returned immediately with a white linen napkin.
Boyle pried Seth’s bloody fingers from his wrist and wrapped the napkin tightly around the wound to form a tourniquet.
Two of Mort Metzger’s uniformed deputies had leapt from their vehicle and raced to where Rick Allcott continued to subdue the man who’d tried to rob us. Allcott got off the mugger as the two officers yanked him to his feet. One slapped cuffs on him while the other looked to where Boyle and I stood with Seth.
“Where’s the ambulance?” Boyle barked.
His question was answered by the wail of another siren. In moments, the ambulance pulled up next to the police car and two EMTs in white uniforms ran to us, just as Seth slumped to the ground.
“Seth!” I cried, leaning over him, holding his bandaged hand.
Boyle immediately dropped to his knees and checked Seth’s vital signs as the EMTs hurried back to their vehicle, removed a gurney, and brought it to where Seth was now prone on his back. An EMT handed Boyle a roll of surgical gauze, and the doctor swiftly removed the white napkin with which he’d bound the gash in Seth’s wrist, tossing aside the stained linen and rewrapping the wound. With considerable effort, the EMTs maneuvered Seth onto the gurney and carried him to the ambulance. I was about to climb in with Seth when one of the deputies stopped me.
“What happened here, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked.
“I need to go with Dr. Hazlitt,” I said.
“I’m afraid we can’t let you go until we get a statement from you.”
Rick Allcott joined us. He showed his ID to the deputy and said, “I think Mrs. Fletcher should be allowed to accompany Dr. Hazlitt. I can fill you in on what occurred here tonight.”
“FBI?” the deputy said.
“Right.” Allcott turned to me. “Go on, Mrs. Fletcher, before the ambulance takes off. He can get a statement from you later. I’ll find my way to the hospital after I finish with the officer here.”
I didn’t hesitate. They were about to close the door to the ambulance when I scrambled inside. I looked back. Rick Allcott was walking with the deputy to the sheriff’s department car. Dr. Boyle stood with his party from the restaurant, their attention on the ambulance as we left for the Cabot Cove Hospital Center.
The EMTs had hooked Seth up to an IV. A heavy pressure bandage had stanched the flow of blood, but he was unnaturally pale. His eyes were closed. I reached past the EMT and placed my hand on Seth’s. “You’ll be fine,” I said.
His eyes opened and he said in a weak voice, “Ayuh, you bet I will.”
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