Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade (13 page)
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Authors: Jessica Fletcher,Donald Bain
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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Rick Allcott was already at Mara’s Luncheonette when I arrived. Judging from what I saw as I walked in—he was at the counter, chatting with townspeople, a half-consumed cup of coffee in front of him—he’d been there for a while and had made friends. He jumped off the stool and greeted me.
Mara, a pot of coffee in each hand, walked past us. “Good morning, Jessica,” she said over her shoulder. “You don’t look at all like you were the victim of an armed attack last night.”
“Looks can deceive,” I said. “It’s very much on my mind.” I turned to Allcott. “I see you’ve made yourself at home.”
“Everyone wants to know more about what happened,” he said, sweeping his hand toward his companions at the counter. “I’ve been filling in Barney Longshoot and Spencer Durkee here.”
Evelyn Phillips won’t need to put out her newspaper tomorrow,
I thought. That pair were notorious gossips, not that they would admit to gossiping. They just liked to “discuss the news”—all over town.
I thought. That pair were notorious gossips, not that they would admit to gossiping. They just liked to “discuss the news”—all over town.
We were interrupted by some people who wanted my version of events. I forced a laugh and waved them off. “I’d just as soon forget about it,” I said.
“How’s Seth Hazlitt?”
“Doing fine. He’ll be home from the hospital this morning.” I turned to Allcott. “Let’s grab a booth before they’re all taken.
“I’m sorry your initial visit to Cabot Cove turned out this way,” I said after we’d been seated. “I’m sure you assumed that the baseball game at Fenway would be the most exciting part of your trip.”
He grinned. “Not to worry,” he said.
Mara served us coffee, and I ordered blueberry pancakes for both of us. “Mara, the owner, adds something special to the pancake batter,” I told him, “that makes her pancakes extraordinary.”
“What’s her secret?” he asked.
“She refuses to reveal it.”
“Nothing an ex-FBI man loves better than a mystery. I’ll have to see if I can detect her secret ingredient. So, Jessica Fletcher, what’s on tap for today?”
“How about a police lineup?”
His eyebrows went up. “About last night?”
I gave him a summary of what Mort had told me, and asked whether being a retired FBI special agent would keep him from participating.
He shook his head. “No problem as far as I’m concerned, although I assume the kid’s lawyer will raise a stink.”
“I suppose we’ll just have to see,” I said, and he agreed to accompany me to police headquarters after breakfast.
“You were right about the pancakes,” he said, taking his final forkful. “Your friend Mara ought to start a franchise. They’re the best. Haven’t figured out the secret ingredient yet—I’ll just have to order them again and again until I do.”
“People have been trying to ferret out that information for years. Mara claims it’s how she keeps us coming back. And I don’t think she’s wrong. Our chamber of commerce always mentions Mara’s blueberry pancakes as one of Cabot Cove’s many treasures.”
Business was brisk at the luncheonette. Not only were the regulars there, but tourists streamed in and out, keeping Mara and her staff hopping. Our breakfast was interrupted a few times by people wanting to talk about the unfortunate incident and inquiring about Seth, but for the most part we were left alone.
“Seth wanted me to thank you for coming to his rescue last night, Rick,” I said as we lingered over coffee. “I’m sure he’ll thank you in person when you see him next.”
He shrugged. “It was an automatic reaction, you know, like a reflex. Let’s drop it. You and the doctor were telling me over dinner about this benefactor, Joseph Lennon.”
“That’s right.”
“Who is he?”
“He moved his company to Cabot Cove and has been very active in the community. Not personally. But he’s been extremely generous in funding various civic projects.”
“I gathered from the conversation last night that his generosity isn’t necessarily appreciated by everyone.”
“That’s true,” I said. “There are his detractors who feel he’s corrupting the town and using his money to reshape its character to his own liking.”
“What does his company do?” Rick asked.
“No one seems quite sure,” I replied. “The
Gazette
noted that the ‘Diversified’ in ‘Lennon-Diversified’ is like saying they have their fingers in a lot of pies. I remember hearing they had something to do with pharmaceuticals. At least that’s what I’ve been led to believe. His philanthropic involvement with Cabot Cove is high profile, but that doesn’t extend to his business.”
Gazette
noted that the ‘Diversified’ in ‘Lennon-Diversified’ is like saying they have their fingers in a lot of pies. I remember hearing they had something to do with pharmaceuticals. At least that’s what I’ve been led to believe. His philanthropic involvement with Cabot Cove is high profile, but that doesn’t extend to his business.”
“Interesting,” Rick said.
As he said it, Chester Carlisle entered the luncheonette.
“There’s one of Lennon-Diversified’s leading detractors, ” I told Allcott as Chester came straight to where we sat. Now that he was closer, I could see what was written on the front of his yellow T-shirt: LENNON OR LENIN?
“Good morning, Jessica,” he boomed. I saw that he had at least two dozen of the shirts draped over his arm.
“Good morning, Chester,” I said.
“Care to buy a T-shirt? Got ’em in all sizes, only fifteen bucks.”
“I don’t think so, Chester,” I said, wanting to add that he would probably end up fomenting trouble by parading around town in it.
“Who’s your friend?” he asked.
I tried to ignore the question, but Chester slid into the booth next to me, hugging the pile of shirts to his chest. His breath smelled strongly of mouthwash. Had he been drinking? Were the rumors true?
“Chester,” I said, “we were just about to leave and—”
“How about you?” Chester asked Rick. “Fifteen bucks.”
“Sure,” Rick said.
“Please,” I said to Rick, “there’s no need—”
“No, no, it’s okay,” Rick said. He pulled out his wallet.
“You look like a small to me,” Chester said.
“Medium,” Rick said.
“Suit yourself,” Chester said, handing Rick a shirt. “They’re roomy.”
Rick handed Chester the money. “Now,” he said in a low, firm voice, “it’s time for you to leave.”
Chester ignored him and said through a crooked grin, “What a’ you think of the shirts, Jessica? I dropped a couple of them off at Lennon’s building, gave ’em to the security guy there. Thought the guy would bust a gut. Got tossed out but got my point across. See if he can push us around next time—”
This time, Rick leaned close to Chester and whispered something in his ear. The older man started to say something, but pulled back from Allcott. “Okay, okay,” Chester said. “Take it easy. I don’t mean no harm.”
Chester got up and stood, as though not sure what to do or where to go next.
“Nice meeting you,” Allcott said.
We watched Chester thread his way through a knot of people waiting to pay at the register, take an empty stool at the counter, and hold up one of his shirts for Barney and Spencer’s inspection.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I told Rick.
“Nothing to apologize for,” Rick said. “Every town has someone like your friend.”
“He’s one of our council members, not really my friend,” I said, sorry that I felt the need to make such a disclaimer. “He’s not a bad man. It’s just that—”
“Jessica, Jessica,” Allcott said shaking his head. “It was nothing.” He smiled and looked at the shirt he’d bought. “Nice souvenir to take back with me.”
“I can think of better ones.” I looked at my watch. “Time to head for police headquarters.”
Mort Metzger was in the lobby to greet us when we arrived.
“Appreciate you doing this, Mrs. F,” he said to me, “but I’m afraid we’ve got a problem with Mr. Allcott. The kid’s attorney has turned thumbs-down on his taking part in the lineup.”
“No surprise,” Rick said. To me: “You go ahead, Jessica. I’ll stroll around outside for a while.”
“Shouldn’t take more than a half hour,” Mort told him.
“Good. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”
I followed Mort to the rear of the building, where Cabot Cove’s district attorney, Frank Curtis, waited along with the accused’s lawyer, an intense young man named Jay Garland.
“All set?” Mort asked.
Everyone said yes, and we were taken into a darkened room with a large one-way pane of glass embedded in one wall. A dark maroon curtain covered it.
“You were one of the alleged victims?” Garland asked me.
“I was the victim of an attempted mugging last night, yes,” I said, feeling a prick of annoyance at my experience being branded “alleged.”
“The parking lot was dark, wasn’t it?” Garland asked.
“There were lights,” I answered.
“It happened pretty fast?” was Garland’s next question.
“Yes, it happened fast,” I said.
“Are you done examining the witness?” Curtis said scornfully.
“Go ahead,” said Garland.
Mort instructed someone on the other side of the glass to open the curtain and to bring in the men who would be in the lineup. Now we looked into a brightly lighted room with thin horizontal black stripes set a foot apart on a white wall to indicate the height of the participants. A door to the side opened and four young men entered. One of them was our assailant. Not only did I recognize him, but the bruises on his face added weight to my identification. I also recognized two of the other men in the lineup, though. They were Mort’s deputies, wearing dark civilian clothing similar to that worn by the young man who’d attacked us.
“Well, Mrs. Fletcher?” Frank Curtis asked. “Do you see your assailant among them?”
“Yes,” I responded. “It’s number three.”
“Who are the others?” Garland asked Mort.
“A couple of my deputies and—”
“Your deputies?”
Garland snarled. He turned to me. “How long have you lived in Cabot Cove, Mrs. Fletcher?”
Garland snarled. He turned to me. “How long have you lived in Cabot Cove, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“A long time,” I said.
“Do you recognize the sheriff’s deputies there?” He waved a manila folder in the direction of the lineup.
I glanced at Mort, who grimaced.
“Yes,” I answered truthfully. “Numbers one and four.”
“This is a joke,” Garland said.
“I may recognize the sheriff’s deputies,” I said, “but that hasn’t influenced my identification of the young man who attacked us. If you want someone who doesn’t know the deputies, why not allow Richard Allcott to try? He’d never been to Cabot Cove before the attack and didn’t know anyone in town.”
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