Read Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade Online

Authors: Jessica Fletcher,Donald Bain

Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade (17 page)

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
6.88Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
 
 
I’ve known Seth Hazlitt long enough, and well enough, not to prolong a discussion once he’s made up his mind about something. Besides, even if there had been no Snake Days music, he needed to catch up on his sleep.
 
 
“We’ll just help you bring everything back to the car,” I said, “and then we’ll be on our way.”
 
 
“Mind if I join you?” Amos Tupper asked.
 
 
“Sure! The more the merrier,” Allcott said.
 
 
“You’re always welcome, Amos,” I said.
 
 
We carried the chairs and picnic basket to Seth’s car and loaded them inside. “I’ll drop your chairs off tomorrow, ” Seth said.
 
 
“No rush,” I said. “I won’t need them until next year’s Fourth of July. Drive carefully.” We watched him pull away.
 
 
“Where to?” Amos asked.
 
 
“I certainly don’t want any more food,” I said. “I feel like I’ve eaten an entire fried chicken. If you don’t mind, what I really need is a good walk. That folding chair gave me a crick in the back.” I arched against a stiffness in my back and neck.
 
 
“I’m up for that,” Rick said.
 
 
“Me, too,” said Amos.
 
 
We left the parking lot and strolled back to where we’d witnessed the concert and fireworks. There were still a few stragglers sitting in their chairs or on their blankets, evidently not wanting to end the evening either. The band’s “roadies” were busy breaking down the equipment on the stage, and members of Cabot Cove’s sanitation department had begun their cleanup work. I spotted Mort Metzger issuing orders to some of his uniformed officers, and we went to him.
 
 
“Quite a show, huh?” Mort said after dismissing his men.
 
 
“Spectacular,” Amos agreed.
 
 
“What are you folks still doing here?” our sheriff asked.
 
 
“Walking off fried chicken,” I said.
 
 
“I never had a chance to have dinner,” Mort said, his eyes scanning the diminishing activity. “Fried chicken sounds pretty good just about now.” He waved his arms in the air. “Hey, kids, get away from those wires on that stage.” He hurried off to keep several youngsters out of harm’s way. I hoped he’d be able to get home soon and grab some dinner.
 
 
Rick Allcott, Amos Tupper, and I walked down to the water’s edge and strolled along, away from the Lennon-Diversified building. Light from a waning crescent moon danced off ripples in the water. Because we were outside town and its downtown lights, the sky was especially clear, millions of stars shining against an almost black scrim.
 
 
“Miss being sheriff here?” Rick asked Amos.
 
 
“Once in a while,” said our former top law enforcement official, “but I get to travel some. Keeps me from being bored. Went on a safari tour to Africa coupla months ago with the senior center.”
 
 
“Amos! How exciting,” I said.
 
 
“It was.”
 
 
“Always wanted to visit Africa,” Rick said. “Sounds like an ideal retired life.”
 
 
“Also do some bass fishing, and some woodworking.”
 
 
“That’s right,” I said. “I’d forgotten that you’d started building furniture when you were here, Amos.”
 
 
“I really enjoy it,” he said with a gentle laugh. “I love the feel of the wood and the look of the grain. Then again, Miz Fletcher, I sure do miss the people in Cabot Cove. Finest bunch of people I’ve ever known. It was good to see Doc Hazlitt feelin’ better.”
 
 
“He’s a trouper,” I said.
 
 
“How about you, Allcott? You miss being an FBI agent?” Amos said. “You seem a little young for retirement.”
 
 
“I put in my years,” Rick said. “Sometimes I miss the action, but on lovely nights like tonight, I remember what I enjoy most about being retired—peace! There wasn’t a lot of it when I was with the bureau. Nothing like in Cabot Cove. I can understand why you choose to live here, Jessica.”
 
 
“It’s my little slice of heaven.”
 
 
“Even with the growth, and the changes that come along with it?” Rick asked.
 
 
“Even with that,” I said.
 
 
I estimated that we’d gone almost half a mile before Amos suggested we turn back. Now we were walking toward the Lennon-Diversified building, whose marble facade caught the moonlight, giving it an ethereal aura, like some religious temple in another part of the world, or an imposing marble government building in Washington, D.C., home of many such edifices.
 
 
“Anyone care for a cup of coffee or tea back at my house?” I asked.
 
 
“Sounds good to me,” Amos said.
 
 
“Count me in,” said Rick.
 
 
As we started up the gentle hill toward the lot where Amos and Rick had parked, we heard the sound of sirens.
 
 
“Some fool must’a had too much to drink and wrapped himself around a pole,” Amos offered.
 
 
“Or around someone else’s car,” Rick said.
 
 
“Oh, dear,” I said. “I hope not.”
 
 
The sound came closer, two sirens now. We were within a hundred feet of Rick’s car when flashing lights came into view. A few seconds later, their source became evident as two marked cars raced down into the lot from the road. One was Mort Metzger’s sheriff’s vehicle. They came to a halt a dozen feet away, and Mort and three deputies exited.
 
 
“What’s going on?” I said.
 
 
“Got a report of a body down behind Lennon’s building, ” Mort said.
 
 
“We were just down near there,” I said.
 
 
“Did you see anyone?”
 
 
“No,” we chorused.
 
 
Mort led his men down the hill. We didn’t make a conscious decision to follow them. Amos, Rick, and I simply fell in line, our reflexes on autopilot. We saw the men disappear around the rear of the office building, where exterior lights had come to life, bathing the sweeping veranda, promenade, and dock in harsh white light. Two people stood together on the dock as Mort and his officers narrowed the distance between them. We stopped a respectful distance away, but close enough to hear what was said. I recognized one of the men awaiting the sheriff’s arrival by his uniform, a Lennon-Diversified security guard. The other person was the young man, Dante, who seemed always to be at Cynthia Welch’s side.
 
 
“Where?” Mort asked in a loud voice.
 
 
“Down there,” the guard replied.
 
 
They all headed in the direction indicated by the guard, the far end of the dock. We moved with them.
 
 
“Right there!” the guard announced, and pointed toward the water.
 
 
Flashlights were trained on the object of their focus, and we strained to see what it was. We knew it was a body, of course, because Mort had said it was. The question was, Whose body was it?
 
 
After a few seconds, Mort retraced his steps in our direction.
 
 
“Who is it?” I asked.
 
 
“Is he dead, Sheriff?” Amos asked.
 
 
“Afraid so,” Mort responded.
 
 
Rick, Amos, and I stared at Mort.
 
 
“Joe Lennon,” he said flatly.
 
 
“Strange time a night to go swimmin’,” Amos said.
 
 
“You folks didn’t see anything at all?”
 
 
“No,” I said. “Nothing.”
 
 
“Well,” Mort said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d stay around in case you remember something. I’ve got to call Doc Hazlitt.”
 
 
“Why Seth?” I asked, thinking our friend was probably in bed already.
 
 
“The ME’s out of town on vacation,” Mort explained. “I need a doctor here.”
 
 
It wasn’t long ago that Cabot Cove didn’t have a medical examiner. Instead, we had a coroner, the last one being the owner of the town’s largest funeral home. This wasn’t unusual, I knew. Most towns and smaller cities have lay-people who function as coroners—morticians, fire chiefs, taxidermists. But as Cabot Cove grew, the town council voted to fund the office of a medical examiner. Our first— our current one—moved here after a successful career as the medical examiner in Worcester, Massachusetts. He’d retired from that post and readily accepted our position because it promised not to be too heavy a load on him in his retirement. Prior to his arrival, Seth had functioned as ME on occasion, as had other physicians in town. Seth was board-certified as a forensic medical examiner, one of many certifications he held.
 
 
“I’m sorry to get Doc Hazlitt out so late,” Mort said, “what with him being hurt and all.”
 
 
“Isn’t there another doctor who practices nearby?” Rick asked.
 
 
“Dr. Boyle,” Mort replied. “Don’t want him involved in the investigation, though,” he said as he walked away and placed the call to Seth.
 
 
Of course
, I reasoned. Dr. Boyle was intimately involved with Joseph Lennon. Mort was being prudent in not bringing Boyle into it, at least not at this juncture.
 
 
We sat on a low wall until Seth arrived, carrying the bag that he kept ready for when he was called out on ME duties.
 
 
“Mort says he’s got a floater,” he told us before going down to where the body had been discovered.
 
 
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry he had to call you so late.”
 
 
“No bother at all. I was still up,” Seth said. “I’d better get to work.”
 
 
He returned a half hour later.
 
 
“No doubt about it?” I asked. “It is Mr. Lennon?”
 
 
“Ayuh.”
 
 
“A homicide?” Rick Allcott asked.
 
 
“Not at liberty to say,” Seth replied. He leaned in closer. “But I’d guess he didn’t put the bullet in his head himself. I have to get down to the morgue and get the process started.”
 
 
As Seth got in his car and drove away, an ambulance arrived, manned by two EMTs, who handled the removal of Lennon’s body. It was placed in the rear of the ambulance and the driver sped away. Mort came over to us.
 
 
“Looks like you picked a fine time to come back to Cabot Cove, Amos,” he told our former sheriff. “This is going to be a tough one.”
 
 
“Any help I can provide, I’m happy to,” Amos said.
 
 
“How was he killed?” I asked, knowing the answer but looking for confirmation.
 
 
“Looks like he was shot, but that’s unofficial, Mrs. F.”
 
 
As he said it, one of his deputies came from the crime scene carrying a clear plastic evidence bag. I pushed away from the wall and stopped him. “What’s that?” I asked.
 
 
“What’s what, Mrs. F?” Mort said, joining me.
 
 
I pointed to the portion of a yellow T-shirt visible through the plastic. Some of the lettering on it was also readable—. . . NON, NOT LENIN. “Oh, dear,” I said. “That’s one of the T-shirts Chester Carlisle was selling.”
 
 
“I know,” said Mort. “Looks like Chester and I had better have a little chat. We found that shirt floating in the water next to Mr. Lennon.”
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
6.88Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Red by Ted Dekker
Ilium by Dan Simmons
Tribes by Arthur Slade
The Fiddler's Secret by Lois Walfrid Johnson
The Slipper by Jennifer Wilde
Eden's Dream by Marcia King-Gamble