Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade (19 page)

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Authors: Jessica Fletcher,Donald Bain

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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“None for me, thanks.”
 
 
I set a bowl of coffee-and-vanilla ice cream in front of Seth, along with a spoon and a napkin.
 
 
“Much obliged,” he said.
 
 
“Rick and I were discussing the murder, and the possibility that Chester Carlisle might have been involved.”
 
 
“Chester?” Seth said.
 
 
“You know about the T-shirts,” I said.
 
 
“Damned fool,” was Seth’s reaction. “He’s gotten increasingly ornery the last year or so, but he’s no murderer.”
 
 
“Mort is bringing him in for questioning.”
 
 
“I suppose he has to, but you’d have a far way to go to convince me that Chester Carlisle is a killer. He might annoy someone to death, or give him a poke in the nose. But murder? Not possible.”
 
 
“I hope you’re right,” I said. “Lennon was probably killed by someone passing through town, someone who doesn’t live here, like that young man who attacked us.” I silently hoped that was the case.
 
 
I expected Seth to fade fast, considering what’d he recently gone through, but he remained alert and fully engaged in the conversation. The emphasis eventually shifted from Cabot Cove and the night’s tragedy to Rick’s life as an FBI special agent. He was in the midst of a story about having led a task force that had indicted a major financial services firm for fraud when there was a knock at the door.
 
 
“Hello, Amos,” I said. “Come in. We’re still here.”
 
 
“What’s new at headquarters?” Seth asked our former sheriff.
 
 
“Have you been deputized?” I asked.
 
 
“I sure have been, Miz Fletcher.” He turned to Seth. “They brought Chester Carlisle in.”
 
 
“We knew they would. Mort told us that,” I said.
 
 
Amos shook his head. “Boy, things have sure changed since I was runnin’ the show here. Mort’s got that fancy new audiovisual system down at headquarters. Everything Chester said was videotaped, and recorded, too.”
 
 
“He’s already been interrogated?” I asked.
 
 
“Yes, ma’am. Mort had me sit in on it, wanted my insight. I’ll tell you, old Chester Carlisle has got himself in some bucket of worms.”
 
 
We looked at him to continue.
 
 
“I suppose that now that I’m an official deputy, I shouldn’t be talking about the case to outsiders. But I know and trust you folks.” He stopped and looked at Rick Allcott.
 
 
Rick held up both hands. “Who’s more trustworthy than me? I’m ex-FBI.”
 
 
“Well, that’s all right, then,” Amos said. And in a tone intended to thwart any listening devices that might have been installed in my house, he whispered, “They found the gun used to kill Mr. Lennon.”
 
 
“That was quick,” Seth said. “Where was it?”
 
 
But I’d already guessed the answer.
 
 
Amos straightened up. “In Chester Carlisle’s car.”
 
 
Chapter Eleven
 
 
Amos’s announcement that the murder weapon had been discovered in Chester Carlisle’s car brought all conversation to a standstill. It was Seth who broke the silence. “How do they know it’s the gun used to kill Lennon?” he asked. “The bullet’s still in Lennon’s brain. They’ve got to match it with the weapon, and that’ll take time.”
 
 
“That’s right, Doc,” Amos said, “but how much of a coincidence is it that Chester’s got a handgun? He claims it’s not his, says he’s never owned one. Seems to me that he’s incriminating himself left and right.”
 
 
“You’re jumping to conclusions, Amos,” I said.
 
 
“Well, I’m not the only one,” he responded sheepishly. “Sheriff said the same thing to me.”
 
 
“Mr. Carlisle denies owning it?” Rick asked.
 
 
“Yes, sir. Flat-out denies it.”
 
 
“Have they done a GSR—a gunshot residue test—on him?” Rick asked.
 
 
“First thing Mort did, used the adhesive strips that come in the testing kit. Has to send it out for some new specter testing or something like that.”
 
 
“It’s called a SEM test,” Rick said. “Scanning electron microscopy.”
 
 
“That’s it. ’Course if old Chester washed his hands or used some other cleaner, the gunpowder might not show up. Mort’s gonna hold him as a suspect. He’s got a few days until he has to officially charge him.”
 
 
“Has Mort begun questioning people at Lennon-Diversified? ” I asked. “They obviously had easy access to Mr. Lennon, and would have known his schedule.”
 
 
“Only one I know of was the guard, Miz Fletcher,” Amos said. “He’s the one who reported the body.” He looked at the empty bowl next to Seth. “Was that ice cream?”
 
 
“Yes. Would you like some?”
 
 
“I would. My throat’s a little sore.”
 
 
We talked for another half hour until everyone, as though cued, announced it was time to leave. I watched them drive off in their respective cars before switching on the TV to listen to the news as I washed up the few dishes, glassware, and cups. As late as it was, I wasn’t about to get ready for bed leaving dirty dishes in the sink. I was drying the snifter in which I’d served Rick’s cognac when the news anchor came on to announce that a suspect had been detained in the murder of industrialist Joseph Lennon. “His name has not been released,” she said, “but we have it from good sources that he is a longtime resident of Cabot Cove. The victim had recently moved his corporate headquarters to Cabot Cove. Stay tuned for more details as they become available.”
 
 
The room was cool when I climbed into bed; maybe I wouldn’t need that air conditioner I’d ordered after all. I lay awake for the next hour listening to neighbors setting off their own mini-fireworks displays and the gleeful sounds of children, up too late, laughing. I could see occasional bursts of a rocket in the sky outside my window and heard the accompanying explosions, and as Tobé had predicted, the frantic barking of dogs.
 
 
At what point in the Grucci fireworks display had another explosion gone unnoticed? The loud crack of a handgun being fired, its deadly missile finding its mark in the head of Joseph Lennon, his body tumbling into the water? I visualized that scene, over and over, until sleep finally trumped my imagination.
 
 
I slept soundly, but not long enough. I looked at the clock radio on the table next to the bed—six a.m. Since I’d gone to bed so late, I’d intended to sleep in that morning, at least until seven. I considered staying in bed. Maybe I’d be lucky and fall back to sleep. But it didn’t take more than a few minutes before I gave it up, threw on my bath-robe and slippers, padded into the kitchen, and made some tea to go with a bowl of mandarin oranges I had in the fridge.
What day is it?
I silently asked myself.
Sunday
, I answered. The proverbial day of rest. There wouldn’t be any rest for many Cabot Cove citizens, including Chester Carlisle, Mort Metzger and his police department, and anyone and everyone else involved in the Lennon murder investigation.
 
 
I waited until eight to call Seth to see whether he’d be going to the firehouse pancake breakfast, a post- Independence Day tradition.
 
 
“I’ll pick you up at nine fifteen,” he said.
 
 
When we arrived, children were clambering all over the fire trucks, which were parked on the street in case they were needed for their true function. The front of the fire station was filled with people crowding around the long folding tables that had been set up in the driveway. Red, white, and blue plastic tablecloths fluttered in the breeze, kept from flying away by the plates and platters of pancakes, sausage, bacon, scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, and an assortment of home-baked goods. The doors of the station house had been thrown open, and more folding tables were set up inside to accommodate those who preferred to eat their pancakes and sausage sitting down—including Seth and me. Aside from the food, everyone gathered outside the firehouse seemed to have one thing on their mind: Joseph Lennon. There were, of course, myriad theories, and the town’s rumor mill was already in high gear and picking up steam. To my dismay, too many in the crowd had already mentally tried and convicted Chester Carlisle of the killing. I pointed out to some that it was too early to come to such a conclusion. But while those with whom I spoke feigned agreement, I sensed that the door was closed. Word had already spread that a handgun found in Chester’s car was the murder weapon; the fact that sophisticated tests would have to be conducted before any weapon could be linked to the shooting seemed irrelevant to them.
 
 
Seth and I found two spaces at a table and slid into the seats. To my consternation, Agnes Kalisch sat across from us next to Audrey Williams, Elsie Fricket, and Mary Carver, whom I knew from the Friends of the Library group. A patient of Seth’s for forty years, Agnes had dealt him a serious blow when she switched to Dr. Boyle. Seth was gracious, however.
 
 
“Agnes,” he said, nodding at her. “I hope you’re feeling well. Those pills Dr. Boyle gave you help your fatigue?”
 
 
Mrs. Kalisch glanced at her companions, coughed delicately, and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Actually, they haven’t started to work yet,” she said. “Dr. Boyle says they take some time, and I should have faith. He says they’ll kick in any day now.”
 
 
“For your sake, I hope they do,” Seth said. “What’s he giving you?”
 
 
“I don’t know, supplements of some kind. Big capsules. They’re a little difficult to swallow. They come in a silver and red bottle. Do you know them?”
 
 
“I doubt it,” Seth said. “You have to be careful with supplements. They’re not regulated by the government. Some manufacturers are not as meticulous as others in what they put in them.”
 
 
“Dr. Boyle says he has them made up especially for him,” Agnes said. “Mrs. Carson is taking them, too.”
 
 
Seth’s brows rose. “I didn’t know she was suffering from fatigue.”
 
 
“Oh, she isn’t. She has a bad back. But Dr. Boyle says his capsules will help her, too.”
 
 
Seth carefully cut his pancakes. “An all-purpose panacea, no doubt,” he muttered under his breath.
 
 
“What was that?” Agnes asked.
 
 
“Nothing. Nothing. Give her my regards.” He speared a bite of sausage.
 
 
Agnes took her empty plate and left the table. Mary Carver’s eyes followed her. “She’s not doing well, Dr. Hazlitt,” she said. “Loses her energy every afternoon. I’m worried about her. Did you see the dark circles under her eyes?”
 
 
“Ayuh, I saw them.”
 
 
“Can’t you help her?”
 
 
Seth’s lips were tightly pressed together as he shook his head. He looked up at Mary, and I could see the sadness in his eyes for just an instant. Then it was gone, his expression stern again. “Not if she doesn’t want me to.”
 
 
Mary followed Agnes Kalisch out, and Audrey and Elsie left soon after, all apparently ill at ease with the conversation. It looked as if Seth and I might be left alone, but two seats were soon claimed by Rick Allcott and Amos Tupper.
 
 
“You’re lookin’ a bit green about the gills this morning, ” Seth said to Rick. “You feel okay?”
 
 
“Not enough sleep,” Rick replied. “You guys kept me up way past my bedtime. I’m usually an early-to-bedder. I’ll make up for it tonight.”
 
 
“How did you two hook up this morning?” I asked.
 
 
“We agreed to last night,” Rick said. “I offered to help Amos and the sheriff any way I can, and thought I’d stay close in the event there was something I can do. It looks like there isn’t, but I’m available.”

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