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Authors: Jessica Fletcher,Donald Bain

Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade (21 page)

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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The screen went black. Mort shut off the DVD and turned up the lights.
 
 
“Well, what do you think?” he asked.
 
 
None of us spoke for a few seconds. Then I said, “I believe him, Sheriff. I don’t think he killed Joseph Lennon.”
 
 
“Based on what, Mrs. F?”
 
 
“I can’t put a finger on it exactly. But it’s too neat. It’s too easy to point at Chester because he’s been so vocal in opposing Lennon’s activities in town. And if he killed the man, why would he leave the murder weapon in his car for anyone to find it, or allow himself to be seen at the scene of the crime, for that matter? Here’s a man who spent a good portion of his life devoted to community service. Just because I don’t always agree with his point of view doesn’t mean I overlook his contributions to Cabot Cove, or in any way doubt his sincerity. He may have a misguided way of expressing his discontent, but that doesn’t make him a murderer. I’m sorry, I just don’t buy it. I know that’s not really helpful, but that’s my visceral reaction.”
 
 
“Visceral?” Amos said.
 
 
“Gut instinct,” Mort translated.
 
 
Amos turned to Rick Allcott and asked what his reactions were.
 
 
“I’m reluctant to disagree with Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “considering her track record for solving crimes. I—”
 
 
“She’s been wrong sometimes,” Mort said, casting a swift glance at me. I smiled and nodded.
 
 
“But,” Rick continued, “your Mr. Carlisle comes off to me like a guilty man.”
 
 
“That’s the way I see it, too,” Mort said.
 
 
“From my experience, I’d say he could be classified as BPD.”
 
 
“What’s BPD?” Amos asked.
 
 
“Borderline personality disorder,” Rick replied. “Carlisle exhibits many of the symptoms: impulsive acts, recurring threats, unstable deportment, ego defense, rage, tantrums, obsession, self-deception, mood swings. All the signs are there and I’ll tell you this: A lot of crimes are committed by BPD individuals. Better be careful, Mort, or he’ll get off on an insanity plea.”
 
 
“I don’t care what he pleads,” Mort said, “as long as I got the right guy.”
 
 
“You’ve got the right guy,” Rick said. “Think about this. Here you have a man, a pillar of the community for many years, and now he’s getting on in years. He’s retired, so he doesn’t have that same sense of self-worth he had when he was younger and earning money. He serves the town, but his opinions aren’t sought anymore. People lose respect for him, maybe ridicule him behind his back, or even to his face. It rankles. He takes up a cause no one else cares about, makes a fool of himself in public. He gets angry, obsessed with the one he thinks is causing him to lose face with his peers. You take all these factors and put a gun in his hand. It’s no surprise to me that he uses it.”
 
 
I hated to admit it, but Rick had come far too close in his description of Chester’s recent behavior. And as a former FBI agent, he’d been exposed to a lot more criminal profiles than I had. I shouldn’t have doubted his assessment, but something still didn’t ring true.
 
 
“I certainly don’t have your experience with the criminal personality, gentlemen,” I said, “and I’m far from infallible. But I just feel it’s too soon to assume you’ve caught the killer. After all, there are others who might have had the motive, to say nothing of the opportunity, to shoot Mr. Lennon. Have you spoken with his wife and his children?”
 
 
“His wife was in Canada the night of the fireworks,” Mort said.
 
 
“Presumably,”
I countered. “I’d talk with her anyway. And what about others who worked closely with him? Miss Welch and her assistant. And there’s Dr. Boyle.”
 
 
“Dr. Boyle?” Mort said, sounding as though I’d lost my mind.
 
 
“Who’s Dr. Boyle?” Amos asked.
 
 
“He’s a new doctor in town,” Mort said. “The way I understand it, Mrs. F, is that he owes his practice to Lennon. Hardly a motive to kill his benefactor.”
 
 
“All very true,” I said. “And I don’t mean to tell you gentlemen how to do your jobs, but if I were in your place, I think I’d do a lot more investigating before I decided to indict Chester Carlisle.”
 
 
I sensed from the expression on Mort’s face that I’d gone too far. He didn’t need me to tell him how to proceed in a murder investigation, nor was it my place to do so. Still, I felt I’d been right in what I’d suggested. Based upon everything I knew so far, which admittedly wasn’t much— and despite Rick’s analysis of Chester Carlisle’s personality and motives—I was immovable in my belief that my good friend the sheriff had settled on the most obvious of suspects without first ruling out others.
 
 
“I assume you’ve interviewed people close to the victim, ” Rick said.
 
 
If Mort was annoyed with yet another intrusion into his “business,” he didn’t show it. He pulled a narrow notebook from his pocket, flipped up a few pages, and replied, “I checked with the guys from Grucci. No one saw anything. I’ve already spoken to the wife, and the security guy for Lennon-Diversified. Whatshisname? Moss. Roger Moss, the one that found the body. We tested his gun. It was never fired. I’ve got others coming in this afternoon.” Mort peered at me. “And I’ll be questioning Dr. Boyle and his staff tomorrow. Okay, Mrs. F?”
 
 
I returned his smile.
 
 
Mort turned to Rick Allcott. “I’m especially interested in your take on things, Agent Allcott. You obviously have a lot of experience in judging character and criminal behavior.”
 
 
“Happy to help in any way I can,” Rick said, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. He looked apologetic. “It’s a bit chilly in here.”
 
 
“I got the air conditioner cranked way up because of the temperature this past week,” Mort said. “Probably can turn it down a notch now that the heat wave’s broken.”
 
 
Amos stayed with Mort. I asked Rick to drop me at the Cabot Cove airport. “I’m in the mood for a flight,” I explained. “I have my private pilot’s license, but don’t get nearly enough time to use it.”
 
 
“I’m impressed,” he said.
 
 
“So am I,” I said, laughing. “There’s nothing like an hour up there by myself to put things into perspective.”
 
 
“Care for a passenger?”
 
 
“I don’t think so,” I said. “But thanks for offering. I’ll get a lift home from Jed Richardson. He’s a former airline pilot who settled here in Cabot Cove and runs his own air charter service. He gave me my flight instruction.”
 
 
“Well, in that case, I think I’ll go grab that nap Seth suggested. I am feeling a little ‘peek-id’ as you Mainers say.”
 
 
I studied his face. He did look washed-out. “Feel better, ” I said.
 
 
Jed had left a sign on the window of his office that he’d be back in fifteen minutes. I told Rick I was content to wait, and watched him drive off after we’d agreed to touch base by phone later that afternoon. It was a beautiful day, and I passed the time waiting for Jed by walking up and down the row of small private planes parked at the airport, which was growing all the time.
 
 
Our local airport had served as an air base during the Second World War. The town had allowed grass to grow over the longer runways that could accommodate larger aircraft, but smaller jets of the varieties used by corporations and companies that sell shares in the use of such planes were able to land there. And there was talk of rehabilitating the original tarmac, of reclaiming the longer runways, and of reopening the portions of the airport that had gone to seed. Not everyone was happy about that. Those opposed cited the increased noise. Others saw the runway extension as a way to induce more companies to relocate to the area. Most agreed that new business was good for Cabot Cove. Where agreement stopped was in just how fast the town should grow—and how far.
 
 
At the end of one row of planes was a twin-engine jet with LENNON-DIVERSIFIED painted on its sides and tail. I’d seen it parked at the airport before, and Jed had told me that it was the largest jet aircraft certified to land and take off on the existing runway. It was a sleek plane, state-of-the-art in every way. It was too high off the ground for me to peer into one of the oval windows, but I was walking around admiring the design when I saw Jed pull up in his red pickup.
 
 
“Hello, there, Jessica,” he said as I approached. “What brings you out here today?”
 
 
“I thought I’d put in an hour of solo, keep current.”
 
 
“Love to accommodate, but both my one-seventy-twos are in the shop. How about tomorrow morning?”
 
 
“Don’t think I can, but we’ll make it soon. I was just admiring the Lennon plane.”
 
 
“A beauty, isn’t it? A Gulfstream II. Boy, that was some shock to hear about Mr. Lennon. I understand that Chester Carlisle has been arrested.”
 
 
“He’s being questioned—along with others,” I said. “I imagine that plane will be getting lots of use ferrying company people in and out. Losing your founder and leader can throw a company into turmoil.”
 
 
“I haven’t seen any action here today,” he said. “The crew—they’re top-notch pilots, former airline types like me—flew in late yesterday from Bangor.”
 
 
“Was Mrs. Lennon with them?”
 
 
“I believe she
was
on the plane.”
 
 
“I’ve never met her,” I said. “It must have been a terrible shock for her to— Wait a minute! You say she flew in
yesterday
?
Before
the fireworks?”
 
 
“Yeah. A problem?”
 
 
“No. It’s just that Mort Metzger was led to believe she arrived this morning. Do you have contact with the crew?”
 
 
“Sure. We talk when they come out here. Hangar talk.” He laughed.
 
 
“I always enjoy being around hangar talk,” I said.
 
 
“They gave me a nice tour of the equipment yesterday before they went into town. Asked me to get them a replacement bulb for a gauge in the cockpit. That’s where I was.” He held out his palm to show me a small glass bulb that looked like it belonged in a dollhouse. “Had a devil of a time finding this. Had to go halfway to Hades.”
 
 
On the side of the nose of the jet, Jed used a hook to pull open a door that folded down to become a stairway. He trotted up the steps, ducked inside, and turned around. “Want to see this baby close up?”
 
 
“I’d love to,” I said, following him into the cabin.
 
 
The jet was narrow but fitted more like a living room or RV than a commercial plane. There were two seats together, plush recliners in cocoa-colored leather, facing a pair of the same with a low table between them. Across the aisle were single seats facing each other with pull-down tables latched to the wall. Beyond them was another set of seats and after that a long upholstered bench that would have looked like a sectional sofa if not for the retractable seat belts every two and a half feet. Opposite the bench was a stand-up bar, complete with a brass rail six inches from the floor, and a brown leather padded rim around the top on which drinkers could rest their elbows.
 
 
“All the comforts of home, huh?” Jed said.
 
 
“I don’t know about you, but I don’t have a bar in my home.”
 
 
“The bench pulls out to become a bed, and there’s a full bathroom in the back, shower and everything. Have a look around; I’ll be done in a minute.”
 
 
He climbed into the pilot’s seat and I followed him into the cockpit and peered over his shoulder as he unscrewed a portion of the paneling and replaced the bulb.
 
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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