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Authors: Jessica Fletcher,Donald Bain

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BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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Mandy colored. “I’m so sorry, Doctor. I had a phone call and she went into the back before I could catch her.”
 
 
“Next time, make sure our patients’ questions are all answered before you take phone calls,” Boyle said, barely containing his anger.
 
 
“Of course.” She looked at me, stricken. “Mrs. Fletcher, I’m so sorry I neglected to ask if all your questions were answered.”
 
 
“That’s all right, dear,” I said, picking up my bag from her desk.
 
 
“What was it you wanted to know?” she asked.
 
 
“Oh, dear me,” I said, looking from one to the other. “I’m afraid I’ve already forgotten.”
 
 
Chapter Thirteen
 
 
I’d been remiss in not writing up my report for Mort on the attempted mugging, and when I got home, I went straight to my writing room, meaning to give him a detailed account of the incident, at least as much as I could remember. I powered up the computer and clicked on my Internet browser. It opened on Google. I’d meant to bring up my word-processing program. Instead, I stared at the search engine, my fingers hovering over the keys. At last I typed in Warren Boyle’s name and waited for the results. There were lots of Warrens and many Boyles, but no record of a Dr. Warren Boyle in Massachusetts, site of the previous headquarters for Lennon-Diversified, or anywhere else that I could find.
 
 
Next, I typed in “Lennon-Diversified” and scrolled through the listings that came up. One article from our own
Cabot Cove Gazette
was an interview with Joseph Lennon. I’d read it when the paper first came out, but now I gave it more attention in light of what I knew, and didn’t know, about our new corporate neighbor.
Give Evelyn credit,
I thought. She’d asked lots of questions about the company, but it was clear from her piece that Lennon was intent on discussing his community contributions and gave short shrift to his corporate activities. I wondered why. The possible answer came several pages into Google, when a reference to Lennon-Diversified showed up in a legal document filed by the Food and Drug Administration. The privately held company had been investigated for fraud, but nothing had been proven, and Lennon-Diversified was never charged. Obviously, its owner preferred to talk about his good works rather than any flags raised about his company’s past.
 
 
There were several more references to Joseph Lennon’s civic philanthropy—indeed, the man gave away a lot of money—in other communities where his company had offices, but aside from offers to buy him out that had been rejected, I found little of interest.
 
 
Chastising myself for procrastinating, I closed Google and focused on finishing the write-up I’d promised Mort. It took less time than I had anticipated, and when I completed it, I printed out the one-page report, tucked it in my shoulder bag, turned off the computer, and went into the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea. It was only then that I noticed the light on my telephone answering machine. I pushed the button and heard a message from Jill Thomas, who with her husband, Craig, ran the Blueberry Hill Inn.
 
 
“Jessica, I’m so sorry to put this on you, but one of our maids entered Mr. Allcott’s room this morning to clean it and found him shivering under the covers. We think he has the flu. When he checked in, he told me he was a friend of yours. I’m not sure what to do. I called, but couldn’t get a doctor to come see him this morning—I guess house calls are a thing of the past—and Craig is out of town, so I can’t leave the inn to drive Mr. Allcott myself. Would you please call me back when you get this message?”
 
 
I dialed the number Jill had left, and she picked up immediately. “Oh, thank goodness it’s you, Jessica.”
 
 
“How is he?” I asked, realizing it must have been Jill who’d called Boyle’s office while I was there.
 
 
“I think he’s gotten worse since I left you the message.”
 
 
“What makes you say that?”
 
 
“I ran in to check on him. He’s burning up with fever, and he’s mumbling. I can’t understand what he’s saying.”
 
 
“We have to get him to a doctor.”
 
 
“Even if I could get someone to cover for me, I’m not sure I could manage to get him dressed and in the car. And if he’s contagious . . .” She trailed off.
 
 
“I understand,” I said. “You did the right thing by calling me.”
 
 
“We always take care of our guests, but I’ve never had someone so ill staying with us.”
 
 
“It sounds as if he’s too sick for you or me to handle,” I said. “Let’s get the EMTs to take him to the hospital. I’ll call Seth Hazlitt and ask him to meet me there.”
 
 
“Seth. Of course. I should have thought of him. I called that doctor that advertises in the paper. Thank you, Jessica. I’ll call 911 right away.”
 
 
We said good-bye, and I called Seth, explained the situation, and agreed to wait to hear from him before calling a cab to take me to the hospital. “No use in Nick haulin’ you over there if Allcott’s contagious and you can’t see him,” he said.
 
 
“You’ll call me as soon as you know something?”
 
 
“Ayuh. You’ll be the first to hear.”
 
 
I poured my tea and set it on the kitchen table, but I was too agitated to sit. I was sorry Rick was under the weather, of course, but there were some things that had been nagging at me ever since he arrived in Cabot Cove. I’d been meaning to corral him for a talk, but we’d almost never been alone. The one instance when we had an opportunity to talk was right after Joe Lennon’s body had been found, and it was not the appropriate time to express what was bothering me.
 
 
When in doubt, clean
, I told myself, and while my tea grew cold, I picked up a sponge and scrubbed the kitchen sink, even though I’d gone over it pretty thoroughly earlier in the morning. I’d finished all the countertops and was starting on the refrigerator when Seth called back.
 
 
“You’re too late,” I said. “I’ve just ruined a perfectly good manicure cleaning everything in sight. How’s the patient? Is it the flu?”
 
 
Going straight to the point, Seth said, “What do you know about your friend here, Jessica?”
 
 
“Not much more than you,” I replied. “We met a few years ago in Washington at a conference on forensics that the FBI held for writers. I hadn’t heard from him after that until he called from Blueberry Hill to tell me he was in town. Why do you ask?”
 
 
“He doesn’t have the flu.”
 
 
“Then what does he have?”
 
 
“Malaria.”
 
 
“Malaria?”
 
 
“Ayuh. Told me he picked it up in Alaska. ‘Mosquitoes as big as birds up there.’ I can believe it. But he didn’t get malaria from those mosquitoes no matter what size they are. It’s too cold up there for
Plasmodium falciparum
.”
 
 
“That’s the malaria parasite, I take it?”
 
 
“You are correct. That’s the one responsible for the most severe form of malaria, which is what I suspect our patient has. Even with the right mosquito, if the temperatures aren’t high enough, the parasite cannot complete its growth cycle. And Alaska is not known for its balmy weather.”
 
 
“If he didn’t contract malaria in Alaska, where did he get it? And why would he lie about it?”
 
 
“That’s the mystery,” Seth said. “That’s your department, not mine. Fortunately, we had an antimalarial drug in the hospital pharmacy. I’ll fix him up. When he’s lucid, you can ask him.”
 
 
“When do you think I can see him?”
 
 
“Not sure. Right now he’s still in the emergency room. We don’t have a bed for him yet.”
 
 
“Is the hospital that full?” I asked.
 
 
“No, we have room, but the EMTs forgot to bring Allcott’s wallet, and Admitting wants his insurance information before they make him at home in the medical unit.”
 
 
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
 
 
“That’s the health-care bureaucracy for you.”
 
 
“Why don’t I go over to Blueberry Hill? I’ll get his insurance card and bring it to the hospital.”
 
 
“Was hoping you’d volunteer.”
 
 
“You know you could have asked.”
 
 
“Didn’t want to impose.”
 
 
“You never impose. I’ll call a cab and have the driver wait while I find Rick’s wallet. I’ll see you in the emergency room.”
 
 
“I’ll be here,” he said. “Must be a full moon. I had two other patients pop in while I was tending Allcott.”
 
 
Jill Thomas was printing out the bill for a couple from Danbury, Connecticut, who were checking out of the inn. “I hope you had a pleasant stay,” she said, handing them the itemized sheet.
 
 
“It was wonderful, Jill. Cabot Cove is so charming. Maria said it would be. That parade was just like the ones I remember as a child. And the fireworks. Wow!”
 
 
“I’m so glad you came for the holiday,” Jill said. “You must say hello to the Moreys for me when you see them. Jack and Maria are old friends. Please thank them for recommending us.” Catching sight of me, Jill smiled and said to her guests, “Would you please excuse me for a moment?” She pulled a key from the board behind her and reached out to hand it to me. “It’s number four, Jessica,” she said. “You don’t mind if I don’t go up with you, do you?”
 
 
“Not at all,” I said. “Take care of your guests. I won’t be long.”
 
 
I climbed the stairs to the second floor and looked for the room numbers. Blueberry Hill was more properly a bed-and-breakfast than a true inn, although Craig had added extra bathrooms to the six-bedroom Victorian house to make it more appealing to visitors. The floors were oak, stained a dark color, and creaked pleasantly when walked on. Jill had installed etched-glass wall sconces and laid a beige-and-blue Oriental runner over the boards to lighten up what otherwise would have been a gloomy hallway. The walls were cream-colored, and the paneled doors and trim matched the stain of the floors.
 
 
I found number four, inserted the key, and let myself into a large bedroom with a four-poster bed. The linens had been stripped off, and a new set lay on the mattress until Jill or the maid could get to it. I imagined Jill wanted to air the bedding before she remade the bed, perhaps even spray some germ killer, although I don’t know how effective it would be on fabrics. Opposite the bed and under a window that looked out over the rear garden was a small desk with a lamp and a chair. To the right was a tall armoire. The room had no closet. I peeked into the bathroom, but there was only one personal item in sight. Rick had placed his black leather Dopp kit on top of the commode. It was open and contained the usual toiletries— toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, comb, deodorant, nail clippers. I zipped it up and took it with me, figuring he would appreciate being able to brush his teeth when he was feeling better.
 
 
I didn’t find his wallet in the desk drawers, so I opened the armoire in hope of better luck. It was a large piece of furniture, mahogany, with an arched top and double doors kept closed with a lock and key. Inside, a rod to hang clothing spanned the top half, and six drawers, three on each side, filled the bottom. A pair of sneakers and two pairs of shoes sat on top of the drawers. Rick had several jackets, slacks, jeans, and a Windbreaker hanging up, and the drawers contained folded shirts, shorts, socks. It was a full wardrobe, and surprisingly more than I would have expected he’d need for an extended weekend. I patted down his jackets and slacks in case he had left his wallet in a pocket. Finding nothing, I went drawer by drawer until I’d checked them all. By chance I moved one of his sneakers and found it heavier than I expected. I pulled back the tongue and there inside the toe were Rick’s wallet and passport. I flipped open the passport to his picture. It had been taken several years ago, and a younger face than I’d seen the other day looked back at me. Inside, pages were stamped by the countries he’d visited: France, Germany, Sierra Leone, the Czech Republic, and on the last page, Zimbabwe.
What an interesting life an FBI agent has,
I thought.
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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