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 (31 page)
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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I pivoted at the end of the dock to take in the view of the Lennon building. It was a sleek marble block with a steel door that would likely allow employees to step out onto the veranda without having to exit from the front entrance. An addition jutted out on the right side of the building. A door on that side led to the office of Dr. Boyle. On the day of my appointment with him, I had left Lennon-Diversified and had walked around the outside of the building to get there.
“Seen enough, Miz Fletcher?” Amos said.
“I suppose.”
We walked up the dock toward the building. I went straight to the steel door and tugged on the handle. It didn’t budge.
“Locked,” I said to Amos.
“Good! Ready to leave, Miz Fletcher?”
“Let’s go this way,” I said, “so we can see the other side of the building.”
“Don’t see how that’s going to make any difference, but if you insist.”
“Lennon-Diversified is closed today,” I said. “I wonder if that means Dr. Boyle’s office is also closed.”
“Could be. It’s Wednesday,” Amos said, catching up with me as I strode along the rear of the building toward the doctor’s office. “Lots of doctors close their offices on Wednesday. In Kentucky, it’s hard to get time on the golf courses on Wednesdays.”
We rounded the corner and walked up to the door leading to Boyle’s practice. A sign on the glass said the office was closed for the day. Nevertheless, I pulled on the handle. To my amazement and Amos’s consternation, the door was unlocked. I held it open for Amos.
“Now, Miz Fletcher, you said you were satisfied just seeing the crime scene. The sign says they’re closed. No need to be goin’ in and disturbing the place.”
“You can wait in the car if you prefer, Amos. I won’t be long. I’m just going to see if Dr. Boyle is in. I have one or two questions for him.”
“I think I’ll do just that,” he said, patting the pocket that held his book. “But if you’re not out in ten minutes, I’m comin’ in after you.”
“I won’t keep you that long,” I said.
The lights were out in the reception area, but the interior door to the examining rooms was unlocked. I walked down the carpeted hallway and called out Dr. Boyle’s name. No answer. Dr. Boyle’s office was dark and unoccupied. I flipped the wall switch on. His desk was clear, no stacks of files, or X-rays on the light box, or other materials to indicate he was working on what should have been his day off. I turned off the light and continued down the hall to the large area housing his diagnostic equipment. There were no windows in this space, and only the barest light filtered in to reflect off the large machines. Tiny spots of green and red on operating panels gave minimal illumination in the glass-enclosed computer room that overlooked the space. I squinted, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. It was here that I’d seen Dr. Boyle speaking with the woman who might have been Mrs. Lennon or Ms. Welch. She had hurried through a door on the opposite side of the room. Since his visitor hadn’t come in through the front door and reception area, either she was already on the premises— perhaps working in a back room—or there was a connection from his office to the main building. I skirted the equipment, putting my hand up to keep from banging my head on a large metal arm that jutted out from its side. It swung out of the way.
The door I’d seen her go through was steel, like the one that led to the veranda in the back of Lennon-Diversified. Wouldn’t it be ironic if I’d walked all the way through Dr. Boyle’s office only to end up outside at the back of the building?
Amos would be happy about that,
I thought. I turned around and tried to re-create in my mind the directions I’d taken since entering Dr. Boyle’s practice. I’d come in on the side of the building and walked straight through the door from reception. The new dermatology suite was to the right; the hallway to the examining rooms and Dr. Boyle’s office angled to the left. No, it wasn’t possible that this door led to the outside. If my calculations were correct, it would open directly into the backroom operations of Lennon-Diversified.
Amos would be happy about that,
I thought. I turned around and tried to re-create in my mind the directions I’d taken since entering Dr. Boyle’s practice. I’d come in on the side of the building and walked straight through the door from reception. The new dermatology suite was to the right; the hallway to the examining rooms and Dr. Boyle’s office angled to the left. No, it wasn’t possible that this door led to the outside. If my calculations were correct, it would open directly into the backroom operations of Lennon-Diversified.
I put my bag on the floor, turned to face the door, leaned in, and placed my ear against the steel. There was a hum made by some machine, but I didn’t hear any voices. I tried the doorknob. It rotated easily in my hand. I took a deep breath and knocked loudly but didn’t wait for someone to open the door. I opened it myself.
Bright light left me blinking.
I let the door close behind me and took a step into the room, which was absent of any staff but filled with shipping materials and machinery whose functions were not clear to me. Everything I saw was oversized. There were huge tables piled with cardboard containers and enormous rolls of bubble wrap. Suspended on rods hanging from the ceiling were gigantic spools of clear plastic, the ends dangling. And there were wooden pallets all around me with boxes stacked higher than I was tall, all of them swathed in plastic wrap.
The hum I’d heard through the door came from a small machine, part of a labeling mechanism, or so it appeared. Brown bottles were lined up on a conveyor belt, and a roll of self-stick labels was arranged so that as the next bottle moved forward, the new label would be applied. The machine had stopped, but the motor was still running. Next to the machine was a vat of clear liquid—it looked like water—in which sealed bottles of pills were submerged. The liquid had dissolved the glue that held the labels on— apparently its purpose. A large trash bin lined in plastic held a soggy mass of labels. I plucked one from the bin and put on my glasses so I could read the silver and red label. It said LD CHLOROQUINE. I assumed the “LD” stood for “Lennon-Diversified.” Seth had said chloroquine was an antimalarial drug. I couldn’t reach the roll of new labels on the machine to see what they said, but a search around the mechanism yielded the same sealed bottles in an open box. A different label had been affixed to these. It read simply LD ANTIMALARIAL.
They’re relabeling the bottles—but why?
They’re relabeling the bottles—but why?
The sound of a conversation drifted in to me from somewhere, the voices becoming louder as the people approached the room. There wasn’t time to retreat through the door I’d used. Instead, I ducked behind a pallet and hoped I wouldn’t be seen.
“When’s the truck coming?” a man’s voice asked.
“Should be here any minute,” a woman’s voice responded, “but this is absolutely the last shipment. I can’t take a chance on getting caught. It’s just not worth it.”
“Don’t be such a worrier, sweetheart. You have a great future ahead of you. We’ll take care of the mother and the kid, and you’ll be back on top again.”
“That’s what you said the last time. I’m sorry I got involved with you. You must be mad.”
“Don’t pull a Miss Innocent act with me. I know all your secrets. I’m not alone in this. You’ve been with me every step of the way.”
“I had no idea what you planned.”
“You knew. You just didn’t want to acknowledge it. You prefer to do your dirty work from a distance, don’t you? But if you want to keep things the way you like it, you have to take action. You weren’t unhappy when you thought it was going to benefit you.”
“You’re the one who was afraid things were going to change. I could have managed him and made it work. I’ve handled her before, and I could do it again.”
“Well, it’s too late now, and I’m not going to lose everything I’ve worked for. I have a lot invested in this. With them out of the picture, we’ll have a lot more leverage. Did you empty out the safe?”
“Yes. They should be on their way to the airport soon. They’re flying out at five.”
“Good. We just need to load up the pallets and get to Peppino’s. I want to be drinking a martini when the news comes in.”
A thunderous crash startled me, but my gasp was covered by the deafening noise made by the motorized crank lifting the giant garage doors. There was a loud
clunk
as the doors reached the ceiling, followed by a beeping sound. I peeked around the side of the pallet to see a large truck backing up. Cynthia Welch and her supposed assistant, Dante, watched as the truck nestled closer to the loading dock.
clunk
as the doors reached the ceiling, followed by a beeping sound. I peeked around the side of the pallet to see a large truck backing up. Cynthia Welch and her supposed assistant, Dante, watched as the truck nestled closer to the loading dock.
The truck driver and his helper vaulted themselves up onto the dock and began wrestling the first pallet onto the truck. If they intended to take all the pallets, my hiding place would be exposed.
“There are seven altogether,” I heard Cynthia say. “These five, and those two over by the green door.”
I glanced at the door I’d come through. It was green. My stomach dropped. I didn’t dare look out again. What if they saw me? How could I explain my presence? Warm air from the outside poured in, mixing with the cooled air inside. The air conditioner cycled on, and a cold draft flowed down over me from the register above my hiding place. I shivered. What would happen next? Were they armed? What if Amos blundered in? He’d said he would come after me if I wasn’t back in ten minutes. How long had I been here? I looked at my watch. It was far longer than ten minutes. I was in trouble now.
“Okay, only two more pallets left.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Hey, lady, we don’t have enough room for those last two pallets.”
“Are you sure?” Cynthia asked.
“Nonsense! I’m sure you can fit them in,” said Dante.
“Look, man, I’m only the truck driver. Come see for yourselves.”
Never had more welcome words been spoken. I was crouched behind the pallet farthest from the door. Praying that they were gathered around the back of the truck, I scooted over to the other pallet. My heart pounded. I stuck my head out to see where they were. Dante had climbed into the back of the truck and was directing the driver and his assistant on how to rearrange their load. Cynthia Welch, her arms crossed and foot tapping, watched the proceedings.
Keeping my eyes on their backs, I inched over to the green door, felt for the knob and pulled, opening a space just wide enough for me to slip through. Once inside, I held on to the door and closed it gently to keep it from slamming shut and alerting Dante and Welch to my presence. Then I grabbed my bag that I’d left on the floor and hastened through the doctor’s office, out his front door, and up the hill to the parking lot. I flung myself into the passenger seat of Amos’s car. “We’ve got to get to the airport, ” I said, breathing heavily.
Amos didn’t look up from his book. “I’m almost to the end of the chapter,” he said.
“Amos,” I said, trying to catch my breath, “please put down the book. We have to go. Right now. The airport.”
“All right,” he said, a disgusted look on his face. “But I don’t see what can’t wait two paragraphs. The shark was just about to strike.”
“We have to get to the airport right away. I think a bomb has been planted on the Lennon-Diversified plane, and we’ve got to stop it from taking off.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” He threw the book into the backseat, started the engine, and pulled out of the lot in front of the truck that was lumbering up the hill from the loading dock.
“Wait! Slow down. I want to get the number of that truck.” I released my seat belt, twisted around, and held on to the headrest, trying to see the numbers on the license plate.
“Make up your mind, Miz Fletcher. First you tell me to get to the airport as fast as I can, and now you’re telling me to slow down. Which is it?”
“Both,” I said, plunging my hand into my bag and groping for a pen. “Got it!” I slumped back in my seat. “Now, let’s get to the airport.” I scribbled down the truck’s identification and snapped my seat belt into place.
Amos radioed Mort as we got on the highway to the airport.
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
5.24Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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