Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade (32 page)

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Authors: Jessica Fletcher,Donald Bain

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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“I’m in the patrol car,” Mort said. “I was just about to drive out to Lennon-Diversified. Did Mrs. F come up with anything new?”
 
 
“Yup, she thinks there might be a bomb on the company plane. We’re on our way to the airport.”
 
 
“I’ll meet you there,” Mort said. We heard his siren over the radio, and soon heard it in person.
 
 
“Darn rental car wasn’t made for speed,” Amos said as Mort’s cruiser passed us on the road. “I’ve got my foot to the floor.”
 
 
I rummaged in my bag for my cell phone and dialed Jed Richardson. “Jed, it’s Jessica. Has the Lennon-Diversified plane taken off yet?”
 
 
“Not yet. Mrs. Lennon and her son and daughter were a little late getting here. But I think they’re aboard now.”
 
 
“Jed, you have to keep that plane from taking off.”
 
 
“You’re breaking up, Jess. Could you repeat that?”
 
 
“Don’t let that plane take off,” I shouted into the phone. “Can you hear me?”
 
 
“Did you say not to let the plane take off?”
 
 
“Yes! Stop the plane. It can’t take off.”
 
 
“How am I supposed to do that, Jessica? They’re already taxiing to the end of the runway.”
 
 
“Jed! There’s a bomb on board.”
 
 
“You’re breaking up again, Jess. Oh, looks like the police are here.” The line went dead.
 
 
“Take that next right,” I instructed Amos.
 
 
“But, Miz Fletcher, the airport exit is another half mile.”
 
 
“This road goes to the end of the runway,” I said, pointing. “Please. Hurry!”
 
 
Amos followed my directions, and we bumped over the unpaved road, reaching the far end of the runway. I could see the headlights of the Lennon company Gulfstream as it rounded the turn to take its place at the head of the runway. The whine of the engines reached our ears as the pilots revved them up in preparation for takeoff.
 
 
“Keep going!”
 
 
“There’s no more road, Miz Fletcher, just grass.”
 
 
“If you cross this section, you’ll be right on the runway.”
 
 
“But what if the plane takes off? They’ll crush us.”
 
 
“They should be able to see us. The only way we can keep them on the ground is to block their way. If you put your hazard lights on, that will help.”
 
 
Amos pushed the button, and the front and back lights flashed on and off. We bounced over the grassy lane and skidded onto the tarmac. Then, racing along the side of the blacktop, we put our arms out the windows and waved them at the plane. Amos pressed his hand down on the horn, an ineffectual signal. It would never be heard over the aircraft’s engines.
 
 
We saw Mort’s cruiser off to the right, the red light spinning on the roof, siren screaming. He was trying to catch up to the plane. Not far behind him was Jed’s red truck, horn blaring.
 
 
The jet started forward, picking up speed.
 
 
“Amos, pull in front of the plane. They’ll have to stop.”
 
 
“Miz Fletcher, if I live through this, I’ll never complain about my quiet life again.”
 
 
Amos jammed on the brakes and pulled the wheel sharply to the left. The car spun around and landed squarely in the path of the oncoming plane. We jumped out, waving our arms in the air, and ran to the side of the runway. If the plane hit the car, it would be totaled, along with the plane and the people in it. I saw the pilots gesticulating inside the cockpit as they managed to swerve to avoid hitting the car. The wind coming off the wings nearly knocked us down. I heard them reverse the engines. The tires shrieked as pressure was applied and rubber was left on the runway. But the plane came to a stop just before the blacktop ended and the grass began.
 
 
Mort’s patrol car sped by us, Jed in close pursuit, and they pulled up next to the plane.
 
 
Amos and I got back in the car and drove to where the Gulfstream sat. The stairway had already been lowered and the captain came out of the plane yelling, his fist in the air. “What in blazes are you crazy people doing? You almost killed all of us.”
 
 
“Get everyone off the plane,” Mort yelled. “Right now.”
 
 
“What is going on?” Mrs. Lennon stood in the doorway, her son and daughter looking over her shoulder.
 
 
“Now!” Mort yelled. “Hurry up. Get down here. Get in the car.”
 
 
“You’d better have a good explanation for this, Sheriff,” Mrs. Lennon said, taking her time on the stairs. “Paul, call our lawyer. I want him here now.”
 
 
“Move!” Mort shouted.
 
 
“I’m going as fast as I can,” she said. “It’s not easy to walk down these stairs in high heels.”
 
 
Mort opened the rear door of the cruiser and waved Denise and her children in.
 
 
“Are we under arrest?” Paul asked.
 
 
“No time for questions,” Mort said. To Jed, “Get that other pilot into your truck and drive the two of them back to the office. I’ll meet you there.”
 
 
Amos and I stood behind the open doors of his car. Mort jogged past us, and did an about-face at the last minute. “You’d better be right, Mrs. F, or we’ll be in for a major lawsuit. My job won’t be worth a dime if I stopped a private plane from taking off for no good reason.”
 
 
I climbed in Amos’s rental car and breathed a sigh of relief. He turned the car around and drove slowly away from the Gulfsteam. The sleek jet sat at the end of the runway, its engines off but lights on, the stairway hanging out of its side like a gaping wound.
 
 
“Miz Fletcher? Are you okay?”
 
 
“I’m fine. Thank you, Amos. You did a splendid job.”
 
 
“Just so you’re okay.”
 
 
We followed Mort’s patrol car and Jed’s red truck up the runway. Because we were the last car in the procession, we were the first vehicle to feel the tremor when the Lennon-Diversified Gulfstream exploded, shooting flames a thousand feet into the air, the blast breaking windows in the airport office and, as I later learned, the reverberation heard in houses as much as a mile away. The smell of burning jet fuel filled the approaching night, the conflagration eerily illuminating, then scorching, the surrounding landscape. Our three vehicles rushed to shelter behind the airport hangars to escape the pieces of burning debris that floated down.
 
 
I can’t say exactly how long it took, but the response of the Cabot Cove Volunteer Fire Department was swift and professional. Mort called in two more deputies and left Jed at the airport to supervise the cleanup in his office. The rest of us drove into town to sort out the events.
 
 
Only four days ago, Joseph Lennon had been murdered while the fireworks he so generously financed marked the celebration of our nation’s birth and thrilled the spectators in his adopted hometown with brilliant flashes of color lighting the night sky. A different spectacular explosion almost took the lives of his wife and children, as well as the pilot and copilot. Thankfully, they all escaped harm. Now it was time to bring those responsible for the murder and the attempted murder to justice.
 
 
Chapter Twenty
 
 
The sheriff’s office was jammed with people, all talking at the same time, most of them on cell phones, some voices louder than others, trying to be heard over the insistent ringing of the telephones. Mort hunted around for extra chairs while Amos called Charlene Sassi at her bakery and asked her to send over coffee and doughnuts. Mrs. Lennon, insisting she was fine, had collapsed in Mort’s desk chair and was being tended to by the Cabot Cove EMS unit. Her son was on his cell phone, calling family members to report what had happened. The pilots were giving their version of the incident to the deputies. And Evelyn Phillips, who’d sent her photographer to the airport, paused in her interview with Josie Lennon to take a picture of the girl’s mother with a cell phone.
 
 
Mort surveyed the scene, debating where to start, and I tapped him on the shoulder. “Mort, we need to talk,” I said.
 
 
“Boy, Mrs. F. You sure called it this time. Incredible! How’d you do it?”
 
 
“I happened to be at the airport when the package was delivered to the pilots. It was directed to Mrs. Lennon, but had no return name or address. You may want to speak with Ronnie, who brought it in, but I think I already know who sent it. We should get over to Peppino’s before they leave.”
 
 
“Peppino’s?” Mort said. “The bomber is at Peppino’s?” For a moment, all talk stopped. It was as if someone had turned down the volume on the TV. Then the room erupted noisily.
 
 
“You’re not arresting anyone without me there,” Mrs. Lennon said, pushing away the medical technician who was trying to take her blood pressure. “I have a right to know what’s been going on. Is this the person who killed my husband?”
 
 
Evelyn Phillips used her cell to order her photographer back from the airport. “Meet me at Peppino’s,” she told him.
 
 
“C’mon, Mrs. F,” Mort said. “You can tell me more on the way over.” He ordered everyone to stay put. “Deputy Tupper, you’re in charge.”
 
 
Amos stepped in front of the door after Mort escorted me through. “Now, folks. I want you all to calm down,” I heard him say. “We have Sassi’s doughnuts coming, should be here any minute now.” But he may as well have been speaking to a room full of moose, for all they listened to him. They bullied past Amos, squeezing through the door and dispersing to various cars. He threw up his hands and jumped in the back of Mort’s car. “Thought you might need my help, Sheriff.”
 
 
Joe DiScala was startled to see such a big group crowding into his restaurant. “Do you all have reservations?” he asked.
 
 
“We’re not staying,” Mort said. “I just want to speak with two of your patrons.” He pulled me into the dining room, and I pointed out Cynthia Welch and Dante at a corner table. They were sipping drinks and seemed in good spirits. When Ms. Welch looked up at the commotion in the entry, her smile died away and her face paled. Dante’s expression became somber, the light fading from his eyes.
 
 
Mort wound his way through the tables, with me close behind, and positioned himself in front of theirs. Amos had succeeded in keeping the others from following Mort into the dining room, but every customer was aware of our presence. They stopped eating and talking to stare at the drama unfolding in the corner.
 
 
“Unless you want to create an even bigger scene,” Mort said, “I suggest you come outside with me.”
 
 
“What is the meaning of this, Officer?” Dante said.
 
 
“I’m placing you both under arrest.”
 
 
“What for?”
 
 
“A bomb went off tonight,” Mort said, “and if not for quick action on Mrs. Fletcher’s part, five people would have been killed.”
 
 
“What has that got to do with us?” Dante asked.
 
 
“We think you planted the bomb.”
 
 
“That’s ridiculous,” Cynthia said. “We’re businesspeople, not terrorists. I think you’re going to find yourself very embarrassed, Sheriff. How would we know anything about bombs, anyway?”
 
 
“If we take a look at Dante’s military experience,” I said, “I expect we’ll find the answer there. The fireworks people were complimentary about the Lennon company’s ‘very knowledgeable’ staff. Soldiers working in the ordnance division become very familiar with explosive devices, don’t they, Dante?”

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