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Authors: Jessica Fletcher,Donald Bain

Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade (33 page)

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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“I don’t have anything to say to you.”
 
 
“Are you ready to go?” Mort asked.
 
 
“Wait a minute. Just what are the charges?” Cynthia said, her back rigid.
 
 
“We can start with conspiracy to commit murder,” Mort told her. “Then we can add reckless endangerment and malicious destruction of property. How about using a destructive device in a crime of violence? I’m sure I can think up at least thirty or forty more counts, ending with premeditated homicide.”
 
 
“You have no proof,” Dante said.
 
 
“Who did we kill?” she said. “Look, everyone there is alive.” She pointed to Mrs. Lennon and her children, who were watching from behind Amos’s back together with the pilots, the EMTs, and the
Gazette
editor and photographer.
 
 
“Shut up, Cynthia,” Dante said.
 
 
“The sheriff didn’t say whom you
meant
to kill,” I said. “But you just pointed out your intended victims. How would you know who they were if you weren’t in on the plot?”
 
 
“What plot? There was no plot.”
 
 
“Mrs. Fletcher will testify that she overheard you scheming to place a bomb on the plane that was supposed to take Mrs. Lennon and her children to Vancouver.”
 
 
I wouldn’t be able to do that, of course. The discussion I’d eavesdropped on hadn’t been specific enough for any charges to stick, but they didn’t know what I knew. Mort was taking a chance, but it turned out to be a good one.
 
 
“That should be enough to send you away for a long time,” Mort said.
 
 
“I had nothing to do with the bomb,” Cynthia said, rising. “It was him. He planned it. He sent it to the plane. I never knew it was taking place until it was all over.”
 
 
“Shut up, Cynthia,” her companion said, grabbing her arm and pressing her back down into her seat.
 
 
“But you made no effort to stop him, did you? Even after you knew he’d killed Joseph Lennon to ensure your place in the company.”
 
 
“Don’t answer him, Cynthia,” Dante ordered. “I want a lawyer,” he said to Mort. “And we’re not saying another word till we get one.”
 
 
“Ms. Welch, you have an opportunity to save yourself from additional charges if you cooperate,” I said. “The authorities already know that Dante stole the gun used in the murder of Joseph Lennon and put it in Chester Carlisle’s car to throw suspicion on him.” I was bluffing, but I hoped that Mort would let it go. He knew about the missing gun, but until now not who had taken it.
 
 
Cynthia looked at Dante. “I’m not going to jail for the rest of my life because of you.”
 
 
“You bi—” Dante launched himself across the table at Cynthia and wrapped his hands around her neck. Mort gripped his arms but was unable to break the hold. Pandemonium broke out in the restaurant as other patrons left their seats, attempting to assist Mort. Amos tried to reach him but had to clear others out of the way. The man at the next table grabbed Dante by the waist and pulled, tumbling backward and sending a platter of spaghetti and meat sauce flying over the combatants before they were able to muscle Dante to the floor. Cynthia fell back into her seat, coughing and gasping, holding her neck. Red wheals were starting to rise where Dante had dug his fingers into her flesh.
 
 
“Am I bleeding?” she asked, staring down at the red stains on her suit jacket. “Did he stab me?”
 
 
“That’s just spaghetti sauce,” Mort said as he cuffed Dante with Amos’s help. “Your boyfriend over here has matching decorations.” Mort hustled Dante through the restaurant, to a standing ovation from the diners.
 
 
Amos took Cynthia Welch’s arm and walked her out. Mrs. Lennon stepped in front of her. “After all we did for you,” she said bitterly, “this is how you repay us.”
 
 
“You did nothing for me,” Cynthia said. “I made your company the success that it is. Me! Not you. Not Joe. You did nothing except collect the money and then order the board to drop me when you wanted your little boy to take the position that should have been mine. I earned it. I deserved it. And it would have been mine if you hadn’t interfered.”
 
 
“How naive can you be? That’s business,” Mrs. Lennon said. “It’s not your company just because you worked there. You didn’t own it. We did. We paid you for your services, paid you well, and you betrayed our trust. I told Joseph you were wrong for the position. I was right. And I was right to choose Paul to take over. At least I can trust him.”
 
 
Not exactly a ringing endorsement of your son,
I thought, but I didn’t say anything.
 
 
Amos asked Denise to step aside so he could escort Cynthia to the squad car.
 
 
“Wait! Wait!” The restaurant owner hurried after us, waving his bill in the air. “Who’s going to pay for their dinner? They had drinks and wine and the most expensive dishes.”
 
 
“I’m certainly not paying for their food,” Mrs. Lennon said. “They won’t get another dime from the Lennon family.” She put her arms around her children and walked out.
 
 
“Put it on my tab, Joe,” said a man wiping spaghetti and sauce off his shirtfront. He’d been seated at the table next to the conspirators and had helped to subdue Dante. He grinned at me. “I’ll pay for their dinner,” he said. “I told the wife this was the most excitement I’ve had since coming to Cabot Cove.”
 
 
Chapter Twenty-one
 
 
“Dr. Boyle testified before the FDA on behalf of Lennon-Diversified some years back, and after that the investigation was dropped. Then Boyle turns up in Cabot Cove with a ready-made practice financed by Lennon-Diversified. I knew they were paying him off. I just couldn’t let that go.”
 
 
Rick Allcott was looking much better than the last time we’d seen him, both Mort and I agreed. But Seth was not yet ready to let him leave the hospital.
 
 
“Do you have anything on Boyle now?” Seth asked. He was looking at his watch while he took Rick’s pulse.
 
 
“We’re still working on it,” Rick answered. “We think he’s involved with their latest scam.”
 
 
“What scam is that?” Seth asked.
 
 
“The one Jessica uncovered.”
 
 
Seth raised his eyebrows and peered over his glasses in my direction.
 
 
“While I was visiting Mrs. Lennon, Cynthia arrived,” I said. “She said they had contracts for their new drug, and also that she had a way to get rid of the old one. She’d made a deal with a charity group to ‘unload’ it—I think that’s the word she used—at their refugee camps. The camps would never take it if they knew what drug it was. So Cynthia’s solution was to disguise the truth. She and Dante were relabeling the old drug and passing it off as a new antimalarial.”
 
 
“Was the old medicine no good?” Mort asked from where he stood leaning against the wall.
 
 
“It’s not that it’s no good,” Seth said. “It’s that in many parts of Africa, it’s no longer effective against the most common strains of malaria.”
 
 
“Which means those folks could die if they didn’t get the right drug,” Mort said. “Pretty low to victimize sick people like that.”
 
 
“You know why she chose refugee camps, don’t you?” Rick said.
 
 
“Ayuh,” Seth said. “Apparently the Lennon people didn’t think anyone would point to the drugs as a problem, since refugee camps are notorious for epidemics of myriad diseases. So many die anyway. No one would suspect it was because of an ineffective drug.”
 
 
“Yet Mrs. Lennon knew something was up,” I said. “She challenged Cynthia, saying someone in Harare had complained about drugs they’d sent before. Cynthia said it couldn’t be helped if some people had a strain of the disease that developed a resistance to the drug. What she didn’t say was that that resistance is already widespread.”
 
 
“She and Dante probably figured the company would be hailed as a good Samaritan and could take a hefty tax deduction for the donation, making her look like a marketing genius, right?” Mort said.
 
 
“You hit it on the nose, Sheriff,” Rick said. “She’s been boosting profits in questionable ways for a long time.”
 
 
“Mrs. F gave us the license number of the truck,” Mort said. “We sent it on to the FBI so they can track down its cargo and make sure it never reaches that destination.”
 
 
“We at the bureau think it was Boyle who came up with the idea in the first place, but I don’t have any proof yet.”
 
 
“It could be,” I said. “He accompanied Cynthia to Africa on one trip.”
 
 
“How do you know that?”
 
 
“Boyle’s picture was in the
Cabot Cove Gazette
. The pilots recognized him, said that he’d hitched a ride with her to Zimbabwe.”
 
 
“That’s helpful to know,” Rick said, smiling at me.
 
 
“What’s going to happen to Lennon-Diversified?” Mort asked. “Is the town going to get left with an abandoned building down at the water?”
 
 
“I don’t think Denise Lennon gives up that easily,” I said. “She wants her son, Paul, to take over the company. They have a lot of fences to mend now, but I’m betting she’ll stay.”
 
 
“Don’t forget, the bureau is going to want to know how much she and Paul were aware of what was going on in their shipping room,” Rick said. “So she’s not off the hook just yet.”
 
 
“Speaking of the bureau,” Mort said, “I spoke with the district attorney and he said you’ll have to wait until the trial is over, but there’s a good chance you’ll be able to get your gun back.”
 
 
“That’s a relief. Made me look like a fool to have to report to my supervisor that it was stolen. Maybe I’ll get back a little street cred if I can say it’s been recovered.” He leaned back against the pillow. “Would you gentlemen mind if I spoke with Mrs. Fletcher privately?”
 
 
“Not at all,” Seth said. “I’ll give you five minutes, and then all visitors must go. You’re not a well man yet. But we’ll get you there.”
 
 
“If anyone can, it’s you, Doc,” Rick said.
 
 
Mort and Seth left the room, closing the door behind them.
 
 
“Jessica, I’ve been thinking a lot about this, and I want to get it off my chest.”
 
 
“What is it, Rick?”
 
 
“You were right. And I was wrong. I wasn’t straight with you and I feel bad about that. I’m sorry I lied to you, Jessica. Or at least that I wasn’t completely truthful.”
 
 
“You were working on the case,” I said. “I should have understood and not pressured you. I’m sorry about that.”
 
 
“You’re being very gracious, but it’s I who should have trusted you. What you found out—the information you were able to uncover—will go a long way toward wrapping up this matter for the bureau.”
 
 
“Thank you, Rick. That’s very kind of you to say.”
 
 
“No thanks are necessary. We need to finish with Lennon-Diversified, and it looks to me as if you’ve made it possible. Besides, I’d like to get back to being retired.”
 
 
“And go see the Red Sox play at Fenway Park,” I added.
 
 
“That, too,” he said, laughing. “Maybe you’ll join me for a game.”
 
 
“I’d like that.”
 
 
Amos lifted his suitcase and placed it in the trunk of his rental car. “Havin’ dinner with a couple of old friends in Boston tonight, and I’ve got a flight out tomorrow first thing. Lookin’ forward to gettin’ home, and I hear the temperature in Kentucky is cooler than Cabot Cove right now.”
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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