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Authors: Jessica Fletcher,Donald Bain

Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade (11 page)

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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Chapter Six
 
 
Seth was immediately whisked into the emergency room. I sat in the waiting room for what seemed an eternity, although the clock said it had been only twenty minutes before the young ER physician who’d processed Seth’s arrival came through the doors and joined me on the couch.
 
 
“How’s he doing?” I asked, trying to keep emotion from my voice.
 
 
“He’s doing fine. The wound itself wasn’t that severe, but the knife sliced into an artery. That’s why there was so much bleeding. We’ve transfused him, and he’s coming around just fine. I do want to keep him overnight, however. He should be ready to go home tomorrow.”
 
 
“Whatever you think is best. I’m greatly relieved. And thank you for letting me know.”
 
 
The doctor left, and Rick Allcott entered the waiting area, eyes scanning the room till they alighted on me. He walked swiftly to where I sat and squatted down in front of me, a concerned expression on his face.
 
 
“How’s Seth?” he asked.
 
 
“Looks like he’ll be okay,” I said. “The doctor was just here. He says Seth lost a lot of blood, but they’ve given him a transfusion and he’ll be fine.”
 
 
“That’s good news. And how are you feeling?”
 
 
“A little shaky, but I’ll get over it. How did things end up back at the restaurant?”
 
 
Rick rose and took a seat next to me. “No problems. I told the local police what happened. Your sheriff arrived. Metzger?”
 
 
“Mort Metzger.”
 
 
“Nice guy. He said that you and he are friends.”
 
 
“We certainly are. He’s close to Seth, too.”
 
 
“Interesting guy—a cop in New York City before settling in Cabot Cove.”
 
 
“That’s true. We’re lucky to have him. What about the man who attacked Seth?”
 
 
“According to Sheriff Metzger, neither he nor his men recognized him. They want a formal statement from you.”
 
 
“Of course. I’ll call Mort when I get home and—”
 
 
“No need,” Rick said. “He’s here.” He nodded toward the glass door, through which we could see Mort striding into the waiting room.
 
 
“You okay, Mrs. F?” he asked.
 
 
“Fine, now that I know Seth will be all right.” I filled him in on what the doctor had told me.
 
 
“How’d he get injured?”
 
 
“Warding off the man who tried to rob us.”
 
 
“I hate to say it, but that was not too smart of the doc,” was Mort’s response.
 
 
“I thought it was very brave,” I countered. Perhaps Seth had been foolish to try to deal with an armed thief, but everything happened so quickly—as it often does under such circumstances—that people reacted instinctively. Seth’s instinct had been to protect me, and I couldn’t criticize him for that.
 
 
“I know what the sheriff is saying,” said Rick. “Better for a robber to take your money than your life.”
 
 
“You didn’t heed that philosophy,” I said. “You didn’t hesitate to attack him.”
 
 
Allcott laughed. “My FBI physical training came in handy.”
 
 
“Do you miss the bureau?” Mort asked.
 
 
“Sometimes,” Rick answered, “but not often.”
 
 
“I have to say it’s a good thing you were there,” Mort said. “The kid’s an addict, strung out on drugs. He was looking for money from you to get his fix. When those guys are desperate, they’ll do anything.”
 
 
“How sad,” I said.
 
 
While Cabot Cove hadn’t been spared the presence of illegal drugs any more than other communities across the nation, we’d had virtually no violent crime connected with it. A few years ago, a young man who lived with his family outside town had been arrested for importing drugs from New York City and selling them. Obviously, there had been a market for him, supply reflecting demand as it almost always does. But I couldn’t recall a single instance of someone armed with a weapon attempting to hold citizens up in a desperate attempt to feed a habit.
 
 
“Where’s he from?” Allcott asked Mort.
 
 
“A town about fifty miles up the coast. We’re running a background check on him now. He’s not too bright. His little adventure will give him plenty of prison time to get straight. Aggravated assault, armed robbery, attempted murder.”
 
 
“I don’t think he intended to kill anyone,” I said. “I think he was trying to scare us.”
 
 
Mort looked quizzically at me.
 
 
“I’m not defending what he did,” I said quickly.
 
 
“It doesn’t matter to me what he intended; the results speak for themselves—the doc’s in the hospital with what could have been a fatal wound, and that’s what’s going to get that stupid kid put away,” said Mort. He looked at Rick. “Sorry your introduction to Cabot Cove was a negative experience. We like visitors to walk away with a better impression. Usually the town’s a lot more peaceful than Washington, D.C.”
 
 
“Or New York,” Rick said. “Although if tonight is an indication, it’s not as peaceful as I thought it would be. What’s the murder rate here?”
 
 
“We get one or two a year.”
 
 
“I don’t have my fingers on the numbers,” Rick said, “but Washington had more murders per capita than any other major city in the United States, almost three hundred the last year I lived and worked there.”
 
 
The doctor tending to Seth reappeared and said we could see him for a few minutes. Allcott declined to join us, but Mort and I were led to the ICU, where Seth was tethered to an IV, along with other medical tendrils.
 
 
“Hello, Doc,” Mort said as we stood beside the bed. “Some way to start the Fourth of July weekend, huh?”
 
 
Seth ignored the comment and asked about his assailant. Mort recounted what he’d told Rick and me.
 
 
“I figured he was high on something,” Seth said. “Nobody in their right mind would pull such a dumb stunt, right there in the open with people around.”
 
 
“The bad guys aren’t always the brightest bulbs in the drawer,” said Mort. “Mrs. F says you’ll be fine.”
 
 
“Of course I will. Gorry, no lully-brained youngster will ever get the better of me.”
 
 
I sensed that Mort was about to give Seth a lecture about discretion being the better part of valor, and headed him off.
 
 
“Can I bring you anything tomorrow?” I asked.
 
 
“I’ll be home tomorrow,” Seth responded.
 
 
“Then I’ll bring something to the house. You won’t be up to cooking and—”
 
 
“I’ll be cooking just fine, Jessica, and caring for my patients, too.”
 
 
“Of course you will,” I said, catching the small smile on Mort’s face. We both knew Seth Hazlitt, M.D., only too well. “Right now,” I said, “you should rest. I’ll check back in the morning to see if you need anything, and get someone to give you a ride home—”
 
 
“Speakin’ of rides, Jessica,” Seth said, “my car is back there at Peppino’s.”
 
 
“I’ll have my men pick it up and drop it off at your house, Doc.”
 
 
It took a minute before we could find Seth’s car keys in the pocket of his suit jacket, which had been hung in a small closet next to his bed, but we did, said good night, and returned to the waiting room, where Rick Allcott sat reading a magazine. Mort offered to drive me home, but Rick said, “I’ve already reserved that pleasure, Sheriff. I’m trying to soak in all of Cabot Cove that I can before leaving.”
 
 
“Enjoy your stay, Allcott. Good night, Mrs. F. Glad things didn’t turn out as bad as they could have.”
 
 
We said good night to Mort just outside the hospital’s main entrance and watched him drive off in his marked sheriff’s car.
 
 
“Nice guy,” Rick said.
 
 
“No argument from me. I don’t know that I’m up to giving you a tour of Cabot Cove, but I’ll take you the long way home.”
 
 
“Sounds perfect.”
 
 
We hadn’t taken six steps toward where he’d parked his rental car when another vehicle sped into the parking lot and stopped with a screech of brakes. It was driven by John Shearer, the photographer from the
Cabot Cove Gazette
. Seated in the passenger seat was Evelyn Phillips, the paper’s managing editor.
 
 
Evelyn had arrived in Cabot Cove two years ago and quickly transformed the newspaper from a lackadaisical publication to one with energy and verve. The former editors had assiduously avoided anything that even smacked of controversy, afraid of alienating advertisers. Evelyn changed all that, despite warnings from those already at the paper that advertising sales would be seriously affected. She applied solid journalistic standards while aggressively covering stories that had previously been off-limits, and let the chips fall where they might. At the same time, she maintained the small-town feel of the paper, focusing on upbeat local news that featured the town’s citizens. Her approach worked. Fears that advertising sales would suffer proved unfounded, and the
Gazette
prospered.
 
 
Evelyn hopped out of the car, followed closely by Shearer, his camera in hand. Evelyn was a sturdy woman, about my age, with short-cropped gray hair. Perched on her nose was a pair of half-glasses attached to a gold cord.
 
 
“Hello, Evelyn,” I said. “I know why you’re here.”
 
 
“I picked it up on my police radio,” she said. “How is Seth Hazlitt?”
 
 
“Doing fine,” I said. “They’re keeping him overnight as a precaution, but from the look of things, he’ll be back home tomorrow and raring to go.”
 
 
Evelyn looked at my companion.
 
 
“This is Richard Allcott,” I said. “He’s a friend visiting Cabot Cove for the Fourth celebration.”
 
 
“Former FBI,” Evelyn said flatly.
 
 
“That’s right,” Rick said. “Word sure gets around.”
 
 
“Sheriff Metzger told me,” Evelyn explained. “You were with Mrs. Fletcher and Dr. Hazlitt when it happened.”
 
 
“Right,” Rick confirmed.
 
 
“So,” Evelyn said, pulling a slender reporter’s notebook from her shoulder bag and poising a pen over it, “tell me about it.”
 
 
“I’m sure you got everything from Mort Metzger,” I interjected.
 
 
“I got the facts from him, but I need the human element. Dr. Boyle told me that you subdued the robber.”
 
 
Rick didn’t respond.
 
 
“It’s a good thing you were there,” Evelyn said, “and that Dr. Boyle was, too. He saved Seth Hazlitt’s life. I just left him. He says it was a fortunate coincidence that he was at Peppino’s when it happened, and that if he hadn’t been present, he doubted whether Dr. Hazlitt would have survived.”
 
 
I thought back to the scene in the parking lot. It was true that Boyle had come to Seth’s aid and had applied a pressure bandage prior to the EMTs’ arrival. Perhaps his actions
had
saved Seth’s life. If so, he was certainly owed a heartfelt thank-you. It also struck me, however, that Dr. Warren Boyle was not a modest man.
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
3.91Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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