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Authors: Jessica Fletcher,Donald Bain
Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade (12 page)
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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“Yes,” I said, “Dr. Boyle was immensely helpful.”
“What was your reaction when the man accosted you?” Evelyn asked me.
My laugh was forced. “Fear, of course,” I answered. “But it all happened so fast that I really didn’t have time to feel much of anything, Evelyn.”
John Shearer started shooting candid shots of me and Rick Allcott as Evelyn turned to Rick. “You’re now a local hero,” she said.
“I’m anything but that,” Rick said. “I’m here visiting Mrs. Fletcher and intend to just enjoy the weekend.” He turned to Shearer. “And I would appreciate it if you’d stop doing that. Your strobe light is annoying.” He said it in a way that left no room for debate. The young photographer lowered his camera and leaned against the car.
“Could you tell me something about your experience as an FBI special agent?” Evelyn asked Rick. “And about your relationship with Mrs. Fletcher?”
“I’m sorry,” Rick said, “but I’m irrelevant in this whole matter. I was about to drive Mrs. Fletcher home, and I think we’d best do that—now!”
“Any final comment, Jessica?” Evelyn asked.
I shook my head. “Sorry, Evelyn, but you’ll have all the information you need from Sheriff Metzger, and you obviously have spoken with Dr. Boyle. We have to leave.”
“Who’s the emergency room doctor who treated Seth Hazlitt?” she asked. “I’ll want to get an update on his condition.”
I gave her his name, and Rick and I went to his car. Safely inside, Rick shook his head and laughed. “So much for my visit to the bucolic Cabot Cove,” he said.
“It may be hard to believe in light of tonight’s events,” I said, “but Cabot Cove is usually a quiet town. It’s a wonderful place to live, where people not only know each other but look out for their neighbors—”
“A perfect example of small-town America, huh?” he said, starting the engine. “I’ll take your word for it.”
But Cabot Cove was changing. Did my description still hold true? Or was it just wishful thinking?
Chapter Seven
It was a fitful night’s sleep. Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the vision of the attack outside the restaurant, and of the injury to Seth. It kept playing over and over and of the injury to Seth. It kept playing over and over in my mind like a loop of videotape on a machine without a PAUSE button.
I finally gave up and got out of bed at five, my pajamas damp from the bedroom’s uncomfortable temperature. I turned on the air conditioner in the kitchen, along with a small TV I have there, and put the kettle on. News of the attempted mugging had reached one of the Bangor TV stations. A female anchor reported that mystery novelist Jessica Fletcher and Seth Hazlitt, one of Cabot Cove’s leading physicians, had been the victims of an assault outside a popular restaurant. I suppose they didn’t have a photo of Seth in their archives because the only picture that flashed on the screen was one of me taken at a mystery writers’ panel I’d chaired in Bangor earlier in the year.
Surely,
I thought,
there has to be more pressing news to report than a thwarted attack by a drug addict wielding a knife.
The anchor ended with, “According to eyewitnesses, the attacker was subdued by an unnamed man who’d been in the restaurant with Mrs. Fletcher and Dr. Hazlitt.”
Surely,
I thought,
there has to be more pressing news to report than a thwarted attack by a drug addict wielding a knife.
The anchor ended with, “According to eyewitnesses, the attacker was subdued by an unnamed man who’d been in the restaurant with Mrs. Fletcher and Dr. Hazlitt.”
My thoughts shifted to Rick Allcott and the way he’d subdued our attacker. His action had been so quick that I was sure the knife wielder hadn’t had a chance to use his weapon on him. The fury of Allcott’s attack was especially surprising to me, considering his slight physique. He hardly looked like a man capable of making such a concerted physical response, nor did his demeanor give a clue to that capability. A good lesson learned, I thought, as I prepared my tea. As the saying goes, you can’t tell a book by its cover—or a man by his appearance.
I heard the twin
thumps
of both newspapers landing on my steps, and fetched them. No surprise that last night’s incident dominated the front page of the
Gazette
. Evelyn Phillips’s story was straightforward, as her stories usually were, but I was dismayed by the accompanying pictures. One was a shot John Shearer had taken of me just outside the hospital. He’d caught me with a puzzled expression on my face, framed by lank hair, and— Let’s just say it wouldn’t be one I’d choose for the back cover of one of my books. More upsetting was a photo taken through a window of Seth Hazlitt in his hospital bed. You really couldn’t make out that it was Seth, but the caption identified him.
What a terrible invasion of privacy,
I thought. Seth would be furious, especially because the photo was adjacent to a dramatic picture of Dr. Boyle in white coat, stethoscope draped around his neck, and evidently taken by a professional portrait photographer. I didn’t relish hearing the explosion I knew would take place when Seth saw the newspaper.
thumps
of both newspapers landing on my steps, and fetched them. No surprise that last night’s incident dominated the front page of the
Gazette
. Evelyn Phillips’s story was straightforward, as her stories usually were, but I was dismayed by the accompanying pictures. One was a shot John Shearer had taken of me just outside the hospital. He’d caught me with a puzzled expression on my face, framed by lank hair, and— Let’s just say it wouldn’t be one I’d choose for the back cover of one of my books. More upsetting was a photo taken through a window of Seth Hazlitt in his hospital bed. You really couldn’t make out that it was Seth, but the caption identified him.
What a terrible invasion of privacy,
I thought. Seth would be furious, especially because the photo was adjacent to a dramatic picture of Dr. Boyle in white coat, stethoscope draped around his neck, and evidently taken by a professional portrait photographer. I didn’t relish hearing the explosion I knew would take place when Seth saw the newspaper.
Naturally, Mort Metzger was quoted at length. So were Peppino’s owner, Joe DiScala; the couple who’d been leaving the parking lot and witnessed the assault; Lennon-Diversified’s Cynthia Welch; and, of course, Dr. Warren Boyle, who told Evelyn, “I can only say that it was fortunate that I had decided to have dinner at Peppino’s that night, and was able to play a small part in saving Dr. Hazlitt’s life. His death would have been a tragic loss to the Cabot Cove medical community.”
As innocuous as the doctor’s comments were, I had what I can only describe as a crawling sensation on my skin. I have nothing against anyone who takes advantage of situations to garner publicity, and by extension promotes his or her business. Maybe it was my love for Seth Hazlitt that generated within me an unreasonable dislike of Dr. Boyle. The man had never done anything to me to spawn such feelings, and I suffered a bout of guilt. Similarly, I had no tangible reason to dislike Joseph Lennon. He had demonstrated considerable generosity toward the town I love, and had gone out of his way to provide for its citizens. Certainly, Chester Carlisle’s response to Lennon’s largesse was extreme and uncalled-for. I may have witnessed Lennon in a particularly unflattering moment, but that didn’t mean he was always cruel to his son. People often say things in anger that they regret upon reflection. I hoped that was the case with Lennon and his son, Paul. I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Still . . .
Maybe my feelings grew out of the changes that seemed to be swirling around me. I’ve always prided myself on being adaptable. When you travel as much as I do, you’d better be good at adapting to change. Had growing older diminished my flexibility, rendering me unable to go with the flow and to recognize change as inevitable, and often for the good? I hoped not.
I shook off my conflicted thinking (aided by the cool air from the air conditioner), showered, and settled in to resume work on the outline for my next novel. I waited until eight to call the hospital, and was connected to Seth’s room.
“Good morning, Seth.”
“Looks like another scorcher,” he replied. “I can see the heat right through the window.”
“I suppose so. How are you feeling?”
“Just fine, thank you. They say they’ll be releasing me at ten. Did you read that flapdoodle in today’s
Gazette
? I was near to popping my gourd when I saw it. What a nerve, taking a picture of me in the hospital.”
Gazette
? I was near to popping my gourd when I saw it. What a nerve, taking a picture of me in the hospital.”
I laughed. “You looked good.”
“What was good was that no one could recognize me. And that handshaker Boyle, boostin’ himself on my misfortune. Savin’ my life, huh? Why, that man is lower than whale droppings, lower than—”
“How are you getting home?” I asked, trying to derail the gourd-popping I could see coming.
“Jim Shevlin is picking me up. Nothing like a hands-on mayor. He’ll have my vote again, but I suppose he already knows that.”
“I’m sure he does. What can I bring?”
“Yourself, Jessica. I have something I want to run by you.”
“Oh?”
“And I won’t be discussin’ it on the phone. What time are you free this morning?”
“Anytime you say, Seth. I made a date to meet Rick Allcott for breakfast at nine. I want him to experience Mara’s blueberry pancakes before he leaves Cabot Cove.”
He chuckled. “He’ll never leave once he tastes ’em. Interesting fellow. He took that young punk down without breaking a sweat.”
“All that FBI training. We’re lucky he was with us.”
“You make sure to thank him for me.”
“I’ll do that.”
He was silent a moment. “I suppose you want me to thank Boyle, too.”
“He tried to be helpful, Seth.”
I heard him cough and mumble something. “I didn’t catch what you said.”
Seth cleared his throat. “I’ll call him later and express my appreciation.”
“Yes, that would be a nice thing to do. Can you believe that tomorrow is the Fourth of July? The years just fly by.”
“I wish the heat would break before the festivities,” Seth said. “It will take a toll on our seniors, at least those foolish enough to stand outside. Are you planning to attend that rock-and-roll concert and the fireworks?”
“Are you suggesting that this
senior
shouldn’t?”
senior
shouldn’t?”
“I’m suggesting nothing of the kind, Jessica. You’ll come to my house after your breakfast with Mr. Allcott?”
“You should be home by eleven. I’ll come by a little before noon.”
“Have to get off now. The nurses are here to make sure I’m still alive. See you later.”
I made some progress on my outline, which pleased me, and was about to phone for a taxi to take me to Mara’s when Mort Metzger called.
“Sorry to bother you, Mrs. F, but I was wondering whether you’d be able to come by headquarters today.”
“I’ll make the time. What’s it about?”
“Well, I never got a formal statement from you last night. I have to add that to the file.”
“Of course.”
“And the DA wants to put the fellow who attacked you in a lineup. He wants you and Mr. Allcott to see if you can pick him out. He wants Doc Hazlitt to participate, too, but I figured he probably wouldn’t be up to it, at least not for a couple of days.”
“I can’t say for sure, but that’s a good assumption, Mort. I’m seeing Seth around noon. I’ll mention it to him. Does the district attorney really think a lineup is necessary? There were so many witnesses. Surely there isn’t a question about who did it.”
“That’s the way I see it, Mrs. F, but it seems our young drug addict comes from a pretty well-to-do family upstate. His father’s hired a hotshot attorney.”
I sighed. “Of course I’ll view the lineup. Have you spoken to Richard Allcott?”
“About the lineup? Not yet.”
“I’m on my way to have breakfast with him. Maybe we can come by together after that. Will you be able to put together a lineup that quickly?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem by, say, eleven. The kid’s attorney is here in town, and I can press some of my men into service. Some of them are not much older than the kid.”
“Eleven it is,” I said, realizing as I did that I was making assumptions where Rick Allcott was concerned. Maybe being a former FBI agent would preclude his taking part in a lineup. I’d have to ask, and I wondered whether Mort had queried the defense attorney about it, too.
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
11.8Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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