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Authors: Jessica Fletcher,Donald Bain

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BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade

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“How fast can this go?” I asked.

“Well, it’s a long-range plane. It can zip along at five hundred miles an hour at fifty-one thousand feet.”

“Goodness!”

“You said it. They even have a flight attendant. Can you believe it?”

“Why would they need such a long-range plane?”

“Well, as I understand it, they’re back and forth to Africa, so that would explain it.”

“Is that where they came from?”

“No, I think they came in from Vancouver yesterday.”

“Do you think you could confirm that Mrs. Lennon arrived in Cabot Cove last evening?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I suppose so. I think the crew is scheduled to fly out about an hour from now. I’ll ask.”

He maneuvered out of the seat, we climbed down the steps, and Jed folded the stairs up into the plane.

“Sorry you didn’t get a chance to fly today.”

“Maybe I’ll be back tomorrow. Not sure how my schedule is running.”

“Call before, Jess. I’m liable to get busy.”

“I will.”

“Need a lift back into town? Ronnie has to run an errand for me, pick up something at FedEx.”

“Thanks, Jed. That would be great.”

Ronnie, who’d just graduated from high school and who aspired to a flying career, had started working for Jed at the airport, washing and fueling planes, and running errands, all in exchange for free flying lessons. I asked him to drop me at Seth’s house, where I found my friend toiling over a pile of papers.

“The computer doesn’t help?” I asked, taking a chair across the desk from him.

“Helps plenty, but what do you do with a printed form? Can’t put it in a computer like you could a typewriter. Didn’t think of that when I got rid of my old typewriter, so I’m left with doing things by hand.” He sat back, rubbed his eyes, and asked how things went at police headquarters.

“Rick Allcott and I watched Mort’s recording of Chester under questioning.”

“And?”

“Mort and Rick are convinced that Chester did it. But I can’t get my head around to their way of thinking. Seth, I just don’t believe Chester killed Joseph Lennon.”

“Your instincts in such things have always been pretty good.”

“Only pretty good?”

“Better than that. If Chester didn’t do it, then who did?”

“That’s what I’m determined to find out, Seth, and I need your help.”

Chapter Twelve

The same security guard was at his post when I entered the Lennon-Diversified building Monday morning. The day was cool and overcast, and when the taxi dropped me off in front of the entrance, I was surprised to see that the stage for the rock concert had already been dismantled and carted away.

“Good morning. Roger, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, ma’am.”

“I was sorry to hear about your employer.”

“Thank you.”

“Had you worked for Mr. Lennon for a long time?”

“Yes.”

“You were working the night he was killed?”

“Yes.”

“I understand you were the one who found his body.”

“Do you have an appointment here, ma’am?”

“I do.”

“Then go straight ahead to the reception desk, and Mrs. Koser will assist you.”

Mrs. Koser?
I thought. I know a Mrs. Koser.

“MaryJane! I didn’t know you worked for Lennon-Diversified, ” I said when I reached the reception desk at the far end of the atrium. MaryJane was the wife of Richard Koser, a local photographer and dedicated man about the kitchen.

“Hello, Jessica. Been here a whole two months.”

“I thought you were retired,” I said.

“I
was
retired, but when these folks came to town, I applied and here I am.” She lowered her voice. “ ’Course, don’t know if the job’ll keep, what with Mr. Lennon dying and all.”

“You don’t think they’ll close the business, do you?”

“Never can tell with these people. They don’t talk much.” She eyed the security guard, who was advancing toward the desk. “You have an appointment, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said in a voice that would carry to the other side of the lobby. “Let me call in to announce you.” She lifted the phone and Roger turned, heading back toward the front door.

MaryJane put a hand over the receiver and whispered to me, “Do you have an appointment, Jessica?”

“I don’t,” I whispered back, “but is Ms. Welch in?”

“Oh, yes. They’re all in.”

“I was hoping to talk with her. Do you know her?”

“Well, not to have coffee with. She’s too
high check-rein
to talk to the likes of me, with her diamond earrings and fancy suits. No appointment, huh? I’ll try, but they’re very fussy about appointments here. Can’t think of why they couldn’t be a bit more flexible.” She dialed a number and waited until someone picked up.

“Dante, I have Jessica Fletcher here and she would like to see Ms. Welch. That’s right. Is she available? Okay, I’ll have her wait.” She looked at me. “He says he’ll check and let me know.”

I looked around, but there wasn’t a bench or chair anywhere other than the one MaryJane occupied.
Either they rarely have any visitors,
I thought,
or they never keep them waiting. Or if they do, they don’t care if a guest is uncomfortable. Maybe that’s their way of discouraging visitors.

“How’s Richard?” I asked. “Is he still experimenting with new dishes?”

“Oh, you know Richard. He’s the reason I’m here.”

“He is?”

“He was getting ugly about me being underfoot. According to him, I was no help and all hindrance in the kitchen. I figured if I didn’t want to get in hailing distance of a divorce, I’d better get out of the house. Never liked to cook, anyway.”

“So you came to work here.”

“I did. It’s not much of a job, but it keeps me out of trouble. Plus, I get a lot of reading in.” She held up a paperback novel. “Tried talking to that one”—she nodded toward Roger—“but he’s tighter than a clam and not nearly as much personality. Mr. Lennon kept him on a short leash.”

“What exactly do they do here?” I asked. “I heard the company had something to do with pharmaceuticals.”

“From what I’ve seen, it’s shipping, mostly.”

“Shipping what?”

“Their drugs and medicines. They come in from their other offices and they ship them out from here.”

“So it’s similar to Federal Express shipping all their packages from Memphis, Tennessee. They’re using Cabot Cove as the central shipping place to distribute their products.”

“How did you know? That’s how they described it to me when I first came.”

“But why the strict security?” I said, thinking aloud. “And why be so secretive?”

“Beats me. They don’t have a lot of people wandering through, anyway. Which reminds me—I thought I saw you here t’other day.”

“Yes, I was here with Kathy Copeland. She was feeling a little faint from the heat, and we came in to cool off.”

“That was quite a little dustup they had that day. Thought Ms. Welch would pop her embroidered buttons.”

“She did appear upset.”

“Upset is an understatement. She was slamming around here all afternoon. She and Mr. Lennon had a real knockdown drag-out. I could hear them shouting all the way out here. She was expecting to get a promotion and he’s giving it to Paul instead. That’s his son. President. He’s making him president. Or was. I guess Paul’ll still get to be president if Mrs. Lennon wants him to. She’s here now. Never even stopped to say hello to me, even though I hailed her when she first arrived. Now, Paul, he’s a nice kid, but not too much up here”—MaryJane tapped her temple—“if you know what I mean. At least not a real corporatey type like her—Ms. Welch, that is.”

The double doors on the side of the lobby opened with a loud clunk, the sound reverberating through the empty marble space. Dante strode toward the reception desk. He was impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit and looked very “corporatey,” as MaryJane had described Ms. Welch.

He addressed me. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “We haven’t been formally introduced, but I was at the Independence Day committee meeting at city hall last week when you and Ms. Welch made your presentation.”

He stared at me, but there was no recognition in his eyes. In fact, his expression said he was clearly uninterested in anything I might have to say.

“Yes, well, I was hoping to get a chance to speak with Ms. Welch today. Is she in?”

“And what did you wish to talk with Ms. Welch about?”

“It’s a private matter. If you would just tell her—”

He interrupted me with, “I’m Ms. Welch’s personal assistant. She’s a very busy woman, and sees people only by appointment. I handle her schedule, and you do not have an appointment, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Well, then, I’d like to make an appointment to see Ms. Welch.”

“She’s not making any appointments at this time.”

“Sounds like a catch-22,” I said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“
Catch-22
, the Joseph Heller novel. You know, the one about the army and its circular rules. I can’t see Ms. Welch without an appointment, but Ms. Welch isn’t taking appointments, and I can’t see her unless I have an appointment.”

He gave me a blank look.

“Never mind,” I said. “It’s better in the original.”

MaryJane stiflfled a snort.

“Perhaps I can see Mrs. Lennon,” I said. “I’d like to extend my sympathies. It must have been quite a shock to her—”

“Mrs. Lennon is in mourning and is not accepting visitors. I don’t believe there is anyone here, Mrs. Fletcher, who has a vacancy in their appointments. Perhaps if you called ahead next time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. . . ? I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

“ ‘Dante’ will do.”

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade

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