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Authors: Jessica Fletcher,Donald Bain

Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade (27 page)

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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“Thank you.”
 
 
Josie faded into the back of the house, and I followed the direction she had indicated, making my way past modern Asian-inspired furniture upholstered in beige brocade and arranged around a glass-and-steel cocktail table in front of a white marble fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling drapes in a bronze watered silk set off the French doors. When closed in the evening, as I was sure they would be, the drapes must have created a wall of shimmering fabric. Since they were open, however, morning sunlight poured in, making bright oblongs on the Persian carpet, like stepping-stones. It was an elegantly appointed room, with obviously expensive furniture and artwork, that must have been designed to create a serene atmosphere. Nevertheless, it appeared to my eyes to be a bit cold and unwelcoming. I wondered if Mrs. Lennon would be the same.
 
 
I didn’t notice her at first when I walked through the archway from the living room. I was too fascinated by the surroundings. The library must have been Joseph Lennon’s retreat from the soulless beige behind me. In this room, everything was decisively masculine, almost ironically so. Dark polished wood paneling, bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes, tufted chesterfield sofas, a stone hearth flanked with matching deep wing chairs, over which hung trophy heads of wild animals looking out on the room as if eavesdropping on the conversation, the faint aroma of tobacco—a pipe perhaps, not a cigar. All conspired to make a macho statement, and an excessive one at that.
 
 
Mrs. Lennon must not have had a hand in decorating this room,
I thought.
Or if she did, she may have intended to give her husband an extreme version of what he wanted.
 
 
“When you’re finished gawking, you might introduce yourself.”
 
 
“Good heavens!” I said. “Where are you?”
 
 
“I’m right here.”
 
 
A face peered around the side of a chair, the wings of which had blocked her from my view. However, the brass fish-eye mirror on the opposite wall must have allowed her to see me enter. Mrs. Lennon was dark-haired and dark-eyed, and even though, unlike her daughter, she was without makeup, I could see where Josie got her exotic looks. She was dressed in a knit pantsuit in a color that would have blended well with her living room, and she had drawn a fringed scarf around her shoulders, probably to counter the frigid effects of the air-conditioning. Her hair was pulled back in an elaborate twist at the base of her neck.
 
 
“Have a seat,” she said, and waved me to the wing chair opposite her. Between the chairs was a low leather table and a tray holding a china tea service, a carafe of water, a glass, a bottle of pills, and a little silver bell.
 
 
I did as instructed, saying, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lennon. I’m Jessica Fletcher. I came to offer my condolences.”
 
 
“The name is familiar. Maybe Joseph spoke of you.” She had a slight foreign accent, although I couldn’t place it.
 
 
“We had met on several occasions,” I said. “I was sorry to learn of his death.”
 
 
“Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
 
 
“Please call me Jessica.”
 
 
“And I’m Denise.” She squinted at me. “Jessica Fletcher, you said?”
 
 
“Yes.”
 
 
“Would you be J. B. Fletcher, the author?”
 
 
I smiled. “I would.”
 
 
Her face brightened. “I think I’ve read every one of your books, J. B. Fletcher. My favorite is
The Corpse Was a Comrade
.”
 
 
“That’s very kind of you to say.”
 
 
“No, no. It’s kind of you to come, Jessica. I’m very touched.” Her face fell. “Joseph’s death was a great shock to me. I would never have expected it. It is supposed to be so safe in America. In my country, they wouldn’t let a man go around threatening someone, but here . . .” She shrugged.
 
 
“I hope you won’t think me rude if I ask where your country is,” I said.
 
 
“Not at all. I’m from what used to be Rhodesia and what is now Zimbabwe. My ancestors were Portuguese and British and Ndebele. Like many native Africans, I am a mixture of many peoples.”
 
 
“How interesting. Do you get to go back often?”
 
 
“Not often, but every now and then. We were there only a few weeks ago. Joseph loved Africa.”
 
 
“Is that where you met your husband?”
 
 
“Yes.” She looked up at the animal heads that were mounted on the wall. “My family led safari tours, and Joseph was one of our clients.” She chuckled softly. “He didn’t kill all these, if that’s what you’re thinking. I bought them from a company in New York. When we moved into this house, I wanted a room to remind him of me when I wasn’t here. It’s a bit over the top, no? But he likes to entertain in here.” She stopped, realizing she’d spoken in the present tense. “It’s going to take me some time to remember he’s gone.”
 
 
“I’m sorry I hadn’t had an opportunity to meet you before,” I said, “but I understand you were out of town. When did you get in?”
 
 
“Joseph wanted me to come for the fireworks—he was very proud that he was able to get that famous family to do the show—so I flew in on the Fourth from Vancouver. We have a home there.”
 
 
“Were you at the fireworks? I saw your husband. Cynthia Welch introduced him. I would have thought she would introduce you, too.”
 
 
She made a face at the mention of Ms. Welch’s name. “No, I missed them,” she said. “I had a migraine when we landed—traveling gives me terrible headaches—so I called Joseph and told him I’d meet him at home, and had the flight crew drop me off here. I went to bed early. Now I’m thinking that if only I’d gone to the fireworks, I might have kept Joseph by my side, or made him take me home early. None of this would have happened.”
 
 
She was right, of course. Most incidents in our lives hinge on a matter of seconds. We move in one direction rather than another, and everything shifts. I thought of the attempted mugging from the other night and the attack on Seth, and how if we’d gotten in the car right away rather than standing outside the restaurant chatting, Seth might never have been injured. Then again, we might have been accosted anyway, and it could have been worse. He might have been killed. Each decision we make, each road we take, leaves another road not taken, as in the final line of the famous poem by Robert Frost that I used to teach in my English class.
 
 
“I hope you don’t blame yourself,” I said. “There was no way for you to know what would happen.”
 
 
“No, I don’t blame myself. I just think about what might have been.” She was silent for a moment. Then she sighed. “Do you know you’re one of only a few people from Cabot Cove who’ve come to see us, aside from the people who work for us?”
 
 
“I’m surprised to hear that,” I said, wondering whether the mayor and members of the town council had stopped by to express their sympathies, or anyone from the other institutions in Cabot Cove that had benefited from Joseph Lennon’s contributions. And if not, why not?
 
 
“I’m not surprised. Joseph was an aggressive business-man. He thought if he invested a lot of money in the towns where he set up his companies that would be enough to buy people’s loyalty, to get them to forget whatever inconveniences a new business brings. Everywhere we had an office, he’d woo the politicians and the citizens, dazzle them with his money, support the local causes, get interviewed by reporters. Frankly, I think he liked the fuss, enjoyed being the center of attention. I warned him that everyone might not take to his style. But of course he didn’t listen. And now, unfortunately, I’ve been proved right.”
 
 
“Did your husband have any enemies that you know of?” I asked.
 
 
“That’s funny,” she said, giving me a small smile. “There was a sheriff here who asked the same question. And I’ll give you the same answer I gave him. Not that I know of. The pharmaceuticals industry is enormous, and we occupy only a very small part of it, packaging and distributing drugs. So, no, I don’t believe Joseph had any enemies. Except, of course, the horrible person who killed him. And did you see how fast they caught him? That’s what offering a reward will do. We put up fifty thousand dollars. I told that sheriff about the money; I knew it would make him work harder.”
 
 
I doubted if Mort would ever claim her reward money, even assuming he arrested the right person, which I didn’t believe was the case at this moment. Mort took pride in his profession and would work hard to solve Lennon’s murder regardless of whether or not a reward was offered. But there was no point in debating with Mrs. Lennon. In my experience, people who don’t trust the police cannot be argued out of it.
 
 
“From what I’ve been told, he sounds like a deranged old man,” she said. “Someone should have put him away before he went crazy.”
 
 
“You mean Chester Carlisle?”
 
 
“Is that his name? All I remember hearing is that he was one of the ones who resented Joseph’s trying to ingratiate himself into the community. Had nasty T-shirts made up ridiculing our name. Tried to get others to reject Joseph’s generosity. And then when he couldn’t sway them to join in his campaign against my husband, he shot him. What a sick, sick man. I feel sad for him.”
 
 
She was not at all what I’d expected. Having met her husband and her children, I’d imagined a pampered society lady, someone as dramatic and demanding as her daughter, or perhaps as meek and insecure as her son. And she might still turn out to be one or the other, but somehow I suspected that wouldn’t be the case.
 
 
“I’m sorry, Mother. I didn’t realize you had company.” Paul Lennon stood in the entryway, hesitant to intrude. He was wearing jeans and a polo shirt and seemed slighter than I remembered—or perhaps it was just the first time I was seeing him without a suit and tie.
 
 
“Paul, come in, dear. This is Mrs. Fletcher. Have you met?”
 
 
“Not officially,” Paul said. “How do you do?”
 
 
“Very well, thank you,” I replied.
 
 
He pulled up a hassock and sat at his mother’s feet.
 
 
“Paul is going to take over the business for me,” Denise said.
 
 
“Mother, I really think we should discuss this. I’m not sure I know enough to run the company by myself.”
 
 
“You won’t be by yourself,” his mother said. “I will be by your side.”
 
 
“But what about Cynthia? She’ll expect—”
 
 
“I don’t care what Cynthia expects. She is an employee. That’s all. You are the heir, and Lennon-Diversified is your father’s legacy.”
 
 
“But the board—”
 
 
“The board will do as I say, or I will replace them.” She looked at me. “I’m sorry, Jessica. We shouldn’t discuss our boring business while you’re visiting.”
 
 
“Please, don’t mind me,” I said. “I know you have many important decisions to make.”
 
 
“That is very understanding of you.”
 
 
“Cynthia said she was coming by today to talk with you,” Paul said, picking up a corner of his mother’s shawl and playing with the fringe.
 
 
“I will talk with her, but I’m not going to change my mind. Your father and I discussed it last week, and we were in agreement. After that business several years ago, I never knew why he kept her on—or perhaps I do. She is young and pretty, after all.” She leaned over and looked in her cup, which was empty. “Jessica, I must apologize to you. I never offered you any coffee or tea.” She picked up the silver bell to ring it but changed her mind. “Paul, will you please ask the maid to bring in a fresh pot of rooibos tea and an extra cup and saucer?”
 
 
“Please don’t fuss on my account,” I said. “I’m fine as I am.”
 
 
“I want tea for myself, Jessica, and you may have it or not as you like. Paul?” She leaned over and plucked the medicine bottle and glass of water from the tray before her son picked it up and left the room. “Joseph was always a little hard on Paul,” she confided when he’d gone.
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
8.53Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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