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Authors: Jessica Fletcher,Donald Bain

Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade (3 page)

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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Chapter Two
 
 
I settled in to do what I’d planned to do, catch up on correspondence. Most of it was in the form of e-mails, which I find frustrating. After deleting dozens of unwanted messages from charlatans looking to sell something—or to inject a virus into my computer should I be foolish enough to open their attachments—I set about responding to legitimate messages. As a former English teacher, I admit to impatience with sloppy writing, and e-mails certainly encourage it. People dash off messages without having the opportunity to see what they’ve written on paper before sending it, and the mistakes in much of their writing testify to the problem with this. While I respond to e-mails with my own e-mails, I also try to send notes by “snail mail.” Why? Because going to the mailbox, pulling out an envelope, opening it, and reading what’s inside is infinitely more pleasurable than reading what comes up on a computer screen. At least it is for me and for a number of my friends.
 
 
After an hour of this, I closed the computer, made myself a light lunch, called Ron Silver, owner of Cabot Cove’s biggest and best lobster pound, to tell him I’d be picking up my order in a few hours, and headed downtown to a series of meetings to which I’d committed. Because of the heat, I considered calling a taxi rather than riding my bicycle, but decided to brave the weather. By the time I reached the city hall, however, I wished I’d reconsidered. My blouse was stuck to my back, and my hair had collapsed in the humidity. After attempting to put myself back together in a ladies’ room, I walked into Mayor Shevlin’s conference room, where a committee comprising two dozen men and women had gathered to put the final touches on plans for our Independence Day festivities.
 
 
“Hello, Jessica,” Kathy Copeland and her sister, Wilimena, said as I came through the double doors. Kathy and I had been Cabot Cove buddies for many years, but I really got to know her when we traveled together to Alaska. Wilimena, known to friends as Willie, had disappeared off a cruise ship there, and Kathy and I retraced Willie’s steps in the hope of finding her. We were successful, but not until after a harrowing week. Willie had gone to Alaska in search of a stash of gold allegedly left her by a distant relative. She’d found it—and almost lost her life in the bargain.
 
 
Until that Alaskan adventure, Wilimena Copeland had defined the term “flighty.” She’d been married multiple times, and had vanished for months on end when pursuing her latest paramour. To say that her near-death experience in Alaska had sobered her approach to life would be an understatement. She’d settled in Cabot Cove, used much of her gold money to refurbish our senior citizens’ center, and was now a valued member of the community. Injuries suffered in Alaska had left her with a bad leg, and she used a cane most of the time. That Alaskan escapade had also had a profound impact on me; in fact, it became the basis of the plot in the last novel I’d written,
Panning for Murder
. As writers are fond of saying, “Everything gets used.”
 
 
Our mayor, Jim Shevlin, called the meeting to order, and we took seats around the large conference table. After thanking everyone for coming out in the heat to attend, he turned the meeting over to Cynthia Welch, who held the title at Lennon-Diversified of vice president of strategic planning and marketing. “As you all know,” our youthful mayor said, “Ms. Welch has been the point man—oops, point woman—for Mr. Lennon and his generous support of this year’s celebration of the Fourth. I’m also sure you realize that we’re in very capable hands. Cynthia, the floor is yours.”
 
 
I judged Ms. Welch to be in her late thirties or early forties. She was strikingly beautiful by any definition, slender and statuesque with long, coal black hair that cascaded down her back, and a classically chiseled face that was a palette for expertly applied makeup. She wore diamond earrings, a pale yellow linen suit and white blouse, and heels so high I marveled that she could walk upright. I’d been introduced to her on a few occasions, and came away each time realizing that she was, indeed, a formidable woman. Any glass ceilings in her future were sure to be shattered.
 
 
“Thank you for being here,” she said from a podium that had been wheeled in, “and for your hard work to make the weekend a success.” A screen behind her promised an audiovisual presentation. “We’re getting down to the wire now,” she said, “and there are lots of loose ends to be tied up. The black binder in front of each of you is the battle plan we’ve come up with to—”
 
 
“Battle plan?” Chester Carlisle growled. “What the hell is that?”
 
 
Chester, a large, imposing, crusty seventy-three-year-old member of the town council, had been one of the few on the board who’d voiced his displeasure with Lennon-Diversified taking over our Fourth of July celebration. Chester seemed always to find something wrong with decisions made by the council. Seth Hazlitt was known in town as a bit of a curmudgeon—Cabot Cove’s resident Andy Rooney—but Chester made Seth look like a mild-mannered pussycat.
 
 
Cynthia smiled. “Just a term we use in business to choreograph major events, Mr. Carlisle. I’m sure you’ll agree that this Fourth of July in Cabot Cove certainly ranks as one of them.”
 
 
Chester started to argue the point, but a young man in a gray suit, who remained glued to Welch’s side wherever she appeared, said sternly to Chester, “Please give Cynthia the courtesy of your quiet attention, sir!”
 
 
Chester grumbled something under his breath, but fell silent as Ms. Welch continued.
 
 
“The entire day and night are laid out in those binders, minute by minute,” she said proudly. “In addition, I’ve prepared a PowerPoint presentation that will give you a visual sense of how things will proceed—the downtown parade, the musical groups, the high school theatrical troupe with its reenactment of events of this special day many years ago, the rock concert, fireworks—all of it. Joe Lennon wants things to go off without a hitch, and since he’s financing this entire event, I’m sure you all agree that we owe him that.”
 
 
I glanced at Kathy, who raised her eyebrows. Ms. Welch’s comment about Lennon-Diversified financing our Fourth of July weekend was heavy-handed at best, if not offensive. I looked around the room. Most people didn’t seem to react the way Kathy and I had, although Jim Shevlin had an expression on his face that was a cross between boredom and resignation. I’d had a conversation with Jim soon after the council had voted to accept Lennon’s offer to bankroll the holiday, and he’d expressed his reaction to the vote. “I’m not sure this is the way to go, Jessica,” he told me. “It’s as though Lennon and his people—and his money—want to take over Cabot Cove. Next thing you know, he’ll be financing a move to impeach me and put himself in the mayor’s office.”
 
 
I had laughed and said, “If he did that, Jim, the town would be up in arms. Let’s give Mr. Lennon the benefit of the doubt and take him for what he claims to be, a wealthy man who wants to contribute to his community.”
 
 
That seemed to salve Jim’s concerns. But as the weeks went by, I wasn’t sure that I believed what I’d told him anymore.
 
 
Now Ms. Welch forged ahead with her talk, augmented by an elaborate slide show that filled the screen with graphs, maps, and bulleted points, all accompanied by Lennon-Diversified’s logo. When she wrapped it up twenty minutes later, she asked, “Any questions?”
 
 
“I’ve got one,” Chester said. “What in hell are we having a rock-and-roll concert for? That’s not the sort of music people around here enjoy.”
 
 
“I’ll answer that,” said the young executive who’d quieted Chester the first time. “Mr. Lennon believes in bringing together all age groups in the community and feels that to just continue doing what was done before creates a chasm between young and old. It’s no secret that too many talented young people leave Cabot Cove for more exciting venues. Mr. Lennon is committed to correcting this.”
 
 
Chester, who didn’t always hear well, turned to the person next to him and asked, “What’d he say?”
 
 
“He said that— It doesn’t matter, Chester. I’ll explain later.”
 
 
Ms. Welch and her male colleague presented such a formidable presence that questions were few. There was one about how traffic would be handled; the reply was that Sheriff Metzger and his officers had everything under control, and traffic would move smoothly. Another question had to do with plans in the event it rained. That query was dismissed by Ms. Welch with a wave of her hand. “It won’t rain,” she said. “And if it does, procedures are spelled out in your battle plan.” She checked her watch. “Thank you for coming today, and for your attention. Let’s make this Fourth of July a day of national pride for all Cabot Cove citizens.” With that, she walked out of the room, leaving her compatriot behind to pack up the audiovisual equipment.
 
 
“What do you think, Jessica?” Kathy asked me as people stood, milled about, and exchanged reactions to the meeting. When I didn’t respond immediately, she said, “It’s all so cold and impersonal, not like planning town events used to be.”
 
 
I had to agree with her. While meetings of previous planning committees had been much more raucous, with lively disagreements occasionally spilling over into arguments, at least they had involved the participation of a large cross-section of the Cabot Cove populace. And no one was ever denied the opportunity to express his or her opinion. Suggestions may not have been accepted, or even warmly received, but they all had a fair airing.
 
 
“It’s like something George Orwell might have written, ” said Wilimena. “Lennon sounds like the original Big Brother.”
 
 
“I was thinking precisely the same thing,” Kathy said.
 
 
“He’s managed to take over the town, and no one seems interested in stopping him,” Wilimena continued.
 
 
“Chester certainly would if he could,” Kathy said.
 
 
I looked to where Chester was engaged in a heated discussion with Mayor Shevlin and other council members. While I agreed with Chester’s response to the takeover of Cabot Cove’s Independence Day by Joseph Lennon and his people, there was little that could be done about it at this late date, and I wished he would tone down his displeasure. There were those in town who felt Chester was “losing it,” a stance with which I didn’t agree. He was irascible and loud, and tended to swear too much for my taste. But he meant well and was passionate in his love for Cabot Cove and its traditions.
 
 
Chester Carlisle had been born and raised in Cabot Cove. He’d gone off to college in New Hampshire, but he returned to his birthplace immediately after graduating and took over the management of his family’s auto parts dealership. He’d been involved in civic affairs for as long as I’d lived there and had once run for mayor, losing a close election to his competitor. He’d been encouraged to run again by friends and family, but his initial foray into politics had soured him on seeking elected office—at least temporarily. He’d been content to manage the business and volunteer for myriad town committees. Now a widower and retired, with his son in charge of the auto parts company, Chester was freer than ever to get more deeply involved in the town. The problem was that over the years Chester had become steadily more entrenched in his views, rarely allowing a dissenting opinion to sway him. Rumor had it that he’d also become a heavy drinker, which, if true, would only serve to fuel his naturally combative nature. But, as anyone who’s ever lived in a small town knows, rumors often circulate even though they may have no basis in fact. I’d witnessed plenty of tantrums on the part of Chester Carlisle, but I couldn’t say that he appeared inebriated at any time, at least not in my personal experience with him.
 
 
There were those who felt that Chester’s presence on the town council had become detrimental. Others wondered why he’d been reelected the last time out. But Chester had his followers, too, who agreed with his view of things and liked having an irritant on the board. “No point in being a rubber stamp,” Chester had said on many occasions.
 
 
“Oh, my goodness,” Kathy said in response to Chester’s rising voice.
 
 
He was now yelling at the mayor and his fellow council members: “I’m telling you, there isn’t one of you with the backbone to tell Mr. Joseph Lennon and his accomplices to get lost, to butt the hell out of our business and let Cabot Cove be what it’s always been, a damned decent town that doesn’t need Lennon’s money or anything else from him.”
 
 
“Calm down, Chester,” Jim Shevlin said, placing his hand on Chester’s back and trying to steer him out of the room. I looked to where the executive from Lennon-Diversified had finished packing up and now stood alone in a corner, his attention focused on the scene playing out in front of him.
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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