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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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“Sounds yummy. I’m sorry Willie and I couldn’t make it.”
“Me, too, but I’ll invite you again.”
“Who’s coming?”
“Seth Hazlitt, Jim and Susan Shevlin, and Tim and Ellen Purdy.” Tim was Cabot Cove’s resident historian, and his wife, Ellen, won the annual quilting bee prize every year, or so it seemed.
“Say hello for me,” Kathy said as she helped me remove my bike from the trunk.
“I sure will. And thanks for the ride. I didn’t look forward to pedaling home in this heat.”
“Wonderful dinner, Jess,” Ellen Purdy said as we left the table and moved to a screened porch at the rear of my house. Ordinarily, we would have had dessert in the living room, but it was too warm there. I’d hoped that with the AC units in the kitchen and study blowing full blast, enough cool air would make its way to the rest of the house, but it hadn’t happened. As it turned out, a breeze had come up, sending somewhat refreshing air onto the porch, aided by a large floor fan I’d set up in a corner. I brought out the pecan pie I’d purchased at Charlene Sassi’s bakery, along with plates, mugs, silverware, and a carafe filled with iced black coffee. There were no tea drinkers that night.
“Too bad you missed the dinner at Joe Lennon’s house,” Tim Purdy said to me.
“I was sorry to have missed it, too,” I said. “I was in New York to see my agent and my publisher. You had a good time?”
“Very nice,” Susan Shevlin replied. “He knows how to entertain.”
“Quite a house he has,” Ellen said, “although I could have done without his hunting trophies hanging on the wall.”
“He goes to Africa every year big-game hunting,” Tim filled in.
“Big-game slaughter,” Ellen said.
There were nods all around.
“His wife was away?” I asked.
“She’s always away somewhere,” Tim said. “He had his vice president, Cynthia, there as the hostess in her absence, and her assistant, Dante. Impressive guy. Told me he was in the military—ordnance, I think—before he came to work for Lennon.”
“What’s ordnance?” Ellen asked.
“Arms, ammunition, artillery,” her husband replied.
“Was his daughter, Josie, there, too?” I asked them.
“Yes,” said Tim. “You know her?”
“I met her today. She’s helping Robin Stockdale with the pageant.”
“Have you met Lennon’s son?” Jim Shevlin asked.
“No.”
“Nice enough young man,” Susan said. “He works with his father.”
“He came off more like a servant than a son,” Jim said. “The old man says jump, the son asks, ‘How high?’ ”
Susan raised an eyebrow at her husband. “It wasn’t that bad,” she said.
“Made me uncomfortable,” was Jim’s response.
“What do you think of plans for the Independence Day weekend?” Tim asked.
“They’re elaborate,” I said.
“Puts us right up there with Washington and New York,” Susan said.
“And Lititz, Pennsylvania,” Tim said.
“Where?” It was a chorus.
“Lititz,” Tim said. “They have a candle festival every Fourth, thousands of candles floated in water by the kids. They even choose a Candle Queen.”
“Flagstaff, Arizona, has an interesting celebration,” Jim said. “A three-day American Indian rodeo. Seems fitting considering they were here before us.”
“Anybody know why our signatures are called our ‘John Hancocks’?” Tim asked.
“Because he signed the Declaration of Independence,” the mayor answered.
“More than that.” Tim was in his element—history was his passion. “John Hancock’s signature was big and ornate. You can’t miss it on the document. By the way, he was the first to sign the Declaration of Independence.”
“More pie?” I asked Seth, who’d been strangely quiet throughout dinner and ever since.
“No, thank you. I’ve had my fill.”
“How are things in the medical biz, Doc?” Jim asked.
“Gettin’ worse every day,” was Seth’s reply. “If the government has its way, we’ll spend more time in medical school learning how to fill out forms than being taught how to cure people.”
“Is it that awful?” Ellen asked.
“Ayuh, it certainly is.”
“What do you think of the new physician, Dr. Boyle?”
Seth shrugged. “Maybe I will have just a dite more of that pie, Jessica,” he said, his lack of response to the question speaking volumes.
Ellen cocked her head. “Molly Wynn says you refused to give her a prescription she wanted,” she said, keeping the subject of medicine on the table. “She said she was switching to Dr. Boyle.”
Tim frowned at his wife, but she ignored him. Everyone waited for Seth’s reply.
“That she did,” Seth said. “She came in after seeing one of those infernal TV commercials from a pharmaceutical company and told me she wanted to try the drug they were pushing. I told her she didn’t need it. Got herself all in a huff and left the office. She’s not the only one. I’ve got people comin’ in all the time wanting me to prescribe some drug they’ve seen on TV, whether it’s good for them or not. In some cases it’d even be dangerous for them to take it.”
There was general agreement with what he’d said.
“What do you think of the scans Dr. Boyle is offering?” Ellen asked. “Tim and I are considering having them. He’s offering a special this month.”
“See what I mean?” Seth grumbled. “Either you or Tim have some symptoms requiring a scan?”
Tim and Ellen looked at each other.
“No,” Tim said.
“The pie is especially good, Jessica,” Seth said, ending the discussion and downing his final forkful.
“I’ll tell Charlene Sassi you liked it.”
The night concluded with a discussion of the meeting that had been held that afternoon, and Chester Carlisle’s behavior at it.
“He’s so volatile,” our mayor said. “I thought he was going to physically attack that young exec from Lennon-Diversified.”
“I’ve been telling Chester for years that he’s got to curb his anger,” Seth said. “Even suggested he see a shrink. He didn’t take too kindly to that bit of medical advice.” Seth chortled. “Thought he might take a swing at me right there in the office.”
After everyone had left and I’d restored order to the kitchen, I settled in my air-conditioned study and turned on the TV news. After a succession of national stories, the anchor team turned to local Maine coverage. At the end of a report about a heated debate in the state’s legislature over a proposed bill, Joseph Lennon’s face filled the screen. A team from the Bangor station had come to Cabot Cove to cover the upcoming Independence Day weekend, and the female reporter asked Lennon why he had chosen to turn what had always been a modest celebration into one rivaling those of big cities.
“I’ve put together a more ambitious celebration because Cabot Cove is now my home, and home to my corporation. This is the twenty-first century, and Cabot Cove should recognize and embrace that reality. We’re going to be doing everything in a big way, and the Fourth of July fest is just the beginning.”
“How have the town’s old-timers responded to your efforts? ” Lennon was asked.
“They love it!” he said, flashing a radiant smile. “Wouldn’t you?”
The announcer’s face filled the screen.“More coming up on the Red Sox road trip after these messages.” The news-cast gave way to commercials, and I turned off the set. As much as I embrace progress, provided it’s achieved in an orderly and reasonable way, I did not agree with Lennon’s characterization of what Cabot Cove had been and was, nor did his bravado proclamation please me. I couldn’t help but think of that wonderful old tune written by someone I’d had the pleasure of meeting long ago, Sy Oliver, who’d created so many great arrangements for the big bands of Jimmie Lunceford and Tommy Dorsey. He’d written, “Tain’t What You Do (It’s the Way That You Do It).”
Not only an infectious tune, but a sage bit of advice from which Mr. Joseph Lennon could learn a thing or two.
Chapter Three
I awoke on Thursday morning with a hangover—not the alcoholic variety, but one from a sweaty, uncomfortable night’s sleep. I’ve never enjoyed sleeping in air-conditioning and had resisted adding a third window unit for my bedroom. A portable fan, as well as an attic unit, drew in fresh, albeit warm, air from outside, but nothing did the trick in this heat wave. All the fans seemed to do was to circulate hot air around me as I tried to sleep.
The sun was creeping over the horizon when I got out of bed, put on the kettle for tea, and retrieved the local newspaper from the front steps, along with the
New York Times
and the
Boston Herald
.
New York Times
and the
Boston Herald
.
The large front-page story in the
Cabot Cove Gazette
was, of course, the upcoming Fourth of July weekend (no major crimes had occurred the night before to preempt the space). The Fourth was on a Saturday, two days away. Joseph Lennon’s picture was there—no surprise—along with a piece about how plans for the event were progressing smoothly. I studied Lennon’s photograph closely. It was obviously a professional portrait, the lighting dramatic, his expression one of serious concern for all living things. The times that I’d met him, I hadn’t taken particular notice of his eyes, but had been content with a more overall impression. He was a good-looking man with prominent cheekbones and a full head of heavily gelled black hair. He wasn’t tall, probably five feet, seven or eight inches, but he carried himself taller. His tan was perpetual, undoubtedly the result of artificial means. I’d noticed in one of Dr. Boyle’s mail pieces that he had established as part of his growing medical practice a tanning salon and massage therapy facility. I found it strange that a physician would promote tanning by machine, given all the negative things written about such procedures. Maybe he’d established the tanning salon to provide his benefactor, Joe Lennon, with easy access to a healthy-seeming, year-round glow.
Cabot Cove Gazette
was, of course, the upcoming Fourth of July weekend (no major crimes had occurred the night before to preempt the space). The Fourth was on a Saturday, two days away. Joseph Lennon’s picture was there—no surprise—along with a piece about how plans for the event were progressing smoothly. I studied Lennon’s photograph closely. It was obviously a professional portrait, the lighting dramatic, his expression one of serious concern for all living things. The times that I’d met him, I hadn’t taken particular notice of his eyes, but had been content with a more overall impression. He was a good-looking man with prominent cheekbones and a full head of heavily gelled black hair. He wasn’t tall, probably five feet, seven or eight inches, but he carried himself taller. His tan was perpetual, undoubtedly the result of artificial means. I’d noticed in one of Dr. Boyle’s mail pieces that he had established as part of his growing medical practice a tanning salon and massage therapy facility. I found it strange that a physician would promote tanning by machine, given all the negative things written about such procedures. Maybe he’d established the tanning salon to provide his benefactor, Joe Lennon, with easy access to a healthy-seeming, year-round glow.
Now I peered into his eyes. They were dark, bordering on black, and narrow. Mean eyes? I hated to make such a judgment on the basis of a photo in a newspaper, but it was the first thought that came to me.
I read the rest of the paper, pausing at a full-page advertisement run by Dr. Boyle in which he endorsed the scans Ellen Purdy had mentioned: a carotid artery scan, an abdominal aortic aneurysm scan, and a peripheral arterial disease scan. You could order them separately, but if you opted for all three, you saved twenty-five dollars. I had no idea whether such scans were beneficial or whether they would save lives. I had to assume they would. But it wasn’t long ago that doctors and lawyers were prohibited from advertising their services by their sanctioning bodies, the American Medical Association and the American Bar Association. Ads like this one were another example of things changing before our very eyes. Change for the better? Maybe. Maybe not.
After showering and dressing in loose-fitting clothing and sandals, I called Jim at Charles Department Store, a small but remarkable establishment that seemed to carry everything you could possibly want or need, as well as things you’d never thought of.
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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