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Authors: Jessica Fletcher,Donald Bain

Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade (9 page)

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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“A dangerous business. Now, let me see those sinuses of yours.”
 
 
After examining my nose, ears, and throat, and asking a series of questions, he said, “I’d say you’re well over your infection, Jessica. Good thing, too. Sinus infections can turn into something a lot more serious if they’re not treated properly.”
 
 
“I’m sure that’s true. Now, Doctor, tell me how
you’re
feeling.”
 
 
“Fair to middlin’.”
 
 
“No better than that?”
 
 
“Too busy for a man my age. Time I started to slow down and pack it in.”
 
 
“I thought Dr. Jenny was helping you cut back. Can she take over more of your patients for you?”
 
 
“She’s very good, and a lot of the mothers with young children have really taken to her. But truth to tell, some of the old-timers haven’t—” Seth hesitated. “Now I don’t want you jumping down my throat, but I think some of ’em are not quite comfortable with a woman.”
 
 
“Well, they’ll just have to wait to see you if they don’t want to see her,” I said. “I don’t have a lot of sympathy with that point of view. If a doctor is good, gender shouldn’t matter. But I’m old enough to understand that what’s right isn’t always what’s done.”
 
 
“True.” He fiddled with his stethoscope and looked suddenly embarrassed. “I’ve been talking to someone in Bangor who specializes in selling medical practices.”
 
 
“About selling
your
practice?”
 
 
“Ayuh. I’m tired of all the paperwork for these infernal insurance companies. They’ve all got some clerks deciding what medical procedures they’ll pay for. They love getting the premiums every month, but they fight like the dickens not to pay out any of it.”
 
 
“Sure you want to do that, Seth? Somehow, I can’t conceive of you not practicing medicine here in Cabot Cove. You’ll have lots of very unhappy people if you go through with selling the practice.”
 
 
“That may be, but the writing’s on the wall. Time to face reality.”
 
 
“How about if I change your reality, at least for one evening?” I said.
 
 
He looked at me quizzically.
 
 
I told him of my call from retired FBI special agent Allcott, and of our dinner plans that evening. “I want you to meet him, Seth. You’ll like him, and it will do you good to enjoy some delicious Italian food, a glass of Chianti, and interesting conversation about something other than medicine.”
 
 
“I don’t know, Jess, I—”
 
 
“I insist. I’m meeting him at Peppino’s at six. There will be a seat reserved for you.”
 
 
“Well, all right. Now that your sinus infection is cleared up, your powers of persuasion are operating at full strength.”
 
 
I laughed and patted his arm. “Bring your best appetite, ” I said on my way out the door. “There’ll be no doggie bags tonight.”
 
 
I rode into town despite the heat and stopped in Charlene Sassi’s bakery to pick up one of her to-die-for cinnamon buns to have for breakfast the next day. The shop was busy. I took a number and got in line behind Agnes Kalisch.
 
 
“Hello, Jessica,” Agnes said.
 
 
“Hello, Agnes. How are you?”
 
 
“Not well, I’m afraid.”
 
 
I knew what was coming. Agnes Kalisch was one of those people who insist upon discussing their various physical ailments with anyone who will listen.
 
 
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
 
 
“I’m always so tired these days, no energy at all. I can barely get out of bed in the morning and get on with the day.”
 
 
“Are you seeing the doctor?” I asked, knowing the answer.
 
 
“I’m seeing Dr. Boyle.”
 
 
I couldn’t resist. “Oh? I thought you were Seth Hazlitt’s patient.”
 
 
“I was until recently. He’s—well, Seth is a fine man and all that, but I’m afraid he’s fallen behind the times medically.”
 
 
“Really? I’ve always found him to be very much on top of things.”
 
 
She became conspiratorial. “Well, Jessica, that may be your experience, but it isn’t mine. I told him about my chronic fatigue and all he did was draw blood and put me on iron pills. I’m anemic, you know.”
 
 
“I didn’t know, Agnes.”
 
 
“Well, it’s true. He sent me for a bunch of tests last year and this year, and the only answer he had was to put me on iron pills and vitamin C, which he says helps absorb the iron in my body. The pills didn’t help one bit, and then—and
then
he wanted to poke a needle in my back to see if I had some rare disease he mentioned, something with a big fancy name, Walder Macro-something or other. That’s when I decided to change to Dr. Boyle. He’s got me on special nutrients he invented and sells right there at his offices. Have you been there, Jessica? State-of-the-art everything, and modern. Frankly, I don’t think Seth Hazlitt knows what he’s doing half the time.” Her voice lowered even further. “I think he might be getting senile.”
 
 
“Agnes! That’s ridiculous,” I said, louder than I’d intended, only to draw curious looks from the others in the shop. I brought down my voice level. “Seth Hazlitt is anything but senile. He’s one of the brightest and most astute men I’ve ever known.”
 
 
“You’re entitled to your opinion, Jessica.”
 
 
One of Charlene’s counter help called Agnes’s number, and she walked away, leaving me very upset. How many others had Agnes talked to about Seth’s alleged senility? It wouldn’t take much for that rumor to spread all over town, as far-fetched as it was. That’s the trouble with rumors. It doesn’t matter if they’re true or not at the outset. Give them enough time to fester, and involve enough people, and it isn’t long before they become what’s construed as the truth, and all the denials in the world won’t change it.
 
 
I bought my cinnamon bun, hot out of Charlene’s oven, and swung by the library to put the final touches on a program to be held there on Saturday morning prior to our Independence Day Parade. Lee Walters, our head librarian, had come up with the idea to hold a discussion about the First Amendment geared to younger readers, and I’d agreed to be on the panel. Lee and I met for only fifteen minutes; everything was in order and there was little to discuss.
 
 
“Plans for the evening, Jessica?” Lee asked as I prepared to leave.
 
 
I told her about the unexpected arrival of my FBI friend from Washington and our dinner plans. “Seth Hazlitt is joining us,” I added.
 
 
“How is Seth?” she asked, her brow furrowed in exaggerated concern.
 
 
“Fine. Why do you ask?” I knew the answer the moment I asked the question.
 
 
“I’ve heard he’s having some—I don’t know how to put this gently—I’ve heard that he’s having some—well— some emotional problems.”
 
 
“Lee, let me assure you that none of that is the least bit true.” I shook my head. “I can’t believe that well-meaning people in this town are willing to spread such nonsense.”
 
 
“I didn’t mean to anger you, Jess,” Lee said.
 
 
“I’m not angry, Lee, but I am dismayed. There’s simply no basis to that at all. Let’s drop it. The program Saturday morning has really shaped up, thanks to you. See you then.”
 
 
She walked me outside.
 
 
“I forgot to tell you,” she said, “that Lennon-Diversified is donating money to refurbish the kids’ reading room.”
 
 
“That’s wonderful. It can use some sprucing up.”
 
 
“Money!” Lee said. “It always comes down to money. Fortunately, Joseph Lennon picked Cabot Cove to relocate his business. He’s so generous.”
 
 
I headed home, where I showered and settled in my den to do more work on the outline. But I couldn’t concentrate. My mind kept shifting from the task at hand to Seth. His situation had all the marks of a “perfect storm.” He loses a few patients and is understandably unhappy about it. At least one of those patients decides he’s lost his touch as a physician and tells others, which prompts them to tell still others. Pretty soon, there are hundreds of people who’ve heard that Seth Hazlitt “is losing it,” and is demonstrating signs of encroaching senility. That will cause more patients to seek other physicians, which will further depress Seth, and that, in turn, will fuel even more rumors. The classic vicious circle.
 
 
He didn’t deserve it, and I made a silent pledge to myself to try and think of ways to counter it. I was immersed in that mental exercise when it was time to leave for dinner with Seth and Richard Allcott. Just what the doctor ordered—good food, good wine, and good conversation about more pleasant things. A relaxing evening.
 
 
At least that was my expectation.
 
 
Chapter Five
 
 
When I arrived at the restaurant shortly before six, Richard Allcott was already at the bar chatting with the resident bartenders, Randy and Kathy.
 
 
“The famous Jessica Fletcher,” he said, sliding off the barstool and taking both my hands in his. “You look terrific.”
 
 
“Thank you,” I said. “I might say the same about you.”
 
 
“Then by all means do,” he said, smiling. “I’m always receptive to a compliment.”
 
 
“I see you’ve already met Randy and Kathy.”
 
 
“Bartenders are my favorite people,” he said. “They not only know how to make drinks, they have a finger on the pulse of wherever it is they ply their profession.”
 
 
“And what did they tell you about Cabot Cove?”
 
 
“Just that if Jessica Fletcher wanted to run for mayor, she’d be a shoo-in.”
 
 
We were greeted by the younger Joe DiScala, Joe Jr.
 
 
“Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “Glad you’ll be joining us tonight.”
 
 
I introduced him to Allcott. As I did, the door opened and Seth entered.
 
 
“Dr. Hazlitt,” Joe said, shaking Seth’s hand. “Always good to have a doctor in the house in case a customer swallows a fork.”
 
 
“Afraid I’m not a fork specialist, Joe. They’d be on their own.”
 
 
We were seated at a corner table.
 
 
“I’m so pleased I decided to make a stop in Cabot Cove,” Allcott said after we’d ordered wine, with Seth making the final selection at Allcott’s insistence. “It’s wonderful seeing Mrs. Fletcher again, and to have made your acquaintance, Doctor.”
 
 
“It’s Jessica and Seth,” I counseled.
 
 
“Fair enough,” Allcott said. “Please call me Rick.”
 
 
“Jessica tells me that you spent years with the FBI,” Seth said.
 
 
“That’s right, Seth. Twenty years. Twenty very good years.”
 
 
“You a lawyer or accountant?” Seth asked.
 
 
“No. The bureau dropped that requirement before I joined. I came out of the University of Wisconsin with a degree in English lit. I intended to go on for my master’s and maybe even a Ph.D., but a friend had just joined up with the house-that-Hoover-built and suggested I might like it. No, it was more than a suggestion. He
challenged
me to apply, and I took the challenge. Glad I did. I liked what I did for those twenty years, catching the bad guys, making the country safer.” He laughed and waved his hand over the table. “I know, that all sounds very Pollyanna, but it represents how I feel.”
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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