Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote) (35 page)

Read Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote) Online

Authors: Jessica Fletcher

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote)
5.5Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
 
Murder on Parade
 
 
Available now from Obsidian
 
 
“By the Old Lord Harry, it seems to get hotter every day, and no relief in sight.”
 
Seth Hazlitt wasn’t exaggerating. A front had stalled just off the coast, trapping a flow of hot, humid air coming from the southwest and turning Cabot Cove into a sticky, steamy mess. The temperature had broken records from as far back as they’d been kept, and the forecast for the next several days was more of the same. You couldn’t help but notice a discernible rise in tempers as people slowly moved through their days, perspiration dripping down their necks, eyes stinging from the polluted, stagnant, greenish air, seeking out any place that had a high-efficiency air conditioner. Fortunately, Mara’s Luncheonette, where I sat with Seth and Sheriff Mort Metzger, had an AC that kept up with the heat.
I’d met them for breakfast that morning to discuss the upcoming Fourth of July weekend celebration. As a physician, Seth was concerned with the well-being of citizens who might overdo things in the heat. “Folks don’t realize how heatstroke can sneak up on you,” he said, motioning for Mara to refill his coffee cup. “Too many damn fools go runnin’ around in this weather, and before they know it, they’re in the emergency room bein’ treated.”
Mort agreed. “The mayor’s got us putting up notices around town warning people to take it easy until this heat wave breaks, but it doesn’t look like it will until after the Fourth.”
“I’ve heard people suggest we cancel some of the events,” I offered.
“Hard to do that, Mrs. F,” said Mort. “You know how folks around here feel about Independence Day. They take it real serious.”
“Like the rest of the nation,” I said, “and rightly so.”
Mara brought a pot of coffee to the table and filled Mort’s and Seth’s cups. “More tea, Jessica?” she asked me.
“I don’t have time,” I said, “but thanks, anyway.”
“What’s your rush, Mrs. F?” Mort asked.
“Errands, and some correspondence to catch up on. I’ve been like everyone else these past few days, moving in slow motion.”
“Best way to be,” Seth advised.
“But not much gets done,” I said.
I reached for my purse, but Seth waved me off. “My treat, Jessica,” he said.
“Well, thank you, sir,” I said, and prepared to leave. But Mort stopped me with, “Look who’s here.”
Coming through the door was Amos Tupper, Cabot Cove’s former sheriff. After Amos retired, he moved to Kentucky to be near family. Mort, who’d been a police officer in New York City, replaced Amos and took up residence in Cabot Cove with his wife. I loved Amos, and still do, but I had to admit—not for public consumption, though—that the efficiency of our police department had improved since Mort arrived, bringing with him his New York street smarts. Cabot Cove had grown considerably, and with that growth had come a predictable increase in crime. Nothing major for the most part, thank goodness, but challenging enough to warrant a more—how shall I say it?—a more energetic approach to the job of keeping the town’s citizens safe and happy.
“Hello, there, Amos,” Seth said, struggling to get up from his chair, which was wedged against the wall.
“No need to get up for me,” Amos said, coming to our table and shaking everyone’s hand. He plopped down in the vacant seat next to me.
“We heard you were coming,” said Seth. “Just wish you’d brought better weather with you.”
“It is hot,” Amos confirmed, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “You must be breaking all sorts a’ records.”
“Ayuh,” Seth said. “That we are.”
“How are things with you, Mort?” Amos asked.
“Not bad, Amos. Got things pretty much under control. Getting ready for the Fourth.”
Amos ordered a short stack of Mara’s signature blueberry pancakes and coffee. “I had trouble finding a place to stay,” he said to no one in particular. “Looks like Cabot Cove’s Fourth of July celebration is attracting more people than ever.”
Seth, Mort, and I looked at each other.
Amos was right. While our annual Fourth of July weekend was always a major event in Cabot Cove, this year promised to be the biggest yet. But not everyone was pleased with that. Past celebrations had always been festive but manageable in size and scope. This year was decidedly different, thanks to Joseph Lennon and his corporation, Lennon-Diversified, Ltd.
Lennon had moved his corporate headquarters from Massachusetts to Cabot Cove a year ago, wooed in part by a generous tax incentive designed to entice companies to relocate to Maine. He’d purchased the area’s biggest building in our largest industrial park and expanded it to a size that had become a source of consternation for many citizens. The park itself was situated on a prime parcel of waterfront land. Originally, the property was to be turned into a multiuse area, with light industry and residential units coexisting side by side. But Lennon and his battery of lawyers managed to get the zoning law changed, allowing Lennon to conscript a large portion of the land directly on the water for his expansion plans. The rear of his building sloped down to the water’s edge, where he added a promenade and dock for his employees’ enjoyment. It was off-limits to others. Next to the building was a spacious grassy area that also went down to the water. Lennon designated it as a public park, which took the edge off his land grab at the rear of his building.
He hadn’t created as many new jobs as had been expected. That was bad. On the other hand, he’d lowered the tax base. That was good. And he was a generous contributor to the town’s various social and civic organizations, another plus for him and his company.
But there was a cost for his generosity. He’d injected himself into every aspect of our lives, using his clout as a major taxpayer, and his wealth, to influence countless decisions that otherwise would have been made by town leaders. Our Fourth of July celebration was a prime example of Lennon’s looming presence and overbearing personality and tactics.
In previous years, we’d been perfectly content to have a small fireworks display, provided by a company in Bangor. Nothing special, but just right for a town the size of Cabot Cove. This year Lennon had persuaded our town leaders that we should set an example for the rest of Maine by presenting a pyrotechnics display to rival the famed New York and Washington spectaculars. Any arguments against it fell by the wayside when Lennon agreed to foot the bill and to make all the arrangements. He contacted Grucci, the world’s most famous fireworks display company, and booked a twenty-five-minute show that cost seventy-five thousand dollars. Grucci had provided fireworks displays for many presidential inaugurations and for myriad Olympics. “Grucci is the best,” Lennon announced in a press release after the deal had been made. “It’s time Cabot Cove awoke from its slumber and joined the big time.”
Lennon hadn’t stopped with the elaborate fireworks display. Because he was the major tenant in the industrial park, he’d co-opted it for the Fourth as a site for a rock-and-roll concert to take place before the fireworks. And he’d used his influence with state officials to arrange for a flyover of F-16s from the Maine Air National Guard base. No doubt about it. The man thought big.
But Cabot Cove in “the big time?”
That didn’t sit well with a number of people in town, although there was another contingent that welcomed this infusion of energy backed by big money. Seth Hazlitt was firmly in the camp taking the position that Cabot Cove should preserve its roots as a smaller community whose growth was steady and controlled. Mort seemed ambivalent, which reflected his position as the sheriff, who wasn’t supposed to take sides in such debates. As for me, I accepted Mr. Lennon’s right to spend his money any way he wished, as long as it wasn’t used for negative purposes. What
did
bother me was a series of rumors about the man’s personal life and business activities that were less than complimentary. But I kept in mind that they were, after all, just rumors.
“How’s the family?” Mort asked Amos.
“Doin’ well, Mort. I like it down there. Got a bunch of hobbies. It’s nice to come back to Cabot Cove, though. Can’t believe how much the town has grown.” He waved to Barney Longshoot, who was sitting at the counter.
“Well,” Seth said, “time for me to be going. I’ve got a full day of seein’ patients.”
After promising to catch up with Amos later in the day, Seth and I walked toward the door. We’d almost reached it when it opened and in walked Dr. Warren Boyle.
“Good morning, Doctor,” Seth said as the handsome young physician stepped aside to allow us to leave.
“Good morning, Doc,” Boyle said. “Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Hello, Dr. Boyle.”
“I think I lost a few pounds just walking over here,” Boyle said, flashing a boyish grin. “I thought Maine wasn’t supposed to ever get this hot.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read,” Seth said, the edge to his voice telling me that he wasn’t making small talk.
“Good advice, Doc,” said Boyle. “You tell your patients that?”
“Most of them know it without me having to tell them. Have a good day, sir.”
“You, too,” Boyle replied. “Stay cool, Mrs. Fletcher.”
Seth and I stepped outside into what felt like a sauna.
“Arrogant young fella, isn’t he?” Seth muttered.
“More self-assured than arrogant,” I suggested.
“All the same to me. Drive you someplace?”
“Home, if you don’t mind.”
Like many residents of Maine, I had never considered air-conditioning a necessity. Sure, there were bound to be some days during the summer that became uncomfortably hot, but strategically placed fans usually did the trick. We’d had an unusually warm summer a few years ago, though, which prompted me to purchase two window air conditioners for my home on Candlewood Lane, one for the kitchen, the other for my study, where I do my writing. I wouldn’t have bothered had I not been a writer and someone who enjoys cooking. I function just fine in hot weather as long as what I’m doing doesn’t involve thinking. But my kitchen and my writing room had become uncomfortable that summer, and I found myself focusing more on how hot I was than on the dishes I was creating or the words I was putting on the page.
As Seth drove up Main Street from the harbor, the air coming in the open windows of the car thickened. Away from the waterfront breezes, it gathered heat from the buildings and pavement and pressed down upon us like a flatiron. Seth switched on the air-conditioning and in tandem we closed our windows, eager to escape the blistering temperature. Cocooned in the cooling space, I thought about what had transpired at Mara’s that morning.
It was good to see Amos Tupper again, and I was glad he would be in Cabot Cove through the Fourth of July weekend. He and Mort Metzger seemed to get along nicely, although there was bound to be some tension between them. I think Amos was envious of Mort’s more modern approach to solving crimes, and Mort probably wished he was viewed as warmly as Amos had always been. No matter. They were both good men, and I counted my friendship with them among my blessings.
The growth of Cabot Cove had taken many directions, including an influx of new physicians, some of them Maine natives looking to set up practice, others emigrating from larger cities in search of a less stressful lifestyle. It wasn’t long ago that Cabot Cove’s citizens had to travel to larger cities like Boston, Bangor, and New York when in need of a specialist. That certainly had changed. We now had a good representation of specialists in our area, and they were welcomed by everyone, including old-time doctors like Seth Hazlitt.
 
 
Seth pulled up in front of my house, turned the ignition to off, and faced me. I patted his hand. “Thanks for the lift. Don’t forget dinner at my house tonight.”
“Wouldn’t miss it, Jessica, not with lobster salad on the menu.”
Seth turned his car around, and I waved as he drove away. I felt a certain sadness.
Oh, well,
I thought as I pulled mail from my mailbox and carried it inside. The first piece I opened was a mailing from the Boyle Medical Center announcing that a dermatologist from Boston would soon be joining the practice, offering a full array of beauty treatments, including Botox injections and skin abrasion “for a lovelier you.”
I sighed and tossed the mailing in a wastebasket. Yes, Cabot Cove was growing. No doubt about that. The question was whether everything connected with that growth was for the better.

Other books

Dark inheritance by Roberta Leigh
The Skirt by Gary Soto
Get Smart 1 - Get Smart! by William Johnston
Dragon Queen by Stephen Deas
An Inconvenient Elephant by Judy Reene Singer
Bay Hideaway by Beth Loughner
Crackback by John Coy