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Authors: Jessica Fletcher,Donald Bain

Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade (16 page)

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
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“Where to?” Kathy Copeland asked me.
 
 
“Home,” I said. “I have a ton of things to catch up on before heading out to the park this evening.”
 
 
I’d taken my bike downtown, and, grateful for the break in temperature, I rode it back home, where after answering e-mails and other correspondence, I lay down on the couch in the study and promptly fell asleep, awakening at five to the ringing phone. It was Seth.
 
 
“How are you getting to the fireworks tonight?” he asked.
 
 
“Hadn’t thought about it,” I said sleepily.
 
 
“Wake you?”
 
 
“Yes, but that’s all right. Time I got moving anyway.”
 
 
“I’ll pick you up at six thirty,” he said.
 
 
“No, you won’t. You have no business going out and—”
 
 
“I’ve never been known to miss a Fourth of July fireworks show, Jessica, and I’m not going to start now. Remember, the doctor knows best. Bring along a couple of those folding canvas chairs you have. Harriet packed a picnic basket for us. Nice of her. I’m packing those headphone contraptions so we won’t have to actually listen to the music, if you can call it that.”
 
 
I smiled but said nothing. He was obviously feeling a lot better than the last time I’d spoken with him.
 
 
“Jessica? You there?”
 
 
“Yes, Seth, I’m here. It sounds fine. See you at six thirty.”
 
 
The conversation ended, and I took a shower, dressed in appropriate clothing for an outdoor concert and fireworks display (being sure to tuck some potent bug spray in my bag), pulled two chairs from where I kept them on the back porch, and went outside to enjoy some fresh air. It promised to be a spectacular sunset, judging from the vivid, striated colors already forming on the western horizon. I silently reminded myself, as I often do, how lucky I was to live in such a wonderful place and to be surrounded by good, caring friends. I hadn’t been especially keen on attending the concert—the downtown parade was always my favorite part of the Fourth—but I do enjoy a good fireworks display.
 
 
I leaned over to pull some weeds from around my petunias, and tossed them in a bucket by the corner of the porch, dusting off the dirt from my hands. There was something gnawing at me that I couldn’t put a finger on, a vague, unsettling feeling that took the edge off my excitement.
 
 
Silly
, I thought, focusing on the fact that Seth was feeling better.
 
 
“On with the show!” I said aloud as I returned to the house to wash up and get ready for Seth’s arrival. I looked forward to a relaxing evening beneath the stars.
 
 
But it was not to be.
 
 
Chapter Nine
 
 
Although I caught Seth wincing once or twice from a stab of pain where his arm had been cut, he was otherwise in what could only be described as a jovial mood when he picked me up—at least jovial for him. I wanted to ask whether he’d had a change of heart about selling his practice, but thought it better not to bring up the subject and possibly spoil his elevated spirits.
 
 
The large grassy area to the right of the Lennon-Diversified building, now a public park, was already filling with tourists and townspeople, who’d set up folding chairs of every variety and color or spread blankets on the ground. It was a glorious night, with a welcome crispness to the air. We chose a spot next to where a number of friends, including Kathy and Wilimena Copeland, had gathered for a communal picnic dinner. Spirits were high, and the sounds of laughter, which had been noticeably absent during the oppressive heat wave, were again heard. Naturally, many people stopped by to inquire about Seth, who assured them that he was feeling fine. I wondered whether he’d decided to come this night to make the point that he was still capable of handling his usual busy medical practice. If so, his attempt was successful. The outpouring of concern and affection for him was heartwarming, and I had to believe that it would confirm to him that he was very much needed.
 
 
As the time approached for the band to start, I looked around for Chester Carlisle, hoping that he’d taken Mort Metzger’s sage advice and stayed home. I didn’t see Chester, but there were some of his bright yellow T-shirts here and there in the crowd. I found it ironic that people were willing to enjoy the concert and fireworks, courtesy of Joe Lennon’s generosity, but at the same time felt the need to thumb their noses at him.
 
 
Amos Tupper joined us, using a spare chair that Jack and Tobé Wilson had brought with them. Jack was one of Cabot Cove’s leading vets, and Tobé worked alongside him in their practice. She could be seen now and then around town walking their pet pig, Kiwi, one of many animals they personally owned and upon which they lavished care.
 
 
Seth’s nurse, Harriet, had prepared fried chicken, salad, rolls, and miniature crab cakes as appetizers. Seth had contributed a thermos of lemonade to go along with the iced tea I’d brought and the walnut cookies I’d baked for dessert. All in all, it was good being with close friends to celebrate this monumentally important day in our nation’s history and the remarkable events that led up to it.
 
 
Cynthia Welch, Lennon-Diversified’s VP, stepped onto the stage, followed by Joe Lennon and his son and daughter. Mayor Shevlin was up there, too, along with a few members of the town council—but not Chester—and various other community leaders.
 
 
“Where’s your friend, Mr. Allcott?” Seth asked.
 
 
“I don’t know,” I said. “We hadn’t made any plans for tonight. I was going to call the B and B where he’s staying— Blueberry Hill—but I fell asleep. I’m sure he’s around here someplace. He obviously doesn’t have any trouble making friends.”
 
 
Ms. Welch’s voice boomed through the myriad immense speakers set up for the band. “Good evening, and happy Independence Day.”
 
 
The crowd cheered.
 
 
She introduced Joseph Lennon, who stepped forward and doffed his baseball cap in recognition of a slightly less enthusiastic cheer. Welch went on to extol the virtues of her boss and his company, careful to wrap her comments into praise for the Cabot Cove community and its leaders. Mayor Shevlin waved at everyone, but was not given an opportunity to say anything. Like most speakers, Welch rambled on a little too long before introducing the Lennon children, Paul and Josie. Paul didn’t have much to say. He welcomed everyone on behalf of the company and quickly turned the mike over to his sister. He could be heard saying, “Make it snappy; they’re almost here.”
 
 
Josie gushed about how thrilled she was to be able to introduce the band, “but first we have a surprise for you.” She cupped her hand over her eyes and looked up into the sky. The roar of jet engines filled the air, and seconds later four F-16 fighter planes, their wingtips looking as though they were touching, came from over the water and thundered above us, eliciting a sustained gasp from everyone, young and old alike. As the rumble of the engines faded, the audience broke into a spontaneous ovation.
 
 
“That man must have a lot of influence,” Amos said, to nodding heads all around.
 
 
Josie grinned. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, my favorite band in the whole wide world—the Snake Days!”
 
 
“The
what
?” Seth asked as the five members of the band bounced onto the stage and got ready to perform their first number.
“The Snake Days?”
 
 
I confirmed that he’d heard right, as the drummer, who sat behind the largest set of drums imaginable, began a rhythm for the rest of the young musicians. They launched into a raucous, deafening song that didn’t have a discernible melody, at least to my ears, but whose beat got everyone in the audience moving, toes tapping time and hands coming together in unison.
 
 
“Here,” Seth said, handing me a set of headphones with foam earpieces, similar to those distributed on planes when the movie comes on. “Got ’em from one of my patients. Says she uses them when her kids are whining. ” I smiled and placed them over my ears, providing some defense against the music’s electronic assault. As the concert progressed, I took note of others in our vicinity. The younger people obviously liked the performance better than our older citizens, numbers of whom removed themselves from in front of the bandstand to positions farther away from the speakers. They were replaced by the band’s teenaged fans, who crowded together at the bottom of the stage, clapping and jumping in time to the beat. All in all, everyone seemed in a festive mood. I do admit that when the band completed its final tune of the evening, and the leader shouted good night, a wave of relief came over me. I handed the headphones back to Seth, who simply said, “Snake Days, indeed! Nothing but a lot of noise!”
 
 
I didn’t debate it with him, both because I agreed—and because it wouldn’t have mattered if I didn’t.
 
 
It was now dusk, and in the sky, a band of pale blue hugged the western horizon. It was time for the fireworks. The first few rockets shot up from where the Grucci technicians plied their trade behind the stage, followed by an increasingly rapid barrage that filled the nighttime sky above the stage and over the water with a cacophonous report. I put my hand out and Seth dropped the headphones back in my palm and I replaced them on my ears. Even muffled, I could still hear the customary
ooh
s and
aah
s that accompanied the dazzling displays, each launch louder and more colorful than the last.
 
 
I do love watching the luminous trails of light as they soar into the sky, and the vibrant sprays that cascade over our heads. At the same time, with each explosion and flash, I can’t help but think of people in war-torn areas of the world for whom hearing such thunderous blasts is part of a frightening daily routine. For them, it’s not a show. It’s grim reality.
 
 
“That was terrific,” Amos said as the acrid odor of spent explosives drifted over the area.
 
 
“Not for dogs and cats,” Tobé Wilson said. “I hope everyone had their pets secured. We get in a lot of strays on July Fourth. There are always animals who break loose and run away, terrified by the noise.”
 
 
As we started packing up, Rick Allcott approached. “Here you are,” he said. “I looked for you earlier, but with this crowd—”
 
 
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We should have arranged to meet someplace.”
 
 
“No problem,” he said. “I fell in with a nice group of people, all tourists like me.”
 
 
I introduced him to the Wilsons and the Copeland sisters, who were folding their chairs.
 
 
“How’s the arm, Doctor?” Allcott asked Seth.
 
 
“Just fine, sir. Just fine.”
 
 
“Looks like you’re getting ready to call it a night,” Allcott said. “I hate to see it end. Anybody game for a nightcap?”
 
 
“Afraid not,” Jack Wilson said. “I’ve got some early surgery to perform tomorrow.”
 
 
“Don’t forget the pancake breakfast at the firehouse,” Willie said.
 
 
“We’ll be there,” Tobé said. “At least I will if Jack can’t make it. Will we see you there, Jessica?”
 
 
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said, and bade them good night.
 
 
“Are the firemen’s pancakes as good as Mara’s?” Rick asked.
 
 
“Not even close,” Seth said, “but the town supports the volunteers just the same.”
 
 
“They’re not bad,” I said, tucking the dishes and paper napkins back in the basket. “Just no secret ingredient.”
 
 
“So, Seth, will you join us for a drink?” Rick asked.
 
 
“Nope, but thanks. I’ll need a good sleep to get over that infernal music. The Snake Days! Hah!” He looked at me. “You should go, Jessica. Allcott’s been deprived of your company all evening. Ought to give the gentleman a little more of your time, since he’s only here for a short stay.”
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade
8.59Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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