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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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“What’s new in the case, Amos?” Seth asked.

Amos glanced around the firehouse before answering. He leaned in close and said in a low voice, “Lennon’s family is really putting the pressure on Mort. His wife flew back from wherever she was—someplace up in Canada, I think—and showed up at Mort’s office bright and early this morning. Mort’s been up all night talking to those vultures from the media. I offered to take over handling those calls, but he says it’s his job. I suppose it is, but the man’s got to get some sleep.”

I was aware that a lot of people were milling about inside and that many eyes—and ears—were trained on us. Word that Amos Tupper, our former sheriff, had been deputized by Mort had made the rounds, along with all the other scuttlebutt about the murder. Amos had now become a prime source of information to further fuel the rumors.

“That’s not all,” Amos continued. “Somebody who works at the Lennon company—some big-shot VP, I guess—is putting up a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information that leads to nailing the murderer. Seems silly to me, considering we’ve already got Chester behind bars.”

“Amos!” I said, unable to keep exasperation from my voice. “You know he’s innocent until proven guilty.”

“I know, Miz Fletcher, but sometimes solving a murder isn’t as complicated as you make it in your books. I’ll give Chester the benefit of the doubt, but I’ll be—” His cell phone rang. Amos patted his pockets till he located the one that held his phone.

“Hello? Yup, Sheriff, I’m at the firehouse with Allcott, the doc, and Miz Fletcher. Sure. Want us to bring you some breakfast? Okay. Hold on.”

He handed the phone to me.

“Good morning, Sheriff.”

“Morning, Mrs. F. Hate to interrupt your meal, but I was wondering if I could ask a favor.”

“Of course.”

“Think you and the others could come by headquarters after you leave the firehouse?”

“I can’t speak for everyone here, but I’ll be happy to.”

“I’ve got a videotape of the questioning I did of Chester Carlisle last night. Nope, correct that. We’ve got a DVD recorder now. No more tapes. Anyway, I thought you might pick up something from it that I didn’t see. Wouldn’t mind if Allcott was here, too. He mentioned that he attended the FBI’s training on criminal profiling, serial killers, things like that. Just between us, Mrs. F, between the press, the victim’s family, and that lady executive from Lennon-Diversified, there’s a lot of pressure on my back. It’s worse than trying to squeeze into a subway car at five o’clock. I could use some extra hands.”

I held the phone aside and asked Rick and Amos if they’d come with me. They readily agreed.

“Come with us, Seth?” I asked after Amos concluded the call.

“No. Mort asked for you three, didn’t ask for me. Besides, I’ve got a pile of paperwork to wade through today. That’s all I seem to do these days, fill out forms, copy forms, send out forms. Give me a call later and tell me how things are going.”

“We will,” I said.

“And you,” Seth said, pointing at Rick. “Try to get a nap in this afternoon. I don’t like your color.”

“He looks fine to me,” Amos said.

“But you’re not a doctor. Do I tell you how to do police business?”

“I’ll get some rest, I promise,” Rick said, ushering us outside.

Amos and I filled two paper plates for Mort. If he’d been up all night, it was likely he’d never had a chance to eat. As we left the pancake breakfast, Evelyn Phillips intercepted us. She and her photographer had been standing with a group of newspeople, including a remote truck from a Bangor TV station. She broke away from the group when she saw us and approached me.

“So, Jessica, come on, what’s the scoop?”

“The scoop?”

“Have you learned anything more? We can’t let those Bangor folks beat us at our own story.”

“I’m not an investigator, Evelyn. Nothing I say would be official.”

She stepped in front of Amos, blocking his path. “You’re official. I know that Sheriff Metzger deputized you,” she said. “What’s the latest with Chester Carlisle?”

“Can’t discuss an ongoing case.”

Evelyn guffawed. “Don’t tell me you haven’t shared what you know this morning with Jessica Fletcher.”

Amos scooted around her, keeping an eye on the other newspeople. They had been watching Evelyn, and now moved away from the remote truck and closed in on us.

“No comment,” Amos said, sounding terribly official indeed.

Evelyn turned to Rick Allcott. “Is the FBI now involved? ” she asked.

Rick flashed a wide, warm grin. “No comment,” he said.

“Oh, come on,” Evelyn said, rolling her eyes. “The citizens have a right to know.”

“Then they’ll have to get it from Sheriff Metzger,” Amos said, leading us to the parking lot.

The other newspeople dropped away when they saw Evelyn turn back to the firehouse.

“Can you imagine the gall of that woman?” Amos said. “She tried to get Mort to let her interview Chester last night in jail.”

“Evelyn’s just doing her job,” I said. “I enjoy reading her accounts of what goes on in Cabot Cove, although I must admit I’m not exactly happy when I find myself in the middle of one of her stories. However, she’s a good journalist and has really turned the
Gazette
around since she’s been here.”

“If you say so,” Amos muttered. Obviously I hadn’t changed his view.

Mort was waiting for us in the reception area at headquarters.

“Glad you folks could come,” he said, lifting off the paper plate I’d used to cover his breakfast. “For several reasons. This looks great.” He bit down on a piece of bacon and closed his eyes in pleasure. “Mmm. Thanks!” he said, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “Got the preliminary autopsy report back. It’s pretty straightforward. Nothing in the lungs. One shot. Gone! Lennon was dead before he hit the water. We had them send the bullet to ballistics.”

“How’s Chester?” I asked.

“Complaining, claiming he had nothing to do with Lennon’s murder. I got him dead to rights, but I want to be certain I’m not missing anything. Ready to watch my questioning of him last night?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said.

Amos, Rick, Mort, and I sat in one of the interrogation rooms. Mort turned on a TV monitor and adjusted the lights so there wasn’t a glare on the screen. In the film, Chester sat at a table opposite Mort. Amos was in a chair a few feet behind Mort. The camera shot the scene from slightly above them. The sound was not wonderful, but their words were audible, at least enough to be understood.

MORT: So, Chester Carlisle, you’ve been read your rights under the law. Do you understand them?

Chester nodded.

MORT: Okay, would you please spell your name for the record.

Chester spelled his name.

MORT: You’ve agreed to answer some questions without a lawyer present.

CHESTER: C’mon, c’mon, let’s get this over with. I want to go home.

MORT: I know you’re not happy to be here, but I’ve got a job to do. Joseph Lennon was shot to death tonight, and you’re under suspicion of murder.

CHESTER: I already told you I didn’t do it.

MORT: Yet you’ve made it pretty clear how much you hated the man.

CHESTER: I didn’t like the man. Won’t deny that. Damned rusticator comes to town flingin’ his millions around and taking over everything.

MORT: He wasn’t a tourist. He moved here.

CHESTER: For how long? He’s probably got homes from here to the Pacific. Cabot Cove was just a place for him to flaunt his money, ruin the place for everyone else, and then leave us with that white elephant on the water. What are we going to do with that marble palace once he moves on to the next playground?

MORT: I don’t want to argue the merits of Lennon-Diversified. I want to know if you killed the man.

CHESTER: I told you I didn’t. Why in hell would I shoot him?

MORT: Because of what you just said about not liking what he’s done to the town.

CHESTER: That doesn’t prove anything.

MORT: What about your T-shirts, Chester? The one you’re wearing, and the ones you sold comparing Mr. Lennon to that Soviet dictator Lenin?

Chester chortled, which brought on a wheeze and then a coughing spasm. He took a white handkerchief from his pants pocket and blew his nose lustily.

CHESTER: Pretty clever, weren’t they? Got the point across real good. These shirts were just for fun, Sheriff. Can’t you take a joke?

MORT: I’ll be asking the questions, Chester. Now, where were you last night during the fireworks?

CHESTER: Home.

MORT: I’ve got two people who say they saw you down watching the fireworks.

CHESTER: Who said that?

MORT: Never mind who. If I have to, I’ll bring them into a court of law and they’ll swear they saw you there, Chester, and I bet I’ll have half a dozen more swear to the same thing by tomorrow.

Chester screwed up his face, scratched his head, and tugged at the round collar of his shirt.

CHESTER: Well, maybe I did come down for a little while. I got a right to see the fireworks, don’t I? Paid for them with my tax dollars—at least they used to. I didn’t stay long. Burned me up to see that ugly building. Any fireworks sponsored by that bastard Lennon are—

MORT: Go on, Chester.

Chester must have realized that a display of temper wasn’t going to do him any good. He crossed his arms and slumped down.

CHESTER: I’ve got nothing more to say.

MORT: You might be interested in knowing that we found the gun that was used to kill Joe Lennon.

Chester sat up straight.

CHESTER: Godfrey mighty! Why didn’t you say so? That’s good news. Whoever owns that gun is the guy you’re after. Lets me off the hook.

AMOS: Not so fast, Chester. That gun—

Mort put up his hand to silence Amos.

MORT: I’ll handle the questioning, Deputy Tupper. Now, Chester, that gun I just mentioned was found in your car.

CHESTER: That’s a lie.

Chester sprang up from his chair and it looked like he might physically attack Mort. Amos got to his feet, too, but Mort again waved him off.

MORT: Sit down, Chester, and if you do that again, I’ll have you cuffed.

Chester flopped back down into his chair.

CHESTER: If someone took my rifle to kill Lennon, he had’a had stolen it when I wasn’t looking.

MORT: I didn’t say it was a rifle.

CHESTER: A shotgun, then.

MORT: Didn’t say that, either.

CHESTER: I don’t own a handgun, Sheriff, never have, never will. I got a rifle to go hunting now and again, and a shotgun I use to keep those pesky squirrels away from the bird feeder, but I’ve never owned a handgun in my life.

MORT: You know what I think? I think you’re lying. I think you hated Joseph Lennon so much, you got a handgun. You took that handgun to the fireworks, and maybe waited till Mr. Lennon walked behind his building, and you followed him, and when you got him in front of you, you held him at gunpoint until a rocket went off and no one would hear. And then you shot him. In the head. That’s what happened, isn’t it?

CHESTER: That’s not true!

MORT: You shot him and then you went home and pretended that you’d never gone to the fireworks. But you lied about that. And if you lied about that, why shouldn’t I think you’re lying right now about killing him?

CHESTER: Because I’m tellin’ the truth, dammit. I want a lawyer. You’re tryin’ to get me to confess to something I didn’t do.

MORT: You can get a lawyer. That’s your legal right, Chester. But I’m betting your fingerprints are all over that gun, aren’t they? And if you wiped them off, we’ll find another way to prove that it’s your weapon.

CHESTER: This isn’t right, Sheriff. I didn’t kill nobody, and you know it. Someone is trying to blame me for something I didn’t do. Amos, you’ve known me for years. I wouldn’t kill anyone.

AMOS: Just because you didn’t before doesn’t mean you wouldn’t now. People change.

MORT: You got a lawyer in mind, Chester? You can call him if you want.

CHESTER: Only lawyer I know is the town attorney. Fred Nidel. Handles the county’s business, too. But I don’t think he’d want a piece of this.

MORT: Maybe he can suggest somebody. You can use that phone over there.

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Murder on Parade: Murder on Parade

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