The Cabot Cove residents are pulling out all the stops for their celebration of the 4th of July this year. But amidst the pleasures of planning the big event, there is tension too. Joseph Lennon, a very successful businessman, has recently relocated to Cabot Cave and is funding a big fireworks show and rock concert. There are many in town who don't like him throwing his wealth and power around to get things done his way. When Mr. Lennon's body is found the evening of the fireworks show, Jessica has a long list of potential suspects.
CHAPTER ONE
“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 for 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 heat stroke 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 have to admit—but not for public consumption—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 multi-use area, with light industry and residential units co-existing 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 without Lennon’s looming presence, and overbearing personality and tactics. Our Fourth-of-July celebration was a prime example.
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 25-minute show that cost $75 thousand. 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-n’-roll concert to take place prior to the fireworks. And he’d used his influence with state officials to arrange for a fly-over 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 set 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 that preferred that Cabot Cove 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 were 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 offered.
“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 always bound to be some days during the summer that became uncomfortably hot, but strategically placed fans usually did the trick. But we’d had an unusually warm summer a few years ago, 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 writing room had become uncomfortable that summer, and I found myself focusing more on how hot I was than 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 flat iron. 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 many blessings.
The growth of Cabot Cove had taken many directions, including an influx of new physicians, some 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.
# # #
Dr. Warren Boyle’s arrival was a little different. Besides relocating his company from Massachusetts to Cabot Cove, Joseph Lennon had also imported the young Dr. Boyle, and made no secret that he’d financed the move. He’d spent a million dollars or more to set up Boyle’s practice in a specious wing of Lennon-Diversified’s corporate headquarters, with a separate entrance and parking facility. I’d joined many who’d been invited to an open house of Boyle’s new facility, and couldn’t help but be impressed with its sparkling exam rooms, colorful art collection on the walls, nurses who looked as though they’d just stepped out of a photo shoot for a major fashion magazine, and the array of high-tech, state-of-the-art diagnostic equipment. Seth was with me on that visit. As we drove back into town, his silence spoke volumes.
“Quite a facility he has,” I said on that day.
“Ayuh, that it is.
“He seems pleasant enough.”
“He’s got a nice way about him,” Seth agreed.
“It must have cost a fortune for all that equipment,” I said.
“Pocket change for Mr. Lennon,” said Seth.
“But a worthwhile reason to spend some of his money,” I said. “Supporting health care is always worthwhile.”
Seth grunted and kept his eyes on the road. I knew when not to force conversation with my friend of many years, so I dropped the subject.
# # #
It was obvious that Seth was not especially pleased that Dr. Boyle had set up shop in Cabot Cove, which surprised me. Seth, himself, had added a young physician to his practice, Dr. Jennifer Countryman—“Dr. Jenny” to their patients—and had discovered to his surprise that he was grateful to share some of the responsibilities and gain himself some well-deserved time off. He’d also been extremely welcoming to other new doctors who’d decided to practice in our area. He’d made himself available to show them around and to introduce them to our citizens, and
had never uttered a negative word about any of them, at least not in my presence.
But Boyle’s arrival was different. Maybe it was because of his link to Joseph Lennon and the elder man’s bullying ways. Maybe it was because Boyle advertised his services on an almost daily basis in our local daily paper, and in publications from nearby towns. He had flyers distributed throughout our business district. The headline on all his marketing materials read: 21st Century Medicine Comes to Cabot Cove. I suppose that by extension, one could take from the flyers and ads that he considered medicine as practiced prior to his arrival to be hopelessly old-fashioned and out-of-date. Obviously, that message hadn’t set well with local physicians like Seth.
# # #
“Did you see his ad in the Gazette? You’d think he’s set up a regular Mayo Clinic here in town.” Seth had had little to say for the duration of the ride home from Mara’s but he’d obviously been brooding about Dr. Boyle. “‘Medicine for the Twenty-First Century’ indeed! Makes it sound like we’re still puttin’ leeches on people to draw out the bad blood.”
I laughed. “Aren’t you?” I asked playfully. “It shouldn’t affect, you, though, Seth. The way Cabot Cove is growing, there’ll never be a shortage of patients to keep every doctor in town busy.”
He pulled up in front of my house, turned off the ignition, and faced me. “I’m not concerned about that, Jessica. It’s time I cut down my schedule anyway. But I hate to see good people flocking to somebody like Dr. Boyle when they don’t need to. Mrs. Carson informed me yesterday that she’ll be seeing Boyle from now on for her bad back. The only thing she needs for that back is for her lazy husband to do some of the heavy lifting around the house. Of course, that didn’t set well with her. She says the good Doctor Boyle has scheduled a whole mess of scans to get to the bottom of her back problem. Imagine what that’ll cost. Wasted money, I say.”
“Well,” I said, injecting lightness into my voice, “she’ll probably be back in your office once she realizes that Dr. Boyle doesn’t have the answer for her aches and pains.” 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. Warren Boyle’s arrival in town had obviously forced Seth to face the fact that he was aging, and would one day have to take down the MD shingle that he displayed so proudly in front of his home. He was probably right in assuming that Boyle considered older physicians like himself to be medically behind the times, which certainly wasn’t true in Seth’s case. He was always off at some medical conference catching up on the latest research, and his library contained anything and everything new that was published in his field.
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 waste basket. Yes, Cabot Cove was growing. No doubt about that. The question was whether everything connected with that growth was for the better.
I went into the bathroom and peered at myself in the mirror. Was I a candidate for Botox or skin abrasion? If so, I wasn’t about to admit it. Not that I have anything against plastic surgery or other beauty treatments. If people feel better because they think they look better, good for them. For me at that moment, the face I’d arrived with on this earth was perfectly fine, thank you. But there were those lines around the eyes . . . .
