“He used to do sports on WICH-TV back in the day,” I explained. “Aunt Ibby just barely remembers him. You’ve probably seen his picture hanging in the station lobby though.”
“Right. That’s probably where I’ve seen it. So what about him? What’s his connection to what happened in the library today?”
I repeated what Phil Archer had told me about Laraby being found dead among books thrown all over the floor of his study. How they’d determined that he died from a broken neck because of a fall from a ladder.
Pete reached for a turnover. “Okay. The book mess is similar, but the man you found didn’t die by accident.”
“Phil doesn’t think Laraby did either. He says he’s not the only one who feels that way.”
“I’ll talk to Phil,” Pete said. “You may be onto something. Did I ever tell you you’d make a good cop?”
“Thanks—but no thanks,” I said. “Listen. Laraby was some kind of sports memorabilia expert, according to Phil. He used to run collectibles shows all over the country. Baseball cards and things like that. And Pete! I just remembered something. That man today—he was in the seven-ninety section in the stacks!”
“Seven-ninety?”
“Dewey decimal. Sports. Those books must have all been about sports. Right?”
“You’re right. I bagged them all personally. Wore gloves and put each one in an evidence bag.” There was a trace of excitement in Pete’s voice. “I’ll check tomorrow with the homeowner who had the break-in. Wonder if those books were seven-nineties?”
“Bet they were,” I said. “Whose house was it anyway? I hope it wasn’t around here.”
“No. Don’t worry about that. They live way over in North Salem. Big house on Dearborn Street. Nice older couple. Name of Stewart. Ring any bells?”
“I don’t think so. Aunt Ibby might know them.”
He smiled, reaching for a second turnover. “These are great. Did she make them?”
“Of course. You know I sure didn’t.” I looked up at the muted TV screen. River North, my best friend, looking gorgeous in hunter green velvet with a spray of miniature fall leaves woven into her single long black braid, smiled into the camera. The beautiful tarot cards were arranged in a pattern on the table before her.
Pete followed my glance. “Want to watch River?”
“Sure. The readings are always interesting, even when they’re for somebody else.”
“I guess so. I’m going to go grab a shower while you watch, okay?” He turned on the sound and picked up our ice cream bowls, putting them on the floor beside his chair. “Come on, O’Ryan. You can have last lick.” Pete calls River’s readings “hocus-pocus,” and I’m pretty sure he puts my so-called “gift” into the same general category. O’Ryan tore like a furry yellow streak from the windowsill to the bowls on the floor and, purring loudly and appreciatively, finished every delicious drop.
I put our dishes in the sink, finished my coffee, nibbled on a raspberry turnover, and watched my friend as she held a card to the camera for a close-up shot. She’d recently begun selecting a card from her tarot deck each night and explaining for viewers a bit of the history and meaning of the beautiful illustration. On this night she’d chosen the Wheel of Fortune card from the Major Arcana. I pulled my chair a little closer to the screen. “This card is particularly interesting, I think,” River said, “because of its many symbols.” She pointed out the Sphinx at the top of the wheel and said that he represents wisdom, and that the serpent creeping down one side is Typhon, the Egyptian god of evil, and the jackal-headed being sliding up the opposite side is Hermes-Anubis, symbolizing intelligence. “Notice the four creatures at the corners of the card.” She pointed to each one. I’d already noticed them. Each was shown reading a book. “They represent the four fixed signs of the Zodiac,” she said. “See? Here’s the bull for Taurus and the lion for Leo. There’s the eagle for Scorpio and the angel for Aquarius.”
Maybe it was just because I had so much on my mind due to all that had happened during the day, but that card looming up on the screen seemed to have a special meaning for me. River’s words about fate and good fortune and unexpected arrivals simply floated away while I made up my own interpretation.
Wisdom and intelligence—that’s the library. And the jackal thing? Look at his legs. One is in plain view and the other one is half hidden. It’s pretty obvious what that means. And the evil snake—well, something evil is going on. That’s for sure. It’s the book-reading creatures that are the most important though. River sees the bull and the lion and the eagle and the angel as signs of the Zodiac. Uh-uh. I see the Chicago Bulls, the Detroit Lions, the Philadelphia Eagles, and the Los Angeles Angels. It’s plain as day. It means seven-ninety. Sports. And more than likely it means those critters are all reading about sports collectibles.
I was still staring at the TV when Pete returned from his shower. The Wheel of Fortune card was no longer on the screen and River had moved on to the phone call segment of the show. I swiveled around in my chair. A handsome, well-built, shirtless man, fresh from the shower standing in your very own kitchen is a beautiful sight. My smile grew even broader when I realized that he was wearing flannel pajama pants patterned with a smirking snake clutching a baseball in his fangs. The Arizona Diamondbacks. So much for that serpent slithering up the side of the card! That was the clincher. River’s card history that night was meant for me. No doubt.
“Want to watch the rest of the show in the bedroom?” he asked, reaching for my hand, pulling me to my feet.
“Good idea.” I stood on tiptoe for the expected kiss. “But I don’t need to see any more of the show. I got the message already.”
Chapter 10
I awoke to the smell of coffee and the sound of country music. Both signaled the presence of Pete Mondello in the kitchen. While Mr. Coffee cycled Maxwell House Breakfast Blend and Alexa shuffled Carrie Underwood, I yawned, stretched, swung my legs over the side of the big warm bed, and sat up.
Pete and I are both “morning people,” but in very different ways. The way Pete wakes up is what Aunt Ibby would call “bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” He’s alert, ready for the day from the moment he opens his eyes, no matter how early it is. Not me. I need a little transition time. Time to snuggle under the cozy covers for a few more minutes, time to gather my thoughts, think about the day before and kind of visualize the day ahead. Yawning and stretching are good too. I always knew that but have perfected it since O’Ryan came to live with us. Cats are absolute experts at both.
I hadn’t quite finished my thought-gathering and day-visualizing, but the coffee aroma called and I padded out into the kitchen. A glance at the Kit-Cat clock told me it was early enough for a fairly leisurely breakfast. I made a quick mental inventory of refrigerator and pantry. “I have some eggs,” I said, “and some really good sour dough bread for toast. Fried egg sandwiches sound good?”
“Excellent,” he said as he filled my coffee mug. I pulled a frying pan from a cabinet and put eggs and bread on the counter. My day-visualizing had begun to kick in and I knew that without doubt Bruce Doan would expect a follow-up to last night’s one-minute standup. Hopefully one with some substance. Some facts.
“Pete,” I said, while I put four thick slices of bread into the toaster and sprayed the frying pan with olive oil, “you mentioned that you had an ID on the victim. Will you tell me who he is? Doan is going to want something substantial today and I need to be first.”
“Sure. The name will be released today anyway. He’s Wee Willie Wallace. He was a minor league baseball player years ago. Got dropped by one of the farm teams for gambling. In Wee Willie’s case it was for betting on his own games. Too bad. He was a fast little guy and a good hitter. He’s got a record for some other stuff too. Used to live in Salem apparently. Been away from here for twenty years or so, far as we can tell.”
I broke four eggs carefully into the pan without getting eggshells in with the eggs. I’m getting better at this cooking thing
. “What kind of other stuff?” I asked.
“We’re still checking sources. Had to do with horse racing. That’s all I can say about that right now. Maybe later.”
“Later the other stations will be onto this.” I flipped the eggs, one at a time. Didn’t break any yolks. “Can you at least tell me where to look? Some kind of time frame?”
Pete put two plates on the counter. I pushed the lever to lower the bread into the toaster. “Wee Willie may have worked as a trainer in New Hampshire at Rockingham before they closed in 2002,” he said. “Papers up there might have mentioned him.”
The egg sandwiches were darned near perfect, if I do say so myself. I pushed my luck a little bit more. “I gave you the idea about the Larry Laraby connection to all this,” I said. “Want to hear about a vision I had yesterday that might be connected to him too?”
His “sure I do” was hesitant. Pete has come to accept my scrying abilities, but when they seem to overlap with his police investigations, he’s still a little skittish when I talk about the things I see. Can’t blame him for that.
I told him about the brief glimpse of the shoe I’d seen in the visor mirror of the Buick. “It was before I went up into the stacks. Before I saw Wee Willie. It was a completely different shoe.”
“You think it was this Larry Laraby’s foot? His shoe? His books?”
“I do.”
“Can you describe it?”
I nodded, remembering. “Shiny black tie-shoe. Maroon dress socks, the kind with ribs in them.”
“That definitely wasn’t Wee Willie’s foot. I wonder if anyone bothered to take any photos of Laraby’s body. I’ll check it out.” He picked up our dishes. “Thanks for breakfast, babe. Gotta run.”
“Will you tell me what you learn about the Laraby case?”
“It’s only fair, Nancy.” He grinned. “I’ll tell you as much as I can about that case, and babe, please don’t worry about somebody knowing you found Wee Willie. We’ve got your back. We’ll have the guy in custody before you know it. Between the cameras in the library and dozens more up and down Essex Street he’s practically a local movie star. Besides, we’re pretty sure he was gone before you got there.”
Just pretty sure?
Pete’s words did make me feel safer though, and things always do seem to look better in the morning. We shared a fast kiss and Pete headed for the back door. O’Ryan followed, probably heading down to Aunt Ibby’s kitchen, where the cuisine was undoubtedly better. I filled his red bowl with kibble in case he wanted a snack later and retrieved my laptop from the bedroom. Kit-Cat said it was only seven-fifteen. There’d be time to do a little online research on Wee Willie Wallace before I proposed to Bruce Doan that he assign me to the case. Yeah, I said case again.
I took a fast shower, dressed in jeans and sweatshirt, crossed my fingers, and called the dealership about the repair on my Corvette. “Yes, ma’am,” came the welcome voice. “She’s ready. Good as new. You can pick her up anytime.”
Today is starting off a lot better than yesterday. With a positive attitude and more confident state of mind, I began to work.
Wee Willie even had a brief Wikipedia page. Pete was right about his baseball career. He’d had a tryout with the Red Sox and hadn’t made the team but had found a home with an Alabama minor league team where he’d racked up some impressive statistics. After two years, though, his contract had been cancelled after his gambling habit was discovered, and he’d been banned from baseball. The article mentioned that he’d also worked with horses in various capacities and had spent some time in Hollywood during the eighties doing some stunt work in Westerns. Later, he’d been employed as a horse trainer at a New England racetrack, where he’d been found guilty of doping horses over a period of several years and had received a four-year prison sentence and a $100,000 fine.
Hmm. Bad little dude. I wondered what had brought him back to Salem. And why he’d ended up dead in a library, of all places. And why I had to be the one who found him there!
Pete had mentioned New Hampshire newspapers. I knew Aunt Ibby had access to the library’s database of newspapers on her computer. That would yield more information faster than I’d be able to get it on mine. I grabbed a notebook and headed down the front stairs.
My aunt is one of those “bright-eyed, bushy-tailed” morning people. I knew I’d find her at the kitchen table, dressed for the day, breakfast dishes washed and put away, the evening’s dinner planned, something tasty already baking in the oven or simmering in the Crock-Pot, the Boston Globe and the Salem News open on the table and the Globe crossword nearly finished. In ink. O’Ryan met me at the foot of the stairs and together we entered her living room. “It’s me, Aunt Ibby,” I called from the doorway. “Got a minute?”
“Of course. Come on in. Coffee’s on.”
“Anything in the papers yet about—you know.”
“Not yet. But the weekend papers are usually put to bed early. It’ll be in tomorrow’s for sure.”
I helped myself to coffee (hazelnut) and sat opposite her. “Pete gave me the name of that poor guy we found in the stacks,” I began, “and I need some help getting as much information as I can about him before everybody else gets the story.”
She put down her pen, green eyes bright with interest. “Who is he?”
“Wee Willie Wallace. Sound familiar at all?”
“Vaguely. Something about horse racing maybe?”
“You’re right.” I told her what Pete had said about Willie working at Rockingham Park before he was arrested. “Maybe your database can find New Hampshire newspaper accounts about him faster than I can.”
“Wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” she said. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Carrying my coffee, I followed her to her office. The large room had been what was called in the olden days a “sitting room,” sort of an informal parlor. When I was a little kid it had been my playroom, with cutouts of Winnie-the-Pooh characters on the walls. Now it housed Aunt Ibby’s impressive array of technical equipment.
Aunt Ibby sat at her long, curvy cherrywood desk and I pulled up a matching cherrywood chair beside her. Her computer was connected to three screens, which she could work on simultaneously. Her printer was huge. It looked like the ones behind the counter in the office supply store and it could print a full newspaper page. A smaller copier did smaller jobs. There was a fax machine, a light box, and a few items I didn’t recognize, along with cherrywood file cabinets, both horizontal and vertical, along with a couple of comfortable chairs. A fireplace too.
“Do you have any dates in mind? Times when the man might have been working there—up in New Hampshire?” she asked.
“Pete said that Rockingham Park closed in 2002, so it would have been before then.”
“I’ll check for his name in the Manchester Union-Leader from 1992 to 2002 then.” Her fingers flew over the keys. “Whoops. There he is. Popped right up. September 1999. Seems it was big news back then. He worked with a couple of vets. Used several different prescription drugs—and they got away with it for years.” She sighed. “How sad. Look at this, Maralee. One of the horses fell and died on the track because of that horrible little man. Dreadful business. Shall I print this out for you?”
“Please,” I said, quickly losing whatever sympathy I might have felt for the dead man in the stacks. I love horses. Used to ride when I was a kid. Western saddle. Barrel races mostly. “Wikipedia says he was sentenced to four years in prison. I wonder what he’s been doing since he got out.”
“I’ll put his name in the national base. Might take a little longer. Of course, his name isn’t actually Wee Willie. His name is William Anthony Wallace, it says here. A fairly common name, and there are probably a good many William Wallaces.”
“I think you may be able to go to the library today,” I said. “Maybe if you have time you can look into this further. Meanwhile, I’ll take what we have and call Mr. Doan and see if I can do a quick update this morning.”
“You
go along then, dear. I’ll keep digging. I suppose the police department will have to give out some kind of a press release pretty soon.” She pulled up another screen. “For goodness sake. Did you know he was in the movies too?”
“Yes. Westerns. I hope he wasn’t harming horses there.”
“Dreadful man. Just dreadful.” She made a “tsk-tsk” sound and focused once again on the multiple screens, which by then showed two newspaper pages and what appeared to be an old Hopalong Cassidy movie clip. “Look at this. It’s a publicity shot from his days in Hollywood. And here’s one of him in a baseball uniform. He seems to have had a number of talents. I’ll print these out for you.”
“Perfect.” I watched the photos roll out of the printer and picked them up. I studied the studio portrait. The man was smiling, fair, with “Beach Boy” good looks. “Doesn’t look much like he did last night,” I said. “Of course he was much younger then. Can you send these over to the station? I’ll go upstairs and call Mr. Doan. Thanks for helping. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
No reply, just a smile and a brisk wave of her hand. The cat reached the front hall before I did and was halfway to the second floor by the time I started up the stairs. It was still early but before I reached the third-floor landing I called the station on the chance that Rhonda might be at her desk on Saturday. She was.
“Hi, Lee. What’s up?”
“Mr. Doan in yet?”
“Yep. He’s here. Got something?”
“I think so,” I said. “Maybe I’ll get a full day today.”
“Good. We miss your smiling morning face around here.”
I heard a quick buzz and the station manager answered with an abrupt “Bruce Doan.”
“Lee Barrett,” I said. “I have some more on that library death.”
“Good. You coming in?”
“I just have to pick up my car and I’ll be right along,” I promised.
Late Checkout Page 5