Late Checkout

by Carol J. Perry

  My phone buzzed. Rhonda.

  “There’s a file cabinet down in the studio they use for a prop on the office set for the Saturday Business Hour show,” she said. “Marty says it’s still full of old files. She remembers seeing folders of show schedules in it. Take a look if you want to. I haven’t found anything yet. Better hurry. Saturday Business guy is on from one to two.”

  That could be like finding gold! I gathered my paperwork again, locked up the dataport, and hurried upstairs to return the key. “Thanks for the tip,” I told Rhonda. “I’m going right down there to look for . . . I don’t know what.”

  She laughed. “Well, you’ll know when you find it. Good luck.”

  Most of the studio was dark except for minimal lighting, indicating the aisles between sets in the long, black-walled room. She was right about the file cabinet. It was a dark green, vertical, metal, four drawer, plain-Jane piece of office furniture. Even in dim light it looked completely at home in the staged “office.” There was also a bookcase, a desk, a fake plant, and a globe of the world. I should have brought a flashlight.

  “You should have brought a flashlight,” came a voice from the darkness. I shaded my eyes with one hand and looked around. A man walked toward me. I could only make out his silhouette. Couldn’t see his face at all. It was too early for the Saturday Business guy. “Who is it?” My voice came out sort of squeaky. I tried again, with a lighter tone. “Who goes there?”

  “It’s me, Ms. Barrett. Howard Templeton. Hope I didn’t scare you.” He was only a few feet away from me by then, and he had brought a flashlight. One of those tiny little dollar store ones. I saw the pale circle of light moving along on the floor as he drew closer. “See? It’s just me.” He turned the beam upward, illuminating his face the way kids do at pajama parties when they want to frighten their friends. Worked for me.

  “Jeez, Howard, don’t do that! You look like some kind of a monster.”

  He quickly refocused the beam onto the floor. “Wow. I’m sorry, Ms. Barrett. You okay down here? Can I help you find something?”

  “No, no. I’m good. Just doing a little historical research for the big anniversary celebration your uncle is planning.”

  “Here? Historical research?” He looked around the three-walled enclosure. “I thought the Saturday Business Hour was a fairly new show.”

  “It is.” Think fast. If he sees me open the file cabinet, he’ll want to know what I’m looking for. He could talk Aunt Buffy into letting him in on my story.

  “I’m just checking out the different sets and props we already have. We’ll need to create a really special set for the anniversary month shows.” Quickly improvising, I reached over and tapped the globe. “I’m thinking we might borrow this. To show how TV has become a global influence since it began.”

  “Ah. Yes. I get it.” He gave me a big smile. If he ever does “move on” in this business, that smile will open doors for him. “I’ll keep my eyes open too, Ms. Barrett. If I see any good props around here I’ll let you know.” He began to back away. “Here, you take my flashlight. I’m going upstairs now.”

  “Thanks, Howard,” I said, accepting the light. “And Howard? You have a beautiful smile. You should use it more often.”

  “Really? Thank you. I’ll remember that.”

  Sure thing. I’ll do anything I can do to help you “move on,” kid. I gave the globe an affectionate spin. Using it on the anniversary show set wasn’t a bad idea anyway. I made a mental note of it, looked around the room, then flashlight in hand, I approached the file cabinet. The oblong metal frames on the front of each of the top three file drawers held a blank card. No help there. The card on the bottom drawer read MISCELLANEOUS.

  I aimed Howard’s light toward the first drawer and pulled it open. Manila files—not the hanging kind—in alphabetical order displayed the names of the companies and individuals who’d bought time on the station decades ago. A brief scan of the file titles showed that a surprising number of them were familiar to me—businesses that had survived the years. The Hawthorne Hotel, of course, the North Shore Music Theatre, Salem Savings Bank, and Harbor Sweets were not only still here but were still advertising on WICH-TV! Some names were unfamiliar and some I’d heard Aunt Ibby mention. Almy’s, Webber’s, Empire Clothing, Fannie Farmer, Daniel Low’s . . .

  The scripts for the commercials were there too, neatly typed, complete with director’s notes. I’d already switched hats from girl detective to program researcher. This file cabinet was going to be a nostalgia gold mine. I may have to move into this make-believe office on weekdays!

  I could hardly wait to investigate the next drawer. This one looked like personnel. That’s where I expected to strike the most nostalgia gold of all. It was packed with files—alphabetical, mostly manila, but a few in colored stock. I knew I should start at the beginning and look at each one in order. That’s the way Aunt Ibby would do it. Not me. I went directly to the Ws. Wee Willie would be in there no matter which one of his names he’d used.

  Actually, he was in there under three names—William Wallace, Wallace Williams, and Wee Willie Wallace. I pulled the Wee Willie one first. It was one of the files with the distinctive colored stock. His was green. The file contained his address, telephone number, and Social Security number. There were several publicity photos, including Willie at various stages and ages. There was a stapled-together stack of pay vouchers. I riffled through them quickly. They all seemed to be payments for appearances on the Larry Laraby sports program. Apparently, Wee Willie got paid $100 per appearance—probably really good pay for a few minutes’ work back in the seventies. I wonder what he did to earn it.

  William Wallace was next. Regular manila file folder. Here, once again, was the usual age, height, weight, and IRS and Massachusetts state tax–related information. This file held several stapled-together “style sheets”—the documents that describe in some detail the physical description, perceived personality traits, method of dress, and the like of a character an actor is or will be portraying. The sheet on top was a surprise. The heading read CACTUS. The subhead was “Ranger Rob’s sidekick.” There was an accompanying photo. Sure enough, it was the little guy with the handlebar mustache and the big white sombrero I remembered from childhood.

  Wait a minute! I’ve seen that mustache before.

  I pulled my stack of notes from the hobo bag. There it was. Right on top. Wallace Williams, actor on the dinner theater circuit. Not much resemblance to Ranger Rob’s funny little sidekick, but the mustache matched.

  Usually plays a villain.

  The next page showed a photo of a small man looking like a dead ringer for the Boston Celtics mascot—a leprechaun. The heading on the accompanying sheet read “LUCKY LEPRECHAUN. Temporary guest on varied shows during the month of March.”

  Being short has its rewards.

  The next one wasn’t even unexpected. “ELF. Temporary guest on varied shows during the month of December.” Next, not surprisingly, were EASTER BUNNY, TOM TURKEY, HALLOWEEN GHOST, and MARVEL THE ROBOT.

  That last name rang a special childhood bell. Marvel had been a favorite of mine. He’d been a regular with Professor Mercury and his Magical Science Circus. He’d often helped the Professor with experiments, and spoke with only a series of excited “beeps.”

  WICH-TV had kept William Wallace employed for most of the year, and had kept his true identity hidden with false hair, putty nose, and face-covering masks. The station manager back in those early days must have expected his employees to do more than one job. (Not unlike the current station manager.) I took a quick picture of each page with my phone.

  The Wallace Williams file was the slimmest one of all. It contained some legal-looking documents. Nondisclosure and noncompete forms, signed by William Wallace, aka Wallace Williams. I photographed those too. Would I be able to find “Agnes” here with a meticulous search of names, or should I wait until Monday? I could wait. I moved on to the bottom drawer, wondering what it contained.
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br />   I’d just begun to pull the drawer open when the overhead lights went on. “Anybody down here?” came a voice.

  Chapter 14

  Damn. I recognized the voice. Scott Palmer. I pushed the drawer closed. Quietly.

  “Oh, is that you, Moon?” He appeared at the end of the center aisle and walked toward me. “What are you doing all alone down here in the dark? You okay?”

  “Just fine, Scott,” I said. “No problem. Just doing a little scouting, looking for props for the station anniversary extravaganza.” I stood with my back to the file cabinet.

  “Oh yeah. Thanks for helping me out on that Larry Laraby thing. How’d it go?” He joined me in the faux-office.

  “Well enough that I wound up with the whole project.” I attempted a sigh. “Including the prop hunt.” I gestured with my little flashlight, aiming the pale beam toward the globe. “The spinning globe will make a good background for the title shot, don’t you think?”

  Scott tilted his head to one side and fixed me with that wide-eyed stare he does so well.

  Is he buying this?

  After a moment he nodded. “Yeah. I like it. Denotes passage of time. Listen, if you need any help with this, let me know. It’s the least I can do, since I kind of stuck you with it.”

  I darn near sighed again—this time with relief. I didn’t want Scott horning in on my story. I wasn’t about to let on that he’d handed me a connection to a recent murder, and maybe—just maybe—an old one too. “Thanks, Scott. If you see anything around here that connects to the station’s past, let me know.”

  “Sure will. I know how Doan likes things that don’t cost money.”

  “You’ve got that right. Well, so long.”

  He smiled, still standing there. “I think you can turn the little flashlight off now, Moon. The lights are on.” Again, that damned stare. Do I look nervous? Like I’m hiding something?

  I clicked the light off, slung the hobo bag over my shoulder and brushed past him, heading for the stairs. “Gotta go see if Rhonda has anything for me to do. Bye.”

  “Bye,” he said. When I reached the metal door I sneaked a look back. He was still there. He wasn’t looking at the file cabinet though. I decided to ask around to see if there was a key for it. If there was, I planned to keep it locked. A desk lamp would be a big help too. I’ll bet Rhonda can arrange that. Mainly I planned to ask if I could use the set once in a while during the week when the station was on network feed—preferably when Scott was out of the building.

  I climbed the stairs to the second floor and thanked Rhonda for the tip about the file cabinet. “Looks like there might be some useful stuff in there for the anniversary show. Know what? Some of the sponsors from back then are still with us.”

  “No kidding. Who?”

  I rattled off the names of the few I’d noticed. “There are probably more than those.”

  “We should contact sales,” she said. “They can probably get some extra ads from those old-timers.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “By the way, can you get somebody from props to put one of those old green-shaded lamps on the desk? It would look right on that set.”

  Smiling, she scribbled a note on her desk pad. “And it would help you in your snooping, right?”

  “You know me so well,” I said. “And I want to thank Marty for the file cabinet tip too. Is she still in the building?”

  Rhonda consulted her whiteboard. “She’s shooting a promo for Pickering Wharf. She should be back in about half an hour. Want to hang out with me while you wait? You can help me address some postcard reminders about the Doans’ big Halloween eve party. Guests were asked to dress as fictional characters. Seems Mrs. Doan e-mailed the invitations over a month ago and half the people she invited haven’t RSVP’d yet. These are ‘gentle reminder’ notices with directions to the hotel. Doan thinks they should be hand addressed so the slugs won’t ignore them like they did the first ones. You answered yours, didn’t you?”

  “Sure did. I don’t ignore an e-mail from the boss’s wife, no matter what it’s about.”

  “Good. How’s your handwriting?”

  “Barely legible,” I admitted.

  “Good enough. Here you go.” She handed me a stack of printed cards and a typed page of names and addresses. “Halloween eve’s barely a week away so I’m supposed to get these in the mail today.”

  “These are nice,” I said, inspecting the colorful cards, each one illustrated with storybook characters. “I don’t remember the Doans celebrating Halloween eve with a party before this year.”

  “Yeah. It’s mostly for young Howie. More than half of these go to his friends and family. They want him to feel at home here.”

  Hope he’s not going to get too comfortable here.

  “Does everyone who works here get one of these—even if we answered the first one?”

  “I haven’t read the whole list but it looks like most of us do. Except for River’s show, the late news, and the station ID guy, the nighttime shows are always network programs anyway.”

  “We’d better hurry up and get these addressed then,” I said. “So we can be sure to get ours.” I pulled a chair up to the end of the purple Formica counter.

  “I already wrote yours.” She held up her pen. “The list is alphabetical and in two columns—the Doans’ list is on the left and the Templetons’ guests are on the right. I took the top half. You get M to Z.”

  I returned her pen-salute with my own Pentel, picked up my first card, and addressed it to the top name on my list—Marty McCarthy. Time passed quickly, with hardly any interruption. Rhonda answered a few phone calls, but most of the time we worked in comparative silence. Mr. Doan was away, so there was no noise from that quarter. I was surprised when the studio clock showed one-thirty and I was nearly halfway through my list.

  “Want to stop and grab some lunch?” Rhonda asked.

  “Good idea,” I said. “I need to text Pete first though. To see if he’s got anything new on the library thing. Mr. Doan says he wants daily updates.”

  I sent a brief plea. “Need update on library matter—Please?”

  Rhonda and I headed across Derby Street to the Mercy Tavern. It’s in the same spot as our old hangout, In a Pig’s Eye, still convenient for all hands at WICH-TV and they still have great lunches. We’d just placed our orders, a Mercy burger for Rhonda, New England clam chowder for me, when my phone buzzed. It was Pete.

  “Excuse me,” I apologized. “Gotta take this.”

  “No problem.”

  “Hi, Pete,” I said. “Thanks for getting back to me so fast. What’ve we got?”

  “Cause of death and what was on the videos.”

  I fished in the hobo bag and grabbed my notebook, then realizing that I’d left my pen on Rhonda’s desk. I made frantic writing motions. She handed me one of the bright red WICH-TV promotional pens. Good enough. “Shoot,” I said. Then paused. “Is it okay if I report this?”

  “Yep. Ready?”

  “Shoot,” I said again.

  “Okay. William Wallace, aged approximately eighty, died of severe damage to the upper vertebrae in an area just below the brain stem. Death was probably instantaneous.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Don’t know for sure yet, but it wasn’t an accident.”

  “Murder?”

  “That’s a distinct possibility.”

  “An old man like that couldn’t put up much of a fight I suppose. Got any suspects?”

  “The old guy was in remarkably good shape for a man his age, according to the doc. Whoever did it must have sneaked up on him somehow. Anyway, the videos from the library cameras show us who entered and left the stacks on that day,” he said. “The library staff is being asked today to identify those people they recognize. Then if there’s anyone they don’t know who went up into the stacks, those pictures will be released to the media. Maybe somebody in the audience can help us. Listen, babe, I’ll try to see that WICH-TV gets first crack at thos
e if I can.”

  “That’d be great, Pete. So the video might have the answer then.”

  “Yes, and no.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we have good clear shots of everybody who went up those stairs all day—including you.”

  “That’s helpful. And I suppose the ones of them coming down are better. You could see the faces.”

  “You’re right about the ones that came down the stairs. Not everybody did.”

  “No, of course poor old Willie didn’t.”

  “And one more. A man who came in the front door and went up the stairs apparently never came down. Besides that, a woman who left the library by the side door apparently never came inside at all.” He shook his head. “Puzzler.”

  Our food had arrived by then and I nibbled on a Saltine cracker. “Okay then. Obviously, the man left somehow and the woman got in somehow. There has to be another entrance—or exit. A big building like that has more than two ways to get in and out.”

  “True. We’re working on that. We’re still examining those library tapes. Looking at the door in the old kitchen too.”

  “That’s the only other way out I can think of. Besides, there’s an alarm on the exit door in the stacks.”

  “I know. We’re workin’ on it, babe. Gotta go. Talk to you later.”

  I put the phone back into my purse. “That’s totally weird.”

  “Spill it,” Rhonda prodded. “I could tell from your end of the conversation something strange is going on. What’s up?”

  “As soon as we get back to work I have to do another report. They know what killed Wee Willie.” I looked at my notes. “He suffered severe damage to his upper vertebrae near the brain stem.”