“So you’re going over to see Chris Rich?” she asked, when I’d told her my latest plan for finding the missing Professor Mercury. “Maybe Chris knows his real name.”
“His real name must be in the records here somewhere,” I said. “I just haven’t taken enough time to search for it. I’m not worried about it. I’m just assuming that Katie—Agnes—will know it anyway. She or Ranger Rob are the easiest to contact. Anyway, if he’s still using magic tricks somewhere around Salem, Chris will have the info I need.”
“Good luck. See you tomorrow.”
“Right. But if they need a good field reporter before then, I’m not far away.”
“Gotcha.”
The sun was getting low in the sky and there was a chill in the air. October is beautiful in New England, but it’s full of reminders that winter isn’t far away. I climbed into the Vette and headed for Christopher’s Castle. When I’d talked to Rhonda I’d sounded pretty confident that I’d find the fascinating magician of my childhood easily. Or not. I smiled as I turned into the lot behind Chris’s shop. If this was a Nancy Drew book I’d call it The Case of the Missing Magician.
The shop looked busy. There were several customers milling around, leaning over jewelry display cases, checking out costume racks, experimenting with sample magic tricks displayed on a long table. Chris greeted me with a big grin and an enthusiastic “Lee! My favorite girl reporter! What brings you to my castle this fine day?”
“I’m on a special assignment,” I said, knowing he’d like hearing that. “I’m trying to locate a certain magician, and who better to help me than you?”
The grin grew wider. “How can I help, dear Lee? I know them all. The great ones and the beginners. Did I ever tell you about the time the amazing David Copperfield stopped in here? I have a photo of us together.”
“Yes, Chris,” I said. “I remember seeing that picture.” How can anyone miss it? It’s sixteen-by-twenty in a fancy gold frame right behind the counter. “The man I want to interview was kind of semi-famous locally years ago. Do you remember Professor Mercury? He did a wonderful kids’ show combining magic with science.”
“Indeed, I remember the gentleman. Used to be a good customer. Always looking for the latest, the newest, the best. He still comes in every once in a while.”
“Do you know his real name? Do you know where he is now?” I held my breath and crossed my fingers behind my back.
“His real name? Certainly. It’s Jerome Mercury. Jerry for short.”
“You’re kidding. His last name is really Mercury?”
“Sure. There are lots of them. Remember Freddie Mercury? Played with Queen? The rock group?”
“Oh, yeah. ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’ But do you know where he is now? Jerry Mercury, not Freddie.”
Chris put one finger under his chin and hit a pensive pose. “Hmmm. Last time I saw Jerry was a couple of months ago. He bought a new see-through card trick. He does a lot of kids’ parties.” Chris shook his head. “Seems like a come-down for him. He could have been one of the big ones.”
“Does he still live in Salem?”
“I don’t know. Could be. He just walked in off the street like anybody else.”
“That’s okay.” I was disappointed but still hopeful. “If he’s doing kids’ parties he probably advertises somewhere. Local papers or online. Does he still call himself ‘Professor’?”
“I think so. Wait a minute!” He stabbed the air with his forefinger. “He gave me a business card. I stuck it in the cash register.” He hurried behind the counter and punched a combination of numbers. The drawer slid open and Chris removed the card. “Here you go.” He handed it to me. It featured a colorful drawing of a typical cartoon magician—a dark-haired man with a curving mustache, piercing eyes, white gloves. Instead of the traditional top hat though, he wore a metallic gold crown and his magic wand had gold lightning flashes shooting from it. The Magic King! was printed in bold purple letters. Bullet points proclaimed: Mystify your friends!—Children’s Parties—Office Parties—Charity Events—Church Picnics—Holiday Celebrations. A website address was given at the bottom. No phone number.
So here he is. The King of Wands.
“May I keep it?” I held up the card.
“Sure. He leaves one every time he comes in.”
“Thanks, Chris,” I said. “If you happen to see him or hear from him any time soon, will you give him my number?” I handed him one of my field reporter cards. “I have a job for him. Actually two. A private party and a TV appearance.”
Chris’s eyes danced with interest. “Anything there for me? You know I’m good on TV and I love parties. Did you mean Buffy Doan’s Storybook Halloween eve bash? I’ve already RSVP’d for that one. I’m going as Heathcliff. I’ll be fabulous. Did you like that interview we did this morning?”
“Very much,” I said. “Really professional. I’ll certainly keep you in mind. We’re working on an anniversary show for the station’s seventieth birthday, you know.”
“Stay in touch,” he said. “You always know where you can find me.”
I wished him a good evening, tucked the Magic King’s card into my purse, and left the store. I walked toward my car, trying to recall exactly what River had said about the King of Wands. Something about spiritual and material gain. The possibility of an inheritance. I wondered what else that card might tell me. I’d call River for sure. Meanwhile I’d check out the website on Professor Mercury’s card. At least he was still alive, somewhere within commuting distance of Salem, and still performing magic.
The thought made me happy.
I headed for Winter Street with the feeling of a good day’s work accomplished. I had Larry Laraby’s photo albums safely locked in my trunk. I’d learned Katie the Clown’s real name and by tomorrow she’d have the card I’d given to Jim Litka. I felt sure she’d call me. Maybe Aunt Ibby and I would take a ride to Rockport tomorrow morning and surprise Ranger Rob with an invitation to appear on the anniversary show—and while we were there, we might find out a little more about where he fit on my so-far-imaginary flowchart.
Chapter 24
The first thing I did when I reached home was check out Professor Mercury’s website. Disappointment was immediate. A cartoon guy with hammer and boards appeared, with the dreaded “Site under construction. Check back later” message. Bummer. My aunt was just as pleased as I was though, with the information I had gained, and was particularly interested in the photo albums. So was Pete. I’d only been home for an hour or so when he called. “Did you bring those albums home?” he wanted to know, “and if you did can I invite myself over to take a look at them?”
“Yes, and yes. Aunt Ibby and I are ordering pizza. Want to join us?”
“Pizza sounds perfect,” he said. “Shall I pick it up? I’ll be out of here in about fifteen minutes.”
“Sure. I’ll text the order in to the Pizza Pirate and tell them you’ll pick it up at around seven-thirty. Work for you?”
“Yep. You need soda or anything else?”
“Nope. We’re good,” I said. “We won’t open the albums until you get here. So hurry up.”
He laughed. “You know I will.”
I told my aunt that Pete wanted to be part of the Larry Laraby photo study group.
“Oh, I’m glad he’s coming over, Maralee,” she said. “Better order extra pizza.”
“I will. Pete sounded really excited about seeing the albums. I’ll bet he’s looking for something in particular in them.”
“Let’s snoop it out of him then,” my aunt said in a serious tone.
“You sound absolutely devious,” I told her.
“I know. Isn’t it fun?” The green eyes twinkled and her smile was mischievous. “Let’s put the albums on the kitchen table. It’s round so it’ll be easy for us all to see them. We’ll eat our pizza at the counter. That way we won’t be getting cheese and sauce on the evidence.”
“Evidence? Of what?”
She shrugged. �
��I don’t know. That’s what we’re snooping for.”
“You’re incorrigible,” I said as I texted the Pizza Pirate. “One cheese and pepperoni and one extra cheese okay with you?”
“Perfect,” she said, and began setting out plates and glasses. I placed the two albums in the center of the round oak table, and spaced the four captain’s chairs evenly around it. My aunt thoughtfully placed a couple of magnifying glasses beside the albums. O’Ryan sniffed each chair, chose the one closest to the back door for himself, and sat on the braided chair mat in an expectant pose.
I made a quick trip up to my apartment, checked my hair, added a spritz of Flowerbomb, changed my old gray T-shirt for a white silk blouse, and then went back downstairs to wait for Pete—and pizza.
“Did I tell you Professor Mercury’s last name is really Mercury?” I asked my aunt.
“No kidding. Like Freddie Mercury?”
“Right.” I said. “From Queen. Now I’m beginning to wonder if maybe he’s really a professor.”
“I wouldn’t be one bit surprised. He certainly showed a vast knowledge of science on his TV show, and he had the ability to make it understandable even to small children. What a gift!”
I nodded, fondly remembering those childhood science experiments in this same kitchen. “Chris Rich has seen him fairly recently and thinks he must still live somewhere in the area. Chris says he’s doing mostly kids’ parties lately.” I pulled out the card and showed it to her. “I checked out his website but it’s apparently ‘under construction. ’ I’ll keep trying. I think he might like a chance to be on TV again, if only for an anniversary special.”
She studied the card and handed it back to me. “The professor always seemed to have a lovely rapport with children. Perhaps he’s enjoying his new career.”
I hoped she was right. “Chris Rich spoke of it as a ‘come down,’ but I like your theory better.” O’Ryan’s ears perked up and he leaped from his chair, heading for the door. “That’ll be Pete,” I said. “And pizza. His arms will be full. I’ll let him in.”
I followed O’Ryan into the back hall, passed the laundry room, and unlocked the back door. He’d already zipped through his own door and met Pete halfway down the solar-lighted flagstone walk. The two walked together toward me and again I had that good feeling of a day’s work well done. I stepped outside to meet them and reached up for the expected kiss. Kiss delivered, I held the door open for Pete and waited for O’Ryan to follow him inside. The cat had paused at the edge of the garden fence, looking back over his shoulder to the street. I followed his gaze, shading my eyes against the glow from the little path-lamps and the glare from the streetlight across from the garage. I saw nothing unusual. “Come, kitty,” I called. “Pepperoni inside.” He hesitated, then with a loud purr trotted up the steps and into the house.
I stood there in the open doorway for a moment. What had O’Ryan seen—or heard?
Was there someone standing in the deep shadows under the trees? Had the green Subaru with the smiling man at the wheel driven by? Nonsense. I shook away the bad thoughts. The cat had been distracted by a moth or a toad or a cricket or a dog barking in the distance. I closed the door and joined my loved ones in the cozy kitchen.
The pizza boxes had been opened, the pies transferred to “proper” serving plates. (Upstairs in my kitchen, they stay in their boxes.) Chilled cans of Pepsi and a bottle of chardonnay were lined up on the counter next to plates and glasses. “Smells great in here, doesn’t it?” Pete said. “They ought to make pizza-scented candles.”
“Let’s eat it while it’s hot,” Aunt Ibby suggested. “Then we can get to work on those albums.”
So that’s what we did. The pizza was dispatched in short order—right down to the last slice of pepperoni, which O’Ryan claimed. We carried our drinks to the kitchen table and opened the first album. I passed it to Pete because I’d already looked through about a third of the pages. Aunt Ibby slowly inched her chair closer to his left. Following her lead, I slid mine over to his right. Before long we three were all crowded together, while O’Ryan stared across at us from the opposite side of the round table.
I caught myself holding my breath when Pete picked up the biggest magnifying glass, held it in front of him and leaned closer to the open page. Aunt Ibby leaned forward too. O’Ryan put both front paws on the edge of the table and focused golden eyes on Pete.
I could see from where I sat that he was inspecting a studio photo. It was one of the oldest ones—the ones with the call letters on the microphone. What had he seen in it that I hadn’t seen? He made no comment, put the magnifying glass down and turned his attention to the next page. I let my breath out, Aunt Ibby leaned back in her chair, but O’Ryan retained his table’s-edge position. Okay, so what does the cat see that I didn’t?
Pete turned a few more pages without comment, then paused on a page that showed several photos of Laraby and Wee Willie. “I asked around about Larry Laraby,” Pete said. “About his TV show, I mean. My dad remembers him. Had nothing but good to say about him. He said Laraby was a real ‘sports newsman,’ not a ‘sports commentator, ’ like so many are today.” Pete smiled. “Dad says Laraby would say the score was 5 to 3. Period. Not ‘the score was 5 to 3 because the Sox pitcher blew the game in the seventh.’ A real straight shooter.”
“He seemed to have plenty of friends,” Aunt Ibby said. “Including some famous athletes. She pointed across Pete’s chest to a picture of Laraby standing beside a fireplace with a woman my aunt immediately identified as tennis great Billie Jean King.
Pete moved the album closer to me. “Did you notice this one?” he asked, tapping one of the photos taken at a collectibles show. He picked up the magnifying glass but didn’t use it.
“I saw it,” I said, “but I didn’t notice anything special about it.”
He handed me the magnifying glass. “Look again. On the counter just to the right of Laraby.” I picked up the glass and did as he’d asked.
“You mean the book?” I focused on an open book, lying face down on a display counter beside a row of baseballs, each one neatly encased in a round plastic holder. It was as though a reader—in this case, Larry Laraby—had been reading a book between serving customers and had left it facedown, open, to mark his place. In our house, this was almost as bad as bending corners. “That’s what bookmarks are for,” my aunt had always scolded when I’d been careless enough to make that mistake. “He was reading on the job,” I said.
“And he was disrespectful of his book,” my aunt chimed it. “Do you know what that does to the book’s delicate spine?”
“I was looking at the title,” Pete said, a tiny note of impatience in his voice. “It’s one of the titles that was on the list of books Mrs. Stewart donated to the library.”
I looked more closely and read the title aloud. “The Boys of Summer by Roger Kahn. It’s a baseball book lying upside down on a sports collectibles show table.” That struck me as quite logical. “Is it interesting to you because Mrs. Stewart is missing a picture of her father holding a book?”
“That’s part of it,” he said. “But it’s more interesting because so far, we haven’t located that particular book.”
‘That is interesting. And I should have remembered that title from the list of donated books. I guess you’ve checked the rest of the books in the stacks?”
He nodded. “Uh-huh. Not there.”
“So maybe,” my aunt put in, “that book—” she pointed at the photo—“is the one the killer is looking for.”
“And maybe has found.” My words came out in an almost-whisper. “Is that what you think, Pete? That Wee Willie might have found that book in the stacks and then got killed because of it?”
“I don’t think that at all,” Pete said, cop voice engaged. “I’m simply gathering facts. Evidence from several places suggests that someone is interested in books about sports. We have here a picture of Larry Laraby holding a book about sports. Another photo, which a relative cla
ims is missing, also shows Larry Laraby holding a book that may or may not be about sports. A library book about sports is also missing that may or may not be the one in this photo.” Once again he indicated the picture of Laraby at one of his collectibles shows. “None of these facts lead to conclusions about deaths, one of which may or may not be murder.”
“See?” I said. “That’s why I could never be a cop. My imagination runs away with me every time.”
“It’s all in the training,” he said. “Let’s look at some more pictures.”
We worked our way through the first album, with Pete flagging a few more pictures including several of the “most valuable baseball card in the world.” All of those photos showed a stern-faced young Dave Benson guarding the display.
“I can hardly wait to see what Dave has to say about it,” Aunt Ibby said. “I have a feeling that he’s always liked the way he looks in uniform.”
“Well,” I said, looking at a side shot of the tall young man. “He does wear it well. Pete, do you suppose that’s a real gun in his holster?”
“Looks real to me,” Pete said. “If I had a genuine Honus Wagner, I know I’d want it well guarded.”
“Dave’s not armed when he’s on duty at the library,” Aunt Ibby said. “But in light of what’s been going on there lately, maybe he should be.”
“I don’t think so, Ms. Russell.” Calm cop voice. “What happened in the stacks is what we call an ‘isolated incident.’ It’s highly unlikely that library patrons are in any sort of danger. No need for firearms there.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” She returned her attention to the open album. “Probably no one at the Larry Laraby collectibles shows was in danger either. Seems to me the armed cop and the glass case were clever props to gain publicity for the shows—and for Laraby himself.”
“Of course they were,” I said. “Looks like Larry Laraby was quite a showman. I wish he was still around to help me with the anniversary show.”
Late Checkout Page 13