Late Checkout

by Carol J. Perry

  I could see it in my mind. “That’s the door to the old kitchen. It shouldn’t be open.”

  “I know. She closed it behind her. She says the room was full of boxes and stuff and some old office furniture.”

  “That sounds about right. I’ve never been in there myself,” I said.

  “She was starting to feel a little better. Figured her eyes looked okay and was about to go and join the others for the music thing.” Another pause. “She heard somebody coming. She was scared so she ducked behind a pile of boxes.”

  I realized I was holding my breath. “She saw who it was?”

  “She did. She says she saw a man with black pants and a black jacket and some kind of shoes she called ‘booties.’”

  “That means really low-cut boots. I have some.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that.” He continued. “The guy has short curly gray hair and he was wearing gloves and he had some kind of a big bag like a backpack except it wasn’t on his back. He was carrying it.”

  “The poor child must have been terrified.”

  “She was. She says she closed her eyes and scooched down as far as she could and listened for him to leave. But he stayed in there for a long time, she says, and she heard noises but she didn’t dare to look to see what he was doing. After a while, she heard the door open. She could hear the music from inside the library. Then she heard the door shut. She waited for a while longer before she came out. She was afraid to stay out there alone so she decided to sneak inside and join the others.”

  “And she never told anybody until she called River?”

  “Right. She was afraid she’d get in trouble for ducking out of the group. She missed most of the music class. But when she saw the news about the murder on Buck’s show she decided she’d better tell a grown-up. Like River.”

  “Good kid. Do you think there’s any chance that the man saw her?”

  There was no hesitation in Pete’s reply. “Very unlikely. She was well concealed and he apparently went on with whatever he was doing in there without making a move toward the area where she was hiding.”

  I wished he’d sounded that sure about whether or not the man had seen me, but I didn’t press that issue. “Did the person she described show up on the surveillance tapes yet?”

  “No, and that’s a problem.” I could visualize his frowning cop face. “We have no pictures of anyone that fits Pamela’s description of the man either entering or leaving the building. Nobody.”

  There was a long pause and I figured that Pete had told me everything he felt comfortable about sharing. “Well, thanks for calling me, Pete. I was really worried about the little girl. Is it okay if I tell River what you said?”

  “I’m sure Buck will play the recording for her. Probably already has—while the movie was playing.”

  “True. But I’d like her to know you’re not worried about little Pamela being seen while she was hiding,” I said. “Okay?”

  “Sure. I’ve already told Buck this is all confidential, of course—and I know I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “I’m sure no one at the station would say anything that might put that child in danger,” I said, “but thanks for keeping me up to speed on all this. Love you.”

  “Love you too,” he said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I put the phone back on the nightstand and turned the TV back on. Veronica Lake was about to wreck Frederic March’s romance with Susan Hayward. That’s one of the best parts but I found my attention wandering. How could the man Pamela saw in the old kitchen have come in and out of the building without being caught by any of the surveillance cameras? It was turning out to be a true “locked room” mystery. What would Hercule Poirot do? (I figured this one was above Nancy Drew’s pay grade.)

  O’Ryan had moved back to his foot-of-the-bed position and seemed to be concentrating on the movie—or possibly waiting for River to reappear. I was wide awake with mind racing. When that happens I usually just get up and do something productive. Wash dishes? Apply a facial mask? Neither idea appealed.

  I padded into the kitchen, opened a diet Pepsi, and pulled a handful of the papers I’d been collecting all day from the hobo bag. I studied the scribbled notes I’d made about putting together a flowchart connecting the various people who seemed to be somehow associated with the dead William Wallace—or Wallace Williams. Did this new character, the gray-haired man in black wearing gloves and booties fit in? If so, how did he get in? And what should I call him?

  I decided on “Curly.”

  Back to the “locked room” idea. Obviously, Curly had entered and left the library somehow. Pete had confirmed that there were other entrances to the old building. All locked and deadbolted. All had been examined and found to be secure. Aunt Ibby had a full set of keys in a locked drawer at the library. Dave might have a set too. That led to the conclusion that Curly might somehow have had access to keys to an exterior door. Or not! What about windows? Had they checked all of the ground-floor windows? Surely they had.

  The Clue game crossed my mind once again. Did Miss White do it in the observatory with a knife? Did Miss Peacock do it on the patio with a bat? Then I thought about Rhonda’s old boyfriend who’d taught her self-defense.

  Did Curly do it in the library with a karate chop?

  More confused than I’d been when I started this train of thought, I chugged the Pepsi, stuffed all the papers back into the hobo bag, joined O’Ryan on the bed, and watched River’s show to the very end.

  Chapter 27

  Aunt Ibby had decided to get an early start on our quest to locate Ranger Rob and Agnes Hooper. I wanted to be back by noon, just in case anything along the line of field reporting turned up for me at the station. Since we’d be going to a riding stable I decided on jeans, checked shirt, denim vest, and the same pair of Frye Western boots I’d had since high school. (Keep them polished and conditioned and they last forever.) I briefly considered rescuing my raggedy old cowboy hat from the second-floor bedroom, but quickly decided it would be too much.

  My aunt and I shared a quick breakfast of banana nut muffins, orange juice, and coffee. I tried the Professor Mercury website address again. Again, no luck.

  I backed the Vette out of the garage and we were on our way down Route 128 toward Rockport by seven a.m. I tucked my phone in the breast pocket of the vest, volume turned up, not wanting to miss the hoped-for call from Katie the Clown.

  Just turning into the wooded road leading to the Double R Riding Stable brought back a nostalgia rush of sweet memories of a typical young teenaged girl’s fierce love of horses. I’d loved every single thing about those days from the riding competitions to mucking out the stalls. I still have a box of blue ribbons and, of course, the boots and that beat-up old hat.

  We rounded the last bend and pulled up beside a show ring. A young woman led a plump gray pony around and around in the circle, an excited small boy in the saddle. Several other cheering little kids awaited their turns. Aunt Ibby and I approached a long barn with double doors open so that the row of stalls was visible. I could smell the hay and the horses and that incomparable good barn smell. Yes, even including the poop.

  I parked in a space marked “Visitor” and we two walked up the slightly angled wooden ramp and through those inviting double doors. A palomino with chocolate eyes gave us a curious look and craned his neck from the first stall. I stroked the soft muzzle and called out “Hello? Anybody here?”

  “Be right with you,” came an answer from one of the other stalls. It had been a lot of years since I’d heard that voice, but I recognized it immediately. Ranger Rob still had what Bruce Doan referred to as “a good set of pipes.” The stall door swung open after a brief moment and the tall man walked toward us. “Can I help you ladies?”

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m Lee Barrett. WICH-TV. You’re Robert Oberlin, aren’t you? Ranger Rob?” I stuck out my hand. He hesitated for a second, looked down at his own hand, and apparently decided that despite whatever he�
��d been doing horse-wise, it was sanitary enough for a handshake. His grip was firm and his smile was as warm and toothpaste-ad perfect as ever.

  “Howdy, Lee Barrett,” he said. “I’m guessin’ you were one of my little buckaroo fans from the old days. Well, I’m a fan of yours now. Good job on that sad business over at the library.”

  “Thanks,” I said, still a little starstruck even though my tall, lean, childhood cowboy-crush was now on the seriously portly side. I introduced my aunt and Robert Oberlin wiped his hand on his shirt before he grasped hers. “Howdy, Ms. Russell,” he said. “Welcome to the Double R. Now what brings you folks here on this fine fall day?”

  I explained briefly about the upcoming seventieth anniversary of WICH-TV, and how Mr. Doan had asked me to contact the big-name TV personalities from those early days. “So naturally, you were at the top of my list,” I said truthfully. “We’re hoping you’ll agree to do a few appearances during the anniversary week.”

  “I’m pretty sure I can manage to fit that into my schedule.” The smile broadened. “Even though I can’t fit into my Ranger Rob outfit anymore. Just tell us when and where to show up. I’ll be there. You rounded up any of the others yet? Agnes or Jerry?”

  “Not yet,” I admitted. “I’m hoping to hear from Agnes sometime today though. Haven’t been able to locate the professor. Any idea where he might be working his magic these days?”

  “Saw him a few months back at my grandson’s birthday party,” he said. “Hasn’t lost his touch one bit. The kids loved him. He gave me his card. I could look for it in the office.” He waved toward a small building behind the barn. “Must have a phone number on it I should think.” I figured it would probably be the same card Chris had given to me, but I told him I’d appreciate having a look at it.

  “You ride?” he asked, looking down at my boots.

  “Used to,” I said. “Not for a long time though.”

  “She was very good at it too,” my aunt put in. “Had her own horse. A sweet Appaloosa named Smoothie. No reason she couldn’t take the time to come over here to ride once in a while.”

  I looked at her in surprise. Smoothie had been my best friend and companion and playmate from fifth grade right up until I went to college. It about broke my heart when we donated him to the Horses for the Handicapped Foundation. It helped some that I knew how much he’d mean to the disabled people who’d love him too.

  Rob said he had some fine horses to rent and that there were miles of good trails nearby. Even a couple of spots where horses were allowed on the beach. It was tempting. “I’ll think about it,” I said. “But right now I’m concentrating on that anniversary program.”

  “Do you remember Larry Laraby, Mr. Oberlin?” my aunt asked. “Were you at the station when he was the sports reporter?”

  “I remember him.” Rob began walking toward the double doors. “Never knew him well. He was about to retire when the Ranger Rob show began. I got to know him a little when he started the collectibles shows. Did a few odd jobs for him.” He pointed to the Double R Stables sign over the door “See that? I kind of borrowed part of the name from the show. Remember the Triple R Ranch? It stood for Ranger Rob Ranch.”

  “You must have known Wee Willie Wallace then,” my aunt persisted. She was asking the questions I should be asking. I took the cue.

  “I’ve been doing a little research and it turns out that Wee Willie played quite a few parts in those old shows. Like being your sidekick, Cactus.”

  He looked down toward my boots again. “Yep. Cactus. Funny little guy, wasn’t he? Listen Ms. Barrett, Lee. May I call you Lee?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Listen, you just come on over any day except Saturdays—that’s when all the kids show up. Any day and you take yourself a nice ride on Prince Valiant here.” He gave the palomino an affectionate rub on the nose. “No charge. And you just let me know about the anniversary thing. I’ll be there with bells on. You bet. Well, gotta go pick up some feed. Good talking to you.” He backed away.

  “If you have one more minute to spare, Rob,” I asked, “could I have a peek at that business card you mentioned? My boss is expecting me to deliver all three stars. Professor Mercury, Katie the Clown, and Ranger Rob.”

  “Tell you what.” He approached an F-150 King Ranch Supercrew Ford. Late model. Probably 2017. “I don’t recall exactly where it is,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll find it though. You bet. I’ll call you. Gotta go.” He climbed into the cab of that big, beautiful silver truck and started the powerful engine.

  My aunt and I looked at each other as the Ford disappeared down the long driveway. We returned to the Vette and, with a wave to the pony riders, left the Double R Stables. She spoke first. “What do you suppose he’s hiding?”

  Chapter 28

  Before long we were once again on Route 128, heading back to Salem, Aunt Ibby at the wheel, me furiously scribbling notes on index cards. “Don’t you think there’s something about Robert Oberlin that’s just not quite right?” My aunt pressed for an answer. I knew what she meant.

  “It wasn’t anything he said, exactly.” I searched for the right words. “I mean, it was more what he didn’t say. Does that make sense?”

  “He was dodging some simple questions,” she said, “and he was all of a sudden in a big hurry to get away from us.”

  “It almost seems as if he knew Larry Laraby better than he let on,” I said, wondering if she felt as uncomfortable about doubting the motives of my one-time cowboy hero as I did. “But maybe he was just in a hurry to pick up feed. Running a business like that isn’t easy.”

  “True.” She nodded. “But he didn’t want to talk about knowing Wee Willie either, and Willie as Cactus was his sidekick for years on that show.”

  “Not unusual,” I said. “Some people who work together every day don’t like each other much.” I thought about my contentious relationship with Scott Palmer, and so far I wasn’t too crazy about Howard Templeton either. “Professionals don’t let it affect the job.”

  She smiled. “You’re probably right. I’m just a nosy old woman—taking this snooping into police business much too seriously.”

  We dropped that subject and chatted about her plan for inviting the young people from the Salem High Library Corps to help clean up the books that had been on the floor. “There actually wasn’t much damage to most of them,” she admitted, “but it’ll be good practice for the kids anyway.”

  It was only about ten o’clock when we reached the Beverly Bridge and crossed into Salem. We were suddenly in a slow-moving line of cars. “Oh-oh,” I said. “I’d almost forgotten how impossible driving here can be in October. The closer we get to Halloween, the crazier it gets.”

  “I should have remembered,” my aunt said. “Today is the Great Pumpkin Walk. The streets will be jammed.”

  There was no way to get to our garage on Oliver Street without going past the Witch Museum, which would be one of the important destinations in the annual event. “Oh well,” I said. “We may as well relax and enjoy watching the people in costumes. It’s going to be a long, slow ride. When we get home let’s lock up the cars. We’d better plan on walking wherever we go for the rest of the month.”

  It was a few minutes before eleven when we finally reached home. I hurried upstairs to change into something more appropriate in case I might have an opportunity to do some actual reporting. I don’t know how the mobile unit will be able to get around, but I’d better be ready just in case.

  Shedding the denim and Western boots and opting for dark brown midi and beige kitten heels, I checked my phone for a message from Agnes. Nothing. I tucked the phone into a pocket (I love dresses with pockets) and, slinging the hobo bag over my shoulder, I started down Winter Street and crossed the common, where good-natured costumed revelers were already jamming the walkways, climbing onto the bandstand, and crowding around the food vendors’ wagons. I crossed Essex Street where a harried traffic cop coped as well as possible with the surging mass of people. An
d it wasn’t even noon yet! Johnny and I had been to New Orleans during Mardi Gras a couple of times and Salem at Halloween is very similar. Crazy—but so very cool.

  Derby Street was almost as people-packed as the downtown areas. I ran up the steps to the WICH-TV building’s glass front door and stepped gratefully into the lobby. I crossed the black-and-white tiled floor, trying not to step on the cracks, and pushed the UP button on the elevator.

  On the second floor I was greeted by a relieved Rhonda. “Boy, am I glad to see you. Templeton just phoned in that he’s stuck in a big traffic jam. He can’t get here and Doan wants somebody to cover the Pumpkin Walk live. Pronto! Local color and all that. Phil’s noon news has already started. Francine’s glommed onto a four-seater golf cart somehow. She’s in the parking lot ready to go. You’ll just ride through the crowd—Francine driving, Marty filming, you reporting. Here.” She shoved a typed sheet of paper into my hand. “Show prep. Get going. Good luck.” She pointed to the door that leads to the studio. “I’ll tell Phil you three are on your way and to stand by for live feed.”

  I ran for the green door when Rhonda called out again. “I almost forgot. Some guy named Jerry came by. He said you were trying to contact him.”

  Jerry? As in Jerome Mercury?

  “Where did he go?”

  “He’s in Doan’s office. I’ll tell him you’ll be back in about half an hour. Now beat it!”

  I did as I was told. “First things first,” as Aunt Ibby always says. We’d take a little golf cart ride through the throngs of pumpkin walkers—whatever that meant—then I’d meet the elusive Jerry Mercury. The magical Professor Mercury of my childhood. If that’s actually who’s waiting for me in Mr. Doan’s office.