I said so long to Aunt Ibby and Tyler, grabbed my jacket from the break room closet. There were still a few cinnamon buns in the covered cake dish. It would be a while before dinner. I wrapped a bun tightly in a paper napkin, slipped it into my jacket pocket, and left the library via the side door. It only took about half an hour to get to Highland Avenue. Siri led me almost to Peabody, down Concord Street, through a couple of streets I could swear I’d never seen before, and somehow I found myself in front of Agnes’s cute house. I parked behind the VW Bug in the carport and walked up the path to the pumpkin-lined porch. Percival peered from the window the same way O’Ryan likes to do from our front hall. Agnes threw the door open as soon as I reached for the doorbell.
“Come in, Lee,” she said, reaching for my hand. “I told Percy you were coming and he’s been waiting here at the window ever so patiently.” I patted the black cat and followed Agnes to her kitchen. The room was done in pink and gray—even the refrigerator and wall oven were pink. The kitchen table had a gray Formica top and chrome chairs were padded in pink fabric with a boomerang-pattern design. A wonderful Marc Bellaire vase held fresh pink gerbera daisies. It was the perfect 1950s kitchen.
“This is wonderful,” I said. “Suits the house.”
“Suits me,” she replied with a big smile. “Now what can I do for you? I’m guessing you have some more questions for me.”
“I do,” I said. “Mostly it’s about the costumes. Jerry Mercury told me that the Mrs. Blatherflab outfit is missing.”
“It is,” she said. “The dress and gray wig and the purse with the cat on it and that darling veiled hat and the gray gloves. Even her little black boots.” She laughed. “They weren’t actually little of course. Rob had size thirteen feet.”
“Jerry told me that Rob hated wearing it,” I said.
“Oh, he did. The poor man. Just imagine—going from being handsome Ranger Rob and strong, brave Officer Tom and then having to play a silly old fat lady.” She shook her head. “But he needed the job. Needed to fulfill his contract. He was saving his money to buy that stable over in Rockport.”
“He seems happy there,” I told her. “It’s a very nice place and he does love his horses.”Do I dare to bring up the possibility that Rob may have taken the costume from her utility room?
I didn’t have to. She brought it up first.
“You know, Lee, when I first saw that tape of the old woman on TV, the first thing I thought of was Rob. Naturally I recognized Mrs. Blatherflab right away. I’m sure plenty of others did too. At least those of us of a certain age.”
“The police chief’s mother spotted it,” I said. “Do I understand correctly that the old woman costume has been in your utility room all these years?”
“It is. I mean it was.” She gave a clownlike jazz hands motion. “Not there anymore. Gone.”
I pressed a little more. “Is it possible that Rob could have—borrowed it?”
“Oh, darlin’,” she protested. “Anybody could have borrowed it. I’ve loaned all those silly rigs out God knows how many times. Anybody who needs a costume is welcome to use one. All I ask is that they wash it and return it when they’re through.”
“So it’s true that the utility room door is unlocked?”
“It’s true. Most of my friends and quite a few of the neighbors know that. Who told you?”
“Jerry Mercury.”
“Oh, yes. Jerry. He has no use for the old outfits.” She gave a little sigh. “He’s kind of stuck up, don’t you think? That’s his Abraham Lincoln costume on the straw man out front, by the way.” I remembered the striped pants, frock coat, and top hat on the scarecrow guy. So even the professor had played more than one role.
“Would you let me look at the collection?” I asked.
“Of course. Come on outside. Come along, Percival.” The cat fell into step beside her and we all walked together onto the porch, past the pumpkins and the well-dressed straw man, over to the door at the end of the carport. She pulled it open with a quick motion. The black cat took one leap and landed directly on top of a large black trunk. There were a few other items in there. A rake, a shovel, some hedge clippers. But it was the vision of O’Ryan, poised on the old trunk that used to be in our attic, that actually registered with me and suddenly made sense. This was a black cat on a larger, somewhat newer trunk, but the message was the same. The trunk, or what’s in it, is important—somehow.
“Now, there may be a few things missing,” she warned. “It’s Halloween in Salem you know. Costume parties all over the place and the neighborhood folks know I have a pretty good assortment here for free.”
“And people always return them? All washed?”
“They do. Sometimes I might have to rewash one—to get wine stains out. But generally speaking, people take good care of them.” She shooed the cat aside and opened the lid. “The costumes are all professional quality, you know. WICH-TV didn’t stint on wardrobe.” She pulled a silvery metallic jumpsuit from the pile. “Look. This was Marvel the Robot’s little suit. His helmet is here too. See? And there’s a small bulb sewn into the glove part of the sleeve that makes the beep-beep. I’m surprised one of the neighborhood kids hasn’t grabbed this one already. Listen.” I remembered the sound and couldn’t help smiling.
“It’s a little harder to keep track of the accessories,” she continued. “Like the shoes and the hats and the wigs and the eyeglasses and the mustaches and beards and the elf ears and fake noses.” She pointed to a large round hatbox on the floor beside the trunk. “I try to keep all that stuff separate.” She removed the cover of the box and pulled out a black wig with two long braids. It made me think of River’s hair. “This was mine,” she said, with a note of nostalgia in her voice, “when I was Princess Waterfall Raindrop.”
“It looks like it’s in very good condition,” I said.
“Of course. Real human hair. I told you. They didn’t stint. I try to take good care of the wigs. You know, shampoo them and style them once in a while.” She touched her own gray hair. “I even set Mrs. Blatherflab’s wig in those tight old-lady pin curls every so often.”
Gray hair and pin curls. Pamela had reported seeing a man with curly gray hair. “Agnes,” I said. “Did you say that all of the accessories to Mrs. Blatherflab’s costume are missing? The wig?”
“Everything. Even the padded bra.”
“Thanks for showing this to me, Agnes,” I said, “maybe when we do the anniversary show we can put a few of these costumes on mannequins. Would that be all right with you?”
“Sure thing. Look, are you going to any Halloween parties? You’re welcome to help yourself to whatever you like.”
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” I admitted.
“Well, if you decide to, just come on by. The door is open. Take your pick. Just wash it when you bring it back.” She put the trunk lid down and replaced the cover on the hatbox. “Come on Percy.” The cat and I followed her and we both waited in front of the VW while she closed the utility room door.
“I think it’s quite possible that the police will want to check out the room,” I said. “They may ask you to lock it up after all.”
“Really? Well, I guess they can check it if they want to, but there’ve been so many people in and out of it I don’t think they’ll find any clues.”
She said “clues.” I wonder if she read Nancy Drew too.
Chapter 38
After my interview with Agnes I decided to take the regular route home. It would take longer, but I needed some thinking time. I called Rhonda and asked her to run my idea on displaying the old costumes on mannequins by Mr. Doan, and told her I was heading for home to select some publicity pictures of Larry Laraby. True enough, and all relating to the anniversary show.
I could hardly wait to get into that photo album. Pete would bring dinner, but I was going to be the one who’d bring new facts to the table! I’d already decided not to call him yet. It would be more fun to tell him in person about the
curly gray wig, the open-door policy on the costume trunk, and my disturbing recent thoughts about Dave. I might even mention the cat-on-the-trunk thing. Maybe not. Finding more Laraby pictures relating to the book in question—and I was confident there’d be some—would just be icing on the proverbial cake. Cake. I’d better stop somewhere and pick up dessert for tonight. Pete likes sweets.
Recalling that Jim Litka had said Agnes walked to Market Basket every Monday, I knew it must be nearby. I found it, parked, and headed for the bakery department. I settled on an ice cream cake—covering the best of both worlds—added a package of English muffins and a dozen eggs in case Pete stayed for breakfast, and returned to my car. Since that man had stared at me the other day, I couldn’t help but check my surroundings in supermarket parking lots. Couldn’t help it. That damned green Subaru still haunted me. Subarus are popular in New England. Unlike my beautiful Corvette, they’re good snow cars. There were several in the lot—none of them green.
The ride home was slow, as I’d anticipated. Salem’s streets, which many people believe were originally cow paths, wind, curve, and dead-end in strange ways. Add too many tour buses jockeying for position, costumed and celebratory pedestrians, and the normal congestion of people like me trying to get from point A to point B and you have near-gridlock at every corner. Slow going, but it did allow for some thinking time. (Hopefully, I’d get to Winter Street before the ice cream cake began to thaw.)
The Dave question wouldn’t go away. I didn’t want to believe anything bad about him. He represented safety and protection. Everybody liked him, especially women of a certain age—like my aunt. The library board surely trusted him—easy to get along with, worked any hours they asked him to. But Dave was part of that early WICH-TV assemblage, with connections to all of the major players involved. He was tall enough to wear the old lady suit—probably could even wear size thirteen shoes. He had keys to everything in his capacity as security guard, undoubtedly including the emergency door. He was big and strong and ex-military. Did he know karate? Could very well be. He claimed the Honus Wagner card was real. He’d seen it close up, maybe even touched it. He knew it was used as a bookmark too. No reason in the world he wouldn’t have known which book to look for. I didn’t like those thoughts.
After a brief verbal altercation with a tour bus driver who had the rear end of his bus blocking my way onto Oliver Street, I coasted up to our yard and hit the garage door opener. I coasted into the garage, picked up the grocery bag, peeked inside to be sure the ice cream cake was intact. O’Ryan waited for me on the back steps, then dashed inside through his cat door while I fished for my keys. Aunt Ibby wasn’t home yet, but I had a key to her kitchen door on the same key chain. I’d just duck in there, grab the albums from the cookbook shelf, and get to work. Just before pushing the door open, I sneaked a peek back toward the street. That green Subaru still had me spooked. Of course, it wasn’t there.
Once inside I put my purse and the bags containing the ice cream cake, muffins, and eggs on the stairway leading up to my place, and opened the door to my aunt’s kitchen. O’Ryan was already inside. He was in one of the captain’s chairs, back toward me, stretching upward, his paws on the back of the chair, his eyes nearly level with the cookbook shelf. Reaching out with a big yellow paw, he tapped one of the albums. “Okay, smarty-pants,” I said. “This time I’m way ahead of you. That’s exactly what I came for. Come on. We’ll take them upstairs.”
O’Ryan gave me one of his snooty superior looks—the kind Aunt Ibby calls “catitude.” He stalked toward the cat door with his tail erect, which I’m pretty sure is the cat version of flipping me off. I locked the kitchen door, picked up purse, albums, and cake, and followed him up the twisty staircase to the third floor. By the time I got inside he was already curled up in the zebra-print wing chair, pretending to be asleep. “Oh, come off it,” I told him. “Once in while I can think of something before you do. Come on out to the kitchen. You can help me look at pictures.” His whiskers twitched and the golden eyes opened the tiniest bit. “Suit yourself. I’m going to put this cake in the freezer and then get to work solving a mystery.”
I attended to the ice cream cake first, stowed the eggs and muffins, then put the albums on the kitchen table, dug the big magnifying glass out of the junk drawer, hung jacket and purse on a chair back, and turned on the overhead light. Although we’d already looked through that first album pretty thoroughly earlier, I decided that a second look wouldn’t hurt. Even if I didn’t find another shot of Laraby with the book, maybe something else interesting would turn up. I’d just opened the padded cover to the first page when O’Ryan decided to join me. He jumped up onto the windowsill and sat up straight, giving him a clear view over my shoulder. He said, “Merrrow” in a purry sort of way, so I assumed I’d been forgiven for the “smarty-pants” remark. That, or else he was so curious he couldn’t stand being left out.
I took my time, examining each page with the glass. The only sound was the tick-tick of Kit-Cat’s tail, marking the seconds. I was about halfway through album one, about to turn a page that held several pictures of vendors’ tables displaying their sports-related wares, when O’Ryan made a sudden leap from sill to tabletop. He planted one of those big paws firmly on the open album.
“Nothing interesting there, big boy,” I told him. “They’re just pictures of the tables the different dealers set up for the collectibles show. These were probably taken before the doors even opened. See?” I pointed to one of the pictures. “No people. Just cards and balls and bats and programs and jerseys and that kind of stuff.” He moved closer to the page, head down, as though he was sniffing each photo. Then, once again, the decisive planting of the paw on one of them.
Might as well humor him or he’ll keep this silly game going all night. I picked up the magnifying glass and pushed his paw aside. “All right. Let’s take a look and see what’s so all-fired important about some old-time sports collectibles dealer’s idea of what might sell at a Laraby show.”
It took a minute for me to see what he saw. I scanned the picture inch by inch. Neatly packaged baseball cards, signed hockey pucks, autographed baseballs in plastic globes, colorful plastic action figures, nicely framed game jerseys. I finally spotted it. A small white oblong on the lower left hand edge of the display table. It was the dealer’s identification card.
TABLE #43—H. TEMPLETON
So Howie Templeton’s daddy had been a dealer at Laraby’s sports collectibles shows—at least one of them. That’s where the connection to Wee Willie must have come from. “Good cat!” I offered O’Ryan a high five. He looked puzzled, gave my palm a lick, and returned to his windowsill perch. I marked the page with a “Support Your Local Bookmobile” bookmark. There were a few more pages of dealer setups, but I didn’t find another with Templeton’s name on it.
I’d have several new things to share with Pete when he arrived. Feeling quite proud of myself, I returned to my examination of the first album. There were a couple of pages of photos of athletes signing autographs. Each one sat at a table with his or her name on a large banner. I recognized some of the names, few of the faces. The photos showed long lines of autograph hunters. Larry Laraby sure knew how to attract crowds to his shows—and his long association with Wee Willie had undoubtedly helped him in attracting big-name athletes to sit at those tables.
I used the magnifying glass extra carefully after nearly missing that H. Templeton ID card. I moved the glass slowly across each picture, not knowing exactly what I was looking for but hoping I’d recognize it when I found it. There were a few more shots of a smiling Larry standing behind his own dealer table. Behind him I could see part of the glass case. It made perfect sense that he’d keep it close, especially if that card was the real thing. I marked that page with a bookmark too. I could hardly wait for Pete to arrive, mostly because I was anxious to share what I’d learned, but also because I was getting hungry.
I’d just reached the end of album number one when O’Ryan l
eft the windowsill and scooted out of the kitchen and into the short hall leading to the living room. That could only mean that Pete had arrived. The cat disappeared through his cat door and I stopped beside the bay window, peeking out into the darkness. Pete’s car was already parked in the driveway and I saw him start up the flagstone path. He carried a large paper bag with one arm and a long narrow one in the other. Chinese or Italian and a bottle of wine. Yum. O’Ryan met him on the path, did a quick ankle rub, then trotted beside him toward the house. I hurried into the hall and down the stairs. Music coming from Aunt Ibby’s kitchen told me that she’d come home. By the time I’d reached the first floor, a little out of breath, Pete had already used his key and come inside. He handed me the wine, gave me a hug, and said, “I brought Chinese. Hope that’s okay.”
“Perfect,” I said. “I’m sort of starving.”
He tilted his head toward my aunt’s door. “Want to ask Ms. Russell to join us? I brought a little extra, in case.”
“Good idea.” I knocked. “Aunt Ibby? It’s me.”
She pulled the door open almost immediately. “Come in, dear. Hello, Pete. I thought I heard you drive up.”
“Pete brought dinner,” I said. “Want to join us?”
“I’d like that,” she said. “I’ve done a little digging around at the library and I may have learned a few things I can hardly wait to share with the two of you.”
“Me too,” I said. “Come on up as soon as you’re ready.”
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