Look Both Ways

by Carol J. Perry

  “Then I’ll bet he already has all this.” She picked up the pile of papers and put them down again. “I’ll just bet he does.”

  I knew she was probably right. Not much gets by Pete. “All the same, I’m going to tell him about it.”

  “You do that, dear.” She picked up the check. “Lunch will be my treat.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “This must be my lucky day. Gar y Campbell bought my coffee this morning.”

  “Gar y Campbell? The cash register man?”

  “And the candlestick man. And the man I saw leaving Shea’s shop.”

  We walked back to the Tabby, where Aunt Ibby had left her car in the guest parking lot. I looked around but didn’t see Pete’s Crown Vic or Tommy Trent’s Mercedes.

  “I don’t have a lot to do today,” I said, “so I’ll be home early. Want to look at Helena’s composition book with me?”

  “Can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” she said, climbing into the Buick. “I’ve been curious about it from the beginning.”

  After Aunt Ibby drove off, I went over to the student theater, where a cleaning crew was at work, guaranteeing that everything would be in order for the evening performance of Hobson’s. I checked out the stage set, moving a chair here, a pair of shoes there. It was important that all the props were exactly where the actors expected them to be. Onstage, reaching for something that should be there and finding nothing is unacceptable.

  Reaching into a secret compartment where there used to be something and now there is nothing is unacceptable.

  I was more and more convinced that Shea’d thought about that when she’d removed something from the bureau. That it had to be replaced so that it wouldn’t look as though she’d removed something valuable—like the pink diamond.

  By three o’clock I’d run out of things to do at the Tabby. I called Pete and left a voice mail telling him I was leaving for home, then called my aunt to see if she wanted me to pick up something for dinner.

  “Don’t bother,” she said. “I’ll whip something up. Hurry home. I’m dying to read Helena’s story.”

  I was growing impatient to read it, too. I wanted to learn more about Grandpa and about where the cabin was.

  I was just pulling into the garage when Pete returned my call. “You left work early. Anything wrong?”

  “Nope. Just ran out of things to do. Aunt Ibby and I are planning to read Helena’s journal,” I said. “And I have a couple of ideas about the night Helena was killed that I’d like to tell you about. Why don’t you join us when you get off ?”

  “You’ve got me curious now,” he said. “More clues?”

  “Don’t laugh,” I told him. “One of these days I’ll turn up something important.”

  “Hey, I’m not laughing. You’re the one who figured out the candlestick angle. Did I ever tell you . . .” He trailed off teasingly.

  “Yeah, I know. I’d make a good cop.” It was my turn to laugh. “Really, come over if you can. Aunt Ibby’s cooking.”

  “Okay. I can come for a little while. I’m taking my nephews to hockey practice at around nine.”

  “And, Pete, by the way . . .” I paused, not sure whether or not I should ask the question on my mind.

  “You’d like to know what happened with Trent today, wouldn’t you?”

  “Uh-huh. If it’s all right for you to tell me.”

  “I headed over there as soon as I got the word that his car was in the Tabby parking lot.”

  “I was so relieved when I saw you in the door way,” I said, “and thankful.”

  His voice became gruff, in a tender sort of way. “I don’t want creeps like Trent anywhere near you.”

  “I wasn’t as frightened as the last time he appeared in my office,” I admitted. “He didn’t seem to be angry with me—just confused about the work order being in his car. He says it was locked.”

  “I know. He told me the same thing. And he’d already called his probation officer about it, and about the index card, too. We think he’s telling the truth this time, Lee. Somebody’s messing with him.”

  “I believed him, too,” I said. “Did he tell you who else might have keys to his car?”

  “Nobody that he knows of. But it’s not hard to get duplicate keys made for an old model like that.”

  “Are you thinking Daphne?”

  “She has access, no doubt. I can’t tell you anything more.” The cop voice was back. “I’ll call you when I’m on my way over, okay?”

  “One more thing,” I said. “It might be nothing, but Gar y Campbell told me he used to take money out of that old cash register for the same reason old man Hobson did in the play. For drinking money.”

  “Must be what the two thousand dollars he was returning to Shea was for.”

  “Must be. See you later.”

  I climbed out from behind the wheel, locked the Corvette, glad that I knew where both sets of my keys were, and hurried through the garden to the house. I glanced over at the fence, wondering if any of O’Ryan’s cat friends might sit there during the day, but there were no cats in sight. I let myself into the back hall, where something smelled good. I tapped on Aunt Ibby’s kitchen door.

  “It’s me,” I called. “I’m going up to my place to change. Be right back down.”

  “Okay, dear,” came the answering voice. “I’m making Tabitha’s corn chowder again, using heavy cream this time.”

  It didn’t take long for me to shower and change. Helena’s notebook was still on my bedside table, where I’d left it after my first reading. Tucking it under my arm, I left via my kitchen door and headed down the two flights to what I still thought of as home.

  Did the grown-up Helena always think of her grandpa’s cabin as home, even though she had a mansion of her own?

  As I entered the living room, O’Ryan looked up from his favorite perch there, a needlepoint pillow on the window seat in the bay window, blinked a couple of times, and went back to sleep. “I guess I’m definitely cat staff now,” I muttered. “No big greeting at the door for me anymore.”

  “Are you talking to me, dear?” Aunt Ibby appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. “Did you bring the notebook?”

  “Right here,” I said, lifting Helena’s composition book with both hands. “And I was just complaining about O’Ryan taking me for granted these days.”

  “Yes, he rules this roost, no doubt. Why don’t we take the book into the kitchen? Light’s better in there, and I can keep an eye on my chowder.”

  I followed her into the bright, cozy room and pulled one of the captain’s chairs up to the round table. “Sit next to me so we can read it together.” I handed the book to her. “Start at the beginning.”

  Aunt Ibby and I began reading Helena’s story, starting with tales of idyllic days spent fishing, picking wild blackberries, swimming, learning to operate a motorboat—all in the company of Grandpa. There was no mention of other children, and we got the impression that Grandpa’s cabin was in a remote place.

  There were postcards of Marblehead Harbor and Salem Willows pasted onto the lined pages here and there, as well as movie ticket stubs and brochures from several North Shore historic sites, which indicated “field trips” taken with Grandpa.

  Although the journal pages weren’t dated, they seemed to cover activities from several summers. The handwriting and sentence structures changed subtly as Helena’s story progressed. The prose was broken up occasionally with a short rhyme. At about the midpoint in the volume, an undated newspaper clipping noted the passing of Arthur Cole at the age of ninety-four. Mr. Cole had been preceded in death by his wife, Mildred. The account mentioned a daughter Sarah and a granddaughter Helena. Written across the top of the clipping in pencil was the word Grandpa, and on the facing page was a browned and brittle pressed flower between two squares of waxed paper.

  “What kind of flower do you think it is?” I asked.

  “Looks like a pansy. A purple one,” my aunt said. “Helena’s grandmother’s favor
ite flower.”

  “Of course, that’s what it is,” I said, feeling a tiny sting of tears. “This is so sad.”

  Pete called at just about that point in our reading, so we closed the notebook and cleared the table to make room for dinner. When he arrived ten minutes later, bearing a bottle of wine, a box of chocolates, and a large package of kitty treats, O’Ryan and I met him at the front door, and then the cat led the way to the kitchen.

  “Want to give me a CliffsNotes version of what is in Helena’s book?” Pete asked as Aunt Ibby ladled the creamy corn chowder into our bowls and sprinkled crispy bits of fried salt pork on top.

  “We’re only about halfway through it,” I said. “We just got to the sad part, where her grandpa dies.”

  Pete poured chardonnay into Aunt Ibby’s second-best crystal wineglasses, while I sliced French bread. “Grandpa being the gent in the picture in the bureau?” Pete asked.

  “Must be. She spent summers with him when she was a little girl, according to Tripp,” I said.

  “Around here?” Pete asked.

  “I think so. They visited Marblehead and the Willows and fished for saltwater fish, but she doesn’t say exactly where the cabin is . . . at least so far in her stor y.”

  “You said you have some ideas about the night Helena was killed. Want to tell me about that?”

  “When Daphne told us about the party where all the men wore tuxedos, it made me wonder about something I’d read about Helena’s murder.”

  “Made me wonder, too,” he said. “Made me wonder about some people’s alibis that seemed airtight at the time. Now . . . maybe not so much.”

  “Did you—the police—know back then about Daphne’s eyesight problem?”

  “No. She hides it so well, I don’t think anybody would notice it unless she told them.”

  “Will you . . . is this . . . I mean, is it a reason to reopen the case?”

  “Not my call,” he said. “I typed it up and put it on Chief’s desk. May be something. May be nothing. He still thinks Trent and Daphne have the diamond stashed somewhere.”

  Aunt Ibby started to clear the table, and I got up to help her. “Let’s get on with Helena’s stor y,” she said. “Leave the dishes in the sink. I want to learn more about that girl.”

  We three sat there at the round table, with the notebook centered between us. Aunt Ibby read aloud, and we took turns looking at the handwritten pages and the items Helena had pasted in. The writing on the pages following the obituary notice was noticeably neater, clearly written by a more mature hand.

  Nicky and I took a boat ride to the island today. He looks so cute in his new life preser ver. Everything is so different out there now. The last of the cabins is gone. There weren’t many people around, so I don’t think anyone noticed when I dug the little hole in the dirt behind the chimney and planted Grandmother’s pansies. I planted the yellow ones this time. I hope the trustees don’t mind that I do this once in a while.

  Pete pointed at the paragraph. “She must have been talking about Misery Island. Don’t you think so, Miss Russell?”

  “I think you’re right, Pete. There used to be cottages, even some good-sized houses, on the island. All gone. Just a few chimneys, some stairways, cellar holes. It’s a nature reserve now, and quite a lovely one. There’s a ferry service that takes people out there.”

  “I suppose an island that size has a nice beach,” I said, remembering my vision of Helena and the dog.

  “It does,” Pete said. “Miser y’s just a short boat ride from Salem Willows. Want to go some time?”

  “I’d love to. Daphne told me that Helena had a speedboat. She told me about Nicky’s life preserver, too. It’s nice about the pansies, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” my aunt said. “Helena was an awfully nice person.”

  “An angel,” Pete murmured. “That’s what everybody says about her. An angel.”

  “I know,” I said. “Even Tommy Trent calls her that.”

  “He still claims he didn’t do it, you know. He admits he married her for the money, though.” Pete shook his head. “He even admits he stole about a million dollars from her to pay his gambling debts. It’s hard to believe anything a rat like that says.”

  Aunt Ibby turned the page.

  “Oh, dear, look at this. It’s another obituary. John David Hampton, Jr. She lost her grandfather and then her husband. He was only seventy.” She made a “tsk-tsk” sound. “He was survived by his wife, Helena, and one son, John David Hampton the Third. Poor Helena. Here’s another of her little poems.”

  Dearest John, I know you’re watching from above

  But how I’ll miss your faithful love.

  You called me the sparkling gem of your life.

  My greatest treasure was being your wife.

  Love forever,

  Helena

  The very next entry was a wedding announcement engraved on heavy cream-colored stock. It announced the marriage of Ms. Helena Hampton to Mr. Thomas Trent. Another pressed flower was pasted onto the facing page.

  “Must be from Helena’s wedding bouquet,” Aunt Ibby suggested. “A white rose, I think. You can still smell the fragrance.”

  “She should have quit when she was still ahead,” Pete grumbled.

  The following several pages held candid photos. Helena and Tommy on a cruise ship. Helena and Tommy at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Helena and Tommy at the Grand Canyon. Helena and Tommy and Daphne at Disneyland. Helena and the little dog Nicky posing in front of a Christmas tree.

  “Did you notice there are no pictures of Tripp? Didn’t they get along?” my aunt wondered aloud.

  “Maybe he was away at school,” Pete said. “He sure was broken up when he found out she was dead. Cried like a baby.”

  “Really?” I was surprised. “He doesn’t strike me as a very emotional type.”

  “He was away at school a good deal of the time,” Aunt Ibby said. “Maybe Helena and Tommy didn’t want him around.” She picked up the notebook and dropped her voice. “You know I don’t like gossip, but there’s a rumor going around that Tripp may be in some serious financial trouble at the investment firm.” She aimed a questioning look in Pete’s direction.

  He smiled. “I don’t deal in rumors, Miss Russell. Let’s read some more.”

  Aunt Ibby returned his smile and turned a page. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “That poor woman.”

  “What is it?” Pete and I each leaned closer.

  “She had to put her little dog down. Look here.” She pointed. A receipt with a veterinarian’s name on it was pasted onto the page. “It’s a bill for euthanasia for a male dog named Nicky, aged twelve years.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Pete shook his head. “What a run of rotten luck. I guess it’s true, what they say. ‘Money can’t buy happiness. ’”

  “I’m so sorry for Helena,” I said, feeling the sting of tears behind my eyes. “I feel as though I know her a little bit.”

  “Yes,” Aunt Ibby agreed. “This notebook is extremely personal. I think we all do know her a little bit now. She had to deal with a great deal of sadness, didn’t she?”

  “And then to die the way she did,” Pete said, teeth clenched, cop voice activated. “It’s not fair.”

  “Sometimes life isn’t,” my aunt said. “Look. Here’s a nice long poem on the next page. Maybe it’ll sound a happier note.” She turned the book toward us as she read so that we could see the staggered lines.

  Look Both Ways

  How can I tell what’s right and wrong? What’s truth and lie?

  How can I judge between scream and song? Between you and I?

  I don’t know you. You don’t know me. We’re strangers.

  We shared a bed, good times, bad times, dangers.

  I’ve lost a partner. I’ve lost a friend. I’ve lost my trust.

  What burned so bright, seemed so right, has turned to dust.

  How could you? How could she? Why was I so blind ?

  So now
ends the you and me, as I try to be fair, to be kind.

  I haven’t told you yet what I saw through the glass today.

  I’ll tell each of you tomorrow. Then you both must go away.

  Next time I’ll look both ways.

  “Oh, my God. Helena must have written that after she caught Tommy and Daphne in the swimming pool.” I pushed the book away. “She never saw it coming.”

  “She caught them in the pool? How do you know that?” Pete asked.

  “Daphne told me. After that, Helena threw Tommy out of their bedroom. Told him to pack up his stuff and find another place to live.”

  “That’s what Trent claims, too. Says he was in a guest room on the other side of the house, packing, when she was killed.” Pete looked at the book again. “Nobody believed him. No wonder. What a creep. Imagine doing it right in his wife’s house. In the pool, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Do we have to keep reading?” Aunt Ibby asked. “There are only a few pages left, but I’m getting depressed. How about we have some nice chocolate ice cream and save the rest of this for another day?”

  I would have kept right on reading, but ice cream won. Aunt Ibby marked where we’d left off with a Salem Public Library bookmark, closed the notebook, and handed it to me. Chocolate ice cream was served, and the conversation turned from murder and deception to plans for a picnic on Misery Island. It was decided that Aunt Ibby and Mr. Pennington would join Pete and me for the excursion via ferr yboat on the following Sunday, Pete’s next day off.

  After Pete left to pick up his sister’s kids, and after Aunt Ibby and I had taken care of those dishes, I carried Helena’s notebook back up to my apartment. I planned to read it through again from the beginning. There was something about the last poem that had really hit home.

  When I’d thrown Ariel’s spell book into the flames, I’d been sure it was the right thing to do. But that book had survived somehow since 1692. It had once belonged to Bridget Bishop, easily the most notorious of the Salem witches and the first one hanged at Gallows Hill. Because of the things Ariel had done, and because of everything I knew about Bridget Bishop, I’d been thoroughly convinced that the book was evil. Say what you will, and believe whatever you want to about witches, but Ariel and Bridget Bishop were the real deal, and not in a good way. I knew, too, that River and her roommates, all of them far from being evil, were still searching in Ariel’s apartment, looking for that same book.