“What are we doing? Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Not sure. Thought for a minute we’d picked up a tail. That black Toyota has been behind us since we left the house.”
“A 2012 black Camry SE with a rear spoiler?”
He gave me a sideways glance and shook his head. “Yes, my little gearhead. How do you do that? You spotted it too?” He drove around a short block and we emerged once again onto Bridge Street. He checked the mirror. “Must have been mistaken. Anyway, he’s gone now.”
Actually, I hadn’t noticed the Toyota following us, if it even was. “I remember it from the auction,” I told him. “A car just like that pulled out behind the Buick when Aunt Ibby left there ahead of us.” I didn’t bother answering the gearhead question though. Pete knew that Johnny Barrett had been a rising young star on the NASCAR circuit and that I’d spent years hanging around auto-racing tracks. I’ve even kept up my subscription to Motor Trend.
“Probably a coincidence,” he said. “There are hundreds of black Camrys around Salem. Popular car.” I noticed that his cop face was still in place and that he kept checking the side mirrors. I did too. Thankfully, no Toyota appeared.
We found the Goodwill drop-off station and piled boxes and bags full of the donated debris into a huge white canvas four-wheeled cart, topping off the stack with the newly clean and fluffy Mickey Mouse.
We picked up our donation receipt and returned to the truck, where the horse stood, right hoof upraised, all by himself in the empty bed. “He looks so lonely,” I said, “and I’m afraid he’ll slide around back there. Do you think he’d fit into the backseat?”
“You’d probably hold him on your lap if you could.” Pete smiled. “Backseat’s kind of narrow, but we can try. Come on.”
We fit the horse into the space behind us without any problem. Old Paint wasn’t as heavy as he looked—Pete said he was probably hollow inside. We arranged him at kind of an odd angle with his head sticking out of the small rear window on the passenger side, but I felt better about carrying him that way. The poor thing was already pretty badly chipped and scratched and he didn’t need any more abuse. Besides, I liked the way people smiled when they noticed him as we passed by.
We found the rows of industrial warehouses and cruised slowly along the narrow road between them, looking for Carbone’s Fine Furniture Restoration Studio. It was at the end of the innermost row of bays, next door to a used-book dealer.
“Welcome, Ms. Barrett.” The rotund, smiling man greeted us at the open bright red door, which distinguished Carbone’s from its drab, gray-doored neighbors. The smells of varnish, turpentine and paint mixed with the piney scent from a tree-filled lot adjoining the warehouse area.
“Hello, Mr. Carbone,” I said. “This is my friend Pete Mondello. Thanks for fitting us in on such short notice.”
The two men shook hands. “No problem. I can hardly wait to get started on this project.” Paul Carbone moved toward the truck and reached for the open window, touching the horse’s mane. “Always wanted to restore one of these. He’s small, but he’s a pretty one.”
“Let’s get it out so you can have a good look.” Pete opened the rear door. “Want to get the other door, Lee, and push while I pull?” Between us we maneuvered the horse onto the ground. I paused outside the doorway while Pete and the excited restorer carried him into the shop. I turned to follow them inside. A sound, a flash of color from the crossroad at the far end of the monotonous row of doorways grabbed my attention.
“Pete,” I said, pointing, “did you see that?”
He joined me in front of the red door. “See what, babe?”
“Never mind. She’s gone.”
“Who’s gone?”
“Nothing. Nobody,” I said, feeling a little bit silly. “Let’s go in and see a man about a horse.”
“Okay.” He took my arm and steered me into the shop.
Why shouldn’t she be here? Probably lives in the neighborhood, I thought. But it was an odd sight. It isn’t every day that I see a very large woman, with bright orange hair, riding on a very small pink motor scooter. I wondered if she’d picked the scooter color to match her bubblegum.
CHAPTER 4
Paul Carbone had clearly been doing some carousel horse homework. A printout of Aunt Ibby’s Facebook photos of my horse, along with a couple of watercolor sketches he’d already done from the photos, were pinned to a cork bulletin board hanging above a long, low, scarred and paint-splattered workbench. A copy of Painted Ponies—American Carousel Art lay open on a nearby table.
“You’ve already started work on the project, Mr. Carbone,” I said. “How wonderful.”
“Please call me Paul, both of you. No need for formality here.” He gave a brief wave of one hand, indicating the spartan interior of the place. “As you can see, I don’t have a lot of work lined up ahead of yours.”
I glanced around. It was true. There was a small three-drawer bureau painted flat black and decorated with hearts and flowers and angels, reminiscent of Peter Hunt’s peasant designs from the 1950s. A pair of Victorian rosewood chairs, with needlepoint seat cushions, looked ready for delivery, next to a highly polished mahogany gateleg table.
“Business kind of slow, is it?” Pete asked.
“It’s the time of year.” Paul shrugged. “Folks’ll start fall housecleaning in a month or so, and this place will be packed. I’m not worried. Say, Pete, is it? Want to help me lift this guy up onto the workbench? We’ll see what he needs done.”
The men placed my horse so that he faced an open window on the right side of the room. A bright fluorescent lamp above the bench illuminated every chip and stain and blemish on the poor creature’s wooden body.
I breathed a soft, sad “oooh.”
“I know. I know,” Paul said, sounding like the sympathetic doctor on one of the medical TV dramas. “He looks pretty bad now, but don’t worry, Ms. Barrett—Lee. He’s going to be fine.”
Pete looked back and forth between Paul and me as though we were both crazy. “Uh, sure. Just fine,” he said.
“I think we’ll start by giving him a good bath,” Paul said, “then I’ll get busy sanding that rough paint off. Looks like he’s had some pretty bad amateur touch-ups along the way.”
“How old do you think he is?” I wondered.
“Hard to tell under all that paint. I’ll know more when I get a good look at the construction.”
“I can hardly wait to see him when he’s finished.”
“When my nephews were real little, I used to take them to the Willows to ride the flying horses,” Pete said. “They were afraid of the big horses that went up and down. They liked to ride the small one on the inside row that stood still, like this one does.”
“Exactly,” Paul said. “That’s what standers were designed for. The little ones. The fearful ones.”
“I know he’s in good hands,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Pete, if you have to go to work at seven, we’d better get going.”
“Right. And I have to return the truck.” He stuck out his hand. “Thanks, Paul. Good to meet you.”
“Same here.” Paul walked with us to the still-open red door. “I’ll call you, Lee, just as soon as I have him all stripped down. Then we can discuss the final finish. Okay?”
“Okay. See you soon.” We climbed into the truck and headed for Bridge Street. “Want to shower and change at my place?” I asked. “It’d be faster than you going all the way home first.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. Then I can drop Donnie’s truck off and pick up my car on the way to the station.”
We hadn’t planned it, but somehow over the months we’d been together, quite a few items of his clothing were in my apartment and a couple of my outfits were hanging in his closet.
O’Ryan waited for us, just inside the back door. No surprise there. The cat knows unfailingly when someone is coming to the house and he knows which entrance they’ll use. We took the back stairway up to the third floor,
O’Ryan racing ahead of us. He pushed open the cat door and was already sitting in the middle of the living room by the time we got inside.
Pete paused halfway across the room. “Where do you plan to put Old Paint when you get him back?”
“I kind of see him in front of that bay window,” I said, pointing. “Maybe with a lot of plants around him. But I don’t think his name will be Old Paint anymore.”
“Whatever you say.” Pete pulled me close and delivered the kind of kiss that suggested he wasn’t in a big hurry to get to work. A series of unfamiliar sounds intruded on the moment. Aunt Ibby had already hung the cuckoo clock on my kitchen wall and it announced, not subtly, that it was six o’clock. “Gotta leave,” he whispered.
“I know,” I said.
“Don’t want to.”
“I know.”
Pete headed for the shower and I grabbed clean clothes and hurried downstairs to the bathroom adjoining my old, growing-up years, second-floor bedroom. I loved my new digs, but somehow the very girly French Provincial tester bed, the dressing table with ruffled skirt, the white-manteled fireplace and the cushioned window seats still held a lot of appeal too.
Besides, that extra bathroom often came in very handy.
By the time I went back upstairs, scrubbed and shampooed, Pete was dressed and ready for work. Tan slacks, white shirt, no tie. His dark blue sports jacket was draped over the back of one of the Lucite kitchen chairs. He’d started a pot of coffee. Cops drink a lot of coffee. So do I.
“I think we have time for a quick cup before I have to go,” he said.
“Good. I love your coffee. Want a sandwich? I have some ham and that Italian bread you like.”
“Do you still have that hot mustard?”
“Yep.” I put the sandwich together while he poured the coffee. Mine with cream, no sugar. His black.
“I think I’ll have to take that sandwich to go.” He looked at the cuckoo clock and picked up his jacket. “I think that damned bird is about to screech again.”
“She doesn’t screech. She coo-coos.” I slipped the sandwich into a plastic bag, gave him a quick kiss and walked with him to the living-room door.
“I’ll call you in the morning,” he said. “Want to have breakfast with me?”
“Of course I do. What time do you get off?”
“Three a.m.”
“Call me a little later than that, okay?”
“Maybe.” A smile and another kiss. “Good night.”
“You’d better hurry,” I said. “Cuckoo’s about to announce six-thirty. Call me. But not at three o’clock.”
* * *
He didn’t call me at three o’clock. It was much earlier than that. Barely midnight. I was still awake, sitting up in bed and watching the start of my friend River North’s late-night TV show on WICH-TV. Tarot Time with River North had become one of Salem’s most watched nighttime features. She read the cards for phone callers in between scary, old movies. In a low-cut red satin dress, her long, black braid studded with sparkling silver stars, River looked gorgeous, as always. She’d just announced the night’s film offering—Virus Undead.
“Creepy zombie flesh,” I told O’Ryan, who was curled up beside me. “I think we’ll pass on this one.” My phone vibrated. I saw Pete’s name on caller ID and smiled. “Hi,” I said. “Just watching River introducing the movie. O’Ryan doesn’t want to see it.”
“Sorry to call so late.” He sounded serious.
“Something’s wrong, Pete. What is it?”
“Maybe something. Maybe nothing. There was a 911 call a little while ago. Sounded like a routine B and E. We sent a patrol car over to check it out.”
“Uh-huh. And?”
“It was at Carbone’s studio. I’m on my way there now.”
“Paul . . . Mr. Carbone? Is he all right?”
“Yes. He’s fine. The place was empty. Closed up for the night. I’ll let you know what I find out. Just didn’t want you to hear about it on the late news. Don’t worry.”
“Okay.” I knew I sounded hesitant. “Please call me as soon as you know anything. I’m wide-awake now. Might as well get up and drink the rest of that good coffee you made.”
“I’ll call you. It’s probably just kids out raising end-of-summer hell. I’ll be glad when school starts. I’m just going over there myself because, well, we kind of know the guy. Maybe I can help him with all the damned paperwork this kind of thing involves.”
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that, Pete. And if there’s anything I can do . . . ?”
“I know. I’ll tell him. Gotta go.”
I did just what I’d told him I was going to do. Heated up a cup of coffee. Then I put a couple of slices of raisin bread in the toaster and opened ajar of peanut butter. Why not?
My favorite nighttime radio station was running one of those old Somewhere in Time Art Bell shows. Art was discussing the possibility of a comet someday hitting our planet.
I hope Pete calls soon. Planet destruction isn’t much of an improvement over zombie virus.
I got my wish. The phone rang after only one cup of coffee and one slice of toast.
“How’d it go, Pete? How’s Paul doing?”
“Well, we’ve got kind of a mess here.”
“What do you mean? What kind of mess?” I had a very bad feeling.
“Somebody took your horse apart. It’s in pieces all over the floor. And besides that, there’s a dead guy in the bushes outside the window.”
I knew as soon as Pete spoke those words that the dead guy’s body was beside a little pine tree and that there was a thin trickle of blood oozing from his throat.
CHAPTER 5
Pete was obviously too busy to tell me any more just then, but promised to call as soon as he could. I knew he’d be working well past three in the morning. I tried to process what I’d just heard.
Why is my horse in pieces all over the floor? My poor horse. I felt a wave of genuine sadness. He’d survived for who knows how many years in a storage locker. He’d lasted only a day in my care.
Who is the dead man? Is he the man I saw in the samovar? My head buzzed with questions. I put a second cup of leftover coffee into the microwave and, shivering in the nighttime chill, changed from pajamas to gray sweats. The cuckoo chirped one o’clock. I was wide-awake, with no one to talk to except O’Ryan, dozing on the kitchen windowsill.
I smooshed peanut butter onto the second piece of toast, poured some half and half into the coffee and sat in the chair closest to the window—and the cat. O’Ryan is far from being an ordinary housecat. He’s proven that a number of times. So talking to him, even asking him questions, had become somewhat commonplace. My aunt does it too. And sometimes, just sometimes, we get an answer. One that makes sense.
“So, cat,” I said, “did you hear what Pete just told me?”
He opened golden eyes and blinked a couple of times. Then he turned his big, fuzzy head and stared out the window.
“Not about the horse,” I said. “I know you don’t care if my horse is broken. No. I mean about the dead man. The one I saw in the samovar.”
He stood, stretched and, giving my hand a fast drive-by lick, trotted across the kitchen toward my bedroom. I followed and clicked on the bedside table lamp. The cat jumped up onto the bed and stood there, facing my full-length, oval mirror on its swivel-tilt cherrywood stand. River is seriously into feng shui, and she’d insisted that the mirror be placed so that I wouldn’t see my reflection when I was in bed. I’d relied on her expertise in that matter and seeing my own reflection from the bed had never been a problem. Seeing things I didn’t want to see in that mirror—things that weren’t even in my apartment at all—had been.
I was reluctant to look where O’Ryan was looking—straight at the mirror, which should have been reflecting the doorway of the room and a bit of the kitchen. The hair along the center of his back stood up, his teeth were bared. He uttered a low growl, then moved aside, making room for me next to him. I sat
on the very edge of the bed, stroked O’Ryan’s head and forced myself to look at the glass, pretty sure that what he was seeing wasn’t anything I wanted to see.
Through swirling colors and pinpoints of light, an image took shape in the mirror. I recognized the man, and he looked a lot better alive than he had dead. I saw him through the windshield of an automobile. There was one of those little green deodorant pine trees suspended from the rearview mirror and a battered GPS was propped on the dashboard. I leaned toward the mirror, looking closely at his features. Youngish. Thin face, not bad-looking. Short, brown hair. Brown eyes, bright, not sightless now. The vision began to recede, almost like a camera pulling back, expanding the view. I could see the roofline of the black car, the side mirrors, the hood, the distinctive Toyota logo, then the whole car itself. In the background was the long white storage locker building. I saw Aunt Ibby’s Buick, the Camry close behind it.
The scene faded. Once again the reflection in the tilted mirror showed the doorway of my room. O’Ryan jumped off the bed and returned to his windowsill perch. I followed the cat to the kitchen, dumped the cup of old, cold coffee, and started a fresh pot. This was going to be a very long night.
So the car that had followed Aunt Ibby was driven by a man who was now dead, his body lying behind a shop where my carousel horse had been taken for repairs. The impact of what Pete had told me about the horse—“in pieces all over the floor”—hit me again. My poor innocent horse! Why take him apart, or chop him up? Something must have been hidden inside. Pete said the horse was hollow. What could be in there worth killing somebody over? And how did it get there?
The cuckoo chirped once. One-thirty.
“Is that all?” I asked the cat, who didn’t even open his eyes. “Only one-thirty? I need to talk to somebody. Besides you.” I wasn’t about to wake Aunt Ibby. Pete might be tied up for hours, and River wouldn’t be through with her show until after two.
Murder Go Round Page 3