He smiled then, a real smile. Cop face gone. “Seems like quite a stretch, doesn’t it? Anyway, you want to know about Old Paint.”
“I do,” I said. “But that’s not going to be his name. You said he’s in pieces? A lot of pieces? Or just a couple?” I tried to visualize the scene. Was he split in two like a chicken breast? Or was he in tiny bits all over the floor?
“According to Paul, the horse was taken apart just about the way he was put together. Apparently, the body, legs and tail were all carved separately in halves. The head was one separate piece.”
“So you mean he can be put together again?”
“Just like Humpty Dumpty, babe. Of course he’ll have to replace all the stones with new ones.”
“Stones? The jewels in the halter?”
“Somebody pried them all out. Maybe the crooks thought they were real.”
“Were they?”
“Of course not. Just glass. What was left of them was colored dust.”
We’d pulled up in front of our favorite early-morning restaurant. No name out front. Just a plain, old, two-story house with a flashing neon OPEN sign in one window. “You hungry?”
I was, and said so. As soon as we stepped inside, those good New England breakfast smells turned hungry to ravenous. We slid into a high-backed booth close to the rear of the room. Two mugs of steaming coffee appeared on the table almost instantly.
“What’ll it be, kids?” The smiling gray-haired waitress stood ready with her order pad. “Specials are on the blackboard.”
I ordered a veggie omelet, whole wheat toast and bacon. Pete chose ham and eggs, with a side of pancakes. I dumped three creams into my coffee and waited for him to start talking. I knew he couldn’t say much about police business, but since we both knew Paul—and my horse had been vandalized—I figured he’d have something to share with me. Besides that, I knew I’d have to tell him about that man in my mirror.
“The deceased had an Illinois driver’s license.” Pete kept his voice low, even though there were few patrons in the place yet, and none within hearing distance of us. He picked up his mug, took a gulp of coffee and looked at me expectantly.
“Oh, come on,” I whispered. “Is that all you’re going to tell me about the murdered guy? What did he die from?”
“Upper-body trauma,” he said with a straight face.
“I guess that would include his throat.” I kept my tone even.
That got his attention. He frowned. “Been seeing things?” That’s how Pete always refers to the “gift” I have, “seeing things.”
I nodded. “Uh-huh. Since yesterday morning. I didn’t mention it because it didn’t make any sense. Didn’t seem to relate to anything.” I paused as our breakfasts arrived, our coffees refilled, then continued. “It relates now for sure.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
I described what I’d seen in the samovar. “He was next to a little pine tree. His eyes were open, Pete, and”—I touched my throat—“there was this thin red line . . .”
He reached for my hand. “I know.” Of course he knew. He must have seen the same thing.
“Then I saw him again tonight. Alive. He was in the big mirror in my room.”
“Alive?”
“He was driving the Toyota. The black Toyota that followed Aunt Ibby after we left the auction.”
“You were right about that too,” he said. “We found the car. It was back in those woods next to the warehouse complex.”
I know Pete’s not comfortable with my “seeing things.” Actually I’m not comfortable with it either. Who would be? It’s weird and creepy and I wish I couldn’t do it. But I have to admit that sometimes—just sometimes—it’s been a really handy “gift” to have.
“About the red line—can you, do you want to—tell me what caused it? I mean, why is he dead?”
“We don’t have the ME’s report yet. My guess? A garrote of some kind. Whoever it was surprised him from behind.”
We both grew quiet, concentrating on our food. Questions buzzed around in my head. His too, I guess, because in his cop voice he said, “I’d sure like to know what became of all that trash we put out last night.”
“Well,” I offered weakly, “I know some people go around collecting stuff from trash that can be repaired.”
“Yeah, sure. Things like vacuum cleaners and chairs and old TVs. Not sealed-up bags that they can’t even see into. Not nine of them!” He shook his head. “Must have had a truck. I wonder if any of the neighbors have surveillance cameras that might have caught the action.”
“Could be,” I said. “It’s not against the law anyway, is it? Taking other people’s trash? If it is, I’m guilty.” I raised my right hand.
“You are?” He tried to hide a smile. “What’d you take?”
“You know that cute, little shabby chic footstool I use to reach the shelf over the refrigerator?”
“Kind of washed-out blue with chipped paint?”
“Right. It’s adorable. Probably would have cost forty dollars in a vintage shop. Got it free. On a curbstone right down the street.” I stuck out my chin. “So arrest me.”
“That’s different, you little goof.” He smiled then. “But no kidding, I wonder what they’re after—and if it’s the same thing the guy outside Paul’s shop was looking for. Maybe they both thought whatever it is was inside the horse. I’m betting it wasn’t.”
“And what about all the leftovers we took to Goodwill? Do you think they followed us over there? Got those things too?”
He looked at his watch. “Only five-thirty. Too early for Goodwill to be open and I’ve got to get some sleep. Probably working late again tonight. Maybe later I’ll take a ride over there. Check and see if anyone showed an interest in our load of junk.”
“I could do that.”
“No. You just leave it alone.”
“Uh-huh.” I made a little sandwich with half a slice of toast and the last couple of strips of bacon and didn’t make any promises. “I’ve been thinking about that business card.”
“Palmer’s card?”
“Right. Where did you say the dead man’s license was from?”
“Illinois.”
“I’m pretty sure Scott told me that he’d worked at an Illinois TV station once. Did sports. That’s probably the connection.”
“Probably. I’ll check it out later today.”
Breakfast finished, table cleared, savoring one last cup of coffee, I leaned back in the booth, watching Pete’s face. “You look tired,” I said. “Can’t one of the other detectives talk to Scott? And, Pete, River told me to be sure to tell you to be careful around somebody new in town. Okay?”
“I’m always careful. Don’t worry about me. I’ve been doing this a long time. I’ll go back to my place and take a nice power nap and by noon I’ll be ready to roll.” He leaned forward. “You, on the other hand, don’t look tired at all. You’ve been up all night too, and you’re as gorgeous as ever.”
Not true, of course, but I liked hearing it anyway. “Well, then. Shall we both try to catch up on missed sleep?” I slid out of the booth. “If you’re buying, I’ll get the tip.”
“Deal,” he said, and headed for the cash register while I fished in my handbag for the appropriate amount, plus a little extra because I love the place.
When Pete dropped me off in front of the house, I noticed that trash collection had begun on Winter Street. I also noticed that when the truck stopped several houses away, the Crown Vic stopped too. Pete got out and spoke briefly with one of the men handling the bags and barrels.
Aunt Ibby was already up, dressed and working on the Boston Globe crossword when I popped into her kitchen to wish her good morning. O’Ryan was there too, enjoying his favorite morning kibble from his special red bowl. “You’re up and about early, Maralee,” my aunt said. “Got time to have a cup of coffee with me?”
“I’ve had so much coffee already, I’m fairly sloshing with every step,” I said,
“but I’ll sit and watch you drink yours.”
She put down her pen. (Yes, she does the crosswords in ink.) “You were up pretty late. I heard River leaving in the wee hours.”
“Oh, Aunt Ibby, I’m so sorry. We tried to be quiet.”
“You didn’t wake me, dear. It was O’Ryan, the silly boy. He insisted that I follow him to the front window just to watch the city men collecting our rubbish.”
CHAPTER 8
“What time was that?” I asked, knowing that the official trash collection had barely just begun on Winter Street.
“It was around fourish,” she said. “Just before River left.”
“Was it one of the big rear-loader trucks?”
“No. It was one of the smaller ones, a van type, now that you mention it. Why?” She cocked her head to one side. “What difference does it make? What’s going on?”
“There’s quite a lot going on,” I told her. “And some of it seems to involve our nine overflow trash bags.”
“This doesn’t sound good.” She folded the newspaper and put it aside. “What’s happened?”
“I guess I’d better start at the beginning.” I told her about the vision I’d seen in the samovar. “I knew the man was dead, but I didn’t recognize him. I had no idea what it meant. Then he showed up again in the big mirror in my room, but this time he was alive. And, Aunt Ibby, he was driving a black Toyota. I’d seen the car before. It was right behind your Buick when you left the storage locker sale.”
“Good heavens, child! Why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“I’m sorry, but it didn’t seem to mean anything at the time.”
“Is that why you called River? To tell her about the visions?”
I nodded. “There’s more. Pete called to tell me there’d been a break-in at Mr. Carbone’s shop.”
“Oh, dear. Is Paul all right?”
“Yes. He’s fine. He wasn’t there. But somebody took the carousel horse apart and, Aunt Ibby, there was a dead man outside of the building. I’m pretty sure he was the man in my vision.”
“Were the police able to identify him?”
“Yes. Pete couldn’t tell me his name yet, of course, but it’s the strangest thing! He had one of Scott Palmer’s cards in his pocket.”
“Your reporter friend from WICH-TV?”
“Uh-huh. The dead man was from Illinois and I’m quite sure that Scott once told me that he used to work at a station there. That probably explains the card.”
“Probably. I certainly hope it’s nothing more sinister than that. Now tell me, please, what all this has to do with our rubbish.”
“Pete will want to talk to you about that van you saw. Whoever it was didn’t take anyone else’s trash. Just ours. Pete says that somebody must think there was something valuable in our storage locker.” I hesitated for a moment before repeating the other thing Pete had said. “Something worth killing over.”
She frowned. “I can’t imagine what it could be. We got a few very nice pieces, it’s true, but nothing of really great value.”
“Pete and I were wondering about the things we took over to Goodwill. Wondering whether anyone went there, looking for whatever it is too.”
She looked at her watch. “It’s still a bit early. Do you think we should take a ride over there later, just to see if anything’s missing?”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
“Perhaps you’ll want to change your . . . um, outfit.”
I looked down at my old gray sweats. “Sure thing,” I said. “I’ll shower and change. What time do you think they open? Around nine?”
“That sounds about right.”
“Let’s take my car,” I said. “Leave at eight-thirty?”
“Eight-thirty it is.”
* * *
We were on the road by eight thirty-five. Convertible top down, morning sun in our faces, wind in our hair. If it wasn’t for a dead guy’s face on a samovar, my poor broken horse on Paul Carbone’s shop floor and some creep stealing our trash, it might have been the start of a really nice day.
The Goodwill people were just unlocking their front door when we pulled into the parking lot. “Looks like we’re the first ones here,” Aunt Ibby said.
“Good. We brought the stuff over fairly late yesterday afternoon. They wouldn’t have had time to sell much of it yet.”
“I have a pretty good idea of what we sent over here. I think I’ll notice if anything’s missing.”
“It was a lot of odds and ends. They probably don’t even have it all sorted out, tagged and put out for sale yet. What are we going to tell them we’re looking for?”
She gave a broad wink. “I’ve found it’s usually best to tell the truth. At least as much of the truth as possible.” She climbed out of the car and led the way to the store.
The bell over the door tinkled a welcome and a woman behind a glass-topped counter wished us a “good morning.” I nodded and let my aunt do the talking.
“Perhaps you’ll think this is an unusual request,” she began, “but we donated quite a few items yesterday and we wonder if you’d let us take a peek at the things we sent.”
“Not unusual at all. People are always leaving wallets or rings or letters or cash among the old clothes and cups and saucers. Do you have your receipt?”
I fished in my purse. “Got it.” I handed over the wrinkled slip and glanced around the jam-packed, cavernous room, convinced that no matter what in the world anyone might ever want or need, it would eventually show up in a Goodwill store. So far, though, nothing in this one looked familiar.
The woman peered over half-framed glasses. “Oh, my. That donation. I’m going to let you speak with the manager.” She hurried away from the counter and disappeared down a long aisle between rows of garment racks. Aunt Ibby and I shrugged our shoulders simultaneously and looked at each other.
“What was that all about?” I whispered.
“I can’t imagine. Look. Here comes the manager. I know her.” My aunt moved forward, extending her hand. “Hello, Grace. You’re looking good. This is my niece, Maralee. Maralee, my friend Grace Foster. Is there some sort of problem with our donation?”
The woman and I exchanged mumbled “how-do-you-do’s” and she motioned for us to follow her past racks of T-shirts, jeans and scrubs to her office at the rear of the room. “Come in, come in.” She closed the door behind us and indicated that we should sit in a pair of blue upholstered club chairs, while she remained standing behind a large gray metal desk. “This is a most unusual circumstance,” she said. “All of the items you donated are already gone.”
“Gone?” my aunt said. “Gone where?”
Grace Foster spread her hands apart in a helpless gesture. “It’s a bit of a mystery, Ibby. Right after the people who left the items drove away, a woman on a motor scooter rode right up to the canvas cart and started pulling things out before we’d had a chance to check them in.”
“Stasia,” I said.
“Yes. Stasia Novikova. Do you know her, Maralee?”
“No. My friend knows her. I’ve seen her around Salem from time to time.”
“Stasia’s a bit . . . odd. The attendant asked what she was looking for. She mumbled something about doll clothes, pulled a few more things out, said she was sorry and rode away.”
“If this Stasia person didn’t take anything, then where has it all gone?” My aunt was beginning to sound a little bit cranky.
“After Stasia left, a van pulled up and two men got out. They went over to the very same cart, picked up a couple of items, and offered the attendant two hundred dollars in cash for the whole thing. He ran inside and got me. By the time I got out there, they were already putting things into their van. What nerve!”
Aunt Ibby gasped. “I should say so! What did you do?”
“Well, they were quite intimidating men, if you know what I mean. And the contents of the cart looked pretty shabby to me. No offense intended to your donation, Ibby. And, besi
des, two hundred dollars can do a lot of good, so I accepted their offer.”
“No offense taken, Grace. So they just loaded up all our stuff and drove off with it?”
“At first they drove out behind the building. They stopped for a few minutes out there next to our Dumpster.”
“They bought it and then threw it all away?” I asked.
“Oh, no. Not all of it, by any means. But the saddest thing was . . . oh, dear . . . it was really rather frightening.”
“Why? What happened?”
“I watched from here.” She gestured toward the window and pulled aside oatmeal-colored draperies so that we could see the big green trash bin at the back of the property. “After they’d left, after I was absolutely sure they’d gone, I went outside to see what they’d disposed of.”
We waited expectantly for her answer. Her tone was hushed, and she closed the draperies. “It was mostly old pots and pans, plastic dishes and such, but the sad thing was poor Mickey Mouse. They’d taken a knife or a razor or something to him and slashed him to pieces. Pulled all his stuffing out. Even cut off his ears.”
We were all silent for a moment; then my aunt spoke. “Grace, do you happen to recall what color that van was?”
Grace Foster looked thoughtful. “I believe it was gray. Maybe silver. It badly needed washing. I remember that.”
Aunt Ibby nodded. “Did it have those big doors on the side, like some of them do?”
“Yes, indeed. And the two of them just grabbed things out of the cart and shoved it all into that dirty van as fast as they could.”
I knew that Aunt Ibby was thinking about the van she’d seen in front of our house early that morning. “Think it was the same one?” I asked.
“I’m sure it was.” She stood, facing the store manager across the desk, and I got to my feet too. “Thank you for your help, Grace. We’ll be going along now. Good to see you. The store looks lovely.”
“Ms. Foster,” I said, thinking of what Pete would say if he was here. “Do you happen to have security cameras outside the building?”
“Yes, we do. Why? Do you think those men have done something wrong?”
Murder Go Round Page 5