Murder Go Round

by Carol J. Perry

  Even though the visions still rang no particular bells for me, O’Ryan’s selection of which pencil sharpener to push onto the floor was beginning to reverberate.

  Maybe Aunt Ibby could connect the dots better than I was so far. She’d said she’d be right back and Williams Street was only a couple of short blocks away. I decided to wait for her in the backyard, where I could still catch a few rays of late-summer sunshine. I sat in a weathered Adirondack chair, head back, face upturned to the sun, eyes closed, nearly dozing, when about twenty pounds of yellow cat landed in my lap.

  “Ooff,” I grunted. “O’Ryan, give a little warning when you’re going to do that, will you?” I sat up straight, shoving him off onto the ground, just in time to see the tail end of a pink scooter passing by our back gate. Stasia? Within a minute my aunt appeared, hurrying up the driveway to where the cat and I waited.

  “Hello, my dears,” she said, slightly out of breath. She bent to pat the cat, then sat in a chair matching mine. “You should have come with me, Maralee. I’ve just had a conversation with the most fascinating man!”

  She had my full attention, thoughts of the bubblegum-chewing princess put aside for the moment. “Really?” I smiled at her enthusiasm. “Glad to hear it. The house didn’t look all that interesting. Tell me about this fascinating new man you’ve met.”

  She waved a dismissive hand in my direction, “He’s not that kind of fascinating, you silly goose. And the house is absolutely worth more study. It seems to be connected somehow to our storage locker—especially to your carousel horse.”

  “No kidding? Now I wish I’d gone with you. Tell me everything.”

  “Well, Mr. McKenna, that’s the name of the man who owns the house now, has lived in it since he was a little boy. His family rented there back in the sixties and he says that I’m not the first person to ask questions about the place lately.”

  “Eric Dillon,” I said, knowing I was right.

  “Yep. He even had Mr. Dillon’s business card.”

  “So, was Stasia over there asking questions too?”

  “Stasia? The woman we saw at the auction?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not that I know of, although I’m quite sure I saw her ride past me a little while ago on her motor scooter. An odd duck, isn’t she?”

  “She keeps showing up at the strangest times. Now tell me more about this mystery man who lives on Williams Street.”

  “Leonard. McKenna. He says that he remembers the old man who owned the house used to live up on the second floor. His family rented the first floor for years. His dad finally bought the place in the eighties.”

  “From the old man?”

  “No. The old fellow was dead by then. They bought it from his son. But here’s the thing. Mr. McKenna remembers that the old man was a really good wood-carver. He worked down at the Salem Willows. Kept the old merry-go-round up. Repaired the horses when they got broken or needed paint. Sometimes he made toys for the kids. Says his sister still has a matryoshka nest of dolls. His mother has some carved eggs. But listen to this.” She leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “He says the old man had a carousel horse that he kept down in the basement. Used to let the little kids sit on it. He told them it used to be on a merry-go-round and that he was going to fix it up someday and put it back where it belonged.”

  “Wow,” I said, wishing very much that I’d gone with her. “We need to tell Pete about this. I’ll bet the police haven’t made the connection between that house and my horse.”

  “I’ll bet they haven’t. And why would they? As you said, it’s an ordinary New England house.”

  “I’m going to call Pete and tell him about it.” I reached into my pocket for my phone. “Even though he made us promise not to meddle in police business.”

  She shrugged, smiling. “I didn’t promise any such thing. I love meddling.”

  My call went to Pete’s voice mail. Not unusual. I said, “Call me,” and hung up. “What was the old man’s name?” I asked my aunt.

  “Mr. McKenna said everyone just called him ‘Grandpa Nick,’ but I’m sure it’ll be easy enough to check real estate records from back then.” A sly look crossed her face. “It’s a matter of public record. Let’s go for a little ride and see what we can find.”

  I knew we probably shouldn’t do it—and I knew we would. “Okay,” I said, “but first I need to tell you about something, I—um—saw.”

  “When you say it that way, it usually means you’ve had another vision.” She reached for my hand. “Are you all right? Was it disturbing?”

  “Not disturbing. More annoying, because it doesn’t make any sense.” I looked toward the back steps where O’Ryan sat, calmly grooming his long whiskers. “Although O’Ryan seems to have figured some of it out.” I described the scene I’d viewed in the samovar that morning, and the expanded view the bedroom mirror had offered, including the famous statue in the distance. “That smarty-pants cat has knocked the Statue of Liberty pencil sharpener off my bookcase twice today.”

  “It looks as though the people on your boat are coming to America, approaching New York—Ellis Island, I imagine—sometime in the early 1900s,” she said.

  “I get that part, but why would I care about these people? And what does that have to do with a carousel horse? Or a dead writer? Or me?”

  “Maybe the Williams Street house is a connection,” she said. “At least to the dead writer And maybe the carousel horse. Ready to go to the registry of deeds? Have you finished your housework?”

  “I have some laundry to throw into the machine,” I said, heading for the back door. “I’ll be back here in a couple of minutes.”

  Although I have my own space on the third floor, my aunt and I still share the big first-floor laundry room, with its almost brand-new washer and dryer.

  I tossed a few pairs of jeans and a half-dozen dark-colored tops, along with a denim vest, into a bag and hurried back downstairs. Aunt Ibby was already in the laundry room busy folding sheets. I paused in my prespotting procedure—a mustard stain on my green Boston Celtics T-shirt—to watch her fold a queen-sized fitted sheet into a neat square. I’ve been watching her do that ever since I was little and I still can’t do it. After a couple of deftly smoothed pillowcases were added to her pile, she shook the wrinkles from a multicolored quilt.

  “Here, take the other end and help me with this, will you, Maralee? It’s quite heavy.” We faced one another. I held one corner of the quilt in each hand and she did the same.

  “This is lovely. Is it new?”

  “Can’t identify it, can you?” She smiled. “I barely recognized it myself, after I’d run it through the washer a couple of times. It’s what they call a ‘crazy quilt.’ See how the patches are all different sizes and shapes? Thrifty, old New Englanders liked to use up every little scrap of fabric. The colors are as vibrant as new. I’m going to use it on my bed.”

  We moved toward one another, then back, in the peculiar do-si-do motion quilt folding involves. Recognition dawned.

  “It’s the quilt my horse was wrapped in. That dirty, old quilt. I would have thrown it away. I can’t believe it’s the same one.”

  “I know. I’m awfully pleased. It’s a beautiful piece. I think I like this even better than the samovar.” Folding completed, she lifted the quilt with both arms, placing it on the table. “I think it’s all handmade,” she said, stroking the top of the varicolored fabric.

  O’Ryan leaped up onto the table, walked gingerly around the sheet and pillowcase pile. He put one paw on the edge of the neatly folded quilt, sniffing at the edges. He turned unblinking golden eyes on me, then climbed into the center of Aunt Ibby’s new bedcovering, turned around a couple of times, lay down and closed his eyes.

  “Get down from there, you naughty boy,” I scolded. The cat, unmoving, didn’t even open his eyes.

  “Oh, let him be,” my aunt said. “He looks so comfortable. He won’t hurt it, will you, boy? Let’s get going. We want to get over there
before the registry closes.”

  “Can’t you do it online?”

  “Already tried that. The deed we’re looking for is too old.” She sounded pleased. “This’ll be hands-on research. It’s what I do.”

  “Okay. Let’s go. My car or yours?”

  We decided on the Buick. The registry of deeds is on Congress Street, a straight shot from the Common, past the Hawthorne Hotel, across Derby Street south. We found a visitor’s parking spot easily and made our way past a confusing warren of offices and arrived at our destination by three o’clock.

  “They’re open until four-thirty,” my aunt said. “That should give us plenty of time to find what we need.”

  By this time I wasn’t exactly sure what that might be, but had every confidence that Aunt Ibby knew what she was doing. The clerk behind the counter was a library friend, anxious to help with research. Not knowing last names or exact dates would present a problem to most people, but it was a piece of cake to an experienced reference librarian.

  Within half an hour we had a photocopy of a 1936 deed to the Williams Street house. It was made out in the names of Nikita and Lydia Novikova.

  So I had the name of the man who’d carved my horse. It had to be more than coincidence that Novikova was also the last name of the scooter-riding, bubble-blowing Stasia.

  We were about to leave the office when I paused at the doorway and turned back toward the counter. “Excuse me,” I said to the clerk, “but has anybody else asked about this deed recently?”

  “Don’t know. Let me check the log.” He watched his computer screen for a moment. “Interesting. Yes. A fellow doing historical research picked up a copy of it a couple of days ago.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “So,” my aunt said as we returned to the parking lot, “now we have a name. Nikita Novikova.”

  “Grandpa Nick,” I said. “I’m thinking that the Novikovas are on that ship I saw arriving in America.”

  “I think so too. Now the serious research begins.” She’d put on her wise-old-owl face.

  “We’re meddling.”

  “I know.” She smiled. “I love meddling.”

  We climbed into the Buick and headed for home. It was a quiet ride. Ideas swirled in my head. Probably in Aunt Ibby’s too. We pulled into the garage and walked together toward the house. O’Ryan waited on the back steps.

  “Want to come in and compare notes?” she asked.

  I glanced at my watch. “I’ve got to put away my schoolwork and change my clothes,” I said. “Pete’ll be here at six-thirty. We’re going to a movie.”

  “That’s nice, dear. I have book club this evening, but first I’m going straight to my computer and see what I can dig up on Nikita and Lydia.”

  “On a first-name basis already, I see.”

  “Might as well be. I intend to poke around in their lives as much as I possibly can.”

  “Good luck,” I said. “I’ll check back with you later.” She went into her kitchen and I opened the door to the stairway leading up to my apartment. O’Ryan looked back and forth between us for a moment, then—via the cat door—followed my aunt.

  I entered my living room and glanced around, once again visualizing my restored carousel horse in the bay window. I hurried to my bedroom, changed into white jeans—it wasn’t Labor Day yet—and a navy turtleneck. I began to organize the mess I’d made on the kitchen counter. I closed the laptop, put it away and gathered the books into a neat pile. I noticed a brand-new package of blank index cards among the notebooks and legal pads. I’d always used the handy, little lined surfaces for schoolwork—both as student and teacher—but I’d learned fairly recently that index cards are an awfully good tool for organizing random bits of information when one is trying to find answers to a tangled string of questions. I peeled the cellophane away and put the stack of cards in a space I’d cleared on the counter.

  Selecting a card and a nice sharp number-two pencil, I wrote, Nikita Novikova lived in the Williams Street house. On the next card I wrote, Why did somebody kill Eric Dillon? Next came: What is somebody looking for that was in our locker? I was scribbling faster with each card. Who are the men who stole our trash? How is Stasia involved?

  I spread the cards on a corner of the counter and stared at them. Moved them around a little. Stared some more. All questions. No answers. No bolt of lightning. No lightbulb over my head.

  The cuckoo clock announced six o’clock. She’d barely finished her sixth coo-coo when I heard the Winter Street door chimes ring out “The Impossible Dream.” Pete must be early. I started down the stairs, and had almost reached the foyer when Aunt Ibby approached from her living room. She’d changed her clothes for the book club meeting and looked elegant in a light wool gray dress and gray suede high heels.

  “Must be Pete,” she called. “I’ll get it.” The doorbell chimed again. As she reached for the alarm system pad, O’Ryan streaked past me and planted himself firmly, back arched and teeth bared, between her and the door.

  “It’s not Pete,” I called, dashing down the last two steps. “Don’t open it. Look at the cat.”

  She pulled her hand away from the knob and backed away from the door. “Who is it, Maralee?” she whispered. “What should we do?”

  I walked carefully behind the cat and peeked out the side window. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Scott Palmer, Lee,” came the reply. “May I come in for a minute, please?”

  I hadn’t seen Scott for over a year, although I watched his newscasts on WICH-TV fairly often.

  “Just a minute, Scott,” I said, bending to pick up the cat. He was no longer snarling, but still stood between Aunt Ibby and the door. “It’s okay, boy,” I told him. “See? It’s just Scott.” I held him up to the window. “You remember Scott, don’t you?”

  The big cat squirmed and jumped down to the floor, then slowly backed away, watching as I opened the door.

  “Hi, Scott,” I said. “Come in. You remember my aunt?”

  “Yes, of course. Hello, Miss Russell. See you still have Ariel’s cat.” He turned to face me. “Is there somewhere I can talk to you privately for a minute, Lee?”

  No way was I about to invite him up to my apartment. My previous experience with Scott hadn’t been entirely pleasant. He was good-looking in a rugged-jock sort of way, but I didn’t trust him. “I think so. May we use your living room for a few minutes, Aunt Ibby?”

  She nodded. “Certainly, dear. Stay as long as you like. I’m off to my meeting. Nice to see you again, Scott.” She spoke a hushed “Here, kitty, kitty” to O’Ryan, who dutifully followed her from the hall without a backward glance in my direction.

  Scott followed me into the living room and sat gingerly on a pine tavern chair.

  “What’s going on, Scott? What do you want to talk to me about?”

  “Are you still dating that detective? Mondello?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “He and Chief Whaley made me go down to the police station . . . asked me a lot of questions about Eric Dillon’s murder. You know about that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “They sound as though they think I had something to do with it.” He looked down at his hands for a moment. “Jeez, Lee. Eric was an old friend. I liked him. Why would I want him dead?”

  I didn’t have an answer for that, so I didn’t say anything.

  “I need to know. Has Mondello told you anything about why they’re doing this to me? Do they really think I’ve done . . . something?”

  “Pete doesn’t discuss police business with me, Scott. But I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. Just answer their questions the best you can.” I hoped I sounded encouraging. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Just tell them the truth.”

  “There’s this one thing,” he said. “Eric told me something in strictest confidence. That’s what he called it. ‘In strictest confidence.’ It’s about what he was looking for in Salem. He said I wasn’t to tell anybody, at least until after the boo
k comes out.”

  “That’s a confidence you definitely can’t keep,” I said. “You have to call Pete and tell him everything. This isn’t about a book. It’s about your friend’s murder. You have to tell the police.”

  He was quiet for a long moment, then looked up and smiled. “Well, thanks, Lee. You’ve been a big help. I’ll remember what you said.” He stood. “This was really helpful.”

  “So you’ll call Pete?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  We were about to step into the foyer when O’Ryan raced past us and put his front paws up on the windowsill, his nose against the glass. I looked at my watch. Six-thirty on the dot.

  “That’ll be Pete now.” I opened the door, just as Pete’s Crown Vic rolled to a stop at the curb right behind Scott’s yellow Jeep.

  They passed one another on the front steps. Scott bobbed his head. “Detective.”

  Pete looked up at me and raised an eyebrow. He nodded in Scott’s direction. “Palmer.”

  Pete came inside and I closed the door. “What’s going on? They trying to hire you back at the TV station?”

  I laughed. “Nope. I’m afraid my late-show psychic days are well behind me. Come on upstairs and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Once inside my kitchen we shared a delicious kiss, which could have easily led to more kisses if I hadn’t had so much to tell him about what Aunt Ibby and I had learned, as well as what Scott had told me. “I’ve had a very busy day,” I began. “I mean, Aunt Ibby and I have had a busy day.”

  Pete smiled and sat on one of the tall stools beside the counter, right in front of the index cards I’d so recently and so fruitlessly spread out there. “So, what have the Snoop Sisters been up to?”

  I sat beside him, took a deep breath, preparing to begin my story, when Pete picked up an index card. “What’s this?” He picked up the card about Nikita Novikova and the Williams Street house. “How’d you know about the house on Williams Street?”