Murder Go Round

by Carol J. Perry

  “Aunt Ibby saw it on Eric Dillon’s Facebook page, so she went over there to take a look at it.”

  Pete put one hand on his forehead. “You mean I had one officer driving up and down streets most of the day looking for that house, and another one searching Google Earth for it, and you knew where it was all along?”

  “Aunt Ibby did. It’s only a couple of streets over from here, you know.”

  “I know that now. She went over there?”

  “She did, and she talked to the man who lives there. A Mr. McKenna. He’s lived there most of his life.”

  “Your aunt is way ahead of us on this. We just got his name about an hour ago. Chief’s sending somebody over in the morning to talk to him, see if he knows anything about Dillon taking a picture of his house.”

  “He does. Apparently, he talked to Dillon too. Aunt Ibby said Mr. McKenna has his business card. Besides that, he remembers an old man who lived upstairs and kept a carousel horse in the basement.”

  I definitely had his full attention. He put the card down. “Dillon knew about the house. And he must have known about the horse too, if he spoke with McKenna. Is your aunt at home now? I need to know more about this.”

  I shook my head. “No. Sorry. She’s gone to her book club meeting.”

  I told him everything I could remember. I told him that the old man had carved toys for the neighborhood kids, and how Mr. McKenna’s father had bought the house from the old man’s son.

  “And you got Novikova’s name too. How’d you get that?”

  I shrugged and tried to look modest. “Registry of Deeds.”

  “Did I ever tell you you’d make a good cop?”

  I laughed. “Several times. But seriously, Pete, Stasia’s last name is Novikova too. And she’s interested in doll clothes. We have a whole box full of doll clothes that was in the locker. That can’t be coincidence.”

  “No, it can’t. We’ll talk to her. Want to tell me what Palmer was here for? If it’s none of my business, you can say so.”

  “Oh, it absolutely is your business. He wanted to know if you’d told me anything about why you and Chief Whaley were questioning him about Eric Dillon’s murder. He sounded really upset about it.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That you don’t discuss police business with me and that he should just answer the questions and tell the truth.”

  “Good.”

  “There’s more. He said that Eric had told him something in confidence about what he was looking for in Salem. That he’d made Scott promise not to tell anyone until after the book came out. I told him he has to call you, to tell you everything.”

  “Did he agree?”

  I leaned forward, putting both elbows on the counter. “I don’t know. That’s the thing about Scott. You never know if you’re getting a straight answer. He said ‘sure,’ but I don’t know.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You did fine. Come on. Smile.”

  I attempted a smile, but didn’t quite pull it off. “There’s more,” I said.

  Pete knew me pretty well. His expression turned serious and he put a comforting arm across my shoulders. “You’ve been seeing things again. Want to tell me about it?”

  So I did. “Does that mean anything to you?” I asked. “Aunt Ibby and I are thinking I might be seeing the Novikovas coming to America.”

  “It could be,” he said. “It just could be. Remember I told you the murder weapon was probably a garrote of some kind?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I was right. It’ll be in the papers tomorrow, so there’s no harm in telling you. The forensics guys said it was a garrote made of leather, but here’s the strange thing. They say there are small, flat triangular pieces of metal on it. Dillon was strangled, and the metal things stuck in his throat.”

  “That would account for the ribbon of blood I saw—we saw. Interesting. And very, very weird.”

  “Chief thought so too. Did I ever tell you about his old newspaper-clipping file?”

  He hadn’t. We don’t talk about Chief Whaley much. “Newspaper clippings?”

  “Right. It’s a big, thick, old-fashioned file envelope. Clippings about crimes from all the way back to the fifties. Maybe older. Anyway, the garrote reminded him of something he’d read a long time ago.”

  I sat up straight, facing him. “What was it?”

  “A murder in Connecticut. Happened in the seventies. An old guy, a baker, was strangled with a weapon just like that. A thick leather thong with triangular metal pieces embedded in it. They found the poor old man dead in his own bakery, the murder weapon still on the body.”

  “Did they catch the killer?”

  “No. Never did, but here’s the thing. The man’s name was Alex Chopiak. The clipping said he’d come to America from Russia in 1915 and opened his bakery. He always told people he’d been a chief baker in the court of Czar Nicholas II. Funny thing though. Nothing was stolen. There was money in the cash register. The only thing disturbed was a big papier-mâché display wedding cake. Smashed to smithereens.”

  “They say that Stasia thinks she’s Grand Duchess Anastasia, the czar’s daughter.”

  “I know. We’ll talk to her again. Don’t expect to get much though. She’s kind of... vague.”

  “So the murder weapon from the baker’s murder still exists?”

  “A photo of it anyway. The people in the Russian community back then blamed Chopiak’s death on a witch.”

  “Sure. When in doubt, blame a witch. We’ll have to talk to River about that. But, Pete, are you thinking that maybe two of the men in my vision could be Chopiak and Novikova, arriving in America in 1915?”

  “Seems possible.”

  “You can’t tell the chief about my vision though.” Chief Whaley and I have a history. I’m not one of his favorite people. He wouldn’t be at all pleased to learn that his lead detective had a nosy scryer for a girlfriend.

  “Sure can’t tell him anything about that.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  He stood, pulled me to my feet, kissed me and said, “I’m going to take my woman to the movies. Let’s get out of here before that damned bird crows again.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “It’s such a nice night. Want to walk?” Pete asked. “We can talk some more on the way.”

  “Sure. If we hurry we can still make the seven o’clock.” Cinema Salem is within easy walking distance of Winter Street, and he was right about it being a nice night. I pulled on a lightweight red jacket and we left the house via the back door. The sun was low in the sky and clouds were streaked with pink. The temperature had dropped several degrees and the leaves on a few of the trees on the Common had already begun to turn to a reddish gold. “Might as well enjoy what’s left of summer. Winter’s coming.”

  We walked briskly, crossing Williams Street on our way. Pete paused for a second on the corner and looked at the sign. “Practically next door,” he said, shaking his head. “Did the man who lives there now know anything else about the Novikovas?”

  We kept walking, passing the statue of Roger Conant and the Witch Museum. “He didn’t really remember much. It was a long time ago and he was a young kid. Just an old man they called Grandpa Nick, who worked at the Salem Willows amusement park, where he repaired the flying horses. He used to carve toys for the neighborhood kids. He had that wooden horse in the cellar and said he was going to fix it up someday and put it back where it belonged.”

  “Nick. Nikita. The pieces are starting to fit together.”

  “Some of them are. But quite a few of the pieces lead straight to our locker—and to us. To Aunt Ibby and me.”

  “We’re on it, babe. You know I can’t tell you everything, but we’re on it. Don’t worry.”

  It was just seven when we arrived at the box office. Cinema Salem is not your state-of-the-art multiplex with reclining seats and all the first-run movies. It’s an independent neighborhood theater, kind of old and kind of small, but it�
�s become one of our favorite date-night venues. Besides, they have great popcorn, loaded with real butter. There’s usually at least one new movie, along with some old classics, some foreign films, some local indie productions and kid flicks. Pete and I hardly ever want to see the same one, so we always toss a coin to see who picks.

  “Easy choice for me,” Pete said. “The new Bond movie is finally here. 007 for me. What’s yours?”

  I pointed to a colorful poster displayed behind glass. “My favorite foreign film of all time!” I was delighted.

  “It’s Chinese. Raise the Red Lantern. I cry every time I see it.”

  Pete groaned. “Chinese. With subtitles. Oh, boy. I’ll cry if you win this time.”

  “Hate to see a grown man cry,” I said. I called “heads” and tossed the quarter.

  “Tails. You lose!” His glee was undisguised. We got a big bucket of that to-die-for popcorn and prepared to watch James Bond’s latest caper.

  * * *

  “I have to admit it. I really enjoyed seeing Bond,” I said. “Anyway, I have Raise the Red Lantern at home on DVD.” It was dark when we left the theater and there was a real chill in the air. We walked quickly past St. Peter’s Church and started down Brown Street.

  “Glad you liked it. It’s not even ten o’clock yet. Want to go anyplace else?”

  “Not really. Let’s go home and I’ll make you hot chocolate with Marshmallow Fluff on top and a slice of chocolate chip banana bread.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” He took my hand. We passed the Witch Museum, which is really spooky-looking at night, and stopped at the curb on the corner of Williams Street. “Want to take a short detour?” he asked. “I’d like to take a look at that house.”

  “Good idea. I would too.”

  The house wasn’t far from the corner. There was a street lamp right in front of it, so it stood out from its neighbors on either side. We looked at it from across the street. “Pretty ordinary-looking, isn’t it?” Pete said. “In fact, it looks like about half the houses in Salem. No wonder my people took so long to identify it. Just a plain-Jane, old house.”

  For some reason I felt as though I should defend it. “It’s nice and neat though. Looks like fresh paint and the window boxes are pretty.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Pete gave my hand a squeeze. “Your aunt was pretty sharp to notice it on Dillon’s Facebook page. It was the ordinariness that made it stand out to her from the other pictures. Want to go across the street and take a closer look?”

  “Might as well.” The fire pit in the side yard hadn’t been visible from our vantage point on the opposite side of the street. It was a cozy sight. A group of people were gathered around the glowing coals and the sound of laughter drifted toward us. I felt as though we were intruding and gave Pete’s hand a tug. “Let’s go,” I whispered.

  “Right,” he whispered back, dropping my hand. With my back to the house, and with Pete behind me, I started toward the other side of the street—and directly into the path of a man carrying a pizza box. That is, he was carrying a pizza box—until I collided with him and sent the box flying onto a nearby hedge.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir,” I said. “Are you all right?”

  The man laughed. “No harm done, miss. My fault. I should watch where I’m going.” He retrieved the pizza box, still miraculously right side up, from the top of the hedge, then pointed to the group in the yard. “That bunch of gannets over there say they’re still hungry. After hot dogs and hamburgers and gallons of soda, they sent me out for pizza!” He cocked his head to one side. “Nice night for a walk. You two from the neighborhood?”

  “Winter Street,” I said. “I’m Lee Barrett and this is Pete Mondello.”

  “Pleased to meet you both.” He offered his free hand, first to Pete, then to me. “Leonard McKenna.”

  “How do you do, Mr. McKenna?” I grasped his hand. “I think you met my aunt Isobel Russell earlier today. I’m happy to meet you, but we’re keeping you from your guests. Mustn’t let that pizza get cold.”

  “Miss Russell. Yes. Charming woman. Real interested in my house.” He pushed a low wooden gate open. “Come on in for a minute, meet the family, have some s’mores—if they haven’t eaten them all.”

  I began to say, “Oh, we couldn’t . . . ,” but Pete took my elbow, steering me toward the gate.

  “Can’t ever turn down s’mores,” he said. “Thanks.”

  There were two women and two men seated beside the fire pit. The two men stood when we approached, and I saw that they were young. Teenagers, I thought. Very tall, very polite teenagers.

  Leonard McKenna handed the pizza to one of the women. “Here you go, sis. Look, I found these neighbors wandering around, so I brought them along.” He launched into introductions. The women were his sister and his mother. The boys were nephews. “This is Ms. Barrett and Mr. Mondello. From over on Winter Street. Kids, go get a couple more chairs.”

  So Pete and I joined that friendly circle of neighbors. We each declined the offer of pizza, but happily nibbled on s’mores and learned some things I could hardly wait to note on my index cards. Pete identified himself right away as a detective, but he didn’t really have to. One of the boys, Colin, played hockey at the same rink where Pete coached a peewee team and had recognized him right away.

  “You working on the case about that guy who took a picture of this house, Coach?”

  “I am,” Pete admitted, holding up his right hand. “But, honest, I came for the s’mores, not to ask questions.”

  “Wish I’d taken the time to talk to that poor soul,” Mr. McKenna said, “but I had to get to work. He gave me his card, you know, and asked me to call him later. He wanted to talk about the house, I guess.”

  “That was too bad,” Mrs. McKenna spoke up. “We don’t mind talking about the house at all. I remember Old Man Novikova well. His wife too. Real nice folks. He used to make toys for my kids, Lennie and Colleen both. After he died, Lydia—that’s his wife—gave me one of those nested things. You know, you open it and there’s another one inside it?”

  I nodded. “A matryoshka doll.”

  “No. Colleen has one of those.” She gestured toward her daughter. “Mine is different. Not dolls. Lydia gave it to me after Grandpa Nick passed. Mine is an Easter egg with more Easter eggs inside. They get smaller and smaller.”

  “I’ll bet it’s beautiful,” I said.

  “It’s real pretty. Want to see it?”

  “We don’t want to bother you—” Pete began, but I interrupted.

  “I’d love to see it,” I said, “if it’s not too much trouble.”

  Pete raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment.

  “No problem,” said Mrs. McKenna. “Kevin, run inside and get my egg.” The boy stood and headed for the back door of the house. “He knows just where it is. I keep it in a special plastic case right on my dining-room sideboard. Been there since she gave it to me.”

  The woman called Colleen smiled. “We always wanted to play with it when we were kids. She never let us though. That Lydia was so nice before she got sick. A wonderful seamstress. She gave me a gorgeous embroidered tablecloth. I only use it at Christmas and Thanksgiving.”

  Colleen’s words made me think of the delicate stiches, the careful color coordination evident in Aunt Ibby’s quilt. “My aunt has a patchwork quilt that might be something Lydia made,” I said.

  Mr. McKenna handed his sister a slice of pizza, then turned toward me. “Your aunt told me about the storage locker auction and the carousel horse,” he said. “It’s got to be the same one that used to be in our cellar when I was a kid. The old man used to love that horse. He told us we could tell it all our secrets—that it would never tell anyone. Said it was the best ‘secret keeper’ in the world. We used to think it was like going to confession! I whispered into those wooden ears all the time. Hey, I’ll just bet that old Lydia made that quilt. Can’t all be a big coincidence, can it?”

  “I don’t believe in coin
cidences,” Pete said. He was smiling, but his cop voice was back.

  I snapped a few cell phone pictures of Mrs. McKenna’s egg to show to Aunt Ibby and asked her whether the family had ever met Stasia.

  “Oh, my . . . yes,” she said. “I remember the first time I saw Stasia. She came here from Colorado several times to spend the summers with her grandparents. Cute, little thing. Smart as a whip. Of course she’s changed a lot since then.” She shrugged her shoulders and added, “She and Colleen were kind of pen pals for a long time. They were around the same age. The letters stopped coming after a while though. Next time we saw Stasia was at Lydia’s funeral. She was . . . different by then. Pretended she didn’t even know us.”

  * * *

  It was nearly eleven when we left the McKennas’ backyard and walked toward Winter Street. I was surprised by the amount of information we’d gathered about the house on Williams Street, and maybe Pete had picked up something useful to help with the Dillon investigation. It was hard to tell.

  Pete and I cut through Oliver Street to our backyard. “That was interesting, about Stasia,” I said. “Are you going to talk to her about our trash?”

  “We’ll get to that. First things first. I have a murder investigation to run.”

  Of course he was right. I tend to get bogged down in details, I guess. Trivia like doll dresses and embroidered tablecloths and painted horses, instead of concentrating on stolen cars and leather garrotes and the dead man.

  Two dead men, if you count the baker from Connecticut.

  CHAPTER 15

  We decided against the hot chocolate and banana bread idea. We’d both eaten enough s’mores to last us until next summer, and Pete needed to go home and get some sleep. I didn’t mention it to him, but I was anxious to get back to filling out index cards. Our unplanned stop on Williams Street had yielded a wealth of information about the Novikovas. Besides that, I wanted to write down what Scott had told me, along with Pete’s story about Chief Whaley’s newspaper-clipping collection before I forgot any of it.

  Pete walked with me to the Winter Street door, kissed me good night and left for his own apartment. Once inside the front hall, where O’Ryan waited, I peeked into Aunt Ibby’s living room. All was dark and quiet—and it was late, so I assumed she’d gone to bed—and with the cat following, I climbed the stairs.