Grave Errors

by Carol J. Perry

  It’s always seemed to me that Friday is a unique day in the school week, even when the students are adults. Thoughts of the weekend to come make studying secondary to personal pursuits—and concentration on things technical, historical, mathematical or literary pale in comparison to relaxation, restaurants and relationships. Actually, that was probably the genesis for corporate America’s “casual Fridays.”

  I beat my students to the classroom by about one minute. The women arrived first, all abuzz with questions about Shannon’s date with the blue-eyed hunk from the cemetery. The twins followed behind and, like indulgent parents, just rolled their eyes and shook their heads without comment. I’d apparently missed some of the preliminary revelations and Shannon was in the process of describing Dakota Berman’s apartment.

  “You went to a man’s apartment on the first date?” Hilda’s question fell somewhere between disapproval and admiration.

  Shannon gave a pretty, one-shoulder shrug. “Sure. Why not? He’s a nice guy. I’ve dated enough creeps to know the difference. Anyway, he lives in one of those huge old-fashioned houses they’ve chopped up into a bunch of apartments. He’s the janitor or the caretaker or something. Anyway, he gets his place for free. It’s in the basement.”

  “Free is a good deal.” Hilda nodded approval. “What was it like? Does he have any furniture? Or is it one of those mattress on the floor bachelor pads?”

  “Huh. You must’ve dated some creeps too. No. The furniture was okay. He said he got most of it at thrift stores and some that people left out by the Dumpster when they moved out.” Dorothy seemed to be listening intently, but at that point had made no comment. “You live there, Dot,” Shannon said. “You ever find any good stuff out by the Dumpster?”

  “Not yet. But my kid sister, Emily . . .” She smiled a sad little smile. “She would have been the first one out there. She was the queen of recycling. Got most of her flower pots that way. Nobody’s moved out since I got there though. One family moved in next door to me, but I think that apartment had been empty for a while. If I saw anything out there that I liked, I wouldn’t mind taking it though. Living off the grid like I do in Alaska, I’m used to scrounging whatever I can.”

  “Yeah. Wow.” Shannon said. “I can’t imagine living like that. Outhouses, bears and stuff. Any cute guys up there?”

  “Alaska has more men than women,” Dorothy said, “so the odds up there are pretty good.”

  “You seeing anybody?”

  “Not really. The guy who mates on my boat is staying at my place while I’m down here. He takes care of my dogs and we kind of hang out together. Nothing serious.”

  “Friend with benefits?” Hilda asked.

  Dorothy didn’t answer that and the twins made a simultaneous throat-clearing noise.

  “Well then,” I said, realizing that things were getting out of hand, even for casual Friday. “Let’s get down to work, shall we? We’ll be viewing an instructional DVD on script preparation. It runs for about forty-five minutes. Take notes. Then we’ll discuss the possible techniques we’ll use for our Dia de los Muertos script.”

  Things quieted down immediately and all eyes were obediently focused on the big screen behind the news desk. I’d seen the film before and anyway I had the teacher’s manual, so I was free to let my mind wander.

  Unfortunately, but maybe predictably, it wandered down a path where strange cats, gator-ravaged bodies and threatening notes lurked.

  Enough wandering.

  I pulled the Happy Shores notebook and pen from my purse and forced myself to watch the instructions on proper formatting. I took careful notes, writing neatly, even adding a couple of properly numbered footnotes.

  I wonder what’s on Emily’s cell phone. I’m sure Dorothy will want to show it to me as soon as it arrives.

  Shaking the intrusive thought away, I wrote a whole paragraph on important trends in the short film industry, and another on visual storytelling. By the time forty-five minutes had passed the class had absorbed enough information to keep us all busy up until lunchtime and for a couple of hours after that.

  It’s not often that we hear the distinctive “ding” which means the elevator has stopped on our floor—largely because so far our classroom is the only one on the mezzanine. Most of the action in the Tabby is on the first floor or the two above us. Neither the top floor “penthouse” nor our between-first-and-second-floor location got many visitors. Everyone looked up from the desks at the sound and the flashing light above the elevator door.

  Pete stepped out, Mr. Pennington close behind him. The director wasn’t smiling and Pete wore his cop face. The two men approached my desk.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Ms. Barrett,” Mr. Pennington said, “but there seems to be a matter of some urgency that requires your attention.”

  I looked up at Pete, and waited for an explanation. He glanced around the room, which had grown completely silent while six pairs of eyes looked expectantly toward us. He spoke in a near-whisper. “Something’s come up. I need to talk to you and Dorothy right away.” He walked to Dorothy’s desk, spoke a few words to her, and she followed him back to where I still sat beneath the giant black shoe. Meanwhile, Mr. Pennington had moved to the front of the news desk.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “Ms. Barrett’s presence is required elsewhere. Class is dismissed. We’ll see you on Monday. Have a good weekend.”

  There was a scraping of chairs, a rustling of papers and a low hum of conversation. Dorothy stood silently beside my chair. Therese, Hilda and Shannon put books away and performed the usual end of day straightening up ritual, all the while sneaking worried glances in our direction. The twins left their desks and approached Pete.

  “Anything we can do, Detective?” Ray asked, genuine concern showing on his face. “Whatever’s going on, Roger and me are available if you need us.”

  “Thanks,” Pete said. “Maybe later. I’ll let you know.” He herded Dorothy and me toward the elevator where Mr. Pennington stood, impatiently pushing the UP button.

  “Pete,” I demanded. “Why all the mystery? What’s this all about?”

  Dorothy still hadn’t spoken. The elevator door slid open and the four of us got in. “It’s about my sister Emily’s murder, isn’t it?” Her tone was even—unemotional. “That’s what this is all about.”

  No one answered her question. The elevator stopped on the second floor and we followed Mr. Pennington into his office. Once Pete and Dorothy and I were seated, he closed and locked the door—most unusual for a man who prided himself on his “open door” policy.

  Pete reached across the director’s desk and picked up a plastic page protector. Inside was a standard letter-sized envelope. He held it up in his left hand, and in his right was the gallon bag containing the wrinkled note. He handed the bagged note to Dorothy. “Dorothy, you should read this before I continue. Mr. Pennington received it from a messenger yesterday afternoon.”

  Dorothy accepted the bag, her eyes darting back and forth across the page. “See? I told you so. It’s about Emily. Her murder. Do you know who sent it? Who killed her?” She slid the bag across the desk toward Pete.

  “We checked it carefully for prints, but we weren’t able to find anything useful.” He looked directly at me. I blushed, realizing that my careless handling of the letter might be responsible for any obliterated evidence. He picked up the page protector with the envelope inside. “Fortunately, Mr. Pennington saved this carefully for us.” He gave an approving nod toward the director.

  “I thought it could be important,” Mr. Pennington beamed. “I held it by the edges with two fingers.” He gestured toward Dorothy and me, displaying his two-finger technique. “Played Hercule Poirot in an off-Broadway production of Murder on the Nile some years ago. Gained an appreciation of the lawmen. Learned a few tricks of the trade.”

  Pete held the plastic-protected envelope up and shook it gently. “We were able to lift some good prints from this. We know who the messenger was. May
be the same person who wrote the note.”

  “The killer?” Dorothy rose halfway from her chair. “You know who the killer is? Who is it?”

  “We don’t know that. We’re pretty certain about the messenger though. We’re concerned that he’s apparently here in Salem. At least he was yesterday.”

  “Who?” Dorothy and I spoke in unison.

  “He’s supposed to be dead in a swamp down south,” Pete said. “It’s the man Emily Alden knew as J.D. His name is H. James Dowgin. We’re actively looking for him. You two need to be especially careful. We’re taking him seriously.” He held up a black-and-white photo. I recognized it as the same one I’d found when I looked Dowgin up on the Massachusetts Real Estate Agents Web site. “We’ve notified officers statewide to be on the lookout for him.”

  I found that picture before you did.

  For me, the thought of being first made up a little bit for the messed-up fingerprints on the threatening note, but of course I didn’t say so. After some instructions on being aware of our surroundings, locking doors, keeping cell phones handy, Pete told Dorothy he’d drive her home, and that she should call the station for transportation whenever she needed a ride until Dowgin was found and brought in for questioning. He gave each of us a print of the picture of Dowgin, squeezed my hand, leaned forward and brushed my cheek with a discreet kiss. “I’ll call you tonight. Don’t worry. We’ll catch this guy.”

  Pete and Dorothy took the elevator and I headed for the stairs. “I’ll just run down and make sure everything’s put away in the classroom,” I told Mr. Pennington. “See you Monday.”

  “Do you want me to escort you, Ms. Barrett? I’d be glad to if you’re the least bit nervous about being alone.”

  “Thank you, no sir. I’m fine.”

  “If you say so. I’ll print up some photos of that Dowgin fellow and I’ll post them on the bulletin boards on each floor.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I didn’t need to worry about being alone. No one had left the classroom yet. Therese, Hilda and Shannon were still at their desks watching TV. Ray stood at the head of the short flight of stairs leading to the mezzanine floor, while Roger had posted himself beside the glass doors leading to the side street.

  “You’re all still here.” I stated the obvious.

  Therese clicked the TV off. “We’re worried about you and Dot.” She looked behind me. “Where is she, anyway?”

  “What’s going on with you two?” Hilda wanted to know. Ray and Roger are getting all copped out and your boyfriend looked real serious. And where is Dot?”

  “Pete gave her a ride home,” I said. “and thanks for being worried. But I’m okay. Everything’s under control.”

  “You don’t sound convinced, Lee. Does she, Ray?”

  Ray hadn’t moved from his position at the head of the stairs, and didn’t answer. I could see that he was visually scanning the floor below. Hilda was right. Definitely all copped out.

  “Are you going to tell us what’s wrong, Lee? We want to help. Whatever it is. But we need to know what’s going on.” Therese waved a hand toward my desk. “Come on. Sit down. Spill it.”

  It only took me a minute to decide. If I was involved in this mess, to some extent, they were too. I gave them an abbreviated account of what we knew about Emily’s death and James Dowgin. I read aloud my copy of the note that had been delivered to Mr. Pennington. Naturally I didn’t share any information about the visions. I showed them the photo of Dowgin. “If you see this guy in your travels around town, call 911, okay?”

  “So are you going to do what the note said? Mind your own business? I know I would!” Shannon’s eyes were wide.

  “Of course I am,” I said. “I mean, as much as I can.”

  Roger had moved a little closer to the group, while still keeping an eye on the street outside. “Doesn’t say we have to stay out of it, right?”

  From the head of the stairs, his twin answered. “We don’t have to stay out of it, right?”

  Hilda’s expression brightened. “We can get involved as much as we want to. Like real investigative reporters.”

  “Whoa!” I said, raising both hands. “Slow down, you guys. You aren’t investigative reporters yet—and as a matter of fact, neither am I. So we’ll all stay out of it. Agreed?”

  “As much as we can, like you said.” Therese’s voice was serious, but she couldn’t hide her sly smile.

  “Hey, I’m the one being threatened here, if this thing is actually a threat, so it’s my call. We stay out of it. Now. Back to Day of the Dead. Okay?”

  Collective sigh.

  “The twins don’t like the design they got for the brochure cover,” Hilda broke the silence.

  “Oh? What’s wrong with it? Ray? Roger?”

  Neither man had left his self-appointed post. “We’ve decided we’d rather have a different photograph. Roger likes the ones Therese took with the morning mist above the gravestones,” Ray said.

  “But Ray likes the one I took of the tree with the orb thing,” Roger offered. “So we think we’d like to go back to the cemetery some morning and take one of both the tree and the mist. Can we do that?”

  “I’ll call Kelsey Roehl and see if she can get permission for us to go in there before sunrise on Monday morning.” She aimed her smile at Ray. “I can’t quite see you guys jumping that wrought iron fence!”

  Ray straightened his shoulders and pulled in his stomach. “Don’t be too sure of that, Missy. We keep in shape.”

  “We keep in good shape,” Roger agreed with his twin.

  I bet they could jump that fence if they had to.

  “Monday morning good for everybody? That is if the weather cooperates. We need that pretty early morning mist. Watch Wanda Sunday night and check. She’ll call it ‘ground fog.’”

  Ray and Roger looked at one another. “We always watch Wanda,” Ray said.

  “I’ll just bet you do.” Hilda laughed. “The photo is a good idea though. Want me to call Dorothy? I can pick her up. She won’t want to walk to the cemetery in the dark.”

  “Good idea. Thanks.” I’d already thought about Dorothy needing a ride, hoping I wouldn’t have to pick her up and face the inevitable conversation about Emily.

  It was within minutes of the normal closing time when we all left the classroom. We’d agreed to meet at the east gate of the cemetery on Monday morning, weather permitting. Kelsey had secured the necessary permission and had offered to join us there. Still more concerned about the damned note than I cared to admit—even to myself—I hurried across the parking lot to my car, shielding my eyes with one hand and peering into the windows. I looked around (it could only be called “furtively”), unlocked it and climbed in feeling like a big silly goof.

  I wasn’t looking forward to sharing all this new information with Aunt Ibby. I knew that despite the state-of-the-art alarm system we had in the house on Winter Street, she’d be worried about my safety. As it turned out, I didn’t have to share the information with her. She was already worried when I reached home, thanks to a phone call from Rupert Pennington. She greeted me as soon as I stepped into the back hall, right behind O’Ryan who had already greeted me in the driveway.

  “Come in, come in.” She held her kitchen door open, looking back and forth between the stairway to my apartment and the laundry room across the hall. “Rupert told me about the threatening note from that man.” She looked every bit as furtive as I must have a short time earlier in the Tabby’s parking lot, and I couldn’t help laughing.

  “Come on, it’s not as bad as all that. Anyway, it isn’t actually a threat. More of an—um—admonition.”

  “Just the same. It’s aimed at you and I don’t like it.” She took my hand and pulled me into the kitchen, rapidly slamming and locking the door, leaving O’Ryan to push his way through the cat entrance, looking a bit miffed at being left behind. “Sit down,” she ordered. “I’ve been thinking about it all day, even though I woke up with quite a headache. A
nyway, I’m fine now and I have a theory.”

  I sat. So did she. So did the cat.

  “That man, H. James Dowgin, faked his own death.”

  “It looks that way,” I agreed, “since if he’s the one who delivered the note, he isn’t dead.”

  She looked at me over half-glasses and used her librarian voice. “Obviously. The question then is, what have you been asking about that someone doesn’t want answered?”

  “Emily Alden’s death?”

  “That, of course, but something beyond that.”

  “The idea that she was murdered—that she didn’t die of an overdose?”

  She tapped her foot impatiently. “Of course she was murdered. But why was she murdered? Hmmmm? That’s the part H. James Dowgin doesn’t want you to know.”

  “I’ll bite. Why was she murdered?”

  “The dirt.” She sat back in her chair. “It was the dirt all along.”

  A series of pictures flashed through my mind. Emily’s letter about the soil sample. The muddy work boots. The trowel in the dirt. The warring councilors. The borrowed library books. “There was something bad in Emily’s soil sample from the wild woods.”

  “I think so. Doesn’t it make sense? If that soil is contaminated somehow, the whole Wildwood Mall project is compromised.”

  “Cleaning up whatever it is could cost millions,” I said. “And somebody doesn’t want me to find out what it is.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Aunt Ibby’s theory made a certain amount of sense. Quite a bit of sense, really. But why does James Dowgin want me to stop asking questions? What does the new mall have to do with him? If anyone was going be impacted by the news that there’s something wrong with the land, wouldn’t that be Happy and Trudy Shores?