I hesitated a moment before answering. “We should all be careful,” I said, loud enough for all four of the women to hear. “Just as Pete told us. Be aware of your surroundings. Stick together. Billy Dowgin is in custody and James Dowgin is dead. Were they involved in some kind of crime? We don’t know. We’ll proceed with our lives as usual . . . just a little more carefully. Okay? And as soon as everybody is ready we’ll go to the classroom.”
* * *
We all dutifully trooped up the stairs to the mezzanine with Roger in the lead and Ray bringing up the rear just as the bell rang. With Ray and Roger being deputized, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were both packin’. I was glad the two Boston cops had joined my class. I thought probably the others were too, though none of us expressed it at that moment.
It was a subdued group that faced me as I took my usual seat beneath the shoe. “Therese, want to turn on WICH-TV? The morning news program should still be on. Let’s see what kind of weather we can expect and plan our indoor and outdoor classes accordingly. We may want Kelsey Roehl to give us tours of some of the other Salem cemeteries since it’s going to be a citywide event.”
“More cemeteries?” Shannon pouted. “I thought we were going to make cookies and do some fun stuff.”
“We will,” I assured her. “As a matter of fact my aunt has agreed to help us with the cookies. Shannon, would you check on prices for the skull-shaped cookie cutters? I’ll order them right away and get the ingredients together. I’ll talk with the station manager and offer him an instructional program on calavera that he can run next month.”
Hilda gave a brief explanation of the meaning of calavera, which covers not only sugar skull cookies, but all kinds of tchotchkes and memorabilia in keeping with a more or less lighthearted view of death. We all focused on the weather map looming large on the screen. Scott Palmer’s voice-over gave the position of the center of the slow-moving storm and suggested that New Englanders would do well to be prepared. (I knew he was envisioning himself standing on the beach mid-hurricane, with waves crashing behind him, limbs of trees flying by, just like the big network boys do.)
“Doesn’t look too bad,” Roger said.
“Little storm,” Ray offered. “No big deal.”
“Let’s hope not,” I said. “This is good weather for another brain storming session. I know you’ve all been thinking about more than cookies. Any new ideas?”
Dorothy spoke hesitantly. “This isn’t exactly about the project, but since the cemetery and the dead man and Lee and all of us and my sister’s murder are all mixed up together maybe I should talk about it.”
She had everyone’s attention.
“Go on, Dorothy,” I said.
“I just got a text from Dakota. He says there’s a package in my mailbox from Paula Alden. He wants to know if he should bring it over here.”
“Your sister’s cell phone,” I said. “You don’t happen to have a charger for it with you, do you?”
“No. It’s in the apartment.” She looked down. “Dakota has a key. Should I tell him where it is and have him bring that too?”
“I have a charger in my car. Maybe it’ll work on her phone.” I didn’t like the idea of the artist going into Dorothy’s place, and began to say so. “It might not be wise . . .”
Dorothy interrupted. “Why not? There’s nothing in the place worth stealing. Not that I think Dakota is dishonest anyway.”
“He’s not.” Shannon jumped to her new friend’s defense. “Anyway there could be something important on it. Something us investigative reporters need to know.”
“We’re not . . .” I began, but Dorothy was already texting.
There was an excited buzz of conversation. Scott Palmer got clicked off mid-forecast and Roger and Ray moved their chairs closer to Dorothy’s desk.
“I’m going to call Pete, Dorothy,” I said pulling my own phone from my pocket. “There may be evidence on her cell that they need to know about if, in fact, your sister’s death wasn’t accidental.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You know it wasn’t accidental.”
Pete answered my call on the first ring. I lowered my voice and told him what was going on.
“She told him he could go into her apartment?” he sputtered. “What the hell is she thinking? I’m coming over there. If Berman gets there first, get that phone from him and hang onto it.”
CHAPTER 37
“Pete’s coming over,” I said in an ever-so-casual tone, putting the phone back into my pocket. I managed to stay with my fortune cookie inspired resolve and we resumed the brainstorming session. There were a few rather half-hearted suggestions for publicity, but everyone was pretty much focused on the mezzanine entrance. Who’d arrive first, Dakota or Pete?
Actually, they arrived together. Dakota carried one of those if-it-fits-it-ships boxes from the post office along with a handful of wires I recognized as a phone charger. Pete was right beside him. When the two approached the classroom area, Dakota handed the box and charger to Pete, then moved to the back of the room where he stood quietly. Alone.
I knew that Dorothy had watched the exchange. She walked toward Pete, and at the same time looked back to where Dakota Berman stood by himself. Pete handed her the package. “It’s addressed to you. It’s your property. But I’d appreciate it if you’d let us examine it. It may help us figure out what happened to your sister that night.”
I watched Dorothy’s face. She handed the package back to Pete. “You can have it first,” she said. “I’m not sure I’m ready for it yet.” She looked again at Dakota, then returned to her seat.
Pete put the box on my desk. “Want to put this away for me for a while? I’d like to borrow your class and your big screen for a few minutes. I was impressed with the job you all did with the picture of Billy Dowgin. I have another picture I’d like to see in that kind of detail.”
I slipped the box and charger into my bottom desk drawer, the one with a lock on it. “Of course you can. It’ll work nicely with next week’s lesson plan. Our next chapter is on ‘tools of the investigative reporter’s trade.’ This fits right in. Therese knows more about the mechanics of the screen than I do,” I admitted, “so I’ll turn you over to her.”
Pete moved over to the news desk, while I spoke to the class. “You all did such a good job of observation when we enlarged the photo of ‘the anonymous fairgoer’—who turned out to be Billy Dowgin—Pete has another to test your powers of observation.” I gestured to the screen. “Is it another anonymous person, Pete?”
Pete reached into his inside jacket pocket. “Nope. This time it’s a picture of a place, not a person, and there’s some detail I haven’t been able to magnify enough with the equipment we have at the station.” He handed a photo to Therese. “That one. Can you blow it up?”
Therese flashed a dimpled smile. “That sounds subversive, doesn’t it? Sure I can. Just watch the magic machine.”
“Wish the department had one like it.” Pete watched as she manipulated the picture into place and huddled over the controls. “Ninety-inch screen, right? Six feet by eight feet? How much did a thing like this cost? Any idea?”
“Mr. Pennington says around twenty thousand,” I told him. “Government grant.”
Pete let out a long low whistle and at the same time there was a collective gasp as a six by eight foot picture of an apartment building appeared.
“Hey, that’s my place,” Dorothy exclaimed. “Look. It’s an old picture. That could be Emily’s Volkswagen in the parking lot, isn’t it, Dakota?” The young man moved closer to the screen. Not speaking, but nodding agreement.
“What are we supposed to be looking for?” Shannon wanted to know.
“Maybe something,” he said. “Maybe nothing. Can you zoom in on the top floor please, Therese?” Pete asked.
She zoomed in for a tight shot of a section of the top floor balconies.
“That’s my place for sure,” Dorothy said, “and look, there’s my balcony. I can tell by
the plants. It’s the only one with plants. See there’s nothing on the one next door except—what’s that thing?”
“That’s an artist’s easel,” Hilda said. “Yours, Dakota?”
Dakota Berman, those amazing cerulean blue eyes suddenly wide, turned and hurried through the doorway toward the stairs leading to the first floor—and the exits.
Ray was closest to me and I looked up at him. “What was that all about? He bolted like a scalded cat,” I said, immediately regretting the unfortunate metaphor.
“Don’t know.” Ray frowned, watching the young man’s departing back. “Looked like as soon as he saw that close-up he beat it out of here.”
I caught Pete’s eye and tilted my head toward the stairway. He nodded, acknowledging that he’d seen Dakota’s hasty exit. A look was exchanged between Pete and the recently deputized twin. Pete gave an almost imperceptible lift of his chin. Returning the motion, Ray followed Dakota down the stairs.
Pete spoke a few words to Therese and she zoomed in more tightly on the balcony with its many plants. “I thought this screen might give us a clearer picture,” he said, “and it does. There. See him? There’s a man standing there. Can you get any closer?”
“Maybe a little. There. Uh-oh. His back is to the camera. Can’t see his face at all. Sorry.”
Dorothy jumped up and practically ran to the news desk. “Whoever it is is looking in my glass doors. I mean Emily’s glass doors. Where did you get this, Pete?”
“It was mailed to the chief,” Pete said. “He spotted the figure on the balcony right away and we magnified it as much as we could without being able to ID the man. Still can’t, but chances are we have a good idea of who it is.”
“It’s Dakota, isn’t it?” Shannon spoke up. “But so what? He’s the building super. He can look at anything he wants to in that building.”
“You’re right,” Pete said. “He can. So why did someone want the chief to see this particular picture?”
“I’ve seen it before,” Dorothy said. “Or at least one almost exactly like it. It’s in a flyer about apartments for rent in Salem. It’s an ad for the apartment next door to me. It was in a bag the Shoreses gave me. I gave it to Lee.” She looked at me. “Do you still have it?”
“I gave it to Pete.”
Pete reached into his pocket again and pulled out a colorful folded brochure. “I have it. I recognized it too. You’re right. It’s almost the same, from a slightly different angle. There’s no Volkswagen in the parking lot and no one on the balconies.”
Ray and Dakota arrived at the head of the stairs. The young man, his head down, walked a few steps in front of Ray and approached Pete. The room was quiet. The blown-up photo still loomed on the screen.
“It’s me up there.” Dakota spoke softly. “I knew about the pictures because Mrs. Shores called and asked me to take my easel in and stay off the balcony because I’d ruined the shot for their advertisement. See, they don’t ever want people in the pictures without what they call a model release. Some legal thing. So I did what they said and they came over the next day and took another picture for the ad.” He raised his voice and lifted his head. “But I don’t understand why somebody would send that picture to you. I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?”
“Not that I know of,” Pete said. “So why did you take off when you saw it?”
The reply was barely audible.
“What did you say?” Pete asked.
The artist looked down at his feet again. “Because it looks like I was peeking in Emily’s window.”
All heads turned toward the two men. Pete spoke quietly, not in cop voice. “Were you?”
Dakota Berman nodded. “Maybe.”
Therese silently handed the photo back to Pete, who moved from his position at the news desk and stood in front of the man. “Would you come down to the station with me and talk about this there?”
“Okay. I’m not under arrest, am I?”
“No. We’re going to talk. That’s all.”
“Okay.”
The two moved toward the stairway. “Thanks everybody. I’ll be in touch about that phone, Lee.”
Nobody spoke for several seconds. Long seconds.
Hilda broke the silence. “What just happened?”
Dorothy, who’d been standing since the photo of the building had appeared on screen, returned to her own desk. “Maybe Shannon’s boyfriend is a Peeping Tom. I hope not.”
“What if he’s peeking at you too, Dorothy?” Therese asked. “It’s too creepy to even think about.”
Shannon sounded close to tears. “That’s a terrible thing to say about him. I’m telling you he’s a good guy. Stop it!”
The twins looked from one woman to another, undoubtedly confused by the cross talk.
Time for teacher Lee to intervene.
First I took the small key from my top drawer, inserted it in the lock on the bottom drawer, turned it and put the key in my jeans pocket. I raised my hand for silence, thinking as I did so that it was how we restored order back in my Brownie Scout days. It still worked. Eyes turned to me, mouths shut.
“All right everybody. Let’s be professional. To repeat Hilda’s reasonable question, ‘what just happened here?’ The facts. Not conjecture. Let’s think like professional investigative reporters would.” I pointed to Roger. “You first, Roger. From the perspective of a peace officer, what just happened here?”
He squinted his eyes together, then rolled them upward. “Well, a photograph of an unidentified individual was shown on a big screen TV. A known individual in the room suddenly left the room. Ray went after him and accompanied him back.” He paused, looking at his brother, then resumed. “The individual admitted that he was the person in the photo. That’s what happened.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Dorothy, what did you observe?”
Dorothy didn’t hesitate. “We saw a picture of the building where I live. Dakota Berman lives there too. Therese zoomed in on the balcony of the building and it showed a man on the part of the balcony outside the apartment where I live. Where my sister Emily lived before she was . . . before she died. Dakota told Pete it was him in the picture and that maybe he was looking in the French door to my apartment. That’s all that happened.”
“Ray?”
“What Roger said.”
“Okay. Therese?”
“I was busy working the console so I didn’t pay attention to everything else. Afraid I wouldn’t be a good witness. I didn’t even notice when Dakota left the room. Sorry.”
“That’s all right. Hilda, how about you? What did you observe?”
“What everyone else said, plus the fact that somebody wanted the chief of police to see that picture. The first picture, the one that we saw was, according to Dakota, taken the day before the one in the Shoreses’ advertisement.” She paused, probably, I thought, for dramatic effect, then continued. “So it had to be somebody from the Shoreses’ agency that sent the picture. The question is . . .” Another dramatic pause. “Why?”
“Good work, everybody. You dealt mostly with facts. Very little conjecture. This isn’t easy when you know some of the people involved. I’d like you all to record your impressions on paper. I’ll do the same. Use your own observations as well as what you’ve heard from others. Let’s see what we can come up with. Remember, we’re being investigative reporters now. We’re being objective.”
I pulled the H.S. notebook from my purse along with a pen. I thought about Pete and his ever-present notebook, put the pen back in my purse and took a nice sharp yellow number two pencil from the top desk drawer.
CHAPTER 38
It had been another strange day—even for Salem—and it was a relief to be driving home, despite the dreary damp weather. I’d filled dozens of the lined pages in my notebook with a rambling jumble of observations, not just about that day’s happenings, but about the dead man in the cemetery, the artist who might be a Peeping Tom, the girl in the bathtub, the soldier who’d buried bottles
of poison, even about the white stray cat.
Aunt Ibby had called to tell me that Pete was coming over later in the evening to return Charlie Putnam’s memoir. Having heeded her observation about the library’s picky genealogy department, he’d made copies of the chapters in question and was anxious to surrender possession of the actual book. She’d invited us both to “have a bite of supper” with her. Good thing. My cupboard, as usual, was pretty nearly bare.
I parked the ’vette in the garage and hurried through the yard. O’Ryan hadn’t exactly come outside to meet me—he’s not crazy about getting wet—but stuck his head out of the cat door in greeting. I picked up the plastic-sleeved copy of the Salem News from the back step and being sure the fuzzy yellow cat head had been withdrawn, unlocked the door and stepped into the hall.
I almost bumped into my aunt, who’d opened her kitchen door at the same time I’d come in. “Oh, Maralee. You have the paper. I was just coming out to get it. Come in. They just said on the radio that they think James Dowgin’s death is suspicious.” She raised an expressive eyebrow. “Well, duh! As if being found dead aboveground in a cemetery was normal. Let’s see what the News has to say about it.”
I handed her the paper, hung my slicker on a handy peg in the hall and followed her inside. “Pour yourself a cup of coffee,” she said, waving toward the coffeemaker and sitting in one of the captain’s chairs. She spread the front page of the paper on the tabletop, smoothing it with both hands. “It says here that the body found in the cemetery by a group of students—that’s you—has been identified as that of H. James Dowgin. Blah blah blah—they give his birthplace, parents’ names—they’re deceased—his college, his employment, blah blah blah. Oh, here we go. ‘The exact cause of death has not yet been determined. Foul play, however is indicated.’ Huh, I hope Pete will give us more details than this. They barely even mentioned the Florida swamp thing.” She folded the paper neatly and put it aside. “Pour a coffee for me too, please, and tell me about your day.”
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