Bells, Spells, and Murders

by Carol J. Perry

  Ms. Jeffry drew herself up to her full height of about five feet, and answered in a firm voice. “He’s Albert Eldridge. Executive Director of Historical Charities of Salem. He is a very important man.”

  “Why are they calling the police?” Francine stage-whispered. “Should I get my camera?”

  “No camera,” Marafa returned the phone to his utility belt and faced me. “You’re Lee Barrett, aren’t you? I recognize you from TV. Are you here on some kind of TV business?”

  I nodded. “We’re here on assignment. An interview.” I shrugged and glanced toward the closed office door.

  “Okay. I see. Will you ladies give T. J. your full names and addresses, please? The police are on their way.”

  Ms. Jeffry had resumed her seat behind the desk. She’d placed a box of tissues in front of her. “I’m sorry to say it, but I think Mr. Eldridge may be dead. I touched him, you know. His skin felt cold. Quite cold.”

  My investigative reporter hat was firmly in place. There was no doubt in my mind that Albert Eldridge was dead. The EMT had told his partner to note “minimum rigor.” That meant that rigor mortis had begun and the man had been dead for some hours before I’d touched his shoulder. Besides that, I was quite sure I’d seen a red streak on one of Marafa’s gloves after he’d touched the back of Mr. Eldridge’s head.

  Maybe the very important man didn’t die of natural causes.

  One at a time, we gave T. J. the requested information. By the time she’d snapped her notebook shut, and Francine and I had each unzipped our warm jackets and chosen one of those comfortable club chairs, the sound of sirens once again split the wintry air. Two uniformed police officers joined us. The room, which at first glance had seemed quite large, had begun to feel crowded. Marafa, once again gloved, opened the office door and the police, one at a time, looked inside but didn’t enter.

  There was a low-toned conference between the officers and the EMTs. Straining to listen, I picked up enough to figure out that the medical examiner had been called. More than once I heard the words “crime scene.”

  “As soon as the ME gives the okay,” Officer One told the EMTs, “you guys will be able to take your gear and leave. You’d better bring the stretcher out here for now.”

  T. J. remained with us while Marafa reentered the office. “Be careful,” the second officer warned. “Try not to walk in any, um—fluids. Did you move anything when you were in there before? Did you put your bag down on the floor?”

  “Moved the chair,” Marafa answered. “Left the patient on the floor. Bag was on the stretcher.” The wheels made the tiniest squeaking sound as he pushed the gurney out of the room.

  The front door suddenly burst open, admitting a blast of cold air. A young man stood on the top step, a Santa hat on his head, his arms laden with gaily wrapped packages, looking just as surprised as I’m sure we all did.

  “Hey! What’s going on? Somebody sick? What’s up with the ambulance and the TV truck?” He peered around the room. “You okay, Lilly? I got presents here from the church lady. S’posed to pick up diapers for the girls down at the shelter.” He pushed his way past T. J. and piled the packages onto the table. “Ooops. Cops.” He frowned. “What’s going on?” he asked again.

  One of the officers moved forward. “Who are you? And what’s all this stuff?” He pointed to the table.

  “Donations. For Christmas. I’m John Campbell. Santa’s helper.”

  “Don’t get smart, kid.” The second officer spoke up.

  Ms. Jeffry leapt from her chair and hurried to the young man’s side. “He’s not being smart, officer. John is one of our Veterans Helping Santa crew. There are about a hundred of them around the city. They all wear special Santa hats with a little American flag sewn on. See?” She pointed to the man’s hat.

  Did Mr. Eldridge’s hat have a flag on it? I wasn’t sure.

  “Okay. Got it. What’s all this about diapers then?”

  John Campbell answered. “They need ’em down at the women’s shelter. Some guys get mean around the holidays. The girls grab the kids and beat it. Don’t blame ’em.” He picked up the stack of Pampers and Huggies. “I’ll just take these and be on my way.”

  Officer One held up his hand. “Just a minute. You’re not supposed to remove anything.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake officer, it’s diapers.” Ms. Jeffry piled one more package of Luvs onto John’s outstretched arms. “The babies need them.”

  Officer One pointed to the table. “Leave them here, son. You can’t remove anything from a crime scene. CSI is on the way.”

  John Campbell put the diapers on the table and held up both hands. “Okay, man. There they are.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Ms. Jeffry pulled a small metal box from her top drawer, opened it, and removed several bills. “Here’s fifty dollars, John. Buy some diapers to tide them over. We’ll straighten this out later.”

  “Thanks, Lilly,” he said. He touched the white fur edge of his Santa hat and faced the officers. “Okay if I leave?”

  “Okay,” Officer One told him. “Don’t touch anything on the way out.”

  “I won’t. Anyone going to tell me what’s going on here?”

  “No,” said Officer Two, as John Campbell hurried away. Through the open door I recognized the medical examiner’s unmarked black van.

  Ms. Jeffry’s voice rose just then. “Wait a minute. Did you say ‘crime scene’? What crime scene?”

  “CSI?” Francine chimed in. “Crime scene investigation? Wow! Just like on TV. Can I get my camera now?”

  I was thinking of Francine’s camera too, and about how my first day as a field reporter was turning out to be pretty darned interesting. “Mind if I call my office?” I said, already punching in the number. “Rhonda? Tell Mr. Doan to get ready for a breaking news spot.”

  CHAPTER 3

  With a sideways shake of her head, Francine motioned toward the closed front door. I gave an answering nod of mine and together we moved to the exit. I’d just reached for the brass knob when a figure loomed in the glass pane and the door swung open. The medical examiner, traditional black bag in hand, stepped inside the room.

  “Well, well, Ms. Barrett,” he said, “why am I not surprised to see you here?”

  “Hello, Doc.” I wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t surprised. During the past couple of years he and I have met before under similar unfortunate circumstances. Several times, actually. He didn’t elaborate and neither did I, so as he disappeared into the dead man’s office, and with Francine impatiently poking me in the ribs, I reached again for the doorknob.

  This time Officer One noticed the move. “Just a minute, ladies . . .”

  He was interrupted by another arrival. The Crime Scene Investigation team had landed and the first person through the door was Detective Pete Mondello. He didn’t look surprised to see me either. He frowned. “Hello Lee. Francine. I saw the TV van outside. Thought it might be you. What’s going on?”

  “I had an appointment to interview the . . .” I motioned toward the closed office. “To interview Mr. Eldridge.”

  “Okay. Stick around.” When Pete’s working, he’s one hundred percent all business. No one would guess that he’d just left my bed a few hours ago. “I might have questions,” he said.

  I waved a hand toward the front door. “Can Francine and I . . . ?”

  “Not yet. Your audience will have to wait a while.”

  I shrugged. Francine pouted. We returned to the club chairs. The ME poked his head out of the office and dismissed the EMTs while Pete introduced himself and his three crew members to a tearful Ms. Jeffry. My phone buzzed.

  “Hello Mr. Doan.” I grimaced, knowing that the station manager, having been told to brace for breaking news, wouldn’t be pleased to hear that we didn’t have permission to break it yet.

  “What’s going on over there, Ms. Barrett?” His voice was even more gruff than usual. “Why aren’t I seeing video? I know the CSI is there. The ME too. We
stay tuned to the police band here, you know. So does every other TV and radio station. WHERE THE HELL IS MY STORY? Hmmm?”

  “I’m on it, Mr. Doan,” I said. “I’m inside the building. The other stations aren’t. Just need to tie up—um—a few loose ends with the police.”

  “Okay. Get on with it. Right now.” Bam. The connection ended. I knew he’d slammed his phone onto the desk. By then Pete, his three assistants, and Officer One had gone into the office, leaving Ms. Jeffry, Francine, and me with the remaining officer.

  Officer Two gave me a sympathetic look. “Your boss?”

  “Yep,” I said. “He’s not happy. I’m supposed to be out front telling our viewers what’s going on in here.”

  “Guess you can’t do that, huh? I mean, you can’t name names. Notifying next of kin and all that.”

  “There’s no next of kin.” Ms. Jeffry spoke up. “No one at all. He was a widower. Had no children. No siblings. His whole life was his charities.”

  “No kidding. Poor old guy.” The officer looked at me. “Say, Ms. Barrett. Want me to speak to the detective? See if you can do your story?”

  “Would you? That’d be great.”

  “I’m a fan.” He colored slightly. “I even called you once, back when you used to do the late movie show. When you used to be a psychic.”

  It was my turn to blush. “I wasn’t really a psychic, you know. Just played one on TV.”

  “Could have fooled me. You found my lost dog for me.”

  “I did?”

  “Well, actually you gave me the number of the Animal Rescue League and they already had him there.” He headed for the closed office door. “Anyway, I owe you one. Let’s see if I can convince Detective Mondello to let you and your friend go outdoors for a few minutes.” He dropped his voice. “Mondello’s a good guy.”

  I already knew that. But did I have to tell the kind officer that Detective Mondello and I were dating? I hadn’t been entirely truthful about not having any psychic powers either. Back when I was playing the part of Crystal Moon, psychic, I found out that I’m a scryer. My witch friend River North calls me a “gazer.” For some unknown reason, I can see things in reflective surfaces—mostly things I don’t want to see.

  I decided to keep quiet about both circumstances and watched Officer Two knock, then enter the closed room. Within the minute, he reappeared. I knew by his grin he’d been successful. “Okay Ms. Barrett. Detective Mondello says go ahead and get your scoop. but keep it brief and come right back inside. No names. He says you know all the rules. Do you?”

  “Sure do. C’mon Francine.” The two of us zipped up our jackets, pulled open the door, and ran for the van. “If I know Pete we’ll have about two minutes to do this. What mic are we using?”

  “Handheld in this wind,” she said, yanking the van door open. “Here you go.”

  Without the luxury of taking our time selecting the most advantageous spot for filming, I grabbed the mic and picked a spot on a corner facing the house. A car marked with the logo of a local radio station had pulled up behind the CSI truck but I’d managed to find a location where a large oak tree blocked the view of both vehicles. A bell-ringing Santa near the front door of the place was probably going to be in the shot but that couldn’t be avoided. I signaled Francine to start shooting.

  “This is Lee Barrett reporting for WICH-TV,” I began. “I’m speaking to you from Salem’s Washington Square. A 911 call from one of the city’s most historic buildings brought emergency vehicles here to the scene of an apparent fatality. An unresponsive man was found alone in his office at eleven o’clock this morning. Police and the medical examiner are presently inside the building.” I was just warming up, ready to get to the part about notifying next of kin, even though maybe there weren’t any, to intimate without actually naming names, that the apparent fatality involved a person well-known in Salem’s historical community. That’s when Francine gave the index-finger-across-the-throat signal that meant “Cut.” I gave a rapid sign-off. “Stay tuned to WICH-TV for more on this breaking news story,” I said, then handed Francine the mic. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  Wordlessly, she pointed to where Officer Two stood just out of camera range, frantically waving in our direction. Frowning, I approached him. “What’s the matter? I was just getting started.”

  “Mondello says for you two to come back inside right away.”

  “What for?” I said. “I don’t think I broke any rules, did I?”

  “Dunno. He just said for you to come back inside. That’s all I know.” He shrugged. “Didn’t sound too happy about it.”

  “You did tell me that he said I could get my story as long as I kept it brief and followed the rules, didn’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  Puzzled and a little bit peeved, I hoped Pete had some good reason for stepping on my first really important field report.

  “I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk to me,” Francine said. “I’ll just stash the equipment and lock up the van. I’ll follow you in a couple of minutes.”

  I hurried up the steps and entered the beautiful, and by-now-familiar front door just in time to see the medical examiner and his associates pushing the gurney with its dark blue covered sad burden toward the exit. “Good-bye, Ms. Barrett,” the doctor said. “Perhaps we’ll meet sometime under more pleasant circumstances.”

  “Hope so, Doc,” I said, noting the time. It was ten minutes before noon. Ms. Jeffry had started to cry again and I hesitated, not wanting to leave the poor woman alone. “Can I get you a glass of water, Ms. Jeffry, or anything?”

  “I told the detective you’re here.” Officer Two held the front door open for the departing group. “And I’ll get Ms. Jeffry a glass of water.”

  Officer One appeared then, and beckoned to me to cross the threshold which the county morgue’s gurney had just rolled over. “Just step inside here, Ms. Barrett,” he said, then held up his hand as I tiptoed carefully over the sill. “No need to come any farther into the room.” He reached around me and pulled the door closed. “Here she is, detective.”

  Everybody says that real crime scene investigation looks nothing like the TV version, but to me, this one did. One of the gloved investigators, holding a camera, stood behind the desk where I’d first seen Mr. Eldridge and appeared to be photographing the book that still lay open. Another man dusted for fingerprints on the mantelpiece and along the hearth, while the third, using tiny scissors, clipped threads from the carpet where the dead man had fallen and placed them carefully into a plastic envelope. Pete, standing in front of a tall bookcase, looked up from his notebook when I entered. He wore the expression I call his “cop face.”

  “Hello Lee,” he said—using his cop voice. “Do I understand correctly that you were the first to discover the deceased?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I thought he was asleep.”

  “And you touched him?”

  “Yes.”

  “He slipped from his chair.”

  “Correct.”

  I’ve already made a statement about all this. Did he have to interrupt my stand-up to go over it right this minute?

  “Did you touch anything else in the room?”

  “No. I don’t believe so. I left right away and asked Ms. Jeffrey to call 911.”

  “Did it occur to you to tell me about this when I asked why you were here?”

  “No.” I realized that I’d developed a little edge to my voice too. “I told you. I was here to interview Mr. Eldridge. I’d already made a report to the officers. I was here to do my job.”

  Did I detect a tiny smile trying to break through on the cop-face? “And I’m here to do mine,” he said. “If you’ll take a seat in the outer office, I’ll be out shortly to get statements from you and Ms. Jeffry and Francine.”

  “Pete?”

  “Yes?”

  “When can I tell my audience you’re investigating a murder?”

  Cop-face with negative head shake provided the not-unexpect
ed reply. After all, no one had actually said the word “murder” aloud. My phone buzzed.

  “Yes, Mr. Doan?”

  “You call that a news break? That piddling little blurb of crap? What’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Doan. The police . . .”

  “Not interested in excuses. How come you’re babbling about the historic building while WBZ has a guy in a Santa Claus hat spilling his guts about cops and crime scenes. Do you even know who’s dead?”

  “I was the one who found the body.”

  Brief stunned silence. “No shit! You did? Who is it? The old man?”

  “That’s right. Albert Eldridge.”

  “I guess it wasn’t a heart attack if CSI is there. What else have you got?”

  “We’ll have to wait for the name release. That shouldn’t take long. No wife. No kids.” The frowning Pete pointed toward the outer office. “Cops want to question me now, Mr. Doan. I’ll call you back ASAP.”

  I turned to Pete. “WBZ-TV is already interviewing John Campbell. Come on, Pete. Give me something for my station.”

  “Who the hell is John Campbell?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Officer One said. “The Santa Claus guy with the diapers. He came in for just a minute to leave some presents. Wanted to pick up some diapers.”

  “Any other surprises for me?” Pete asked. “Anybody else been wandering in and out of my crime scene in the past eight hours?”

  “I saw the letter carrier come in,” I said, making a mental note of Pete’s eight-hour time frame. “If you’re counting the outer office, you should ask Ms. Jeffry. She says there are people going in and out all the time.”

  “Thank you. I was planning to do just that. But first, tell me in your own words, exactly how you happened to push Mr. Eldridge out of his chair.”