I sighed and prepared to explain once again, the difference between a push and a gentle shake. I checked my watch. It was a few minutes past one o’clock. That meant Mr. Eldridge had died sometime between five and six that morning. I needed every useful fact I could pick up. I intended to do my job—even if my favorite man in the world seemed determined to make sure I’d have to work hard for each tiny snippet of information.
CHAPTER 4
The day Albert Eldridge died was the day I got the opportunity to learn firsthand why a real crime scene investigation takes so long. The real thing, at least the way Detective Pete Mondello conducts one, would never fit into a one-hour TV show even if they left out the commercials. There’s a lot more to it than taking pictures and snipping carpet samples.
I found out why Pete needed to talk to me so urgently. I was the first one (besides the killer) to see Mr. Eldridge before the positioning of his body had changed. I described to Pete as exactly as I could how he’d looked before he’d slid feetfirst under the desk, where his hands had been positioned on the open book, where his head was in relation to his chest. After that, I recalled, the EMTs had moved him to a laying-down position and Ms. Jeffry had touched him too, even removed his Santa hat. I had a better understanding of why he needed to get the firsthand information before it got mixed up in our minds—but I was still a little bit ticked off about that first report I’d done. Embarrassing.
As the minutes and hours rolled by, Pete relaxed some of the rules. Francine and I tried to stay out of his way and we managed to hang around most all day. We weren’t allowed to walk around in the actual crime scene of course, but we got an occasional peek through the door. We gathered together bits and pieces of information every fifteen or twenty minutes or so, sometimes from the techs working the scene and sometimes from our own observations. Little by little, we were able to keep the viewers of WICH-TV informed about what was going on at the Salem Historical Charities building. Best of all, other than that John Campbell interview thing, we stayed ahead of Boston TV and Salem radio the whole time. Still, no one but me had said the word “murder.” We’d heard “upper body trauma” and “head wound,” but it seemed pretty obvious that Albert Eldridge’s death was neither self-inflicted nor accidental. The man had been murdered. I was sure of it.
Our best break came though, when Conrad Gillette, ignoring yellow-taped warnings and brushing past Officer One, burst through the front door. Gillette, a tall, fit-looking guy I guessed to be around fifty, braced his arms against the front edges of Ms. Jeffry’s desk and, fairly shouting, demanded, “Lilly! What’s happened here? I just got back. Is it true?”
“Oh, Conrad,” she sniffled, “It’s true. Albert is . . . gone.”
Officer One, moving quickly, had the man’s right arm in what had to be an uncomfortable position just as Pete and Officer Two emerged from the dead man’s office, the officer with gun drawn. Lillian Jeffrey, moving with surprising agility, raced around the desk and planted her small frame between the gun-wielding officer, the man she’d called Conrad, and Pete. Waving her hands above her head she yelled “Stop! It’s all right. It’s Mr. Gillette, Mr. Eldridge’s partner! Our executive director! Don’t hurt him.” With tiny feet firmly planted, she stood her ground until, with gun holstered, Officer Two backed away and Officer One released the man from his hold.
“Ms. Jeffry,” Pete said. “It’s getting a little crowded here in your office. And I’ve just learned that many people have been passing in and out of this room today. True?”
Ms. Jeffry resumed her seat and her ladylike demeaner. “Oh my, yes. It’s just like Grand Central Station in here. That’s what Mr. Eldridge always says.” She frowned. “Always said.”
“I see.” Pete used his most polite cop voice. “Is there another room in the building we could use? One without quite so much public access? I’m afraid I’ll have to tape this room off and I’d hate to inconvenience everyone by asking you all to come down to the station for questioning.”
“Oh, dear. More of that nasty yellow tape all over our pretty Christmas decorations?” she said, scowling. “Well, I guess it can’t be helped.” Her expression brightened. “We could use Mr. Eldridge’s parlor. It’s a lovely room. Wait till you see it. Then of course, there’s Mr. Gillette’s nice big office at the back of the house. You wouldn’t mind if Detective Mondello used it, would you, Conrad?”
By then, the newest arrival to the scene, stood, totally bemused, beside the Victorian-trimmed Christmas tree looking from one of us to the other. “What? No. Of course I don’t mind. But could someone—anyone—tell me what’s going on here? I got back from a business trip late last night and I woke up to some woman on TV saying that an elderly man had died in this building.” He nodded toward the secretary. “Lilly confirmed for me just now that it was Alfred. My partner. My best friend.” He looked down, light from tiny twinkling bulbs deepening the lines on his face, and repeated his plea. “Could someone please tell me what’s going on here?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Gillette,” Pete said, “that no one thought to notify you.” He fixed brown eyes on Ms. Jeffry. “No one so far,” his gaze took in Officers One and Two, “had mentioned that the deceased had a partner.” He turned toward me. “And I regret that you heard the news about your friend from a television report. Mr. Eldridge suffered a fatal blow to the head sometime this morning. He was at his desk. That’s all we know just now. Ms. Jeffry, if you’ll direct us to Mr. Gillette’s office I’ll take your statements as quickly as possible.”
The secretary stood. “I guess we can go through the house, but the quickest way would be to duck outside and use the back entrance.” She opened a narrow closet door and took a black coat from a hanger. She shrugged into it and pulled a knit hat, much like mine, from a pocket. “Let’s go.”
Pete opened the door to Eldridge’s office a crack and spoke a few muffled words to the crime scene crew. Closing the door, he nodded to Officer Two.
“Stay here. Don’t let anyone else in. This won’t take long.”
With Ms. Jeffry in the lead, Pete taking her arm, we ventured into the cold once again. Francine followed them and I maneuvered myself into position next to Conrad Gillette. He was my best shot at getting some inside information about the victim and I was determined to use whatever reporting skills I had to get it. Officer One brought up the rear.
“Mr. Gillette,” I began, “It must have been terrible for you to hear about your friend’s death from television, and”—I faced him, making eye contact—“I’m afraid I may have been the reporter who gave you the bad news. Lee Barrett. WICH-TV.”
He looked at me closely as we rounded the corner of the house and moved down a narrow path toward a broad, open porch. “Yes. I believe it may have been you. Here.” He grasped my arm. “This is slippery. Let me help you.” I was wearing boots and didn’t feel that I was in danger of slipping, but accepted the guiding hand.
“Thank you,” I said. “I guess no one has told you, but I was the one who found him.”
“Found him?”
“Yes. I had an appointment to interview him about the Holiday Walk. I guess you’ll be taking over for him?”
“Yes. I expect I will. But tell me, Ms. Barrett.” His grip tightened on my arm.
“Did he . . . do you think poor Albert suffered? Did he . . . was there . . . was it horribly bloody?”
“No. It wasn’t,” I answered truthfully. What a strange question.
I hoped he wouldn’t ask me to elaborate. An unexpected interruption was welcome. We’d almost reached the wide porch at the back of the house when Pete suddenly held up one hand. “Stop, everybody,” he called. “Don’t come any closer.”
The reporter in me kicked in. I pulled away from Conrad Gillette’s guiding hand and hurried to Pete’s side. Distinct footprints in the newly fallen snow led to and from the house. No wonder he’d stopped us. Those prints had to have been made since snow began falling. Not very long ago. Who’d been in the house since
the snow started at around ten a.m. that we hadn’t seen? Everyone looked at Lillian Jeffry.
“What?” she said, eyes wide. “Oh, the footprints? That would be the Santas.”
The expression on Pete’s face was one I’ve seen many times. It’s what I call “patient exasperation.” He gets it sometimes when my friend River North offers to read the Tarot cards for him when he’s puzzled by a case. “The Santas?” he asked. “What Santas? Why is Santa Claus coming to your back door?”
“More than one Santa,” she explained. Now Ms. Jeffry sounded exasperated. “There are, oh, I don’t know, eight, ten, maybe twelve of them. Not all at once, of course.”
“And they are on the porch because . . . ?”
“The money drop. Santas collect cash in those cute kettles. There’s a floor safe just inside the porch door. After each shift they come here and drop off their day’s collection.”
“I’ll need photos of the footprints.” Pete said. “Officer, would you run back and get one of the techs to come out here with a camera?” Officer One nodded and hurried back around the corner of the house.
I scooted back to where Conrad Gillette waited. No point in wasting time looking at fast-disappearing footprints in the snow. If Gillette was Alfred Eldridge’s partner, he’d make a good interview. I motioned for Francine to join me and together we boxed him in, one of us on each side. It was nearly two o’clock. “If Francine grabs her camera, can we shoot a brief interview with you for WICH-TV? Just a few words about whether the Salem holiday events will proceed as usual, even without the guidance of Albert Eldridge? That sort of thing?”
He smoothed graying-at-the-temples hair and stood a little straighter. “Of course. The community should know that all of the planned events will go on, just as dear Albert would have wanted.”
I gave Francine a little push. She dashed between the buildings to where the station van was parked and returned with handheld camera and mic just before Officer One and Pete’s camera tech returned. I knew there were no next of kin to be notified and if Eldridge’s partner announced the death from outside the building I’d have the story Mr. Doan expected. Outdoor shots and interviews are fair game. Witness the John Campbell thing.
While Pete directed his guy to photograph the footprints, which were fast filling up with snow, I stood beside Mr. Gillette, careful not to get anyone else in the shot, and asked some of the questions I’d wanted to ask since I’d found the body.
CHAPTER 5
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Lee Barrett. We’re outside the building that houses the Historical Charities of Salem and is the home of the organization’s founder, Albert Eldridge. I have with me Mr. Conrad Gillette, Mr. Eldridge’s friend and business associate. When our station reported that a man had been found unresponsive in this building Mr. Gillette, were you shocked to learn the identity of that person?”
“Oh, Ms, Barrett, shocked doesn’t begin to describe my feeling on learning of my dear friend Albert Eldridge’s passing.” He dabbed at one eye with a white handkerchief, whether from tears or the cold wind I couldn’t tell. “I’ve just returned from a business trip, and you can imagine my surprise—my shock, when I heard your broadcast about his death. Horrible. Have the police indicated how . . . who . . . anything?”
“No sir. They haven’t released anything further. They’ve indicated that he didn’t die of natural causes. Perhaps you can tell us a little about Mr. Eldridge. You knew him well, I understand. Was he working on anything special, anything out of the ordinary for this year’s holiday celebration?”
Anything that could get him killed?
“The usual events. They’re pretty well established, you know. People expect things to happen in a certain order at Christmas. The lights on the common, the holiday stroll among the decorated houses, the Christmas music, the carolers, the bells. Yes, Albert was a true traditionalist. For him, every little detail had to be just so.” He sighed. “I intend to carry on for him. To be sure that ‘Ring in the Holidays in Salem’ is every bit the success he envisioned before his most untimely passing. Everyone in this city loved and admired him.”
Clearly not everyone.
“Thank you, Mr. Gillette. We appreciate your talking with us at such a difficult time.” From the corner of my eye I saw the WBZ-TV reporter racing toward us. He must have spotted Officer One and the tech when they left the building. Hurriedly, I faced Francine’s camera as she moved in for a close-up. “Stay tuned to WICH-TV for updates on this breaking story,” I said. “This is Lee Barrett reporting from the scene.”
Pete motioned for us to approach the porch. The WBZ guy fell in behind me as though he belonged there. “Looks as though we’ll have to go over the whole house for evidence,” Pete said. “We didn’t realize that so many people had access to the place. I can’t ask you all to stand around in the cold.” He looked straight at Francine’s camera and my mic, but didn’t comment on either. “Lee, I have the statements you and Francine signed earlier, so you can go along back to work. We’ll contact you later if we need more information.” I opened my mouth to ask a question, but he held up a hand. “There’ll be no official comment on this matter yet, Lee. The chief will probably announce a presser later today. I’m going to ask Ms. Jeffry and Mr. Gillette to come down to the station to answer a few questions, fill out some paperwork. I’ll drive them both there in my car. Meanwhile, for the time being, this building”—he gestured toward the house—“is off limits to the press, to charitable donors and assorted Santa Clauses.”
The WBZ-TV reporter gave me a little salute. “Hey, Barrett,” he said. “What’s up with the crack about Santa Clauses?”
“Beats me,” I said, keeping a straight face. “Guess we’ll all have to wait for the chief’s press conference.”
“Sure,” he said. “See you guys around.” He took off at a dead run, back to his waiting much-fancier-than-ours mobile unit. I looked toward the curb where Pete and Officer One shepherded a flustered Ms. Jeffry and a stoic Conrad Gillette into Pete’s Crown Vic. Pete caught my eye and gave a little wave. I returned the wave and added a wink.
“Francine,” I said. “What do you say we find us a Santa Claus to interview?” My watch said two-thirty-five.
“Shouldn’t be too hard to do. They’re all over the place.”
“My Aunt Ibby always told me the ones in the stores and the others we saw around town were all just Santa’s helpers,” I said. “That the real one stayed up at the North Pole until Christmas Eve.”
“Same story I got.” She was right about it being easy to find Santas. We found two of them standing together in front of the Salem Historical Charities building looking with puzzled expressions at the yellow POLICE LINE—DO NOT CROSS tape.
“Hello Santas,” I said. “I’m Lee Barrett. WICH-TV. Do you have time to answer a few questions?”
“Questions? Hey, lady. We’ve got questions.” The taller of the two, with what might have been a real white beard, shook a polished brass kettle, which gave a satisfying jingle, indicating the presence of many coins. “The cops have taped all the doors to the Histy.”
“The Histy?”
“Yeah.” The second Santa, one I recognized both from his friendly smile and his camo painted kettle, answered, being careful to retain his North Pole persona with a ho-ho-ho hearty voice. “The historical place. Anyway, nobody told us where we should drop our money after our shift is over. We always take it to the back door. They got a drop safe in there.”
“I see. Hold on. I’ll see what I can find out.” I pulled out my cell phone and hit Pete’s number.
“Hi, Lee. Everything okay?”
“I think so. I guess I still have a job anyway. But listen, I’m about to interview a couple of Santas out here and they don’t know what they should do with the money they’ve collected.” I glanced at the kettles, each one displaying a good assortment of bills and coins. “They say they always put it in a drop safe inside the back door.”
“Oh-oh. That c
ould be a problem, at least temporarily. Hold on a sec. I’ll see what Mr. Gillette wants to do about it.” There was a muffled murmur of conversation, then Pete spoke to me again. “Guess they can handle it okay.” This time there was a note of surprise in his voice. “Tell your Santas that Mr. Gillette is arranging right now for his bank to be the drop-off point until we’re through here.” Pete mentioned a well-known Salem bank. “He says to just write HCS, on a slip of paper and include it in your drop-bag.”
Wow. That was fast. This Gillette guy doesn’t waste any time getting things done.
“You think you’ll be through soon, Pete?”
“I think so. Probably one more day should do it.”
That statement provided one more bit of information for my next news break. I said a hurried “thanks” and “’bye” to Pete and turned back to my red-suited new friends. “Looks like the folks at the ‘Histy’ have you covered.” I told them what Pete had said about the bank being ready to accept their collections, then with Francine directing the two to stand where yellow tape was visible, but didn’t interfere with the shot, I began my first Santa Claus interview.
“I understand that the money you Santas collect benefits several very worthwhile causes here in the city.” Francine moved in close enough to show the overflowing kettles of cash. I held the mic toward the fake-beard Santa with the camo kettle. “Can you tell us a little about that?”
He flashed the great smile I remembered from the brief encounter we’d had outside the TV station earlier. “Sure. Salem can thank Mr. Albert Eldridge for organizing the Christmas programs we have here,” he boomed in Santa’s voice. “What a great guy.” He tapped his companion on the shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Harry?” Then, probably remembering that kids might be watching, added. “We’re all just Santa’s helpers, you know. The real Santa is busy up at the North Pole.”
The Santa named Harry agreed in a sincere, but less Santa-like tone. “Yessir. Mr. Eldridge, he figured out how to help just about everybody in Salem who needs help. And how to keep the places the tourists like to see . . . them old houses, you know, how to keep them from falling apart. A great guy. No doubt.”
Bells, Spells, and Murders Page 3