Bells, Spells, and Murders

by Carol J. Perry

  They sound as though they don’t know he’s dead.

  “I understand you and the other Santas volunteer your time. Is that right?” I asked, deciding to tiptoe around the sad fact of the director’s demise just in case they hadn’t figured it out.

  The camo kettle Santa answered, “We do. A bunch of us are veterans, you know? And the Histy does a lot for us.” He turned that brilliant Santa-smile on full blast and faced Francine’s camera. “Please, everybody, give as much as you can when you see a Santa with a flag on his hat.” He pointed to the furry white band around his hat. “See the flag?”

  I remembered Albert Eldridge’s hat. I hadn’t noticed a flag on it and the furry part had been red. Blood red.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Glad to share that information with our audience,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll respond generously. Our sources tell us that the Historical Charities building will probably be closed for one more day, then the city’s wonderful Christmas programs will go on as usual.”

  “That’s good news, lady,” the Santa-Harry said. “We love that place.” He frowned. “Hope they’ll be takin’ that durn yellow tape down. Folks don’t like to think about—you know—what happened in there. ’Specially the little kids.”

  I get it. They know Mr. Eldridge is dead. They just don’t think Santa Claus should mention it.

  My respect for the Santa Veterans grew. “Thanks for all you do to help Santa, gentlemen.” I pointed to the shiny brass kettle, overflowing with bills and coins. That was a mistake. An image began to form on the shining curved sides. I blinked, willing it to go away. This was a really bad time for one of my “visions” to appear. I’d seen unwanted shapes take form on all kinds of reflective surfaces, but never before when I was live on camera.

  I opened my eyes and tried to look away. “Remember to be generous when you see a Santa with an American flag on his hat,” I said, trying to erase from my mind what I’d seen on the kettle. “This is Lee Barrett for WICH-TV. Police Chief Tom Whaley will be on hand for a special press conference this afternoon. Stay tuned.”

  “You okay?” Francine asked. “That was short.”

  “I know. The Santas don’t want to talk about Mr. Eldridge just now. Don’t want to upset the kids. Right, guys?”

  “That’s right,” Fake-beard Santa answered. “That was really bad news. Kids shouldn’t have to think about that stuff. Guess I’ll go stand in front of Crow Haven for a while.” The famous witch shop is the oldest one in Salem and is also within sight of the Eldridge home. “Those witch people are always good for a few bucks. See you later, Harry.” He gave a fast jingle of his bell and hurried, jay-walking across the street. Harry gave an answering ca-ching of his own bell, and hurried away in the opposite direction.

  Francine began putting equipment back into the mobile unit, giving me a moment alone—a moment to think about what the mirrorlike brass surface of Harry’s kettle had revealed.

  It was such a quick flash of an image, something I recognized, yet couldn’t quite place. Harry and his shiny kettle were gone but the image I’d seen seemed burned into my brain. Where had I seen it before?

  My phone buzzed. Bruce Doan’s name showed on caller ID. “Hello Mr. Doan.”

  “I liked the Santa Claus segment. Good job.”

  I answered with a relieved “thank you.” One never knows how the station manager will react at any given moment. “Have you heard yet when Chief Whaley will talk to the press? I know he hates doing those things.”

  “Right. That’s what I’m calling about. He’ll be on right in time for the five o’clock news. Scotty Palmer will cover the presser for us.”

  Darn! I should stick around for it. Now my least-favorite co-worker gets to cover the story.

  “You sure? I can do it.”

  “No need. All he’s going to do is make it official that the old guy is dead.” Mr. Doan continued. “Now, listen. We’re going to lead in with your first promo, then do the interview with the Gillette guy, then the chief. We’ll wind it up with the Santa Clauses. Nice package. I’m pretty sure your shift is over by now.”

  I checked my watch, surprised at the time—it was already three o’clock. “It was over about an hour ago.” I said. “I clocked in at seven. Did the Christmas tree segment first while it was still dark enough out for the lights to look pretty, then we interviewed the veterans fixing bikes at around nine-thirty. Arrived at Eldridge’s place just before eleven. Guess you know all that’s happened since then.”

  “Yep. Busy news day. We’ll let Chief Whaley break the news that Eldridge is officially dead. Why don’t you and Francine head for the barn. See you in the morning unless you’ve got something for the late news.”

  “No. Not tonight.” I was glad that the busy news day was over—for me at least though I would have liked to cover the chief too. Francine and I headed down Hawthorne Boulevard to Derby Street. She dropped me off next to my—beautiful but wildly impractical in the snow—Corvette convertible and I headed—ever so cautiously—for home. (Yes, it’s an expensive car for a fledgling reporter, and it blew a bit of a hole in the inheritance from my parents’ estate, but I truly love it!)

  I pulled into the garage behind our house, glad to see that Aunt Ibby’s trusty old Buick was already safely inside. She’s supposed to be semiretired from her library duties but she still manages to spend plenty of time at the big brick building on Essex Street, and wouldn’t hesitate to drive in a snowstorm for one of her many pet book-related projects.

  I scurried through the backyard where snow had begun to accumulate along the garden fence, clinging to the barren branches of forsythia and lilac bushes and making bizarre skinny sculptures from last season’s sunflowers and hollyhocks. I’d barely turned my key in the back door when our big yellow cat O’Ryan poked his head out through the cat door. He shook a big paw when he touched the snow, then emerged all the way out, executing a few purring figure-eights around my ankles. I picked him up, hugged him, and together we entered the back hall.

  Aunt Ibby’s kitchen door is just inside the hall, right beside the narrow staircase leading up two flights to my apartment. I often stop to visit with my aunt on my way upstairs, and this time I particularly wanted to tell her about the hazy, half-remembered picture I’d seen on the kettle. Few people know about my scrying ability. Aunt Ibby has known about it since I was a little girl, even though I’d somehow blocked it out for nearly thirty years. Now that I was aware of, though not pleased about, my so-called “gift,” I’d only shared the information with my best friend, River North, who says I am a “gazer” and, reluctantly, with Pete who calls it “seeing things.”

  I knocked on the kitchen door.

  “Is that you, Maralee?” she called, while pulling the door open at the same time. “Come in. Come in out of the snow. I was just watching Wanda the Weather Girl. She says we may get a few inches tonight.”

  I put the cat down and hugged my aunt. “Glad to be home,” I said. “It’s been a strange day.”

  “I gathered that,” she said. “They’ve been showing your reports about the death with each newscast—nine, twelve, two. I guess Tom Whaley is scheduled to announce poor Albert’s demise at five.”

  “Could you tell from my reports that it was Mr. Eldridge who’d died? I tried not to be too specific.”

  “I think you handled it quite delicately. I guessed who it was right off because I knew you had an appointment with him. Then of course Mr. Gillette tipped it off.” She scowled. “Does all the yellow tape mean a crime is involved?”

  “We tried not to show it. The tape I mean, not the crime.”

  “The Boston stations aren’t as careful as you and Francine are.” She pressed the subject. “Was whatever happened to Albert—was it suspicious?”

  “I’ll tell you what I know. It’s not a pretty story.”

  She held up her right hand. “Wait. Have you eaten anything today?”

  “Not since breakfast,” I said, suddenly realizing
that I was very hungry. “Pete made waffles.”

  “Sit.” She ordered, pointing to a tall stool beside the kitchen counter. “How does a nice bowl of homemade beef stew and a fresh croissant sound? And maybe a glass of milk?”

  “Like heaven.” I sat. She ladled. I ate, and between bites, told her exactly what I’d seen in Albert Eldridge’s beautiful office. Fortunately, my aunt is not squeamish. I didn’t leave anything out.

  “Oh, my dear Maralee. How terrible for you. And you actually touched him. How awful.” She reached for my hand. “Did Lillian see this?” she asked. “She was so fond of Albert. The poor soul must be beside herself.”

  “She’s holding up well. She tried to find a pulse, but it was too late. She and a Mr. Gillette are at the police station now, making statements.”

  “That would be Conrad Gillette. I know him. He’s been Albert’s ‘right hand man’ for years. Knowledgeable about all of Albert’s pet projects.” She ticked off items on her fingers. “New England history, architecture, city building codes, music, art, museum collections. . . .”

  “I think the charities are in good hands then,” I said. “Gillette seems very capable. It only took him minutes to arrange for a bank to accept all the cash the Santa Veterans collect.” I dipped the last tender bit of my croissant into the rich thick end of my beef stew. “That was delicious. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Can I get you anything else?”

  “Just your opinion. I—um—I saw something.”

  “Oh, dear. You mean one of those visions?”

  I nodded. “Yes. And, as usual, it didn’t make the least bit of sense.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I saw it on a shiny brass kettle. One of the Santas had it. The image was perfectly clear. It’s something I’ve seen before. Just can’t place it.” I carried my dishes to the sink and began rinsing them. “It’s like an illustration I’ve seen in a book a long time ago.”

  “I know a bit about books,” my librarian aunt said, smiling. “Including the illustrations. Try me.”

  “Okay. Here goes.” I closed my eyes, willing the picture on the kettle to come back. It worked. The picture was in full color. “It’s an old man—a really mean looking old man. He’s wearing some kind of a stocking hat—oh, it’s a nightcap I think. He’s sitting up in bed. An old-fashioned kind of bed . . .”

  “Got it.” She interrupted. “An easy one. Children’s Classic Series. I used to read to you from those books all the time. That picture is from a kiddy version of A Christmas Carol. I’m pretty sure we still have it.”

  “Of course. It’s Scrooge. Why didn’t I recognize it?”

  “Maybe because you never liked that particular picture. You used to cover your eyes with your little hands when we reached that page.”

  “Funny. I don’t remember that at all. And why has it come back as a vision?” I put my bowl and glass into the dishwasher. “Not that any of them make much sense at first.”

  “If you think it might help,” Aunt Ibby said, “you could go up to the study and take a look at the book. Try section eight-two-eight.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “I’ll stop there on my way up to my apartment. Want to come, O’Ryan?” He followed me through Aunt Ibby’s living room and into the front hall, scampering ahead and darting up the wide, curving staircase leading to the upper floors of the house. Our second-floor study is a large room, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. (Not too many home libraries are organized according to the Dewey decimal system, but ours is.)

  As soon as I pulled the book from the shelf I remembered it. I remembered too hiding my eyes from that one illustration. I’d even pulled the covers over my head when Aunt Ibby read from the facing page. Was it the ghost hovering near the old man that had frightened me? I didn’t remember. I flipped through the pages.

  “Scrooge was the meanest man in the world. He hated everybody and everything—especially Christmas. Then one cold Christmas Eve, three spirits came toward him and his life forever changed . . .”

  A mean old man, some ghosts, Christmas—still none of it computed. The picture no longer brought fright—just curiosity. I closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. “Ready to go back downstairs, O’Ryan? Or shall we go on up to my place?”

  The cat didn’t seem to care for either choice. He’d curled up on the maroon cushion on the wide window seat, oblivious to the snow swirling outside, pretending to be asleep. I can always tell when he’s faking. His whiskers twitch. I went along with the gag, and tiptoed from the room, leaving the door ajar so that he could decide later which way to go.

  I climbed the stairs to the third floor, and home. There’s something so comforting about being in my own space, surrounded by familiar things. Even though I was raised in this house, it wasn’t until I’d returned to Salem from Florida after my NASCAR driver husband Johnny Barrett’s death that Aunt Ibby had surprised me with an apartment of my own.

  The door from the front hall opens into my kitchen. The other entrance from the back hall, the one Pete most always uses, leads to my living room. (Of course, both entrances have cat doors so that O’Ryan can visit as he pleases.)

  I wasn’t sure whether Pete would come over after work or just go to his condo. He had plenty to deal with at the Eldridge house, but just in case, I loaded up the Mr. Coffee, and checked the refrigerator for possible evening sustenance. Sending out for pizza during a snowstorm didn’t seem like the best option but there was a cheese-and-pepperoni in the freezer, along with one of Aunt Ibby’s famous chicken pot pies, a Sara Lee chocolate cake, and a half gallon of vanilla ice cream. With the food question settled—however unimaginatively—even off the clock I still had some work to do for WICH-TV.

  Well before landing my current job I’d always been a note taker, with a particular fondness for index cards. Pulling a pen and a stack of the cards from my purse, I sat down at my 1970s Lucite kitchen table and glanced at the vintage Kit-Kat clock on the wall, googly eyes and wagging tail marking the seconds. Chief Whaley’s presser would be on the air in about half an hour. Whatever he said would certainly spark community interest in the case and I needed to be ready for what might well turn out to be a series of investigative reports. Meanwhile, I tried to organize my own thoughts about the day’s happenings.

  By eleven o’clock, Mr. Eldridge had been dead for about eight hours.

  Ms. Jeffry touched the body. No one else entered the room until the EMTs arrived.

  Marafa wiped blood from the back of Mr. Eldridges’s head and the Santa hat was completely red (from blood?).

  People came and went from front door often. John Campbell? Santas had access to back door for money drop. Conrad Gillette, Eldridge’s “right hand man” arranged with a bank for money drop.

  Body removed by ME just before noon. Pete and CSI team arrived.

  I was interrupted by a gentle tapping at my door. Aunt Ibby stood in the hall. “It’s almost time for the five o’clock news,” she said. “Is O’Ryan here with you? He usually watches with me. Happy hour, you know? I have a little taste of wine and he has a nice saucer of milk.”

  “He’s not here,” I said. “I left him in the study, snoozing on the window seat. Let’s go down and check on him, shall we?” I was concerned. O’Ryan, like the late Mr. Eldridge, did things in a “timely manner,” and always seemed to know the time. It wasn’t like him to miss happy hour.

  We hurried down the one flight to the second floor. The door to the study was still ajar. When we entered the room, O’Ryan looked up at us with an air of absolute innocence, as though he’d had nothing to do with the paperback mystery book on the floor. Then he yawned, lay down with his head on the open book, and once again pretended to be asleep.

  The book he’d chosen to use as a pillow was Agatha Christie’s classic, Hickory Dickory Dock.

  “Why, you naughty boy,” Aunt Ibby scolded. “I’m surprised at you.” O’Ryan looked appropriately apologetic for all of two seconds, then scooted out
the open door. I stooped to pick up the book the cat had swiped from its shelf. He has a habit of occasionally knocking things onto the floor. The items he chooses usually have a special significance. (Our cat once belonged to a practicing witch who called herself Ariel Constellation. Some say he was her “familiar.” In Salem a witch’s familiar is always respected—and sometimes feared.

  Placing the books on the desk, I turned to my aunt. “I guess he’s trying to tell us something, but what?”

  She picked the book up and turned it over, studying the back cover blurb. “If there’s a message here I don’t get it. Let’s go downstairs and watch the news. I want to see what Chief Whaley has to say.”

  “Me too,” I said. “You go ahead. I’ll be right down. Mind if I take the book upstairs?”

  “Help yourself ” She headed downstairs while I went up. Tossing Hickory Dickory Dock onto my kitchen table, I picked up index cards and pen, then hurried back to join aunt and cat in her kitchen for happy hour and the five o’clock news.

  CHAPTER 7

  Chief Tom Whaley walked briskly to his designated spot behind a lectern in front of the Salem Police station, resplendent in full dress uniform, medals and all. He looked extremely uncomfortable, as he always does in these situations. After a couple of throat clearings, paper rustlings, and microphone adjustments, the press conference began.

  “As many of you may know, today Albert Eldridge, one of Salem’s most admired citizens, was found dead in his office at the Washington Square headquarters of Historical Charities of Salem.” The chief read from the prepared statement. “Foul play is indicated in Mr. Eldridge’s death. The medical examiner’s report cites a blow to the back of the head as the cause of death. The weapon has not been identified. The Salem Police Department requests that citizens who may have observed any unusual activity today in the vicinity of Washington Square during the early morning hours between midnight and six a.m. call the number at the bottom of your TV screen.”