Bells, Spells, and Murders

by Carol J. Perry

  “Come on, boy,” I said. “A nice warm cat is always welcome on a cold, snowy night like this.” I held the kitchen door open for him. Sometimes he seems to prefer a human-held door to the conveniently located cat entrance. Alexa had changed tracks from Christmas Carols to country, and Carrie Underwood’s “Church Bells” greeted me. I peeked into the bedroom where Pete was already sound asleep. O’Ryan, claws clicking on tile, hurried across the kitchen, hopped up onto the bed, turned around three times (some sort of witch’s cat ritual?) cuddled up next to Pete, blinking golden eyes a couple of times, then closing them.

  The stack of index cards lay on top of the bureau along with a pen and the Agatha Christie book. I picked them up and carried them back to the table. It was still reasonably early—not quite eleven—and I wanted to make a few more notes about the case. Yes, I said “case.” Just call me Nancy. I reread the few notes I’d made earlier, thought for a moment, then began scribbling. I do mean scribbling. I thought about Lillian Jeffry’s beautiful handwriting and attempted to slow down.

  Trauma to brain tissue. Crushed skull. Died instantly.

  Little blood spatter pattern. Santa hat soaked it up.

  I paused. Pete hadn’t shared much information so far. I decided to include notes about my vision and O’Ryan’s book selection. I didn’t know what either one signified, but I’ve become familiar enough with both visions and cat to know that there’s a good chance that they’re both important. I chose two more blank cards.

  Vision in Santa’s kettle. An illustration from a childhood book (Children’s Classic Series) picture of an old mean-looking man in bed. From child’s version of A Christmas Carol. Scrooge.

  O’Ryan pulled a paperback mystery book from the study. Agatha Christie’s Hickory Dickory Dock. Another possible illustration from the old nursery rhyme? Mouse running up clock? Clock like the one in Lillian Jeffry’s office?

  I picked up the Agatha Christie book and flipped through the first few pages.

  Hercule Poirot’s secretary, a Miss Lemon, was described as hideous and efficient. Never ill, never tired, and never inaccurate. Ms. Jeffry was most certainly not hideous, quite the contrary, but it struck me that all the rest of the description fit perfectly. I was quite certain that Ms. Jeffry was to Albert Eldridge what Miss Lemon was to Hercule Poiroit. In the Christie story, at least within the few pages I’d read, Miss Lemon was uncharacteristically screwing things up. I closed the book. Ms. Jeffry, on the other hand, even under the most trying circumstances—and things don’t get much more trying than this morning’s happenings—had, for the most part, maintained her efficient demeanor. I already had the basic facts on Albert Eldridge. Rhonda had printed out his official biography for me when I got the Holiday Walk assignment. If I was going to get the kind of nitty-gritty inside information Mr. Doan relished, Ms. Jeffry was going to be a perfect source. It was unlikely that I was the only reporter to figure this out. I just needed to be the first one to get her story. I was pretty sure I knew how to get it. Lillian Jeffry and my aunt were friends and I knew that they must have each other’s phone numbers.

  First thing tomorrow morning I’ll call good old Lilly and be on my way to getting my story.

  I picked up a fresh index card. Call Ms. Jeffry, I wrote, and dig out every little thing she knows about Mr. Eldridge. I paused. I’d figured Mr. Gillette might be a good source of information, but so far, he’d turned out to be a bit of a disappointment. Especially when he wanted the gory details of his friend’s sad demise.

  “Was it very bloody?” he’d asked.

  I made out a card for that too.

  CHAPTER 9

  I woke at seven-fifteen. Pete was already up, dressed. I could smell coffee brewing. I stretched, then sat on the edge of the bed. “Good morning, Sleepy Head,” Pete said. “I’ll grab breakfast on the way to work.” He picked up his regular “to-go” insulated coffee cup. “O’Ryan’s gone downstairs. I’ll call you later. Love you.” He leaned in for a quick kiss and headed for the back door.

  “Love you.” I yawned, gave a little wave and, resisting the temptation to fall back into the warm, comfy bed, put both feet on the floor. I didn’t have to be at the station until nine-thirty, when I’d pick up my assignments for the day. I figured Lillian Jeffry for an early riser and hoped she’d have time to talk with me before that. I had time to dress, have some coffee and a toaster Pop Tart before I phoned Aunt Ibby. She’s an early riser too, and I was right about her having the phone number.

  “Stop on your way out, Maralee,” she said. “It’s in my office in my Christmas Belles file. I’ll get it for you right now.”

  O’Ryan was already waiting for me in the downstairs back hall when I tapped on her kitchen door, and together we joined my aunt. She’d scribbled the number on a pink Post-it note and handed it to me. I told her about the Agatha Christie character and admitted that I planned to learn all I could about her friend’s boss. “I understand, Maralee,” she said. “You’re doing your job. Please remember to be courteous and professional in your questioning. Lilly is a dear person, and whether she shows it or not, she’s suffered a personal loss in Alfred’s death. Why, they can’t even make plans for his funeral yet, until the police release the body.” She made a “tsk-tsk” sound. “Lilly has been his secretary for a long time. And,” she added, “you might want to read the rest of that Christie book. An interesting plot.”

  “Maybe I will,” I said, tucking the pink paper square into my jacket pocket. “Thanks for this. I’m going to call her right away.” I wished my aunt a nice day, left her warm kitchen, and opened the back door. Wanda had been right about the weather. Clear and cold with only a frosty trace of yesterday’s snow on the ground, sparkling in the winter sunshine on bare tree branches, fence posts, and the strings of Christmas lights on decorative hedges bordering our garden.

  Our garage faces Oliver Street where the pavement was free of snow. I unlocked the side garage door, hit the Genie, watched the double door rise open, and climbed into the Vette. Then, snug in private, cushy leather comfort, I put the Eldridge bio and my notebook on the seat beside me and dialed Lillian Jeffry’s number. If by lucky chance she’d agree to meet with her right away, I’d be ready to roll.

  The response was immediate. A chirpy voice answered “Lillian Jeffry.” (I’ve always admired the businesslike impression answering the phone with one’s name gives. I’ve never done it yet myself, but maybe I’ll try it someday.)

  “Yes. Good morning, Ms. Jeffry,” I said. “This is Lee Barrett. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Oh, Lee. Or do you prefer Maralee? Please do call me Lilly. We’ve shared such a strange and sad experience together, I feel quite close to you, my dear.”

  That’s a good sign.

  “Lee is fine, Ms.—I mean, Lilly. I know there’ll be quite a bit of coverage about—what happened yesterday, and I’d like to do something special—something about Mr. Eldridge that will help people understand just what an extraordinary man he was.” I paused, remembering Aunt Ibby’s admonition to bear in mind her personal loss. “It seems to me that you knew him better than most people did. Can you . . . will you . . . help me to do that?”

  There was a pause on her end too. Her voice was softer. Not so chirpy now. “I would like to help you, Lee. I’m sure you understand though, that my relationship with Mr. Eldridge over so many years was strictly professional.”

  The answer surprised me. It hadn’t occurred to me for even a minute that the relationship was anything but professional. I consulted my notes. “I know that Mr. Eldridge showed great generosity for the entire community, especially for those in need. I thought perhaps you could tell me something about his unique love for Salem—both for her past and her present.”

  “And her future,” she said, voice sounding wistful. “He had such wonderful plans for creating an amazing historic district showing how regular people lived in long-ago Salem. It involved moving old houses from the neighborhoods, where they’re in danger
of being torn down, to a new historic district. He was going to call it Heritage Village. I doubt that it will happen now.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Gillette will be able to move it forward. He seems quite dedicated.”

  Long sigh. “Perhaps. But Albert had a serving heart. That means everything.”

  What a great quote! I wrote her words on a fresh card. “A serving heart,” I repeated. “I wish I had had a chance to meet him, to talk with him. I know this might be an imposition, but I’d like to get a head start on preparing this piece. Could you possibly meet with me for an hour or so this morning?”

  “I have a nine o’clock appointment with Conrad at the Community Center. I could meet you there at say, eight-thirty? That would give us a half hour together. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do today.”

  I checked my watch. It was already eight-fifteen. “That’s perfect,” I told her. “Thank you so much. I’m on my way.” The Community Center was on Orange Street, close to several of Salem’s historic homes. If half an hour was all she could spare, I’d make it work. I hoped to have this story ready for one of my occasional “investigative reports” in the late news slot. If my luck held, maybe Conrad Gillette would show up early and I could get some insight from him too. Albert Eldridge had been doing his good works in Salem for years. I was sure the station had plenty of archival film of the man and his various projects. I hadn’t heard about the Heritage Village idea before. If Lilly could tell me where one or more of those old houses were, Francine and I could grab some footage of that too. This was starting out to be a good day.

  I made a quick call to Aunt Ibby’s cell. “I’m still in the garage,” I told her. “Talked to Lilly already and I’m on my way to meet her at the Community Center. She’s giving me a half hour before she meets with Mr. Gillette.”

  “Just like her,” my aunt said. “The image of efficiency. She won’t skip a beat, proceeding with the Salem Historical Charities projects just as though Albert was still in charge.”

  “Like Miss Lemon?” I asked. “Never tired and never inaccurate?”

  “Not exactly,” she said. “Read the book.”

  “I will,” I promised. “Ms. Jeffry—Lilly—seemed especially concerned about a project she called ‘Heritage Village.’ Had you heard about it? She doesn’t seem confident that Mr. Gillette will be able to get it done.” I started the big engine and rolled out onto Oliver Street. “Gotta go. I’ll call you later and tell you how it went.”

  I was a few minutes early, and wondered if Lillian Jeffry did things “in a timely manner” like her late boss, and would keep me waiting until exactly eight-thirty. There was no grandfather’s clock in the reception area of the Community Center but there was a plain large, round, white-faced clock on the wall.

  “Hello there, Lee.” She beckoned to me from the doorway of a glass-walled room very much like the enclosed study rooms one might find in a library. “You’re early. Good. Half an hour is barely enough time to scratch the surface of dear Albert’s amazing life. Come right on in here. It’s nice and quiet. And private.”

  Glass walls don’t equate with privacy in my world but I hurried to join her in the fish-bowl-like cubicle. “Thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice, Lilly,” I said. I draped my jacket on the back of a chair and sat facing Lilly across a square table. I had my pen and notebook ready. The index cards are for my private observations, “my eyes only” as they say on the spy shows, so I’d left them in my car. “I can ask some prepared questions, Lilly,” I said, “but first I’d like you to tell me about some of the things you’d like people to know about Albert Eldridge. I picked up the biographical sketch Rhonda had prepared. “The things that perhaps don’t show up in here. For instance, I’m fascinated by the idea of the Heritage Village.”

  “He was so excited about it.” Her smile was so sincere, so genuine, it made me smile in return. For that moment she reminded me of the smiling Santa. “He’d had plans drawn up for it, feasibility studies done, all at his own expense, mind you. Such a generous soul.” She sighed, the smile replaced with a slight frown. “He’d planned to submit the idea to the city council right after the holidays. Now,”—she spread her hands apart in a helpless gesture—“now, I just don’t know.”

  “It would be a wonderful addition to Salem’s many historic buildings,” I said. “People love the mansions and great homes, but a neighborhood of houses that ordinary men and women lived in would be so interesting. They’d be for sale or for rent, I imagine?”

  “Yes indeed. But it will be an expensive project. Most of the houses Alfred selected are well built, but in sad disrepair. There are a couple of them not far from here.” She mentioned a street where workers had been housed back when some world-famous mills had been located in Salem. “But, dear Lee, if you can tell people about Albert’s dream, make them see how grand it could be, who knows? Maybe it could happen after all!” She clapped her hands together like a little girl. She looked away from me for a moment. “And look who’s here.” She pointed to the glass wall behind me. “It’s Conrad.” She made a beckoning motion and the door opened, admitting Conrad Gillette.

  “I’m a tad early for our meeting,” he said, “but when I saw our charming new friend Lee Barrett here with you, Lillian, I decided to take the liberty of interrupting. Hello there, Lee.” He pulled up a chair and sat between Lilly and me, looking from one of us to the other.

  Charming new friend?

  “I was telling Lee about Albert’s dream for the village,” Lilly told him. “I think she may be able to help us by publicizing it. But for now, she’s gathering impressions of the dear man. I’m sure you have special memories of him to share. She wants to make an investigative report about him.”

  “Investigative?” Gillette looked confused. “About his death?”

  “Certainly not.” Lillian Jeffry frowned. “About his devotion to Salem’s history.”

  Gillette nodded, and spoke in an officious tone. “So conversant with history. Albert had an amazing knowledge of the city, as well as an encyclopedic memory. He could spout names and dates and places covering centuries.” He leaned forward, putting both elbows on the table. “He will be sorely missed. No doubt about that.” He moved his left wrist slightly, glancing at his watch, which if it wasn’t a Rolex, was a remarkably good fake.

  I took the hint. “I must be keeping you two from your meeting. Lilly, I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice. Perhaps we can meet again when you have more time.” I picked up my notebook and papers and stood. “Good to see you again, Mr. Gillette. I’m sure you both have a lot of Historical Charities business to discuss.”

  Surprise showed on both faces. Oops. Maybe they’re here to make funeral plans.

  Lilly spoke first. “Oh dear, this meeting is about music for ‘Ring in the Holidays in Salem.’ Conrad is our musical director. He knows your Aunt Ibby too. He’ll be directing the Christmas Belles performances. We only have a couple of weeks before our first concert.”

  CHAPTER 10

  I had a lot to think about while I drove from Turner Street to the WICH-TV building on Derby Street. I hadn’t learned as much as I’d hoped for about Albert Eldridge, but I still wanted to do an investigative piece about him on the eleven o’clock news.

  And I want to do it tonight. Before somebody else does it.

  Who else could I talk to who’d have some personal insight into what made the man tick?

  Whoops. There goes another clock analogy!

  I pulled into the station’s parking lot and eased into my designated spot. It was the same one I’d had back when I was Crystal Moon, phony psychic, and it was as far away as I could get from the sea wall where I’d found Ariel Constellation’s drowned body. Gathering up notebook, papers, and purse, I looked at the digital dashboard clock. Nine-ten. That left me twenty minutes before I had to check in with Rhonda for today’s schedule. I stepped out of the car, locked it, and started across the lot, concentrating on how I could cobble togeth
er the kind of program I wanted to produce, and at the same time trying to avoid the patches of slush on the ground. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn my Dolce and Gabbana boots with heels before the ground was clear of snow, but they were so cute and I knew they’d look good on camera. Okay. The convertible isn’t my only extravagance. I really like designer shoes and handbags too.) I’d just about reached the sidewalk in front of the station when my right foot hit a patch of ice under the slush. I braced myself for an inevitable embarrassing and perhaps painful crash.

  “Whoa, little lady. What’s your hurry?” Strong arms grasped my waist, lifted me, and set me upright, steadying me. I turned to face my rescuer. It was Santa Claus. The same smiling Santa I’d seen in front of the building the previous day.

  “Thank you,” I breathed. “You were here in the nick of time.”

  The smile broadened. “In the Saint Nick of time, you might say. You all right?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Thank you so much.” I bent to pick up notebook and purse while my benefactor retrieved the stapled pages of the Eldridge biography.

  “I see you’re reading up on Mr. Eldridge.” He handed the papers to me. “Great guy. You going to do a TV show about him or something like that?”

  “Something like that,” I agreed. “You said that before, when I interviewed you. That Mr. Eldridge was a ‘great guy.’ Did you know him personally at all?”

  “You picked that up, huh? Yes. I did.” He turned in the direction of the camo kettle which was on the curb near the front door of WICH-TV. “Sure did.”

  I waited for him, to continue. He didn’t. I pushed. “Tell me about him,” I said. “Did you and he have one-on-one conversations? Did he have interests besides his organizations?” I waited, realizing that, for such a public figure, Albert Eldridge was turning out to be a surprisingly private person.

  The Santa looked down, not smiling now. He towered over me, even though I was wearing boots with three-inch heels. “We understood each other. We were both combat vets. Neither of us liked to talk about that. We talked about normal stuff. Sports. Politics. Besides that, he liked his organizations. That’s what he liked to talk about.” He frowned. “You got a problem with that?”