As Dorothy famously said, “There’s no place like home.” I parked my car, locked everything up, and started up the path to the back door. I was about halfway past the garden when O’Ryan poked his fuzzy head out of his cat door, looked back and forth, then hurried down the path to meet me with joyful “Mmrows” and ankle rubbings. Things got even better when I entered the back hall and smelled something wonderful cooking in my aunt’s kitchen. O’Ryan ducked through that cat door. I knocked and waited for Aunt Ibby’s “Come in Maralee. It isn’t locked” and followed.
I draped my jacket over the back of a captain’s chair and tossed hat, gloves, and purse on the seat and gave my aunt a hug. “Smells great in here. What’s cooking?”
She waved a wooden spoon. “Beef Burgundy. It’s not quite ready yet but you can have a tiny taste before we get to work on your project.” She lifted a steaming ladleful of the rich brown stew from the black iron pot into a small Franciscan ware bowl and put it on the round table. “Tell me what you think,” she commanded. “It’s one of Tabitha’s recipes. I altered it a tad. I don’t think she’d mind.” I pushed hat, gloves, and purse aside, sat and tasted. She sat opposite me, watching as I lifted the spoon to my mouth. The Tabitha my aunt referred to was Tabitha Trumbull, the namesake of the Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts where I’d recently taught Television Production. Aunt Ibby had discovered a cache of Tabitha’s recipes and was busy preparing a Tabitha Trumbull cookbook for a library fund-raiser.
“It’s wonderful,” I said, absolutely truthfully. “Just right. It’s familiar, but has a little something extra.”
“Ha!” she said. “Good. That’s what I thought too. Okay. Finish up. I’ll turn the heat down to low and we can get to work. The eleven o’clock news, you say?”
“Right. Do you think we can do it?”
That brought a haughty look as only she can do it. It’s sort of a “Do you know who you’re talking to?” look. “Sorry,” I said. “Silly question.” I finished every last delicious bite, poured the last few drops of rich broth into the cat’s red bowl, and followed her to her office.
“Come and sit by me and I’ll show you what I’ve found so far,” she said. “I started searching the minute you called.” She tapped the big monitor screen. “There’s a picture of Albert when he was young.”
It was hard to reconcile the image of the dark-haired, handsome young man on the screen with the distorted features of the man I’d seen with his head propped against a chair, a blood-soaked Santa hat covering one eye. “Where did this picture come from?”
“The Salem News microfilm” she said. “I used my library access. The Eldridges are an old Salem family. They’ve been photographed and written about many times. This one was from his graduation from Boston University. Suma Cum Laude of course. There are several photos taken through the years, but remarkably little information other than just the facts surrounding each picture. He served during the Korean conflict. Look, there he is in his uniform. He was a marine. Received the bronze star and a purple heart. Joined his father’s real estate business. Never married. He began buying the old mansions as they came on the market, one by one. Founded the Historical Charities back in the sixties. The foundation itself raises money to maintain and repair the buildings. They’ve bought several new properties lately. Not mansions this time. Mostly older houses built in the 1930s and 1940s.”
“I know a little about that,” I said. “Lilly told me.” I explained about Heritage Village and how Mr. Eldridge was looking forward to completing it. “Too bad, isn’t it, that he never got to see it done.”
“It is,” she said. “If you were looking for any deep, dark secrets about Albert, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. His life was, as they say, an open book.”
O’Ryan had joined us by then and sat on top of a nearby bookcase, grooming his whiskers and listening to our conversation. (We can tell when he’s listening because he cocks both ears forward in a rather peculiar way.)
Aunt Ibby returned to manipulating screen images, putting together a nice montage of the dozen or so photos of Albert Eldridge she’d discovered, covering several decades of his life. “I talked to Marty at the station and she said if I sent them to her, she’d arrange them to work with your script as you see fit. She said to tell you the station has footage of the holiday houses from previous years along with a nice film of the old gentleman receiving an award from the Chamber of Commerce last year. I’ll print out what I’ve found. Hope it’s useful to you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It certainly is. With this, and what I’ve learned from Lilly, I think I can easily fill fifteen minutes. The pictures will help a lot. And the part about his being a decorated marine and a B. U. grad, and the family being in real estate, it all gives a little clearer picture of the man, don’t you think?”
“I think it does. I wish I could have learned more to help you. I’ll keep at it. Meanwhile, you’d better get to work on that script. You only have a few hours.”
“I know. I’m getting kind of used to it. That’s how the reporting business works. News has to be fresh, you know?”
“Scoot along upstairs then,” she said. “I’ll finish up the beef stew and maybe make some biscuits. You’ll have a proper sized bowlful before you go out again. Wanda says it’s going to get colder tonight. And please, take my car. It’s warmer.”
“I will.” I leaned and gave her a kiss on top of her head. “What would I do without you?”
“I have no idea,” she said. “Now get busy.”
I laughed “You sound just like you did when I was in high school and had homework to do.”
“Same thing.”
I took her advice, just as I had in high school, and with O’Ryan tagging along, I gathered up my belongings and climbed the narrow back stairs to my apartment. We entered my living room door together. He didn’t use the cat door. Sometimes he likes having the big door held open for him. “You can watch TV while I work,” I told him. “You’re just in time for Wicked Tuna.” He loves programs about fish. Climbing into his favorite wing chair, the one with zebra print upholstery, he turned around three times, then in curled-up cat position, settled down to watch Captain Dave Marciano. I selected the proper channel, then walked down the short hall to the kitchen.
My laptop was still on the table. I kicked off my boots, wiggled my toes, and went straight to work. Back when I was doing the shopping channel show in Florida, my words-per-minute speech pattern was figured at about a hundred words a minute. I guessed that the short films and still photos would account for pauses in the voiceover section. If I could write a script for about eight minutes worth of comment, memorize the important parts, and work with Marty on the order of the piece, I should be able to deliver a short, but informative bio of the dead man.
Working alone in my kitchen, with only the sound of a ticking clock and a wintry wind blowing outside, with no interruption, no cat-comments, I had a usable script in less than an hour. I watched Kit-Kat’s wagging tail for timing, read the piece aloud, printed it out, and still had time to shower, change clothes, and to call Pete and tell him I’d be on the late news. He promised to watch. I wanted to ask him a few questions—quite a few actually, but that would have to wait. By nine-thirty, with a tummy full of beef stew and a hot baking powder biscuit, and with a polished script in my purse, I phoned Marty to tell her I was on my way, backed the Buick out of the garage, and headed for WICH-TV.
There were still a few Santas standing beside their kettles, ringing bells, along my short route to the station. I admired their dedication and hoped those red suits were as warm as they looked. I started to pull into the parking lot and noticed a kind of thin-looking Santa at the edge of the sidewalk. I reached for my purse, intending to donate a few more dollars. But something about this guy didn’t look quite right. He didn’t have a colorful kettle like the others. He had what appeared to be a sand pail in his hand. His beard looked like a bunch of glued on cotton balls. No bell, eithe
r and I didn’t see a flag on his red hat.
I think I’ll pass on that one. I’ll bet he’s not even a Santa’s helper.
I parked the Buick in the space my Vette usually occupied at the far side of the lot, avoiding the Santa, and thinking that my old spot near the seawall which, although it held bad memories, would be much more convenient on a cold winter night. I picked my way carefully and slowly across the pavement which was beginning to feel slippery. Although there was no snow, the spray over the seawall had begun to form a thin glaze of ice. Using the side door that led directly to the downstairs studio, I punched in my employee code and stepped gratefully into the long, dimly lit but comfortably warm room.
“Hey, Moon! Good to see you.” (Marty McCarthy will probably always use my make-believe psychic name Crystal Moon.) She motioned me over to the Tarot Time with River North set (the same stage where I’d done my show—Nightshades). “River won’t be here for another hour so I’ve set things up here so you can see if it all works. Try your lead in, then we’ll figure out the sequence of pictures and video. Okay?” She ducked behind the large, wheeled camera. “Jeez, Moon, it takes as much work to set up a fifteen-minute shoot for the news department as we used to spend on a whole hour call in show.”
I shed my coat, smoothed my green velvet pantsuit, and straightened the collar of a beige silk blouse. “Seems so,” I agreed. “Shall I stand here?”
“That’s fine. Go.”
“Albert Eldridge was a well-recognized figure in Salem,” I began, “but such a modest person that we didn’t know a lot about him. Let’s take a tiny peek into the life of this beloved and very private man.”
With the ease that came from working so closely together on Nightshades, Marty and I coordinated photos, scripted explanations, archived video clips, commentary, and closing remarks. It took some adjusting (apparently I no longer speak one hundred words a minute, more like eighty), but after fiddling around with pacing, selecting the best photos, and some judicious editing of old films and videos, we felt that we’d nailed it at exactly fifteen minutes. It was twenty minutes before eleven when we climbed the stairs to the second-floor newsroom.
Buck Covington was already behind the news desk and welcomed me with his best smile. “Hello Lee. Mr. Doan says you’re doing an investigative piece about that poor guy that got killed. Have you figured out who did it already?”
“Not that kind of investigation I’m afraid, Buck,” I said. “I was hoping you’d have something about that in your newscast.”
“Don’t know. Haven’t read it yet. You’ll go on right after the hard break at eleven-thirty. Okay?”
“Okay.” Buck had the amazing talent of being able to read cold from the teleprompter with absolute accuracy, never missing a word, never mispronouncing one, always using the correct expression on his handsome face. Mr. Doan characterized the man as “dumb as a brick but with great pipes.” My friend River North and Buck were dating and River didn’t find him dumb at all. Quite the contrary.
Scott Palmer was seated off to the side in the director’s chair and motioned for me to join him. I took the offered seat. “I’ve read the newscast,” he said, “even if Buck hasn’t. The cops have made some progress. They’ve already identified the punk who tried to break into Ms. Jeffry’s place.”
“No kidding? Got a name?”
CHAPTER 13
“Yep. You’ll see.” I wasn’t going to get any more from Scott. Our relationship hasn’t been what you’d call friendly for quite a while, and my becoming the station’s second field reporter wasn’t sitting well with him. He’d been the first and only for a couple of years.
I busied myself with the script. I’d memorized the lead, and I’d be sitting next to Buck at the news desk for my segment with my notes out of sight in my lap. I had the usual jitters that come just before the camera lights go on, but nothing really worrisome.
At eleven, Buck led off with some national headlines, then read (with perfect diction and appropriate facial expression) a breaking news segment. “Salem police have made an arrest in an attempted break-in at the home of Albert Eldridge’s secretary. Mr. Eldridge, you have undoubtedly heard, was found dead yesterday under suspicious circumstances in his home office on Washington Square. It is unclear at this time whether the attempted break-in and Mr. Eldridge’s death are in any way connected. The suspect was identified by fingerprints at the scene and was taken into custody without incident. He is Vincent Drake, called Vinnie, and has a long arrest record for similar crimes.” A mug shot photo covered the screen. He was a fairly young man and his face looked vaguely familiar to me, although the name didn’t ring any bells.
Ha! Ring any bells. Very funny.
There was a brief sports report, a weather update from Wanda, wearing white shorts and a navy crop top with the trademark deep V neckline, and some back to back commercials, coverage of the city council meeting where City Councilor Lois Mercer announced passage of a new ordinance regarding off-street parking. Hard break for network ID. I took my seat beside Buck, prepared to present my fifteen-minute report, while still puzzling over where I’d seen Vincent Drake before.
The segment went off just as rehearsed. A thumbs up from Marty, a fist bump from Buck Covington, and an approving nod from Scott signaled the end of a hastily put together and not entirely complete investigative report. It was, I thought, a good job.
I went back downstairs to the first-floor studio where I’d left coat, hat, and boots. River’s Tarot Time set was lighted, and River, glamorous in bright red velvet, silver stars woven into her long black braid, ran to greet me. She embraced me in a patchouli scented hug. “I watched from here.” She pointed to the monitor on the wall. “You were great. And isn’t Buck a wonderful news anchor?”
“He is. You thought it went well?”
“It was really nice, Lee. I liked the pictures of the poor man when he was young. What a lot of good he did for Salem. Who would kill a good guy like that?”
“I know the police are working 24/7 on finding out,” I said. “It was a terrible thing.” Once again, the sight I’d seen in that office flashed across my mind. “A terrible thing.”
“I’ll be reading the tarot for him tonight on my show,” she said, indicating the stack of cards spread out on the table in front of her high-backed wicker chair. I’ve selected the Hermit card to represent Mr. Eldridge.” She picked up a card with a picture of a man holding a lantern, standing on a snowy mountain peak. “Will you watch? The tarot may help to solve the puzzle. It often does.”
“I know it does,” I said, and it was true. More than once River’s talent with her beautiful and mysterious cards had helped to unravel difficult problems. “Doing that reading tonight is a really good idea. I’ll be watching. What’s the movie?” River’s show follows approximately the same formula mine did. River does tarot readings before and after a scary movie. Nightshades was similar, but I did my phony psychic readings before and after scary movies.
“I’m showing Nightmare Before Christmas she said. “Not quite as scary as most of my movies, I know, but it’s a good Christmas story.”
“I remember. I always thought Jack Skellington seemed so lost in Christmastown.”
We laughed together, I put on my outdoor gear, gave my friend a hug, promised I’d watch the Eldridge tarot reading, and maybe the movie too, if I could stay awake. I used the downstairs studio exit and stepped into a brisk wind, a dark night, and a slippery, near-empty parking lot. Across the harbor at Pickering Wharf I could see a few yachts, already showing their holiday lights. I walked gingerly, slowly and extremely carefully to the Buick, unlocked it, and climbed inside. The clock read eleven-forty-five. I’d be home in time to catch most of River’s show and I knew Mr. Doan would run my report again on the morning news, so I’d have a chance to critique my own performance.
Aunt Ibby’s windows were dark when I made my way along the garden path to the house but O’Ryan was wide awake and waiting to greet me just inside the
back door. “Want to watch a little more television, boy?” I asked, as together, we climbed the two flights up the twisty stairway to my cozy home. The television was still on in my living room. Our clever cat knew how to shut it off, but hadn’t chosen to do so. I changed the channel to WICH-TV, then hurried to my bedroom to change into pjs. I hung the green velvet outfit in the closet, stopped at the bathroom to toss undies into the laundry chute, wiped off makeup, then joined O’Ryan on the couch. We were just in time for River’s first reading—the one she’d dedicated to Albert Eldridge. Buck Covington was on hand to shuffle the deck, as he’d often been ever since he and River had started dating. She thanked him prettily, bid him good night, and began the placement of the cards on the table. “The Hermit is the card I’ve selected to represent Albert Eldridge,” she explained, holding the card toward the camera. “The man stands alone on a snowy mountain. He carries the staff of a patriarch. An elder. A leader. In his other hand he carries a lantern. We call it the lantern of truth.” Placing the Hermit card, face up, in the center of the table, River bowed her head. “May only the higher forces surround this seeker while this reading takes place and may the truth of the matter concerning him be revealed.” Then, in what she called the ancient Keltic method, River arranged ten more cards, faceup.
The second card lay across the Hermit card. The Two of Pentacles showed a dancing man balancing two five-pointed pentacles. There were ships in the distance on high seas. River tossed her braid, silver stars sparkling in the studio lights. “Mr. Eldridge was balancing two situations at the same time, striving for harmony while things around him changed. A new project was proving difficult to launch.” She tapped the card against her cheek. “It’s possible that a message brought him disturbing news.” A pretty shrug. “Maybe.” She returned the card to the table and picked up another. This one was upside down.
Bells, Spells, and Murders Page 8