Bells, Spells, and Murders

by Carol J. Perry

  That was the first I’d heard about a board of directors. Made sense that there’d be one of course. I wondered if Lilly Jeffry was a member. That would make sense too.

  I’d better get a list of the members, set up some interviews, pronto. Should have thought of it sooner.

  “I have a lot to learn in this business,” I told the cats. O’Ryan gave me a one ear up, one ear down look that said something like “Well, duh,” while Frankie concentrated on washing her white coat.

  Phil gave a brief lead into the Eldridge bio portion of my previous night’s report. I peered closely at the screen, deciding that the green velvet photographed well and looked good with my red hair. Marty had done an excellent job of editing my fifteen minutes down to five, and Phil threw in a few complimentary words about the piece at the end of the segment. I was pleased about that. Phil was a newsman from way back and his opinion meant a lot to me.

  I retreated to the bedroom then and opened my closet. I debated mentally for a minute about what to wear to work and decided on skinny jeans and a warm blue parka. I pulled on tall Marc Jacob boots, picked another knit hat just like the one I’d worn to breakfast, but a different color. Red this time.

  I remembered to retrieve my roll, no longer warm but still beautiful, pop it into a plastic bag, and put it, along with notebook, index cards, and pens into a big leather Jacki Easlick hobo handbag. Said good-bye to the cats and headed downstairs. Once outside, I turned up my collar against the biting cold, and sprinted toward the garage.

  Within a few more minutes I was on my way to the WICH-TV studio. As I rounded the corner onto the north side of Washington Square, I looked across the Salem Common toward the Eldridge house on the south side. Was the yellow tape gone? Looked that way from where I sat. I wondered if that meant Lilly would be back to work, that the Santas could drop their cash in the back-porch safe, and that the flow of groceries, diapers, toys, candy, and socks could again be on their way to those in need. I hoped so.

  It had become a habit to look for Santas as I drove along Hawthorne Boulevard toward Derby Street. There were several already ringing their bells. They all looked appropriately jolly and each one had the stars and stripes on his red hat. No skinny Santa with a cotton ball beard, and if Pete was right Drake wouldn’t be seen on Salem’s streets for quite a while....

  The camo kettle Santa was once again stationed in front of the WICH-TV building. I parked in my usual spot and walked (carefully) across the lot, pausing to say, “Good morning, Nick,” and to put a few dollars into the kettle. I was rewarded with a big smile and a hearty “Ho-ho-ho Merry Christmas, Ms. Barrett!”

  “Ho-ho yourself, Nick,” I said and dashed inside.

  Rhonda handed me a really short list of assignments. I had mixed feelings about that. I wanted to get as much experience in this new job as I could to prove to Mr. Doan—and to myself—that I could handle on-the-spot, unrehearsed reporting. On the other hand, I relished having more investigative time to delve into the growing mystery surrounding Albert Eldridge’s murder. “Short list,” Rhonda said with a smile, “but I think you’re going to like the first one on it.”

  She was right. First location on the list was the Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts. The Tabby. I was to meet with Rupert Pennington, the director of the school and until very recently, my boss. The topic line read, rather cryptically, “problem with the acting division’s holiday production.”

  “Problem?” I was puzzled. “What does that mean?”

  Rhonda, as everyone at the station knows, is a never-ending font of knowledge on darn near anything. I had confidence that she’d have the skinny on Mr. Pennington’s dilemma. She dropped her voice and looked around as though there might be spies lurking behind the lavender aluminum Christmas tree (Mrs. Doan’s latest addition to the office decor). “The problem is the subject matter. They’ve been in rehearsal for months. Who knew there’d be a murder in Salem right before Christmas?”

  “Subject matter?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Rhonda patted her hair. “The play is Hercule Poirot’s Christmas.”

  “Poirot,” I echoed. “Agatha Christie?”

  “Right. Here’s a hint. The original title was A Holiday for Murder.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  “Yeah. They can’t scrap the play. Too much work has gone into it. But how can they produce it now, after the Eldridge thing?”

  “So my job is to make a staged holiday murder acceptable to the public right after a real holiday murder?”

  “You got it.”

  “Great.” I looked back at the assignment sheet. “I hope the second one is easier.”

  “Should be,” Rhonda said. “The women’s shelter. They’re trying to make Christmas special for the moms and the kids. Tear jerker.”

  “I think that’s one of the projects the Historical Charities helps with.” I thought of John Campbell and of Lilly giving him money to buy diapers when he wasn’t allowed to take the donated ones.

  “They did a lot of good stuff.” She looked at the sunburst clock. “You’d better get going. Francine said she’d be out front at nine-thirty. It’s nine-fifteen now. Lots of luck with the Tabby thing.”

  “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

  I did as she suggested and with the assignment sheet stuffed into my purse, took the elevator back down to the street level, crossed the black and white tile floor, pushed the glass door open, and stepped back into the wintry day. Francine gave a friendly toot of the horn and I climbed into the passenger seat. As we pulled out onto Derby Street I noticed that the camo kettle Santa had been replaced by a kelly-green-kettle-with-a-shamrock-on-it Santa.

  “Rhonda says we’re going to the school where you used to teach,” Francine said. “That’ll be fun for you.”

  “Yes and no,” I said. “It’ll be good to see the friends I used to work with. Students too. I’m supposed to interview the director of the school. Rupert Pennington, my old boss. That may be a problem.”

  “Why? Don’t you like him?”

  “Oh it’s nothing like that. I like him a lot. My aunt even dates him sometimes.”

  “Your aunt and your boss? Aren’t they old?”

  I turned to look at her. “Older people still date. Actually, my aunt is flying to London later this month to spend the holidays with another gentleman friend.” That didn’t sound quite right. I hurried to correct the impression. “She’s traveling with another lady, Mrs. Abney Babcock, so of course it’s all quite proper.”

  “No kidding!” An understanding nod from Francine. “I get it. It’s proper and all, but the school director is still jealous of the London guy. That’s the problem.”

  I hadn’t given that triangle even a passing thought. “Hmmm. Maybe he is but that’s not it. It’s all about a play the acting division at the school is planning. A Christmas play.”

  “And . . .”

  “The play is about a murder during the Christmas holidays.”

  Francine gave a quick intake of breath. “Uh-oh. Awkward.”

  “Awkward is right. I haven’t ever read the play or the book. I wish I’d had a chance to talk to my aunt about it. She’s read everything”.

  “So you’re supposed to make it sound like it’s just a play. No big deal.”

  “Well, yeah. It is just a play, after all. Fortunately, they’ve advertised it as Hercule Poirot’s Christmas, not by the original title.”

  “Which was?”

  “A Holiday for Murder. Agatha Christie wrote it.”

  “The mystery lady.”

  “Right.”

  Agatha Christie again.

  CHAPTER 16

  The parking lot beside the Tabby was almost full. Of course, it was a school day and the excellent reputation of The Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts had by then spread well past the boundaries of Salem. Students from all over the country had been attracted to the place, which was housed in an old department store. The various arts courses offered held appeal for people of all ag
es who’d always wanted to act or paint or dance or sing or write—or as in the case of my classes—to be involved in the world of television, either behind or in front of the cameras. The tuition was pricey and no degrees were offered, but the success rate of “graduates” was impressive.

  Francine pulled in as close to the building as she could get. We gathered up microphones and lights and camera and walked to the front door. I gave the student-receptionist my card, mentioning that Mr. Pennington was expecting us. “Oh, yes, Ms. Barrett,” she said. “I really wanted to take your course, but I switched to acting. I’m Nancy, playing Pilar in our Christmas production!”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “Is Mr. Pennington in his office?”

  “Yes.” She pointed to the broad stairway. “Top of the stairs. Second door. Oh, I guess you know that.”

  “Thanks, Nancy,” I said. “Break a leg!” Francine and I started up the broad, polished staircase, passing the mezzanine landing where my TV Production classes had taken place in the old Trumbull Department Store’s shoe department. I peeked into the darkened space where apparently nothing was happening.

  Maybe they think I’ll be back.

  “This is a beautiful staircase,” Francine said, running her free hand over the broad bannister. “Ever slide down this?”

  “Actually, yes, I did once,” I told her. “Someday I’ll tell you about it.” We’d reached the door marked Director. It was open. Mr. Pennington prided himself on his open door policy.

  He stood as soon as we entered. “Oh, my dear Ms. Barrett. I am so very glad to see you.” He nodded in Francine’s direction, “and your most efficient associate.”

  “Mr. Pennington, this is Francine. She’ll be filming our interview. Do you want to do it here, in your office?”

  “How do you do, dear lady.” He gave a little bow in Francine’s direction. “I thought we might do it in the rehearsal hall. They’re onstage right now and it will give you a bit of flavor of the production. I do hope you can help us clarify the fact that Hercule Poirot’s Christmas is just a rollicking good whodunit and the um—recent unfortunate happenings should not dim the public’s enjoyment of our efforts.” He ran a hand across his brow. “I hope no one will be offended by the content—or even worse, stay away from the play because of it.” He lowered his voice. “This is, after all, the acting department’s major fund-raiser of the year.”

  “We’ll do our very best, sir,” I promised. “Shall we take the elevator up to the hall? Francine’s camera is heavy.”

  “Yes, let’s.” He led the way to the elevator and pushed the Up button. I was glad to see that the old department designations remained on the hammered tin walls. Lingerie, notions, luggage, millinery . . . we stepped out on the third floor, and followed the man to what had once been the store’s Green Stamp Redemption Center—and now held a rehearsal stage, a costume area, and several makeup stations.

  On stage, several actors rehearsed their lines. One was a sturdy looking gentleman with a quite luxuriant handlebar mustache. I pointed. “Hercule Poirot?” I whispered. “What a fine mustache. Is it real?”

  Mr. Pennington smiled. “It is,” he whispered back. “The student grew it for the part, but has become quite attached to it. Literally.”

  Looks a lot better than the fake facial hair I’ve seen on some Santas lately.

  “The fellow Poirot is addressing,” he continued, still whispering, “is the Police Superintendent.”

  I was pleased that I’d have the opportunity to see at least at bit of the production so that I wouldn’t be flying entirely blind on this assignment. Francine busied herself with her lighting setup and camera tripod, while I focused on what was happening onstage.

  The superintendent spoke first. Poirot twirled his elegant mustache. “Mr. Lee telephoned me yesterday afternoon,” superintendent-actor said. “He wanted me to come and see him. What’s more, he told me to tell the butler I was collecting for some Police Charity.”

  “Indeed. A Police Charity?” Poirot spoke with a pretty good representation of a Belgian accent.

  “I did as he said.” The superintendent had a sort-of-British sound. “He told me that several thousand pounds worth of diamonds had been stolen from his safe. So he thought.”

  Another mustache twirl. “He thought?”

  Mr. Pennington suddenly clapped his hands. “Take a break, people,” he said. “Good job.” He waved in my direction. “The media is here to give us some free publicity.”

  The actors disappeared into the wings. I wished I could have seen a little more of the action. “Before we begin, Mr. Pennington,” I said, “want to give me a little background on what the audience might find—upsetting in the play?”

  “Just the unfortunate timing of it, Ms. Barrett. It’s a charming piece, really. Holds up well. The book’s from 1939. We’re using a TV adaptation from 1994. But,” he sighed heavily, “but, it concerns a murder of a wealthy, prominent man during the Christmas season.” He held up both hands in a gesture of helplessness. (Mr. Pennington isn’t without considerable acting ability himself.) Another sigh. “Alas.” Downcast eyes.

  I decided that since my knowledge of the play was zilch, I’d keep my questions simple and brief and let him do the talking. If anything messed up, we had time to edit.

  “You about ready?” Francine tapped her watch. “We still have a date at the women’s shelter.”

  “Ready, Mr. Pennington?” I asked. “Shall we use the stage set for background? Those chairs look comfortable and the Christmas tree in the background is a nice touch.”

  “Fine,” he said. So that’s what we did.

  It was the right choice. I asked some basic questions, such as “Tell us a little bit about the background of the story,” and “Can you tell us about the cast? I met the charming young woman who plays Pilar, and your Poirot is simply perfect in the part!” I played it straight on the touchy part about the similarity between the murder in the play and the local real-life version. I phrased the question carefully, speaking softly, leaning toward him. (I’m not without some acting chops myself.) “I understand that you have some concern about the timing of this production, following so closely the sad circumstances of Albert Eldridge’s passing.” I paused, giving Mr. Pennington the opportunity to bow his head in sadness. “I’ve had the privilege of seeing some of your amazing actors in rehearsal. And it’s an Agatha Christie play! I’m sure the sophisticated Salem theatergoers will enjoy the performance for exactly what it is—a rollicking good mystery!”

  Pennington’s expression brightened “You’re exactly right, Ms. Barrett. Why, Agatha Christie’s play The Mousetrap opened in London’s West End in 1952. It’s still running! That’s the longest initial run of any play in history! True theater lovers will relish the opportunity to see a genuine Agatha Christie play right here in Salem. Orchestra seats will sell out fast. Tickets are available at the box office at the Tabitha Trumbull Academy or online or by phone.” He smilingly gave the correct numbers. I made a mental note to be sure to have the station scroll them at the bottom of the screen when the piece ran. I thanked him for being our guest on WICH-TV. He beamed and thanked me.

  Cut.

  Francine began to pack up her gear and I shook hands once again with my old boss. I could tell that he was relieved. “Give my regards to dear Ibby, won’t you, Ms. Barrett? And thank you so very much. I think this will help sales immensely, don’t you?”

  “I do, sir. You made an excellent case for everyone to rush right out for tickets. Thank you again.”

  We took the elevator down to the ground level and hurried out to the van. “That was good,” Francine said as we approached the mobile van. “I might even go to see it. The tickets are pretty cheap too.”

  “They keep it reasonable. That’s why they need to fill the house. They want people to see the talent they’re producing. At least one alum is in Hollywood now.”

  “I know. Daphne Trent. So cute.” We loaded our gear into the van and starte
d toward South Salem and the women’s shelter. “I hope they can give those poor souls a nice Christmas. At least the little kids.”

  “I’m sure they will. From what we’ve seen at the Historical Charities, they not only get plenty of merchandise donations, but I get the impression that they’re really well funded. From what I’ve seen of the wall-to-wall Santa Clauses with kettles full of money, I’m betting the kids will have a merry one for sure.”

  We parked on a narrow strip of pavement behind the four-story brick building. The place looked plain, simple, unadorned with shutters or window boxes like some of its neighbors. The gray steel back door bore a small hand-lettered command.

  RING BELL

  CHAPTER 17

  “You sure this is the right place?” I asked Francine. “I don’t see any signs of life.”

  “This is it,” she replied, pushing the bell. “Directions were clear. I guess they don’t want to attract any attention. These women are hiding from bad situations.”

  “Makes sense,” I agreed.

  A small panel in the door slid open. “Donations?” asked a husky voice.

  I held my card up to the oblong space. “WICH-TV,” I said. “We have an appointment.”

  “Oh, sure. Wait a sec.” The door swung open. “Come on in.” The middle-aged woman wore blue scrubs with pictures of Hello Kitty on it. A name tag identified her as Doris. “Darn. I was hoping you were one of the volunteers bringing diapers and formula. We’re running low.” Her expression brightened. “But, hey! We’re glad you’re here. TV publicity is a good thing. Come on upstairs. You can meet some of the kids and moms.” She looked at the camera on Francine’s shoulder. “But you can’t take pictures that show their faces.”

  I introduced myself and Francine. We followed the woman to an elevator that appeared to be of about the same vintage as the one at the station and clanked and growled our way up to the floor marked three. We heard the kid’s voices before the doors parted.