Bells, Spells, and Murders

by Carol J. Perry

  Must be planning another presser. Maybe it’ll be about Joseph Marshall.

  My phone buzzed before I could push the doors open. “That you out front, babe?” It was Pete.

  “It’s me. Where are you? In your office?”

  “Yep. I saw the van pull in from my window. I’ll be right out.”

  He appeared before I’d reached the front desk. I had my press credentials and ID ready for inspection and handed them to the officer behind the tall desk. He already knew who I was, but procedure is procedure.

  “Are you here to see me,” Pete asked. “Or are you snooping around about the guy on top of the Octagon building?”

  “The Octagon building?”

  “Oh, that’s just the name of the corporation who owns the place. Real estate outfit. They buy and sell older buildings in the area. No big secret about it. Nothing high end, but they’re legit.” We walked together down a glass-walled corridor toward his office. “So, snooping?”

  “Right,” I agreed happily. “Can you answer some questions?”

  Cop face. “Maybe. What about?”

  “Can you tell me where they took Joseph Marshall? Is he under arrest?”

  “No. It’s not against the law to threaten to kill yourself. I guess he’ll be checking into a mental health facility for a little while. But he’s here. We have some questions to ask him. There’s a little problem with his license.”

  I wrote “license problem” in the notebook, bringing a semiamused look from Pete.

  “What’s the problem with the license—if you can say?”

  “It seems to be—um—inadequate for the work he was doing. We have a few questions we’d like answered.”

  I wrote “inadequate” with a question mark after it, then looked out the window while I thought about what to ask next. “Pete,” I began, “what happened with the person who tried to break into Lilly’s house? Is he still locked up?”

  “Yes,” was the cop-voice answer. That question obviously was going nowhere. I stared out the window some more. That’s when I noticed the black Lexus pulling into the guest parking area. The same tall man who’d smiled at Francine and me when he was going into the Octagon building climbed out. I pointed. “Who’s that, Pete? I saw him today just before they took Marshall away.”

  Pete swiveled his chair around so that he could see where I pointed. “That’s Richard McNally. He heads up the real estate firm I told you about. He’s probably coming here to check up on his tenant. Not my case, but that’d be my guess.”

  I saw the WICH-TV mobile van pull in. “Makes sense,” I agreed. “If you’re not going to tell me anything about Marshall though, I guess I’ll go by City Hall and see if I can dig up anything about licenses. See you tonight?”

  “You bet. Want me to bring anything?”

  “Chinese?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Pete walked me to the door. “Chief going to talk again today?”

  “Don’t know.” Cop voice.

  I gave up, smiled, waved good-bye, and hurried across the lot to where Francine waited, hopefully with bags of fast food to share.

  CHAPTER 19

  Nothing like cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake to generate a new burst of energy. Just as I’d suggested to Pete, a visit to City Hall was next on my to-do list. Once again, Francine left cameras and mics in the van while we visited that historic building, following signs to the upstairs office. My questions were answered politely. “Yes, there’s an electrician by that name registered at that address. Yes, the board is investigating a complaint regarding his license. No, I’m not at liberty to give you any more information at this time. Have a nice day.”

  So much for that. We decided to go back to the station, Francine to vacuum some burger bun crumbs and a few scattered fries from the front seats, me to compile my scattered notes into some kind of order. I was greeted by both Rhonda and Mr. Doan with enthusiastic congratulations on our live report on the almost-jumper. Even Scott Palmer offered a fist-bump and a “Good job, Lee.” I promised Mr. Doan that there’d be some interesting updates on the story to look forward to, but that I needed a little more time on that. “I stopped by the police station,” I added, “and it looks like the chief’s lectern is about to get dragged out front again. Anybody here heard anything?”

  Nobody had, or if they had they weren’t sharing the information. I asked for a key to the dataport again, planning to pull together what little information I had on Joseph Marshall and the Octagon building.

  Spreading notebook pages and index cards on the desktop, I stared at them. No inspiration. After a moment I selected a new index card. “Richard McNally,” I wrote. Real estate person. Owns the building Joseph Marshall tried to jump from. Owns other buildings in Salem also (Not “high end.”). I added that card to the pile.

  I thought about the name I’d seen on the truck, PRESTIGIOUS ELECTRICAL, and entered it on my tablet. Maybe his company webpage would tell me something.

  No result.

  “That’s strange,” I muttered aloud. “Is business so good that he doesn’t need to advertise?” I tried Facebook and LinkedIn. Nothing there either.

  There can be times when finding nothing is more interesting than finding something. This was one of those times. I scribbled very fast on the card, hurrying before any thoughts got away. Then I called my Aunt Ibby.

  “My goodness, Maralee,” she said. “I saw that newscast you did. How frightening. And how fortunate that the poor man was rescued. What will become of him now?”

  “Pete says he’ll probably spend some time in a mental health facility. But listen, I need your help on something. Something about Joseph Marshall.” I explained how I’d been unable to find information on him, or even more strangely, on his business. “I tried the usual social media sites, but he doesn’t turn up anywhere. That’s just not normal these days. I know the library must have more resources than I do. Can you check?”

  “I’ll be happy to, dear. You know how much I love helping you on your cases.”

  “Shhh. Don’t let Pete hear you call it a ‘case.’ But, I have to admit, I think it might be one!”

  “I’ll get on it as soon as I can” she promised. “I’ll be working at the library tomorrow and I’ll see what I can turn up. You’ll be going with me to the Belles’ rehearsal tomorrow evening, don’t forget. We can talk about it then. And by the way, didn’t Rupert do a fine job of explaining the Agatha Christie mystery? I think the play will be a big success. And it’ll be partly because of WICH-TV.”

  “He’s an easy interview,” I said. “I don’t think there’ll be any problem with the play at all. Wait until you see the fellow playing Poirot. That mustache is real!”

  “I can hardly wait. Agatha seems to be following you around these days, doesn’t she? The Hickory Dickory Dock book and now the Christmas play.”

  “Don’t think I hadn’t thought about that. Has O’Ryan selected any more books lately?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed,” she said. “He and his lady friend came through here a while back and she exited through the cat doors to outside. O’Ryan is in here with me, keeping warm.”

  “Smart cat,” I said, “and thanks for any help with the mysterious electrician. See you this evening. Pete’s coming over.”

  “Does he know we’re working on the case?” Sly laugh.

  “No! Good-bye Aunt Ibby. Love you.”

  I wrote one more card. “Reminder: Ask Lilly for names of the Board of Directors.”

  Then I gathered my papers, stuffed them into the purse, and using stairs instead of the elevator returned the dataport key to Rhonda. “Anything on the docket for this afternoon?”

  “Nope. Four o’clock already. Looks like Salem is pretty quiet. Maybe everybody is out Christmas shopping.”

  That was a smack-yourself-on-the-forehead moment. “Shopping!” I said. “I haven’t even started.”

  “Why don’t you head for the mall then?” she asked. “You and Fr
ancine have had a pretty full day and you’ll be off at five anyway. Mr. Doan has already left and Scott Palmer has clocked in. If anything turns up I’ll toss it to him.”

  “What if the police department calls a presser? They’ve got the TV setup ready down there.”

  “Scotty can handle it.”

  I knew she was right. “Okay then. I think I will.” With hardly any qualms about taking off early, within minutes I was on my way to the North Shore Mall. If I hadn’t been infused with holiday spirit already, I would have been as soon as I landed at the sprawling complex of stores. Giant nutcrackers, enormous wreathes, gorgeously decorated trees, greetings in several languages flashing in neon—all against a background of instrumental Christmas music. Who could resist? I dove right in.

  By five-thirty, with a shopping bag from Macy’s in one hand and one from Barnes & Noble in the other, each one holding professionally store-wrapped gifts, I started back toward the parking lot. Fluffy towel sets for all my married cousins, books for all their kids. Proud of myself for achieving a lot in a short space of time and humming “Jingle Bell Rock,” I passed Best Buy then took a step backward for a second look at the window display TV. The sound was off, but the closed captioning was on, and the picture showed a close-up of my fellow field reporter, Scott Palmer, standing in front of an empty lectern in front of the police department. “We’re expecting a spokesperson momentarily,” the caption read, “with breaking news relating to the recent suspicious death of Albert Eldridge.” I moved closer to the window and put both shopping bags down. The camera focused on the lectern as a figure emerged from inside the station. I recognized Joyce Rouse as she adjusted the microphone and began to speak. The close captioned words read, “I’m Joyce Rouse, detective sergeant with the Salem Police Department. Today a video was brought to our attention and we are requesting the help of the community in identifying the person shown on it. The video was taken from a security camera mounted above a hotel overflow parking lot adjacent to the Eldridge property at approximately 5:50 on December first. The figure is indistinct. If you recognize the person highlighted, please call the number at the bottom of your screen. The person is not a suspect, but a person of interest in this matter. If you were in the vicinity of Hawthorne Boulevard and Washington Square and happened to see this person during the early morning hours of December first, we’d like to speak with you. Please call the number at the bottom of your screen.”

  The black and white film was dark and grainy. A bright circle highlighted the figure of a person. (Man? Or woman? Hard to tell.) Whoever it was carried a large suitcase and moved quickly from the left side of the screen to the right, passed a row of automobiles, then disappeared. His (or her) clothing was dark colored and he (or she) wore a baseball cap pulled low. The film ran several times in succession as the close captions advised viewers that although the face of the person was not clear, they should look for body language, distinctive clothing, or mannerisms that might be familiar. Then back to Scott who repeated the call-in number. I picked up my shopping bags and started for the exit, holiday spirit fading fast.

  CHAPTER 20

  The dashboard clock read five forty-five when I pulled out onto Route 128 and headed home. Pete wouldn’t finish work until around six-thirty, and thanks to him I didn’t need to cook. He’d still have to pick up the Chinese food and that should leave me plenty of time to shower, dress, and maybe find a few minutes to empty my purse and organize the day’s notes. Or at least enough time to smooth out the wrinkled papers and brush the cinnamon roll crumbs from the index cards.

  O’Ryan was on the back steps when I arrived home. I looked around to see if Frankie was anywhere in sight, but she wasn’t. “Coming inside with me, big boy?” I unlocked the door and O’Ryan trotted into the hall beside me, then dashed ahead of me up the two flights. The shopping bags slowed me down a little. Once inside, I followed my plan. I put the bags of gifts on top of my bureau, hung my plaid jacket in the closet, then dumped the contents of the purse onto the kitchen table. I grabbed clean undies, jeans, and a pink cashmere sweater and headed for the bathroom. In near record time I showered, washed my hair, then dressed, and barefoot with towel-wrapped head, approached the disorganized mess on the Lucite table.

  Of course that’s when O’Ryan ran for the living room door and Pete showed up early, carrying a bouquet of supermarket flowers and a big brown paper shopping bag with red pagodas on it. Putting the bag on the counter and the flowers in the sink, he pulled me close for a long, satisfying kiss. “Missed you,” he said.

  I snuggled a little closer into his arms. “You saw me this afternoon.”

  “That was business. This is pleasure.” His voice was sort of muffled by the towel but I got the message. A little more kissing, a little more snuggling happened. After a while though, we remembered the dinner. “I suppose our Crab Rangoon is getting cold,” he whispered.

  I straightened my terrycloth turban. “I’ll pick up the stuff on the table if you get the plates and silverware.”

  “Do you have a vase for these?” He held up the flowers.

  “I’ll get it,” I said. “It’s in the hall closet.”

  “Where do you want me to put all this stuff then?” Pete asked, pointing to the dumped contents of my purse.

  “I don’t know.” I pulled the blue satin glass vase from the closet. “I was going to sort it out. Change handbags. Just put it on a chair I guess. I’ll fix it later.”

  “Okay. How come it all smells like cinnamon?”

  “Long story.”

  I toweled my hair damp-dry, resulting in the usual red-haired-Shirley Temple tangled curl look I outgrew about twenty-five years ago. “Sorry about this.” I pointed at my head. “Didn’t have time to fix it.”

  He shrugged, smiling. “I like it.” He pulled my scattered papers into a pile, then began to stack the index cards into another. He lifted one and sniffed it. “Cinnamon,” he said, then looked down at it. “You’re checking up on Prestigious Electrical? How come?” He turned over the next card. “Octagon Real Estate too?”

  I arranged the flowers in the vase and put it in the center of the table. “You look like River arranging the Tarot cards,” I said. “I was looking for a website for the electrical business. There isn’t one. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  Oh-oh. Cop voice.

  I spooned Veggie Delight into an orange Fiesta ware bowl. “The owner Richard McNally, seems to be who he says he is, right?”

  “Sure does.” He pulled the rest of the cards together and put papers and cards in a neat pile on a chair. “I don’t know what to do with all the girly stuff.” He held lipstick, comb, Chapstick, tissues, and the rest of my necessities in both hands. “On the chair too?”

  “That’ll be fine. I’ll sort it out later. I saw Joyce Rouse on TV. The video was a surprise. Oh, good. You remembered to get the duck sauce. Do you think anybody will recognize the guy? Pretty grainy film.”

  He joined me at the counter and arranged half a dozen egg rolls in a neat pyramid on a green plate. “Okay, Miss Nosey reporter. Here’s an early scoop for you. We have a witness who saw the person of interest leaving the Historical Charities building at around six-thirty that morning.”

  “No kidding? You know who it is?”

  “Nope. We just have an eyewitness. Still no ID.”

  “Reliable witness?”

  “Maybe not. It’s Vinnie Drake.”

  I filled a blue bowl with fluffy white rice. “The bad Santa?”

  “Yep. Our little cat burglar. Oops. Sorry O’Ryan.” The cat on the windowsill gave an angry swish of his tail. “No offense intended.”

  “What did he say he saw?” I resisted a strong temptation to reach for the notebook and start taking notes.

  “Said he was just on his way home from ‘hanging around.’ He was over near the statue of Hawthorne and he saw a man carrying a big suitcase near the overflow parking lot. He admits he thought about robbing t
he guy, but it was starting to get light and there were too many people around.”

  “There are probably some better witnesses then.”

  “Probably. But a man carrying a suitcase next to a hotel isn’t unusual at any time of day. Not something you’d notice particularly.”

  He was right. “Maybe somebody got a closer look at him though,” I said. “Enough for some kind of ID.”

  “We hope so. We’ll keep running that video. What do you want to drink with this?”

  We decided on iced tea with dinner and coffee after. And ice cream. Pete poured iced tea into my glass. “Pete,” I said. “Do you think that whatever is in the suitcase is important? I mean, if that man is important at all.”

  “Could be. Or not.”

  “Five swords,” I said, almost to myself.

  “Huh?”

  “I was thinking about River’s reading. The man who’s stealing five swords. He left two in the ground.”

  “Don’t go all witchy on me, babe,” he said. “You know I don’t get River most of the time. Like her fine. Just don’t understand her.”

  “I don’t always either,” I admitted. “But that card shows a thief. We know Vinnie Drake is a thief, but he was down the street.”

  “So he says.”

  “Well, if he’s telling the truth, maybe the man in the video is stealing something. Something in that suitcase. Maybe though he left something important behind.” I was beginning to warm up to the subject. “What do you think?”

  “Two swords?”

  “Two figurative swords. The Tarot isn’t supposed to be literal.”

  “Okay. Let me try to follow this.” He picked up two egg rolls, putting one on my plate, one on his. “Two swords. Two egg rolls. Same thing. You think the video guy killed Eldridge, then stole something from his office, something in the suitcase, but left something behind.”

  “Well, it’s possible, isn’t it? I mean, swords could represent weapons.” I took a bite of my eggroll/sword. “Maybe he carried away the weapon. That’s why you haven’t found it.”

  He ate his eggroll in two bites. Big smile. “Look. We’re destroying Tarot card evidence here.”