Bells, Spells, and Murders

by Carol J. Perry

  “I’m serious,” I insisted. “The cards have been right before.”

  “My love, I’m a cop. You know I can’t take River’s card tricks or even your mirror pictures as evidence of anything. I deal in facts.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. “But I can’t help thinking about what River said. You wait. I’ll bet even if you can’t find the weapon that killed him, you’ll find two clues he left behind right in the Histy.”

  “The Histy?”

  “Santa Claus name for the historical society.”

  “I’ll take the two clues bet. Dinner at Gulu-Gulu?”

  “You got it.” I reached across the table and shook his hand. Then together, we cleared up the dishes and ate ice cream and drank coffee, talk of murder and swords and Santas put aside.

  At least for the moment. But I’m not forgetting any of it.

  CHAPTER 21

  I was awake and out of bed before Pete. Switching the big Jacki Easlick bag for a cross body Kate Spade, I arranged the cosmetics, pens, phone, and notebook into neat, zippered compartments. Organizing the index cards with a rubber band, and stapling loose papers together, I tucked them all into a desk drawer. I turned on the morning coffee and then with the aid of blow dryer, hair spray, and electric straightening brush I tamed my unruly hair. By the time Pete got ready for work, I’d already had a cup of coffee and a strawberry Pop-Tart. I was ready to face the new day.

  It turned out to be a comparatively uneventful one. One field report—interview with a couple who do Christmas puppet shows for kids. Something about Rudolph and the Gingerbread boy. Cute, but not exciting. There was no more breaking news about Eldridge’s murder except that they were now actually calling it “murder” instead of “unexplained death,” or “under suspicious circumstances,” or the other dozen or so euphemisms broadcasters use when they mean murder. As Phil Archer had promised on the previous day’s show, funeral plans for Mr. E. were announced. He was to be cremated, according to his expressed wishes. No formal ceremonies were planned at this time. A celebration of his life would be scheduled after the Christmas holidays. They did, as Pete had promised they would, run the video of the man with a suitcase at intervals during the entire day.

  I even had time to do a little local Christmas shopping. The people I used to work with in Florida remain fascinated with Salem’s witchy past. I ran over to Crow Haven and bought a few candles presumed useful in casting various spells. I bought some for love (pink) and some for money (green), figuring I couldn’t go wrong with those. I threw in one for justice (orange) for Pete.

  I hadn’t forgotten Aunt Ibby’s invitation to go with her to the Belles’ first rehearsal with the hand bells. Compared to the rest of my day, that seemed downright fascinating. Besides, it might give me a chance to ask Lilly Jeffry for the names of those board members. At least I’d have one thing to write in the notebook. I hoped Aunt Ibby would have something for me to write down too, about Joseph Marshall.

  Pete had hockey practice with his Police Athletic League Pee-Wee team, so my evening was completely free. I took time for a leisurely hot bath with a gardenia bath fizz, dressed carefully in the green velour with a fake mink jacket and knee-high boots. Took my time with makeup, trying to implement the tricks I’d learned from Carmine, Wanda the Weather Girl’s makeup man. (Even at my age, I want my aunt to be proud of me when we meet with her friends.)

  We left in the Buick for the Community Center at seven for the seven-thirty rehearsal. She seemed excited about playing the hand bells. She didn’t mention Joseph Marshall so neither did I. That information, if she’d found any, would keep until later. The ten Belles took the stage, all of them wearing black choir robes and white gloves. They seemed to be arranged according to their height. At least it seemed so to me. Lilly Jeffry, of small stature, was at one end of the row, with my tall, slim aunt at the other. The bright brass hand bells were arranged in front of them in two rows of graduated sizes. One row with black handles, the other with white ones. My aunt had explained that the bells worked in a similar way to piano keys—the white keys and the black keys. The fact that all of the women played other instruments and could read music made the task much easier than it would have been for those of us, like me, whose musical background consisted of childhood piano lessons and second grade numbered hand bells and a middle school orchestra triangle.

  Conrad Gillette, in conservative blue suit with striped tie, took the stage, gave a brief history of the hand bells, then, with his back to the small audience, picked up his baton. “We’ll begin with a simple one-octave piece. ‘Good King Wenceslas.’ You each have your sheet music before you? Begin.”

  Considering that this was their first effort with the bells, it wasn’t bad at all. The old song was fairly recognizable. Gillette had them repeat it several times. By then it sounded really good. “Very well then, ladies,” he said. “Turn to another one-octave number. ‘Oh, Holy Night.’” This one sounded even better. The girls were clearly getting the hang of this bell thing, even though the one-octave songs didn’t call for Aunt Ibby’s third bell, the tall C-3, to ring at all. The rehearsal took about an hour, then they adjourned for cake and coffee. I and the rest of the audience were invited to join them. Mr. Gillette stayed for a few minutes, then beat a hasty retreat. Couldn’t blame him. That was quite a bunch of chattering girlfriends, even for me. I maneuvered myself into position beside Lilly Jeffry. “Nice to see you, Lilly,” I said. “The Belles sound as good as ever.”

  “Thank you, Lee.” Big smile. “It’s such fun to get together with old friends. It seems that we’re only all in the same place at the same time, once a year. This is it.”

  “Aunt Ibby loves it too,” I said. “By the way, I believe you mentioned that the board of the Historical Charities also meets only once a year. Who are the board members?”

  “Are you working on a piece?”

  “I am,” I said truthfully. “The society is very interesting.” True also.

  “Let’s see,” she said with one finger under her chin in a thoughtful position. “I’m not sure I can name them all. It’s like trying to name the seven dwarfs.” The silvery giggle, then she began to count on her fingers. She named the president of a bank (the one Gillette had chosen for the Santas’ money drop), a member of the city council, a history professor from Salem State. “Myself, of course,” she said, and—oh yes, Richard McNally. He’s in real estate.”

  It seemed like a perfectly logical mix, on the surface of it. The banker, the historian, the city representative, the secretary, and the real estate man. Why not?

  Again, River’s reading flitted across my mind. Was it the Ten of pentacles that referred to real estate? And the miser was all about money. She’d mentioned the city when another ten turned up. Ten of wands?

  Maybe I’ll watch it again. River’s shows are all archived I’m sure.

  When my aunt and I once again got into the Buick and started for home, I couldn’t contain my curiosity any longer. “So? What did you learn about Joseph Marshall? I’m dying to know.”

  “You know, Maralee, I hate to admit defeat. I’ve always believed that a good researcher, digging deeply enough, can find almost anything.” She shook her head. “This one has me stumped. So far, that is. I’m not giving up.”

  I was incredulous. “Really? You mean you couldn’t find anything about him either?”

  “I found out that someone by that name was born in Revere, Massachusetts, forty-two years ago.”

  “And?”

  “And that person died sixteen years later. Automobile accident.”

  “So you think our Joseph Marshall somehow assumed the identity of the dead Joseph Marshall?”

  “It could be. It’s not hard to order a birth certificate by mail, you know, and once you get that you can get a driver’s license—just about whatever document you need. Anyway, I’ll keep digging.”

  “Me too,” I said. “And I think Pete ought to know about it, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ind
eed he should. Between the three of us, we’ll crack this case.”

  I had to laugh at that. “Aunt Ibby, you’re watching too much TV. Or reading too much Agatha Christie. Pete isn’t Hercule Poirot, and we’re not Charlie’s Angels.”

  She pulled the Buick into the garage carefully as always, stopping when the suspended tennis ball hit the windshield, and we hurried past the frosty garden to the back door where, as always, O’Ryan waited for us.

  “Coming upstairs with me?” I asked the cat, “or staying down here.” He looked from Aunt Ibby’s open kitchen door to where I stood on the back staircase as though making a thoughtful decision, then chose to follow me.

  “Good night Aunt Ibby,” I said. “See you tomorrow. Thanks for inviting me. It was fun.”

  “Good night, Maralee. Sweet dreams.”

  Sweet dreams seemed like a really great idea. Dreams with no fictional characters, no dead bodies, nobody jumping from buildings, no Tarot cards, no Santa Clauses. Visions of sugar plums might be okay, if I knew exactly what a sugar plum was. Must ask Aunt Ibby.

  I put on a long flannel Lanz nightgown with red and blue hearts and flowers on it, a gift from Aunt Ibby last Christmas, fixed myself a cup of hot cocoa, put a few vanilla wafers on a plate, and turned on the living room TV. House and Garden TV was showing a film on Christmas tree decorations. I hadn’t even bought a tree yet, or brought decorations down from the attic. There’s a big bay window in my living room, overlooking the backyard and Oliver Street. Most of the year my antique carousel horse has the place of honor there, but it’s a perfect spot for the tree.

  “What do you say O’Ryan?” I asked the cat, who’d curled up beside me. “We’ll get our tree this week and get the lights and decorations down from the attic.”

  “Mmrrow” he said in an agreeable purry sort of way, not opening the golden eyes.

  “Good. Want to come up in the attic with me?” That attic holds some bad memories for me. O’Ryan doesn’t like it up there either. If I make him come with me on the rare times I venture up to the fourth floor, he walks in a kind of crouch, ears flattened, tail switching.

  “Meh,” he said.

  “Right. We don’t have to do it tonight.” It wasn’t time for the late news yet, so we watched the last half of Prancer, one of my all-time favorite Christmas movies. By eleven o’clock, feeling a little drowsy from the warm room, the flannel nightie, and the hot chocolate, I was tempted to skip watching Buck Covington deliver the nightly headlines. But I snapped to wide-awake attention when I heard my own voice issue from the screen.

  “Was it your mom who talked you out of it?” Buck was showing the portion of my report when Joseph Marshall was being escorted out of the building. I heard the man’s soft message to his mother. “Sorry, Mom.”

  “We have Mr. Marshall’s mother here in the studio with us tonight to update us on how she may have saved her son’s life,” Covington said. “Good evening, Mrs. Marshall.”

  Uh-oh. Buck’s going to have to do this live—without the teleprompter. I crossed my fingers and hoped he’d get through it without messing up. I moved closer to the screen.

  Plump, with permed gray hair, wearing a polka-dotted navy dress, the woman was so motherly looking she could have come from Central Casting. “Oh, thank you, Buck. But my name is Mrs. Prescott. My son went by his cousin Joey Marshall’s name. For business reasons. That’s what he told me. Business reasons.” She gave a fluttery little gesture with her hands. “They were great friends, him and Joey. Same age. Poor Joey died young. Too bad.”

  Aunt Ibby had nailed it! The suicidal electrician had assumed the identity of someone else. His cousin. And I hadn’t had a chance yet to tell Pete about what my aunt had discovered. I turned my attention back to Buck Covington. How was he going to handle this turn of events?

  He didn’t skip a beat. Completely ignoring the name-change information, he stuck to the original script. He was supposed to find out how the mother had saved the son with a phone call. That’s what he did. “Would you share with us what you said to Joseph? The words that made him change his mind? To leave the edge of that tall building?”

  “Why sure, hon. I said what any mother who loves her child would say. “I said, darlin’ get your fanny down off the edge of that roof and come on home. There can’t be anything so bad that you and me and Jesus can’t fix it and make it right. And he did what I said. Just like always.” Shy smile. “Well, most always.”

  Covington nodded and favored her with one of his heart-melting looks that women of every age respond to. “Thank you so very much for sharing your story with us. I hope you and your son will be reunited soon. Now here’s Wanda with tomorrow’s weather.”

  And that was that. No searching questions about Marshall’s reason for the threatened jump. No curiosity about the name change. No pressing her on the “almost always.” I guessed I didn’t ever have to worry about Buck wanting my investigative reporter gig. I uncrossed my fingers. At least he hadn’t actually messed up. I wondered if Scott Palmer was sitting in the director’s chair tonight. If he was, he must be tearing his hair out.

  I was sure Pete would be at his apartment by then, or maybe at his sister Marie’s house. Sometimes he stays and visits for a while after he brings her two boys home from hockey practice. I hoped he wasn’t home asleep. I wanted to tell him what Aunt Ibby had learned about the Joseph Marshall from Revere, who’d died in a car accident when he was sixteen—our Joseph Marshall’s cousin Joey.

  He was at Marie’s and wide awake. “What’s up, Lee? Everything okay?”

  “Yes. I’m fine. Are you watching the news?”

  “No. We’re watching Blue Bloods on Netflix. Why?”

  I explained what Marshall’s mother had revealed and what Aunt Ibby had learned earlier about the two Joseph Marshalls. “Just thought you might want to know right away,” I said.

  “Thanks, Lee. And thank your aunt too. I’ll pass this on to Rouse. She’s the detective working this one. Good job, you two. Call you tomorrow. Love you.”

  “Love you too. ’Bye.”

  Wanda promised that tomorrow would be another cold but pleasant day and warned that colder weather was on the way to New England via the “Montreal Express.” O’Ryan watched the screen until the end of her report, then jumped down to the floor. He likes Wanda. Most males do. He looked back at me, opened his mouth wide in a yawn, then trotted down the hall toward the bedroom. It was almost time for River’s show, but I knew I couldn’t stay awake for it, so I turned off the TV and followed the cat.

  Ever since Frankie had reappeared in our lives, I found myself often looking at the windowsill, halfway expecting to see her outside. I thought I saw a little flash of white when I passed the window and moved closer. “That you, Frankie?” I said aloud.

  There was no cat on the windowsill. Instead, on the frosted pane was a display of swirling colors followed by flashing lights. I sighed and closed my eyes, even though I knew that when I opened them I’d see something more.

  CHAPTER 22

  I’ve seen some frightening things on a weird variety of reflective surfaces. Too many of them involved death. When I opened my eyes this time I saw something that wouldn’t bother most people one bit. It was a door. Not an unattractive door, but one nicely painted white with vintage carved wood bull’s-eye corner trim on the door frame. The problem with it for me was this particular door led from the hall outside my kitchen to the attic—the attic where the Christmas decorations were stored—the attic where I’d once, not so very long ago, barely escaped death myself.

  I turned away from the window. When I looked back I saw nothing there but a lacy tracing of white frost. No white cat. No white attic door. Glad the vision was gone, but mostly confused about why it was there in the first place, I turned off the kitchen light and joined the cat on my bed. “I don’t know what that was all about, O’Ryan,” I told him, “but we’re not going up there alone any time soon.” He gave me a little lick on my chin, then turned arou
nd three times, snuggled up close to my side, and went to sleep.

  Sleep didn’t come quite so easily to me that night. It’s long been a habit of mine, when the body is tired but the mind refuses to shut down, to make a to-do list in my head. Tops on the list this time was to contact Joseph Marshall’s mother and ask her the questions Buck Covington had missed—and preferably to do it before Scott Palmer did.

  Next on my list was another list. Christmas shopping. At least I’d made a start on that one. I needed to buy a tree. (I needed to decorate it too, but I pushed that need to the end of the line.) Holiday cards for friends and family. I thought of Lilly Jeffry’s neat stack of beautifully hand-addressed cards. Addressing mine would be a chore. I think that was the point at where I finally dozed off.

  I put my list into my purse in the morning and arrived at the station before eight. I knew that Rhonda would have the contact information for the electrician’s mom, Mrs. Prescott, and I hoped the woman was an early riser because I had every intention of calling her immediately.

  Bingo. She answered on the first ring and remembered seeing me when I called out my questions to her son. “Oh, Ms. Barrett,” she said. “Because of you, my friends think I’m a big TV star. Did you see me with that cute guy, Mr. Covington, on your station?”

  “I did. You did a good job with the interview. How is your son? Have you been able to see him?”

  “Thanks for asking, hon. Yes, he’s in a kind of rehab place. Lots of doctors. All kinds of doctors.”

  “I’m sure he’ll get whatever help he needs. If you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you a few questions—off the air. Ever since I saw you with Buck last night, I’ve been curious about a couple of things you mentioned.”

  “Oh, sure dear. What can I tell you?”

  “I wonder, as I’m sure others do, if you know what made your son want to do such a thing. He’s a young man, with what seems like a good job and an obviously loving mother.”