“What about it?”
“It’s registered to an R. M. Real Estate Company. I think you mentioned that name once in connection with the Board of Directors at the Salem Historical Charities.”
“Very interesting,” I said. “And I’ll bet Pete has that information too.”
“Maybe,” she said, “and maybe not.”
“He has a whole police department to dig up facts,” I said. “That’s hard to beat.”
“He doesn’t have a professional, multidegreed, research librarian and certified snoop like me,” she announced. “Better tell him about the real estate company.”
“I will,” I promised. “And thanks, Aunt Ibby.”
“My pleasure,” she said. “My absolute pleasure. Well, back to my snooping. See you for dinner this evening? Around seven? I’m making a lovely roast beef dinner. Perfect for a cold night. Wanda says snow flurries likely.”
CHAPTER 24
Pete’s call came right after Aunt Ibby’s. Turns out I was right about the Joseph Marshall/Anthony Prescott driver’s licenses. The police had all of the information we had. Pete knew all about the real estate company owning the electrical company/plumbing company work van too.
“One more thing about that real estate company, Pete,” I told him. “I’m pretty sure the owner of that company is on the Board of Directors for the Salem Historical Charities Society.”
“He is?” There was surprise in his voice. “Where did you get that? Not from a vision or something River saw in those cards was it?”
“No. Of course not! Lilly Jeffry told me. And Pete, he’s the same man we saw outside the window in your office. Richard McNally.”
“Hmm. It’s not my case, you know. But maybe I’ll look into it.”
“Will you tell me what you find out? Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but all of a sudden that name is turning up all over the place.”
Another “hmm” on his end of the phone. Then in matter-of-fact cop voice, “You know I don’t believe in coincidences.”
I pressed my luck. “But you’ll tell me what you find out?”
“I’ll tell you as much as I can if you and your aunt will stop playing detective and knocking on doors you have no business opening.”
Doors? What’s up with doors lately? Like the attic door in my vision.
I must have said the word aloud.
“It’s a figure of speech, Lee. I didn’t mean real doors. Hell, it’s bad enough that you trespassed in some guy’s yard taking pictures.”
“That man didn’t make a complaint about me, did he?”
His tone softened. “No babe, don’t worry. He didn’t. Not to us anyway, but if you and Francine were riding around in that big van with WICH-TV written all over both sides, and he was as mad as you think he was, I wouldn’t be surprised if your station manager hears about it.”
I’d never thought about that. If the yelling man did complain to Bruce Doan though, I’d just explain that I was working on an investigative report idea. Which was the truth. And the more I thought about it, the better I liked the idea.
Pete gave me a few more warnings about being careful, not sticking my nose into other people’s business, and that he worries about me so much because he loves me. It was all kind of nice, really. I promised to be careful, which I thought I already was, to avoid the nose thing as much as possible considering my job requirements and told him I loved him and worried about him too. Which was also the truth.
I paid my tab, finished my rapidly cooling coffee, and walked back to the station. Cold, but no snow flurries yet. The camo kettle Santa was once again at his post near the front of the building. His white beard and mustache, though much too perfectly waved and clearly made from Dynel or some other synthetic fiber, somehow looked just right on him. His ruddy complexion, what I could see of it behind the bushy beard, was probably from brushed-on blush, but it looked good too. I paused and tucked a five into the kettle. “Looking good, Nick,” I said. “I guess the beard keeps you warm in this weather.”
“Ho ho ho,” he said, in that hearty Santa voice of his. “Thanks Ms. Barrett.” He tapped the top of the round belly. “Padding helps too. Merry Christmas.”
I found myself humming an off-key version of “Good King Wenceslaus” while I waited for the elevator. Must have been all those Christmas lights on the mansions and maybe a little sugar rush from the chocolate, but the proverbial Christmas Spirit had quite suddenly hit me full force along with a happy urge to buy gifts, address cards, decorate a tree, even to bake cookies. I stepped off the elevator on the second floor, still humming, and pushed open the door to the reception area in all its purple splendor. Rhonda looked up from her People magazine. “Well, you’re all smiles and happy-faced,” she said.
“Feeling good,” I said. “I think I’ll do some more Christmas shopping tonight after dinner.”
“You still shopping?” Astonished look. “I have mine all done and wrapped and under my tree.”
“Your tree is up and decorated already? Shopping done?” It was my turn to do the astonished face. “How did you find time?”
Francine appeared just then and joined in the conversation. “I put my tree up last weekend. My roommate decorated it and I still have a little shopping to do. I don’t send cards anymore. Just the cute e-mail ones.”
Am I surrounded with Miss Lemons? Is everybody efficient but me? Happy face fading fast.
Pete to the rescue. I could hardly believe the timing of his phone call. “Hi babe,” he said. “Want to go Christmas tree shopping with me tonight? I promised Marie I’d get a little one for the kids’ room. And I know you don’t have one yet.”
“That is an absolutely great idea! Want to come over for dinner? Aunt Ibby is cooking roast beef. Around seven?”
He said yes. Happy face back.
“Here comes Scotty.” Rhonda pointed to the glass door. “Guess you two can leave. Old Eddie will drive and Scott’ll do the reporting. If anything happens, that is.”
Scott Palmer came through the door, tossing a wool hat and a long maroon scarf onto the counter and peeling off a leather bomber jacket. “Want to stick these in the coat closet, Rhonda? Looks like a quiet night around town. Dead as a doornail out there.” He pulled his wallet from a back pocket and looked inside. “Except for the darned Santa Clauses every two feet. I must have stuffed twenty bucks into those kettles today.”
“All for a good cause,” Rhonda said, “and hang your own clothes up. You’re a big boy.”
“Okay,” he said pleasantly. “It was worth a try. “Hey, Moon.” He put the offending garments into the coat closet, then faced me. “Heard you and Francine were wandering around some guy’s yard and he got really pissed.”
“How’d you hear that?” This was not good news.
“Don’t worry. I took the phone call. Doan doesn’t know about it. I figured you had some good reason.” He looked into my eyes the creepy way he does to everybody. “What were you girls doing over there anyway? You onto something I should know about?”
“What did you tell him we were doing?”
“I told him you were looking for Monarch butterflies.”
I laughed. “In December? Did he believe you?”
“I told him a bunch of them got blown off course on their way to Mexico.” He shrugged. “He seemed to buy it.” He stared off into space. “It would make a great story if it was true though, wouldn’t it? Clusters of shivering butterflies clinging to the Christmas tree on the common, warming themselves by the lights?”
One thing I’ll say for Scott, he has a great imagination.
I decided to share the reason Francine and I had stopped next to that particular yard though. After that butterfly story I felt that I owed him one. “We don’t know exactly what we’re onto. Maybe you can make some sense of it.” I gave him a quick rundown on why we’d stopped, how I’d recognized the white van because I’d seen it when we covered the man on the roof story. “I know there’s no reason why someb
ody couldn’t use the same truck for two companies, but does it mean anything that both companies belong to a Historic Salem Charities board member?”
He did that eye contact thing again. “Are you thinking that has something to do with Eldridge’s death? Murder?”
“I’m not sure what I think about it,” I admitted. “But I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Hmmm. I’ll think about it too. Maybe do a little digging. I’ll let you know if I turn up anything interesting. Have a good evening. See all you gorgeous ladies later.” He left through the metal door leading to the news department and the downstairs studios.
I said good night to Rhonda, zipped up my jacket, and headed for the elevator. According to the gold sunburst clock it wasn’t yet five o’clock. I wouldn’t have time for a trip to the mall, but I could check out a few of the local shops for gifts before dinner time. Much of Salem’s downtown Essex Street is arranged in the form of a pedestrian mall, which lends itself to easy shopping, strolling at one’s own pace from store to store. Holiday season makes it extra festive with lights twinkling everywhere—strung across the street and from building to building. I parked in the municipal lot near the museum, locked the car and joined the crowd. A rocking version of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” was being piped in from some invisible source, and it seemed that everyone on the street—including me—walked in rhythm to the beat. Even the officer directing traffic on Hawthorne Boulevard had adapted his white gloved hand signals to the upbeat tempo of the old song.
The museum gift shop is always a great source of inspiration for people like me. I found a soft chiffon scarf for Aunt Ibby with detail from Childe Hassam’s painting of Poppies, Isle of Shoals. I knew she would love it. I bought a box of Christmas cards with a color photo of a snow-covered House of Seven Gables. For Pete’s oldest nephew, Colin, I decided on an optical illusion gadget called an infinity light. The one on display fascinated me. A series of lights within a picture frame appeared to lead off into, well—infinity. Unfortunately they also closely replicated the flashing lights that precede a vision. Before I could look away, the swirling colors materialized on the oblong surface too. Then the vision.
It’s bad enough when these things pop up when I’m alone in my room, but this is a public place, with people all around.
Fortunately, it was a fast one. Blink. It was gone. But it had made its impression on my mind. This one seemed straightforward enough. It was my own front door, the door of the house on Winter Street. Not so elegant perhaps as the doorways of the mansions Francine and I had filmed, but quite beautiful in its own way. There was a Christmas wreath surrounding the brass door knocker in the center of the white paneled entrance. The narrow windows on either side had traces of lacy frost accenting each pane. I’d automatically looked for O’Ryan’s fuzzy face in his accustomed place behind the glass, waiting to greet me. He wasn’t there. Instead I saw Frankie. Her mouth was open wide in, had I been able to hear it, what would have been an agonized yowl.
Trying hard to control shaking hands, I carried the scarf, the cards, and one of the prepackaged infinity lights to the cashier. Within minutes, my purchases wrapped and tucked into a holiday-themed museum shopping bag, headed for home. I was tempted to use the Winter Street entrance, just to see if O’Ryan would be in his usual place behind the glass.
That’s just plain silly.
I drove down Oliver Street instead, hit the garage door opener, and put my car safely away beside my aunt’s Buick. Balancing my purchases I made my way carefully along the darkened path, past the garden where leafless frozen branches had already taken on their fearsome nighttime shapes even though it was not yet even six o’clock. Would O’Ryan be waiting behind the back door as he always is when I use that entrance?
Of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be? The cat unerringly knows which door he should choose for his welcoming greeting. Not just for me. He does the same for Aunt Ibby and Pete and River and sometimes for the pizza delivery man.
So where was he in the vision? I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
CHAPTER 25
I was so happy to see O’Ryan that I picked him up and gave him a kiss on top of his head. He accepted the unusual display of affection with typical catlike aplomb, giving me a lick on the cheek in return. Wonderful aromas wafted from Aunt Ibby’s kitchen. I tapped on her door which she opened immediately. “Come in, Maralee. You too O’Ryan.” She eyed the colorful shopping bag on my arm. “Christmas shopping?”
O’Ryan hopped down and ran to his favorite captain’s chair. “I’ll just drop these off upstairs,” I told her, “and I’ll be right back. Oh, I invited Pete for dinner. That’s okay, isn’t it?’
“Of course. I thought you might. Roast beef is one of his favorites. I baked a pie too.”
I hurried up the stairs to my apartment, passing through my living room, picturing how a lighted tree would look in the big bay window, and clicked on the kitchen overhead light. I draped my jacket over the back of a Lucite chair, knowing I’d be wearing it later in the evening, and put my new purchases on top of the bureau with the others. The pile was growing. Well begun is half done. That’s one of Aunt Ibby’s favorite sayings. I know it applies to more than Christmas shopping.
But a pile of scribbled index cards that added up to total confusion, a string of visions that made no sense at all, and unanswered questions about murder—these were not well begun and certainly nowhere near done. I exited through my kitchen door and stepped out into the maroon-carpeted hall. I avoided looking at the attic door and started down the curving stairway to the first floor.
Aunt Ibby’s living room opens directly into the front hall. Her Christmas tree was so beautiful, I had to stop in the arched doorway and just stare at it. All of the decorations and lights I remembered so fondly from my childhood in this house were there—the bubble lights and the blond angel at the top. Good memories. I heard Pete’s voice and hurried through the dining room and back to the kitchen.
“Hi, Ms. Russell. Smells great in here.” He’d apparently picked O’Ryan up in the back hall and carried him inside, much as I had. If the cat was surprised by such unusual attention, he was much too cool to show it. Pete deposited him gently on the floor and greeted me with a discreet hug. “Hi Babe. Thanks for inviting me. Ready for some Christmas tree shopping? That big tree lot over on the Boulevard got a new shipment of nice blue spruce from North Carolina this afternoon.”
“I can hardly wait,” I said. “The proverbial spirit of Christmas hit me just today. It’s everywhere. Christmas music on Essex Street, a dancing traffic cop, it’s all good.”
“Can we help you with anything, Ms. Russell?” Pete glanced around the kitchen.
“I seem to recall that you’re good with a carving knife, Pete.” She gestured to the beautiful roast on the cutting board. “And Maralee, want to mash the potatoes?”
“I guess I can handle that.” My aunt instructed Alexa to play Christmas music and together the three of us carved and mashed and ladled and arranged the lovingly prepared food in beautiful vintage bowls and plates and carried our bounty into the dining room where the table was set with Aunt Ibby’s best Christmas dinnerware with its bright borders of holly. The centerpiece was a silver prancing reindeer surrounded by red carnations among evergreen boughs and flanked with red candles in tall silver holders.
“Wow. I feel as though I should have dressed up for dinner,” Pete said.
“Me too. This looks extra festive.”
My aunt looked around the room with satisfaction. “You know, I won’t be here to share Christmas with you, so I’m planning to celebrate the season as much as possible before I leave. I love decorating. I love grandmother Forbes’s silver reindeer and all the old lights and tree decorations.”
We took our seats, snowy white napkins in our laps. “When are you flying off to London, Ms. Russell?” Pete asked.
“Louisa and I have reservations for the week before Christmas, the day
after the Belles concert,” she said.
“I’ll bet Nigel has some exciting adventures planned for you over there,” I said. “London must be beautiful at holiday time.”
“He knows the city very well. I don’t know exactly what he has planned for us.” Did I detect a hint of a blush? (She’s so darned cute I just wanted to jump up and hug her.) Nigel is with New Scotland Yard, so I was sure he knew London the way Pete knows Salem. It goes with the policeman’s job. That made me think of the house I’d been chased away from by the yelling man.
“Pete, do you know if that house where I got yelled at belongs to the Historical Charities?”
He looked quickly in my aunt’s direction. “It’s okay. She knows about my little adventure.”
Aunt Ibby made a small “tsk-tsk” sound and shook her head.
“Not yet,” he said, putting a second helping of spinach soufflé onto his plate. “Although according to Gillette they have an option to buy that one and a few others on the same street.”
“I guess then that it’s the proposed site for Mr. Eldridge’s Heritage Village.”
“I hope they’ll be able to complete his plans,” Aunt Ibby said. “What a shame Albert can’t be here to see it. That dear man will be missed by so many. Pete, have you learned any more about the man on the video? The man with the suitcase?”
“We’ve got some tech people trying to enhance the thing. Hoping we can get a look at his face, but so far nothing new there.”
“What about the witness? Vincent Drake? Has he remembered anything else?”
“He’s added a little something to his story. He’s not the most reliable person in the world you know, but he says he thinks the guy might have had somebody else with him.”
Aunt Ibby’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Really? What makes him think so?” I had to smile at her enthusiasm. Charlie’s angel?
“This doesn’t show on the video at all, but he says that he saw the man making a signal with his free hand, like this.” Pete extended his right hand with the palm cupped and moved it back and forth as though he was beckoning someone to come to him. “He says he kept doing it until he was out of sight. As though he was telling someone with him to hurry up.”
Bells, Spells, and Murders Page 15