Bells, Spells, and Murders

by Carol J. Perry

  “Of course,” I reasoned. “It happened near the hotel and maybe it was just a couple of people checking out and one was lagging behind.” That made sense to me.

  “Uh-uh. We checked with the hotel. No early checkouts at all that day,” Pete said. “I think the guy might know something about this case. So does the chief.”

  “Your work is so interesting, Pete. Here, have some more mashed potatoes.” She piled some onto his plate. “More gravy? What does Chief Whaley think about the poor boy who tried to jump off that rooftop? Do they know why he did it?”

  “I haven’t discussed it with him,” Pete said, accepting the gravy boat. “Sergeant Rouse is working that one.”

  “I went to school with Joyce Rouse, Aunt Ibby. I could call her.”

  “That would be nice,” my aunt said. “His mother seems like a good person. Did you watch Buck Covington’s interview with her, Pete?”

  “Nope. Lee told me about it though.”

  “I talked to her after the interview.” I took one last bite of the perfectly pink-centered roast beef. “I asked her a few of the questions Buck missed. Off the record, of course.”

  “Anything I should know about?” Pete asked.

  “You already had all the important stuff. It was about the driver’s licenses and birth certificates.”

  “Yeah. Guess Joseph Marshall will have all that to deal with when he gets out of the hospital. Doesn’t look good for him.”

  “Bad enough to make him want to die?” I wondered aloud.

  “I don’t know the answer to that one, Babe.” Pete looked down at his plate. “People do strange things sometimes. Things that make no sense.”

  “You’ve got that right,” I said. “There seem to be a lot of things that don’t make sense going on around here lately.’”

  “More than usual?” Aunt Ibby stood up. “Maralee, if you and Pete will clear the table, I’ll bring in dessert.”

  “I think so, even for Salem.” I gathered the plates and glassware while Pete piled the serving dishes and glassware onto the wheeled serving cart which has been in the dining room for as long as I can remember. It is, I suppose, a remnant of the days when people had household help. The two-tiered cart has a glass top covering assorted butterflies arranged on white cottony stuff Aunt Ibby says is milkweed.

  “This thing is so cool,” Pete said, wheeling it carefully into the kitchen. “Except for the dead butterflies.”

  “Shhh. It’s a family heirloom. Belonged to my great grandmother,” I whispered, then giggled, remembering Scott’s preposterous butterfly story. “You were right about the man calling the station about my trespassing.”

  “Uh-oh. Did you get in trouble?” Pete asked.

  “Oh dear, Maralee. You didn’t tell me that.” My aunt lifted the mile-high lemon meringue pie carefully from the refrigerator. “Pete will you pour the coffee?”

  “I’d kind of forgotten. Nothing happened. Scott Palmer took the call and gave the guy the most amazing excuse.”

  As we returned to the dining room, following Aunt Ibby with the pie on the cart, Pete carrying our coffees on a tray, I repeated Scott’s tale of the shivering butterflies on the Christmas tree.

  “That is a wonderful Christmas story!” My aunt put the pie on the table. “Scott should put it into a children’s book. Think of the illustrations. Marvelous!”

  “And Santa Claus can take the butterflies to Mexico on his sleigh,” Pete added.

  “Yes,” Aunt Ibby agreed.

  “It’s not my story,” I said. “But I’ll suggest it to Scott.”

  “See, babe? Some things make sense after all,” Pete said. “And the most sensible thing I can think of is let’s cut this beautiful pie and eat it.”

  Aunt Ibby cut the pie into generous slices. “Maralee, exactly what things don’t make sense to you? You sounded quite serious about that.”

  Wishing I hadn’t even mentioned it, I tried to dodge the subject. I realized that most of what didn’t make sense to me—as usual—was the damned visions and I didn’t want to talk about them. “I guess I’m overreacting. Too many things on my mind.”

  “You did sound serious, Lee.” Pete frowned. “Anything I can help with?”

  I had to say something. “I don’t think so. First, of course is Mr. Eldridge‘s murder. Why would anyone want to harm him? And other than a shadowy figure on a grainy tape, you have no real suspects, do you?”

  “Not yet. I mean it’s one of those times when no one is a suspect because everyone is a suspect. You could be right that the guy on the tape has nothing to do with the murder.” He put his fork down. “But I sure would like to talk to him. Maybe he saw something.”

  I was getting warmed up to the subject. “Do you even know how the killer got into his office? There are doors all over that house. Inside and outside. Front and back and side. Yet the officer said there was no sign of a break in.”

  Doors again. Why?

  “True.”

  Aunt Ibby pointed in my direction with the pie server. “I’ve been thinking about the case too, Maralee. Why did Albert have a Santa Claus hat on so early in the morning? Do you know, Pete?”

  “That’s an easy one. I asked Ms. Jeffry that almost as soon as we started the investigation. He’d decided to surprise some of the people who helped the society by delivering their Christmas gifts in person. He’d had her select a Santa hat for him the day before. She said he was already wearing it when she saw him working on his ledger when she arrived at work.”

  “Delivering gifts wearing a Santa hat. That’s the kind of thing Alfred would do,” Aunt Ibby agreed.

  “But he wasn’t working on his ledger, was he?” I asked. “He was already dead.”

  “That’s right. But she couldn’t know that. You didn’t know it until you pushed him.”

  “Tapped lightly,” I insisted. “Didn’t push. But you’re right. He didn’t look dead. He looked like he’d dozed off.”

  “I know. Shocked poor Ms. Jeffry big time.”

  “Me too. But had he delivered any of the gifts?” I wondered. “You said she’d given him the hat the day before.”

  Pete looked surprised. “I don’t know. That’s a very good question, Lee. A very damned good question.”

  CHAPTER 26

  After dinner Pete and I headed out into the cold—still no flurries—in Aunt Ibby’s Buick. Two Christmas trees, even if one of them was small, wouldn’t fit in or on the Corvette. Even if they would, there’s no way I would risk that gorgeous paint job, and we knew that Chief Whaley would take a dim view of trees tied to the roof of a detective’s unmarked car. Anyway, my aunt had insisted that we use hers and Pete figured he could stash the table tree for the kid’s room in the trunk of the Crown Vic later.

  “The tree lot with the really good selection is just past the Nathaniel Hawthorne statue,” he said. “Close to downtown and well lighted. Opens early and closes late. The place is so popular they get tree shipments every other day.”

  “I’m excited about it,” I said. “Will you help me get the tree stand and stuff out of the attic tonight?”

  He squeezed my hand. “Of course I will. I know that place still spooks you.”

  I returned the squeeze. “Thank you,” I whispered. “I’m sure O’Ryan would go up there with me, but he doesn’t like it either.”

  “Is the white cat still hanging around?”

  “I haven’t seen her lately. We’ve figured out that she’s feral you know, and it’s really a wonder she trusts us as much as she apparently does.”

  We heard the Christmas music before we reached the tree lot. “I saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” rang out from hidden speakers around the large fenced area where varicolored lights twinkled among hundreds of trees of all sizes and shapes.

  “So that’s where the music comes from,” I said. “I could hear it plainly way over by the museum.”

  “I know. We’ve had a couple of complaints about it from neighbors. They say he starts it as
soon as he opens the lot in the morning and sometimes it plays until almost midnight.”

  “Only a couple?”

  Pete smiled. “I was surprised too. But, it’s pleasant music, and the weather is cold enough so that people have their windows closed.” He shrugged. “This neighborhood is mostly stores and offices anyway and it’s probably good for business.”

  “And dancing traffic cops,” I said.

  “Yep. Traffic cops too.” Pete parked the Buick close to the temporary chicken wire fence. “Ready to pick out your tree?”

  “Oh, yes.” He opened the passenger side door and I stepped out into winter fresh air where snow flurries had begun to fall ever so softly. The scent of spruce and evergreen surrounded us. It was a magical moment.

  It didn’t take long for us to make our selections. A seven-foot Scotch pine for my house and a diminutive Fraser fir for Marie and Donnie’s boys. (Yes, Pete’s sister and brother-in-law are named Donnie and Marie.) Pete secured both trees to the roof of the Buick with bungee cords. “The Little Drummer Boy” provided background music as we started for home.

  “That was really fun, Pete, really special. Thank you for thinking of it.”

  “I love sharing special times with you,” he said. “I hope we can share lots more of them together.”

  “I do too,” I said, meaning it. “Lots more.”

  Pete parked the Buick in the driveway behind the house and together we managed to maneuver the small tree into the trunk of his car. Then, with me on one side and Pete on the other, and with considerable muffled laughter, we wrestled the bushy-branched, seven-foot tall tree off the roof.

  “Now we have to get it up two flights of stairs,” I said. “How’re we going to do that?”

  “I guess we should use the front door instead of this one.” He pointed to the back door. “That staircase is too narrow and twisty.” We both dissolved into laughter again because neither of us had figured that out in advance. Pete returned the Buick to the garage, then with him carrying the trunk end and with me hanging onto the top, we trudged through the yard, around the house, and out onto the Winter Street brick sidewalk.

  I pulled the keys from my purse and sneaked a look at the side window while I unlocked the front door. O’Ryan looked back at me. The right cat at the right door as usual.

  Aunt Ibby greeted us as we entered the foyer. “My, that tree is a beauty,” she said. “Good thing we have high ceilings in this old house.”

  “Did we disturb you?” I asked, concerned that our laughter and bumping around in the yard might have been too noisy.

  “Not at all. I was watching TV with O’Ryan when he ran to the back door, then changed his mind and fairly flew through the house to this one. So I followed him to see what was going on.”

  “No wonder he was confused. We changed our minds too,” I explained. “Now to get this beauty upstairs.”

  “Good luck. Come on, O’Ryan.”

  We bumped and struggled our way up the (thankfully) broad staircase, through my kitchen and hall, moved my beautiful carousel horse to one side, and leaned the tree against the bay window.

  Pete brushed his hands together. “Okay. So far, so good. You sure there’s a tree stand up there?” He pointed to the ceiling. “And plenty of decorations? It’s a big tree.”

  “Yeah. I noticed that. Let’s go up there and get it over with.”

  Once out in the maroon-carpeted hall, with Pete at my side, I stopped short in front of the door to the attic. “Pete,” I said, “I’ve been having visions about doors. About this one, and others. I’m really afraid to open it right now.”

  He put a protective arm around my shoulders and guided me back into the kitchen. “Here. Sit down and tell me about it. You don’t have to open that door if you don’t want to. I’ll go up and get the decorations.” He pulled out a chair for me, then sat in another one close beside mine. “You turned pale back there. You’re really frightened. Talk to me.”

  So I did. I talked about the doors. Not just the vision doors, the ones about the attic and the front door of the house, but about the Chestnut Street doors and the Historical Charities door and all the other doors I’d been thinking about lately. Maybe obsessing about.

  Pete listened quietly, never interrupting, just holding my hands, his eyes on mine, listening. When I’d finished, he remained silent for a long moment. “Oh, babe.” He spoke softly. “I wish I could help you make sense out of all this. I wish we could figure out together what the doors mean, if they mean anything. Doors can mean good things, can’t they? New opportunities? Entering new fields? New beginnings? I don’t know. Good things. Happy things.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I feel better just telling you about them. I’m sure I’ll learn what they mean before long. I always do.”

  “Yes. You do. Now I want you to just relax. I’ll make us some decaf, then I’ll go up and get the Christmas things.” He opened the coffee canister.” Do you think you’d like to decorate the tree tonight?”

  “I think so,” I said, “and Pete . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing. I love you.”

  I sat in my pretty kitchen and sipped on the coffee Pete had poured for me, feeling a little bit ashamed of myself for getting so emotional over some doors. Not even real ones. Visualized doors. Imaginary doors. Dream doors. Pete had gone up into the attic without me and I was truly glad that I didn’t have to go up there tonight. I’d been in that long, clean room, smelling of pine wood and cedar closets, numerous times since it had been rebuilt. Never liked it, but never felt the fright I’d felt standing in front of that door less than an hour ago.

  Pete had left the kitchen door open, so I heard his footsteps as he descended the attic stairs. In a moment he appeared, smiling, on the threshold, both arms piled high with boxes, the green metal tree stand precariously balanced on top of the pile. “I think I got everything,” he said. “They were all right where you said they’d be. That has to be the most organized attic space I’ve ever seen.”

  “I know it is. Aunt Ibby designed it that way. ‘A place for everything and everything in its place.’” I reached up for the tree stand carried it into the living room. Pete followed with the boxes containing my collection of lights and tinsel and colorful balls and crocheted angels and crystal snowflakes and assorted Santas I’d accumulated through the years. We arranged the boxes along the length of the couch and on the coffee table.

  “I was worried that you might not have enough decorations for such a tall tree,” Pete said. “But you sure do. Anyway, I brought you another one.” He handed me a small oblong box. “Go ahead. Open it.”

  I love presents. Always have. And I already knew that Pete was a really good present picker. I carefully lifted the lid from the box, and pushed aside blue tissue paper. It was a golden-colored blown glass cat and it was absolutely exquisite. “Oh, Pete,” I said. “It’s wonderful. I love it.” I picked up the delicate ornament and turned it in my hands. Its painted collar was set with tiny jewels and the eyes were totally catlike.

  “The man in the shop said it comes from Poland. Mouth blown, hand-painted glass. I was sure you’d like it.” I knew he was as pleased because I loved the gift as I was to receive it. I reached up to kiss him. That kiss almost completely derailed our decorating plans, but after a while we opened the boxes on the couch and table, strung lights, placed ornaments and tinsel just so, and made sure that the new cat had a place of honor at the front of the tree.

  It was close to eleven when we stood back, admiring our work, and leaving the Christmas lights glowing because we couldn’t bear to turn them off, headed for the bedroom.

  The dream, when it came, seemed familiar. It was very much like the vision I’d had in the museum store. I approached the front door of the Winter Street house. This time there were no cats, either white or yellow striped, peering from the side window. I pushed the unlocked door open. The foyer was empty. No hall tree. No paintings on the wall. I looked through the
arched doorway into Aunt Ibby’s living room. There was nothing there either. I walked across a bare floor to the dining room. Empty, as was the kitchen. I didn’t look any further. I knew there would be nothing anywhere in the whole house.

  CHAPTER 27

  In the morning I told Pete about the nightmare, if that’s what it was. I was surprised, as we lingered over morning coffee and toaster waffles with real Vermont maple syrup, how unemotional I felt as I relayed what I’d seen in the dream.

  “So you opened the door and there was nothing behind it,” he said. “That sounds like some kind of symbolism, doesn’t it? Maybe our friend River would have some ideas about it.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I said. “I’ll call her today.”

  I planned to do exactly that. River stays up so late because of the show, that I never call her before late afternoon. Francine and I were kept pretty busy during the day—I suggested a trip to the tree lot which turned out well. The proprietor of the place was a funny guy who told us some cute stories about customers. We got some nice shots of the dancing traffic cop too, though he couldn’t leave his post to talk with us. He clearly didn’t mind being on TV though and made some extra-fancy moves for Francine’s camera. Later in the day we covered a craft fair at an assisted living community where residents had turned out an amazing variety of gift items. We got a feel-good segment for the viewers and I crossed off a couple more names from my list with the purchase of a pair of hand-knit mittens and a pig-shaped cutting board.

  Just before I left the station at five I called River and asked her what she knew about door dreams. “Are they doors in your own house?” she asked right away.

  “Yes.” That surprised me, even though she’s a witch and I’m getting used to her surprises. “How did you know that?”

  She laughed. “I didn’t know it, you big silly. I’m not a psychic for heaven’s sake. I asked because that’s usually a good sign. It can mean opportunity or fulfilment. It’s like clearing the decks for something new coming into your life. Did it feel like that?”