Bells, Spells, and Murders

by Carol J. Perry

  “I see that. Lots of them.”

  “I got to thinking about that women’s shelter you visited. I thought they might enjoy some cookies over there, so I called. They said they’d love to have some.” She gestured with the tube toward a stack of white boxes. “You can help me pack them up when I’m finished. I thought we’d tie each box with a red ribbon and put one of those big Santa Claus stickers on the top.”

  “Glad to,” I said. “What a good idea. But watch O’Ryan around those stickers. He’s developed some kind of attraction for Santas.” I told her about the ornaments he’d knocked from my tree. “All Santas,” I said, and lowered my voice. “Do you think it means something?”

  She looked at the cat who was busily ignoring us, focusing his golden eyes on those invisible creatures cats sometimes seem to see dancing just above their heads. “It probably does, Maralee,” she said, applying the last of the holly berries. “If it was just random items, that’s one thing, but all Santas? That’s specific.”

  I began arranging rows of cookies in the first box. “I know. But in a city crawling with dozens of them, how specific can it be?”

  “Do you know any of them personally? That might be important.”

  “I’ve interviewed three of them,” I said. “But I don’t actually know any of them. Two of them go by Nick and Harry. The Santa who gave out gifts to the kids in the hospital didn’t use any name except Santa Claus. Didn’t want to confuse the kids I suppose.”

  “We can ask Rupert for his name when we go to the performance tonight,” she said, “if you think it might be important. He told me that the city had hired one of the acting class students, a cast member as a matter of fact, to play Santa this year. Seemed quite proud about it.”

  “Probably isn’t important, but since O’Ryan is interested in Santa, let’s ask anyway.” I tied a red bow on the box, put the sticker on top, and began the next one.

  “Have you had an opportunity to talk with Sergeant Rouse yet? Ever since you spoke with the young man’s mother I’ve wondered what will become of him.”

  “Joyce and I have been playing phone tag. I’ll call her again right now.” I tapped in the number. She answered right away. “Joyce,” I said, “Got time for a quick question?”

  “Hi, Lee. I guess you want to know about Joseph Marshall.”

  “I do. What’s going to happen to him? Do you know?” Aunt Ibby leaned closer to me, straining to hear. “Mind if I put you on speaker? My Aunt Ibby is interested too.”

  “That’s okay. Hi, Ms. Russell.”

  “Hello, Joyce. I hope you don’t think we’re just being nosey.”

  “Of course not. I’ll tell you what I can. He’s still under psychiatric observation. We’re looking into the several complaints about his work. Turns out he’s not licensed at all and we’re trying to figure out if he’s been able to obtain forged ones. That’s where we stand right now.”

  “I see.” I decided to push for a little more. “Have you learned anything interesting about the company he works for? I think it’s called R. M. Real Estate?”

  She paused. “There are things going on that I can’t share. I’m sure you understand that, Lee.”

  “Sure do. Thanks Joyce. Merry Christmas if I don’t see you before then.”

  We said our good-byes and went back to our cookie packing. “So now I wonder more than ever what’s going on there, don’t you?” my aunt asked. “What is it she can’t tell us?”

  “It’s about the real estate company I think. I’d ask Pete,” I said, “but I’m pretty sure he won’t tell us either.”

  “Hmmmm,” my aunt said.

  “What hmmmm?” I asked. “What devious thing are you thinking?”

  “Nothing. I wonder if that poor lad would like to have some nice Christmas cookies, that’s all. Why don’t we call his mother and ask her?”

  “Well, she did say I could call her anytime,” I said slowly, realizing that I’ve surely inherited the family devious gene. “I’ll bet she’s seen him, or at least spoken with him, since all this happened. Why not? I’ll call her. About the cookies, I mean.”

  “About the cookies. Of course.”

  While my aunt finished the packaging, tying, and sticking, I dialed Mrs. Prescott. She was so pleased to see my name on her caller ID and she was so thrilled that I was calling her again, and all her girlfriends were so impressed that she knew a real TV star like me, and was it true that I used to be Crystal Moon?

  With only the tiniest tinge of guilt, I insisted modestly that I’m not a TV star and admitted to being Crystal Moon. “My aunt and I were just decorating some homemade Christmas cookies, and it occurred to me that Joseph—um, Anthony—might like to have some, what with him being in the hospital and all.”

  “Oh, hon. If you aren’t just the sweetest girl in the world! What a lovely idea. Thanks so much for thinking of my poor boy.” She sniffled a little bit. “Brings tears to my eyes. Really. Say, you aren’t married or anything, are you? Anthony is single, you know. Maybe, after all his trouble gets over with you two could get together!”

  “I’ve got a steady guy,” I said, trying hard to sound apologetic about it, “but you say Anthony is in trouble?”

  “Sweetheart, you just don’t know the half of it. Besides all those shrinks talking to him day and night, now some lady cop is over there yammering at him too.” My listening aunt’s head was on my shoulder by this time. I turned the phone as much as I could so she could hear everything. “It’s bad enough,” the distraught mother whispered, “that the poor kid was so scared that he was almost ready to jump off a building,”

  “He was scared? Of what?”

  Still whispering, “Somebody—he wouldn’t tell me who, but it must be somebody important—told him that what he’d done could ruin everything and that they were going to make him pay.”

  “What’s the ‘everything’? Who’s ‘they’ and what had he done?”

  “See? That’s what I don’t know. Except for the business cards and how bad could that be? But I’ll bet he’s going to keep acting crazy so they’ll keep him safe in that hospital.”

  I felt sorry for her. “Do they let you see him?”

  “I see him twice a week. I’ll see him tomorrow. Through glass, you know, and there’s a guard behind him.” Her voice brightened. “But I’m sure they’ll let him have cookies. They’ll probably X-ray them though. Does that hurt them?”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t. If you’ll give me your address I can drop the cookies off later today.”

  “Wonderful. Mind if I invite my girlfriend over? So she can see that I really know you?”

  “Sure. That’ll be fine. Around two o’clock?”

  She recited an address not far from the women’s shelter. That made our delivery schedule easy. We’d drop off half a dozen boxes at the shelter, then take the last two to Mrs. Prescott—one for herself and the other for Anthony.

  After the conversation was finished and drop-offs decided on, my aunt made a pot of tea and two sandwiches—egg salad on toasted homemade sourdough bread—while I arranged a few left-over cookies on a plate. (Some of the cookies had turned out to be less than perfect, so we felt justified in consuming the evidence.) “She seems really concerned about those business cards.” Aunt Ibby spoke thoughtfully.

  “The cards say he’s licensed and bonded. That would be false advertising at the very least,” I offered. “I’m afraid he’s got more problems than that. If Sergeant Rouse finds out that he’s using forged license and insurance documents, I suppose the whole Prestigious Electrical Company is in trouble along with him.”

  My aunt agreed. “I’m guessing that’s where the dead cousin Joey from Portland’s identity comes in.”

  “He told his mom he was using the name for business reasons. I guess he was.”

  “Monkey business.” She sniffed. “Sounds to me like he deserves whatever he’s got coming.” She looked down at the gaily wrapped red and white boxes. “But even criminals des
erve a few cookies at Christmas, I guess. Shall we take my car?”

  “Yes, please. Can’t fit much of anything in mine.”

  CHAPTER 30

  By one-thirty, lunch dishes washed and cookie boxes piled into the backseat of the Buick and with my aunt driving, we started for the women’s shelter. “Wait till you see the kids,” I told her. They’re all so beautiful.”

  “I’m glad they have a safe, loving place to be for the holidays,” she said. “Even though I’m sure it’s stressful for them to be away from home.”

  “I know. Makes me even more grateful that I’ve always had you in my life.”

  “And you in mine. Listen. ‘Away in a Manger.’ Your friend the tree merchant certainly keeps the Christmas spirit going around here with his music. I enjoyed your interview with him.”

  “He plays it day and night, Pete says. But not too many people have complained about it so far.”

  “It just seems to suit the holiday mood,” she said. “Snow flurries and Christmas trees and ‘Silent Night’ and ‘Jingle Bells.’ They all fit together perfectly.”

  Unlike my collection of index cards and visions and dreams and scattered tree ornaments and random doors and Agatha Christi and mythical butterflies. None of it fits together.

  “And cookies,” I added.

  “And cookies,” she agreed. We rode the rest of the way to the women’s shelter with little conversation. “Where should we park?” she asked as we approached the shelter.

  “Around back. There’s a bell. Someone will let us in.”

  I balanced the six boxes while she pressed the doorbell. The general manager, Ms. Ahern, who’d greeted Francine and me, answered. “Come right on it, Ms. Barrett. We’ve been expecting you. We told the kids they’re going to have a cookie party for snack time. They’re so excited!”

  I introduced my aunt and the three of us rode the elevator up to where the excited kids and smiling moms waited. A full-sized Christmas tree had replaced the small artificial one, and there were presents arranged beneath it. I realized that the kids had helped with decorations. Brightly colored construction paper garlands and strings of popcorn and cranberries were draped amid lights and ornaments. An angel in white satin with gauzy wings topped the tree, and muted Christmas music issued from a scuffed speaker box in the corner. Our guide took our coats and introduced us to the group, mentioning that Aunt Ibby was the one who’d baked the cookies. That brought a cheer. The moms and kids were invited to sit at a long table where a red plastic tablecloth and a centerpiece of candy canes and greenery added to the festive look of the room. Mismatched plates and drinking glasses were set at each place.

  “Since Ms. Russell baked the cookies, perhaps she’ll open the boxes,” Ms. Ahern said. “Each of you may put two cookies onto your plate. Moms, will you take care of pouring the milk?” Aunt Ibby, looking pleased, distributed the cookies, pausing to speak softly to each child in turn. I stood beside the GM, enjoying the scene. “Aren’t they cute?” she asked. “They’re so excited about Christmas. I had to limit them to two cookies each though. Too much sugar and I’ll be pulling them down from the ceiling.”

  “Everything looks so nice here,” I told her. “How are the finances coming along? Any improvement there?”

  She sighed. “The contributions are up some, mostly due to your broadcast I’m sure, but we had an unexpected plumbing problem that set us back a bit. Our regular plumber did something wrong and nearly flooded the basement. Broken pipes. What a mess. So we had to call in another plumber to fix it. It’s all working fine now, but it was expensive.”

  “I think my boss might let me do another piece from here,” I said. “Maybe we can bring in some more contributions.”

  “What a blessing that would be,” she said. “Every bit helps.”

  “Would you mind telling me the name of the plumber? The one who messed up?”

  “Oh, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” she said. “He’s a nice enough fellow. Just in over his head.” She laughed. “With all that water in the basement, he nearly was.”

  “It’ll be off the record,” I promised. “I don’t want to get anybody into trouble either.”

  “I could give you his business card,” she said. “How’s that?”

  “Works for me.”

  “Hang on a sec. I’ll run out to my desk and get it.”

  I joined my aunt at the end of the table, offering to help with the cookie dispensing. “Can’t let you have all the fun,” I whispered, untying the red ribbon from one of the boxes.

  “Only two apiece,” she warned. “Too much sugar isn’t good for children.”

  “I know. You never let me have more than two when I was little either.”

  “And see how well you turned out!” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “How are we doing for time? Mrs. Prescott will be expecting us.”

  “You’re right. I told her to expect us at around two.”

  Doris Ahern reappeared and handed me a card. I slipped it into my jeans pocket. “Thanks,” I said. “We have to be leaving soon. More cookies to deliver. I’ll speak to my boss about doing another piece about the shelter.”

  “Thank you both so much for coming,” she said, then clapped her hands for attention. “Children? Say thank you to Ms. Russell and Ms. Barrett. I’ll put the other boxes of cookies away for you to enjoy later.”

  That brought a low groan of protest about the cookie cut-off, then a rhythmic chanted “thank you Ms. Russell thank you Ms. Barrett.” We retrieved our coats, wished the kids and moms happy holidays, and left that warm and welcoming room.

  Aunt Ibby backed the Buick out of the narrow driveway and out onto the street. “Do you know how to get to the Prescott place?”

  “I’m pretty sure I do. Not far from here. Couple of blocks down this street, then take a left.” We found it right away. It was a trim two-story house with a small side yard surrounded by a chain-link fence. Like many Salem houses, the front door opened directly onto the sidewalk. An artificial Christmas wreath with a red plastic bow surrounded a brass pineapple-shaped doorknocker. I knocked and my aunt stood behind me carrying the two ribbon decked boxes of cookies.

  We heard some high-pitched barking from inside, and a “Hush, Snowball.” Mrs. Prescott held a small, white Maltese in her arms, still barking but in a more subdued tone. “Come in, come in out of the cold. Gert! They’re here.” She waved her free hand toward a room on our right. “Hope you don’t mind, I invited my girlfriend to meet you too. You must be Lee’s Aunt Ibby Russell. Hi. I’m Clara Prescott. Come on in. I made coffee. You like coffee? I can make tea if you’d rather.” We followed her through a tidy living room, past a white tree decorated with red and blue ornaments and blue lights, to the equally tidy kitchen. The mildly reprimanded Snowball, freed from his mistress’s arms, scooted under the table, where a plump woman sat. Her white hair was streaked with spray-on color, red on one side, green on the other. She jumped to her feet on seeing us.

  “Oh my God it’s really you. I used to watch you all the time when you were on Nightshades. I loved that show. Clara says you’re on the news all the time now.”

  “That’s Gert,” Clara Prescott said. “This lady with Lee is Ms. Russell, Lee’s aunt.”

  “I think I know you from somewhere too,” Gert said, squinting in my aunt’s direction. “I know. The library. Right?”

  “That’s right,” my aunt agreed, holding the cookie boxes in front of her. “Mrs. Prescott, I’ve brought a box of cookies for Anthony and one for you too.”

  “Oh, thanks so much.” She accepted the boxes and put them on a nearby cabinet. “Thank you, Ibby. May I call you Ibby?”

  “Of course, Clara. Pleased to meet you, Gert.”

  So that quickly, we were all on a first name basis.

  “Please sit down, you two,” Clara said. “Let’s open one of these beautiful boxes and have them with our coffee. Would that be okay?”

  “Of course it is,” Aunt Ibby said, taking t
he chair next to the woman. “I do hope your son will enjoy his. You say you’ll get to see him tomorrow?”

  I sat beside Gert, who wanted to know if I knew River North and if she was as nice as she seemed to be. I assured her that River is one of my closest friends and one of the nicest people I’d ever met, which is true. At the same time, I didn’t want to miss any of Aunt Ibby’s conversation with Anthony/Joseph’s mother. I leaned closer. Mrs. Prescott had lowered her voice but I caught the words “worried” and “shirts.” My aunt nodded, her wise-old-owl expression in place, nibbled on a cookie, and sipped her coffee. “I see,” she said. “I can see why you’d be concerned about that. What do you think, Maralee?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, pleased that my wise-old-owl aunt was drawing me into the conversation. “I’m afraid I wasn’t listening.” Not true. I was listening intently. Just couldn’t hear much of it. “You say you’re concerned about Anthony?”

  “It’s the shirts. The work shirts. He said it’s cold in that place, so he asked me to bring him a sweater. His Auntie Mae—she lives up in Maine—has knit him some beautiful ones. Sends him one every Christmas” She paused, looked at the floor. “I hope they’ll let my boy come home for Christmas.” She looked up, smiled, and continued. “Anyway, I went into his closet to get one”—she gestured with a cookie—“and I happened to look at his work shirts that were hanging there. Well, I like things neat, you know, and they were all like crooked on the hangers, so I went to straighten them out.”

  “Tell them what you found, Clara,” Gert interrupted. “I think it’s just weird. Really weird.”

  “Some of them had Prestigious Plumbing embroidered on the back.”

  Yeah. In red letters. Where is this going?

  “But,” Clara paused, perhaps for dramatic effect, “all the rest of them said another company. A company he never worked for.”

  “Perhaps he picked up another worker’s dry cleaning by mistake,” my aunt said.