Bells, Spells, and Murders

by Carol J. Perry

  “Uh-uh. Not with the name ‘Joseph’ embroidered on all the front pockets.”

  I knew the answer to my next question even before I asked it. “What’s the name of the company?”

  “Acme. Acme Plumbing.”

  I could almost feel that business card in my pocket burning a hole in my jeans.

  CHAPTER 31

  “Maybe Anthony is moonlighting. Maybe he got a second job,” Gert offered with a broad wink in her friend’s direction. “You know, Clara, to get out of his—um—bills.”

  “Oh, you might as well just say it out loud, Gert. You think my boy’s gambling again.”

  “Well, why else would he need a second job? Hmmm?”

  Anthony’s mother frowned. “It’s a couple of shirts, for God’s sake. Nobody said anything about a second job!”

  My aunt and I looked back and forth between the two—as though we were watching a Ping-Pong match.

  “Excuse me,” I interrupted. “But if Anthony had money problems do you think they were serious enough to make him want to—you know.”

  Clara dunked the edge of her third cookie into her coffee and nibbled on it thoughtfully. “Maybe. Maybe he’s been betting on things again. But he hasn’t been borrowing money from me for over a year.” Another dunk of the cookie. “He’s even been paying me board. No. I don’t believe it’s gambling. It’s something else.”

  “I sure hope it’s not the gambling,” Gert pronounced. “That was a rough time around here. Damn kid stole everything in sight. Sold his mother’s engagement ring.”

  “He’s going to buy me a new one someday.” Clara’s nod was positive. “Anyway, for my birthday he handed me his whole pay envelope. Handed it right over, he did. ‘Buy yourself something nice, mum,’ he told me.”

  Aunt Ibby spoke up then. “Clara, do you remember the name of the company he worked for? The name that was printed on the check?”

  “No check. Anthony always gets paid in cash. In an envelope.” She darted a look at Gert. “Yes, it was still sealed. He gave me the whole thing.”

  Somebody was paying Anthony under the table.

  “Was there anything printed on the envelope?” I asked.

  “Anthony wrote me a note on it. It said, ‘With all my love. Buy yourself something nice, Mum.’ He even drew a little heart on it. So, call me a silly old mom. I saved it. Want to see?”

  Gert gave a dismissive flap of her hand. “One pay envelope! Big deal. He’s never going to buy her that ring though. Mark my words.”

  Clara ignored her friend and stood. “Wait a minute. It’s in my Bible.” She walked back into the living room and returned quickly, unzipped a black leather case, carefully removing the worn black book. She handed me an envelope. “See? I told you.”

  She’d quoted the note, scrawled in black marker, word for word. The only other marking was a printed logo. It was an eight-sided geometric shape with a letter O in the center. Eight sides. An Octagon?

  Octagon. Where have I heard that word lately?

  Clara answered my unspoken question. “You’re looking at that round thing with the square sides, aren’t you? Anthony says that’s his company’s trademark. It’s an octagon.”

  “That’s the name of the building where Anthony worked, isn’t it?” I asked. “I believe Mr. McNally owns that building, right?”

  Clara shrugged. “Never met the gent. McNally sounds about right though. I recall it was an Irish name. Whoever it was didn’t pay very well. Andrew gets the same pay every week, no matter how hard he works.”

  I downed the last swallow of my coffee. “This has been really pleasant, Clara, but we have to get along home. We have a play to go to this evening and I need to do something with my hair.” I paused. “By the way, do you happen to have one of Anthony’s business cards? The ones you told me about with the yellow lightbulb on them.”

  “Right here in the junk drawer,” Clara said, reaching for the cabinet behind her and pulling the top drawer open. “Here you go.” I slipped the card into my pocket next to the other one.

  “You’re going to a play?” Gert ran a hand through her own hair. “A play with real actors on a stage?”

  “Yes. It’s at the student theater on Essex Street, in the old Trumbull’s Department Store building,” I told her. “The actors are studying at the school there. They’re really very good.”

  “I’ve heard about it,” Clara said. “What’s the name of the play?”

  “Hercule Poirot’s Christmas,” my aunt answered. “It’s by Agatha Christie.”

  “I remember now. I saw him in a movie. Hercule Poirot is a detective.” Gert leaned back in her chair. “With a mustache.”

  “I don’t like mustaches on men,” Clara announced. “I was glad when Anthony got rid of his. Shaved it off when he came home from Georgia.”

  “Chased some girl up there,” Gert put in. “Glad he got rid of her too, aren’t you?”

  Clara silently glared at her friend.

  It was clear that the conversation was rapidly deteriorating. Aunt Ibby gave a slight tilt of her head toward the door. I took the hint. “Well, it was good to see you again, Mrs.—Clara. Happy to meet you, Gert. I hope Anthony will enjoy the cookies.” My aunt and I both stood, backing slowly toward the living room exit.

  “I know he will. Come back and visit anytime.” Our hostess picked up the now silent Snow Ball and escorted us to the door. She stood on her front step, waving Snow Ball’s little paw in a good-bye motion until we’d pulled away.

  “I can’t imagine a cat putting up with that waving bye-bye nonsense, can you?” Aunt Ibby asked. “At least, ours wouldn’t. What did you think about that shirt business?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute.” I didn’t comment on the cat-waving thing, since I’d been guilty of doing it to O’Ryan. I was pretty sure she’d done it before too. I pulled both cards from my pocket. Each was printed on shiny white stock. The one Clara had just given me had a picture of a yellow lightbulb on it. The one Doris Ahern had given me featured a picture of a blue faucet. That card read ACME PLUMBING. JOSEPH MARSHALL MASTER PLUMBER LICENSED AND BONDED.

  Wow. Getting confident on this one. Master plumber, no less, in addition to being licensed and bonded. All lies, no doubt.

  “I think it’s something more than moonlighting. Both cards have the same phone number.”

  “My goodness,” my aunt said. “I wonder if Anthony has any other careers going?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. You know how Bruce Doan likes all of us at WICH-TV to wear many hats? I think Anthony’s employer likes his to wear many shirts.”

  “And his employer is?”

  “R. M. Real Estate. Octagon Real Estate. Richard McNally.”

  “The same Richard McNally who serves on the board of the Historical Charities? His name is on their annual report.”

  “Unless there are two of them,” I said, “and that’s too much of a coincidence even for Charlie’s Angels.”

  When we reached home I headed straight for my bathroom and shampooed my hair. I hadn’t just been making up an excuse to leave when I’d mentioned that I needed to do something about the unruly mess of red curls on my head before curtain time at the Tabby’s Student Theater. Between the use of the dryer and my electric straightening brush, I achieved a pretty good effect with plenty of time left before I’d need to dress. I picked up the paperback copy of Hickory Dickory Dock I’d left on the kitchen table and carried it into the living room.

  I’d been reading the book in bits and pieces ever since I’d brought it upstairs. I was just past the midpoint of the story and Poirot had begun linking his clues together. “Here at last some vague pattern seemed to be taking shape,” Christie wrote on page 126, describing the great inspector’s thoughts about a possibly forged passport. I put the open book down on my lap and stared at the tree.

  If Hercule Poirot thinks a complicated document like a passport can be forged, what about a plumber’s license? Even a master plumber’s licens
e? How hard can that be?

  Was a vague pattern beginning to take shape?

  Maybe. I replaced the Creative Salem bookmark, put the book on the coffee table, and resumed staring at the Christmas tree.

  Mr. Pennington had arranged for a limo to drive Aunt Ibby and a few other special guests to the performance while Pete and I planned to go in his car. I dressed carefully in a new soft wool blue dress. Pete’s favorite color. I checked out my boot collection—yes, I know—I’ve become a boot hoarder—and debated between the high-and low heeled ones. I decided on silver glittered Doraty Mur low heels. Safer, if less glamorous on slippery sidewalks. My doorbell chimed “Bless This House” at exactly six o’clock. We’d decided to have a late bite to eat after the performance and to take advantage of the theater’s locally famous cocktail and hors d’oeuvres intermission break. Suited me. I’d already had enough cookie calories.

  Pete looked even more handsome than usual in his steel gray Armani. We admired each other at arm’s length, and we laughed together when we realized that he was trying to avoid messing up my hair and I was being careful to avoid getting makeup on his white shirt. We arrived at the theater, found a space in the lot, and were fortunate enough to be in front of the lighted marquee when the limo bearing my aunt and the other VIPs pulled up to the curb. I recognized the photographer from the Salem News along with the society editor. My ex-student, videographer Therese Della Monica was there too, so I expected I’d see my aunt, glamorous in turquoise cashmere, on the WICH-TV eleven o’clock news.

  I hadn’t, however, expected to see Richard McNally step out of that limo directly behind her. He saw me too. We made eye contact, despite the camera lights, and he nodded in my direction, still unsmiling. I clutched Pete’s arm. “Did you see that?”

  “Your aunt? Sure did, babe. Think you’ll still be that good looking when you’re her age?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t know. Did you see Richard McNally right behind her?”

  “Sure. He’s a big shot around Salem too, isn’t he?”

  “I guess so,” I admitted. “There’s just something creepy about him. Did you notice that he was looking right at me?”

  He put his hand over mine. “Babe, every man here is, was, or will be looking at you. I don’t think you have any idea how beautiful you are tonight.”

  I wanted to bury my face on his shoulder, but I whispered, “thank you,” and we proceeded past the “big shots” and my good looking aunt toward the theater entrance. The house lights were on, so we had no trouble finding our excellent orchestra seats.

  “Looks like Mr. Pennington didn’t need to worry about filling the place even if this is a Christmas play about a murder of a rich old guy. Art imitating life and all that.”

  “Have you seen it before?”

  “Nope. Read the program notes.” He waved the folded leaflet. “Sounds like a good mystery story.” He pointed to the cast of characters page. “Think any of these people will ever become famous?”

  “It can happen,” I said. “Remember Daphne Trent?”

  “Sure do.”

  “I’ll be paying special attention to the men in the cast tonight though,” I told him. “One of them played the Santa Claus I interviewed after the parade, and later at the kid’s ward at the Salem Hospital, but I don’t know which one.”

  “No kidding? Think you can spot him?”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard. Voice, general build, height, weight, you know. The usual description.” I was pretty confident that I could do it.

  “Weight won’t count in this case, will it? Santa Claus is usually well padded, isn’t he?”

  I agreed, confidence fading just a tad.

  “I watched your interviews with him,” Pete said. “Maybe I can help figure out which actor it is.”

  “Your professional expertise is appreciated,” I told him. “Uh-oh. There go the house lights. Show time. This part is always so exciting.” We settled back in our seats and watched as the curtains parted and the magic of live theater began. The Tabby’s student productions have gained a reputation for professionalism which regularly earn them excellent reviews from well beyond Salem’s city limits. It was apparent from the start that Hercule Poirot’s Christmas would be no exception.

  I did pay special attention to the males in the cast. (There was no way the jolly old elf I’d spent part of a day with was a girl.) I immediately discounted Poirot as Santa because he couldn’t have disguised that magnificent mustache. The actor playing Simeon Lee was too old and too short. The man playing Trassillian was too young looking. Superintendent Sugden’s voice was all wrong and Chief Inspector Japp from Scotland Yard didn’t look right at all for the Santa part.

  By intermission time I still had no idea who played Santa and a peek at the program told me that no new characters would be introduced in the last act. I also checked to see if there’d been a substitution for any of the actors. There wasn’t. Pete and I joined the well dressed crowd. I sipped champagne and ate diminutive crabmeat-stuffed mushrooms and dainty spanakopita.

  “Figured it out yet, Nancy Drew?” Pete teased.

  “Nope. Not yet. You?”

  His nod was confident. “I’m pretty sure I’ve got it. I’ll tell you my guess after the final curtain and you can tell me yours. Okay?”

  “Sure,” I said, knowing I didn’t have even a clue. “Look over there. Aunt Ibby is chatting with the mayor and I think that’s the Boston Globe theater critic interviewing Mr. Pennington. And there’s that McNally person again. See him? I don’t like him. I hope he doesn’t come over here.”

  “Hear that? The five-minute bell. Shall we head back inside?” Pete took my arm and guided me back down the aisle to our seats. The house lights dimmed and the curtain rose on the final act where Poirot figured out what was missing from the old man’s safe, how poor Simeon Lee’s dying screams had echoed so loudly through the house, and, of course, who had committed the murder.

  After three well-deserved curtain calls, the cast of Hercule Poirot’s Christmas took their final bows to a standing O, and Pete and I joined the departing crowd. I saw my aunt and Mr. Pennington hurrying toward us. “Quick, Pete, tell me who do you think Santa Claus is before Mr. P. gets here and tells me the answer.”

  Pete smiled. “Easy. It’s Superintendent Sugden. Who’d you pick?”

  “I didn’t pick any of them,” I admitted, and hurried forward to embrace my aunt and shake the beaming director’s hand. “A wonderful performance,” I said. “Enjoyed every minute of it. You must be so proud of everyone involved.”

  “I am indeed, my dear,” Rupert Pennington agreed. “And did you identify your Santa Claus? Your lovely aunt tells me you’ve been wondering which of my talented actors had that honor.”

  “I’m afraid I still don’t know which one it is. Please solve that mystery for me.”

  “Certainly. Your Saint Nicholas is my Superintendent Sugden.”

  I gave Pete a playful punch in the arm. “You were right. How did you do that?”

  “Tell you later,” he whispered, then thanked Mr. Pennington for our tickets, wished my aunt a good night, and propelled me toward the exit. We hurried across the street to the parking lot—the weather had turned much colder since we’d first arrived at the theater. Pete turned the heater on and we backed out onto Essex street. “It’s still early,” he said. “Want to stop by Greene’s Tavern for a while?”

  Greene’s is one of our favorite places—kind of like TV’s Cheers, where everybody knows your name. “Good idea,” I agreed. “Then you can tell me all about how the heck you figured out that my Santa was the Superintendent. You didn’t even meet him in person like I did.”

  “Didn’t need to. Watched you interviewing him on television.”

  “That’s all you needed?’

  “I saw him when he was riding on the fire truck in the parade too.”

  We pulled into the tavern’s backyard, where oddly, their front door is located, and hurried into the warm friendl
y room. The big stone fireplace blazed, the jukebox played Taylor Swift’s “You Belong with Me,” and familiar voices called out greetings. Sometimes we sit at the bar, but if we want to have a one-on-one conversation, which is what I had in mind for this night, we choose a wide comfortable booth. That’s what we did. I ordered Irish coffee, Pete had regular because he was driving and you can’t be too careful, especially during the holidays, and we shared an order of wings.

  “Okay, shoot,” I said, poking a straw through the whipped cream topping on my drink. “Tell me how you figured it out.”

  “‘Tell’ is the operative word,” he said. “I recognized a ‘tell.’”

  “Like in poker? The thing a player does unconsciously that gives a clue about what’s in his hand? That kind of ‘tell’?”

  “Right. We use it in police work too. An unconscious habit sometimes helps us identify a suspect.”

  “And Santa Claus and Superintendent Sugden had one?”

  “Yep. Your Santa had a habit of occasionally stroking his right eyebrow. The Superintendent made the same move three or four times during the play.”

  “You’re right,” I said, surprised. “Now that you mention it, I remember that. Wow. That’s a very good thing to know. Thank you, Pete.”

  “You’re very welcome,” he said. “Enough shop talk. What do you want for Christmas?”

  Since I hadn’t given that question any thought at all, and I prefer surprises anyway, I turned the conversation back to “shop talk.” Couldn’t help it. I told Pete about the visit Aunt Ibby and I’d had with Mrs. Prescott. “I am still an occasional investigative reporter,” I said, “and I’m still interested in why a not exactly honest electrician would be frightened enough to think seriously about jumping from a rooftop. I couldn’t pry anything much from Detective Sergeant Rouse, so I went closer to the source. His mom.”

  Pete stirred his coffee silently for a moment. “What makes you think he was afraid of something? Not unhappy or depressed or any of the other reasons people do such things—why did you say frightened?”