Bells, Spells, and Murders

by Carol J. Perry

  “That’s what he told his mother. He told her he was scared of somebody. Somebody who’d told him he might have ruined everything and that he was going to pay for it.”

  “Did she say who it was?”

  “No. She didn’t know and he didn’t tell her. He didn’t tell her what he’d done that was so bad either. All she could think of was the business cards. He’d had some made that claimed he was ‘bonded and insured.’ Of course you know he wasn’t either.”

  “Uh-huh. We know that.”

  “He isn’t a licensed plumber either,” I said, watching Pete’s eyes.

  “So, Nancy Drew. You’ve been doing your homework. How’d you figure that one out?’

  “He messed up the plumbing at the women’s shelter. Those cards said he was a master plumber. Quite an exaggeration.” I wanted Pete to know I was serious about my investigation. “Also he has shirts for at least two businesses. Prestigious Electrical and Acme Plumbing. They both have the same phone number. If you call it you get a recorded message saying to call back later.”

  “We know. You’ve done a good job,” he said, then his expression turned serious. “But let’s not forget, there’s still a murderer on the loose. I guess interviewing old ladies won’t put you in danger, but please Lee, be careful out there.”

  “I am careful, Pete,” I promised. “All my investigating is done in broad daylight and I always have someone else with me.”

  He laughed at that.” Little Francine and your sixty-something aunt. Not a lot of protection there. Just be careful, all right?”

  CHAPTER 32

  Pete walked with me to the front door, and patted O’Ryan who’d greeted us as usual. We shared a reasonably decorous front-door-with-the-outside-light-on good night kiss, and made a date for another early breakfast.

  The copy of Hickory Dickory Dock was still on the table where I’d left it earlier. I remembered that I hadn’t asked Pete about the relative ease of obtaining forged tradesmen’s licenses. I’d ask him at breakfast. I kicked off my boots and hung up the coat and the blue dress. It would feel good to get into pjs and slippers.

  I turned on the eleven o’clock news, hoping to catch Therese’s coverage of the crowd at the theater. I was pleased to see that she’d caught the arrival of the stretch limo bearing my aunt and the other VIPs. Pete was right. Aunt Ibby is an extremely good looking woman. She stepped out of the elegant ride and, nodding to acquaintances in the crowd, made her way to the marquee area. She was followed by McNally, the mayor, the director of the museum, Lilly Jeffry, Conrad Gillette, and a couple of distinguished looking gentlemen I didn’t recognize.

  “I wonder who decided on the guest list for the limo,” I commented to O’Ryan who sat on the windowsill, facing outward and studiously ignoring me. “I know Mr. Pennington made sure Aunt Ibby was included. Do you think he selected all the others too?” I began to tissue off my makeup.

  There was no cat comment, and O’Ryan made a sudden dash to the cat door and out into the front hall, signaling that my aunt had arrived home. I tiptoed out into the hall and looked down from the third-floor railing to the foyer below. As the door swung open, I stepped back, not wanting her to think I was being nosey.

  How would I feel if I caught her and Mr. Pennington kissing? How awkward.

  I heard the door close as quickly as it had opened and my aunt’s voice as she greeted O’Ryan. “Good boy. I’m home. You can relax now.”

  “That you, Aunt Ibby?” I called, leaning over the railing.

  “Yes dear, it’s me. Want to come down and talk about the play? I’m wide awake, but dying to get these heels off.”

  “Already took mine off,” I said. “I’ll be down in a jif.”

  “Hot chocolate?” she asked.

  “Sounds good.”

  After a quick stop in the bathroom to finish the makeup removing, cleansing cream routine, I headed down the front stairs. O’Ryan had remained next to the front door, looking out the side window.

  “What’s so interesting out there, boy?” I looked through the top panes of the same window. Most of the houses on Winter Street had lighted decorations on display. It was a pretty sight. Multicolored bulbs reflected on scattered patches of snow and icy leafless branches of ancient oak and chestnut trees glistened in the street lamps’ glare. I saw nothing out of place. No cars drove past. I thought for a moment I could hear strains of distant Christmas music from the tree lot.

  The cat didn’t join me as I crossed the living room, paused briefly to admire the enduring magic of bubble lights, then followed the alluring scent of chocolate into the kitchen. My aunt had replaced glamor with comfort just as I had. Makeup free, she wore a quilted bathrobe and pink bunny slippers as she poured the sweet-smelling drink into an antique chocolate pot. We sat facing one another at the round oak table sipping hot chocolate from delicate chintz-patterned cups and nibbling on homemade gingerbread.

  “I am so lucky,” I said. “And thankful.”

  A questioning look from my aunt. “Indeed?”

  “Christmas.” I waved my hand. “Here, with you, in this wonderful old house. Good things to eat. A job I love. Pete. Everything. I’m so lucky.”

  “I understand.” She nodded solemnly. “You’re thinking about the women and kids at the shelter and Clara and her mixed-up son and poor dead Albert. We are blessed.” Her expression brightened. “Did you see me on television tonight? I didn’t even notice the camera. It was such an exciting event for Salem—and for Rupert. He was delighted with the packed audience. Gives you a lot of the credit for that because of your interview, you know.”

  “The credit goes to Agatha Christie. As Shakespeare says, “The play’s the thing!”

  “It’s a good mystery, no doubt. The audience loved it.”

  “I know. All the way to the end, I couldn’t figure out who was guilty. It reminded me of what Pete said about Albert Eldridge’s murder. He said, ‘No one is a suspect because everyone is a suspect.’”

  “Even so, Pete was able to identify your Santa Claus among the actors. Did he tell you how he did it?”

  I explained what Pete had told me. “I’ll watch for those things now. I’d never given it any thought before.”

  “Interesting. Maybe everyone has little habits, motions, expressions that count as ‘tells’ to an observant person.”

  “I wonder if that McNally guy has one,” I said. “I don’t like him.”

  “You don’t?” She raised an eyebrow. Is that a tell? “I’d never spoken with him before tonight. He sat beside me in the limo. I found him rather charming. He spoke quite highly of you.”

  “Of me?” I would have raised an eyebrow at that, if I’d ever learned how to do it. “He doesn’t even know me. I’ve only spoken to the man once in my life.”

  “He must have been quite impressed with you then. What did you talk about?”

  That brought a laugh. “Butterflies,” I said. “We talked about butterflies.”

  “Hmmm. No, he didn’t mention anything about butterflies at all. He spoke about your beautiful automobile, and he’s apparently a fan. Asked if you were planning to do some more of your investigative reports.” She put her cup down suddenly. “Wait a minute. You don’t mean Scott Palmer’s butterflies, do you?”

  “Afraid so.” I told her about my trip to the Acme Plumbing Company office, and the dream that had sent me there. “My car is pretty noticeable. And I pretended I’d come there to apologize to that man who’d yelled at me. Scott’s butterfly story was the only alibi that came to mind. I embellished it a little. Sent the butterflies to the Science Museum instead of Mexico.”

  “What did he say about that?”

  I thought about it for a moment. “‘Quite a story,’ he said. ‘That’s quite a story.’”

  “It is that,” she agreed. “Now just what is it about Mr. McNally you don’t like? Anything specific?”

  “Nonspecific creepiness,” I said. “River would call it psychic intuition or something like
that.”

  “Maybe. Of course I find thorough research more dependable than instinct,” she said. “Perhaps I’ll see what I can dig up about him.”

  “Would you? I’d appreciate it.”

  The conversation turned then to more pleasant things, like her upcoming trip to London. “I’m looking forward to it,” Aunt Ibby said. “I’ve been to London before many times, but never at Christmastime. It’s going to be a treat, I’m sure. But Maralee, I still feel a bit guilty about not being here with you. Not cooking the big Christmas feast.”

  “Please don’t worry about me. I’ll miss you naturally, but I’ll be fine,” I assured her. “I’ll be at Marie and Donnie’s with Pete for Christmas dinner and there’s a party at the station Christmas Eve. Pete and I have a standing date for New Year’s Eve. You and I are both going to have wonderful holidays!”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” She smiled. “Your Christmas tree looks beautiful from the yard. Just looking up at that sparkling window makes me glad. I love all the lights, don’t you?”

  “I do. Speaking of lights, it looks as though the boat parade is going to go off as scheduled. I expect I’ll be covering it for the evening news. Are you and Mr. Pennington going down to Pickering Wharf to watch it?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “There are still quite a few things going on in Salem before I fly off to merry old London. The boat parade will be exciting, and then there’s our Christmas Belles concert the night before we leave.”

  “The rehearsal I saw sounded really good. You girls are good at everything musical.”

  “The bells are pretty easy to master. Not much different from those colored numbered ones you played in second grade. We use musical designations—A, B, C instead of numerals. That’s all. You could pick it up in a day.”

  “You give me credit for far too many talents, my loving auntie! I’m not musical. Remember my disastrous piano lessons?” I covered my ears with both hands. “That poor piano teacher must have suffered agony!”

  “It was not that bad,” she lied. “Anyway, you played your scales very nicely.”

  “Thank you, darling aunt. I love you too. But it’s getting late and I have a breakfast date with a handsome detective.” I rinsed out my cup and saucer, kissed my aunt good night, and walked through the living room to the foyer where O’Ryan still peered out the window toward Winter Street. “It’s bedtime, cat,” I told him. “Coming upstairs with me?”

  He turned his head toward me, then back to the window, as though weighing his options. I started up the stairs and after a few seconds he followed. “Are you expecting company, big boy?” I asked, “or do you just like watching snowflakes?”

  “Mrrupp,” he said, making a dash for the cat door so that he could beat me into the kitchen. He likes to do that. I went straight to bed, but O’Ryan took up his position on the windowsill, quietly watching snow—or waiting. For what?

  CHAPTER 33

  I slept like the proverbial rock. No dreams, no visions, just lovely deep, restful sleep. O’Ryan must have given up his vigil sometime during the night. When I woke up at five-thirty he was curled up at the foot of the bed, snoring soft little cat-snores. Trying not to wake him, I gathered up my clothing for the day, tiptoed out of the room, turned on Mr. Coffee, and headed for the bathroom.

  Yawning a wide pink-tongued yawn, O’Ryan emerged from the bedroom a few minutes before six, just in time to greet Pete at the back door. “You look gorgeous as usual,” he said as he joined me for pre-breakfast coffee, “but this old cat looks like something some other cat dragged in. Is he okay?”

  O’Ryan, ignoring the insult, stalked back into the bedroom, hopped up onto the bed, lay down, and squeezed his eyes shut. “I think he’s fine. Just stayed up most all night staring out the window. Seems like he’s expecting somebody—or something.”

  “Maybe he’s expecting his lady friend. Frankie.” Pete said. “Has she been around?”

  “I’ll bet you’re right!” I said. “I should have thought of that. No, I haven’t seen her lately but if she gets too cold or hungry, I’m sure she knows by now that she’s always welcome here.”

  “Ready to go? I’m really hungry. Those little hors d’oeuvres things at the theater and a couple of wings just don’t do the job.”

  I decided not to mention my late night hot chocolate and gingerbread snack. “Okay. Let’s try to beat the early morning rush.” We took his car, and as we traveled toward the boulevard, the sweet strains of Barbra Streisand’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” sounded from the direction of the tree lot. “Really? This early?” I looked at the dashboard clock. “Does he always start this early? It’s not even seven yet.”

  “Not usually. Just once in a while,” Pete said, cranking down his window so we could hear better. “Listen. This is one of my favorites.”

  “Mine too, “I said. “The song was special to me during the years I lived in Florida. I’m so happy to be home again.”

  “I’m twice as happy about that,” he said. “Please don’t go away again.”

  “No plans for that,” I promised.

  I was right about the early morning rush at our favorite breakfast restaurant. Even though the only identifying marking on the building is a vertical neon “OPEN” sign in the window, it’s a popular spot with Salem’s early risers. Not many visitors have discovered it yet, which is fine with us.

  We had to wait a couple of minutes for our favorite booth, but two mugs of steaming hot coffee were already on the table when we got there. “It’s nice to be a ‘regular,’ isn’t it?” Pete asked. “I like it that they know how we like our coffee and which table is our favorite.”

  “I like that too,” I said. “But know what I don’t like? I don’t like it when somebody I barely know, don’t even want to know, has too much information about me.”

  Immediate transition to cop voice. “Who are you talking about?”

  “Richard McNally,” I told him. “Aunt Ibby sat beside him in the limo last night, and apparently he knows quite a bit about me.”

  “Specifically?” Cop face too.

  I repeated what Aunt Ibby had told me, and filled him in on the brief conversation we’d had at in front of the Acme Plumbing store front. I explained the dream that had sent me there too.

  “You didn’t go inside the place with him, did you?”

  “Of course not. There’s nothing in there anyway.”

  “What do you mean, ‘nothing’?”

  “A desk and a chair and a pile of mail on the floor. Pretty much an empty room.”

  “Like that other dream you had? About the empty rooms?”

  I’m sure I gasped. “I never thought of that! Yes. A door with an empty room behind it.”

  We were both quiet for a moment. Then I said, “Aunt Ibby is going to do a little research on R. M. Real Estate and on Richard McNally.”

  “I will too, babe,” he promised. “I don’t like it when somebody makes you uncomfortable.”

  “It’s probably nothing,” I said, feeling a little embarrassed. After all, McNally hadn’t actually done anything. He admired my car. Big deal. Everybody does. He watches me on TV. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? “Hey, nonspecific creepiness isn’t a crime, is it?” I smiled when I said it, hoping to lighten the mood.

  “Nope. Sure isn’t.” He returned the smile, poured syrup onto his French toast. “But I’m going to check on him anyway. Now, is there anything else creepy going on you want to tell me about?”

  “Well, there is one little thing. Not creepy. Just a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “How hard is it to get fake documents made? Like licenses?”

  “I don’t think you could do it, but a person with the right connections, the right money, can get most anything,” he said. “Why?”

  “I’m wondering if Joseph Marshall has some fake papers that say he’s licensed and bonded and all, even though he isn’t.”

  “He does. Anything else
bothering you?”

  “Nope. No problems.” If you don’t count visions popping up in unexpected places and a cat who leaves cryptic messages around the house for me to figure out. I smeared extra strawberry jam onto an English muffin. “I’m going to be reporting on the lighted boat parade tomorrow night. Looks like the weather is going to cooperate.”

  “Hope so,” he said. “I promised to take the nephews to see it. Where will you be?”

  “Francine thinks the wall right behind the station will be one of the best spots to film from.”

  “I think she’s right. The boys like to go to Pickering Wharf though, so that’s where we’ll be. All the shops, you know? Uncle Pete can be very easily talked into buying souvenirs, food, whatever they want.”

  “I get it,” I said. “Everybody should have an Uncle Pete! I’ll be doing a standup starting at dusk, live for the early news, then they’ll rerun it for the eleven o’clock. The parade ends officially at nine, so I’ll be heading for home after that.”

  “I’ll call you. Maybe I could come by the house?” he suggested. “Depends on what the kids want to do. School tomorrow you know. They can’t stay up too late.”

  “Sure. Come over if you can. I hope O’Ryan won’t stay up all night again. He needs his beauty sleep.”

  “Maybe Frankie has shown up by now.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “If that’s who he’s waiting for.”

  Breakfast finished, Pete dropped me off at the front door, watching from his car until I was safely inside. O’Ryan waited at the window to greet me. I waved good-bye to Pete and picked the cat up and hugged him, noticing that he’d managed to wiggle his way out of the red ribbon and bell again. “I think Aunt Ibby may as well give up on decorating you, O’Ryan. You just don’t like being belled, do you?” He answered with a quick lick on my chin.

  Once again, I carried the cat up the stairs. “Don’t get used to this kind of service,” I told him. He purred loudly, clearly enjoying being lugged around as though he was a kitten instead of a big, old, slightly overweight boy cat.

  CHAPTER 34