Bells, Spells, and Murders

by Carol J. Perry

  So did Mr. Eldridge. I remember that about him.

  “I have a few ideas about the Christmas Belles concert I’d like to run by you.” She waved us into the office, directing us to two folding chairs. “Bruce Doan has kindly offered to give us a few ten-second spots every day until the concert.”

  I wondered if she knew how lucky she was. Mr. Doan doesn’t often give air time away. “We can fit quite a lot of information into ten seconds,” I said. “With some good graphics, the spots can be very impressive.”

  “I’m sure of that, Lee dear.” She picked up a folder and handed it across the desk. “These are photos of previous concerts. Perhaps your people can prepare a montage. Another idea I have is for you to tape a few minutes of a rehearsal of our hand bell chorus, so that people who’ve never heard the bells can get an idea of how lovely they sound.”

  “We can do that,” I said. “My aunt says you all have been rehearsing several times a week. When would be a convenient time for us to film?”

  “Better be soon,” Francine suggested. “We only have about a week before the concert.”

  “How about tomorrow night?” Lilly’s smile was bright. “Six o’clock? Here?”

  “I can arrange it,” I said. “You, Francine?”

  “Love to. I haven’t heard the hand bells before.”

  “You’re in for a treat then,” Lilly said. “We’re getting very good at all of the carols.”

  “You sounded good to me at the first rehearsal,” I said. “By concert time the sound will be perfect.”

  “We hope so. We’re still using the rehearsal bells, of course. Wait until you hear the professional set. Magnificent sound!”

  “I expect those are still in Mr. E.’s safe,” I said. “Has it been opened yet?”

  “Why, no. I was mistaken about that. The bells we’ll be using are here, safely locked away in this very building. The remainder of the set is still in Albert’s safe. I’d quite forgotten that he had the precious instruments delivered here, shortly before his demise.” Again the bright smile. “Would you like to see them? I can arrange it. You can photograph them if you like. They’re really quite beautiful.”

  “Great,” Francine said, standing. “That’s the best idea so far. A real attention grabber”

  I agreed with Francine. “Can you work up a little history about them for my voiceover, Lilly? And maybe some recorded hand bell music?”

  “Glad to. Come on. I’ll show them to you.” We followed her down the corridor to a room marked “Storage.”

  Really? From a secure safe in a private home to a storage locker in a public building?

  The room appeared to be securely locked though, and Lilly unlocked yet another door to a much smaller space where white sheets covered two long tables revealing an outline not unlike a graduated row of miniature pointed mountain tops.

  Lilly lifted a corner of one sheet and, with a magician-like flourish, removed it. “Voila,” she said. “There are the twenty-five bells here we’ll be using. There are nearly a hundred bells in the complete set, but we’re not that good yet. We use mostly two octaves, with a few extra bells thrown in for special effects. For instance, in “The Carol of the Bells,” our closing piece, Conrad has written a fabulous crescendo using bells all the way down to C-3. Ibby is kind of the star in that one.”

  Francine aimed her camera at the table where the bells gleamed golden in graduated sizes from the smallest to the largest. “They’re really pretty. I’ll bet you all will look great playing with the stage lights on. Will you all be dressed alike for the rehearsal tomorrow? That makes a better picture.”

  “We’ll all wear black choir robes. Of course, the rehearsal bells aren’t quite as beautiful as these, but the sound is comparable. Your audience will get the effect just fine. These beauties”—she gestured toward the bell display—“will have to wait until the night of the concert.”

  “If you’ll give me just a minute to get this shot.” Francine walked around the table, pausing once or twice, trying different angles. I took the opportunity to ask Lilly about the occupant of the black Lexus. “I saw Mr. McNally in the parking lot when we drove in. I know he’s on the board of the Historical Charities. Is he associated with the community center as well?”

  “Richard? Oh my, yes. He’s very civic minded. He stopped by to be sure we have enough Christmas toys for the kiddies.” She tilted her head to one side and fixed me in a laserlike violet-eyed gaze. “Why do you ask?”

  “No particular reason. I’ve just run into him around town several times lately.” I looked away. That was a lame answer. Wish I hadn’t mentioned it.

  “Uh-huh. Very civic minded. I’ll tell him you were asking for him. He’ll be flattered.”

  Now I really wish I hadn’t mentioned it.

  “You about ready, Francine?” I asked, a little too loudly for the small room. “I’d like to get back to the station to see what Marty’s done with this morning’s material.”

  “Finished here,” she said. “Want to cover them up again, Ms. Jeffry?’

  Lilly rearranged the sheet over the bells, folding it as carefully around the edges as though she was tucking in a child. “We try to keep them dust free, and always wear gloves when we touch them.”

  “Thank you very much for showing them to us,” I said as we exited the room. “Looking forward to hearing the Belles at rehearsal tomorrow.”

  Lilly turned the key in the lock and slipped it into a jacket pocket. “I’ll walk back to my cubicle with you and get back to work on some more promotion ideas for this place. Later I’ll be back in my more luxurious office trying to catch things up at the Historical Charities building. Thanks so much for coming my dears. See you tomorrow evening.”

  “You surely do stay busy, Lilly,” I said. “You remind me of my aunt. I’m trying hard to be more efficient, to get things done the way you two do.”

  “It comes with practice, dear child. Ibby and I have had many more years to practice.” She gave a little wave and entered her glass-walled office. “See you later.”

  “She’s a wonder.” Francine clicked the key fob and unlocked the van. “Working as hard as she does after going through such a rough time—and smiling through it all.”

  “A real Miss Lemon,” I said, almost to myself.

  “Who’s Miss Lemon? Sounds like a schoolteacher.”

  “She’s just a character in a book I’ve been reading. A perfect secretary who hardly ever, ever makes a mistake.”

  “Yep. That’s Ms. Jeffry all right. Perfect.” She headed to the exit gate and drove the short distance down Derby Street to the station. “I’ll bet Marty has our stuff from this morning all organized. She’s a Miss Lemon too, isn’t she?”

  “We’re surrounded by efficiency, Francine.”

  “Maybe some of it is rubbing off on us,” she said. “I mean, we’ve been getting everything done on time and most of it is damn good, don’t you think so?”

  “I just wish I could come up with something special for my little investigative reporter slot,” I said, “but I think the field reporter job looks fine.”

  Francine parked the van and offered a high five. “We’re a good team.”

  We used the side door entrance to the first-floor studio, knowing that’s where we’d probably find Marty—who arguably wears more hats than anyone else at WICH-TV. We were right. She waved to us from a lighted set about halfway down the long black-walled room. “Hi kids,” she called. “Just putting a few holiday touches on the sports set. Come on down.” Francine and I joined her in the three-sided area where behind the sports desk a replica of the Stanley cup was flanked by a blown-up photo of Boston’s Bobby Orr statue on the right and an artificial Christmas tree on the left. Marty was busy hanging decorations shaped like baseballs, footballs, hockey pucks, and other sports related paraphernalia onto the tree. “Cute, huh?” She stood back to admire her work. “Guess you two want to see how your morning walk turned out, huh? Didn’t have to do much to i
t. Cut some of the boring stuff. Got it down to a minute and a half. Wanna see?”

  She pushed a few buttons on the sports desk monitor and once again we followed the route the person of interest had taken after the murder. The light was good, the camera angles tight. My narration sounded smooth. “When the viewers compare this with the original videos, they’ll be able to follow his progress down the street,” Francine said.

  “Can we do a split screen and match them up, Marty?”

  “I thought you might like that, Moon. It’s already done.”

  Another button push, and there was the split screen, just as I’d pictured it. “You’re a wonder, Marty,” I said. “It’s perfect.”

  “A regular Miss Lemon, huh, Lee?” Francine winked.

  Marty smiled. “Agatha Christie, right? Thanks, but I’m better looking than Miss Lemon. Anyway, Moon, Doan approved both versions. We used the first one on the eleven o’clock this morning, but I say we run with the split screen tonight. You agree?”

  “Absolutely. Both the five o’clock news and the eleven too?”

  “No problem.”

  We left Marty to her tree decorating and climbed the metal staircase to the second floor. We told Rhonda about the Belles’ rehearsal on the following night and picked up our assignment sheet for the lighted boat parade. “Mr. Doan said to tell you that since you have to come back for the boat parade, you guys can have the afternoon off,” Rhonda said. “But keep your phones handy in case anything newsy turns up. Okay?”

  An afternoon off was surely okay with both of us. “See you around six?” I asked Rhonda.

  “Sure thing. I’m bringing a lawn chair. Going to watch from behind the building with you two.”

  “See you there,” I said and joined Francine on the elevator. We exited onto Derby Street, where garlands and window candles enhanced the old Custom House where Nathaniel Hawthorne had once worked, and a lighted Christmas tree shone from a corner window in the Henry Derby house. “It’s so pretty here at holiday time,” I said, looking up and down the street. “I missed this in Florida.”

  Francine turned up the collar of her coat and jammed her hands into the pockets. “Bet you didn’t miss this cold weather. Bundle up tonight. When the sun goes down it’ll be wicked cold here. Damp too. You’ll wish you were back on a nice sandy beach.”

  I laughed. She was right.

  I started across the lot to my car and Francine hopped into her truck. I looked over to the spot where Nick the camo Santa usually rang his bell. Harry—he of the highly reflective brass kettle was there. I waved, but kept a safe distance away from that source of unwelcome visions and focused instead on the harbor and Pickering Wharf where decorated boats had already begun to congregate.

  Once in the car, I turned on the heater, and checked my phone for messages. Pete had called twice but hadn’t left a message. The dashboard clock showed a little before two. If he hadn’t had lunch yet, maybe we could meet somewhere. I returned the call.

  “Hi, babe,” he said. “Want to grab some lunch?”

  “You read my mind. Shall I meet you somewhere?”

  “Got time for a roast beef sandwich at Bill and Bob’s?”

  “I have the whole afternoon off,” I said, “and a hot roast beef sandwich and fries sounds wonderful.”

  “Great. Meet you there. I’m heading that way now. I’ve done a little checking on a couple of things.” Uh-oh. Cop voice.

  “What about?”

  “McNally. See you in about ten minutes.” That was the end of the conversation. I drove toward Beverly Bridge, roast beef, and maybe some answers.

  CHAPTER 37

  Pete was already at the restaurant when I got there. I parked next to the Crown Vic and hurried to the entrance. Bill and Bob’s is small and warm and smells of good things. Pete had saved us a booth at the back of the room overlooking the gray expanse of cold salt water beyond the bridge. He stood when he saw me walking toward him. “What’ll it be? The usual? Hot roast beef sandwich, fries, and a Pepsi?”

  “Perfect,” I said, accepting a side-hug and a kiss on the cheek. He went to the counter to order and I slid into the booth, wondering what he’d learned about McNally that he wanted to share with me. He returned with our lunches in a few minutes and sat facing me. “Well,” I said, “am I right to distrust him? Is he as creepy as I think he is?”

  Pete wore the cop face when he answered. “I don’t know. Creepy doesn’t count for much in my business. But I told you I’d do a little checking and I did. I haven’t found anything exactly illegal on him, but a few things have turned up that I’d call highly unusual.”

  “Like what?” I picked up a hot fry with my fingers and dunked it into a little paper cup full of ketchup. “Where did he come from anyway? He seems like such a big deal around town but I don’t remember him even being here before I left for Florida almost twelve years ago.”

  “That’s right. He wasn’t. He’s been in Salem only about five years. Showed up here with a big bankroll apparently, bought a lot of real estate. Claimed he came from Atlanta.”

  “Atlanta?”

  “Yes. Ring a bell?”

  “Aunt Ibby says Lilly Jeffry came from Atlanta.”

  “We believe that’s a fact. But she’s been here quite a bit longer than McNally has. She’s worked for Eldridge for over ten years. Apparently the perfect secretary.”

  Miss Lemon.

  I thought about how well Lilly had adapted to her current situation. She’d been able to almost seamlessly transition from the profound grief I’d witnessed when she’d tried to revive the lifeless man on his office floor back into a superefficient Wonder Woman. It had happened literally within hours.

  “Atlanta’s a big city, Pete,” I said. “Millions of people come from Atlanta. Is there a connection between Lilly and McNally? Other than the Historical Charities, I mean?”

  “Rouse is working on that.” Pete finished the last bite of his sandwich. “It’s not my case after all. I just looked into it because you asked me to. I don’t like it when somebody creeps you out.” He smiled at that, but his tone was serious.

  “But you don’t think it’s a coincidence, do you?” I pushed for more information. I know that Pete doesn’t believe in coincidences. Neither does River.

  “It’s not my case,” he repeated. “But you are. I’ll keep an eye on things. You have good instincts about people, Lee. I don’t believe in coincidences, but even cops believe in instincts.” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Don’t take any chances, babe, but you keep an eye on things too. And for God’s sake call me right away if anything creeps you out. Anything at all. Promise?”

  I promised.

  The visions are creepy. Does he want me to call when they happen? I knew the answer to that. Call him.

  “I’ll call you. I will. And will you tell me what you and Joyce find out about McNally? My instincts might come in handy.”

  “I’ll tell you what I can. There’s one more thing you might find interesting.” He picked up our paper plate and plastic utensils and deposited them in a nearby receptacle, then returned to the table. “Want a coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” I watched as he went to the counter and ordered the coffee. One more thing? I liked it that he was sharing information with me. I liked it a lot. This was something new.

  “Here you go.” He handed me the paper cup and smiled across the table. “Now, where was I?”

  “One more thing,” I prompted.

  “Right. Vinnie’s mother bailed him out, but before he left we showed him the new footage we have of the suspect—I mean the ‘person of interest’—in the Eldridge case.”

  “Did he come up with anything new?”

  “Not exactly. But he made an interesting comment.”

  “What did he say?”

  Pete leaned on one elbow, his fist under his chin. “He said that the way the guy moved reminded him of that dancing cop on the boulevard.”

  Pete had to go back
to work so we took our coffees with us and went back out into the cold. I sat in the parking lot for a moment after Pete drove away while the heater warmed up, sipping my coffee, thinking of what we’d talked about.

  Had Lillian Jeffry and Richard McNally known one another when they’d lived in Atlanta? No way, I told myself. As I’d reminded Pete, it’s a big city. But they certainly had made a connection here in Salem. What was the common link between them? That was an easy one. The Historical Charities. Then what was Richard McNally’s interest in me? Or was that all my imagination?

  Pete said I have good instincts about people. My feelings about McNally are real, not imaginary. I’m going with my instincts on this one.

  I backed out onto Bridge Street and started toward home. I turned left at Winter Street and was about to park in front of our house, then changed my mind and proceeded toward the Common. I wanted to take another look at that dancing cop. I wondered if I’d see what Vinnie Drake had seen.

  I was in luck. The cop was there and he was in good dancing form. It occurred to me that as the temperature had dropped, the dancing had accelerated. By the time I reached the boulevard, the music rang out clearly while the officer rocked out to Eartha Kitt’s “Santa Baby.” The cat burglar was right. The hand motions were very similar to what Francine had called “some guy trying to get his girlfriend to catch up with him.”

  As long as I was on the boulevard, I decided that I may as well continue along the route we’d walked so recently—the route the suspect had taken, both after leaving the vicinity of the Eldridge house and, reversing his direction, on the way back. I did the same thing on wheels that he’d done on foot. I made a U-turn at the corner and drove slowly back along that pretty roadway, past the Catholic Church, past the statue of Hawthorne, past the tree lot, past the hotel’s overflow lot.

  Where did he go?

  With the question still rattling around in my brain, along with all the other questions I’d asked lately, I turned down Oliver Street and pulled into the garage. The Buick was there so I was pretty sure Aunt Ibby was at home. I wanted to tell her what Pete had told me about Richard McNally.