O’Ryan was already outside when I walked along the path beside the garden. He sat, looking patient and placid on the top step. That step is made of concrete and it occurred to me that it must be very cold on his bottom. (I had a fleeting image of O’Ryan wearing a pair of warm flannel pants, but since he couldn’t even tolerate a satin ribbon for very long that image faded quickly.)
The cat and I entered the back hall and I tapped on my aunt’s door. “Hi. It’s me,” I called as O’Ryan pushed open his cat door and gave me an over the shoulder I-got-in-first look.
“Come on in. It’s not locked.” Aunt Ibby looked up from the round kitchen table where several boxes of Christmas cards, sheets of name and address stickers, a small stack of holiday postage stamps, and an address book lay. With pen poised in midair, she said, “Got yours done yet?”
“Cards? Almost. I bought some nice ones at the museum shop. Got a minute? Pete’s done some checking on Mr. McNally.”
She laid the pen down. “What did he find out?”
“Well first, Richard McNally is from Atlanta.” I waited for her reaction.
It was the same as mine. “Lilly Jeffry is from Atlanta too.”
“That’s what I said. But you know them better than I do. Do you think this is an association that goes back to before they came to Salem?”
She frowned. “I’d never given it a moment’s thought. I don’t really know Mr. McNally at all, but I consider Lilly a friend. I don’t recall her ever even mentioning any man except for poor Albert and Conrad Gillette, of course. Those names were always in a business context.” She stared out the window. “Hmmm. Atlanta.”
“What do you think?”
The green eyes took on that special sparkle. “I think I’ll do a little investigating. Anything else Pete had to say about him?”
“Said he hadn’t turned up anything illegal on McNally. Some things, he said, were ‘highly unusual.’”
“Okay. I can work with that.” She stood. “I’ll address the cards later. I know just where to look.” She started to leave the room.
“Wait a minute. Where are you going?”
She turned in the doorway. “Oh Maralee, dear. I’m going to my office. You just go on about your day. I’ll let you know what I find out.” With that, she scurried away, O’Ryan trotting along behind her.
“I’ll look for you at the boat parade,” I called after her. “Bundle up. It’s going to be cold.”
“Yes, dear.” I heard the office door open and close.
I sat at the table for a moment. No aunt. No cat. I shrugged, stood up, and returned to the back hall, facing the laundry room. “Might as well do a load of laundry while I’m here and have a couple of hours to kill.” The wicker basket under the laundry chute was about three-quarters full. I dumped it into the machine, added nonallergenic, clear, fragrance-free laundry detergent, and pushed the proper buttons. Then I climbed the stairs to my place for a couple of hours of rest and a rethinking of my clothes. A cashmere sweater and sleeveless quilted vest would not be suitable for waterfront viewing of the boat parade, however cute.
Aunt Ibby’s display of Christmas cards had reminded me that I should finish mine. I set up my kitchen table in a smaller approximation of hers, with my House of the Seven Gables snow scene cards, my stamps, one pen, and a copy paper printout of addresses instead of a book. Then I made a careful check of my closet for warmer outerwear. After a decade in Florida, my winter-wear was still minimal, but I had a powder blue ski outfit I’d used on a trip to Vail once, and a set of silk long underwear along with plenty of hats and gloves. That should work out fine.
Between laundry, card prep, and wardrobe check I’d used up the better part of an hour. The sun had already set over Salem and the sky was reasonably clear with the tiniest sliver of a new moon. I changed clothes, reapplied makeup, and remembering Rhonda’s idea of bringing a folding chair, stopped once again in the laundry room, tossed wet clothes into the dryer, picked up a blue canvas director’s chair and headed for the garage, hoping I’d be able to wedge the folding chair into the passenger side of the car.
The Buick was already gone and there was a note under my windshield wiper. “Found something interesting,” it read. “Talk to you tonight after the boat parade.”
When I reached the TV station, chair safely stashed beside me, I was glad that my parking spot had my name on it. Most of the lot was filled and there were even a few hardy souls sitting on the granite sea wall. Cold bottoms there for sure and once again I thought about my stair-sitting cat. I wonder if Frankie will come inside if it gets too cold. I hope so. Carrying the director’s chair, I hurried across the lot. The harbor was fairly aglow with the brightly lighted and lavishly decorated boats.
The Doans were in the reception area with Rhonda, Marty, and Francine when I arrived. There was a tray with mugs, a pot of hot chocolate, and a plate full of assorted Dunkin Donuts. Buffy Doan was resplendent in purple velvet with bunny fur trim. “Here’s our field reporter,” Mr. Doan said with a big smile, lifting his chocolate mug in salute. “Looks like this is going to make for good TV, don’t you think so Ms. Barrett?”
“The boats are beautiful, sir,” I said, “and the crowd is building.”
“We’ll be using two cameras tonight,” Doan continued. “Marty will handle the live shots for the seven o’clock news. Palmer will be at the anchor desk. At the same time, Francine will be doing crowd scenes, cute kids, close-ups of the best boats. Then for the eleven o’clock Marty will combine the two for a five-minute segment. No voiceover, just musical background. Covington at the desk. Barrett, Rhonda has your script for the parade with the names of the boats and the owners. Got it?”
“Got it,” Marty, Francine, and I chorused.
“Good. Mrs. Doan and I will watch from my office window—where it’s nice and warm.”
“We were invited to go on one of the yachts,” Buffy Doan told us. “But I have a queasy tummy, so the office window view will have to do.” She picked up her mug and a couple of jelly doughnuts and, giggling, followed her husband into the office marked MANAGER. The lock clicked behind them.
“Shall we brave the cold and the crowd?” Rhonda asked. “I already put my chair in back of the building. Marty rigged up a kind of barrier with sawhorses and a big sign that says WICH-TV staff only. No admittance. That should keep everybody out, including Lee’s fans.”
“My fans?” I lugged the director’s chair back out to the elevator. “What fans?”
“Just kidding. But some guy came in asking about you this afternoon right after I gave you the kids afternoon off. Wanted to know if you’d be on the news tonight. I told him to watch seven and eleven o’clock both.”
“Did he leave his name?”
“No. I didn’t ask and he didn’t offer. It was just a schedule question. Why? Do you think he’s somebody you know?” She zipped up a navy parka, pulled on a matching watch cap, and handed me several sheets of paper, neatly typed.
“No. Not at all,” I lied. “I was just curious.”
Is the creep stalking me now?
CHAPTER 38
It wasn’t uncomfortable behind the WICH-TV building after all. The building itself served as a windbreak and we congratulated ourselves on having the best seats in town for the boat parade. Old Eddie, the station’s night watchman, security guard, and occasional mobile unit driver, helped Marty maneuver her rolling camera into position on the uneven ground, hooked up the lights, and installed a small monitor screen where we could all see it.
“Okay, Moon,” Marty ordered. “Looks like the yachts are in position to start the parade around the harbor. If I’ve figured my angles right, they should begin passing in front of my camera in exactly eleven minutes. Scotty will signal me after the first commercial and we’ll start shooting. That will be at seven-oh-eight. He’ll introduce you. You do your standup then we’ll show the boats and you read from the script Rhonda gave you. Got it?”
“Got it,” I said.
“Good. Read it over. Francine, you can wander around and shoot what you think looks good. You know what Doan likes.”
Francine adjusted the camera on her shoulder, “Got it. Not my first time at the rodeo.”
She pushed one of the sawhorses aside and stepped out into the growing crowd. I’ve worked in front of the camera, one way or another, for most of my adult life, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to having butterflies every time. (Monarchs?) Carefully, I stood on the seawall. It’s only about a yard wide and a wrong backward step would have extremely unpleasant results. I watched the monitor behind Marty. Sound was off but I watched opening credits, then saw Scott at the anchor desk. There was a steady hum of engines as the boats began to move. First commercial came on—a national ad for chocolate-covered strawberries in a holiday box. Old Eddie focused the spotlight on me while Marty began a backward count. I smiled, held my hand mic in position.
“Six—five—four—three—two—one.” Camera light glowed. Scott’s voice came from the monitor.
“Lee Barrett is on scene at Salem’s spectacular lighted boat parade, and it’s certainly a beautiful night for it! Lee?”
“Thanks, Scott. You’re right. The weather is perfect. We’re here at the edge of Salem Harbor right behind the WICH-TV waterfront studios, just west of Pickering Wharf. A big, happy holiday crowd has gathered on the wharf, along the sea walls and in waterfront restaurants, homes, and condos all along the parade route, and as you’ll see, they’ve gone all out with lights, costumed characters, music, and special effects.” I turned sideways, cautiously, as the lead vessel moved through the water toward us.
“Here comes the Rachel Marie, a thirty-foot Grady White. Captain Rick Naves has gone with a Frozen theme, depicting an ice palace with his two daughters Allison and Debbie as the princesses Elsa and Anna. The music is ‘Let It Go’ from the movie. I’m going to step out of the picture now, Scott, so the folks can get a good view of these gorgeous boats as they pass by our camera.”
I stepped down from the wall and out of camera range while I continued my narration, reading from Rhonda’s notes and adding comments of my own here and there. It really was a spectacular sight and cheers from the crowd as each vessel passed showed their appreciation for all the effort and expense the owners had gone to. I wished Aunt Ibby had told me the name of the boat she was on so I could wave to her. We wouldn’t get to show the television audience all of the yachts, sailboats, and even fishing boats circling the harbor, but Marty managed to capture more than a dozen of them in the time we’d been allotted for the feature.
At Marty’s signal I stepped back up to my spot on the seawall, faced the light and camera, said thanks and good night to Scott Palmer, and wished the audience happy holidays.
I set my director’s chair beside Rhonda’s and prepared to enjoy the rest of the parade as a spectator. Francine turned her shoulder mounted camera over to Marty for video editing and joined us, still jumping up every few minutes to photograph parade and parade watchers with her own camera. I had my script on my lap, so I was able to name boats, captains, and themes as each one passed our vantage point. Marty and Eddie went back inside to secure the station’s equipment.
“That’s a pretty one,” Rhonda said pointing to the passing parade of boats. “I love all the glitter, don’t you?” The boat approaching our self-proclaimed reviewing stand was a big one—probably fifty feet or so and was one of the most extravagantly decorated ones we’d seen so far. “Too bad this one didn’t make it to the news.” Rhonda stood and moved closer to the seawall. Francine, camera poised, joined her. Since they were effectively blocking my view, I stood, put my script on the seat of my chair, and joined them. The boat featured several white Christmas trees in the stern, each one almost completely covered in silver glitter. The cabin had somehow been altered to resemble a sleigh, the entire thing sparkling with blue glitter. Revolving lights washed over the whole display, including a red-glitter-nosed reindeer extending from the bow looking for all the world as though he was flying, pulling the glistening, shimmering yacht.
“Whose is it?” Francine wanted to know. “What’s the name of it?” I reached behind me for the script, holding it so that the lights from the boat illuminated the page.
“It’s the Octagon,” I said dully. “The owner is Octagon Real Estate.”
And the owner of Octagon Real Estate is Richard McNally.
“Cool,” Rhonda said. “Hey, Lee. Isn’t that your aunt waving from the cabin?”
Of course it was. Rhonda, Francine, and I stood on the sea wall, waving madly to my aunt. Sitting beside her was Lilly Jeffry and at the wheel was a white-bearded Santa Claus which looked to me like my old friend Nick. He waved to us too.
I texted Pete who, I guessed, was still watching the parade over on Pickering Wharf. “Boat named Octagon heading your way. McNally owns it. Aunt Ibby and Lilly Jeffry in the cabin.”
We watched the parade until nearly nine o’clock, when the stern lights of the last vessel disappeared around the end of the wharf, then folded our chairs and, using the side door to the first-floor studio, went back into the welcoming warmth of the television station. Marty, not surprisingly, was at work preparing the boat parade footage for Buck Covington’s eleven o’clock news. Within moments Francine and Marty had their heads together figuring out how to jam Francine’s footage of the Octagon into the five-minute presentation.
By nine-thirty I was ready to go. Pete’s nephews wouldn’t be ready to leave Uncle Pete for a while yet and my aunt was probably still aboard the Octagon. I put the folding chair back into my car, carefully backed out of the lot, and drove along Derby Street toward the boulevard and home.
Music drifted from the tree lot which still seemed to have plenty of customers milling around among trees of all heights and several varieties. I found myself tapping my fingers on the wheel and bobbing my head to the beat of “Run, Run Rudolph.” Easy to see why the dancing cop danced on this corner.
The garage door rolled up. No Buick yet, but Aunt Ibby should be along soon unless she had plans with Mr. Pennington. I’d just hit Genie to close it up again when a short beep from outside told me that she’d arrived in—as her friend Lilly liked to say—a timely fashion. She parked the Buick, slid out the driver’s side, and slammed the door. Hard. “Oh, Maralee, what a difficult evening this was!”
“Difficult? What happened?”
She hurried around the two cars, took my arm, and propelled me out the side entrance and into the yard. “I’ll tell you when we get in the house. Oh, dear.”
O’Ryan peeked from his cat door and ventured onto the top step, He greeted us with a loud “mmmrrow.” My aunt picked him up and hugged him while I used my key and let us in. “Anything to do with the note you left on my windshield?” I asked as we all trooped into her kitchen. “You said you found something interesting.”
“It has everything to do with it. Take off your coat. I’ll make us some tea. Who knew I’d be alone on that boat with Lilly? And with that ridiculous Santa Claus person who didn’t say anything except ‘Ho-ho-ho’ and ‘Merry Christmas’ throughout the entire boat ride.” She tossed her own coat onto a chair and turned on the electric tea kettle. “What a difficult evening.”
“You said that.”
She sat down. “I know. And it was a lovely parade, dear. That part was fine. I saw all of you girls waving to me. That was nice.”
“You were on the prettiest boat.”
“Yes. Beautiful. Must have cost a fortune to do all that glitter.” The tea kettle whistled. She put teabags into two cups and poured. “Want a cookie or anything?” She brushed a hand through her hair. “I’ll be picking glitter out of my hair and off of my clothes for a week.”
“No cookie,” I said. “I want to know what you found and why you’re upset.”
“All right. Since we knew that both Mr. McNally and Lilly came to Salem from Atlanta, I wanted to see if there was any connection between them.” She paused and took a si
p of tea. “Oh, that tastes good.”
“Aunt Ibby! Was there? Is there a connection?”
“Oh my, yes. There is. Sometimes, if you go back a generation or two, you can find surprising things on old newspaper microfiche. I searched for Atlanta McNally obituaries. Then I put in Richard McNally’s name”
“But he’s not dead.”
“No. But his parents are. I found his father, John McNally’s obit. He was survived by his loving wife Brenda, his son Richard, and his stepdaughter, Lillian Jeffry.”
“He’s her brother!” I gasped. “But why do they keep it a secret?”
“I have no idea. Furthermore, I didn’t know Lilly would be on the boat with me tonight. I thought Rupert would be with me but he was on the big fishing trawler.”
I got it. “So the difficult part must have been acting normal when you’d just found out her secret. They have the same mama, different daddy.”
“So it seems.”
We were both quiet for a minute. “I think Mr. McNally was at the station asking about me today. And I think I need to call Pete.”
CHAPTER 39
Pete answered on the first ring. “Hi Babe. I was about to call you. I just dropped the boys off—full of junk food, with bags full of early Christmas presents from Uncle Pete. Great boat parade wasn’t it? You home yet?”
“I am. Want to come over and watch me on the eleven o’clock? And want to hear what Aunt Ibby found out about creepy guy?”
“Sure do. I’m about fifteen minutes away. Want me to pick up anything?”
“I don’t think we need anything. We’re in my aunt’s kitchen.”
“No worries about food then. I’ll be right along. Love you. ’Bye.”
“Pete’s on his way,” I said. “I’ll start the coffee.”
“I think maybe I’ll heat up that left-over stew in case he’s hungry.” She opened the refrigerator while I measured out the coffee.
Bells, Spells, and Murders Page 23