“He might not be,” I said. “He said they ate junk food on the wharf.” She didn’t bother to answer, just gave me the raised eyebrow look. Silly me. Aunt Ibby’s Beef Burgundy? Of course he’s hungry.
O’Ryan scooted into the back hall to greet Pete just as the oven timer dinged. Aunt Ibby grabbed the oven mitts while I opened the kitchen door. Pete gave me a big hug and a really nice kiss then turned his attention to my aunt who held the white ironstone tureen aloft.
“Hello, Pete,” she said. “Have a bite to eat while we talk?”
“Thanks, I will.” He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. “Now what’s all this about the creepy guy?”
My aunt put napkin, silverware, and a full plate in front of Pete, then sat down. “I happened to be doing a little research on Richard McNally,” she began, “and I’ve found a few things about him that you may not know.”
“I trust your research, Ms. Russell, almost as much as I trust your cooking.” He held up a fork. “This is fabulous, as always. What did you learn about McNally?”
Pete put his fork down the minute my aunt began to relate the story of McNally’s father’s obituary and the revelation that Lilly is McNally’s half-sister. “Nice going, Ms. Russell,” he said. “We knew there was a business relationship between them in Atlanta, but we hadn’t caught onto the family ties at all. Nice going.”
“There’s more,” I said. “Guess who she had to ride with in the boat parade.”
Questioning look. “I don’t know. Who?”
“Lilly Jeffry,” my aunt said. “That’s who. The whole evening with no one else to talk to.” She frowned. “I mean except that goofy Santa Claus they had driving the boat.”
“You didn’t tell her what you’d learned, did you?”
“Of course she didn’t,” I interrupted. “She’s on the case.” That brought raised eyebrows from both of them.
“Anyway,” my aunt continued, “I’m quite sure I managed to carry on a normal conversation without letting on that I knew about her brother. But what does that mean, Pete? Why don’t they acknowledge the relationship? I wonder if Albert knew. I wonder if that’s how McNally got on the board so quickly.”
“What about Conrad Gillette?” I asked. “He must have been a recent appointment too. He’s not from Atlanta, is he?”
“No,” Pete said. “He’s local. His family’s in real estate.”
“Real estate. Like Octagon Real Estate?” I wondered.
“No. Gillette’s family is much more high end,” he said. “Octagon deals more in distressed property. Handyman specials, that stuff. They did the same in Georgia. Not quite slum lords, but almost.”
“That would account for Octagon paying Joseph Marshall under the table,” I said. “Wouldn’t it? Inferior materials? Unqualified tradesmen?”
“Not my case,” Pete reminded me. “But yes. It would.”
“I wonder if Joseph got my cookies yet,” Aunt Ibby said.
“You sent him cookies?” Pete asked.
“No. Of course not. I gave them to Clara to deliver to him.”
“Who’s Clara?” Pete asked.
“Mrs. Prescott. Anthony’s mother,” she said.
“I told you we went to see her. Remember?” I said. “She told us that her son was afraid of somebody.”
He nodded, finishing the last rich drop of stew. “I remember. I just didn’t know her first name. I passed that information on to Sergeant Rouse.”
“Do you think he could be afraid of Richard McNally?” I asked.
“Not my case,” he said again. “I can’t discuss it. Do I smell coffee?”
I poured coffee for the three of us while Pete put his plate and silverware into the sink. “Pete,” I said. “I’m serious. If he was so afraid of somebody that he was about to jump off a roof, and if that same somebody is stalking me, I need to know about it.”
“What do you mean, he’s stalking you?” Pete put his cup down so fast it splashed coffee into the saucer. “McNally?”
“Well, maybe not exactly stalking,” I admitted. “But he seems to show up where I am too often to be coincidental. I think he was at the station today asking Rhonda about me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that? Okay. Now it’s my case too. Rouse went to the hospital and talked to Marshall. He doesn’t know for sure exactly where the threat came from, but he’s afraid it was McNally.”
“Do you know what Joseph—Anthony—did to make anybody angry enough to threaten him?”
“Nothing serious enough to commit suicide over, as far as I can see. Seems he was using company materials and company time to work some outside jobs. Trying to make a few extra bucks, I suppose.”
“Maybe it’s not McNally then,” I said. “Wouldn’t McNally just fire somebody that did that?”
“People are funny,” my aunt put in. “You never can tell what somebody else might do. After all, stealing building materials is a lot different than taking ball point pens and paper clips from an office.” Long sigh. “I know what rebuilding the top two floors of this old place cost. A pretty penny, I’ll tell you.”
Pete poured himself another cup of coffee and topped off mine. Aunt Ibby declined, pleading that it might keep her awake. “You’re right, Ms. Russell,” he said. “If what Marshall stole was worth a lot of money, someone might get very angry. Angry enough to make a serious threat.”
“That doesn’t mean the person would ever carry out the threat. People say things they don’t mean when they’re angry,” I reasoned.
“You’re right too,” Pete said. “How about this? I’ll get with Rouse in the morning and we’ll compare notes. She’ll understand that I’m concerned about you.”
“It’s almost eleven.” Aunt Ibby tapped the face of her watch. “Let’s watch the news on the big TV in the living room. I’m anxious to watch the boat parade from the camera’s point of view.”
“I just want to see the gorgeous field reporter,” Pete said.
We followed my aunt to the living room where she sat in her regular chair, manning the remote control, while Pete and I sat together on the couch.
Buck Covington’s handsome face loomed on the screen, while a parade of lighted boats moved past his head in the background. “Goodness. It looks as though he’s really there,” Aunt Ibby exclaimed. “But he wasn’t.”
The magic of television,” I said. “Marty is a genius.”
Buck ran through a few perfectly enunciated national news items, introduced a couple of commercials, then got to the scheduled parade spot. Buck used almost the same intro Scott had used earlier. “Our own Lee Barrett was on scene at Salem’s spectacular lighted boat parade. We certainly had a beautiful night for it. Lee?”
I’m always critical of my performance every time I watch myself on television. The blue ski suit looked okay. My hair was too curly as usual but didn’t look as bad as I thought it might.
The boat with the cute princesses and the Frozen theme came into view. Marty had zoomed in on the little girls who were totally adorable. Yacht after sailboat after fishing vessel, all aglow with lights, crossed in front of the camera, and WICH-TV’s top camerawoman displayed each one to its best advantage.
“I wonder if Marty was able to include the footage Francine got of your boat, Aunt Ibby,” I said, just as that very scene seamlessly appeared. Francine’s lens had played, almost lovingly, over the entire length of the Octagon—from Rudolph’s red glitter nose to the silver-sparkled trees in the stern. Aunt Ibby’s and Lilly’s smiling faces were shown in a neat close-up. Even the Santa Claus at the helm was shown in such detail that I was sure it was Nick.
I’ll tell him next time I see him that I was impressed with his boat handling ability.
The segment wound up with the Octagon shot, and Buck returned with the new footage of the “person of interest” making his way down Hawthorne Boulevard and back. “If you recognize this man,” Buck said, “call the number at the bottom of your screen.”
“The ma
n changed his clothes between the time he left the hotel parking lot and the time he returned there,” Aunt Ibby observed.
“Yes, he did,” Pete said. “We’re hoping that if we keep showing these pictures, somebody, somewhere will recognize the clothes, if nothing else.”
“According to Nielsen WICH-TV has a pretty big audience. We cover all of the North Shore and then some,” I said. “Surely somebody out there knows who this is. Have you been getting tips at all?”
“Oh, sure. But so far none of them has panned out.”
“That’s assuming the person in the video is, in fact, the killer,” Aunt Ibby, wearing her wise old owl face, pointed out.
“Even if he isn’t,” Pete said, “he was in the right place at the right time. There’s a good chance that even if he didn’t do anything, he saw something.”
On screen, Buck Covington was winding down the nightly news. “Stay tuned for Scott Palmer and The Salem Scoreboard with all the latest school hockey and basketball scores, followed by our own lovely Wanda the Weather Girl, with some not-too-lovely weather to tell you about.”
Pete leaned forward. “Gotta see how the Salem-Beverly hockey game went. Both teams are playing really well this season.”
“I’m interested in what Wanda has to say,” Aunt Ibby declared firmly. “I heard there’s a storm headed our way and I’m just hoping it won’t interfere with my plane schedule. I’m flying off to merry England in a few days, you know.”
“I guess you’re probably all packed and rarin’ to go,” Pete said. “Do you need a ride to the airport?”
“Thank you, Pete. Rupert has offered to drive me there. Oh, look. There’s Scott Palmer with your hockey scores.”
The room grew quiet as Scott rattled off scores, statistics, and stars of the games, accompanied by highlight videos. We joined Pete in a happy shout as Salem scored a last-second goal to defeat rival Beverly 3-2. Wanda was next, wearing a spectacular gold lamé number with some quite astonishing cut-out effects in the upper body area. She did indeed have some dire storm warnings for travelers of an impending northeast storm that some meteorologists had already begun comparing to the great blizzard of 1978.
“I’ll surely be keeping an eye on that storm,” my aunt said. “It doesn’t sound good at all, does it?”
“It might just blow out to sea,” Pete offered. “We all know weather forecasting isn’t an exact science, especially in New England.”
“True enough,” she said. “Let’s hope for the best.”
Buck Covington came back with closing words, reminding viewers to stay tuned for Tarot Time with River North. The scary movie tonight is a holiday special,” he said. “You won’t want to miss Jack Frost.”
“I’m willing to miss that,” Pete said. “How about you, babe?”
“I’ll pass on Jack Frost but maybe I’ll watch a few minutes of River’s readings.”
“I’ll pass on both movie and readings.” Aunt Ibby yawned. “And I’ll say good night to you both.” She clicked the TV off, a clear signal for us to go upstairs and watch our own TV.
We took the hint, said good night, and climbed the curvy front staircase, which was festooned with greenery, ribbons, and tiny bells.
O’Ryan had beat us upstairs via the back stairway and was already sitting on the windowsill, gazing out into the yard when we entered the kitchen.
“Do you suppose he’s looking for Frankie?” Pete asked.
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” And if Wanda’s forecast is right, that smart little girl cat will be around soon, asking to be let inside.
CHAPTER 40
“We left our coats downstairs,” I said. “Shall I run down and get them?”
“I don’t think either one of us is planning to go out again tonight,” Pete said, “but if you think they might be in your aunt’s way, maybe you should.”
“I’ll be right back,” I promised. “Leave the door open for me. I’ll have my arms full.” I hurried down the broad staircase and through my aunt’s living room, dark now except for the single electric candles in each window. The coats were as we’d left them on the chair backs. I gathered them up and climbed the two flights again, thinking about how some of my friends paid good money for stair-step machines. Not me!
Pete laughed when I returned to the kitchen. “I could hear you all the way up the stairs,” he said. “You wouldn’t be able to sneak in after curfew with all those little bells in the garlands ringing and dinging with every step.”
“I kind of like the sound. Especially since I don’t ever have to sneak in after curfew anymore.”
“It’s midnight right now, Cinderella. Want to see what your friend River is up to tonight?” He turned on the kitchen TV and opened the freezer. “How about some vanilla ice cream?”
“Sounds good.” I opened one of the cabinets above the counter. “I think I have some chocolate jimmies to put on it.”
So there I sat with the man I love, at a vintage Lucite table with a disinterested cat on a nearby windowsill, eating premium vanilla ice cream with chocolate jimmies while watching my best friend’s show on a wall-mounted flat screen TV.
It doesn’t get much better than that.
River looks gorgeous for every show, but for this one she was celebrating the upcoming Winter Solstice in an all-white strapless sheath, accented with about a million sparkling crystals. She’d woven a crown of baby’s breath into her long black hair and finished off the look with a fabulous 1950s rhinestone necklace. (I know because I was with her when she bought it.) When her theme music, “Danse Macabre” faded, River faced the camera. “I have something to share with you, my dear friend of the night, before I do my first reading.” She walked across the set and stood beside a small tree in a bright red ceramic pot. It was decorated with twinkling lights and tiny silver bells. “I like to celebrate Winter Solstice at my house. It’s on December twenty-first and this is my Winter Solstice tree. It’s a live lemon tree. I keep it on my patio where it’s warmed by the sun year round.” She lifted a silver goblet and drank from it. “On the day of the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year, in the olden days in England farmers used to offer a toast in cider to the health of their trees and give thanks to them for producing fruit, encouraging them to continue producing abundantly. My Winter Solstice wish for you, dear friends is that you too be blessed with vibrant health in the year to come, and may you produce wonderful things that bring you joy.”
I liked what River had said. “That was interesting—about the farmers. You know, people like to learn something even when they’re being entertained. I’m going to try to do more of that with my reports.”
“I guess it’s not too hard when you’re talking about trees, but how about when you’re trying to catch a killer?”
I thought about it. “I think people like to know the how and the why. How was he killed? Why was he killed? We still don’t know either of those things about Mr. Eldridge, do we? A blunt instrument doesn’t tell us much. And without the how we can’t know the why.”
“Never thought about it quite that way,” he said. “But generally speaking, I suppose you’re right.”
I returned my attention to the TV. “Hello caller, your first name please?” River said, picking up the deck of Tarot cards.
Maybe if the person in the videos had a name, we could learn the “how” of Alfred Eldridge’s murder. That should lead to the “why.”
By the time River finished her first reading Pete and I were both yawning. O’Ryan had hopped down from the windowsill and was already curled up at the bottom of the bed. “Ready to call it a day, babe?” Pete looked toward the bedroom. “I can’t stay awake even for Jack Frost.”
“I can’t either. If you’ll hang up our coats, I’ll take care of these dishes and we can call it the end of a very long day.”
So with coats hung, dishes washed, makeup removed, Pete’s gun safely stashed in the bureau, and the cat relegated to a soft cushion on a chair, I fell asleep in the str
ong arms of a loving man, untroubled by dreams or visions or nagging questions.
I awoke to the fine smell of coffee brewing. I could see Pete’s reflection in the oval mirror as he set our New Hampshire Speedway mugs on the table. He was fully dressed for work. “You’re up early,” I called, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
“Got a call. Have to go in early to meet somebody. Coffee’s on.”
“Smells good. I’ll join you.” After a quick face wash and tooth brushing, I picked up my full mug and joined him at the table. I looked up at Kit-Kat clock. “Chief Whaley called you really early. Must be an important meeting, huh?” I said in a not-too-subtle hint for information.
“Not the chief,” he said. “You got any more of those Pop-Tarts?”
I opened the cabinet. “Raspberry or strawberry? Who called then?”
“Strawberry please.” He smiled. “I know what you’re doing.”
I put two tarts into the toaster and tried to sound innocent. “What?”
“You’re prying. Snooping. Interrogating.” Another smile. “And you’re getting better at it.”
“I am? So you’re going to tell me?”
“Yes. The call is from Mrs. Drake, Vinnie’s mother. She says Vinnie remembers now where he’d seen the man who hired him to steal Ms. Jeffry’s computer. She’s going to stop by the station on her way to work to tell me about it.”
“That should be helpful,” I said.
“Maybe.” He lifted the two tarts from the toaster. “Vinnie’s kind of a flake though. I’ll listen to what she’s got. If it’s anything I’ll bring him in for some more questions. And Lee, I’m only telling you this much because I don’t want you digging around looking for answers yourself. I can just picture you and your aunt now, going over to Mrs. Drake’s house, laden with cookies, pumping the poor woman for information.”
I put two more tarts into the toaster. Raspberry ones. “Okay. You’ve got me. No cookies. I promise.” I pushed my luck some more. “Will you tell me what she says?”
“Maybe. Gotta go. See you tonight?”
“I’m going with Aunt Ibby to a Belles’ rehearsal tonight,” I said. “I could call you when it’s over if you want.”
Bells, Spells, and Murders Page 24