“Yes. Call me.” He kissed me. “We’ll do something.”
O’Ryan followed him to the back door. I poured myself another cup of coffee, put my raspberry Pop-Tarts on a plate, and turned on the morning news. Phil Archer was in the anchor chair advising viewers about the morning traffic which was somewhat messed up as usual. City councilors were warring among themselves, and citizens were warned that there were some Christmas Grinches stealing packages from front porches. So far, it didn’t appear to be an exciting news day.
I had some extra time before I had to go to work, so I spent most of it taking a long hot shower, fussing with my hair more than usual, and doing an extra careful makeup job. I picked out lined blue jeans, a creamy Irish knit sweater Aunt Ibby had brought to me from Ireland, and my leather NASCAR jacket. I laid them all out in a neat row on the bed. O’Ryan leapt up, and with precise steps walked around and sniffed each piece.
“What do you think, cat? Do you approve?”
“Meh,” he said and jumped down to the floor.
“What do you mean, ‘meh’? I think it’s a great combination. What do you know? You don’t even wear pants,” I told him as I dressed for work.
Phil Archer was right about the traffic. Christmas shopping was in full swing and Dancing Cop had his white gloved hands full keeping things moving. “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” provided background music for the intricate ballet of street-crossing pedestrians and slow-moving vehicles.
Things were moving along in an orderly fashion at WICH-TV too. Rhonda had my typed schedule all set and Francine had the mobile van gassed up and ready to roll. “You don’t have any appointments set until your eleven o’clock at the Peabody-Essex Institute to see the doll houses,” Rhonda said, “so Mr. Doan suggests that you take a ride around the neighborhood and see if you can find something worth a live shot that Phil can use before he goes off the air at ten. Phone Mr. Doan for his okay first.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Francine said as we headed for the elevator. “I saw a guy over on the common this morning. He was flying one of those little drones that take pictures. Do you think Phil could use a short interview with him?”
“I’ve seen him over there too,” I said. “I’ve always wondered how those things work. I’ll bet a lot of other people do too.”
“I hope he’s still there,” she said. “My roommate and I used to have one of those remote-controlled model helicopters. I’m pretty sure it works something like that.” She parked on the south side of Washington Square, next to the hotel. “Look, there he is.”
Francine unloaded the camera and hand mic from the van while I called Mr. Doan. “Good idea, Barrett,” he said. “I’ve often wondered how those things work,”
“Me too,” I said. I thought about my recent realization that people like to learn something when they’re being entertained. This was that kind of topic. As Francine and I drew closer to the drone flyer I was surprised to see gray hair. I’d expected a young techie type, not a man who might be around my aunt’s age. He’d just landed his drone when we approached, so we had a good look at it. My first impression was of plastic and propellers with a small camera attached.
Would he mind being filmed live for WICH-TV? He’d love it. Francine signaled Marty to patch us in to Phil’s show and we waited for her signal to proceed. Francine began a countdown. Three—two—one—
We, and our audience, became acquainted with Charlie on camera. He answered my questions succinctly and with good humor. He’d bought the drone on sale on Black Friday for his grandson’s Christmas gift. He’d decided to try it out and had been “trying it out” every day since.
“Do you always fly it from here on the Common?” I asked.
“Most mornings at around sunup,” he said. “I’ve been sending her different directions every day. Salem is beautiful from up there. I like that time of morning. Quiet and pretty. Well, usually quiet except for the danged music from over there lately.” He pointed toward the boulevard. “I only get about twelve minutes flight time from one battery though. Bought an extra battery this morning,” he said. “Couldn’t wait until tomorrow to try her out. It looks like we’ve got some weather coming our way. Can’t fly this baby in a snowstorm.”
I asked the kind of questions I thought might both teach and entertain. I learned, along with my audience, that these tiny aerial acrobats have plenty of tech tucked into the lightweight frames. Unlike Francine’s remote-controlled helicopter, the drone can fly, hover, or navigate without input from a pilot. “I give it a GPS position and it can self-stabilize,” Charlie said. “The thing is amazing.” He pulled a smartphone from his pocket. “I can use Wi-Fi and even communicate with her from this.”
“Do you save all the videos you take?” I asked, hoping against hope the answer would be “yes,” and that Charlie had been flying the little drone on the morning of December first.
“Sure do. I’ve been taking pictures since the day after Thanksgiving. Every morning. They’re all archived on my website.” He handed me his card. I read his name and website aloud, then slipped the card into my jeans’ pocket.
I wound up the interview by asking what his grandson was going to get for Christmas, now that Grandpa had fallen in love with the drone. “That’s easy,” he said. “Another one of these.”
As soon as I was back in the van I hit Pete’s private number and left a voice mail message. “You might want to check with a man who flies a drone with a camera from the Common early every morning.” I recited Charlie’s name, phone, website, and e-mail from his card. “He was there on December first.” I knew the idea that the drone had captured anything related to Eldridge’s death was a long shot, but I was sure Pete would think it was worth a try.
I looked at the card again. Maybe I should show this to Aunt Ibby. Charlie was an interesting man and he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
Silly me! She’s already balancing two gentlemen friends. But his name would fit right in with her Charlie’s Angels idea.
CHAPTER 41
At the Essex Institute we spotlighted a wonderful dollhouse built by a Salem cabinetmaker in 1876. The house has been electrified so we were able to peer with the camera into every elaborately furnished little room. It was decorated with Christmas trees, wreaths, garlands, and presents for every member of the resident doll family. Santa Claus and his reindeer stood poised in the rooftop.
“Kids are going to love this,” Francine said. “Look at the tiny dishes on the table, the little lace curtains, the decorations on the tree.”
“Not just kids,” I said. “Moms and grandmas too. Every woman who ever had or wanted a doll house will love it. I hope they’ll run this more than once.”
Happy with our morning’s work, we returned to the station shortly after noon. Phil Archer greeted us with fist bumps. “Good job girls. Nothing better to pick up morning ratings than live TV from the field.” We checked with Marty about placement for the dollhouse story which was slated to be part of a children’s Christmas special show. We’d just started walking down Derby Street to the Scratch Kitchen when my phone buzzed. Pete.
“Hi babe. Good catch,” he said. “I got in touch with Charlie right after you called. We’re going through his archives now. Chief says to tell you thanks too. There’s a chance we may have something.”
“Chief says thanks?” Tom Whaley and I got off on the proverbial wrong foot the very first time we met and things hadn’t improved much since. “That’s good to hear,” I said. “And you think there may be something there? That the drone might have spotted something? Don’t keep me in suspense. What did you find?”
“Not what we expected. I’ll tell you what I can when we’re sure. I just wanted you to know you were a big help. I’ll see you tonight at the bell ringing thing.”
“What’d he say?” Francine asked. “Charlie and his drone might be helping the cops?”
“Sounds that way. But he wouldn’t say how.” A cop boyfriend, however wonderful, can be a pa
in sometimes. “It’s a cop thing,” I told her. “Whatever it is, I never would have thought about Charlie if you hadn’t mentioned him.”
“That was just luck,” she said, “but it looks like old Charlie may turn out to be even cooler than I thought.”
“I have a feeling you might be right.” We’d reached the restaurant and hurried inside, away from an increasingly cold wind. The giant television set over the bar was tuned to the weather report. The room was uncommonly quiet and all eyes were glued to the TV. Even the waitress who directed us to a table barely looked away from the screen. A voice from the bar broke the silence. “Looks like she’s gonna be a howler.”
“It must be the storm Wanda’s been talking about all week,” Francine said. “Everybody’s been hoping it’d blow right past us and go out to sea.”
“From the looks of that weather map it’s heading right for us,” I said. “It’s grown bigger and closer since last night. It’s a good thing the boat parade’s over with. I hope everyone has their boats safely tied down.”
“I’d better tell Eddie to get the van over to the garage for snow tires.” She wrinkled her nose. “You know when this thing hits Mr. Doan will have us driving around town freezing our buns off so that the people all hunkered down nice and cozy can enjoy the storm on TV.”
The normal hum of conversation in the room had picked up, and from what I could overhear, it was all about the coming storm. Francine’s comment about snow tires made me think of my car. It would take more than new tires to make that sweet convertible storm-worthy. “I guess I’ll lock the Corvette up in the garage and take a cab or walk when I need to get somewhere.”
“Good idea. My truck has four-wheel drive so I’ll be okay.”
“I think my next vehicle will be a truck,” I said. “More practical.” We ordered our lunches and talked about me doing a standup on camera in a howling blizzard. It was an exciting, but terrifying thought.
By the time we got back to the station all talk there was about the weather. The weather and food. In New England, in the face of severe weather, we always assume that A.—we’re going to lose power, and B.—we’re probably going to be stuck in the house for days, and C.—we must hurry to the grocery store and stock up on water and bread and we must immediately cook everything that’s in the freezer. Rhonda said that Wanda had brought three changes of clothes, figuring that she’d be updating the weather maps every couple of hours.
I called Aunt Ibby to find out what she wanted me to pick up at Shaw’s market—besides bread and water. “Oh, Maralee,” she said. “I was just about to call you. Two things. First, that interview with the man who flies the drone was wonderful. And the dollhouse segment was charming.” She paused and took on a more serious tone. “Now for the second thing. Nigel phoned and he’s concerned about the storm that’s on the way. He’s afraid my flight will get canceled. He wants me to leave tomorrow instead of Saturday.”
“That’s a pretty abrupt change of plans,” I said. “Do you think you’ll be able to get plane reservations on such short notice?”
“Nigel has taken care of that. We have a direct flight on British Airways from Boston to London tomorrow morning,” she said, adding, “First class.”
“Wow!” I was seriously impressed.
“Being an official at New Scotland Yard has its benefits,” she said, “but Maralee, it presents another problem. A big one.”
I knew what she was going to say. “The concert. You won’t be here for the Belles concert. What are they going to do if you aren’t there?”
“I’ve called Conrad Gillette and explained our situation,” she said. “I told him I know of a competent substitute who can take my part”
“Oh, that’s a lucky break. Who is it?”
“Why, it’s you dear. I told him you had experience with the bells . . .”
“Aunt Ibby!” I sputtered. “That was in the second grade. They had pictures of ducks and bunnies on them!”
“Same principle. When we rehearse this evening, you’ll stand beside me to get the idea of how we all work together. It’s only three bells, for goodness’ sake, and one of them is only used in the closing number.” She sounded absolutely confident. “Mr. Gillette kindly offered to have the previous director—he retired when Conrad took over the Belles—work with you a couple of evenings if you think you might need to brush up a bit.”
“Oh yes. I definitely would need to brush up on my hand bell ringing skills,” I said, knowing my tone was sarcastic.
“Fine then. It’s settled. See you when you get home.” And she was gone. I still didn’t know about the bread and water.
“Everything okay?” Rhonda asked. “You look a little confused.”
“Hmmm. Yes, you might say that.” I sat in one of the turquoise chairs. “But, no worries. I’ll figure it out. Somehow.”
“Good. Mr. Doan says we’ll be using Wanda this afternoon and evening for every break so you and Francine can go early. Besides, he says Francine is going to film the bell ringers tonight for a couple of promos? That right?” Francine and I both nodded. “Anyway, the weather is the news today. That storm will likely be here by the weekend and it’s getting bigger.” Big smile. “Then you girls will see some real outdoor action!”
“Looking forward to it,” I said. Big fake smile. “Guess I’ll just head over to the grocery store then. Storm supplies you know.”
Francine’s truck was missing by the time I got to the parking lot. She’d probably beat me to the store. The mobile van was missing too. Gone to get snow tires I guessed. I looked up and down the street. Not a Santa in sight. I walked carefully across the lot to my beautiful car, bright Laguna blue against the backdrop of the dreary gray water of the harbor where waves were building, frothy white caps forming on their tops.
There was plenty of activity at the market. I pushed my cart up and down the aisles where the usual storm basics were fast being depleted. I grabbed the last case of Evian and selected three loaves of bread, one white and two whole wheat, and a large bag of O’Ryan’s favorite kibble. A quart of milk and a package of Ring Dings found their way into my cart and remembering that I’d see Pete after the rehearsal I picked up a frozen pizza and a bag of salad mix.
After the rehearsal where I’d probably make a damned fool of myself.
When I arrived at home my superefficient aunt had already lined up her three suitcases in the front hall and arranged several oil-filled hurricane lamps, half a dozen flashlights, and a full box of candles along with a box of matches and a fresh package of batteries on the kitchen counter. “In case you lose power while I’m away,” she explained. “There’s wood for the fireplaces in the woodbin behind the garage, and the gas stove will keep the kitchen warm. Try to use up everything in the freezer, and . . .”
“Aunt Ibby, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
“I’m sure you will dear. But I wish now I’d installed a generator. And I wish I’d put a gas stove in your apartment instead of electric. And I wish . . .”
I laughed out loud. “Aunt Ibby, stop. I’m thirty-two. I’ve survived a couple of hurricanes in Florida. Just relax. Is Mr. Pennington going to drive you to the airport in the morning or do you want me to?”
“Rupert will be here at five tomorrow morning. My flight isn’t until nine but there may be a crowd escaping the storm.”
“Sounds like you’ve got everything handled. Frankly, I’m more worried about the hand bells than about the snowstorm.”
“No need. You’ll see. The main difference is the notes instead of numbers.”
“And no ducks and bunnies,” I muttered.
“I have every confidence in you, Maralee. I’ve called Lilly and she’s arranged to meet us at the community center early so that you can look at the sheet music and handle the bells, get the feel of it all before the others get there.”
“That’s so nice of her and it’ll help. I guess,” I said. “I picked up water and bread at Shaw’s. Do you need any of either one
before I go upstairs and put them away?”
“No. I have everything I need. Let’s leave for the center at a little before five. That’ll give us an hour or so to get you acquainted with the bells.”
“Okay. What should I wear?”
“It doesn’t matter a bit,” she said. “We all wear long black choir robes and white gloves, even for rehearsal.”
O’Ryan and I went upstairs—he ran ahead of me and waited on a tall kitchen stool, watching as I unloaded the canvas bag. “Yes, I remembered to buy cat food. King-sized box. See?” I pulled the colorful package from the bag and tucked it into an overhead cabinet. “Plenty for you—and Frankie too, if she shows up.” We both looked toward the window. No white cat. I patted O’Ryan’s soft fuzzy head. “Don’t worry. She knows she’s welcome here.”
I put the pizza into the freezer, checking at the same time for the vanilla ice cream supply. Half a gallon. We’ll have to eat it all before the power goes out. Pete won’t mind that.
With all of the supplies put away, I changed my heavy wool sweater for a long sleeved blue silk shirt, figuring the lighter weight would make bell ringing easier. I still had time to make some notes. First, I transcribed the information from Charlie’s business card onto an index card. Next I wrote down everything he’d told us onto another—filling both front and back sides. What had Pete learned from Charlie’s archived films? His message had been so cryptic. He’d seen something he didn’t expect to see. What did that mean? I hoped that he’d share whatever it was—and soon.
We decided to go to the rehearsal in the Buick—probably safer and certainly warmer than mine. Aunt Ibby backed out onto Oliver Street and we were on our way with time to spare. The music still rang out from the tree lot as we passed. We both hummed along to “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.” I waved to the nondancing traffic cop who manned the corner after five o’clock and told my aunt that I’d saved Charlie the drone man’s cards in case she was interested.
Bells, Spells, and Murders Page 25