Bells, Spells, and Murders

by Carol J. Perry

  “I wonder if he flies that thing over our house,” she said. “Does it peek in windows?”

  “Never thought about that,” I admitted. “I suppose it could. Pete’s already looking at Charlie’s archives. I’ll ask him what he thinks.”

  We passed one of the smiling, bell ringing Santas in front of the building, and I recognized Lilly Jeffry’s car when we pulled into the community center lot. The WICH-TV mobile was there too.

  “Lilly is already here,” Aunt Ibby said. “She’s such a good friend. I just wonder why she’s chosen to keep her relationship to Richard McNally a secret. Seems out of character somehow.”

  “Maybe there are hard feelings between them over something,” I suggested. “I guess that happens even with brothers and sisters. I’ve never seen them together. Have you?”

  “Yes. I have. They seem to have a cordial, businesslike association. Sometimes he even attends rehearsals. Maybe he’ll be here tonight.”

  I took a furtive look around the darkened lot for the Lexus and was relieved when I didn’t see it. The WICH-TV mobile unit was already parked. Lilly welcomed us at the door, ushered us into the dressing room where we joined the rest of the Belles removing jackets and hats and donning black choir robes and white gloves. Then Lilly, in her typical take-charge manner, led us to the stage—and the bells.

  The two tables were arranged end to end, center stage, each one sheet-covered. They looked just as the tables I’d seen in the storage locker had, with upright bell handles creating miniature mountain ranges. The stage lights were bright and I shaded my eyes with my hand, searching the audience for Francine. She was in the front row, camera aimed at the stage.

  Lilly stood in front of the table and clapped her hands together for attention. “Before we begin, ladies, Mr. Gillette and I have a special surprise for you tonight.” She moved toward where Aunt Ibby and I waited and extended her hand toward my aunt. “Ibby Russell, the surprise is really especially for you.”

  My aunt’s eyes widened and she made a “who me?” gesture with both hands, as Lilly Jeffry continued. “Ibby will be on her way to England tomorrow, and will be unable to be with us for our annual Christmas Belles concert on Saturday.” There was an immediate undercurrent of conversation among the Belles. “Don’t worry, girls,” Lilly said. “Ibby’s niece Lee Barrett will take over her spot. Lee was playing the bells before any of us. She’ll be fine.”

  I smothered a laugh at the preposterous statement.

  “Ibby, will you assist me in removing the covering from the bells?” She led my aunt, who still appeared puzzled by all the attention, to the table. “You take that end and I’ll take this one. We’ll lift the sheets at the count of three. One-two-three!”

  There was a collective gasp as the covers fell away, revealing not the expected rehearsal bells, but the glittering, gleaming unmistakable beauty of the bells Lilly had shown us in the storage locker.

  “We wanted you to have the joy of playing these bells, Ibby, and besides, it gives the rest of us the opportunity to get used to them before the performance on Saturday. It’s a win-win. Now, let’s all get to work.”

  Aunt Ibby expressed her thanks as we and the other Belles took our places. Each table accommodated five ringers. One at either end and the other four facing the audience. There was much tentative gloved-finger touching of the shining bells.

  “No need to be nervous,” Lilly insisted. “They play the same way the rehearsal bells do, they just sound better. Richer. You’ll see. But first, I have a presentation to attend to.” She faced offstage. “Conrad? Would you come out here, please?”

  There was a lull as Conrad Gillette entered the stage. Lilly moved toward him, holding an oblong, holiday wrapped package, provoking a chorus of giggles. “What’s happening?” I whispered to my aunt. “What’s so funny?”

  “Joke present,” she answered. “It’s a really hideous Christmas tie. She told us about it last week.”

  “We couldn’t resist buying this for you, Conrad,” Lilly said. “With your impeccable taste in clothing, we knew this would be a worthy addition to your wardrobe and that you will enjoy wearing it for years to come.” More giggles and shouts of “Open it!”

  Conrad Gillette groaned, then smiled broadly. “Thank you all so very much. I know it will become one of my favorite things. Like the beautiful bright green sateen jacket with all four Teenage Ninja Turtles embroidered on the back which you gave to me last year.” He tore the paper away and lifted the cover, and held the silk tie up for everyone to admire. It was totally hideous, extra wide, neon colored, with a mish-mash of snowmen, angels, Christmas trees, dogs and cats, and undecipherable doodles. All of the dogs, cats, snowmen, and angels had stick-on googly eyes. It was a masterpiece of bad taste. The Belles loved it. Gillette accepted it in good humor.

  “I will save this for a very special occasion,” he promised, then clapped his hands together. “All right, ladies, let’s get to work.”

  Aunt Ibby took her spot at the end of a table and I stood close beside her. “These are my three bells,” she said. “These are the only ones you’ll have to worry about. Here’s how we lift them. She grasped the smallest one by the handle. “Here’s how we play them.” She shook the bell from side to side. “See? Easy peasy. Now you do it.” So I did. She was right. It was almost exactly like playing the second-grade bells, just a little heavier. I tried both bells and felt a lot better about my ability to pull this off without messing up. These bell ringers used sheet music on clipboards instead of numbered charts and unadorned shiny bells instead of primary colors and barnyard animals. We decided that Aunt Ibby would play the first song while I stood close by, watching her every move. Then I’d take over on the second while she watched me and we’d continue to alternate songs. It seemed like a good system for learning.

  Conrad Gillette walked to the podium. I took my place beside Aunt Ibby. She opened the sheet music to “Jingle Bells,” picked up the two smaller bells from the padded tabletop, and awaited the director’s signal. He stood facing us, baton raised. The room was silent. There were a few spectators in the audience but Pete wasn’t among them.

  With a downward stroke of the baton, the bells began to chime. I watched my aunt’s every move, looking away only long enough to glance at the music sheet. I studied her wrist motion, how high she lifted the bell, how carefully she returned each bell to the table. Remarkably, I remembered enough from my piano lesson days to follow the simple musical score.

  Now if I can only coordinate the motion and the music, I’ll be fine.

  “Jingle Bells” came to a satisfying close. Gillette made a few gentle suggestions about meter. There was a faint rustling sound as the Belles searched their music sheets for “Good King Wenceslas,” and I took my place in front of the two bells while my aunt stood beside me, watching, and once again the baton was raised. At that moment Pete arrived in the auditorium and took a seat in the back row. I picked up my two bells and focused on the baton.

  The downstroke. I rang my smaller bell right on cue. I watched the baton in Gillette’s right hand for the beat, the meter. So far so good. With his left hand, Gillette motioned to various positions on the long table. His cupped hand told the ringers when to chime in, his flat palm gave the signal to soften, to slow down. Like the dancing cop signaling to drivers and pedestrians.

  No. Not the cop. These were the motions of the “person of interest.” Possibly the motions of a killer. I had to tell Pete, but how? I struggled to maintain focus. Small bell, larger bell, both in unison. Small bell alone. One-two-three ring. One-two-three ring. I managed to make it through the song somehow without any significant errors. How was I going to get Pete’s attention?

  I’d turned off my phone, but it was in the pocket of my jeans. Did I dare to pull it out and text Pete? Conrad Gillette made it easy. He pulled his own phone from inside his suitcoat and glanced at it. “Take a ten-minute break, ladies,” he said. “Your next number is ‘Joy to the World.’” He headed
backstage and I reached into my back pocket.

  Pete, I texted. Gillette is man in video. Hand motions.

  CHAPTER 42

  Pete stood and walked toward the stage, pausing at the exit leading to the dressing room. Aunt Ibby tugged on my sleeve. “Was that Pete?” she whispered. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Yes. No. Maybe,” I stammered. “I . . . I noticed something. I texted him. I guess he’s checking it out.”

  “You noticed something? What is it?”

  I looked around at the rest of the Belles. A hum of conversation buzzed around us and a few of the women flipped the pages of their music sheets. No one seemed to be noticing us. “Gillette is the man in the video,” I whispered. “I’m sure of it.”

  “Conrad?”

  “The tell,” I said. “The music from the tree lot must have triggered the director’s hand motions. What we thought was a beckoning gesture to another person was actually a signal to his imagined hand bell ringers. That was the tell.”

  “Of course it was!” She gasped. “Why didn’t I see it? What will Pete do now?”

  It didn’t take long for us to find that out. From outside we heard the unmistakable wail of police sirens. Conversation halted. We all looked at each other. Lillian Jeffry, as usual, took charge. She stepped to the lectern on the vacated podium and held up her hands for silence. “Something’s happening here, girls. I don’t know what. Just relax, everybody. I’m going back stage and find out. Meanwhile, take a look at that crescendo at the end of ‘Joy to the World.’ It sounded a little ragged last time we played it.”

  Her words seemed to calm the group. Everyone stayed in place, although no one appeared to be studying the musical score as Lilly had suggested. I wasn’t calm though, and neither was my aunt.

  “Should we follow her?” Aunt Ibby asked. “Goodness knows what she’s walking into back there if you’re right.”

  The sound of the sirens had stopped. Other than the occasional tinkle of a bell, the silence was eerie. “Pete’s there,” I reasoned. “She’ll be okay.”

  Two uniformed officers approached from the direction Lilly had taken. I recognized Officer Costa and Officer Marr. “Ladies, may I have your attention please?” Costa said. “There’s been an—um—an accident in another part of the building. We’re clearing the premises. Please gather your belongings and follow Officer Marr to the exit. Someone from your organization will contact you later. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  I stripped off the robe and gloves, picked up the clipboard with our music sheet on it, and headed for the dressing room, my aunt and the rest of the Belles close behind me. Any semblance of order disappeared quickly as the women grabbed coats and purses, hurrying to return to the auditorium where they’d be escorted to the front door. “Aunt Ibby”—I said, pulling my press pass from my purse—“you go along home. I’m going to find Pete and see what’s going on.”

  “I don’t want to leave without you,” she said. “Come with me.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I assured her, at the same time motioning for Francine to join me. “There are police all over the place, so something is going down. We already have a camera here. This might be more important than Wanda’s weather report.”

  “Call me as soon as you can then,” she said. “And Maralee, be careful.”

  “I will,” I promised, and with my press pass clipped to my shirt, and Francine close behind me, her pass on a lanyard around her neck, we headed for the long hall with its row of glass-walled offices. I could see a knot of uniforms outside of a lighted cubicle at the end of the corridor. I hurried toward them. Not unexpectedly, I was stopped. I turned to face an officer. “WICH-TV,” I said, smiling and pointing to my ID. “Lee Barrett. Nightly News.”

  “Sorry, ladies,” he said, smiling right back. “You can’t go down there.”

  “It’s all right, I know them.” Pete’s voice came from behind me. “Hello, Lee, Francine.”

  “Hello, Pete—Detective Mondello,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  He took my arm, steering me away from the officer, back toward the auditorium, speaking softly. “I’m going to tell you what’s happened, Lee, but you and Francine have to report from outside the building. This isn’t anything in here you need to see. It isn’t pretty. Francine, you’ll have to go outside right now.” He pointed toward the door. “Absolutely no cameras in here.” Wordlessly, Francine obeyed.

  “Is this about Conrad Gillette? Am I right?” I insisted. “Is he the one?”

  “I didn’t get to question him. Got here a little too late.”

  “He got away?”

  “No. He’s still here.” Pete’s jaw tightened. “But he’s dead.”

  I didn’t react to Pete’s statement the way I felt that I should. Had I become somehow desensitized to death after I found Mr. Eldridge’s body? Shouldn’t I feel shock or at least surprise?

  “What happened to him?” My question sounded flat. “It must have been sudden. He left the stage only about ten or fifteen minutes ago.”

  “An apparent suicide,” Pete began. “He was . . .” Pete was interrupted by a woman’s voice from the end of the hall.

  “You have to let me in. It’s my office and he was my associate.” It was Lilly Jeffry’s voice. “So, back off.”

  “Lilly?” I looked at Pete.

  “’Fraid so. How did she get here so fast?”

  “She left the stage right after you left the room. You didn’t tell me how he died.” I prodded. “Come on. I have to get out to my mobile unit.”

  “Apparently he hanged himself in a closet.” Pete leaned closer to me, dropping his voice, “with a silk necktie. Stay here for a minute. I need to try to reason with Lilly.”

  I didn’t have a minute to wait. Francine was outside waiting for the story. I had enough already for a breaking news spot. We’d tease with that, then hopefully I’d have some more for the middle of the seven o’clock news. I should have the whole story by the time Buck Covington’s eleven o’clock show began.

  I’d left my NASCAR jacket in the dressing room. No point in going back for it now. Besides, I had a warm Salem State sweatshirt in the back of the mobile, leftover from a spring break story last March. Trusting in my smile, my press ID, and the official look of a clipboard, I moved along the corridor toward the door and the lighted cubicle where Francine and I had met with Lilly and Gillette only a couple of weeks ago.

  I heard Lilly’s voice again, louder now, unlike her usual well-modulated tone. “How could Conrad have done this terrible thing? He was my friend. He was dear Albert’s most trusted confidant, his strong right-hand man.” Pete’s back was toward me. I could tell that he was using his cop voice but I couldn’t make out the words. I made it almost all the way to the exit before I was stopped again. The mobile unit was parked just outside the glass door, Francine standing beside it, shoulder mount camera ready. “Hello officer,” I said. “Lee Barrett. Nightly News. Detective Mondello says we have to shoot from outdoors only.”

  That worked. He stood aside. “Okay Miss. If Mondello says so.”

  On my left was that lighted glass cubicle. I caught a brief glimpse past the uniforms, past Pete and Lilly Jeffry. I saw the top part of an open closet. It was impossible to miss the colorful scrap of silk tied to the closet pole. That had to be the ugliest Christmas necktie ever.

  CHAPTER 43

  Francine had already contacted Marty back at the station, made the necessary connections, and we’d be ready to roll at her signal. “Aren’t you cold in that skinny little shirt, Lee?” Francine asked.

  “I’ll just grab my old sweatshirt. It’s in the back of the van.”

  “Better hurry then. We can shoot a thirty-second teaser in five.”

  I climbed into the van and found the gray sweatshirt, no problem. Not the most appropriate look for a field reporter, but neither is pneumonia. I pulled it on, arranged the collar of the blue shirt over the V-neckline, took my place in front of the Community Center sign bes
ide the glass door, picked up my mic, and waited for Francine’s on-air signal. I looked around the parking lot. No Lexus. The bell-ringing Santa was still on the corner though, and that was somehow comforting.

  Francine focused a spotlight on me and began a countdown. “Five-four-three-two-one.” She pointed. I began. “This is Lee Barrett, speaking to you from outside the Community Center, here in Salem. The popular and well-known Christmas Belles gathered here this evening for a rehearsal of their hand bell Christmas concert. The evening has ended on a tragic note. A man has been found unresponsive on the premises, the victim of an apparent suicide. Stay tuned to WICH-TV for more details.”

  Francine gave me a thumbs-up. “Got some more details for midway through the news? Scott Palmer wants to know.”

  “Tell Scott don’t worry. I’ve got more.” I said, not giving details because other than the method of suicide I didn’t have anything. If I couldn’t dig up some more factual stuff before seven-thirty, I’d have to stretch my sparse knowledge of what had gone on in there tonight to fill five minutes. I texted Pete once more.

  Got time to do a short interview?

  I waited for what felt like an hour but was only minutes.

  No can do babe. Maybe later.

  Great. What was I going to do with five minutes of valuable air time and about two minutes of material? Lilly Jeffry, with what at first looked like her typical efficiency, came toward us. “Oh, Lee. You still here? Conrad’s dead, did you hear?” She seemed to notice the lights, the van, and my mic for the first time. “Are we on television?” She covered her eyes with one hand and squinted in Francine’s direction.

  “No. Not right now. I hope to do a short report at seven-thirty though. Can you tell me a little about what’s going on in there?”

  She sighed. “Not a lot, I’m afraid. I tried to get into my office, but they wouldn’t allow it. I understand of course, but I promised not to touch anything. Poor Conrad’s body is still on the floor. It’s decently covered, you know. They’re waiting for the medical examiner to declare him dead.” She covered her mouth and smothered a laugh. “How dead can you get, hanging in a closet with your Christmas necktie around your neck? Oh yes. Conrad’s dead all right.”