Bells, Spells, and Murders

by Carol J. Perry

  He was, and the Crown Vic picked me up at exactly eleven-fifteen.

  I leaned back in the seat, so glad to be going home. “Long, long day,” I said. “I didn’t even wait to hear what Wanda had to say about the storm.”

  “Radio says it’s going to smack us by Christmas day.”

  “That’s Monday.”

  “Yep. Looks like a white Christmas for sure.”

  Pete parked in his usual spot and we walked together toward the house, pausing to admire the lighted Christmas tree in my bay window. When we passed the garden gate I saw O’Ryan poke his head out though the cat door, then quickly withdraw it. “Too cold for you out here, cat?” I teased.

  “Smart cat,” Pete said. “He was just checking to be sure it was us, then went straight back to sleeping in the nice warm house.”

  “That’s what I’m ready for too,” I said. “I’m sure Aunt Ibby is tucked in all snug in her bed.“

  “Visions of sugar plums?” Pete asked.

  “I hope that’s the only kind of vision around tonight, thank you.”

  “Been seeing things, babe? Want to talk about it?”

  “Maybe later.”

  We started up the twisty back staircase, treading as lightly as we could, out of consideration for my sleeping aunt. “At least there aren’t any noisy jingle bells on this one,” Pete whispered. “Ooops. Spoke too soon.” O’Ryan, wearing the dreaded bell on a ribbon around his neck, scooted past us to the third floor, jingling all the way.

  We entered the living room, which smelled deliciously of fresh evergreen. Pete walked ahead of me, turning on lights as he went. “Want to turn on the TV? See what Wanda has to say?”

  “Good idea,” I said, “and I’ll hang up our coats if you’ll start a pot of decaf.”

  I opened the package of Ring Dings for a sugary weather-watching snack and joined Pete at the table. Wanda repeated the report she’d given earlier and added a warning about coastal flooding. She looked a little happier about it than she had earlier. She agreed with the radio reporter that we’d most likely get hit on Christmas. This time she remembered her trademark low bow.

  Pete poured our coffees. “We’ve seen each other more than usual today, but barely had time to talk.”

  “I know.”

  “I was planning to question Gillette before I got your text.”

  “You were? What for?”

  “Remember that I told you about Vinnie Drake and his mother coming in to see me this afternoon?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “Seems the kid remembered where he’d seen the guy who’d hired him to steal Jeffry’s computer.”

  “He did? Where?”

  “Saw him on WICH-TV with a red-headed lady reporter talking about the Eldridge murder.”

  “That would have been me,” I said. “And that would have been Gillette. So why would he need to steal Lilly’s computer?”

  “Something was on it he didn’t want anyone else to see.”

  “But you checked her computer. You said it was all boring figures and some personal messages.”

  “There was one we need to take another look at from Gillette, dated the night before the old gent died. It said, ‘E. knows.’”

  I stirred cream into my coffee. “E. knows what? Did you ask her?”

  “Sure we did. She said it had to do with Eldridge’s Christmas present. They had the first house in the Heritage Village project all set to show him. A perfect vintage house bought and paid for, she said. They were starting to do the period paint and wallpaper and he found out about it. Spoiled the big reveal. That’s all.”

  “You checked it?“

  “Yep. It was all true. If that’s what Gillette was talking about. Now we’re not so sure.”

  “You think Mr. Eldridge discovered something wrong with the figures?” I thought about the ledger I’d seen on his desk. “And that Gillette had something to hide?”

  “It gets worse,” he said, “and I may as well tell you since you helped us out with the drone.”

  “You said you saw something in Charlie’s film you didn’t expect to see.”

  “It was at the very end of the twelve minutes he shot that morning. It showed Lilly Jeffry getting into Gillette’s car in that overflow lot behind the hotel and driving it away.”

  “It was before we found the body?” I asked.

  “Hours before that. Whatever this is, Lilly Jeffry is up to her efficient little nose in it.”

  CHAPTER 45

  “As long as we’re both awake, want to see what River has going on tonight?” I suggested, “while I try to process what you’ve just told me?”

  “Sure.” He reached for a Ring Ding. “I have a feeling it’s going to get even more complicated before we figure it all out.”

  River’s music, “Danse Macabre,” issued from the TV accompanied by a photographic image of snow falling on Salem’s Charter Street Cemetery—a pretty scene in a twisted sort of way. River appeared and announced that in keeping with the season, the night’s scary movie would be Gremlins.

  “Good movie choice,” I said. “Everybody loves it and it’s not one of her nightmare-inducing flicks.”

  River began the show by announcing that since it was a few minutes after midnight, the Winter Solstice had begun. “This marks the longest night of the year,” she said. “The days will grow longer now, and the hours of darkness will decrease. Please know, dear friends of the night, that if something in your life is shaded in darkness right now, from today on, the darkness will decrease and the light of day will reveal the answers you seek. I wish you all a happy Winter Solstice. Now, let’s begin with a reading for our first caller.” She reached for her phone console. “Hello caller, your first name and birthdate, please.”

  “I hope she’s right,” I told Pete. “I hope the light of day will help to clear up a murder or two around here.” I tried to concentrate on the pattern of cards River placed on her table.

  “I have a feeling it will,” he said, “but it will be because of good, solid police work, not the number of hours between sunrise and sunset.” He looked toward the screen, then back at me. “What do you mean, a murder or two?”

  Oh-oh. That’s what I get for listening to cab company gossip.

  “There’s a rumor going around that maybe Conrad Gillette was already dead when somebody put him in that closet with a necktie around his neck to make it look like suicide.” I watched his face. “Could that be true?”

  He gave a grim-faced nod. “The ME is checking into that possibility.”

  Neither of us was watching the television. “Then it’s possible that Gillette was murdered?”

  “Possible? Yes.”

  “It’s also possible that Gillette may have killed Mr. Eldridge then,” I said.

  “I can’t comment on that, Lee,” he said in his firm, no-nonsense, cop voice. “Want to turn the TV off and go to bed now? Or do you want to watch the movie?”

  “Both maybe. I’ll use the downstairs bathroom.” I went into the bedroom and grabbed a pair of flannel pjs with lots of Donald Ducks on them, then headed out into the front hall. I thought O’Ryan might follow me, but he stayed on his windowsill.

  I hadn’t quite reached the second floor when I noticed that the door to the study was ajar—just about enough to admit a cat. I walked slowly along the maroon carpet and pushed the door open, then reached around and pressed the light switch on the inside wall. At first glance, nothing seemed to be out of place. I walked into the room, looking up and down the shelves. “Ha! O’Ryan’s been up to his library tricks again,” I said as I bent to pick up a book from the floor. I recognized it immediately. Another one from my childhood. In fact, this particular copy of Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland had once belonged to some long ago great grandparent and I’d always found the John Tenniel illustrations frightening. Even as I replaced it on the shelf, the cover picture of little Alice and the huge Cheshire cat in a tree, grinning his horrible smile at the child, still gave
me a chill. I pushed the book into its proper space, turned out the light, and closed the study door, being sure it was securely shut, and made my way to my childhood bedroom and bath.

  When I returned to my own apartment, Pete was already in bed, the TV was on, Gizmo had been fed after midnight, a commercial for Whole Foods was running, and O’Ryan had curled up in a chair. Pete patted the space beside him inviting me to join him under the covers.

  I snuggled up with him, comfortable but still not sleepy. “Pete,” I said, “if Gillette was cooking the society’s books and Eldridge found out about it and Gillette killed him and Lilly covered up for Gillette somehow, and then somebody killed Gillette, don’t you have to question Lilly? And what about her half-brother? Is he involved too?” I sat up straight in bed. “What if they leave town? Shouldn’t we do something?”

  He pulled me close. “Relax, babe. You know it doesn’t work that way. What you say is possibly what’s happened, but we need proof every step along the way to make an arrest. For now, we’re keeping a close eye on Lilly Jeffry. We’ve subpoenaed the society’s books as well as the ledgers that Mr. Eldridge kept personally. That’s a first step. We still have no murder weapon, remember? That’s important. As to Richard McNally, his companies seem to do almost all of the carpentry, plumbing, electrical, and painting work on the society’s properties as well as the various charity’s buildings too. That’s unusual, but not illegal. Relax,” he said again. I thought again about River’s advice. Take a deep breath. Meditate.

  I didn’t get to the meditation part. A few deep breaths were all it took to put me to sleep. It had so far been, after all, a very busy, crazy, confusing shortest day of the year.

  * * *

  I’d set my alarm for four-thirty. I wanted to be awake when Aunt Ibby left for the airport. I got out of bed, trying not to disturb Pete, pulled a bathrobe from the closet, and tiptoed into the kitchen. O’Ryan jumped down from his windowsill and looked up at the cabinet where his breakfast kibble was stored. I took the hint, fed the cat, started the coffee, wondering if the weather would affect my aunt’s flight plans. I turned on the early morning news show on WBZ-TV in Boston. Their weather report was mostly concerned with the oncoming storm, but so far there were no canceled flights from Logan Airport. If luck held, Aunt Ibby’s direct nine o’clock flight to London would take off and land without incident—meteorological or otherwise.

  Leaving cat and boyfriend in my apartment, and with a full coffee mug, I went downstairs to wish my aunt bon voyage. She was already up, dressed, and sitting on the hall-tree bench beside her suitcases. I’d already given her the scarf I’d bought at the museum gift shop and I was pleased to see it peeking out from the collar of her coat.

  “Oh, Maralee, you didn’t have to get up early just for me,” she scolded. “You need your rest.”

  “You sound just the way you did when I was a teenager.” I gave her a big hug. “And if I was flying away for Christmas, you’d get up early for me.”

  “You’re right, of course. But someone else showed up early this morning too. Frankie came strolling through my kitchen cat door less than an hour ago! I’ve fed her, and I gave her a bell like O’Ryan’s, but hers has a green ribbon. She seemed pleased with it.”

  I glanced around. “Where is she? I’m so glad she came home.”

  “Oh, she’s around somewhere. You know how she is. Likes to stay out of sight.” She stood up and looked at the mirror in the hall tree, patted her hair. “Lilly Jeffry is an early riser too, you know, and she e-mailed me this morning that the concert will go on as planned. Isn’t that good news? Our old director, Claude Balfe, will take over. You’ll all be in good hands.” A slight frown crossed her face. “That is if the police get through with their business in the building. It’s terrible, what happened there, but suicide isn’t against the law.”

  I wasn’t about to pass on cab-company-originated rumors of murder, even though Pete had almost corroborated the story. “Whew,” I said. “I hope it’s good news about the concert. I’m flying blind here, with no rehearsal to speak of and a new director and those million-dollar bells.”

  She waved that dismissive hand. “This is the Christmas Belles dear, not the Mormon Tabernacle Choir or the New York Philharmonic. Remember the Irish step dancers? The all-girl cast for A Christmas Carol where I played Scrooge? We’re not known for perfection.” She laughed. “I’m pretty sure the audience would be disappointed if one or more of us didn’t hit a clunker!”

  A sudden jingling announced that O’Ryan was coming down the stairs. Aunt Ibby stood up and the cat streaked by on his way to the front door. “That will be Rupert,” she said as O’Ryan assumed his position at the side window and the doorbell chimed “The Impossible Dream.” She opened the door, admitting Rupert Pennington, who immediately picked up the three suitcases, one under his arm and one in each hand. “Good morning, Ms. Barrett, good morning, Ibby. Best we hurry. Airport’s a busy place this time of year.”

  Aunt Ibby hugged me once more, reminded me to open the dampers if I had to use the fireplaces, and to please use the Buick if I had to drive in bad weather. “I’ll call you,” she said, and whoosh! They were gone.

  O’Ryan and I climbed the stairs back up to my apartment. Pete was awake, shaved, showered, dressed for the day, coffee mug in hand. “Has your aunt left already?” he asked, looking up at Kit-Kat clock which readjust five. “I meant to say good-bye to her.”

  “Oh, you know Mr. Pennington,” I said. “He’s in a rush to get her there in plenty of time to get through security and see her safely onto her plane. And guess what? Frankie is back. Aunt Ibby fed her and tied a bell around her neck this morning.”

  “That’s good news, babe. I know you’ve been worried about her. Maybe she heard about the bad weather we’re expecting. Smart cat. The other guy, Nigel, was wise to have your aunt leave early,” he said. “I’m betting there won’t be any flights leaving Boston by tomorrow night. The thing is stalled off the coast of the Carolinas now. They’re calling it an ‘extratropical cyclone.’”

  “I know. Maybe the Christmas Belles’ concert will be canceled,” I said, almost hopefully. “Even though Lilly has already e-mailed Aunt Ibby that it’ll go on as planned.”

  “She’s probably right,” Pete said. “Salem is pretty traditional about the way Christmas is celebrated here. People like the Santa parade and the tree lighting on the Common and the Holiday Walk—things that happen year after year, you know? Familiar things. And the Christmas Belles concert is one of those things. Besides, it’s a major fund-raiser for the Historical Charities.”

  “What if the rumors about Mr. Gillette being murdered are true? The whole place will be festooned with yellow tape. Closed up tight.” I refilled my coffee cup. “Can’t do anything about that.”

  “They’d probably just move the whole shebang over to the high school or the Senior Center,” he said. “Stop worrying. From what little I heard at the rehearsal, you play the bells just fine. And I’m pretty sure we’ll be out of the way sometime today.”

  “You going to work early again?” I asked. “You’re all dressed and ready for the day and I’m still wandering around in robe and slippers.”

  “I’m taking an early shift so I can get off tonight and watch your debut as a bell ringer.” Big grin. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

  I covered my face with both hands. “God, I hope I won’t embarrass you. Aunt Ibby says the Belles’ audience always expects somebody to hit a clunker and this time I’m afraid it’ll be me.”

  “So what if you do? He took my hands in his. “You’re taking this too seriously. Just have fun with it—like you did in second grade.”

  He’d nailed it. I felt better immediately. “You are absolutely right. I’m just going to look at those expensive fancy bells and picture bunnies and chickens and ducks on each one.”

  “There you go,” he said. “Got any more of those Pop Tarts?”

  “Aunt Ibby said to use up the stuff i
n the freezer. How about waffles?”

  * * *

  So we began the shortest day of the year. Pete left right after breakfast. I dawdled around for a while, cleaning up the kitchen, making the bed, folding laundry. I looked but didn’t see the elusive white cat anywhere. I put a blue bowl full of kibble next to O’Ryan’s red bowl, then followed my aunt’s advice and drove to work in her Buick. For all the whoop-de-do about the weather, the day seemed quiet enough, with little wind and no snow. “The calm before the storm,” Rhonda said.

  Marty had put together half a dozen ten-second clips of the bell ringers from the previous night’s rehearsal as Lilly had requested. We previewed them on Rhonda’s monitor. The Belles sounded darned good, including the little bit of “Good King Wenceslas” that featured me! Marty added graphics encouraging people to buy the few seats that were left.

  Once again, Wanda was designated star of the day, with scheduled weather updates on the half hour—necessitating a significant wardrobe budget increase to maintain her fashion image. Francine was assigned to accompany Scott Palmer to a Polar Bear Club event at Deveraux Beach, where hardy citizens donned bathing suits and took the annual plunge into the frigid Atlantic. This left Old Eddie and me to stand by at the station in case something worthy of live reporting turned up. It also freed me to do some freelance snooping into the Gillette-Eldridge-Jeffry connection. I was sure there was a connection there, other than the obvious work-related one.

  I got a key to the dataport from Rhonda and armed with phone, pen, index cards, and a street map of Salem, got to work. First, I called my old friend Detective Sergeant Joyce Rouse. “Hi, Joyce,” I said, “I’m trying to dig up some background information on the Eldridge death for an investigative piece I’m putting together. What I need is some pretty basic stuff—nothing confidential.”