Bells, Spells, and Murders

by Carol J. Perry

  Her “Well, Lee, you know it’s an ongoing case” was hesitant.

  “I understand. By the way, Francine was wondering if her tip about that backyard running all the way through to Union Street turned out to be useful at all.”

  “We’re taking another look at it now that there are indications that the person in the video may possibly have been Conrad Gillette. I’m sure you’ve heard about that. As I told you earlier there were no cameras around so we can’t be sure. It’s nowhere close to his apartment though.” She paused. “But do tell Francine I appreciate her trying to help even if it turns out to be nothing. If more people who see something would say something . . . you know how that goes.”

  “I do, Joyce,” I said. “I’m sure you’ve checked with people on the Union Street side of that property. Anybody over there see anything? Say anything?”

  “It was barely light out so the few tips we’ve had from that area are pretty sketchy and not that reliable. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I’m just digging around, trying to make sense of all the loose ends.”

  “So are we, Lee. So are we. I’ve got to go now. Good to hear from you. Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas, Joyce,” I said. I’d already spread the map out on the scarred desktop. Using one of my index cards as an improvised ruler, I drew a straight pencil line from the lot with all the trees on it across Union Street and the next two parallel streets after that. I put down the pencil and leaned back in the chair. If my hunch was right, and I was pretty sure it was, all Conrad Gillette had to do that morning was cut through a few yards at the proper angle and he’d wind up at the back door of the Acme Electrical Company.

  The dots were beginning to connect themselves—forming a chain of murder from Albert Eldridge to Conrad Gillette to Lilly Jeffry and straight to Richard McNally’s back door.

  CHAPTER 46

  I filled in quite a few index cards that day in the privacy of the dataport. True, some of my scribbled card comments still ended with question marks, but some of my earlier questions had found answers.

  Unfortunately, my connect-the-dots theory had created a new question. A big one. Of the four people in my imaginary chain, two were already dead. Murdered. If Richard McNally was at the head of the chain, as I suspected he was—that’s where the thing called instinct comes in—did that mean that Lilly was in danger? If McNally didn’t want any weak links in his chain, would he harm his own sister?

  Another question mark had popped up on several cards. What was McNally so desperate to hide anyway? It must have something to do with his various businesses, I was sure of that.

  The mysterious e-mail on Lilly’s computer said “E knows.” I knew from Pete’s comments about it that he didn’t believe the story about Mr. Eldridge discovering his Christmas surprise. I didn’t believe it either. But Mr. Eldridge had clearly discovered something—and that something was big enough and important enough to get him killed.

  I shuffled those cards around on the desk for the better part of an hour but there were too many questions and not enough answers. I was concerned about Lilly though. She’d begun to show signs of weakness. When we’d discovered Eldridge’s body, I’d seen it in her grief. I’d seen it again the previous night at the community center. The smooth veneer of the perfect secretary, the completely in control woman, Hercule Poirot’s Miss Lemon—had begun to crack. That weakness could have serious consequences. For Lilly.

  Joyce had said, “If you see something, say something.” But had I really seen anything? Outside of a string of so far undecipherable visions, I hadn’t. Discouraged, I snapped an elastic band around the cards and returned them to my purse. Besides all that, I still had to face the hand bell concert. But by tonight that particular concern would be over with. The rest would still be with me.

  I wish Aunt Ibby was here to help me make sense of all this.

  I checked the round clock on the dataport wall. Twelve-thirty. Aunt Ibby and Mrs. Abney Babcock were about halfway to London. I was sure she’d probably call me once she got settled in her hotel. Maybe I could bounce a few questions across the ocean. I locked up the dataport and dropped off the key with Rhonda.

  Once upstairs I looked around for someone to come to lunch with me. No luck. Francine wasn’t back from the beach yet and Rhonda had brought microwavable Lean Cuisine. I thought about going home, but there I’d have no one for company except O’Ryan and he prefers to eat on the floor. I opted for a drive-through and headed the Buick to the nearest Golden Arches.

  With a large coffee in the cup holder and a quarter pounder with cheese and extra pickles on the seat beside me, I drove back to the station. I pulled into one of the visitor spaces closest to the building, overlooking the harbor. No lighted boats in sight. The sky was growing dark and the harbor water looked angry, with choppy waves tossing soapy looking foam up and over the seawall. I turned on the radio and unwrapped my sandwich. The weather was the main topic on the all-talk radio station. A National Weather Service forecaster declared that an eyelike formation had been noted in the center of the storm.

  That didn’t sound good. I turned off the radio, shut off the engine, rewrapped the sandwich, and carried it along with the coffee to the first-floor studio door. The scenery inside had to be more pleasant than the gloomy vista viewed from the WICH-TV parking lot.

  I stopped short before opening the door. Was that a black Lexus across the street? The black car passed by quickly. Was I getting paranoid? There had to be hundreds of them in a city of this size. I took a deep breath as River had advised and felt better right away.

  Kind of better.

  Marty was in the studio directing work on the set being built for the big Christmas Eve day show. “Hey, Moon,” she called. “What do you think of the giant blocks this guy is building for the fund-raiser? Cute, huh?” A man in a carpenter’s apron looked up from the box-shaped item, frowned slightly, then went back to sanding the edges of the cube. “They’re supposed to look like kid’s building blocks,” Marty explained. “It’s a toy land set, and there’ll be kids here in the studio. We’re going to be featuring your dollhouse piece too. It was short notice for an all-day pitch for donations to the Historical Charities, but after seeing your Women’s Shelter piece, and the Veteran Santa Clauses and all, and after Ms. Jeffry’s pleading for help for all the worthwhile things the Histy does, he weakened and donated the air time.”

  “He gave away air time? And he’s paying for all this?” I waved at the blocks, the giant nutcrackers, the Rudolph with a glitter red nose.

  She snorted. “Paying? Don’t be silly. The Historical Charities pays the carpenter, Jeffry got the mall to lend us the nutcracker, and Rudolph came off a boat parade boat.” She patted the Rudolph on the antlers. “That woman’s a dynamo. Gets ’er done. There’ll even be a Santa Claus guest appearance.”

  “I hope the storm holds off,” I said. “Christmas Eve could be kind of wild around here if it doesn’t.”

  The carpenter put down his sandpaper and stared in my direction. “I know you,” he said. “You’re the one who took pictures of my truck.”

  Uh-oh.

  “I am? I mean, I did?”

  “Yeah. It’s okay. My boss explained about the lost butterflies. Glad they got rescued.”

  He turned and picked up his sandpaper. The red embroidery on the back of his khaki shirt spelled out Perfection Carpentry. The name on his pocket said he was Kenny, but I’d be willing to bet he wasn’t.

  So. The Historical Charities of Salem—the Histy—is picking up the tab?

  “Do you happen to have a business card?” I asked. “I’m thinking of adding some cabinets to my kitchen.”

  “Um—can you pay cash?” He winked. “I can give you a good price.”

  I winked back. “No problem.”

  “Sure.” He reached into his shirt pocket. “Here you go.”

  The shiny white card had an illustration of a red hammer with little lines coming from it and the copy declar
ed that the carpenter was licensed, bonded, and insured. I was willing to bet that he was none of them.

  Marty looked at him, then looked at me. “Butterflies?” she said.

  “Long story,” I said. “Tell you all about it later. My lunch is getting cold.” I hurried for the metal door that led to the stairs.

  I sat in one of the turquoise chairs in the second-floor corridor, took a bite from my rapidly cooling sandwich, and pulled an index card from my purse. I wrote “Perfection Carpentry, Acme Plumbing, Prestigious Electric. How much did Historic Charities of Salem pay to these companies in a year?” Then I texted the same words to Pete.

  It didn’t take long to get a reply. Checking same thing. STAY OUT OF THIS.

  Okay, I texted back. You don’t have to yell.

  CHAPTER 47

  Wanda continued to dominate every break so once again Francine and I were dismissed early. Francine headed for the mall and more shopping, and I went home to Winter Street and cat who greeted me with great enthusiasm. I knew he must be lonely without my aunt’s vibrant presence, and gave him extra cuddling and patting and the expensive cat food that comes in tiny silver cans.

  The Community Center location for the Belles’ concert had been okayed, and there had been no official announcement yet that Conrad Gillette’s death had been anything other than a suicide. The corridor with the glass cubicles was closed off from the rest of the building with saw horses and DO NOT ENTER signs, but no yellow tape. Concertgoers would enter from the front of the building just as they always had.

  Had my taxi driver informant been wrong? I asked Pete the question when he phoned to see if I needed a ride to the concert.

  “The ME hasn’t made a final determination yet,” he said, “but meanwhile we’ll keep the involved part of the building closed to the public.”

  Next question. “What about the companies I asked you about? And yes, I’d love a ride. You’re going to hear my debut, aren’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t miss your debut for the world. Pick you up at six. We’ll talk about those companies later. Meanwhile, stay out of it. Promise?”

  I promised, then fussed with hair and makeup for about an hour. I figured the black choir robe and gloves would cover everything else.

  Pete picked me up at exactly six. The concert wouldn’t begin until seven, so the Belles had a little extra time to prepare for the much anticipated event. He dropped me off at the front door, as arranged earlier and went to park the Crown Vic in the back lot. All of the women seemed a little nervous, even those who’d worked with the retired director before. There was some random tentative shaking of bells here and there, and whispered conversation.

  Claude Balfe presented a much more formal appearance than had Conrad. He wore a tuxedo, black tie, and all. His white hair was longish in a classical sort of way. The concert wasn’t due to start for half an hour yet, but we were all in our positions and Maestro Balfe (he preferred that term) already stood erect at the podium facing the two long tables with the brass bells uncovered. He rapped his baton on the lectern. “May I have your attention, ladies? Thank you.” He pointed the baton toward the table. “I noticed that these bells, these precious instruments, have been stored in a common locker along with coloring books and craft supplies, covered only by common bed sheets.” Long, effective pause. “This is unacceptable.” He raised his voice. “WHERE IS THE BELL CASE?”

  Exactly. Where is the bell case? What if that wasn’t a suitcase Gillette had carried away from the scene of Mr. Eldridge’s murder? Maybe it was a special case for twenty-five bells, ranging from teeny tiny to extra large. I’d noticed Pete ducking into the last row of seats at the rear of the room after he’d parked the car. I shaded my eyes with one hand and peered into the darkness. He was still there. I saw him stand at the director’s shouted question and start for the exit.

  “Pete! Wait!” I called, and with choir robe flapping, ran down the steps to the auditorium floor. “Wait!”

  Pete waited. The director rapped his baton. “This is highly irregular. Come back here, young woman.”

  I ran down the aisle. “Pete! The case is at the Acme Plumbing company. The empty room. It’s right in the window all full of pipes and tools!”

  “Thanks, babe.” At a dead run, phone in his hand, he was out the door. He was going to miss my debut for sure.

  I returned to the stage using my most ladylike slow walk. I apologized to the maestro who simply glared at me, and with my heart still racing, took my place at the long padded table. By then the audience had begun to file in. Even with the warnings of bad weather on the way, it looked as though we’d be playing to a full house. I saw Therese come in with her shoulder-mounted camera, moving toward the front row, ready to begin filming the event for WICH-TV. I was glad she hadn’t been there to record any of the previous action, though I was sure she’d hear all about it soon enough.

  The program began with the simple one-octave selections. I tried my very best to concentrate on the music score before me—to watch the maestro’s hand signals which were much more subtle, yet easier to follow, than all of Conrad’s enthusiastic waving and beckoning had been. By the time we’d reached the fourth selection, “Joy to the World,” I’d begun to feel quite comfortable with both score and instruments. I even remembered to smile as I jingled each bell.

  There was a brief intermission midway through the program. Lilly Jeffry stepped to the lectern and, facing the audience, announced that Bruce and Buffy Doan had graciously offered to host a Christmas Eve day telethon for the Historical Charities of Salem on WICH-TV.

  “The main beneficiaries of the Doans’ generous gift of valuable TV time will be the Women’s Shelter and the Veteran’s Christmas Toys for Kids project,” she announced. “Will Bruce and Buffy please stand up?”

  The Doans stood, to loud applause from the audience, the maestro, the onstage Belles, and me.

  “Be sure to watch WICH-TV for this incredibly important event,” Lilly implored. “Make your most generous pledges. Checks can be sent to The Historical Charities of Salem.” She gave the address. Twice. Then she returned to her spot behind the bell table.

  I felt grudging admiration for the woman. Even though, as Pete had said, Lilly was involved in whatever was going on “up to her tiny little nose,” she’d managed to shake loose the always “thrifty”—some say “cheap”—Bruce Doan from thousands of dollars’ worth of salable TV time.

  The hand bell program continued with “Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella” followed by “The Little Drummer Boy.” By this time I was really getting into the spirit of the music. The tunes were getting progressively more complex and difficult, and I was getting progressively pretty damned good at this bell ringing gig.

  Just before our big final number, “The Carol of the Bells,” Maestro Balfe rapped for attention once again and faced the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “our next offering is a special arrangement of a timeless classic Christmas song—‘The Carol of the Bells.’ This beautiful arrangement is the work of our dearly departed friend and dedicated patron of the arts, Conrad Gillette. It is with a sense of great humility that I am honored to conduct the Christmas Belles playing this magnificent piece for your enjoyment.” He turned and faced us once again, both arms upraised. “Ladies?”

  I was ready. I’d studied the score and this was going to be a piece of cake. These bells might just as well have chickens and bunnies on them. I really wished Pete had been able to stay. The music began with most of the action happening at the opposite end of the table with the gentle tinkling of the smaller bells, like distant church chimes. The music swelled as the song progressed. The audience was silent, spellbound, I thought. I wished Aunt Ibby was here to enjoy this.

  The melody soared toward the ending crescendo. I eyed the shining C-3 bell, then watched the maestro’s hand, waiting for him to point the baton at me. I looked back and forth. The bell. The baton. The bell. The baton moved in my direction. I reached for the bell. The swi
rling colors began.

  No not now! Not a vision now!

  I lifted the bell, willing myself not to look at the picture beginning to form on its gleaming surface. The maestro pointed the baton at me. I moved the C-3 exactly as my aunt had instructed. “It works just like the little bells,” she’d told me. “It’s just a bit taller.”

  I rang that bell with all my might, and throughout that big auditorium there sounded, and resounded, a mighty clunker.

  The audience grew silent. The maestro glared. My fellow Belles glared. A smattering of applause began, and grew louder until the usual ovation expected at a Christmas Belles’ presentation erupted. Smiles returned to the Belles’ faces as we all moved from behind the tables in orderly lines, just as we’d rehearsed, and took our position in front of them. We joined hands and took a bow. Then another. And another. Maestro Balfe joined us and took a couple of bows himself.

  I guessed that the standing O meant I was forgiven for the off-tune bell ringing. Aunt Ibby had said the audience would accept a few clunkers. The Belles began to leave the stage, one by one. The audience began to thin and I was about to leave too, when I noticed that Claude Balfe, instead of exiting the stage, had approached the tables and picked up the C-3 bell, holding it carefully by two gloved fingers. He looked back at where I stood, not speaking. After a long moment I joined him beside the table. The building had grown silent. He stood there, holding the bell and looking at me in a most accusing manner.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I don’t know what I did wrong. I’m really sorry.”

  “Hadn’t you ever rung this bell before? At rehearsal?” he asked.

  “No sir. I never had. Neither had my aunt. And last night, after what happened, we never finished the rehearsal.”

  “I see. Well, let’s try a little experiment, shall we?” He lifted the bell, and without hesitation, rang it. Another clunker. “Thought so,” he said. “If the bells were kept in their proper cases, this sort of thing wouldn’t happen.”