I didn’t—couldn’t answer that. “Lilly moved his car to another lot that morning after he took the bell case to the Acme store,” I said. “He changed clothes in the store and picked up his car as though nothing had happened.”
“See? I said you were smart. Couldn’t risk him getting Eldridge’s blood in the car. We burned the clothes, cleaned and polished the bejesus out of the bells, and dropped them off at the Community Center. One of the workers threw a bunch of junk into the case. Looked normal that way. Perfect.” He sighed. “It was a sweet deal while it lasted. I sent the padded bills on the right billheads, Lilly made out the checks, and the old man signed them. I cashed them. Four-way split. Me, Lilly, Gillette, and whatever was left over for the charities. Sweet.”
He made a sudden move forward then. I turned and ran up the stairs, jingling all the way. He was right behind me. We were both in total darkness, but I was in stocking feet and knew where I was. I knew how many stairs there were in each flight. He didn’t know his way around my house and besides, he was big and the costume made him clumsy.
Advantage: Lee.
“Doesn’t matter where you go, little lady,” he growled. “These bells tell me right where you are.”
Advantage: McNally.
I had two steps to go before I’d be on the second-floor landing. There was a house phone in my old bedroom. But when the bells stopped ringing, he’d know where I’d stopped. I paused on the landing. Think. Think.
Ahead of me, on the stairway to the third floor, the bells continued to ring. How could that be?
The cats! I stepped off the landing and onto the soft, plush carpet of the second floor and tried not to breathe, hoping McNally couldn’t hear the pounding of my heart as he thundered past me following the bells to the third floor. I heard the cat door swing open. Good. O’Ryan and Frankie could rattle some things around in the kitchen. I knew they would.
I tiptoed to my bedroom. I knew how to open my door soundlessly. (Just about every high school kid who’s occasionally sneaked in after curfew can do it.) Once inside, I turned the knob that locked it. It was a pretty flimsy deterrent, but it would slow an intruder down for a minute or two. Good thing my kitchen door upstairs had a proper lock on it. That would take a while to breach.
I moved in tiny baby steps. Even in this familiar space I couldn’t afford to knock anything over, make any noise. I felt for my bedside table, for the reproduction pink Princess phone. A house phone. Holding my breath, I listened for a dial tone. Got it. I punched in 911, whispered my name and address. “Hurry,” I said and hung up. I knew there was a flashlight in the little table’s single drawer, but could I risk a light showing under the door?
The bathroom would provide at least one more lock. I could use a light in there too. I picked up the flashlight, padded my cautious way to the bathroom just as I heard my kitchen door shattering.
“Got you now, bitch,” he shouted. “Thanks for leaving the flashlight on the table.” I could hear him stamping around overhead. Heard the occasional sound of glass breaking. How long would it be before he discovered that I wasn’t there? Now he had a light. He could search from room to room. Did I dare to dash out into the hall, run downstairs, and back outdoors? Was I fast enough?
Too late. He was on his way back down the stairs. Stamping. Jingling. I closed the bathroom door behind me. Turned on my flashlight. Was there anything I could use as a weapon in this tiny, windowless room? I heard the guestroom door swing open. Aunt Ibby’s room would be next. Then, this one.
I pulled open drawers, the medicine cabinet, even the laundry chute. I heard my bedroom door begin to splinter as he pounded on it. “I know you’re in here, bitch! I’m going to break your pretty neck and throw you down these stairs.” A satisfied grunt as the door gave. “Are you under the bed, girlie? They’d think you just fell down stairs in the dark. Come on. You can’t get away.”
The laundry chute!
It was my only way out. I stuck my head into the opening. Flashed the light down into the darkness. The chute was lined with aluminum. I remembered that. Aunt Ibby had been specific about it. Absolutely smooth walls with no rough edges that might snag or tear fabrics on their way down to the wicker basket in the laundry room—the laundry room just a few steps away from the back door and freedom!
I’d crawled into that chute once before on a dare from a girlfriend. But I’d been a skinny twelve-year-old at the time and it had been a terrifying experience. But it hadn’t killed me, and staying where I was just might. I stripped off the jacket, the jeans, the sweater, and pushed them through the top-hinged door. At least there’d be something soft to land on when I hit bottom. I tossed the flashlight in too. When I was down to the silk long johns and socks, I lifted the top-hinged door as high as it would go, and holding onto a towel rack I put one leg in, then prayed that the towel rack would hold my weight for the few seconds it would take to put the other leg into the oblong hole in the wall. It held, but just barely, the anchoring screws shifting in the old plaster wall. I braced myself against the aluminum walls with both feet while I lowered the door, darned hard to do with socks on, but thankfully, still thin enough to do it. Then I used both hands and feet to ease myself along, and unlike the twelve-year old’s straight shot down the approximately fifteen-foot drop, I managed to do a Spiderman type of vertical crawl on my way down to the basket.
The pounding, splintering began again, and the bathroom door gave way sooner than I’d thought it would. Before long he’d find the chute and figure out where I’d gone.
It took him only seconds. The flashlight beam was blinding and his voice bounced and echoed from aluminum walls. “Gotcha!” The laugh that followed was chilling. I knew he couldn’t fit into the chute, so he’d have to come down the stairs and then figure out where the dirty clothes wound up. That might slow him down.
I dropped the rest of the way onto my parka and jeans in the basket. I still had a flashlight too, and no reason not to use it. I turned it on, pulled on the jeans, flung the parka across my shoulders, and dashed for the exit.
He was on his way down the twisty back staircase, not bothering to be quiet. I knew I’d locked the door to the stairs, but it wouldn’t take him long to kick that down. How had he figured out the location of the laundry so fast?
He’s a contractor, dope. He just had to follow the plumbing—bathroom to bathroom to laundry.
I wrenched the back door open, shining the light into the yard. I could run for the garage, I could get into my very fast car and drive away. I felt in the parka pocket for my keys.
Keys. I’d handed the whole keyring to MvcNally.
A jingling sound issued from the back stairs. Bells? The footsteps slowed. “You behind me? How’d you do that? You must be smarter than you look.” I heard him take two more steps, thundering on the old wooden stairs in those big black boots. Then, more bells; these seemed close to the bottom of the stairway. “Damn it! I can’t see you. How’re you doing that? You in front of me or behind me?”
I wasn’t doing anything at all except trying to get away. I knew who was doing the bell ringing though, A couple of Christmas ribbon decorated cats.
I’d given the Winter Street address to the 911 operator, so I thought I’d better run to the front of the house. I still hadn’t heard any sirens yet. Maybe the storm had slowed them down.
Hurry! He’ll be outside in seconds.
I dared a look back at the open back door just in time to see him on the top step, his flashlight sweeping big arcs of golden light across the rapidly accumulating snow. My sock-clad feet were wet and near freezing, and I knew there was a good chance he’d see my footprints in the deepening snow. I’d already doused my light and ducked behind a row of tall arbor vitae, peeking between feathery branches heavy with snow, not daring to move, to give away my hiding place. I gauged how long it might take him to catch up with me if he figured out the direction I’d taken. He still had boots, but he was probably going to be weighed down some by the pa
dded red suit. What if the 911 operator hadn’t heard my whispered message? If I ran to the nearest neighbor, wouldn’t they be in danger from the crazed Santa chasing me? Would they even answer the door?
Do I hear sirens? Or is it the wind?
He turned toward his right. Good. He was facing the wrong direction, giving the tell-tale footprints time to fill with snow. Suddenly, he fell forward, tumbling down the granite steps, the flashlight lurching erratically. He spun around, whirling faster than a man of his size should be able to. The light flashed intermittently on the reason—the reasons—for this strange behavior.
There was a cat firmly attached to each thigh. One yellow cat—one white one.
I saw my chance and took it. I ran—through the yard, past the front gate, and out into the middle of Winter Street, just in time to see the beautiful flashing red, white, and blue lights of several police cars.
EPILOGUE
When the police arrived, just like the U.S. Cavalry in some of the old movies Aunt Ibby and Mr. Pennington like to watch, I directed them to the backyard where Richard McNally was arrested while in an awkward and undignified position. (Think runny makeup, saggy red suit, clinging to a fence post with two yowling, belled, and beribboned cats claw-deep into his legs.)
My 911 call had indeed been difficult for the operator to understand, but they were able to track my little old pink Princess phone. What had seemed like hours to me, from the time I’d made that phone call, slid down the laundry chute, and run out the back door until those welcome sirens screamed their way down Winter Street was less than fifteen minutes—not bad considering they’d had to figure out where I was, then had to plow through darn near a foot of wet snow to get to me.
Pete had been in the first patrol car to reach me in the middle of the street that night. He’d picked me up, put me in the front seat, cranked the heater up, kissed me, and said, “Take off those wet socks. I’ll be right back.”
McNally’s wild rampage through the house had caused some damage—mostly in the form of demolished doors. (I thought about my door vision. I remembered the scattered Santa Clauses under my tree too. How big a hint was that?)
Richard McNally lawyered up immediately and refused to admit any wrongdoing ever, anywhere, anyhow. His stepsister Lilly Jeffry, however, decided that cooperation with the law was her best option, and she knew where all the Historical Charities skeletons were buried!
It had all been Richard’s idea, she insisted. She’d really liked her job. Liked the old gent too. Besides, he’d often told her she’d be mentioned in his will. Ha! She’d sneaked a look at the will about five years ago. He’d mentioned her all right. Barely. After all her hard work and dedication, the senile old Scrooge had left her a measly ten thousand dollars. She’d called her stepbrother to complain about it.
Things had gone bad in Atlanta so Richard showed up in Salem with his big idea.
It didn’t take him long to put it into motion. The Historical Charities of Salem was the only client they’d need. Millions passed through their books every year, and Lilly kept the books! The old buildings needed constant repair and maintenance. Unskilled labor with phony IDs and substandard materials can trim expenses significantly. The charities themselves were grateful for whatever they got and didn’t complain.
But leaking pipes, failing electricity, and shoddy carpentry caught up with them when Anthony and some of the other workers began moonlighting and customers complained. That started the license investigations and things went rapidly downhill. Lilly Jeffry seemed especially repentant about the money the veteran Santas had collected. The three had stolen all of it . . . and Richard McNally wasn’t even a veteran. Lilly, the perfect secretary, began to make mistakes.
McNally, after a trip to the hospital to treat his cat-inflicted wounds, was charged with kidnapping (me), and willful destruction of property (the doors). The serious charges, like murder, fraud, impersonating a veteran, and a long string of others came later. He will be in prison for a very long time. Lilly Jeffrey will do time too. Accessory after the fact in the murder of Mr. Eldridge, grand theft, defrauding the government, and much more. Besides, they are both in trouble with the IRS. A surprising amount of the stolen money was found in bank accounts and safety deposit boxes belonging to the three. It will take a while and working through red tape to access it, but along with the generous donations of a grateful community, the Historical Charities of Salem with new leadership will continue its good works.
Anthony, alias Joseph, along with his fellow handymen were all found guilty of a variety of charges involving their licensing deception. Power was restored just in time for the WICH-TV Christmas party which turned out to be fun despite the snow. My investigative report on The Case of the Holiday Homicide (with apologies to Nancy Drew) was picked up by a national network, which may result in a promotion for me. Maybe. Fingers crossed.
I had a mild case of frostbite on both feet, but with plenty of TLC from Pete, and some unlovely, no-name sensible shoes, I recovered quickly. Our Christmas dinner with Donnie and Marie and the boys was wonderful. Made me think about someday having a family. But not yet. I gave Pete two tickets to the Daytona 500 NASCAR race next February for Christmas. A Florida vacation will feel good about then. He gave me a gorgeous Georg Jensen stainless teardrop shape serving bowl I’d been admiring for over a year in my friend Jennie’s antique shop.
Aunt Ibby and her friend are still in London looking forward to the big New Year’s Eve celebration there. They’ll be watching fireworks at the London Eye. Exciting. Pete and I plan to have a quiet New Year’s Eve. We might even watch the fireworks from the fire escape outside my kitchen window, with the cats. Yes, Frankie is still here. With any luck, all of our doors, including cat entrances, will be replaced by the time my aunt arrives home. (No, I didn’t hire Kenny from Precision Carpentry.)
I won that bet about the two swords that thief on the Tarot card left behind. I’d bet Pete that the killer had left two clues behind when he was confronted in Eldridge’s office. He had—the ledger with the phony figures in it that Lilly had provided, and the Santa hat Mr. Eldridge had worn when he’d discovered that his high-priced contractors were empty storefront maildrops and a four-story building full of scrap lumber, used parts, and secondhand tools. We’ll be having dinner, on Pete, at Gulu Gulu soon.
About those Monarch butterflies. I told Scott about Aunt Ibby’s suggestion that he write a children’s book about them. He says he’s already wearing too many hats. The story’s been told around Salem so much, lots of people already think it happened. We even had a call at the station from the Museum of Science about it. Maybe somebody, somewhere, some day will write that little story.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to the usual suspects for unfailing support, advice, and encouragement. Special recognition to fellow writers from Bay Area Professional Writers Guild, Wordsmiths, Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, and Pinellas Writers (with a special salute to author David Wood for inspiring Lee’s “empty room” dream). Much appreciation to my publisher Kensington, especially editor Esi Sogah and publicist Karen Auerbach. A big hug to Barnes & Noble, both locally and nationally, for their consistent tasteful promotion of cozy mysteries. But most of all, I need to acknowledge my husband Dan—who’s turned out to be a darned good mystery plotter!
Aunt Ibby’s Never-Fail Meringue
This meringue cuts beautifully and never gets sticky.
1 tablespoon cornstarch
2 tablespoons cold water
½ cup boiling water
3 egg whites
6 tablespoons sugar
Dash of salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Blend cornstarch and cold water in saucepan. Add boiling water and cook, stirring until clear and thickened. Let stand until completely cold. With electric mixer at high speed, beat egg whites until foamy; gradually add sugar and beat until stiff, but not dry. Turn mixer to low speed, add salt and vanilla. Gradually beat in
cold cornstarch mixture. Turn mixer again to high speed and beat well. Spread on filled pie shell. Bake in moderate oven (350 degrees) about 10 minutes.
(Aunt Ibby says to make sure the beaters are absolutely clean for this, or any meringue recipe.)
Don’t miss the next in the Witch City Mystery series
FINAL EXAM
Coming soon from
Carol J. Perry
and
Kensington Books
Carol J. Perry was born in Salem on Halloween Eve. She has written many young adult novels, in addition to the Witch City mystery series. She and her husband Dan live in the Tampa Bay area of Florida with two cats and a black Lab.
CAUGHT DEAD HANDED
She’s not a psychic—she just plays one on TV.
Most folks associate the city of Salem, Massachusetts with witches, but for Lee Barrett, it’s home. This October she’s returned to her hometown—where her beloved Aunt Ibby still lives—to interview for a job as a reporter at WICH-TV. But the only opening is for a call-in psychic to host the late night horror movies. It seems the previous host, Ariel Constellation, never saw her own murder coming.
Lee reluctantly takes the job, but when she starts seeing real events in the obsidian ball she’s using as a prop, she wonders if she might really have psychic abilities. To make things even spookier, it’s starting to look like Ariel may have been an actual practicing witch—especially when O’Ryan, the cat Lee and Aunt Ibby inherited from her, exhibits some strange powers of his own. With Halloween fast approaching, Lee must focus on unmasking a killer—or her career as a psychic may be very short lived . . .
Bells, Spells, and Murders Page 31