Murder, Take Two

by Carol J. Perry

  “The girl,” I said. “She thinks Bond was a jerk. He’d given her a D on her midterms.”

  “She has blue hair,” Francine offered.

  “Kids,” Scott scoffed. “They screw around partying for a whole semester, then blame the teachers when they don’t get the As and Bs Daddy is paying for.”

  “Not exactly worth killing over, though,” Mr. Doan put in. “And that professor you interviewed didn’t give much of an answer when you asked about what was going on between McGinnis and Bond.”

  “I know,” I admitted. “He apparently agrees with the lawyers that whatever it was is ‘no big deal.’”

  “Get another interview with him, Ms. Barrett,” Bruce Doan ordered. “You can do better. Get the answer.” He pointed to the candy spread. “Rhonda, wrap up some of those dark chocolate–covered orange peels. They’re Buffy’s favorites.”

  “I’d already set some aside,” Rhonda said, handing him a small candy box. “I know Mrs. Doan loves them.”

  “Thanks.” He retreated to his office, looking back over his shoulder. “Get on that ‘disagreement between colleagues’ thing, Ms. Barrett. Pronto!”

  I gritted my teeth and didn’t answer. Scott grinned. “Need help, Moon?” Scott’s called me ‘Moon,’ ever since I first came to WICH-TV. “Crystal Moon” was the name I chose for my phony psychic routine.

  “No thanks. I can handle it.” I believed I could. The twins undoubtedly knew all about whatever the problem was between the two professors. Besides that, I had a meeting in a few hours with some crack busybodies who might already have the answer to that too.

  As the bounty of goodies on Rhonda’s counter grew smaller, so did the group gathered there. After a while it got down to the women—Francine, Rhonda, and me—by this time wetting our fingers and picking up little shreds of chocolate.

  “So, are you going to call the hot professor?” Rhonda wanted to know.

  “The kids call him ‘Professor Dreamy’” was Francine’s helpful observation.

  “We all saw that look he gave you,” Rhonda teased. “I’ll bet he’ll spill the whole story if you ask nicely.”

  I thought about calling him. Gave it a moment’s serious thought. “Don’t think I’ll need him,” I decided.

  “Doan would probably like you to do it,” Rhonda said. “All those college girls would watch because he’s so handsome. Doan’s always looking to attract a younger audience.”

  “That’s right,” Francine offered. “The only eye-candy guy we’ve got around here is Buck Covington.”

  “Don’t let Scott hear you say that.” I laughed. “He thinks he’s all that and more.” But she was right. Buck Covington is wicked handsome, and in addition to that, he reads from the teleprompter flawlessly, every time. Never needs a second take on anything. The late news ratings went up as soon as he was hired. Buck is dating my best friend, River, who is also gorgeous. They’re definitely WICH-TV’s “beautiful couple.”

  “Think about it,” Rhonda advised. “Anyway, you two have another hour or so before you clock out. Got any time fillers in mind?”

  “I have to get an oil change on the van,” Francine said. “I’d better get going.”

  “I’ve got some more research to do on Dick Crowninshield,” I said. “I think I’ll use the computer in one of the data ports if that’s okay.”

  “Sure.” Rhonda handed me a key to one of the secure little cubicles where reporters can work without interruption or background noise. The data ports were one of Mr. Doan’s better ideas, and I use them often.

  I closed the dataport glass door behind me, tossed my handbag onto the desk, and typed in “The murder of Captain Joseph White Salem.” Even though the crime happened almost two hundred years ago, there’s still a surprising amount of information about it on the internet. What I hoped to find was some more ties between the murder of Samuel Bond and the killing of Joseph White. It would all be coincidental, of course, but Bruce Doan would like it, and it could make a great story. Maybe I’d even get an investigative reporter shot on the late news with it.

  It was pretty much agreed by all concerned that Dick Crowninshield had killed the old man for money. He was simply a hired killer who, rather than face the consequences of his crime, had hanged himself in his jail cell with a fine silk scarf. Nothing was stolen or even disturbed in the captain’s bedroom. The same was true of the Bond killing. Nothing missing that we know of. There were accessories to the White murder. A man named Frank Knapp and his brother Joseph were later hanged for their part in the crime. Did Bond’s killer work alone?

  I noted both things on one of the index cards I always carry in my purse. Did they mean anything? Maybe not, but I guessed they were worth a Roman numeral apiece. I jotted down VII—Bedrooms; VIII—Accomplices. I’d figure out the ABCs and 123s later. I added a PS to the bottom of the card. I didn’t know what else to do with it. “Cops emptied Cody’s gym locker.” I closed and locked the dataport door, returned the key to Rhonda, and left for home—anxiously awaiting the evening’s meeting with my own willing accomplices.

  Chapter 7

  Rupert Pennington had arrived early, impeccably dressed as always. Tonight he sported a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches and a melon-colored ascot. By seven o’clock he’d arranged five chairs around the kitchen table and placed a copy of our outline, along with a brand-new notebook and pen, in front of each place. Aunt Ibby stood at her kitchen counter, putting the finishing touches on a plate of dainty sandwiches. A nice Merlot chilled in a hammered aluminum bucket, coffee would be ready with a touch of a button, and assorted exotic tea bags awaited boiling water.

  I stood in the front hall, facing the big mirrored hall tree, listening for the doorbell. I peered at my reflection. Usually after work I’m makeup-free, wearing comfortable sweats or even pajamas. Tonight I dressed up a little, knowing that Betsy would be a model-perfect fashion plate and Louisa would be understatedly elegant. I didn’t want to embarrass my aunt by looking tacky, so I’d chosen a nice, middle-of-the-road blue denim jumper with a white blouse. Good enough, I decided, and hurried to pull the door open as the first chime of “The Impossible Dream” sounded.

  Betsy whirled through the door in a cloud of Flower-bomb, looking fabulous in pink shantung, long platinum hair in a perfect upsweep. She gave me a side hug and an air kiss. “This is so exciting, Lee,” she said. “Thinking outside the box is so me! I can hardly wait to see what Ibby has in mind.” Louisa Abney-Babcock, immaculate in a gray linen pantsuit, arrived shortly after Betsy, and the two hurried to the kitchen with me right behind them.

  After Mr. Pennington had bowed graciously, kissed hands, and pulled out chairs for all of us, Aunt Ibby got down to business. With her usual appropriate “word choices,” she laid out the problem.

  “You’ve all read or heard about the recent heinous murder of Professor Samuel Bond,” she began, “and are surely aware of the name of the prime suspect in the matter—Cody McGinnis.”

  There was a murmur of “dreadful thing,” and “terrible, terrible,” along with a subdued “tsk-tsk.” Aunt Ibby proceeded. “We—Maralee and I—learned yesterday that the suspect is the nephew of two dear friends of ours. They believe wholeheartedly in Cody’s innocence. I’ve asked you, Betsy, and you, Louisa, to join me in doing some unbiased digging to see what we can learn about Samuel Bond. Our friends, retired police officers, by the way, don’t believe Professor Bond is as perfect as the media make him out to be. Rupert, I know you’ve been friends with both the victim and the accused, so this doesn’t have to involve you. Maralee is of course a journalist and must try to maintain neutrality. But we three girls”—those green eyes sparkled—“we three can do all the digging we like!”

  “Like The Golden Girls!” Louisa clapped her hands. “Wonderful!”

  “No. We’ll be like Charlie’s Angels!” Betsy exclaimed. “And Rupert, you can be Charlie!”

  Mr. Pennington colored slightly and made eye contact with my aunt. “There
are some things,” he said, “a man just can’t run away from.”

  Betsy and Louisa looked puzzled. My aunt winked. “John Wayne. Stagecoach. 1939.” Those two have been quoting old movie lines, trying to stump each other for years.

  And so, as Julius Caesar said, the die was cast. I wasn’t sure whether the Charlie’s Angels thing was exactly what my aunt had in mind, and it undoubtedly wasn’t what the twins had asked for, but there it was. Three women and one gentleman “of a certain age” were about to take on a real time life-and-death challenge.

  Aunt Ibby stood, picking up her pen. “Let’s each write down what we know—personally—about Samuel Bond. Good, bad, and in between. Lee, you and Rupert are excused from this part if you don’t want to do it.” She glanced around the table. “Then we’ll share what we’ve written and see what we come up with.”

  “I don’t know anything about him,” I admitted. “Does anyone want coffee, tea, or wine? I can handle that.”

  Everyone agreed on wine. Mr. Pennington uncorked the bottle and poured. I put the plate of sandwiches on the table, sipped my wine, and watched the others write in their notebooks. The room grew quiet, except for an occasional muffled giggle from Betsy as she bent over neat backhand script. Louisa alternated between minutes of frantic scribbling and moments of elbows on the table, hands covering both eyes, deep thought. Aunt Ibby worked steadily for five minutes or so, then closed her notebook with a firm “that’s that” slap, poured a cup of coffee, and nibbled on a cream-cheese-and-olive-on-rye-bread mini-sandwich. Mr. Pennington followed my aunt’s lead—coffee and sandwich—then stood, apparently studying the Hood’s Milk calendar on the back of the kitchen door.

  When all of the erstwhile Golden Girls/Charlie’s Angels had closed their notebooks, the digging up dirt on poor, dead, unable-to-defend-himself Professor Samuel Bond began in earnest. From the start it was a gossip fest.

  Betsy went first. “The first time I met Sam Bond was around ten years ago at a benefit auction for the Animal Rescue League. Mr. Leavitt and I had donated a lovely Emile Gruppe painting. I wish I had it back now. Well, anyway, Sam was working that crowd as though he was running for congress. Practically begging for invitations to the various A-list events represented in that room. Such a climber! It worked for him to a certain extent.” She laughed. “Got himself invited to a couple of hundred-dollar-a-plate dinners.”

  Louisa nodded. “I sponsored one of those dinners. It was at Hamilton Hall. We were raising money for a new pediatric outpatient facility for the hospital. We had to redeposit his check twice. Bounced the first couple of times.” She shook her head. “Why people spend money they can’t afford to impress others, I don’t know. But it seems to me Samuel has been living beyond his means for a very long time.”

  I’ve rarely ever heard my aunt speak disparagingly of others—excepting certain politicians—and this occasion was no exception. “His late wife was a library volunteer years ago,” she said. “A sweet woman, but she always seemed so sad. I had the impression that the marriage was not a happy one.”

  “For years I didn’t even know he was ever married,” Betsy said. “He sure didn’t act it. Almost every time I saw him he was hanging around with his students or trying to crash an A-list party.”

  “Ever see him with Cody McGinnis?” Aunt Ibby wanted to know.

  “I’m not positive,” Betsy put in, “but when I saw the newspaper photos of Cody, he looked familiar. It may be because I’ve seen him with Sam. Have you ever seen Cody, Lee?”

  “Not really. I only saw the back of his head when he was going into the courthouse with his lawyers. All I’ve heard about him lately is that apparently the police have cleaned out his locker at a gym he belongs to.”

  “That might be important,” my aunt said, “since the police are involved. Did Pete tell you that?”

  “No,” I admitted. “It’s thirdhand information. I haven’t seen anything about it in the papers or on the news. Might be just gossip.”

  “Let’s make a note of it anyway,” Aunt Ibby said, and scribbled in her notebook. “But back to Betsy’s point. Have any of you seen Cody and Sam together?”

  Mr. Pennington stopped his perusal of the cow-of-the-month portrait. “I’ve seen them together,” he said. “Many times.”

  All heads turned in his direction. “Where?” Aunt Ibby wanted to know. “When?”

  “It was usually at school functions, of course,” Rupert Pennington said. “That was most often where I saw Samuel. He and Cody McGinnis were, as you know, associates in the university’s history department.”

  “Nothing unusual there,” Betsy said. “What we need is dirt. Or at least suspicion of dirt.”

  “I don’t know if this qualifies at that level,” he said, “but Samuel, Professor McGinnis, and that poli-sci professor you interviewed, Lee, often dined together, went to the theater together, and occasionally traveled together.”

  “I knew they traveled together,” Louisa said. “I ran into them a year or so ago on an Alaskan cruise.”

  “I’m generally pretty tight-lipped about library business,” Aunt Ibby said. “What happens in the library stays in the library. Some folks in Salem wouldn’t like the type of books they read to be common knowledge, if you get my drift. But since Samuel is dead, I guess I can tell you that those three men were collaborating on a book. They asked for my help with the research.”

  “That’s interesting,” Louisa said. “When I met them on that cruise, they were with another man. Occasionally I sat with the four of them at dinner. And now that you mention it, their conversations were always about writing.”

  “Aunt Ibby,” I asked, “do you know what their book was about?”

  “As far as I could tell by the questions they asked, I don’t think it was exactly a textbook. I believe it was a how-to book showing students how to study for exams, how to take notes effectively, how to research and write a term paper—that sort of thing. They called it You Can Do This.”

  “Cute title. It sounds like a worthwhile project.”

  “I agree,” she said. “They apparently had a contract with a well-known publisher. Now, I don’t know if this is important or not, but someone else was working with them. They had an editor. I overheard them talking about ‘the editor.’ Somebody who was putting the thoughts and ideas of the three into publishable shape. Maybe that was the man Louisa saw them with. They were pretty secretive about it, as if they didn’t want people to know that they needed help to write this book. And between us, they needed a great deal of help!”

  “It sounds almost as though they’d hired a ghostwriter, doesn’t it?” I asked.

  “Could be quite important, I should think,” my aunt said. “Whoever that is might hold some extra insight into all three of those men.”

  “Brrr.” Louisa pretended to shiver. “Ghostwriter sounds strange—under the circumstances, doesn’t it? So it looks as though we three women need to find him. Or her.”

  “We can do it, I’m sure,” Betsy said. “And if we’re going to be Charlie’s Angels, can I be Farrah? I have the best hair.”

  Chapter 8

  After the three guests had left, Aunt Ibby and I worked on our outlines. Top on our new information list was Aunt Ibby’s announcement that there was someone—an editor—who had contact with Professors Bond, Armstrong, and McGinnis.

  “Why didn’t you mention the book collaboration earlier?” I asked. “When I first told you about Roger’s call?”

  “Remember, Maralee, we didn’t even know that Cody was Roger and Ray’s nephew until you got that call. Then Professor Armstrong showed up on your newscast, and things started to fit together. Academic types ask me for help all the time. Nothing unusual about it at all. Publish or perish, as the saying goes, and many of them need a great deal of help to produce anything even remotely publishable.”

  “Did any of them mention a name for this mysterious ‘editor’?”

  “No. They referred to ‘the editor.’ I don�
��t know if it was a man or a woman. Maybe it isn’t even important. I’m kind of curious.”

  “Does ‘editor’ get a Roman numeral?” I asked.

  “Hmm. No. I think it’s more of a subheading. We need a numeral for Bond-McGinnis-Armstrong collaboration, though. ‘Editor’ goes somewhere under that.”

  “Did the book they were writing have a chapter on how to make an outline?” I gave the three names Roman numeral IX in my notebook, then held the page at arm’s length. “It all looks quite orderly, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” she said. “But murder is never orderly.”

  I helped her clean up the kitchen. We finished the coffee, nibbled on a few leftover dainty madeleines, then O’Ryan and I climbed the front stairs to my apartment.

  It was still fairly early. I changed to pj’s—white cotton printed with fiftieth-anniversary Sesame Street characters. Kit-Cat showed eleven o’clock. I turned on the bedroom TV and tucked my notebook away in the bureau, wondering if either the Toy Trawler story or the candy store tour would be on the WICH-TV late news. O’Ryan had followed me into the bedroom. I plumped up my pillows and slipped under the covers while he made his usual three turns, then lay down at the foot of the bed.

  Buck Covington began the newscast with an interview Scott Palmer had done earlier with Salem Police Chief Tom Whaley. It appeared to have been shot in the chief’s office. Chief Whaley does not like live interviews, and I wondered how Scott had managed this one.

  “Chief Whaley,” Scott began. “The medical examiner has released some new information today about the stab wounds on Professor Bond’s body. He says that the wounds were made by a ‘long dagger.’ This would seem to preclude the idea that a small letter opener which has gone missing from the suspect Cody McGinnis’s desk was the murder weapon. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” the chief said. “The idea that a letter opener was involved came from the media. It was never the position of this department.”