Murder, Take Two

by Carol J. Perry

“Does the department now have a knife like that in evidence?”

  “We do.”

  “Is it the murder weapon?”

  “We don’t know that. At this point it’s simply an item of interest.”

  I was surprised by the answer. From the look on Scott’s face, he was surprised too.

  “Whose knife is it?”

  “It apparently came from Professor Bond’s own kitchen.”

  “Is that where it was found?”

  “No.”

  Scott leaned forward, looking expectantly toward the chief. “No? Where then?”

  The chief looked even more uncomfortable than usual. “As I said, we aren’t representing that this knife is the murder weapon.”

  Scott pressed on. “Where was it found?”

  “It was at the university.”

  “County U?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “In Professor Bond’s office.”

  It was a “holy cow!” moment. I could tell that Scott was momentarily speechless. That doesn’t happen very often. It gave the chief a chance to escape, and he took advantage of it.

  “Thank you, Scott,” he said. He stood so quickly his chair tottered slightly, and he made a quick exit from the room.

  “Uh—thank you, Chief Whaley,” Scott said, recovering enough to do a quick wrap-up of what he’d learned, along with a standard sign-off. “Stay tuned to WICH-TV, everybody, for continuing coverage of this rapidly unfolding story.”

  Not unfolding so rapidly, I thought, then stopped thinking about murder completely when my own image appeared on-screen. (Can’t help it. Was my hair okay? Do I look fat in those jeans?) I decided that the interview with Captain Billy went well, and the shots of the kids on the giant game pieces were adorable. Buck moved on to coverage of Salem’s newest public park, named for Abolitionist Charlotte Forten; a story about a kid’s big catch of an enormous halibut; and a detailed report on a city council meeting.

  My friend River North’s show follows the late news, and I often manage to stay awake long enough to watch Tarot Time. River features scary old movies and TV shows, like The Twilight Zone, and takes calls from viewers, reading the beautiful cards for them. The show is wildly popular and, to Bruce Doan’s delight, sometimes outpulls the big network late-night programs.

  I was happy to see that the night’s movie was a true classic—Stephen King’s Misery. River, as usual, looked amazing in a black velvet off-shoulder gown with a sparkling jeweled spider above her left breast. Silver moons and stars were woven into her long black braid. She sat in a giant fan-backed wicker chair, facing a matching table. There was another chair opposite hers, which usually meant that Buck Covington had stayed after the news and was on hand to shuffle the cards—the viewers loved that part—and since Buck and River had started dating, he’d become quite adept at some fancy card handling. Because sometimes a card being read is upside down, which usually yields an opposite meaning from the right-side-up position, Buck riffled the cards, holding them so that the tops in each hand faced each other. That way they get mixed well.

  O’Ryan, on hearing River’s voice, abandoned his foot-of-the-bed position and snuggled in beside me. He loves River. After she gave a few words about the movie, and as Buck shuffled the cards, she took her first call.

  “Hello, caller. Your first name and birthday, please?”

  A woman’s reply was hesitant, soft voiced. “My name is—um—do I have to?”

  “No. You don’t have to give your name and birthday if you’re not comfortable with that. Could you speak up a little louder, though?”

  “All right. River, I’m very worried about one of my children. Can you read his future?”

  “I’m sorry.” River shook her head, and the moons and stars in her hair quivered and sparkled. “I can’t read for your child without his permission. I believe that would be an invasion of his privacy. Would it help if I read for you?”

  “Yes. Yes. I think it could help.”

  River placed her hand onto the deck of cards in the center of the table. She bowed her head. “I dedicate this deck to serve others with their spiritual growth, for wisdom, knowledge, and to bring healing and peace to all who seek its guidance.”

  “That’s nice. Thank you, River.”

  I recognized the same ten-card arrangement she uses most often, beginning with a single card in the middle of the table to represent the caller. I recognized that card as “The High Priestess,” and I understood why she used it. In readings River has done for me, she’s used it to represent Aunt Ibby. She told me the card often signifies a mother or a mother figure. Made sense, since the caller had mentioned a son.

  After she’d reshuffled the cards, River completed the layout and the overhead camera revealed the first six cards in the form of a cross and four more in a vertical row beside it. All the cards faced up. River touched the second card, which she’d placed across the priestess card.

  “The Three of Swords,” she said. “You see rain and clouds in the background, and a heart pierced by three swords. In the Kabbalah, this card sometimes represents a sorrowful mother.” She looked toward the camera. “You’ve already told me you are concerned about your son. Are you fearing a separation?”

  A softly spoken “Yes.”

  “Next we see the Ten of Wands. A man is shown carrying ten wands, each of them flowering. It is a heavy burden, but the man plods on toward the beautiful city in the background.” River smiled. “It seems as though the load is more than he can manage, but your son is brave. His plans have been disrupted, but he still struggles onward.”

  A stronger voice. “Yes.”

  The overhead camera activated as she touched the next card. “The Knight of Pentacles, reversed,” she said. I squinted, leaned closer to the screen. The card showed a man on a horse. A knight in armor, he wore a red tunic and red gloves. The camera once again focused on River. “Perhaps there’s a man with dark hair, dark eyes in your son’s life. That man is careless with money. Not always trustworthy.” She moved on. “Here’s the Eight of Pentacles. This man—perhaps your son—is working at a trade, a profession. He’s in the apprenticeship stage of what is to come. He earns less money than he hopes for.”

  “He deserves more. He’s earned it.” The caller’s voice was louder.

  “The Wheel of Fortune is your next card. It’s reversed too. For the time being, there’ll be setbacks in your plans. You will need courage, but eventually, things will be so much better.”

  “You think?”

  River smiled. “I think.”

  The Six of Wands was next, showing a man on horseback. “This is good news, caller,” River pronounced. “A victory is ahead. Perhaps in the field of arts and sciences. Does that make sense?”

  “It certainly does. But when does the victory come?”

  The next card was not a pretty one. The Four of Swords showed a knight lying on a tomb. River spoke quickly. “It’s not a card about death. It’s sometimes about a temporary exile, though, a separation from the familiar. There will be a change back to normal activity in the future.”

  “But you don’t know when?”

  River moved through the rest of the reading fairly quickly. I understood why. She was on a schedule involving commercial breaks, station IDs, and the start of the movie. The remaining cards covered some information about putting one’s house in order, more changes of plans, the appearance of an interesting-sounding blonde woman, but nothing indicating a set time for victory or normal activity, which the caller seemed to want. Not surprising. River wished the woman and her son courage and love and golden white light and moved on to a message about Lorelei’s love magic candles at Crow Haven Corner.

  O’Ryan and I watched the start of the movie and another card reading. This one involved safety of possible travel abroad and the advisability of hiring a dog sitter while the family was away as opposed to a boarding kennel. The cards indicated that it would be safe to travel and that the dog
might prefer staying at home. I felt drowsy, and O’Ryan was already asleep, showing a total lack of interest in the comfort of dogs.

  I turned off the TV and lay awake for a while thinking about the nameless, birthdate-less, worried mother, fearing separation from a son, who thought he should earn more money, who was involved with the arts and sciences, and whose plans had been disrupted. And who does the Knight of Pentacles represent? Is he the mysterious editor? The ghostwriter?

  I decided that first chance I got I’d ask River about that knight. And maybe I’d ask River’s call screener, Therese Della Monica, if she’d recorded that sad mother’s number. Just in case.

  Chapter 9

  I sat down for breakfast in Aunt Ibby’s kitchen—still nothing much in my refrigerator—when my phone dinged. A text from Roger Temple announced that he and Ray would be in Salem on Wednesday night. “The twins will be here tomorrow,” I told my aunt. “It looks like Cody’s about to be formally charged with the crime.”

  “Oh dear. That doesn’t sound good,” she said. “I’ll talk with Rupert and the Angels and see what they’ve learned so far that might be helpful.”

  I smothered a snicker at the casual way she mentioned “the Angels,” and spread homemade strawberry jam onto a thick slice of sourdough toast. “Did you see Scott Palmer’s interview with Chief Whaley on the late news? About the knife?”

  “I didn’t, but it’s in this morning’s paper. Strange.”

  “Sure is. At least we know the murder weapon wasn’t Cody’s letter opener,” I said. “But why would one of the professor’s kitchen knives turn up in his office?”

  Aunt Ibby sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “I know my kitchen knives have turned up occasionally in the break room at the library,” she said, “when I’ve baked a birthday cake for someone and brought a knife along to cut it.”

  “I hadn’t thought of anything like that,” I said. “It probably isn’t the murder weapon anyway.”

  “If it is,” she pointed out, “it could have Samuel Bond’s blood on it somewhere. Bloodstains are pretty hard to get out.”

  “They should be through testing it by now. We’ll probably know today whether it had prints or blood or birthday cake or anything interesting on it.”

  “There wasn’t anything about it on the morning news,” she said, “but I saw your report on the candy store. Made me hungry for chocolate.”

  “I need to go shopping,” I said. “I’ll pick some chocolates up for you. Need anything else?”

  “I’ll give you a list. I want to get some of those sardine-flavored treats for O’Ryan, and I’ll need a few things if Roger and Ray want to get together with all of us on Wednesday evening.”

  “Oops. Hope not. Pete and I have tickets to the Sox game. The twins will probably want to spend time with their sister anyway.”

  “Of course. Maybe I’ll have the Angels over and we can work on the case.”

  I smiled, thinking of Pete’s book title—Nancy Drew and the Case of the Murdered Professor. “Good idea,” I said. “See if they have any ideas about who the editor is. Jot down your grocery list, and I’ll see you after work.”

  * * *

  It was such a pleasant day that I thought about putting the top down on the Corvette, but decided against it. Maybe on the way home I would, though. Salem can be lovely in late spring/almost summer. Pleasant weather, and the traffic isn’t too bad before the annual influx of tourists begins in earnest.

  I pulled into my parking space, locked the car, and took a couple of deep, refreshing breaths of salt air. For me, that works as well as one of those energy drinks. I skipped the elevator and climbed the metal staircase, wondering what Rhonda’s white board would offer for my day.

  “Glad you’re here a little early,” Rhonda said. “Scott’s out with a sore throat. So you and Francine are kind of doubled up with his assignments as well as your own.” I didn’t question that. Wasn’t even surprised. Mr. Doan would be happy if everyone did double jobs every day. As it is, almost everyone at the station wears more than one hat. My job is sometimes like that of a substitute teacher. I’ve subbed for Scott many times, and he’s done the same for me. I’ve answered phones for Rhonda, done investigative reports on short notice, and once even filled in for Wanda the Weather Girl.

  I looked at the white board and read aloud the items neatly printed in purple marker. “City council meeting at city hall: 10:00 a.m. Mayor meeting with mayor of Salem’s Japanese ‘sister city’ at noon: Hawthorne dining room. A new mural to be unveiled at the El Punto neighborhood: 2:00 p.m. Police chief will hold presser about McGinnis arrest: TBA. As time permits, visit the no-kill animal shelter, the new display of figureheads at the Peabody Essex Museum, and schedule another interview with Professor Armstrong.” That last one was underlined in red, probably by the station manager.

  “Is Francine here yet?” I asked. “Maybe we have time to visit the animal shelter on the way to city hall.”

  As though on cue, Francine arrived, joining me at the white board. “Holy cow! We’d better get rolling right now.” I agreed, told her about my animal shelter idea, and we hurried down the metal staircase and out to the parking lot. We climbed into the mobile van and began our workday.

  “Shall we promise each other that neither of us will fall in love with a puppy or kitty this time?” Remembering the difficulty I’d had passing up an adorable black kitten the last time we’d visited, I raised my right hand and promised. Anyway, I wasn’t sure how O’Ryan would feel about welcoming a new pet.

  The volunteers at the shelter gave us an excellent tour of the facility. We met the veterinarian on duty, petted a sweet St. Bernard and a pair of brother and sister cock-apoos. I didn’t cuddle any kittens, and we came away with a good twenty minutes of material, which would get edited down to a couple of short spots that could run almost anytime a filler was needed. Mr. Doan calls those “evergreens.”

  City hall was already in full swing, dealing with a citizen’s committee demanding that the city council arrange for more neighborhood security. There were several FREE CODY signs being waved with enthusiasm, mostly by young student types. The committee spokesman gave an impassioned request for more patrol cars. “There may still be a vicious, house-breaking killer wandering our streets, looking for another victim—like poor old Sam Bond.” I managed a short interview with the spokesman, a few words with a young sign-carrying girl who’d taken Cody’s Salem history course, and a longer Q and A with Councilor Lois Mercer, who’s helped me out several times when city business rated prime time, front-page coverage—which this murder clearly did.

  “We’ve already passed on the request to the police department,” Mercer told my audience. “We’ve been assured that the chief will address the situation later today. Although the police have arrested a person of interest, it seems entirely possible that there is still a killer loose in Salem.” She waved a hand toward the crowd, which had begun to leave the chambers. “We listen to our citizens. They are frightened.”

  The Hawthorne Hotel, where the mayor’s meeting with the Japanese mayor was due to start at noon, was only about a mile away, but parking could be a problem because the hotel is close to the Witch Museum, where lots of tour buses line up every day. Francine lucked out with a space, and we had five minutes to spare before the dignitary was supposed to show up.

  Meanwhile, the “Free Cody” group had learned about the mayor’s meeting, grown in number, and had lined up across the street from the hotel. I did a quick standup commentary while Francine zoomed in on the chanting protesters. There was a significant presence of security on both sides of the street. When a black limo bearing a Japanese flag pulled up at the front entrance, I was in a perfect position to see the expected dignitary step from the limo. He looked quite young against a background of sign-waving, noisy students calling on him to tell the mayor to free Roger and Ray’s imprisoned nephew. I recognized the blue-haired girl.

  Rhonda hadn’t had time to fill me in on the vi
siting mayor’s name. I was only a couple of feet away from him, so I had to wing it. “Good morning, your honor,” I said. “I’m Lee Barrett. WICH-TV. Is this your first visit to Salem?” I held the stick mic toward him, belatedly hoping he spoke some English. He did. Turned out he’d been an exchange student in California for a year and spoke it well enough for us to have a conversation.

  “It is, indeed,” he said. “An interesting city. But tell me, Ms. Barrett, what is a ‘cody’?” he gestured to the loud crowd across the street. “And why must it be freed?”

  OMG! Hasn’t his staff briefed him on what’s going on in his sister city? Or is he having fun with the lady reporter?

  “Local story, sir,” I said. “A sad one. A prominent citizen has been murdered, and a popular history professor is a suspect. His name is Cody McGinnis, and some of his students believe—quite strongly—in his innocence.”

  His expression was appropriately grave. “Yes. A sad business.” He moved toward the open doorway of the hotel. “Thank you, Ms. Barrett.”

  Francine and I flashed our press credentials and, along with reporters and cameras from a couple of Boston stations, followed the procession of dignitaries, both Japanese and American, to the dining room where our mayor waited to greet the guests. A polite guy wearing a Red Sox cap and carrying the latest Tascam DR-44WL audio recorder held the door for us. I pointed to the neat portable unit and whispered to Francine. “Way better than mine, and we’re supposed to be professional.”

  We made ourselves as unobtrusive as possible, and Francine began filming. I’d do a voice-over later at the studio. For the moment I was an observer. The welcoming speech was the usual kind, with translator and signer helping. Our mayor is excellent at this, and her Japanese counterpart responded with similar goodwill. He reached what appeared to be the conclusion of his remarks, then added, “I noticed the gathering of students outside. It reminded me of my student days in California. It is a very good thing for citizens to make known their feelings to those of us in office, isn’t it?” He paused, then smiled. “So often the young people are right.”