Murder, Take Two

by Carol J. Perry

  What had started as an ordinary piece of fluff filler TV had suddenly become news.

  Once back in the van, I put my phone on speaker and called Rhonda. “Do we have any idea when the chief’s presser is going to happen? The student protest about Cody McGinnis being held is growing, and our sister city mayor dropped a good pro-student quote we can use along with whatever the chief has to say. Besides that, the city council is dealing with citizens’ groups who want more protection from a killer who might be loose in Salem.”

  “Sounds good,” she said. “Listen, why don’t you two get over to the police station now? I’ll send Old Jim over for the mural unveiling. That way you’ll be on hand as soon as Chief Whaley is ready.”

  “We’re on our way.”

  “Okay if we stop for a hamburger?” I asked. “The mayors didn’t invite us for the dinner.”

  “Sure, but don’t forget to get that interview with the hot professor. Doan is expecting it.”

  “I know. I’ll get it done,” I promised. “See you later.”

  I fumbled in my purse for the card Professor Armstrong had given me. Francine had already turned the van in the direction of McDonald’s. “While we wait for the chief to show up, I’ll try to get in touch with Professor Dreamy.”

  “He gave you his number?” Francine gave one of her raised-eyebrow smirks.

  “It’s a business card, silly. He probably gives them to everybody.”

  “I saw that look he gave you.” We joined the fast-food line. “Want the usual?”

  “Sure.” She ordered two number fives with Diet Cokes. “All our viewers saw the look too,” I said. “He probably gives that look to every woman he meets.”

  “Go ahead and call him. I’ll bet he answers right away.” My call went to voice mail. It was my turn to smirk. I left a brief message, as instructed, and we headed for the police station. When we arrived, the lectern the chief uses was already in place, and it looked as though his mic was being installed. We were the only media vehicle there so far, but I knew that wouldn’t last long. I’d taken my first mouthful of hot fries, when there was a tap at my window. I rolled it down quickly. Pete’s office is on the street side of the building, and he must have seen us drive up.

  “Hi, babe,” he said. “Saw you rolling by. You’re early. I think Chief’s still busy putting on his dress uniform for the occasion. Hi, Francine.”

  “Hi, Pete,” she said. “Doan’s got us doing double duty today.”

  “I see that. Lunch and presser at the same time?”

  “Triple duty,” I said. “Lunch, presser, and trying to set up an interview all at once.” I pointed to my phone in its holder on the dash. “Have you talked to Professor Armstrong at the university yet?”

  “Not personally. I know we took a statement from him. Said he was friends with McGinnis and Bond both. Kind of conflicted there, I suppose.”

  “I guess so. Mr. Doan seems to think he’s important. He’s being quite insistent that I talk to the man. I hope he’ll return my call. I don’t want to have to chase him around the campus.”

  The phone, still on speaker, buzzed. “Hello?” I said.

  The male voice was smooth and a little husky. “Hello, Lee. This is Alan. I’ve been hoping you’d call.”

  Raised-eyebrow smirk again from Rhonda. “Told ya.”

  Pete raised his eyebrows too.

  Chapter 10

  I raised one finger in a “wait a minute while I take this call” signal.

  “Uh, yes, Professor Armstrong. I know you’re very busy, but I wonder if you could spare the time for a short interview.” Pete leaned in a little closer, his arms folded on top of the open window, obviously listening to every word.

  “On TV?”

  “Of course. WICH-TV. Francine and I can arrange to meet you at the university if that’s the most convenient for you. Or if you prefer, we can shoot it at our studio.”

  “Who’s Francine?”

  “My photographer. She was with me yesterday.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Long pause. Was he thinking it over? I remembered the underlined-in-red “Schedule another interview with Professor Armstrong.” Mr. Doan was serious about this. I had to convince this guy to agree to it. “We’ll keep it as brief as possible,” I promised, “but I’m sure our viewing audience wants to hear more from you, Professor.”

  “All right, but you can drop the ‘Professor.’ Call me Alan, Lee.” It sounded like a smooth, slightly husky, command.

  Francine’s smirk was back.

  “Certainly, Alan,” I said, making a face in Francine’s direction. “When and where would be convenient for you?”

  Another pause. “I suppose the lighting and sound at the TV studio is superior to the outdoor version?”

  “We have more control there, yes.”

  “I can arrange to meet you at the station tomorrow evening then, Lee. Sixish? And Lee, I’m looking forward to it.”

  Pete shook his head, moved away from the window, and made a swinging-a-bat move. “Ball game,” he whispered.

  “Professor—I mean, Alan—can we make it earlier in the day? I have a previous engagement tomorrow evening.”

  Long, heartfelt sigh on the other end of the phone. “Lee, dear, as you’ve already noticed, I am a very busy man. There are so many demands on my time—some from larger media venues, to tell the truth. And I do have a unique slant on this murder. I’d love for your station to be the first to hear about what I know. But, if you can’t make time for me . . .”

  I looked at Pete, shrugging my shoulders. What shall I do?

  He put down his imaginary bat, smiled, and whispered, “It’s okay.”

  I knew he understood. There’ve been times when his work interfered with our plans and other times when mine had. “All right, then, Alan,” I said. “I’ll plan to see you at the station at six tomorrow evening.”

  “Perfect,” he said. “And Lee, you won’t be sorry.”

  I’m sorry already. “Looking forward to it,” I lied. “Goodbye.”

  “Oh, Pete,” said. “I wish I didn’t have to do this. But, Mr. Doan . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it, babe,” he said. “I’ll give the tickets to Marie. She and Donny love the Sox. We’ll go to another game soon. I promise.” Yes, Pete’s sister and brother-in-law are named Donny and Marie.

  “Thanks for understanding,” I said. “I’d better call Rhonda and see if she can schedule Marty for a six o’clock in-studio shoot tomorrow.” I’ve worked with Marty McCarthy since my first day at WICH-TV. She’s a friend as well as a crack videographer. My mind raced, trying to plan ahead. “The news desk will still be working on the five o’clock. Maybe we can use the Saturday Business Hour set. Then we can run the interview on the late news.” I looked back at Pete. “The interview shouldn’t take too long. Maybe we can do something afterward.”

  “I’ve already got Wednesday night off,” he said, then did that silly Groucho Marx thing wiggling his eyebrows. “I’m sure we’ll think of something. Gotta get back to work. I’ll call you later. So long, Francine.”

  “See ya, Pete,” she said, waving as he left. “Here come some more mobile units. Chief must be about ready to get started.”

  I called Rhonda, quickly explained what was going on, checked hair and makeup in the visor mirror, and climbed out of the van. Together Francine and I organized camera and mic setups and took our positions as close as we could get to the chief’s lectern.

  Media interest in the Samuel Bond murder had clearly grown. I recognized reporters from two of the local Boston stations, along with a FOX network crew, a representative from the History channel, and even a member of a well-known ghost-hunting team. The long-ago murder of Captain White had surely captured the attention of the public far beyond Salem. The chief, tall, distinguished, and handsome in a dress uniform and a chest full of medals, approached the bank of microphones, cleared his throat, and began to speak.

  “Thank you for coming. I�
�ll attempt to update you briefly on the matter of the recent death of Professor Samuel Bond. As you may know, we have made one arrest. My staff, as well as our state of Massachusetts advisers, are continuing a thorough investigation into the circumstances of Professor Bond’s death. There has been some significant progress in the case, the details of which will be forthcoming later. Certain materials have been turned over to the forensics unit for further analysis. I wish I had more to share with you today, but please be assured that we are moving as swiftly as possible in a forward direction. Thank you for your understanding.”

  The shouted questions began. A guy I recognized from WBZ-TV yelled, “Is it true you’ve got the killer’s shoes?” So someone else has heard about the cops raiding Cody’s locker. I poked Francine’s arm. Her gym-rat contact was right.

  “There have been several items collected and sent to the forensic labs,” the chief said. “I’ll have no further comment on that.” I tried asking a question. “Chief Whaley, since you’ve found the knife, are you looking for two killers now?”

  He frowned in my direction. Then shook his head. “As I just said, a state forensics team is working on evidence we’ve gathered, including some new items of interest.” He stepped back from the podium. “That’s all we have for now. I’ll notify the press as soon as there is any further relevant information. Good afternoon.”

  He answered a few more questions as he moved toward the door of the station—mostly about any connection to the White killing. As usual, he looked relieved when the door closed behind him.

  “That’s kind of a letdown.” Francine stowed our equipment neatly in the side of the van. “Nothing much new there.”

  “I know. The only new thing was the fact that they’ve gathered some more evidence they’re not going to tell us about. How’m I supposed to make a news alert spot out of that?”

  “Beats me,” she said. “What’s a ‘new item of interest’?”

  “Could be darned near anything,” I said. “And ‘items of interest’ mean ‘things,’ not ‘people,’ I suppose.”

  Chapter 11

  Francine may have exceeded the speed limit on the way back to the station. There was a good chance we’d be able to get this footage ready in time for the five o’clock news. Also, I was anxious to let Mr. Doan know that I’d secured an interview with Professor Armstrong. I was sure he’d be a lot more happy about that than I was.

  Super-efficient Rhonda had already contacted Marty and arranged for the in-studio interview with Professor Dreamy. Mr. Doan seemed pleased about it, although he wondered aloud why I couldn’t do it immediately, in time for the early news.

  “What does he think we are? Magicians?” Francine grumbled. “How many places can we be in one day? Dogs and cats. City hall. A couple of mayors. The chief of police. Whew!”

  “When you line it up like that, I’m impressed with us,” I told her.

  “Yeah. We’re worth more money,” she said, and we both laughed at that idea.

  So did Rhonda. “Fat chance of that for any of us. Hey, Old Jim should be back pretty soon from the mural unveiling at El Punto. So you can do the voice-over and add that to the list. If you hurry, you might even have time to check out the figureheads at the Peabody Essex Museum.”

  “Let’s save that one for another day,” I said. “It’ll be too interesting to rush through. I’ll wait for Old Jim and talk about the murals.” I like talking about El Punto. It’s a fairly new attraction in Salem—a three-block outdoor art museum that has revitalized a previously rundown neighborhood. Now over seventy-five large-scale murals, many by world-famous artists, decorate existing buildings. It’s an artistic extravaganza, changing the formerly bypassed streets into a welcoming riot of color and excitement.

  Old Jim is a darned good photographer. He keeps trying to retire, but winds up filling in every time the station needs him. He’s usually relegated to the aged Volkswagen van instead of the much newer mobile unit Francine drives, but he doesn’t mind.

  We fixed up a screen that looked as though I was actually standing in front of a giant mural of a rainbow-colored cat with a bird on his shoulder. Then as Jim’s camera panned the three blocks, I encouraged viewers to visit the place. We wrapped it up and exchanged high fives. By then it was time for me to leave, satisfied with my day’s work well done. I could hardly wait to get home to see what Aunt Ibby thought about the chief’s information—such as it was.

  I made a quick trip to Shaw’s with Aunt Ibby’s grocery list, then hurried home. As soon as I hit the remote and opened the garage door, I recognized Betsy Leavitt’s Mercedes in the driveway. Had my aunt called an emergency meeting of the Angels already? I parked and walked quickly toward the house, where O’Ryan waited on the back steps. He met me halfway, and together we went in. I knocked on my aunt’s kitchen door, while the cat scooted inside.

  I heard my aunt’s voice. “Come in, Maralee, it’s open. We’re in my office.” I hung my purse on the back of a kitchen chair and followed the cat. All three of the Angels were there, gathered around the cherrywood desk. There wasn’t a chair for me, so I stood behind Louisa.

  “Hello, Angels,” I said, trying not to giggle. “I didn’t see your car, Mrs. Abney-Babcock.”

  “Betsy picked me up, dear—and please call me Louisa. I feel that we’re going to see a lot of each other for a while.”

  Aunt Ibby and Betsy agreed. “We’re giving every spare minute to this case,” my aunt pronounced. “I’ve already contacted the twins and told them not to worry. We’re on the job.”

  Oh boy. You’ve told two professional police officers, who are related to the chief suspect, not to worry because three senior citizens are “on the job”?

  “What did they say?”

  “They’re delighted, of course,” Betsy pronounced. “Who wouldn’t be with a professional researcher and two close personal friends of the deceased helping their cause.”

  Word choice, of course. It’s all about word choices.

  “You’re right,” I said. “Who wouldn’t be?” I pointed to the computer. “Anything new to report so far?”

  “We’re trying to make sense out of what the chief said—or didn’t say—about the shoes. I’ll bet your third-person source from the gym was right, Lee,” Betsy said. “I’ll bet the cops have Cody’s shoes and they’ll try to match them up with footprint casts from Bond’s backyard.”

  “Did he say anything else after the cameras were turned off?” Louisa wanted to know. “And why didn’t he answer your question about two people?”

  “He was in a big hurry to get away, that’s for sure,” I said. “I’m pretty sure his comment would have been ‘no comment.’”

  “We’d like to know if the police actually have Professor McGinnis’s shoes—and they’re a match—or are they saying that he has a pair that could have made the prints?”

  “Yes. That’s a very good question. Maralee? Why didn’t you ask the chief that?” My aunt cocked her head to one side. “You were right there.”

  I had to admit it. The question hadn’t occurred to me. “The chief left in such a hurry,” I rationalized, “that there were lots more questions we all could have asked. But I think Pete will tell me the answer to that one. I’ll let you know.”

  “Good,” Aunt Ibby said. “You do that. Meanwhile, we’re putting together a plan of action right now. We—the three of us—know many people in this city. I mean, we know people who know other people, if you know what I mean.” A conspiratorial head nodding and eye winking went on between the Angels.

  I didn’t know exactly what that meant and was almost afraid to ask. I changed the subject. “Where’s Mr. Pennington? Isn’t he supposed to be helping?”

  That met with frowns. “No. He’s just Charlie. He doesn’t have to do anything. We’ll report what we find to him, and he can organize it.”

  “I see.” And I did—sort of. “I’m sure the twins will contact me as soon as they get to town,” I said.

  “Tho
se fancy lawyers haven’t been much help so far, have they?” Aunt Ibby mused.

  Louisa gave a well-bred “Humph,” then continued, “a fancy suit and a nice haircut doesn’t always mean brains and competence.”

  “True enough,” we all agreed.

  “Have you made a contact list of those people who know people? I may know some people who know people too,” I suggested. “As a matter of fact, I have an appointment tomorrow evening with someone who not only had a close working relationship with Professor Bond, but with Cody McGinnis as well.”

  Three pairs of eyes turned toward me. “Who is that?” Betsy asked. “Another professor? Or even a student?”

  “Oh, dear,” Aunt Ibby put one finger to her mouth. “I hope we’re not going to hear one of those dreadful stories about a college professor having an inappropriate relationship with a student!”

  “Surely not Samuel Bond!” Louisa was emphatic. “Perhaps Cody McGinnis, though. He’s younger—in his thirties, I believe—and according to the newspaper pictures, quite attractive.”

  “Yes. That must be it.” Betsy’s nod was affirmative. “Is that it, Lee? Have you found a whistle-blower on the campus?”

  “Whoa, ladies!” I held up both hands. “The idea of any kind of inappropriate relationship had never even occurred to me. No. Mr. Doan wants me to interview Professor Armstrong. Alan Armstrong. I have no idea what he’s going to tell me, but he says he has a ‘unique slant’ on the murder.”

  “A unique slant sounds promising,” Louisa said.

  “Professor Dreamy.” Betsy patted her perfect hairdo. “That’s what the college girls call him. What a doll.”

  “You know him?” Aunt Ibby leaned forward, eyes wide.

  “Well,” Betsy batted her eyelashes. “Not in the biblical sense, but yes, I know him fairly well. Watch out for him, Lee. He’s a terrible flirt.”

  I’d already figured that out but didn’t say so. “We’re meeting at the station,” I said, “and Marty will be filming the whole thing. No problem.”

  “Please be careful,” Betsy advised again. “Now, where were we?”