“I think we got a little bit sidetracked there,” I suggested. “Remember, we’re supposed to be concentrating on figuring out who—besides Cody—might have had a reason to kill Samuel Bond.”
“Can you arrange somehow to talk to Cody himself?” my aunt wondered. “Now that would make a great interview.”
“It would,” I agreed, “but even before he was officially arrested, according to all the published reports I’ve seen, he’d been instructed not to leave Salem and not to speak to the press.”
“The judge told him that?” she asked.
“Sure. Even if the judge hadn’t, his lawyers would have told him the same thing.” I was sure about that. “But maybe after the twins get here, we’ll have some more to go on.”
“Looking over our notes so far”—Aunt Ibby held up a few sheets of paper—“we’ve come up with some possible reasons someone might want Samuel Bond to die.”
“Let me grab a chair from the living room,” I said. “I want to hear every word of this.” I pulled a small Victorian rosewood lady’s chair into the small room. “Okay. Shoot.”
“Well, first of all,” my aunt said, “it seems that Samuel was in financial trouble.” Louisa nodded, so I assumed this was one of the items she’d contributed. She sits on the boards of several banks. Aunt Ibby continued. “He recently applied for a large loan that was denied by a local bank, and his checks written to several merchants have all been retuned for insufficient funds. At least one credit card has been cancelled.”
“That’s bad news for anybody,” Betsy said. “But do people get killed for a few bounced checks?”
“Kind of depends on who you owe money to—and how much,” Aunt Ibby said. “Here’s another one. According to Gladys Miller over at Triple-A, Sam came in for new passport pictures a couple of days before he died. She thinks he could have been planning a trip out of the country.”
“Had he bought tickets yet?” I asked. “This might be important.”
“Nope. No tickets. No reservations. Maybe he was merely thinking about traveling. No crime there.” She turned a page.
“This next one is admittedly gossip. It comes from one of my own neighbors. About a month ago she was pet sitting for a lovely standard poodle in the house right next door to Bond’s place. It’s usually a quiet neighborhood, so one night, quite late, when she took the poodle out to do his duty, she was surprised to hear loud voices coming from next door. Men’s voices. She thought she heard two distinct voices, and she thinks one of them could have been Professor Bond, but can’t swear to it.” My aunt paused, looked around the room, and continued.
“She says that although the sound was muffled, because of the high fence between the properties, and she couldn’t hear every single word, she’s quite sure that one of the men—she couldn’t tell which one—said something like, ‘You’ve stolen from me for the last time. This time you’re not going to get away with it.’ Then, the voice she thought could have been Samuel Bond let loose with such a dreadful stream of cuss words that she covered the poodle’s ears and ran straight back into the house.”
“Do the police know about this?” It was my first thought. My first question.
“Of course not. I told you. It’s plain old gossip. She can’t prove a bit of it.”
“Even so,” I said. “It could be important.”
“Yes,” said Louisa. “Stealing puts a whole new perspective on it, doesn’t it?”
“Stealing was involved in Captain Joseph White’s murder.” Aunt Ibby looked thoughtful. “Although the actual theft took place before the killing. A man named Joseph Knapp opened Captain White’s iron chest four days before the murder and stole what he thought was the old man’s will.”
“Maybe that’s what happened this time too!” Betsy put her notebook down on the desk. “Wouldn’t that be a delicious coincidence?”
“Pete doesn’t believe in coincidences,” I said to no one in particular. “Anyway, nothing was stolen this time. Nothing is missing.”
“Nothing that we know of,” Betsy insisted. “I love coincidences. I say we should investigate it.”
“If Samuel was in debt to the extent Louisa’s contacts say he was, some sort of stealing could be involved.” My aunt spoke cautiously. “Perhaps we should at least consider the possibility.”
All three raised their hands as though some sort of parliamentary procedure was in place—which it wasn’t.
“Motion carried,” said my aunt.
“But there was no . . .” I gave up. No one was listening to me anyway. I shook my head and looked down at the desk, noticing a large envelope marked “The Ultimate Alaska Cruise” and bearing the logo of a well-known cruise line. “What’s this? Someone planning a cruise?”
“Oh, no, that’s an assortment of photos from a recent trip I took,” Louisa offered. “Remember? I told you that was where I saw the three professors and the other man. Together. They’re in some of the pictures. I thought everybody might be interested.”
“Could I look at them?” I picked up the envelope.
“Of course,” she said. “Betsy and Ibby have already seen them. You may borrow them if you like.”
“Thank you.” I tucked the envelope under my arm. I excused myself from the Angels’ meeting and, with O’Ryan following me, headed up the front stairs to my own apartment. I had to admit, Robert’s Rules of Order aside, they had dug up some pretty good information. Some more Roman numerals were lining up in my head. Gladys Miller’s tip about the passport picture was worth following. So was Louisa’s bank information. Was Samuel Bond broke? Was he planning to leave the country? Questions about the shoe prints and the possibility of professor-student hanky-panky were further down on the list, along with backyard cussing. I thought that, overall, the twins would be pretty darned impressed with what we’d dug up on the departed professor in such a short time.
Pete phones me most evenings, but I knew that he had practice with his PAL peewee hockey team that night, and he usually takes the team out for ice cream after practice. If he did happen to call, I planned to ask the question about the killer’s shoes. Were they actually Cody’s or were they only the same type of shoes the police had found in Cody’s locker?
These were the questions I hoped I’d dare to ask Pete—if he called. Meanwhile, as a large cat circling around my ankles making pitiful little starving-kitten sounds reminded me, it was past our dinnertime. I treated the cat to a can of White Meat Chicken Primavera with Garden Veggies and Greens in a Classic Sauce while I microwaved a bag of penne and vegetables in Alfredo sauce for myself. For dessert we shared some leftover vanilla ice cream. See? All the healthy food groups and very few dishes to wash.
When my phone rang a few minutes before ten o’clock, I reached for it, assuming it was Pete. I glanced at the caller ID as I was about to hit the little green phone icon. Oops. Alan Armstrong.
I let it ring.
Hey, if it’s important, he can leave a message.
I added the Angels’ findings to my outline—which was beginning to resemble preparatory notes for a master’s thesis—and closed my notebook with a self-satisfied thump. I added Louisa’s envelope of photos to the pile. I’d put in a darned good day’s work.
“Ready for bed, O’Ryan?” The cat sat on the windowsill, looking out into the darkness. “Okay,” I said. “I’m going to take a shower. If Alan Armstrong calls, don’t answer it.” Laughing at my own little joke, I padded down the hall to the bathroom.
When I returned, showered, shampooed, and paja-maed, O’Ryan was already asleep at the foot of my bed—and there were two identical messages from Alan Armstrong on my phone. “Good cat. You didn’t answer it,” I whispered as I read Alan’s texts.
“Can we meet at five in the Hawthorne Hotel lounge for a little one-on-one time before the filmed interview? I have some information that isn’t for public consumption.”
Great! What was I supposed to do? Meet the man Betsy had so recently warned me about and perhap
s pick up information that could not only help the twins defend their nephew, but could get me an exclusive for WICH-TV? Or should I turn down the invitation, miss out on something that the twins should know about, risk letting another reporter get the scoop, and at the same time totally tick off Bruce Doan?
I knew I didn’t have to answer right away. It was late enough so that I could say I was asleep when he sent the messages. That would give me some time to think it over. I also knew that my curiosity would probably overrule instincts and good sense. I’d undoubtedly be at the Hawthorne lounge at five o’clock the following day. The cat at the foot of my bed stood up, looked at me, shook his head, then turned around three times and lay down again.
“Yeah. I know. Curiosity killed the cat. Don’t rub it in. Let’s hope it doesn’t kill me.”
Chapter 12
Wednesday started out a lot better than the previous day had. Scott was apparently cured of whatever ailed him, and he’d already left in the Volkswagen with Old Jim when I arrived. The white board, with my assignments in purple marker, looked fairly easy. I told Rhonda that she could post my five o’clock meeting as soon as I confirmed it.
“Great. Doan will be pleased. He’s been getting pretty antsy about you talking with the hot professor. He must think the guy has some important information about the killer.”
“I hope he has something worth reporting. Pete and I had tickets to the Sox game.”
“Oh boy. Those are hard to get these days.”
“I know. The chief gave them to him.” I peered at my purple-inked assignments. “Speaking of the chief, no presser scheduled today?”
“Not yet. Don’t worry. You’ll be the first to know if he does.” She glanced down at the row of security screens under the Formica counter. “Francine has pulled onto the lot. I’ve prepared a little cheat sheet for you about the museum figureheads. Dates, famous carvers, not much else.”
“That’s okay. The museum has those info cards on everything. Those busty beauties are so fascinating, the camera will tell the story better than I can.”
I was right about that. The museum shoot went so smoothly Francine and I were back at the station within one hour. We weren’t scheduled for anything else until noon, so while Francine worked on editing the tape for the noon news, I used one of the dataports and reluctantly returned Alan Armstrong’s call.
“Hello, Professor . . . Alan. Lee Barrett here. Sorry I missed your call last night.”
“Good morning, Lee.” I could almost hear that perfect-teeth smile in his voice. “Did you get my text?”
“Sure did. You’d like to meet at five, right?”
“Yes. In the lounge at the hotel. Is that convenient for you?”
“No problem,” I said, stretching my own lips into a smile. “Five o’clock. See you there.”
“I’ll look forward to it. And Lee, I think it’ll be worth your while.”
I certainly hope so.
“Thanks, Alan,” I said. “I’ll see you at five.”
“It’s a date, then. Would you like me to pick you up?” He sounded hopeful. “I’d be happy to.”
I’ll bet you would. And no, it is not a date.
“No thanks.” I said, still fake-smiling. “It’s right on my way to the station. Bye now.”
I sat back in my chair, glad that call was over with. If Professor Dreamy was going to spill some useful information, Bruce Doan would be pleased. I planned to ask him straight out who was the editor of the book the three professors were writing. The twins would be proud of me. The Angels might even be impressed. And no matter what, Donny and Marie would be happy with those tickets. I closed the dataport and went back upstairs to the reception area.
“Okay, Rhonda,” I said. “Meeting with Alan Armstrong at five confirmed. Any chance I can get paid overtime for it?”
“Not too likely,” she said, picking up her purple marker. “But I’ll ask the boss. Miracles do happen.”
Francine pushed open the metal door leading from the newsroom. She was breathless. “You won’t believe what Scott did while we were taking pictures of wooden boobs! I saw the transmission. Oh crap! We should have been there.”
“Calm down,” Rhonda commanded. “What happened? I didn’t know Scott was back yet. He didn’t check in with me.”
“He’s not back.” Francine sank into one of the turquoise-and-chrome chairs. “Old Jim sent the footage ahead. They’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“So what did they get?” I pleaded. “What’s got you so excited?”
“Cody McGinnis’s mother,” she said. “Old Jim spotted her. He went to school with her. Phyllis McGinnis. Recognized her right away. She was walking down Bridge Street big as life—all by herself.”
I sat in the chair beside her. “Don’t tell me they got an interview.”
“Kind of,” she said. “Poor woman was walking to the dry cleaners. She said she was going to pick up his good suit because he needs it for court. She was crying. Tears running down her face. ‘He wants to look nice,’ she said. ‘He’s afraid they’ll make him wear one of those awful orange things.’ She was absolutely sobbing.”
“They got that on tape?” I was jealous already.
“Yep. Sure did.”
“Nice human interest angle,” Rhonda said. “What else?”
“She didn’t say anything about the case,” Francine said, “even though Scott pushed. You know how pushy Scott can be!”
“That’s for sure,” I said. “Did she tell them anything else at all?”
“Only that Cody is a good boy. Scott tried to get her to say that she was confident he’d be found innocent. Then he tried to get her to say she was worried about his chances, but she kept right on crying. Then she wished Scott a nice day and kept on walking. She went into a dry cleaners. It looked like Scott was going to follow her, but in a few seconds someone inside locked the door and put up the closed sign.”
“So it wasn’t an actual interview,” I said.
“You’ve got to admit, it’s better than anything anyone else has come up with lately,” Rhonda said. “The part about needing his good suit for court is kind of sweet. And the sobbing mom is pitiful.”
“Yeah, I guess it is.” I had to agree.
“We don’t have to be anywhere for a couple of hours yet.” Francine glanced up at the starburst clock. “What do you say we take a ride around and see what we can find? Maybe we’ll get lucky too. Maybe we’ll see a bank robbery in progress or a famous movie star having a beer or even a fireman getting a cat out of a tree.”
“Worth a try,” I said. “Let’s roll.”
“It would be better if the fireman got a dog out of a tree,” Rhonda suggested as she wrote “local investigation” in purple marker.
Francine and I discussed which direction we should take as we rode down in the elevator. “We haven’t done the witch shops lately,” I said, thinking of the commercial about the love magic candles I’d seen on River’s show. “We could see what our local psychics and mystics and card readers have to say about the murder.”
“I like it.” We hurried across the parking lot and climbed back into the mobile unit. Francine headed toward Washington Street. “How about Christopher’s Castle? Chris Rich follows all that stuff, and he loves the publicity.”
“Good idea.” She was right. Christopher Rich stocks all kinds of magic paraphernalia in his shop—crystal balls, tarot cards, Ouija boards, magician’s supplies. And he is the consummate publicity hound. “We might get the feel of what the whole supernatural community is thinking with that one stop.”
Not unexpectedly, Chris seemed overjoyed to see us. Especially since we were carrying camera and mic. “Come in, come in! Two of my favorite women in the whole world. Welcome to my castle!” He did one of those deep bows with the hand-sweeping gesture that you see in movies about old-time royalty. Corny, but he does it well. “You’re here in time to see my new line of tuxedos and top hats for magicians and adorably skimpy outfits fo
r their lovely assistants.”
“Sure. Interesting. We can cover that,” I promised, “but at the same time, we’re interested in hearing your take on what Salem’s paranormal community thinks about the Samuel Bond murder.”
Chris approached a male mannequin in magician’s garb and motioned for me to join him next to it. Francine aimed her camera in his direction. “The whole city is buzzing about it,” Chris said. “Can we show the merchandise while we dish the dirt? Have a look at the satin lapels, the black pearl cuff links.”
“We’ll weave it in.” I picked up the stick mic with the WICH-TV logo on it and joined him beside the mannequin, which bore a remarkable resemblance to David Copperfield. “Ready, Francine? Is this light okay?”
“Good enough,” Francine said, then “On one,” and began the slow backward count. “Ten, nine, eight . . .”
“Lee Barrett here at Christopher’s Castle, one of Salem’s best-known shops for all things magic and metaphysical. We’ll be talking to shop owner Chris Rich about not only what’s new in the world of paranormal paraphernalia, but we’ll get his take on exactly what his psychically tuned-in patrons have to say about the recent Samuel Bond murder, along with its strangely similar counterpart, the Captain Joseph White murder of eighteen thirty.”
“Thank you for visiting us here at Christopher’s Castle, Lee!” He grinned at the camera and put his arm across the mannequin’s shoulders. “As you said, we have all of the very newest, trendiest merchandise in the world of magical arts. Christopher’s Castle is where the stars of the psychic world shop every day.”
“I’m sure they do,” I said. “Chris, everyone in Salem is talking about the recent tragic death of Professor Samuel Bond. In fact, because of the similarity in circumstances to the Captain White murder in eighteen thirty, the story has attracted national interest. Your patrons, with their varied special talents, must have some interesting thoughts on the case. Could you share some of what you’ve heard from them on the subject?” Chris edged away from the mannequin and put his hand on a nearby counter where an assortment of colorful small boxes was displayed.
Murder, Take Two Page 7