Murder, Take Two

by Carol J. Perry

  “Happy to help, Lee,” he said. “You’re absolutely right. Some days it seems as if the murder is the only thing people are talking about. Yesterday there were several of our tarot card readers here—they were checking out my exciting assortment of tarot card bags and boxes. Anyway, some of them had already done readings for friends of the deceased Professor Bond, and the findings seem to be about fifty-fifty—between Cody McGinnis being guilty or someone else.”

  “Any clues about who the someone else might be?”

  “Not exactly, but the Knight of Pentacles showed up for almost all of them. That might mean something.”

  Yes, it might!

  “Anything forthcoming from the witch community?” I asked.

  “Many of them say that they’re stocking up on crystals. The protective ones—you know, like black obsidian, smoky quartz, labradorite.” Big smile at the camera. “I carry them all here at Christopher’s Castle.” He dropped his voice. “Most of my witches believe there’s a killer loose in Salem and at least half of them are talking about bloodstains.” He frowned. “Have you heard anything new about bloodstains?”

  That caught me by surprise. “Uh, no, I haven’t.” Are the witches seeing bloody handprints? “That’s interesting, Chris,” I said. “I’ve always admired your beautiful display of crystals. Are some of the other magical items attracting special attention because of the murder?”

  “Ouija boards!” he exclaimed. “They are simply flying out of here. And pendulums! These are tools that answer questions—and people in Salem want answers about this murder.” He frowned. Scowled, actually. “We are not getting answers from the police. Perhaps the police should pay a visit to Christopher’s Castle. They might learn a lot about both of the murders.”

  “Both murders?”

  “Of course. The murder of Samuel Bond and the murder of Captain White. The similarities between them cannot be simple coincidence, can they?”

  How was I supposed to answer that question? I dodged it. “Thanks for your insight into this mystery, Chris,” I said. “It’s always fascinating for us to visit with you.”

  Francine panned the camera around the large room for a few seconds, then came back to me. “Lee Barrett reporting from Christopher’s Castle in downtown Salem.”

  As Francine and I gathered our gear, she whispered, “Do you think maybe you and I should pick up a couple of those protective crystals? Just in case? I mean, we’re going to be poking around, talking to people who knew the dead guy. You even have a date with one of them.”

  “It is not a date.”

  “Okay, a meeting then. But it’s only a crystal. A piece of jewelry. What could it hurt, right?”

  My first instinct was to laugh, to brush the suggestion off, to say it was all nonsense. But hey, as she said, what could it hurt? Besides, the crystals are quite beautiful. Francine bought a black obsidian ring. It was pretty, but definitely not for me. Sometimes I see things—pictures, scenes that other people don’t see—in reflective surfaces, like mirrors or windows or polished metals—and especially in shiny black obsidian. I’ve learned that I’m what is known as a scryer. Nostradamus was one. Jeane Dixon too. River says it’s a special gift and calls me a “gazer.” I don’t think of it as a gift at all, even though I have to admit it’s come in handy a few times.

  I chose a smoky quartz pendant. I was pleased with my choice and even more pleased when Christopher Rich gave us a 20 percent discount and put our purchases into his fanciest blue velvet gift boxes. I slipped the box into my purse, thanked him sincerely for his time. The information about what the Christopher’s Castle crowd thought about the murder was going to play well to the WICH-TV viewers. I was sure of it.

  Chapter 13

  Between the figureheads and Christopher’s Castle, we’d managed to use up most of the morning. Our next appointment was at noon, so we headed back to Derby Street to pick up our information on the destination.

  “What are you going to wear for your date . . . um, your meeting?” Francine asked, with a glance at my jeans and plain blue chambray shirt. “Not that, I hope.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it,” I admitted. “Probably a different shirt—pink maybe. It’ll be a sit-down interview, so I don’t have to change my jeans.” I stuck out one foot. “Brown booties, I like ’em. Comfortable.”

  “Yeah, but I’m talking about the Hawthorne lounge cocktail hour. You’ll be with Professor Dreamy! Everyone will be looking at you.” She pointed at my bootie-clad foot. “I think it calls for heels. And a skirt. Yeah. Short skirt and heels.”

  “No,” I said firmly. “No way. I told you this is not a date, and I most certainly am not trying to impress the professor, let alone the early cocktail crowd at the Hawthorne.”

  “Okay. I’m just sayin’.”

  “Remember, if Doan hadn’t insisted that I talk to this guy, I’d be deciding what to wear to a baseball game with my man.”

  She sighed. “All right, but will you at least wear some decent boots? Like with heels?”

  It wasn’t an unreasonable request, and anyway, she was right about the boots. “I’ll do it,” I said. “Only for you.”

  Our noontime assignment was another easy one—a tree dedication. A Boy Scout troop was planting an oak tree at the senior citizens’ home on the site of the old Salem High School to replace one that had been toppled in the most recent hurricane. I did a brief interview with the troop leader, then the Scouts, a couple of seniors, and then the man from the tree nursery took over the rest of the shoot. Easy-peasy. We were back at the station by one-thirty. A glance at the white board showed no more outside jobs for us until my five o’clock.

  “I’ll get with Marty and be sure the Saturday Business Hour set is ready for us,” I said. “She was going to get some appropriate props for the desk and some visuals. Photos of Bond and maybe even one of Dick Crowninshield.”

  Francine left to take the mobile unit through a car wash, and I told Rhonda I’d have to leave early. “Francine insists that I have to change this outfit for the Armstrong interviews.”

  Rhonda agreed with Francine. “Yep. You should. If you’re going to be seen in public with Professor Dreamy, everyone in the place will be looking at you.”

  I sighed. “So I’ve been told.” We agreed that I’d leave for home at three—and that I’d remain on the clock until after the six o’clock shoot. Good deal.

  At exactly three o’clock I backed the Corvette out of my parking spot and headed home. Aunt Ibby’s Buick was missing from the garage. Even though she’s supposed to be semi-retired, she still spends several days a week at the library.

  O’Ryan waited on the back steps, and then hurried along the flagstone path to meet me. I bent to pat his fuzzy head as he maneuvered in, out, and around my ankles so deftly that I maintained my pace without tripping over him. I let myself in, and the two of us climbed the twisty staircase to my apartment and headed straight for the bedroom.

  “You can help me pick out something to wear that’s appropriate for three places.” I tossed my purse onto the bed, opened my closet door, and counted the venues off on my fingers. “A meeting at the Hawthorne, an on-camera interview at the station, and probably something with Pete later.”

  O’Ryan hopped up onto the bed, sitting up very straight, ears pointy and alert, golden eyes focused on me. He appeared to be interested in the project. I pulled out the pink silk shirt I’d already planned to wear. “I thought I’d wear this and the same jeans I have on,” I told him. “Okay?” He cocked his head to one side, maybe considering that option, then bobbed his head up and down. I put two pairs of my best high-heeled boots on the bed. “What do you think? The Jimmy Choo silver ankle boots or the Yeezy midcalf python print wedge?” He stuck out a paw and tapped the Jimmy Choo.

  “I agree,” I said, although it’s possible he passed on the python print because he’s very wary of snakes. “There then. That’s settled. The pink shirt, the same jeans, and the silver boots.”

&nbs
p; The cat sat on my purse. “You want me to change purses? I don’t think so. I have all my stuff in that one and it goes with everything.” He backed up, trying to stick his head inside the open top of my favorite Jacki Easlick hobo. It was comical. I laughed. “You can’t fit inside, big boy,” I told him. “I can’t take you with me.” He was not deterred. Not only did he fit his head inside, but one paw as well. What is he trying to do? The purse wiggled and wobbled for a bit, then the cat backed away with a blue velvet box clutched in his paw.

  “I get it,” I said, rescuing the box from his claws. “You want me to wear this tonight.”

  Did O’Ryan know somehow what was in the box? I’ve long since given up on trying to figure out how he does the things he does. Did this mean there was something important about the pendant—or was he simply being nosy because I had something new in the purse? Either way, the pendant on its slim silver chain would look fine with the other things I’d chosen.

  I showered, tried hard to tame my too-curly hair, put a quick press on the jeans, and did a more-careful-than-usual job on my makeup. Kit-Cat showed four-fifteen. I planned to get to the hotel at exactly five if I could manage it. If I got there early, would it look as though I was anxious to see the handsome professor? If I was late, would I appear to be rude and possibly mess up the interview?

  Parking is always iffy around the Hawthorne. Even though I live only a couple of blocks away from the place, sometimes I’ve had to drive around for a while to find a convenient space. I pulled on the jeans, buttoned the pink blouse, and slipped on the silver boots. Last of all, I fastened the new necklace. O’Ryan watched every move. “Okay. Satisfied? I’m wearing the smoky quartz for protection. Protection from what, I’m not at all sure.”

  He stared at me for a moment, gave a nod, jumped down from the bed, and strolled out of my room without a backward glance. I felt as though I’d been approved and dismissed. “Okay,” I said to the retreating cat. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I meant that sincerely. I knew that this was important to Mr. Doan, and I hoped that whatever it was that Alan Armstrong had to tell me would turn out to actually be “worth my while” as he’d promised.

  Considering the almost–five o’clock traffic, and the questionable parking situation in the vicinity of the Hawthorne, I lucked out. I parked in the hotel’s overflow lot with five minutes to spare. Plenty of time. Even a couple of minutes to check my hair and makeup in the visor mirror.

  Big mistake.

  The flashing lights and swirling colors that always precede a vision filled the oblong space where curly red hair and mascaraed lashes should have been. The colors faded. I squinted, trying to make out exactly what I was seeing. River had told me that the pictures I saw this way might be from the past, the present, or the future. This one, like most of them, didn’t make much sense no matter where it had come from. It was a book—no, a magazine or a big booklet. I wasn’t sure. It had a blue paper cover and wasn’t very thick. I couldn’t read the title because there was a large red stain covering most of the words. Boom. It disappeared. It had lasted only a few seconds.

  I sat there for a moment, then slowly pushed the visor up. I got out, locked the Vette, and walked across Essex Street to the front door of the hotel. It was five o’clock on the dot. Alan Armstrong reached the door exactly in time to hold it open for me.

  “Nice timing,” he said.

  Chapter 14

  With a gentlemanly hand at my elbow, he steered me across the lobby and into the lounge. Francine and Rhonda had been right. It seemed as though everybody in the room turned and looked at us. At least every woman in the place did. Professor Dreamy wore jeans too—well-fitted ones, with a lightweight knit white cotton polo, also well fitted. (I knew the attention wasn’t directed at me, but I was glad anyway that I’d changed shirt and boots.)

  We were seated at a small table at the rear of the room. “Do you like wine, Lee?” he asked, motioning for the waitress.

  “It’s a little early for wine for me,” I said. “I’d like a Diet Coke.”

  “Perhaps next time we’ll meet a little later. They have an excellent wine list here.” He ordered two Diet Cokes and favored me with that toothpaste smile.

  There’s never going to be a next time.

  “Mr. Doan is very interested in what you might have to share with us about your friend’s death,” I said, pulling pen and steno book from my purse. “Do you mind if I record?” I reached into the hobo for my recorder. “Sometimes I have trouble reading my own hen scratching.”

  The smile faded the tiniest bit, but he agreed. “Of course.”

  I turned the recorder on, spoke my name, the date, and the location, adding “Interview with Professor Alan Armstrong,” and picked up my pen.

  “Professor Armstrong,” I began.

  “Alan,” he said, smile turned on full blast.

  “Alan,” I corrected. “I understand that you and Professor Samuel Bond were friends as well as colleagues. Had you known one another for a long time?”

  “Over twenty years. He was my teacher, my mentor when I was a student, and my friend above all.”

  I already knew that from his rally at the university, but I’ve learned that people don’t always give the same answer to the same question every time it’s asked. I tried another one. “Some people say that Cody McGinnis and Professor Bond had a recent disagreement. I understand that Professor McGinnis is your friend also. Can you tell me what the disagreement was about?”

  He sighed, lowering his lashes (incredibly long ones for a man). “I’m sorry to say so, but it may have been serious enough to completely end a friendship of long standing.”

  That was a surprise. Last time he’d agreed with the lawyers that it was a minor disagreement among colleagues. “Oh, what a shame,” I said, being careful not to sound too pushy. “What happened?”

  “Of course, you realize, I wasn’t present at the altercation.”

  Another surprise. I didn’t know there’d been an actual altercation. I pushed a tiny bit. “I do understand,” I said. “So, did Professor Bond tell you about it?” I scribbled “AA not present at fight” on the pad.

  “Oh, no. Sam wasn’t one to discuss such things. It was Cody who told me. He was terribly upset about it.”

  For God’s sake, man, get to the point!

  I didn’t say anything. I’ve learned that sometimes it’s better to wait for the subject to continue without prompting. I sipped my soda and waited.

  He sipped his own soda and continued. “It was quite a row, according to Cody. Of course, I can’t swear to it. I wasn’t there.”

  You already said that. I smiled with what I hoped passed for sympathetic understanding and waited.

  “Cody believed that Sam was going to approve his application for a full professorship. He was counting on it. As head of the university’s history department, a chaired professor, it was up to Sam to make the final decision. It meant tenure, an increase in pay, and frankly, more respect. Cody wanted those things. There was only one opening. Sam turned him down in favor of a woman in the Sociology Department.”

  “Uh-oh. So Cody confronted him about it?” I wrote “Cody denied full professorship.”

  “Sure did. Cody said the friendship was over and that he was through doing half of Sam’s work while Sam focused on research.”

  “The confrontation didn’t lead to actual violence, did it?” Two college professors duking it out seemed unlikely to me.

  Alan lifted toned shoulders. “Not that I know of. But Cody was the most upset I’ve ever seen him, and we’ve been friends for many years.”

  “You even started the GoFundMe for his legal defense,” I prompted. “Couldn’t Cody simply apply for the position again?”

  “Sure. But it will take another year or more, and he’s got a big student loan to repay. That’s why he took that extra job at the Tabby.”

  “Have you ever seen Cody do anything—um—any-thing violent?”

  “Nothing like
hitting someone over the head and stabbing them, if that’s what you mean.” He scowled.

  “I didn’t mean anything,” I apologized. “You said he was very upset.”

  “You’re asking if I think Cody is capable of murder.” He stated it flatly.

  “Yes. I guess I am.” I glanced at my watch. “Do you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “And that’s the truth. We’d better get going if we’re going to keep our six o’clock appointment at your station.” He signaled for the check. I turned off the recorder and put the pen and notebook away.

  “May I ask one more question? It can be off the record if you like.”

  “What is it?”

  “I understand that you, Cody, and Professor Bond have been working on a book.”

  “We’ve co-authored one. Yes.”

  “Could you share with me who your editor is?”

  He sat very straight in his chair, frowning again. “Editor? What gave you that idea?”

  Can’t tell him without throwing my aunt under the bus, can I? “I heard it around somewhere,” I lied, remembering “What happens in the library stays in the library.”

  He seemed to relax. “Can’t believe everything you hear. You should know that, Lee.” He managed a snicker. “As if we three couldn’t put together a simple how-to book without help.”

  “Of course. Thank you for your time, Alan,” I said. “When we do the on-air segment, will you include this same information?”

  “Not exactly,” he said, smile back in place. “Will you ask the same questions?” Not waiting for an answer, he took my elbow once again, glancing around the room and acknowledging with a nod of his head the adoring looks aimed his way, and guided me toward the lobby. “I thought you might appreciate a heads-up on what the possible outcome of this mess might be when the facts finally come out.” He paused when we reached the hotel’s front door, tightening his grip on my elbow, still smiling.

  “Are you appreciative, Lee?”