“Sure.” I patted my back pocket, then added Louisa’s photos to the stack on the table. I pulled up a chair and sat down. “Here’s a picture of the man I think might be the editor.” I held the group shot up so everyone could see it. “He may be in some of the other pictures too, but I was in a hurry to show you all this one.” I pointed to the man with sunglasses. “Do you know his name, Louisa?” I handed her the photo.
“Eddie,” she said. “His name is Eddie. Offhand, I don’t remember his last name.” She passed the picture to Betsy. “Have you ever met him, Betts?”
Betsy shook her head. “I don’t think so. You, Ibby?”
Aunt Ibby put on her reading glasses and peered at it. “Hmmm. He does look familiar. I think maybe I’ve seen him at the library. He may have had something to do with the bookmobile project. I don’t remember his name, though.”
“Did you talk to him, Louisa?” I asked. “Where was he from? Did he seem to be with the professors besides at dinner? Did he always wear the sunglasses?”
Louisa laughed at my multiple questions. “First, yes, we talked. Second, he was originally from Iowa but now he lives in Marblehead. And yes, he was almost always with one or more of the professors whenever I saw him.” She frowned. “Sometimes he wore regular glasses. Dark rims. Sometimes no glasses at all.”
“What did you talk about?” Betsy wanted to know. “He’s kind of good-looking, in a scruffy sort of way. I like that shaggy hair.”
“We talked mostly about Alaska,” she said. “He said he was writing a magazine article about the indigenous people and their homes and buildings.”
“A writer? Maybe he’s also an editor,” I said. “Did you talk about anything else?”
Louisa looked down and blushed. “Dancing,” she said. “He offered to teach me the merengue.”
“Awesome,” Betsy raised her wineglass. “Did you dance with him?”
“Of course not,” Louisa scoffed. “I’m a very rich old woman. What possible interest would a young man have in me besides my money? I politely declined.” She raised her own glass. “Besides, I already know the merengue.”
“Good for you, Louisa,” Aunt Ibby said. “Too bad you can’t remember his last name though. He does look familiar. Chances are he’s been in the library. Maybe he has a card.”
“I would have danced with him,” Betsy insisted. “And I’m a rich, um, middle-aged woman. I’d remember his last name too.”
“No problem.” Louisa picked up her tablet. “Why don’t I call him up? We can ask him about the professors and everything else?”
“You have his number?”
“Yes. He gave it to me. It’s under ‘Eddie.’”
“Do you think he’ll talk to you?” I worried, “I mean, about everything else?”
“Yes,” she said, refilling her glass. “I told you. I’m a very rich old woman. He’ll be happy to talk to me.” She reached into a to-die-for nineteen-eighties Judith Leiber snakeskin clutch and pulled out her phone. O’Ryan, noting the snakeskin, darted under my chair. “What questions would you like me to ask?”
“Before you make the call, Louisa,” my aunt said, “this may take some more thought. If your Eddie is indeed the mysterious editor, he’s also a suspect. Perhaps we should save this information for Ray and Roger to handle.”
Louisa hurriedly put her phone down on the table. “He’s not my Eddie, but I see your point. What if he is a killer? I don’t want to be hobnobbing with such a person. What would people think?”
“Why don’t we make a note of ‘Eddie the Editor’ along with that phone number and pass it on to the twins?” I suggested. “After all, we’re only supposed to be snoopers, not actual interrogators.”
“Snoopers?” Betsy raised a perfectly arched eyebrow.
Oops. Bad word choice.
“Investigators,” my aunt corrected. “We investigate and pass our information on to the proper authorities.”
“Yes,” Betsy agreed. “Investigators. That’s what I’ll tell the girls when I get my hair done tomorrow.”
“You plan to talk about the case at a beauty parlor?” I asked. “Is that a good idea?”
“It’s a perfect idea,” Betsy insisted. “Where is there a better place to get the dirt about people?”
Aunt Ibby agreed. “True.”
“It’s a fine idea, Betts,” Louisa said. “You’ll find out things the police wouldn’t dig out in a million years. But about your hair. Going to do Farrah?”
“Of course.”
A brief discussion about Betsy’s hair was interrupted by the chime of the front doorbell.
“Expecting company?” I asked. O’Ryan had already bolted from the room.
“Oh, would you get it, dear? Rupert said he might stop by.”
“Should we call Rupert ‘Charlie?’” Louisa asked.
“I certainly wouldn’t recommend it,” my aunt warned.
I followed the cat and, avoiding looking at the hall tree mirror, opened the door. “Hello, Mr. Pennington. They’re meeting in the kitchen tonight. Come on back.”
“Good evening, Lee. I’d hoped you’d be here. I need to ask a great favor of you.” This wasn’t the first time I’d heard those words from my former boss. I managed a smile and led the way to the kitchen. He was greeted with a flurry of greetings, happy faces, and an already-poured glass of wine.
Not just a favor this time. A great favor. I can hardly wait.
Mr. Pennington selected one of the captain’s chairs and joined the group. “I can’t stay long this evening. Chamber of commerce event in half an hour, but Ibby tells me you three have made some progress with our little investigation,” he said. “I hope we can be helpful in clearing Professor McGinnis’s name. Soon. Very soon.” He glanced around the table, making eye contact with each of us. “Meanwhile, this whole dreadful mess has caused some difficulty at the Tabby.” His expression was doleful, heartrending, thoroughly pitiful. He is, after all, a Shakespearean actor.
“How so, Rupert?” my aunt asked.
“There are several more days in the semester,” he moaned. “Several more days of Salem history to be taught to waiting, willing students, thirsty for knowledge. Several days of full-tuition paid classes, and alas, there is no instructor.”
“I understand that it’s possible Professor McGinnis might be released on bail,” Betsy said.
He shook his head. “Even so, inviting the dear, good, innocent man into that classroom would simply invite hordes of press people with cameras into the Tabby. Disruptive, disagreeable people.” He looked at me. “Present company excepted, of course. Anyway, his attorneys wouldn’t want him to do it.”
Now the eye contact was with me alone. He tilted his head and put one finger under his chin. “So I thought to myself, who do I know who is familiar with that historic building, has a teaching degree, and is fully capable of teaching a few evening classes?”
“Lee,” responded two voices.
“Maralee,” responded the other one.
“Who, me?” said I.
“Sure. What an opportunity!” Betsy bubbled happily. “You’ll be in there with Cody’s students. Get their perspective on all that happened—both now and back in eighteen thirty. Great idea, Rupert.”
“And maybe find out who pinched his letter opener,” my aunt put in.
“I guess I’m voted in,” I said. “I’ll have to run it by Mr. Doan. It would mean I wouldn’t be available for any evening gigs for a while. I’d like to do it. Did Cody McGinnis leave a lesson plan?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “I found some notes in his desk that might be helpful. But Lee, you may feel free to handle this class as you see fit. I have every confidence in your teaching ability.”
“How many students are we talking about?” I asked. My own classes at the Tabby had been small, five or six students at a time.
“Five, at last count,” he said. “All adults. Two dropped out right after the—um—unpleasantness.”
“
Five’s a good number,” I said. “But I may want to contact the two dropouts too. Would that be all right?”
“Of course.” He smiled. “Now that that’s settled, I must be off to my next appointment. I’ll let myself out.” He paused, and with a meaningful look at my aunt, he recited, “I think we made some excellent progress.”
She put one finger to her mouth, narrowed her eyes, then snapped her fingers. “Louise Fletcher. One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. 1975. Good one, Rupert. You almost had me.”
With a bow to each of us, he made a rather grand exit. A moment later we heard the front door close.
“Well then, that’s settled. I think he only came to the meeting because he wanted to recruit you, Maralee. Let’s get back to work on our investigation.” Aunt Ibby picked up her notebook. “I did a little snooping—investigating—at the library today. Cody McGinnis was a frequent borrower—worked his way through virtually all of our Salem history books, and we ordered a few we didn’t have through the county system. He visited the stacks a few times to access some of our outdated academic history publications.”
“His selections were always in the field of Salem history, I suppose,” Louisa said.
“Pretty much,” my aunt agreed. “He chose the occasional best seller. He’s fond of mysteries. The academic history magazines were more general in content—not simply Salem material—more like world history.”
“I have something in my notebook too,” Betsy said. “But I’m not sure whether it’s important or not. It’s something that happened a long time ago. I remembered it because we’ve been talking about Sam Bond.”
“Let’s hear it,” my aunt said. “That’s what brainstorming is about. Toss all the ideas on the table, no matter what they are.”
“Okay. Here goes. After Mr. Leavitt and I parted company, I dated a man—very briefly—who worked for Sam. He was a gardener or pool man or something. I don’t remember his name. Awfully cute. Great body. Anyway, he told me that Sam had a terrible temper. Used to blow up at the slightest thing, screaming and swearing and kicking things. He quit the lawn job or pool job or whatever it was. Said he got tired of being berated constantly.”
“Interesting,” Aunt Ibby said. “I’ve known the man casually for years and never saw the slightest hint of that kind of behavior. From what I’ve heard, his students seem to be fond of him.”
“That’s true,” Louisa said. “There was a group of earth science students from County U on the Alaska cruise, and Professor Bond interacted with them very pleasantly.”
“I didn’t know there were students on the cruise!” I handed her the stack of photos. “Are any of them pictured here?”
“Probably. They pretty much kept to themselves, taking ice and rock samples and such.” She pointed to another dining room picture, showing a group of young people gathered at a buffet table. One of the girls stood out particularly. Blue hair. “How about this one?” I asked, touching the picture. “Did you ever meet her?”
“I didn’t,” Louisa said. “But I remember her. Now that you mention it, she did interact with the professors occasionally. Mostly having drinks in the lounge. Not that there was anything wrong with that, mind you. The students were all of age, I’m sure. Even so, I remember a little gossip about it.”
“Gossip?”
“Uh-huh. A few of the women were trying to figure out whether Professor Bond was that girl’s mentor—or whether Professor McGinnis was her boyfriend.”
Chapter 18
I was about to ask a few more questions about the girl with the blue hair, when Pete called. Recalling the earlier eyebrow wiggling conversation, I realized the call might well be of a personal nature. “Excuse me,” I said. “It’s Pete. I’ll take it in the hall.”
Trying to ignore the muffled giggling that followed me, I returned to the foyer. With my back to the mirror, I sat on the low seat. “Hi,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“Not much,” he said. “I was watching the news. Saw you and Armstrong. Seemed like a pretty short interview to miss a game for. What happened?”
I looked at my watch. “I didn’t see it. I’m at Aunt Ibby’s. Was it awful?”
“No. Not awful, but it was short, and he didn’t drop any bombshells after all.”
“I know. It was supposed to be longer. He was going to tell about an argument between Cody and Bond, but when I asked about his editor, he ended the shoot and walked out.”
“His editor? Who’s that?”
“I don’t know yet. And apparently, he didn’t enjoy being asked about it.”
“An editor, huh? Listen. Want to go to Greene’s Tavern and watch the game?” he asked. “I can come right over now and pick you up.”
“Love to. Give me half an hour to get changed. Toot the horn out front when you get here, and I’ll be right out.”
I excused myself from the ongoing brainstorming session, and with the envelope of photos under my arm and O’Ryan leading the way, I headed up the front stairs. I took a quick shower, dumped the pink shirt and my much-maligned jeans into the laundry chute, brushed my hair, and did a minimal makeup job—mascara, blush, and lip gloss.
I stood in front of my open closet, studying the contents—kind of the way I sometimes stand in front of the refrigerator—just staring. Not focused on wardrobe at all, I thought about the Knight of Pentacles guy posing beside a giant game piece. I shook the disturbing picture away, pulled out pale blue denim Bermudas and my away-game Tampa Bay Rays T-shirt, and dressed for my date with Pete.
Greene’s Tavern is one of our favorite places. We’d become regulars, along with a friendly crowd of mostly local folks who enjoyed the long, old-fashioned dark wood bar, wide comfortable booths, plenty of big-screen TVs, even a huge stone fireplace for cool evenings. The “pub grub” menu is limited but always good. The owner is Joe Greene, whose daughter Kelly had been one of my first TV Production 101 students at the Tabby.
With my NASCAR jacket over my shoulders and Rays cap on my head, I waited for Pete outdoors on the front steps rather than trust to luck in the foyer facing that hall tree mirror. I started down the steps to the sidewalk as soon as I saw Pete’s Crown Vic rounding the corner onto Winter Street. “We might even make it in time for the first pitch,” he said as I slid into the front seat.
We didn’t quite make the first pitch, but we didn’t miss any major action. Friendly greetings were exchanged when we walked in, along with the expected remarks about my Rays gear. Kelly showed us to our favorite booth—far enough back so that Pete could watch the room—and just close enough to one of the big screens. We ordered pizza with double cheese, half peperoni and half sausage, and two light beers. It’s great to be in a relationship where we can carry on a conversation, drink beer, eat pizza, watch a ball game, interrupt each other to jump up and cheer occasionally for opposite teams, and still keep track of what the other person is talking about.
“Sorry the TV interview got cut short,” he said, “but how did the one at the hotel work out?”
“Better, I’d say. According to Alan, Professor Bond turned a thumbs-down on Cody’s bid for a full professorship. Cody took it badly. He believed he deserved it, and he’d been counting on finally getting tenure and the raise in pay that goes with it.”
“Yep. That goes along with what Cody told us. Anything else?”
“He balked at the editor thing when I asked him about it at the hotel. Pretended that he didn’t know what I was talking about.”
“We’ll need to find him, whoever he is.” Pete raised his glass toward the screen. “Man on first,” he exclaimed, then finished the thought: “Any ideas about where this editor might be? If he exists?”
“We think we may have pictures of him. Louisa was on an Alaskan cruise last year and all three professors were there. So was another man. Youngish. Dark hair, dark eyes. Might be named Eddie.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Aunt Ibby and a couple of her friends—you’ve met Louisa and Betsy—they�
�re doing a little investigating for the twins,” I admitted.
He pretended to hit himself on the forehead. “Wonderful. But seriously, can I have a look at those pictures without getting a warrant?”
“Sure. Aunt Ibby thinks she may have seen him in the library, and he looks a little bit familiar to me too. And besides that, Louisa has Eddie’s phone number.” It was my turn to jump up and cheer. “Struck him out!! You go, Baz!” I yelled, then sat amid glares from the Sox faithful. “And what makes you think they’re not serious? Aunt Ibby and the—um—the others.” I’d darn near said “the Angels.”
“Sorry. I’m sure they are. They won’t get in over their heads, will they? Your aunt has a bit of a reckless streak sometimes, you know.” He frowned. “You say one of them has this guy’s phone number?”
He was right about my aunt. But I felt confident that she’d keep a lid on her inner Wonder Woman out of deference to her best friends, and with Mr. Pennington more or less riding herd on the whole bunch. “Mrs. Abney-Babcock has it. She’s going to give it to the twins. I’m sure they’ll be working with the Salem PD.”
“Yes. I talked to Roger this afternoon. We’ve got a meeting with the chief lined up for tomorrow.” Cheers and high fives erupted all over the room as Jackie Bradley hit a double, driving in the first run for the Sox.
Kelly arrived with our hot, melty, cheesy, crispy thin-crust pizza. “Saw you on TV tonight with Professor Dreamy,” she said. “Is he as nice as he looks?”
How am I supposed to answer that?
I decided to tap dance around it. “I don’t actually know him at all,” I said, “but his students seem to be very fond of him. And did you know he’s already raised almost twenty thousand dollars toward Cody McGinnis’s defense fund?”
“I wondered what you thought,” she said. “Some of the people I know at County U think he’s pretty stuck on himself.”
“Do any of your friends at State have anything to say about Professor Bond?”
“The dead guy? Oh yeah. That he was a wicked hard marker. Sometimes, even if you knocked yourself out on a paper, even if you were sure it was an A, he’d give you a D and suggest you switch majors. It happened to at least three of my friends. They said he wasn’t fair at all.”
Murder, Take Two Page 10