Murder, Take Two

by Carol J. Perry

  I remembered what the Japanese mayor had said. “Often the young people are right.”

  After that first Red Sox run things got progressively worse for my Rays. Pete was kind enough not to rub it in, and steered the conversation away from baseball. “It’ll be fun for you to see the twins again, won’t it? That class you taught at the Tabby helped to get them into TV.”

  I told him about Mr. Pennington’s invitation for me to fill in at the Tabby for the last few sessions of Cody’s Salem history class. “Only five students,” I said. “Not long enough to teach them much. Anyway, Roger and Ray are perfect Boston investigative reporters. Their Street Beat show is quite a hit. What could be better than a couple of ex-cops covering their old beats? One of them in the North End and the other one in Southie. Besides—identical twins? What could be more appealing to an audience than that?”

  “I’m afraid the evidence against the nephew is pretty compelling, but I know Roger and Ray are hell-bent on proving his innocence. I’m looking forward to working with those two.”

  “Roger told me Ray was asking about Aunt Ibby. He wanted to know if she’s still single.”

  Big smile. “What did she have to say about that?”

  “I haven’t told her. Mr. Pennington was there.”

  “Is he working on solving the mystery too?”

  “Kind of. Speaking of that, did you happen to see my spot at Christopher’s Castle?”

  “Sorry, babe. Missed that one.” He didn’t sound regretful, but I understood it. Pete’s not much interested in magic tricks or costumes.

  “Well, it has to do with blood. Chris says about half the witches in town are talking about the blood at the crime scene. And I’ve—um—seen something in a mirror that has to do with blood. A handprint. Is there something new about blood going on that would help me understand the damned vision?”

  “Nothing really relevant. I guess I can tell you about it. A bloody print turned up in the old fellow’s bedroom. Turned out it belonged to a student. We’ve already talked to her. Seems she cut herself on a broken shot glass a few days earlier. The housekeeper vouches for her.”

  “A female student in Professor Bond’s bedroom?”

  “Looking for a Band-Aid, according to the housekeeper. She says the good professor sometimes entertained a select group of students on Saturday afternoons.”

  A certain female student immediately came to mind. So I asked the question. “What color hair does this female student have?” I almost knew in advance what the answer would be, so when Pete said blue, I wasn’t the least bit surprised.

  After the game ended (Sox 6–Rays 2) and the crowd thinned out, Pete and I stayed at Greene’s for a while, enjoying coffee and sharing an order of Joe Greene’s special pizza-dough cinnamon rolls. “So how did you know about the blue hair?” he asked.

  “She keeps showing up in my notes,” I told him. “When I first talked to Alan Armstrong at the college, she was there. She said that Samuel Bond had given her a D. Seemed pretty annoyed about it. Then I saw her again, waving a FREE CODY sign, across from the Hawthorne when Francine and I covered the Japanese mayor’s visit.”

  “I guess that hair makes her pretty hard to miss,” Pete said.

  “Right. She’s also in Louisa’s pictures from the Alaskan cruise.”

  Pete leaned forward, cop face in place. “No kidding. Was she with any of the professors in the pictures? Or with the guy who might be the editor?”

  “Not in any that I saw. She’s at a buffet with some earth science students.”

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed.

  “Louisa said she’d seen her in the lounge, though, drinking with both Bond and McGinnis. Shipboard gossip was whether Bond was her mentor or Cody was her boyfriend.”

  “Oh? That’s interesting. Any other blue-hair sightings?”

  “Not offhand. But I have Louisa’s pictures at my place.”

  “Are you inviting me to come up and see your etchings?” Groucho eyebrows, broad wink, and quick imaginary mustache twirl.

  “Absolutely.”

  Pete signaled for our check, we said so long to Kelly and Joe, and we left our coffee unfinished, but planning ahead, put the rest of the cinnamon rolls in a doggie bag for breakfast.

  The Angels’ and Mr. Pennington’s cars were gone when we arrived, and the lights were out in Aunt Ibby’s kitchen. Pete parked in the driveway, and we followed the solar-lighted path to the back door, where O’Ryan waited. We climbed the back staircase, trying to be quiet when passing Aunt Ibby’s second-floor bedroom. O’Ryan was already inside. He’d bypassed the zebra-print wing chair and headed straight for the kitchen, where he’d climbed onto the table and seated himself on the Ultimate Alaska Cruise envelope.

  “Looks like O’Ryan is anxious for us to look at pictures,” I said. “Shall I put some decaf on?”

  “He’s simply a cat looking for a soft place to sit.” Pete scoffed at the idea that O’Ryan’s selection of seating material meant anything. “But yeah, we might as well take a look.” He took a quick glance toward the bedroom. “And it’s still early.”

  I loaded up the Mr. Coffee, then put my jacket and hat into the closet while Pete shooed the cat onto the floor, slid the photos from the envelope, and arranged them on the tabletop. “Got a magnifying glass?” he asked. I pulled one from the junk drawer and stood beside him.

  He put the photos of people with easily discernible features and those of Alaska scenery aside and concentrated on group shots. “Louisa must have pictures of her trip on her phone,” he said. “Did she show you any of those?”

  “No,” I said. “I never thought to ask her.”

  “Too late to call her now,” he said, looking at Kit-Cat. “Maybe tomorrow you could find out if we can take a look.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be glad to share any she has.” I took a smaller magnifying glass from the drawer and began to study the pictures in Pete’s discard pile. “Look,” I said, pointing to a tiny blue spot on a shore excursion picture of Louisa standing in front of a Heritage Coffee Shoppe. “Isn’t that her? Inside the window?”

  “I think you’re right.” He peered through his magnifying glass. “It’s the back of her head, but what are the chances it’s some other blue-haired girl? Good job, babe.” He reached over and ruffled my hair. “Did I ever tell you you’d make a good cop?”

  “Couple of times. But look, can you make out the face of the man beside her? Your glass is more powerful than mine.”

  “He’s in profile, and he has a cap pulled over his hair.” He handed me his magnifying glass. “See what you think.”

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Maybe you can get this one blown up.”

  “I’d like to take the whole stack and get our guys to go over them. I’ll check with Mrs. Abney-Babcock in the morning about these and any personal ones she has.”

  “That’s a very good idea,” I said.

  He put his arm around my waist and steered me toward the bedroom. “Right now I’ve got an even better one.”

  Chapter 19

  In the morning, over coffee and reheated cinnamon rolls, we talked about our plans for the day. Pete’s appointment with the chief and the twins wasn’t until one o’clock, which left him plenty of time to get in touch with Louisa about the pictures, and to ask her for Eddie’s phone number. He’d also see what he could find out about the so-far-nameless blue-haired girl. I needed to sit down with Bruce Doan and get his thoughts on my teaching Cody’s class at the Tabby for a few nights. I intended to pitch the idea that I might even be able to interview one or two of the students. Their thoughts about the murders, both historical and present day, could make good TV.

  “I’m going to need to get Cody’s lesson-plan notes,” I said, “and I’ll need some time to do my own class prep. I’ll ask Aunt Ibby to bring home some books so I can do some serious cramming.” I also meant to call River and tell her about my knight-on-a-game-piece vision, but I didn’t mention that. “Besid
es,” I added, “I’ll show Mr. Pennington the pictures. He might recognize somebody we’ve missed.”

  “Leave some time for me,” Pete said, “or maybe I’ll have to sign up for your history class.” He gave me a quick kiss. “I’ll call you later. Love you.”

  “Love you too,” I said, and watched as he and O’Ryan left together. A few minutes later, after doing hair and makeup, rinsing our mugs and sweeping up the cinnamon roll crumbs, I stuffed the envelope of pictures into my hobo and followed.

  I stopped at Aunt Ibby’s kitchen, where O’Ryan was already happily hunched over his red bowl while my aunt worked the Boston Globe crossword. In ink.

  “Can you get in touch with Betsy and Louisa?” I asked. “We need to figure out a time to get the twins and the Angels together today.”

  She looked up from the paper, big smile in place. “The Twins and the Angels. Sounds like we’re talking about a baseball game, not a murder investigation. Will it be in the evening?”

  “Not sure. I’ll be talking to Roger later, and by the way, Ray wanted to know if you’re still single.”

  “He did? For goodness’ sake.” She put down the newspaper and leaned forward. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to tell which one is Ray. They have name signs in front of them on Street Beat. If they still dress alike, I’m afraid I can’t tell them apart.”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” I told her. “Meanwhile, in case Mr. Doan okays my doing the history class, can you bring some basic Salem history books home for me?”

  “Happy to.”

  “I didn’t know you watched Street Beat.”

  She picked up her paper. “I find it informative.”

  “And the show hosts are kind of cute?”

  “That too. I’ll call the Angels and select some books for you. Anything else?”

  I kissed the top of her head on my way out. “You’re cute too,” I told her. “I’ll call you.”

  Bruce Doan was not only willing to give me the necessary time away from the station to teach the history class, but actually gave the idea his blessing. “It would be even better if we could get a camera in there,” he said. “But interviewing the students would be good too. I’m thinking we set up Francine right outside the school. That’s almost as good. That way you can ask them anything you want to about Cody. Maybe we can get something the cops don’t have.” Big smile. “Maybe even something those big-shot Boston TV twin cops don’t have.”

  “I need to make a few phone calls right away to get things in motion,” I told him. “Is it okay if I ask Rhonda to adjust my schedule this morning so I can get started?”

  “Sure. I’ll tell her to clear the decks for you today. Top priority on this one, Ms. Barrett. Anyway, Scotty can handle both your job and his at the same time. The guy’s a whiz.”

  Thanks a lot. I gritted my teeth, plastered on my fake smile, and reluctantly agreed about Scott Palmer’s whizziness. It’s kind of true. He is a good reporter, but handling both jobs at the same time? I think not.

  By the time I returned to Rhonda’s desk, she was already erasing the white board. She’s a whiz too. “Fancy new assignment for you, Lee,” she said. “Doan says you get carte blanche for the day! Secret-agent stuff?”

  I laughed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but yeah. Why not? Guess I’ll start by locking myself in a dataport. I don’t think it’s going to take all day, though. Should be done by noon, so there’s no need to put poor old Scott on overload.”

  Rhonda handed me the key, and I hurried down the metal stairs. My first call was to Rupert Pennington. “I have Mr. Doan’s approval to teach the history class,” I told him. “Can you and I get together soon to go over the schedule?”

  “I am delighted, Ms. Barrett,” he said, and his tone of voice indicated that he was. “Will you be able to begin teaching next Monday evening?”

  That was a surprise. “So soon?” I said. “Perhaps I should come over and take a look at Professor McGinnis’s notes this morning. Like maybe right now?” He agreed, and I clattered up the stairs again, wishing I’d worn sneakers instead of heels.

  “Finished already?” Rhonda looked up when I burst into the reception area. “I’ve already sent Francine off with Scott to interview a woman who saw a flying saucer over the Charter Street Cemetery this morning.”

  “Not finished,” I started out the glass doors heading for the elevator. “Just getting started.”

  I rode Old Clunky down to the street level, sparing my high-heeled feet, happy to remember that there was always a pair of gym sneakers in my car. This was apparently going to be a day for moving fast. I arrived at the Tabby and looked around the school parking area to see if my old space was taken. It was occupied by a good-looking Subaru, so I wound up with a spot near the store’s original loading dock, now used mostly by the Theater Arts Department for moving stage sets and furniture in and out of the building.

  With white Skechers replacing navy Gianni Bini’s, I walked around to the front door of the Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts. It was a little nostalgic. I’d enjoyed my time as an instructor there as well as a short but eventful volunteer stint as a property manager for one of the school’s summer stage productions. The big glass doors parted automatically as I approached. That was something new. We used to have to push them open. The reception desk was situated as I remembered it at the base of the enormous staircase leading to the old department store’s shoe department, where I’d taught my Television Production 101 classes. I could hardly wait to climb those stairs and get a peek at whatever class might be meeting there now.

  The young woman at the reception desk wearing a student badge identifying her as Susan asked for my ID and issued me a visitor pass. “I’m here to see Mr. Pennington,” I told her.

  “I know. I recognized you as soon as you walked in. He’s expecting you, Ms. Barrett,” she said. “I guess you know your way to his office. You used to be a teacher here before you got to be a TV star.”

  “Hardly a star,” I said. “But thanks, Susan, for recognizing me.”

  I hurried up the stairs, pausing at the mezzanine landing and peeking in at my old classroom area. I wasn’t surprised to see that the Trumbull’s shoe department signage was still there. Mr. Pennington likes to preserve the ambiance of the original locale. Even the elevators are marked with the old floor designations, like “Second floor: Millinery, foundations, notions, fabrics.” The Thonet chairs were still here, lined up classroom-style, but I couldn’t tell from a quick glance what subject matter might be being taught there. I continued up the stairs to the second floor. Mr. Pennington’s office door stood open. “My door is always open,” he often insisted. It was true. I knocked anyway.

  “Come in, my dear Ms. Barrett.” He stood, extending both hands toward me. “I was so pleased to get your message. I’ve already called Bruce to let him know how grateful I am for his understanding and how very pleased I am to have you back here at the Tabby even for a short period of time.”

  “Glad to help out,” I said, and—at that moment—meaning it.

  “Please sit down, Ms. Barrett.” He waved toward a chair beside his desk. “I have Professor McGinnis’s notes here, and you may be happy to know that you’ll have your same classroom back again. It seemed to be a perfect location for the Salem history classes. A nice big screen for PowerPoint presentations and plenty of storage room for books and such.”

  “That’s nice.” I had mixed emotions about that location. I’d noticed that among the vintage shoe department signs on the wall, the giant shiny black patent-leather pump was still there. It had more than once shown me unwelcome visions.

  He handed me a slim folder of typed and handwritten notes along with some photocopied book pages and a brochure about the Gardner-Pingree house where the Joseph White murder had occurred. I gave the papers a quick once-over.

  “These will probably be useful, and Aunt Ibby is going to check out a few Salem history books for me. I think I’ll be able to cobble
something together. Do you have a list of names and contact information for my students? I’d like to call each of them to get a feel for what they might expect from me.”

  He handed me another sheet. “Here you are. Names, addresses, e-mails, and phones for all, including the two dropouts. You’ll have three men and two women in class. The dropouts are also both women.” I tucked it into the folder, then pulled Louisa’s envelope from my purse.

  “I have some photos I’d like you to examine. These are from an Alaska trip Louisa Abney-Babcock took last year. All three of our professors were present, and I wonder if you can identify any of the others in the pictures.” I pushed the envelope across his desk and watched as he studied each photo.

  “I know this young woman,” he said, pointing to the blue-haired girl. “She was one of Professor McGinnis’s students. She’s one of the dropouts. Lucy Mahoney.”

  I pulled a pen from my purse and scribbled “Lucy Mahoney blue hair” on the sheet he’d handed me. “Good. Anyone else?”

  “Not yet.” He placed the photo on the table and inspected the next one. “For goodness’ sake,” he said, lifting the picture closer to his eyes. “Yes, it’s him. For goodness’ sake. I didn’t know he’d gone on a cruise.” He turned it toward me, tapping his forefinger on a clear likeness of Louisa’s Eddie. “That’s our Mr. Symonds.”

  “Our Mr. Symonds?” I asked.

  “Yes. Edwin Symonds. He teaches dance here. Adult classes in tap, ballet, and ballroom.”

  Chapter 20

  Shocker! Naturally about a million questions leaped to mind. Mr. Pennington was able to answer some of them. “Edwin Symonds,” he related, “has a degree in journalism and writes for a number of publications on a wide variety of subjects. He also has an extensive background in the field of dance.”

  Mr. Pennington warmed to the subject, telling me that Edwin’s mother had been a popular and successful dance teacher back in Iowa, and young Eddie, from early childhood, had been both dance student and assistant instructor. He’d danced professionally onstage and even been an extra in dance scenes in several Hollywood movies. “We’re lucky to have him on staff,” he said. “His classes are very popular. Would you like to meet him?”