“I certainly would,” I said. “Sounds like he’d make a good subject for an interview.”
He glanced at the clock on his desk. “He has a tap class right now. Why don’t you call me later in the day, and we’ll set something up.” He dropped his voice and looked around as though he thought someone might be listening. “This isn’t for publication yet, but the Theater Department is about to start rehearsals for our first musical—Oklahoma!—and Edwin is doing the choreography. We are truly blessed to have him.”
“A musical. That is exciting.”
“Don’t tell yet,” he warned. He opened a file cabinet and handed me a printed sheet. “Here’s a brief bio on him.” I said thanks, promised not to tell about the musical, and said I’d call him later about interviewing Edwin Symonds. I’d have quite a few questions for the dance teacher—none of them about dancing.
I decided that since my new position as history teacher was to begin the following week, I’d better e-mail my prospective students right away. I aimed the Vette back toward Derby Street. As soon as I’d parked beside the seawall, I texted Pete. “Did you know the blue-haired girl is Lucy Mahoney, one of McGinnis’s students?” By the time I’d reached Rhonda’s reception desk and picked up the dataport key once again, Pete had answered. “Lunch? Pick U up noon? Have photo blowup.”
“Meet you at Ariel’s bench. 12,” I replied. Ariel’s coven had erected a comfortable bench in her honor beside the station, overlooking the harbor. It made a pleasant meeting place, memorializing a rather unpleasant witch. I returned to my quiet dataport, pulled the papers Mr. Pennington had given me from my purse, and began electronically introducing myself to Cody’s students. I decided to use first names. I sent the same brief message to each of them—Harrison, Conrad, Carl, Kate, and Penny, along with the dropouts, Lucy and Shirley. I still had time to read Cody’s lesson-plan notes before my lunch date with Pete.
While the typed, handwritten, and photocopied notes didn’t actually amount to a complete lesson plan, they did at least give me a general idea of how these last few classes should be conducted. Cody had concentrated on the actual scene of the murder of Captain Joseph White— and his notes were pretty darned graphic. According to Cody, the old ship captain’s still-warm body was found lying diagonally across the bed. On his left temple was every indication of a crushing blow—even though the skin wasn’t broken. Blood had oozed onto the bedclothes from a number of wounds. The doctor who’d performed the autopsy testified that there were thirteen stab wounds on the body—all in the area of the heart, some in the chest and some in the back—and all delivered with such force that several ribs were broken—but that Joseph White was likely already dead from the blow on the head when the vicious stabbing occurred.
Both the blow to the head and the stab wounds near the heart sounded eerily similar to the way Samuel Bond’s body had been found. It was no wonder, I thought, that the Salem history teacher with so much knowledge of the long-ago crime would be suspected of one that nearly duplicated it. But why? Why would Cody murder his fellow professor?
According to the 1830 newspapers, Dick Crowninshield had apparently killed Joseph White because he’d been paid to do it. The court records said he hadn’t acted alone. I couldn’t believe that Cody McGinnis was a hired killer. But were there others involved in Samuel Bond’s death? I was anxious to meet and compare notes with Ray and Roger. And doubly anxious to have the twins meet the Angels.
I called Aunt Ibby. “How’re the plans for the meetup with the Angels going?”
“They’ve both cleared their calendars for the next twenty-four hours. Do you want to call Roger and see when the twins can arrange to get together with us?”
“Sure you don’t want to call Ray yourself?” I teased.
“All right, I will,” was the surprising answer. “I’ll let you know what he says.”
“That’ll be fine,” I agreed. I told her what I’d learned from Mr. Pennington about Edwin Symonds and Lucy Mahoney. “I’m going to have lunch with Pete. He has an enlargement of one of Louisa’s pictures he wants to show me. Talk to you later.”
At noon I was comfortably seated on Ariel’s bench, eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of the noonday sun on my face. Pete pulled into a space behind me and gave a tiny toot of the horn. I joined him in the front seat of the Crown Vic. “Do you have a whole lunch hour or do we grab fast food someplace nearby?” he asked.
“I have plenty of time,” I said. “I’m sort of on special assignment now that I’m taking over Cody McGinnis’s Tabby class. Doan thinks it’ll give me access to information from the students that maybe nobody else will have. Worth a try, I’m thinking.”
“Good. I have a meeting with the twins at one, so we’ll have almost a whole hour. Maybe we’ll go somewhere with chairs and tables. So, is blue-haired Lucy one of Cody’s Salem history students?”
“She was. Dropped out after he stopped teaching the class. And I learned even more. Eddie is Edwin Symonds. He works at the Tabby.”
“Dance teacher. We’ve got that.”
“He’s also a journalism major. Got that too?”
“Yep. Feel like a roast-beef sandwich? Bill and Bob’s?”
“That sounds good.” The best roast-beef sandwich in Salem with a view of the harbor is a good choice in any season. “I can hardly wait to see that blowup. Who’s in it?”
“Besides Lucy Mahoney? I still don’t know.”
We took a right off Beverly Bridge and parked in front of the iconic Salem foodie landmark. Even though it was lunchtime, we lucked out and got our favorite table. Pete put a very large brown envelope on the table and ordered our food—we rarely change the selection—roast-beef sandwiches, fries, coleslaw, and Diet Cokes.
“Can I look at it yet?” I asked, fairly itching to reach for the envelope.
“Yep. But even enlarged, it’s pretty blurry. That window it was shot through was frosty or steamy or dirty. Anyway. It’s still not great.”
Carefully, I opened the envelope. “Boy, you weren’t kidding about blowing it up. This must be sixteen by twenty. Right?” I put the photo on the tabletop, then stood so I could look straight down at it. The blue-haired girl had her back to the window, but the distinctive hair pretty clearly identified her as Lucy Mahoney. The man’s face was partly obscured by the lettering on the restaurant window, and his hair was completely tucked under a knitted black Boston Bruins watch cap. Even his ears were covered.
“I’m not sure about him,” I said, “but I certainly recognize that!” I pointed to an object on the table between the couple’s coffee mugs.
“The fancy cell phone?” Pete looked puzzled.
“Not a cell phone. That’s a Tascam DR-4HWL audio recorder.”
Chapter 21
I sat down and turned the photo back toward Pete. “I’m thinking the man with Lucy blue-hair is Louisa’s Eddie—the Tabby’s Edwin Symonds. The reason the other pictures of him looked sort of familiar was because I’d seen him at the mayor’s dinner at the Hawthorne. Polite guy. Wearing a Red Sox cap. Only I was paying more attention to his recording equipment than to his face.”
“Do you think he’ll show up in any of the footage Francine shot that day?”
“Maybe. There were several media people there. Someone must have caught him on camera.” I thought about it. “Is it important? Why wouldn’t he be there? He’s a writer.”
“The baseball cap. A witness says a man wearing a Sox cap was seen hanging around near Samuel Bond’s house the night of the murder.”
“Half the men in Salem have Red Sox caps,” I scoffed. “You have one.” I paused. “But it’s kind of weird, though. Wait a sec.” I fished into my bag and pulled out Cody McGinnis’s lesson-plan notes on the Joseph White murder. “Listen to this. ‘Several witnesses told authorities that they had seen a man wearing a ‘glazed cap’ like the one Frank Knapp often wore, late at night behind the White property.’”
Our order number was called. Pete picked up our
meals and set them on the table. “Smells great,” he said, and took a bite of his sandwich.
“Well,” I prompted, “is that a weird coincidence or what?”
“You mean about the hats? The Sox cap and a glazed cap—whatever that is?”
“I think it means shiny. Like waxed, maybe. Anyway, there are sure a lot of coincidences between the White and Bond murders.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences. Are you going to eat all your fries?”
“Yep.” I stuck a few fries in my mouth for emphasis. After a few minutes of thoughtful chewing, I tried another topic. “I’m anxious to see Ray and Roger. I can hardly wait to hear what they’ve got to say.”
“Me too. So’s the chief, even though he seems to be sure we’ve already got the right man.”
“Roger is just as sure that you don’t. Aunt Ibby is calling Ray today to invite them both over to our place this evening.” I took a sip of soda. “She and Louisa and Betsy have been busy digging up all they can about Samuel Bond. They’re trying hard to help.”
Pete smiled. “Sounds like an episode of The Golden Girls.”
“Uh—close but not exactly. Try Charlie’s Angels.”
He frowned. “That’s even worse. I hope they’re not getting in over their heads. Say, can you get me invited to this meeting? I think the Angels might need a few ground rules.”
“Sure. I’ll let you know as soon as she tells me what time everyone is going to be there.”
Pete had been keeping careful track of the time, so we left the restaurant at twelve-forty-five carrying the wrapped remains of our sandwiches. On the way back to WICH-TV, I called my aunt on speaker. “Pete would like to join the group tonight,” I told her. “He thinks you Angels could use a few ground rules. For your own safety.”
“Glad to have him,” she said. “I talked to Ray, and the twins will plan to be here at around six. Rupert can’t make it, but the girls will be here for sure. This is exciting, isn’t it?”
Pete shook his head. I rolled my eyes. “Sure is,” I said. “Were you able to find some books for me? Mr. Pennington wants me to start on Monday.”
“So soon? Yes. I think I’ve found some material that will be helpful. See you when you get home.”
“Your aunt is too excited about this. Could be a problem.” He pulled into the station parking lot and stopped beside the door to the downstairs studio.
“I’m sure she’ll behave,” I promised, climbing out of the car. “The others will too. All three are very smart women. See you at six?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Gotta go. Can’t keep the chief and the twins waiting.”
I tapped my code into the pad beside the door and entered the long, dimly lighted studio. I stopped at the Saturday Business Hour set, noting that it had been restored to its original condition, then opened the green metal door, and with still comfortably sneakered feet, hurried up the stairs. There was not much more I could do on my “special assignment” until the meeting at Aunt Ibby’s. I intended to resume my regular schedule. No point in letting whizbang reporter Scott Palmer show off any more than necessary.
I greeted Rhonda with a salute. “Reporting for duty,” I said. “Got anything for me that doesn’t require heels?”
“Francine is still on the road with Scottie,” she said. “But Old Jim can shoot from the waist up if you ask. Want to take a ride in the VW over to the Ropes Mansion? The garden is in full bloom. You can tiptoe through the tulips—with your sneakers on.”
“Good deal,” I said, and that’s how I came to be sitting under a wisteria arbor, babbling about flowers—from asters to zinnias—while Scott Palmer was across town, scoring a live interview with the poodle sitter my aunt had told me about. Only by this time the woman’s account of the yelling match she’d overheard coming from Samuel Bond’s backyard had undergone significant revision. Wide-eyed, she described how someone had screamed obscenities at Professor Bond, and how someone had accused him of stealing something of great value, and had maybe actually threatened his life. “‘You won’t get away with it this time.’ That’s what the guy said,” she reported. “ ‘I won’t let you get away with it!’”
When Old Jim and I returned to the station, Marty was already at work editing Scott’s transmission while Mr. Doan watched (admiringly) over her shoulder. It wasn’t hard to figure out whose report was going to show up on the early news—and I knew I should have been the one who’d had it.
I wasn’t about to let Scott beat me to another one. “Come on, Jim,” I whispered. “We’re going over to the Tabby to talk to a dancing book editor.” I stopped at my car, traded Skechers for heels, and called Rupert Pennington. “I’d like to come over and interview Mr. Symonds,” I said. “Is he still in the building?”
“He is indeed. I saw him heading for the coffee shop a moment ago. He’s on a half-hour break between classes. Shall I ask him to wait for you there?” The Tabby has an on-site Starbucks—new since I was teaching there.
“Yes, thanks. We’re on our way.” I did a quick read-through of the bio Mr. Pennington had given me. I was about to confront the mysterious editor without a list of preplanned questions to ask. This was going to be a seat-of-the-pants project for sure. “We’ll use the handheld camera and a couple of clip-on mics, Jim,” I said. “We’ll try to keep this low-key. I hope we don’t attract a bunch of Save Cody sign wavers.”
This time I recognized Edwin Symonds without the distraction of that much-better-than-mine recorder. Actually, Edwin Symonds in black spandex dance tights was a bit of a distraction in itself. He was almost a head shorter than high-heeled me, with a well-muscled, compact body. Mr. Pennington had apparently told him to expect us. He was sitting alone in one of the booths reading when we approached. Putting his book aside, he stood to greet us, moving with a dancer’s grace. I walked ahead of Jim, hand extended. “How do you do, Mr. Symonds. I’m Lee Barrett. WICH-TV.”
“Yes. I recognize you, Ms. Barrett. Please call me Eddie.” He gestured toward the dark brown upholstered high-backed bench. “Won’t you join me?”
“Thank you.” I motioned for Jim to move forward. “Mr. Pennington suggested that we meet. Can you spare a few minutes to share your thoughts with our audience on some current Salem happenings?”
“All right.”
I took the seat opposite him. I clipped one mic to my collar and handed him the other one while Jim moved to the open end of the booth, positioning the camera. Eddie smiled, clipped the mic on with professional ease, and brushed a lock of thick black hair away from his eyes. “May I assume that your questions will concern my association with certain university professors currently in the news?”
I liked his frankness. No verbal tap dancing. “Yes,” I said. “This won’t be live. We’ll edit later at the studio. May we begin?”
“Go for it.”
Jim began a slow count. The tally light clicked on.
“This is Lee Barrett, speaking to you from the new Starbucks inside the Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts in downtown Salem. My guest today is Edwin Symonds, a dance instructor here at the Tabby. Mr. Symonds . . .”
He wagged a finger back and forth in a playful gesture. “Eddie,” he said.
“Eddie,” I corrected, “has an impressive background as a professional performer in several disciplines of dance. Here at the Tabby, he teaches tap, ballet, and ballroom. The school is fortunate to have an instructor of your caliber. Are your students here mainly adults?”
“Yes. I have a few youngsters, high school and college-age folks, but most of my students are of the baby boomer generation.” Big smile. “Still movin’ and groovin’!”
“That’s great. Dancing is wonderful exercise and fun at the same time.”
“Sure is. I have a few senior citizens in my classes too. A few come for the ballet barre work. Most of them enjoy ballroom, and some want to learn some good old country line dancing.” He dropped his voice and winked. “Quite a few local ladies are interested
in pole dancing. We’ve even installed a stripper pole under one of the old overhead stock shelves. It’s wonderful exercise.” I had a quick mental image of the Angels so exercising. It was a disturbing thought.
Enough chitchat. Let’s get down to murder.
“Eddie,” I began, “two of your friends have been in the news lately—and not in a good way. This must be a difficult time for you, and I appreciate your being willing to talk with us about it.”
His friendly smile faded. “Thanks, Lee—may I call you Lee?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You’re right. My good friend Sam Bond is dead—apparently murdered.” Big sigh. “That was hard enough to accept, but then, within days, my friend—and fellow teacher here at the Tabby—Cody McGinnis was being questioned by the police. They think he killed Sam! It’s outrageous. I know for a fact he couldn’t have done it.”
“You seem quite certain about his innocence,” I said.
A disarming smile. “I’m very sure. You’ll see soon enough.”
I pursued that line of questioning briefly, but got only smiling assurances that his friend was innocent. Moving on, I tried another tack. “I understand that you, Professor McGinnis, Professor Bond, and”—I paused, pretending to look at my notes—“Professor Armstrong were very close. That you all even traveled together sometimes. If you don’t mind my asking, if you remember, when was the last time you four were all in the same place—at the same time?”
Eddie didn’t even pause to take a breath. “It was the weekend before Sam died. He threw a little celebratory dinner party.”
“A celebration?” A party? First I’d heard about that.
“Yes. Those three had recently finished writing a book.”
Murder, Take Two Page 12