Murder, Take Two

by Carol J. Perry

  “Okay. So tell me about the girl, Lucy. Have you met her?”

  “I spoke to her briefly once at a ‘Save Cody’ rally at the college,” I said. “She’s apparently dating him, and she was the one whose bloodstains were found in Sam Bond’s bedroom. She was also on an Alaska cruise where Bond, Cody, Alan, and Eddie were all present.”

  “Wow. Toss that into the mix and we’ve got quite a mystery. How about I come over soon and do a reading for you?”

  “Yes. Soon, for sure. Meanwhile, I have a couple of classes to teach at the Tabby. Filling in for Cody.”

  “You have a pretty full plate, girlfriend,” she said. “Take care of yourself.”

  “I will,” I promised. “Pete and I will be watching your show tonight. Bye.”

  I’d put down the phone when Pete returned, bare chested, hair wet from the shower, wearing blue sweatpants and smelling wonderful. He sat on the stool next to me again. Extremely distracting. “Did River have any bright ideas about your seeing things?”

  “She thinks that I think Eddie has blood on his hands.”

  “I can understand that.” He spoke quietly, calmly. “Yes. That’s a logical interpretation of what you saw. Don’t you think so?”

  “I don’t want to think that. But I don’t want to think Cody did it either. I don’t like Alan Armstrong much, but I don’t think he’s capable of the kind of emotion it would take to kill somebody.” Big sigh. “I still don’t know what to think.”

  “Maybe you should stop thinking about it so much. That’s my job. Think about other things. I heard you say something to River about subbing for Cody at the Tabby. How’re the plans for that coming along?”

  “His lesson plan is pretty solid. I can work with that. Maybe I’ll be able to weave in some thoughts of my own too.”

  “Why don’t you do that? It will be more fun than worrying about blood-stained gloves.”

  “You know? You’re right. I should do something special for that class.” I liked the idea already. I’d been pretty good at lesson planning when I’d taught there before. “I’ll work on a new Salem history game plan.”

  There was that cartoon lightbulb shining over my head again!

  “Game plan!” I said. “The game! What a great idea!”

  “Game? You’ve kind of lost me there, babe. What game?”

  “Wait a minute.” I grabbed my handbag from the back of a kitchen chair. “I’ll show you.” I fished out the directions for the Clue mystery party game. “Brilliant,” I declared. “If I do say so myself.”

  Chapter 26

  Once I’d decided to do the Clue mystery party for Cody’s history class, I could hardly think of anything else. Pete and I went to bed and watched River’s show and even stayed awake through most of the movie—Jessica Biel in The Tall Man—a creepy thriller. But the characters from the Clue game kept intruding on my thoughts. Professor Plum, Colonel Mustard, Mrs. White, Mr. Green, Miss Scarlet, and Mrs. Peacock danced around in my head. I’d have to make up some kind of a mystery story—with a murder for my characters to solve.

  In the morning I was up before Pete was—a rare happening. I’d even made coffee and fed the cat.

  “Pete, do you think I should ask the students in Cody’s class to play the parts of the characters in the Clue game?” I asked, “or should I get some of the people from the acting classes?”

  He spread some of Aunt Ibby’s homemade strawberry jam onto a toasted dinner roll and took a bite. “How many are in the class?” he asked.

  “Three men and two women are still signed up. Two dropped out when Cody left. Lucy Mahoney and another woman.”

  “So the three men could play Colonel Mustard, Mr. Green, and Professor Plum. Then if you could get one of the dropout women to come back, you’d have a full cast.”

  “Right. The Toy Trawler even sells plastic replicas of all the weapons and even some costume props for each character.” My enthusiasm for the project grew. I cut a roll in half and popped it into the toaster. “It would have to be staged at the time of the regular class. But if I use the entire class to stage the murder, won’t we need an audience?”

  “I shouldn’t even suggest it,” Pete looked thoughtful. “But if you stage it in the student theater, since the school seems to be behind Cody, maybe you could ask for donations and give the money to his defense fund.”

  “Great idea,” I said. “But we only have the weekend to pull this all together. No one would have time to memorize lines or anything like that.”

  Pete picked up the party directions I’d left on the table the night before. “It says here that they don’t have a regular script. It’s more or less a general story, and they give the clues that are on the playing cards. Exactly like in the game. Why don’t you call Pennington and see what he thinks about it?”

  “I will. And I’ll contact all the students again. If they agree to do it, and if one of the dropouts will come back, we could walk through it at class Monday night and do the game on Tuesday.” I reached for my phone. “If they don’t want to do it, I’ll use Cody’s lesson plan.” I called Mr. Pennington’s private number. I could ask him to narrate the whole thing. He’d probably love that idea.

  So I did call him, and he did love the idea. I gave him a brief rundown of the Clue mystery party rules. “I’m very familiar with the game myself,” he said. “Played hours of it when I was at university. The dorm students here play it a lot when we have board game night. I’d be pleased to narrate.”

  “If we use the student theater,” I worried, “how will we do the stage settings? The game has several different rooms.”

  “Easy,” he said. “Rear-screen projection. We get slides of a library, a parlor, a bedroom, and so on and project them onto a large screen from behind. Piece of cake. As soon as you give the go-ahead, I’ll get the Art Department going on signage and brochures.”

  That was a relief. Now if six of my students would agree to participate, we were good to go. If all seven agreed, I’d use the seventh to understudy everybody else. Pete and I cleaned the kitchen together, he left for work, and I dressed for the day in jeans, a white Irish knit turtleneck, and navy flats. Getting rid of the heels felt better all the time.

  Rhonda had several destinations on the white board for Francine and me, but it looked as though I’d have an hour-long break at noon. Plenty of time to call the seven prospective game players. Things were beginning to fall into place neatly, I thought. I was actually humming a little off-key version of “Jesus, Take the Wheel,” Pete’s country music influence no doubt, as we headed across the parking lot to the mobile van.

  “You’re in a good mood,” Francine said. “Pete spend the night?”

  “Yes, he did,” I said, happily. “But it’s not only that. Things in general seem to be moving along a little better than they have been lately.”

  She put a finger to her lips. “Shhh. Don’t jinx it. But catch me up on what’s going on in your life. Haven’t had a chance to talk to you since we did the Christopher’s Castle video. How’d it go with Old Jim and the VW?”

  “It went well,” I said. “Got a good interview with a handsome dance teacher. Did you see it?”

  “Sorry. No. They’ve kept me pretty busy trucking Scott around. He sure talks about himself a lot, doesn’t he?”

  “He does that,” I agreed. “But he’s a good reporter.”

  “So are you,” she said. “Here we are.” We’d arrived at our first assignment for the day. It was one of my favorite Salem events. The Chestnut Street car show. The beautiful historic street was lined with a fabulous array of antique and vintage automobiles, along with pre–WW II era bicycles. I’m such a car buff—some friends call me a gearhead—that I didn’t even need Rhonda’s prepared notes. My late husband Johnny’s career as a NASCAR driver solidified my lifelong interest in all things automotive. With Francine filming, I strolled the street and chatted with proud owners about amazing auto finds and professional restorations. We did more than twenty mi
nutes, and I was sorry when it was over. “I could have spent the rest of the day there,” I told Francine as we put away our gear and prepared for the next stop on our list. The Farmers’ Market at Old Town Hall.

  “No chance of that,” she said. “Here’s a text from Rhonda. She says to eighty-six the farmers and head for the courthouse. Something’s going on.” We made a U-turn and picked up speed. “Shoot,” she said. “I wish we had a siren and lights on this thing!”

  There were already quite a few cars lining Federal Street outside the courthouse, but it looked as though we were the only media there so far. We both grabbed our press credentials on their dark blue lanyards hanging from the rearview mirror and hastily put them around our necks.

  “Looks like the police have made another arrest in the Bond murder. Court will be in session in about ten minutes. Get on it!” Rhonda reported as Francine and I—me with a stick mic and Francine with a shoulder-mounted Sony camcorder—ran toward whatever was going on beyond the tall gray columns in front of the place. I stood on the top step and did a quick standup. “Lee Barrett reporting from the Essex County Courthouse in Salem,” I said. “There has been another arrest in the Bond murder. We’ll be bringing you the news as it unfolds.”

  We raced inside the building. All those official press credentials didn’t make a bit of difference. We had to get wanded, pass through the metal detector, empty our pockets—pretty much the same procedure as at the airport. Cameras weren’t allowed inside the courtroom, but Francine began filming as soon as we reached the open double doors. I knew right away who’d been arrested. Lucy Mahoney—even with her back to me she was impossible to miss. The judge had already begun the proceedings. The charge was “accessory after the fact of murder.” A uniformed police officer stood beside her. A man I presumed was an attorney flanked her other side. Lucy didn’t speak. The attorney answered a few questions about Lucy not being a flight risk and requested that she be released on personal recognizance. That was denied. He requested that bail be set. That was denied too. “The court will enter a plea of ‘not guilty’ for you,” the judge said. “A trial date will be set. Council may approach the bench.” The lawyer and judge conferred in low tones. Lucy was fingerprinted right there in front of everyone. I thought of how embarrassed she must be. Even worse, I saw that she was handcuffed too. Then, escorted by the policeman and the lawyer, she left the room via a side door. The bailiff called for the next plaintiff to come forward.

  Francine had recorded the whole procedure, but what exactly had happened here? We looked at each other, left the way we’d come in, and went outside. “Is there a back door to this place?” I asked.

  “Sure. Follow me.”

  We raced around the side of the building and positioned ourselves beside an exit Francine selected as the most likely. I texted Pete. “At courthouse. Why Lucy?”

  Message came back. “Print on knife. Positive ID.”

  Cody and Lucy? Both of them?

  There was no time for more questions. I needed to tell the viewers of WICH-TV what had happened as well as I could. “We’re outside the Essex County Courthouse,” I said, “where Lucy Mahoney, a student at Essex County University, has been arraigned here this morning. As you know, Professor Cody McGinnis, a teacher of history at the same university, was recently arrested for the murder of his fellow professor, Samuel Bond. McGinnis is free on bond while awaiting arraignment. Ms. Mahoney has apparently been arrested as an accessory after the fact of murder in the second degree.”

  Where are the twins? I wondered. Doesn’t she have anyone who can help her too?

  That last question was answered right away. Roger and Ray, as well as the lawyer and Cody McGinnis, appeared behind the door. Next came the officer and poor handcuffed Lucy. The lawyer pushed it open and all five left the building. “Here come Ms. Mahoney and an arresting officer,” I said. “Also, we recognize Professor McGinnis, as well as his attorney and McGinnis’s uncles Ray and Roger Temple, retired twin Boston police officers who host the popular talk show Street Beat.”

  Spotting me with my mic, the lawyer, who I now recognized as one of the team who’d accompanied Cody earlier—held up his hand. “Neither Ms. Mahoney nor Professor McGinnis will be answering any questions.” He turned and put the hand in front of Lucy’s face. I expected her to duck her head down, but she didn’t. Shoulders back, chin up, she looked straight into Francine’s camera, blue eyes defiant. “We’ve done nothing wrong. Neither of us. You’ll see.” The officer led her quietly but firmly toward a waiting police cruiser.

  Cody reached out to her, but she’d already turned her back. The twins wordlessly positioned themselves on either side of their nephew. I thought of a hundred questions I needed to ask. Instead, I put down my mic and signaled to Francine to stop filming. “That’ll be enough,” I said, knowing full well that I’d allowed friendship to overcome whatever reporter’s instinct I might possess, and watched the three men hurry downhill to a waiting limo.

  Chapter 27

  I called Pete while we were on our way back to the station. I barely said hello before I began firing questions—maybe the ones I should have aimed at Lucy and the lawyer.

  “Is Lucy going to jail? Why ‘accessory after the fact’?” I demanded. “And I thought the knife was clean?”

  “Whoa. Slow down. ‘After the fact’ is because Bond was already dead from the blow to the head before he was stabbed. That’s why he didn’t bleed much from the wounds. And Forensics found a clear partial of Lucy Mahoney’s right forefinger on the handle of the murder knife.”

  “This is weird, Pete,” I said. “Captain White was dead when he was stabbed too. There are too many coincidences. Someone duplicated that murder on purpose.”

  “Looks that way,” was the calm reply. “Things aren’t shaping up well for McGinnis and the girlfriend, that’s for sure. Have you talked to the twins today?”

  “No. They were in a hurry to leave after poor Lucy’s arraignment.”

  “Poor Lucy?” I could almost see that raised eyebrow.

  “That kind of slipped out,” I admitted. “But, yeah. I feel sorry for her. And Cody too. It was awful to watch.”

  “The evidence is stacking up against them, Lee. Try not to let your friendship with the twins interfere with your objectivity on this.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “That’s exactly what’s happening, though, and I don’t know how to stop it.”

  “I understand,” he said. “Sometimes I have to fight it too.”

  Francine pulled the mobile unit into the parking lot. “Gotta go,” I said. “We’re at the station. Talk to you later.”

  “Stay strong,” he said.

  I helped Francine secure our gear, anticipating that we’d be on the road again very shortly. She’d already sent ahead the footage from both the car show and the courthouse. I was sure Marty probably had it all ready to roll for the next newscast, and hoped against hope that nobody would question my decision to stop recording when I did.

  No such luck. Even the ever-faithful Marty wanted to know why I hadn’t pursued Lucy, the lawyer, and the others. “Scotty would have been yelling questions at them all the way to their car,” she said. “Cat get your tongue?”

  I had no answer for her question—at least not one I could articulate at that moment. I made a fast decision to brazen it out. “I thought the comment from Lucy Mahoney was dramatic enough for a strong close.”

  Surprisingly, it seemed to work, at least for Marty. She bobbed her head. “It is dramatic. Might have been a good call after all, Moon. We’ll see what Doan thinks soon enough. It’ll be the lead for the noon news. By the way, I’ve managed to figure out a couple of words in that photo of a book.”

  I checked my watch. Noon was only twenty minutes away. I had mixed emotions. I don’t get the lead story all that often, so that pleased me. On the other hand, what if I could have—should have—done a better job with it? And I definitely wanted to know what Marty had learned from
that photo.

  “Want to go upstairs and watch it with Rhonda?” Francine suggested. “We could spend our lunch break here and send out for pizza.”

  “Sure. Why not?” Everything goes better with pizza. “You guys order it and I’ll be up in a minute.”

  Marty pulled the photo from the envelope. She’d highlighted a couple of places. “See this up in the corner? It says versity Pr. I’d say the publisher is one of the university presses. And see here? Between his fingers? It says id-Cent. Could be ‘Mid-Century.’ There were lots of new dances in the fifties. Maybe he was looking that up. Who knows? Anyway, I’d guess it’s one of those academic journals that professors like to get published in. Probably a history one. Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Thanks, Marty. I think I will.” Or not.

  I opened the green metal door and went back upstairs. Rhonda and Francine had already lined up three of the chrome-and-turquoise chairs facing the big screen behind Rhonda’s desk, and the Pizza Pirate had delivered a large combination pizza and two liters of Pepsi. We moved a purple artificial iris arrangement out of the way, parked the feast in front of us on a glass-topped chrome end table, sat back, and waited for Phil Archer to read the intro to the news.

  My story was indeed the lead. Phil gave a brief introduction, and there I was standing on the courthouse steps.

  “You looked good,” Rhonda said, pouring Pepsi into paper cups. “The flat shoes are fine. I wouldn’t worry about wearing heels all the time if you don’t want to.”

  “With the running around we did today, she would have broken her neck in heels.” Francine took a bite of pizza. “Seriously.”

  “Shhh.” I shushed them both and leaned closer to the TV. “I want to hear it all.” I sipped my Pepsi, picked up a slice of pizza, and concentrated on the screen. Rhonda was right. The flats looked perfectly presentable. Francine’s camerawork was spot on—maybe even better than usual. She’d let the camera linger for a few seconds on some of the details of the old building—the graceful ionic pillars and the massive iron lampposts. The boring security ritual had been omitted, but she’d grabbed the shot through the doorway of the bailiff with the traditional call to order and the judge approaching the bench. Lucy, hands cuffed behind her back, looked very small between a policeman and the tall lawyer while the charge was read.