Murder, Take Two

by Carol J. Perry

  What if he’s disappointed in what I’ve done so far? I pushed the niggling negative thoughts away. Nope, I told myself, like Pete said, I’ve got this! I turned the knob and pushed the door open.

  “Good morning, sir,” I said. I stepped right up in front of his desk, slid the Clue game across the polished surface, and snapped open the brass lock on my briefcase. “Let me invite you to a Clue party.” I heard the unmistakable sound of a throat being cleared, then turned and faced three members of the sales team standing in front of three purple chairs. (It was, in fact, the entire sales team.) Therese Della Monica gave me a pinkie wave and a wink.

  “Good morning, Ms. Barrett.” Bruce Doan motioned to the three. “You sales people can sit down. Ms. Barrett, I guess you know these folks. Proceed, please. We all need to know exactly what we’re selling.”

  I took a deep, cleansing breath like they taught us in yoga class. “Well, then,” I said. “Let’s get started.”

  I began with Mr. Pennington’s script with his descriptive sketches of each character. I’m no Buck Covington, but after so many years in front of the cameras, I read a script pretty darned well. I showed the pictures of the cast, one at a time. Then I opened the Clue box and gave a quick explanation of the game’s rules. “The party is run by the same rules,” I said. “For instance, Colonel Mustard did it with a candlestick in the library.” I could tell by their expressions that everyone was familiar with the game, so I moved on to the costume artifacts and the toy weapons.

  “The game will be played against authentic backgrounds,” I said as I passed the prints around, along with a promise that a PowerPoint presentation they could share with prospective time buyers would be available to everyone by afternoon. “The director of the Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts has assured me that the student theater will be filled near capacity by showtime, and we know from experience that any production Captain Billy is involved in is strictly first-class. Our own Marty McCarthy will handle postproduction. The entire broadcast will be shown in prime time. Your clients will be proud to be part of it.”

  I hadn’t expected applause, but I got it anyway. I even got a “Good job, Ms. Barrett. We appreciate the time you must have put into this. Thank you,” from the boss himself.

  If only you knew how little actual time I’ve put into this! I mentally gave myself a pat on the back, thanked them all for their kind attention, and scooted out of the office. I needed to get busy on the promised presentation package for the sales department. I wished Aunt Ibby was there to help. She’d have this thing put together in twenty minutes, while it would probably take me half a day. I told Rhonda I’d need a dataport for a while.

  “No problem. Doan said to clear the decks for you.” She handed me the key, giving me a smiling up-and-down look. “Dressed for success and no place to go, huh? The suit is great. Scott and Francine have already left. If you finish whatever it is you’re doing, Old Jim is on standby for you.”

  I picked up the dataport key. “Thanks, Rhonda. I’ll probably be done by noon.” I headed downstairs, determined to keep up the head of steam I’d had going since early morning. I hadn’t put one of these together for a while—not since my television production classes. Thankfully, I hadn’t forgotten how to do it. I had a credible product ready to share with the sales department by eleven. I ducked outside, replaced the Clue game and the fake weapons in the trunk of the Vette, then clattered back up those metal stairs, wishing I could ditch the heels in favor of sneakers, but that would seriously mess up my dressed-for-success image big-time. I opened the door to the reception area and darned near bumped smack into Alan Armstrong.

  He was carrying flowers. Roses. In a glass vase.

  “Lee,” he said. “I hope you can forgive me.” His expression was perfect “naughty little boy who wants to be forgiven.” It must have taken hours in front of a mirror to perfect that lost puppy-dog look. He thrust the vase into my hands.

  “Hello, Alan. Thank you.” I sniffed the roses. “These are beautiful. You shouldn’t have.”

  “I wanted to send them to your house, but I don’t have your address,” he said. “I was such a snot the other day. I’m so sorry.”

  “No harm done, Alan,” I said.

  “No, really. I took the heat when you asked about the editor. Sam swore us all to secrecy about that. We’d all promised we wouldn’t tell that there was a ghostwriter involved.” He reached over and touched my arm. “Then when Eddie admitted it on TV, it didn’t matter anymore. I want to make it up to you,” he said, lowering those long eyelashes. “Let’s go over to the Hawthorne. I’ll buy you that glass of wine I promised.” He glanced around, then whispered, “I have something I need to tell you. About who killed Sam.”

  “Can we talk about it here?” I asked, putting the vase on the Formica counter. “I’m sure I can commandeer an office.”

  He frowned. “Please come with me. One glass of wine.” He gave me that look again. “You look so beautiful today. It’s a shame to waste it in a borrowed office.”

  “Dressed for success and no place to go,” Rhonda had said. She was right. He wanted to talk about who’d killed Sam. One glass of wine. What harm could it do? “Okay, Alan,” I said. “You’re on. Your car or mine?”

  “I have a Lexus,” he said.

  “I have a Corvette Stingray.”

  “You win.”

  “I know. Rhonda, will you take care of my roses? I’ll be back within the hour.”

  So pinstriped and high-heeled me and gorgeous Professor Dreamy made our grand entrance into the Hawthorne lounge. We drew the expected stares, which actually felt pretty good. I wondered how soon the news would get to Betsy. Alan ordered for us.

  “One glass,” I warned, keeping my voice low. I didn’t want the early lunch crowd to overhear. “It’s early in the day for drinking, and I don’t have a lot of time. Let’s get to the point. What’s this about who killed Sam? Do you think you know who it is?”

  Our wine arrived before the question was answered. His words were halting. “It’s not so much that I have a definitive answer. I mean, like, can I tell you for sure who climbed in the window? Who beat the old man over the head? Who stabbed him? I can’t say that exactly. It’s more like I have some facts. Some things I know.” A short laugh. “The only thing I’m positive about is that it wasn’t me.”

  I looked at my watch, not even trying to hide the fact that I was already getting impatient. “What do you have, Alan?”

  He leaned forward, expression earnest. Real emotion or practiced? Hard to tell. “Listen, Lee. All of us—Cody and Eddie and Lucy and me—we all have good reasons to—um—to dislike Sam Bond. And we all were frequent visitors to his house. I’m sure that every one of us has left fingerprints—even DNA—somewhere in the place.”

  “So it wasn’t unusual for Lucy’s prints, even her blood, to be there.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You believe Lucy is innocent, even though she has no alibi?”

  “Lucy!” He gave a dismissive wave with his wineglass, not spilling a drop. “Lucy is a vegan. She’s a member of PETA. She won’t step on an ant. She thinks a cockroach has a soul. Lucy Mahoney would not, could not, stab anybody. Ever. She was angry with Sam. No doubt. He gave her an undeserved D and he made fun of her appearance. But stab him? No.”

  He makes a good case. “Okay. What about Cody? Do you believe he’s innocent too?”

  “I don’t know. It looks bad for him, doesn’t it?” Alan didn’t wait for an answer. “He says that ladder was stolen. I don’t know how to explain the shoes. I told you, we all must have left fingerprints in the house. But Cody was the only one of us who kind of liked the old guy. At least he respected him in a way, you know? Even though he was pissed about the associate professor thing. God only knows he deserved the title more than I ever did.” He shook his head. “I think he was actually sorry to hear Sam was dead—even though everything pointed to him being the killer.”

  I sipped my exce
llent Chablis and recalled that Cody had already admitted to a yelling-at-each-other argument with Bond. “What about Eddie?” I asked. “What was his problem with Bond?”

  “I told you, we all had reason to dislike him, but Eddie didn’t try to hide it. He liked to needle Sam, about money, politics, women. Sam hardly ever responded, just humored him. It made everybody uncomfortable.”

  I thought then about Aunt Ibby’s friend who’d heard Sam Bond arguing with a man in Bond’s backyard. You’ve stolen from me for the last time. . . . Was that the argument Cody admitted to? Or was the other man Eddie?

  “Did you ever hear them get into a serious argument about Sam stealing something from Eddie?” I asked him.

  “No. I never did.”

  The waitress had refilled our glasses while I wasn’t looking. Remembering that I was the designated driver, I pushed it gently, regretfully away. “That leaves you, Alan. Why did you dislike Sam Bond?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I told you I didn’t do it.”

  “That’s not playing fair,” I told him. “You started this conversation by saying all of you had reason to dislike him.”

  “All right, but this part is off the record. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Did I ever tell you I started out as a history major?”

  “Yes. And Professor Bond convinced you to change majors.”

  “Yeah. He flunked me out in history. Political science was a better choice for me anyway. I got my teaching degree and my master’s in poli-sci from County U and a BFA in acting from BU. I’d always figured between those two and this face I’d go into politics.”

  “Seems like a logical plan,” I admitted.

  “I know. I still plan to do it when I’m a little older. Maybe add another degree or two. Law, probably. Learning comes easy to me. Always has. But flunking Sam Bond’s history course still bugs me.”

  “Even after all these years?”

  “Still off the record?”

  “Of course” was my reluctant response.

  “The old bastard stole my term paper.”

  “Stole it? What do you mean?”

  “It was years later when I found it.” I was pretty sure the faraway look wasn’t faked.

  “Found what?”

  “My paper. He’d changed the title, rewritten the first paragraph, and added a few more footnotes, but I recognized my own work.”

  “He’d published your term paper as his own work? His own research? How did you find out?”

  “Just by chance. I was looking up material on how courthouse environment possibly affects trial outcomes. Some of the suggested resources included professional journals. In one dated 2001, I saw Samuel Bond’s byline on an article about the various locales involved in the Salem witch trials. Naturally, I read it.” He paused, drained his glass, gazed toward the doorway, and stopped talking.

  “It was your work?” I prompted.

  “Yes. It was mine. Thinly disguised, some sentences reworked, but undoubtedly mine.”

  “Did you confront him about it?”

  “Confront him? No. I was planning to sue him for a bundle. Now, who cares?”

  “There’s no statute of limitation on plagiarism,” I said.

  “I know. But filing suit costs money, and it turns out old Sam was in debt up to his ears. His estate is a big zero. You going to drink that wine?”

  I pushed the glass toward him. “Nope. You enjoy it. I’m driving.”

  “Thanks.” He took a sip. “Mmm. Good stuff.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. He crooked a finger, beckoning me to lean in too. “We were planning a class action suit.”

  “We? Who?”

  “All of us. We knew I couldn’t be the only one. It wasn’t hard, once we knew what we were looking for. He’d even grabbed one of Eddie’s—something about architecture— and Cody found his on the aboriginal peoples of Australia in an earth science journal.”

  “So you think Professor Bond took work from outstanding students, discouraged them with low marks, and suggested they find another major?”

  “Exactly. He waited a year or more, changed the title, moved words around, and boom! He was published. Most of us don’t have time to read the professional publications outside of our fields—or the cash to subscribe to them—so the odds of being found out were in his favor.” A bitter laugh. “Heck, he even had Cody proofreading articles he claimed were his, adding footnotes. There are probably lots more of us out there who’ll never know they’ve been ripped off.” He tossed back the rest of the wine. “I’ve said too much. Let’s both go back to work.” He signaled for a check.

  Now I had an ethical dilemma. I know what “off the record” means. I had no intention of reporting on WICH-TV anything Alan Armstrong had told me in confidence. I didn’t plan to share it with Pete either. But I knew that the twins needed to know, even though it added to Cody’s possible motive for the murder.

  Chapter 35

  I dropped Alan off next to his Lexus, parked the Vette, and hurried inside the station. Rhonda pointed to the starburst clock when I appeared beside her desk. “You said you’d be back within the hour, and you made it with minutes to spare,” she said. “So how’d the second date with Professor Dreamy go?”

  “It wasn’t a date,” I insisted, “and the other time wasn’t either.”

  She pointed to the roses. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Long-stemmed American Beauties in a vase? Drinks at the Hawthorne? Looks like dates to me.”

  “Stop it,” I said. “It was strictly business.”

  “I’m just teasing.” Sly grin. “Does he really know who killed the old professor?”

  “You heard that, huh?”

  “Rhonda hears all. Knows all,” she deadpanned.

  I almost believed her. “He had some interesting information,” I said, “but unfortunately the good parts are off the record.”

  “Oh-oh. Doan’s not going to like that.”

  “I don’t intend to share that with him—or anybody. ‘Off the record’ means ‘off the record.’ Nothing I can do about it.” I looked at the white board. There were still a couple of assignments posted. “Old Jim still here?” I asked. “We could do that plaque unveiling.” Salem’s good about putting plaques around town, keeping tourists and residents informed about different historic sites. Rhonda handed me a printout from the mayor’s office. The plaque noted on the white board commemorated the site of the home of Margery Bedinger, a Salem-born suffragette who back in 1915 walked, biked, trolleyed, and drove all over Massachusetts promoting voting rights for women. “It seems like a worthy cause. Would you page Jim?” I recognized the address. Long-gone Margery had lived in the same neighborhood as recently-gone Samuel Bond. It would give me a chance to do a little snooping on what might be going on at the Bond house, which, according to Pete, was still festooned with yellow crime scene tape.

  Jim was available and more than happy to film me at the site. He was also amenable to doing a little off-the-record snooping. I did the standup, using Rhonda’s notes, thinking maybe Margery would have approved of the businesslike pinstripes and heels, then headed around the block to the Bond house. The yellow tape was still there, a little the worse for wear, fluttering where it had come loose and mud spotted in places. There was a state crime scene vehicle and a Salem police department cruiser parked in front and a long mobile unit in the driveway marked “Massachusetts Bureau of Forensic Evidence.” “Jim,” I said, “see over there where the tape is muddy? And the Forensic Evidence truck is parked? That’s the side of the house where the ladder was. And the shoe prints. Let’s wander over and see what’s going on. Maybe we can find somebody who’ll talk to us.”

  Jim, with a shoulder-mounted Sony camcorder, and me with my trusty stick mic got as close to the forensic truck as we could without crossing any tape. I knew this might produce useless footage, but you never know until you try, right? I ad-libbed a little background information about the case and pointed ou
t the state vehicles, reading the lettering on each.

  “It’s clear that the investigation into the mysterious death of Professor Samuel Bond has not slowed down in recent days. It appears that there may be some new activity in the area of the window leading to Samuel Bond’s bedroom. Someone put a ladder up to that window, stole inside, and killed him in his own bed.”

  With his free hand, Jim motioned toward a side door of the house where a uniformed man had just emerged. With a small shovel in one hand and a handful of what I recognized as evidence bags in the other, he walked toward the truck—and me.

  “Good morning, sir,” I said, edging as close to the tape as I could without stepping onto the forbidden area. “Lee Barrett. WICH-TV. Looks as if you’re collecting more dirt samples from the yard. Is that right?”

  His expression was not a happy one. He didn’t answer. Mr. Doan doesn’t like dead air, so I spoke again quickly. “I noticed the evidence bags and the shovel,” I said. My peripheral vision told me that Jim had zoomed in on the items in question. Even if this guy was going to stonewall me, even if he didn’t utter a word, the pictures would tell the story. I tried a smile. “It’s obvious that the department is being meticulous in investigating the professor’s murder. Our viewers appreciate your efforts.”

  “Uh, thanks.” He dropped his hands to his sides, shovel in one hand, bags in the other.

  “Excuse me, I need to get back to work.” He climbed into the front seat of the truck, but made no move to leave the yard. Clearly, he wasn’t about to talk to me, and certainly wasn’t about to dig in the dirt while the camera was there. Too bad. I moved so that I stood beside the truck, trying not to block the lettering. Jim’s camera followed me. “The state’s Bureau of Forensic Evidence is responsible for collecting and analyzing physical evidence. It appears that in this case an investigator is interested in the soil outside Professor Bond’s bedroom window. Soil samples can reveal a lot of information. If the police have already found the shoes that may have made the prints allegedly found at this site immediately after the professor’s death, a match of soil from the site and traces of the same soil on the shoes would be significant.”