Murder, Take Two

by Carol J. Perry

  “Alan said that he was supposed to tell Cody he’d won the tickets on a radio show and that he knew Lucy wanted to see Shear Madness.”

  “Think carefully,” Roger said. “Did he tell you who told him to say it?”

  Betsy shook her carefully coiffed head. “Nope. He didn’t say anything more about the tickets at all.”

  “Do you remember what you and Alan talked about next?” Ray asked.

  “After Alan told you what he was supposed to tell Cody, what did he say after that?” Roger wanted to know. “Can you remember?”

  Betsy closed her eyes again, but only for a couple of seconds. “It was odd,” she said. “It was an odd change of subject. We’d been talking about plays we’d seen. You know, the ones we’d liked and the ones we hated. Then all of a sudden, he asked me if I’d ever broken a date with someone then wondered later if doing it had changed the future somehow.”

  “What did you say?” The twins spoke in unison. I hid a smile. It always strikes me funny when they do it.

  Betsy shrugged. “What could I say? It was a dumb question. I blew it off. Told him I had to go to the little girl’s room and left him standing there.”

  “Thanks, Betsy,” Roger said. “You’ve been a great help. We’ll let you get back to your game now.”

  “Thank you,” Ray said, motioning toward backstage. “Ladies first.” Betsy and I, preceded by O’Ryan, followed by the twins, rejoined the others.

  Chapter 39

  Now what? Instead of clearing things up, Betsy’s revelations about her conversation with Alan Armstrong had only complicated everything. Why had Alan provided an easy alibi for Cody and Lucy covering the time involved in the murder? At the same time, why had he broken a date for the gathering at Bond’s house, claiming that something bad was going to happen there? If he’d kept the date, would the “bad thing” have been avoided? It began to look to me more and more as though charming Professor Dreamy might be the killer we were all looking for.

  Did the twins see it that way too? Hard to tell. I wished Pete was with me.

  The Clue game was still in progress when we returned. Betsy and Aunt Ibby changed places once again. Coffee had been delivered from the Starbucks downstairs, and the scene looked almost like an ordinary board game night in an ordinary home—not at all as though it was taking place in the middle of a real-life murder investigation.

  Old Jim moved closer to me. “I’m about to head back to the station,” he said. “Need to turn this over to Marty—unless you want I should stick around.”

  “I’m okay, Jim,” I said. “You go along. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “You sure?”

  I knew Old Jim was worried about me. O’Ryan was worried about me. I’d started to worry about me too, and I didn’t even know why. “I’m sure,” I told him. “I’ll be heading out soon myself.” I pointed to the cat. “It’s past this old boy’s bedtime.” O’Ryan promptly opened his mouth in a wide, pink-mouthed yawn. Tell me this cat doesn’t understand English.

  I did exactly what I’d told Old Jim I was going to do. Pleading a crowded schedule, I made a quick round of the remaining guests, bade all a good night, picked up the cat, and left the Tabby via the new automatic front doors.

  I was actually glad for the company of my furry companion when I walked around the corner of the building onto the dimly lighted and slightly downhill path to the overflow parking lot. I clicked my key fob and watched for the welcome answering blink of taillights from my Vette. The WICH-TV van was gone, but Mr. Pennington’s Lincoln was still there. So was Alan Armstrong’s silver Lexus.

  So was Alan Armstrong. He’d stepped from beside his car into the pale pool of light spilling from a bare bulb on the old department store’s shipping and receiving dock. “Hey, Lee. Is that you?” He shaded his eyes with one hand.

  O’Ryan uttered a low growl, and I felt his body tense in my arms. “It’s me,” I answered, straining to keep the very real fear out of my voice. “What’s the matter? Car trouble?”

  “No. I’m about to go home. I stopped in the diner to get a couple of tacos to go.” He held up a brown paper bag, and his taillights flashed, signaling that he’d unlocked the Lexus. “Why don’t you follow me to my place? I’ll share my tacos.” Even in the dim light I could see that brilliant smile.

  “No thanks,” I said, walking really fast toward the Vette. “I have this wayward cat with me.” I pulled the passenger door open and dumped O’Ryan onto the seat. “See you tomorrow night, Alan.” I literally ran around my car, climbed in, locked the doors, and gunned the big engine.

  Overreacting? Maybe. But my heart was still pounding when I turned onto Washington Street and didn’t resume normal rhythm until I’d nearly reached home. “What do you think, O’Ryan? Could the handsome professor be a killer? Could he climb in a window and beat a helpless old man to death?” O’Ryan said “Mrrup,” and pressed his nose against the side window, making little heart-shaped spots. No help there.

  “Never mind,” I said. “I’m going to see River at eleven. Maybe she can sort this out.” It wasn’t yet ten o’clock when I unlocked my living room door. I fed O’Ryan and closed the kitchen window, which undoubtedly had enabled his escape earlier in the evening. “I have to go see River for a reading tonight, O’Ryan, and you have to stay here. I wish you could come with me, but I promise I’ll come straight home as soon as she’s finished.”

  The cat looked up from his red dish briefly, but made no cat-comment one way or the other. I took this as a positive sign. I thought about changing my shirt and opened my closet to check out the possibilities. It wasn’t until then that I realized my cat scarf was missing. “Darn,” I muttered. “That’s my favorite one. I’ll call the Tabby in the morning and ask them to check the lost-and-found box.” I chose a navy-and-white-striped long-sleeved blouse—same jeans and sneakers. Aunt Ibby wasn’t home yet, so I decided to leave a note on her door telling her where I was. I texted Pete to tell him I’d be at the station for a while but that I expected to be back before midnight.

  I used the twisty back staircase, pinned a note onto Aunt Ibby’s kitchen door, and stepped out into the cool spring night. That white-faced owl was perched on a low limb of the maple tree again. It hooted softly, and I found myself walking a little faster toward the garage. It’s no wonder an owl hooting in the night is a standard sound effect in creepy movies.

  Once inside my car, with windows up and doors locked, I felt more comfortable. Salem’s streets were quiet, with minimal traffic and not many pedestrians. I wheeled into the parking lot, not bothering to use my designated space in the far corner, but instead grabbing the well-lighted spot behind Ariel’s bench, handy to the studio back door. Old Jim’s VW mobile unit was in its usual spot, and I wondered if he was still inside working with Marty on the rehearsal footage. I’d just unlocked the car door, when my phone buzzed. Pete. Just seeing his name on caller ID made me feel good.

  “Hi,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “Are you okay, babe?” he asked. “Your message only said you’d be home by midnight. What’s happening at the station this late?”

  “Oh. Pete, I should have been more specific. I’m fine, just a little confused about some visions and this murder and all. River’s fitting me in for a quick tarot reading.”

  “River’s hocus-pocus,” he huffed. “I can’t help much with your seeing things, but we’ve made real progress here with the murder. Forensics has come up with some convincing material. Chief’s nearly ready to indict Cody McGinnis. First degree. Sorry about the twins though. They’re both here right now, asking for a little more time to clear their nephew.”

  I climbed out of the car, locked it, and tapped my code into the security panel on the studio door. “He’s going to indict Cody? What about Alan Armstrong?” The door swung open, and I stepped into the cool darkness.

  “Armstrong? The good-looking guy who was hitting on you? What about him?”

  “He was not . . . oh
never mind. Did the twins tell you what Alan told Betsy Leavitt? About telling Cody he’d won those theater tickets on some radio show?”

  “Yes. They did. But we already know they were purchased at the box office in Boston. The buyer used a prepaid Visa. Said he was Cody McGinnis.” He cleared his throat. “There was no radio station involved.”

  “That’s silly. Why would Cody buy his own tickets, lie about where they came from, and then not even use them?”

  “That’ll get cleared up in time. Meanwhile, we’re going strictly on evidence,” he said. “What we’ve got is pretty darned strong.”

  I started down the center aisle toward the Tarot Time set. “What about Lucy?”

  “Probably accessory after the fact.”

  “She thinks cockroaches have souls.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. River’s waiting for me. Will you call me later? Or come over?”

  “Yep. After midnight, right?”

  “Right. Love you.” I ended the call, slipping the phone back into my bag.

  Chapter 40

  River, gorgeous in a blue-velvet halter-topped side-slit gown, left the Tarot Time set to meet me halfway down the center aisle. “I’m glad you came, Lee.” She pulled me close for a patchouli-scented hug. “Let’s see if the cards can make some sense out of those visions and questions. Come on.” She led the way back to the brightly lighted space where a pair of fan-backed wicker chairs had been pulled up to the round wicker table and a red candle burned. The familiar tarot deck lay facedown in the center of the table.

  We sat, facing one another. River bowed her head. “I consecrate this deck to bring light wherever there is darkness, asking guidance and wisdom for myself and others for the higher good for all concerned.” She handed me the deck. “Cut the cards please, Lee. Buck already shuffled it once to save time.” As always, she’d selected the Queen of Wands to represent me. The queen holds a staff in her right hand and a sunflower in her left. The arms of her throne are lions’ heads. There’s a black cat sitting on the floor in front of her. River says she picked this card for me because of my red hair and hazel eyes, not because of the sunflower—which I like—or because of the cat—which I wish was yellow instead of black.

  River shuffled the cards and began the familiar layout. The first card she placed across the Queen of Wands was the Seven of Swords. I’d seen this one before. It shows a man carrying five swords he’s stolen from a military camp. Two more swords are stuck in the ground.

  “Okay, Lee.” River tapped the card gently. “The card obviously is about somebody getting away with something—a deception or a betrayal. Does that make sense?”

  “It does,” I said. “Is he going to get away with it?”

  “He has a lot of confidence that he will, but look. See the small group of soldiers on the left? They may be coming after him. Let’s see what the next card tells us.”

  Next came the Four of Pentacles showing a person with both arms tightly wrapped around something. “He’s clinging to his gold, his material belongings. He doesn’t want anyone to take what he believes is rightfully his. Does it fit?”

  You’ve stolen from me for the last time! “Sure does,” I said, remembering the voice from Samuel Bond’s backyard.

  “Good.” She nodded, the silver moons and stars in her hair glittering under the lights. “Here’s the next one. Well, well. Here comes Pete!” It was the Knight of Swords, and as always, I was overjoyed to see him in my reading. “You know what he’s all about,” River said. “Moving on.” She flipped the next card over. “Another knight. The Knight of Pentacles. We’ve talked about him before.”

  “The red gloves,” I said. “Bloody red gloves. What is he trying to tell me anyway?”

  “He’s usually a good guy,” she said. “Sometimes he has to deal with money—either coming in or going out. In all the time I’ve been doing this, you’re the only person who’s associated the red gloves with blood though.”

  “I don’t like him,” I said. “He’s scary looking.”

  “I understand. Let’s see what’s next.” She turned up the next card, placing it crosswise on the Knight of Pentacles. “Interesting,” she said. “The Five of Swords. Whoever you perceive this knight to be—bloody gloves and all—his troubles are escalating. Something he’s hidden has been uncovered.”

  She lay the rest of the cards she held facedown on the table. “Before I go on, Lee, there’s something here I rarely tell a client. But you’re a friend. I don’t like this. There’s nothing good about this Five of Swords card. You see how he’s captured the swords of his enemies? He’s ruthless. Have you uncovered something about this man? And more importantly. Does he know you have?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I might as well tell you though, I think the Knight is Eddie Symonds. He’s a dancing teacher. And a writer. But I haven’t actually uncovered anything especially suspicious about him. Most everybody seems to like him.”

  “Maybe you have and you just haven’t made a connection yet. Think hard. It might be important.”

  We both looked up at the sound of Marty’s camera being wheeled onto the set. “Time to set up the bumper shot,” she announced. “And we’ve got a last-minute new sponsor, so River, you’ll need to do a fast live read on this. It’s for a new yoga studio down on North Street. Here.” She thrust a printed sheet across the table to River. “Sorry to interrupt you kids, but time’s a-flyin’.”

  River gathered up the cards. “I’m so sorry, Lee,” she said. “We’ll have to finish this later. Try to remember whatever it is you know about the knight. And Lee, be careful.”

  “I will,” I promised as I gathered up my hobo bag. “See you later. Good night, Marty.”

  The camera woman had already stuck her head under the camera’s black hood but she waved an arm above her head. “Good night, Moon.”

  I made my way carefully down the darkened aisle to the door marked with a lighted red exit sign and, key fob in my hand, went outside. Even though I was only a few feet away from my car, I felt relieved when the taillights flashed on. Silly me. I was in familiar territory here in the WICH-TV parking lot, yet I found myself looking over my shoulder toward the door I’d just closed behind me.

  I backed out of the space and headed the Vette toward home, checking the rearview mirror every few yards for . . . what? I drove slowly, trying hard to make sense out of all that had happened during that fine spring day in Salem.

  Stop checking the mirror.

  The rehearsal had gone well—better than I’d expected. Bruce Doan would be pleased with Old Jim’s videography and so would Captain Billy. That part of my life was swinging along like it should. My relationship with Pete was a true blessing. But my attempts—all of our attempts—to help Ray and Roger in their efforts to save their nephew were not proving to be helpful. In fact, the more I learned about “The Case of the Murdered Professor,” the more it looked as if Cody McGinnis might be guilty after all.

  Stop checking the damned mirror.

  There wasn’t a car following me. There was no shadowy figure in the Vette with me and no hitchhiking cat in the seat beside me. Nothing. Was my worried cat the reason for this feeling of . . . of what? Dread? Fear? I gripped the steering wheel tightly. My palms were moist. “Maybe I’m coming down with something,” I thought. “Maybe I’ve caught Scott’s cold.”

  Don’t look in the mirror.

  I looked in the mirror. I recognized the man right away.

  Pull over, dummy, before you hurt somebody.

  I was almost home, but I pulled over across the street from the Witch Museum, the larger-than-life statue of Roger Conant looming black against the lights of the Common. I dared to look at the mirror again. I looked into Dick Crowninshield’s eyes.

  I knew who he was. This was the face in the black-and-white photo I’d so recently stuffed into my briefcase. But now the face was in color, and around his neck was a scarf. Dick Crowninshield had hanged himself with a silk s
carf—but not one with cats on it.

  Eddie. His arm around my shoulders . . . untying my scarf...

  Dick Crowninshield was the jailbird Eddie thought he knew—Dick Crowninshield, who’d hanged himself in his jail cell rather than face justice.

  In almost one motion I reached for my phone, made an illegal U-turn, hit Pete’s number, and sped back toward the Tabby. “Pete!” I yelled. “Edwin Symonds is the killer. He’s at the Tabby. I’m on my way there to stop him from hanging himself. Hurry!”

  Chapter 41

  It wasn’t yet midnight when I slammed on the brakes in the no-parking zone in front of the Tabby. I knew the doors would be open until twelve—curfew for the dorm students. The nighttime security guard looked up from the reception desk where so recently student receptionist Susan had greeted me. “Call 911,” I shouted, running for the stairway. “Dance studio!”

  “Hey, stop!” he called, but I didn’t. I raced past the mezzanine. The dance studio was on the second floor, over my old classroom. I remembered the tap-tap of those dancing feet we’d often heard above us while I was teaching there.

  Eddie’s studio was one of the few enclosed classrooms. Most are laid out in the open plan of the old Trumbull’s department store. Light spilled from under the door. Loud music played. A waltz. The Blue Danube? I turned the knob. Locked. “Eddie,” I yelled. “Eddie, it’s Lee. Let me in. I can help.” No reply.

  The security guard had caught up with me. I banged on the door with both fists. “Can you open it?” I pleaded. “Hurry.” Distant sirens sounded. The man detached a ring of keys from his belt. He seemed to move in slow motion. “Hurry,” I said again.

  “I hope you know what you’re doin’, lady,” he said, turning a key in the lock. “I called the cops. Sounds like they’re on the way. I’ll go tell ’em where you are.”