See Something, page 18
I don’t like the direction these thoughts are taking.
I jumped involuntarily when my phone buzzed. Pete. I relaxed when I saw his name.
“Hi, babe. How’re you doing?” he asked.
“Fine.” I tried to make it sound convincing.
Serious cop voice. “Something’s turned up you should know about. It’s better if you hear it from me. Your newshounds will be on it soon enough.”
“What is it?” I didn’t like the sound of this.
“You know we found that Mazda.”
“Of course.”
“We found the driver too. He’s dead.”
I couldn’t stop my shocked gasp. “Crew-cut guy? What happened to him?” My nerves ratcheted even higher.
“Somebody shot him, wrapped him completely in plastic, stuffed him in a dumpster behind a big apartment complex on Lafayette Street, and left him there to die.”
“That’s awful.” It was awful. The mental image was awful. Nobody, no matter how rotten, should have to die that way. “Any witnesses? Security films? Anything?”
“Not much. A homeless guy says he checks that dumpster once in a while. He says people moving in or moving out of the apartments throw some really nice things away. He was heading there last night when he saw someone drive up in a gray car and unload stuff from his trunk. He ducked out of sight, thinking it was the apartment super, and beat it out of there. But he came back real early this morning to see what he could find. Unfortunately for him, he found the body.”
I swallowed hard. My voice came out as a squeak. “The gray Mercury was stolen last night.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you think that when Red Beard tried to run down Katie this morning, the other one, the crew-cut man, his partner—was already dead?”
“We’re leaning that way.”
“So next he got a green Toyota, but he’s already ditched that, right?” I was thinking out loud. “No way to tell what he’ll be driving next.”
“We’re not sure about it, but right down the street from where the Toyota was recovered, somebody reported their kid’s bike stolen from their yard,” he said. “A Cannondale. Nearly new. Bright orange.”
I almost smiled. “You don’t seriously think a wanted murder suspect is riding around Salem on a bright orange bike, do you?”
“It’s possible. He took that murder mystery boat tour, remember?”
Pete was right. It seemed as though the man wanted to get caught. I wished they’d hurry up and grant his wish. Meanwhile I had a job to do. “I’m going to have to go over to the curtain store sometime today. Does Officer Marr need to ride with me?”
“Yep. That’s what he’s there for. I’ll come over to your place as soon as I get out of here tonight. I’ll bring dinner. Marr will follow you home after work. Call me when you get there, okay?”
I agreed, and returned my attention to program director duties. I turned on the TV monitor. I wanted to see if Pete had been right about the “newshounds” learning about the body in the dumpster. Howard Templeton was broadcasting on site from the apartment complex where the crew-cut suspect had died. A giant green dumpster in the background was festooned with yellow crime scene tape. Howard was getting better at this. His diction was good and he’d lost the deer-in-the-headlights look he used to get when he first faced the camera. “The name of the dead man has not been released,” he said.
I wondered if Officer Marr knew who he was. I turned off the set and hurried back to Chester’s hideaway behind the bull chute where the two overall-clad men huddled over Paco’s nearly complete dog house. “Back already, Ms. Barrett?” the officer asked. “Everything okay?”
“I’m fine. Did you get those measurements, Chester?” I asked. “I’d like to get over to the curtain store and get them started on the new draperies.”
“Sure did.” He handed me a piece of lined paper with the Shopping Salem set neatly diagrammed with appropriate measurements.
“I’ll go along with you, Ms. Barrett,” Officer Marr stated. It was not a question.
“Okay. I’ll stop by my office, pick up my handbag, and meet you in the parking lot,” I said.
“I’ll come with you right now.” Cop voice. “We’ll take my car.” There was no question implied there either.
“Okay,” I said again. I knew it was okay. Jimmy Marr was taking his job seriously. It made me feel safer, yet somehow—more frightened.
As he’d suggested, still in overalls, he followed me to my office and stood by the door as I picked up my hobo bag, making sure I had the paper Chester had given me. I followed him to the parking lot, where we paused beside the building while he looked all around the lot. I’ve seen Pete use that same, all-encompassing glance many times. The unmarked car was parked close by, just behind Ariel’s bench. He held the passenger door open for me, still watching the surroundings. As he bent to get into the driver’s seat, the oversized overalls did not hide the holstered gun.
I didn’t have to give him directions to the curtain shop. Everyone in Salem knows where it is. “I’ll come in with you,” he said as we parked in front of the store. There were only a few customers inside. Marr stood by the door, watching the street while I looked at sample books, discussed fabrics with the clerk, and decided on a cotton /linen blend in a neutral wheat color. Fortunately, the draperies in the proper width were in stock and only needed to be shortened. “We’ll get right on this, Ms. Barrett,” the clerk said. “You can probably have them sometime tomorrow or the next day at the very latest.” I handed over Chester’s measurements, along with the station’s credit card.
“All done,” I told my escort. “And they’ll probably be delivered tomorrow or the next day. Perfect!”
He held the door open, looked up and down the street, and watched carefully as I climbed into the car. Once again, although I knew I was safe and protected, I found all this attention frightening. How much danger am I actually in? “I heard on the news that they have the name of that poor man they found in a dumpster,” I said. “Who was he? Do you know?”
“He had some ID on him, but we’re not sure it’s legit. The ME fingerprinted the body. We should have a positive ID pretty soon.” I could tell by his tone of voice that was all the information about the deceased Mazda driver I was going to get right now. I settled back in my seat for the silent ride back to WICH-TV. We parted once inside the studio, he going back to Chester’s hideaway while I went upstairs to check in with Rhonda. She handed me the book requisition slip signed by Mr. Doan and I turned in the receipt from the curtain store.
Once back in my office I did a little filing and a lot of thinking. The Mazda wouldn’t be tailing me anymore, and the crew-cut driver was dead. The thought of that agonizing death brought chills. The other suspect, certainly no longer a kindly schoolteacher in my mind, seemed to be roaming at will around the city. If the Mazda driver had phony ID, it was pretty certain that the other one—he of the green Toyota—had one or more aliases too. I thought of Louisa’s assortment of high-end real estate brochures and business cards. She had dozens of those glossy cards from waterfront real estate dealers. Chances are John Sawtelle had stacks of them too. I thought about the card I’d discovered in the purse Emily had borrowed. It was quite likely that the same card had been in the pink sweater pocket when I’d first seen her on the common. Later she’d carried it in the pocket of the jeans I’d loaned to her. Even when she was poor, confused Janie, Emily must have thought there was something special about that particular card. I was willing to bet that the real name—the real identity—of one or the other of the men would turn out to be Alfred J. Pridholm.
CHAPTER 32
While I waited for Louisa to answer her phone, I felt a little bit guilty. Was I doing personal business on company time?
“Why, good afternoon, Lee. How nice to hear from you.”
Is it afternoon already? I forgot about lunch again. “Hello, Louisa. I have a quick question for you.”
“Glad to help in any way I can, dear. What’s your question?”
“When we last met, I noticed that you had quite a collection of business cards. Were all of the names and numbers on those cards included on your printout?”
“Oh no, dear. Many of them seemed irrelevant to the immediate problem. I was concentrating on those real estate agents who represent luxury homes.”
“I see. Do you still have those cards?” Fingers crossed.
“I believe so. Would you like to see them? I’ll be at Ibby’s this evening for a while. We’re going to begin watching the next season of Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries. I’ll bring them along.”
“Thanks ever so much. I’d appreciate it.”
I wasn’t exactly sure what I expected to find in Louisa’s card stash, but I felt strongly that they deserved a look. I unwrapped a granola bar and moved on to the next item on my mental to-do list. I called Salem Hospital to try to get an update on Katie’s condition. I was pleased when I was immediately patched through to her room phone. She sounded as cheerful and cute as ever. A real trooper.
“I’m fine, Lee. Don’t worry about me. Rob called a little while ago and says that Paco is going to be okay too. He’s got a bandage on his leg, and a little walking cast. I’ve got some tape on my road-rashed arms, but my costume will cover them. We’ll be okay. We’ll be back to work tomorrow.”
“You’re so brave, Katie. See you tomorrow.” I was pretty sure Officer Marr would include Katie in his bodyguard duties at the station, but what about her comings and goings? I’d ask Pete about that.
Five o’clock rolled around faster than I’d thought it would. Officer Marr tapped at my door at exactly five, overalls exchanged for jeans and navy denim shirt, open at the throat and loose enough to cover a holstered gun. “Ready to roll, Ms. Barrett?”
“Be right with you,” I said, hurriedly assembling folders, filing them neatly, alphabetically, in my desk’s file drawer. In an overabundance of caution, I locked the drawer. I’m getting more paranoid every minute. I picked up my hobo bag and the laptop and sneaked a glance at the newsroom behind the glass. Scott Palmer was at his desk, scribbling on a yellow pad. Marty and Jim had their heads together in front of a small screen, Phil Archer was seated at the news desk, and Wanda the Weather girl, gorgeous in bright yellow hot pants and black and yellow bumblebee-striped crop top, waited in front of the green screen for her spot in the five-o’clock news.
Was I the only person in the building working normal hours? Lucky me. I followed my official police escort to the parking lot. He walked with me to my car, waited while I got in, and started the engine.
“I’ll be right behind you,” he said.
I backed out slowly, knowing that somewhere, someone knew exactly where I was and that I was on the move. I knew too, that Pete had the same information, along with the entire Salem PD. That made me feel a little better. A little.
In the rearview mirror, I saw Officer Marr’s vehicle fall into line behind me. But was there another car close by, following? Watching? Knowing?
I turned in on Oliver Street, activating the garage door opener when I got close enough. I pulled in, keeping my distance from the Buick, rolling forward until the suspended yellow tennis ball tapped the windshield. I closed the garage door, pushed open the side door, and waved to the officer, who by then stood beside his car.
“I’m fine from here on in,” I called. “Here comes my cat to escort me to the back door.” I pointed to O’Ryan, who approached with a jaunty step, whiskers bristling, meowing a greeting.
“You sure?” he answered. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
“I’m already there.” I climbed the two granite steps, waving my key in his direction. “See you in the morning.”
Oops. I forgot to ask him about Wanda’s seven a.m. cooking prep. “Never mind,” I told myself. “I’ll watch when they do the taping.”
He got back into his car, waved, and continued down Oliver Street. I poked my key into the lock. O’Ryan used his cat door. Stepping into the hall and closing the door behind me felt so good. I was in a place of safety. Like Dorothy, I whispered, “ ‘There’s no place like home. ’ ” I deposited laptop and hobo bag on the bottom step of the twisty staircase, passed the laundry room, avoiding even a glance at the ironing board, and tapped on Aunt Ibby’s kitchen door as O’Ryan scooted in through his own entrance.
“Coming,” called my aunt, and I heard the click-click as she released the lock. “I’m baking giant oatmeal cookies. Tabitha’s recipe,” she announced. “The Angels are coming by later.”
“I know,” I said. “Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries.” Aunt Ibby is compiling a cookbook, using recipes from Tabitha Trumbull’s handwritten pages. Tabitha was the wife of the founder of the long-ago Trumbull’s department store—the vintage building now housing the Tabby.
“How’d you know about Miss Fisher?” She wiped her hands on a blue cobbler’s apron marked “Crazy Cat Lady” and slid a cookie sheet into the oven.
“I talked to Louisa today,” I admitted. “She’s going to bring me her collection of real estate agents’ business cards.”
“We all saw those. Do you think maybe there’s some useful information hidden among them?” She wore her wise-old-owl expression. “Something important?”
“Could be.” I reached for a cookie on a cooling rack. “Mind if I eat one? I skipped lunch.”
She made a disapproving tsk-tsk sound, but added, “Help yourself.”
“Pete’s coming by later. He’s bringing dinner.”
“He’s a very considerate man. How did last night’s dinner go?”
“Really well.” I told her about my shopping trip for Wanda’s groceries. “I’m going to watch her put it all together. She thinks I could do it. Did I tell you she’s writing a cookbook too?”
“I’ll bet she’ll sell a ton of them. Speaking of books,” she said. “I’ve brought home a couple of dream books for you. I left them on the seat on the hall tree.”
I thanked her, reminding myself to try to avoid looking into the mirror when I picked up the books. It felt so good to sit in Aunt Ibby’s pretty kitchen, eating a big, warm oatmeal cookie and chatting about food and TV mystery shows, I didn’t want to think about nightmares and visions and real-life murders. I knew I’d have to tell her about the man in the green Toyota, and about how Pete believed I needed police protection, but I decided it could wait a little longer. Her kitchen TV wasn’t turned on, and Salem doesn’t have an afternoon newspaper anymore, so it was possible she didn’t even know yet about the wrecked red Mazda and the grisly find in the dumpster.
“You look tired, Maralee,” she said, changing the subject abruptly—something like the way I’d found myself doing lately. “Is something wrong? Are you feeling well?”
I sighed. I’ve never been able to put much over on her. “I’m not sick or anything. But it’s been a really difficult day. There was a lot going on at work, what with Katie’s accident and all.” I stood up, brushing cookie crumbs from my lap. “The Angels will be here soon and I’m expecting Pete. We’ll talk later. Okay?”
“Of course, dear.” The oven bell dinged, signaling that the cookies had reached perfection. Glad I’d left my belongings on the back stairs and could avoid facing the hall tree mirror for a little while, I followed the cat into the hall.
I picked up my gear, climbed a couple of the stairs and looked around for O’Ryan, who usually races ahead of me so that he can pretend to be asleep in the zebra-print wing chair when I enter the living room. “Come on, cat,” I said. “Let’s go.” O’Ryan sat, motionless, facing me. “What is it, boy?” I asked.
He took a few steps toward the back door, then sat again. “Mmmrrupp,” he said.
“You want to go back outside?” He sat.
“You want me to go outside with you?”
His quick exit and the fast flapping of the cat door answered the question. I followed. He trotted toward the garage and stopped beside a thick hedge just behind the old structure. If it hadn’t been for the flash of bright color, I probably wouldn’t have noticed the orange bicycle amidst the greenery.
CHAPTER 33
I froze.
I mean I literally froze in fear. In broad daylight in my own backyard, I stood immobilized. I couldn’t move my arms or legs or eyes. I couldn’t scream or cry. I’d never felt anything like this before. I was totally, immovably focused on that tiny patch of bright orange metal.
With loud meows and repeated ankle rubs, O’Ryan pulled me back to reality. It was like waking up from a truly hideous nightmare—nothing simple like mists and butterflies. “Good boy,” I said to the cat, picking him up, hugging him, and repeating over and over “Good boy. Good boy.” As soon as I trusted legs and feet to carry me away from the garage, I turned and moved—still trancelike, but motivated—toward the house.
What did it mean? Had the bike been there when Officer Marr dropped me off after work? Was it possible that it had been left there in the short time I’d been happily eating cookies and chatting with my aunt? If that was true, was the killer still nearby? Had he found his way into the house?” I looked up at my third-floor bay window. Was he standing there, hidden by my potted plants and hanging baskets and my beautiful painted carousel horse—looking down at me with those cruel eyes, that cold smile?
“See you later, sweetheart,” he’d said. It had sounded like a threat. And a promise.
I ran the rest of the way along the flagstone path, still clutching O’Ryan in my arms. I realized that in my hurry to follow the cat, I hadn’t locked the back door. I stopped on the top step. What if the killer had ducked inside while I stood stone still behind the garage? What about my aunt? I put O’Ryan down and pushed my way into the hall. I didn’t tap gently on the kitchen door this time. I pounded on it. I yelled, “Aunt Ibby. It’s me!”
I heard the familiar click-click. “Good heavens, child. What’s wrong?” She pulled the door open. “You’re pale as a ghost. Come in. Sit down.”
