See Something, page 2
There was a wastebasket under my desk, a four-drawer file cabinet and a paper shredder against one wall. In one corner there were two club chairs upholstered in purple plastic with a white wicker table. (Buffy Doan is partial to purple and much of the station’s décor reflects her taste.)
I pulled a sheet of copy paper from the stack, clicked the ballpoint pen, and began my to-do list. First on the list was set design for kids’ show. Next was name for kids’ show. After that came suggested sponsor list for kids’ show. I wasn’t sure I had things in the right order. Should the show have a name first? After all, I couldn’t present Mr. Doan with a folder marked “Design for unnamed children’s show.” That wasn’t the only problem. I had a good idea of what my rodeo stage set should look like, but have no artistic skill whatsoever. Who could I get on short notice to do a proper artist’s rendering? The suggested sponsors list would be comparatively easy to put together. No matter what, by day’s end I intended to have all my ducks—and clowns and cowboys and sponsors—in a row.
I decided to stick to my list—right or wrong. Set design first. The only artist I know personally is Dakota Berman—locally well-known for portraits, landscapes, and gravestone rubbings. I was maid of honor at his wedding to Shannon Dumas. (Shannon had been one of my students when I’d taught TV production at Salem’s Tabitha Trumbull Academy for the Arts—known to Salem folks as “the Tabby.”) Would Dakota do a TV set design for me? Worth a try.
I tried. He said yes. In fact, it was an enthusiastic YES! Seems that Dakota had been looking to stretch his artistic wings, and set design might open a few new doors for him. We made an appointment for him to come over to the station to check out the available space and to see how my rodeo idea might be implemented. His schedule was tight and he wouldn’t be able to meet with me until after five, but I happily agreed that five would be fine with me. Anyway, I’d already told Aunt Ibby I might be arriving home later than usual.
On to the next item on my short list. Name for kids’ show. Hmmm. That might be a tough one. I know titles are important, and I was going to have to come up with a good one—and do it before five o’clock if Dakota was going to be able to incorporate it in his sketches for the stage set. I opened the slim manila folder and pulled out a blank sheet of lined paper. “RODEO,” I printed in block letters. “COWBOY,” “CLOWN,” I added, then looked around in my new glass-walled world, searching for inspiration.
Nothing.
There was a knock at my door. Ranger Rob and Katie peered in at me, each one smiling broadly, each clearly delighted with this new opportunity. I returned the smiles and motioned for them to come in.
“RANGER ROB” I printed on the lined sheet and waved a hand toward the purple chairs. “Come on in and sit down, you two. I’m working on a name for the show. Any suggestions?”
Rob sat down, but Katie stood across the desk from me and pointed to the paper. “Of course I’m reading upside down, but what’s wrong with that title?”
“What title?” I frowned, turning the paper around.
“Ranger Rob’s Rodeo,” she said. “Three Rs. It’s euphonious, don’t you think?”
“It is,” I agreed, surprised. “It does have a certain ring to it, doesn’t it? What do you think, Rob?”
His grin gave his answer before he spoke. “I like it a lot. Especially the three Rs. You say you watched us back when you were a kid. You were one of my little buckaroos. Don’t you remember my set on the old show was the Triple R Ranch?”
“That’s right. I do remember. I’ll bet a lot of today’s young moms will remember it too.”
A sudden burst of activity in the newsroom behind us caused the three of us to look in that direction. Once again, I appreciated the location of my new office. I’d be one of the first to know about any breaking news happening in Salem—and it certainly looked as if something was breaking.
Howard Templeton came barreling past my door, followed in quick succession by my favorite mobile unit driver/videographer, Francine. I felt a tiny twinge of jealousy. Chasing a breaking news story is exciting. I was already missing that part of my job.
“Excuse me a minute,” I said, hurrying to the door and pulling it open. “Hey, Francine!
What’s up?”
“Floater in the harbor,” she called over her shoulder. “Looks like it wasn’t an accident.”
I closed the office door and walked slowly to my desk, struggling to stifle my natural reporter’s curiosity. Looks like it wasn’t an accident? How? “Some excitement going on out there,” I said, keeping my voice level. “Where were we?”
“Picking a name,” Katie said. “Ranger Rob’s Rodeo. Do you think Mr. Doan will like it?”
“We’ll find out,” I promised. “But for now, that’s it. Next I need to put together a list of possible sponsors. We’ll start with some of your old sponsors. I think Captain Billy’s Toy Trawler is a pretty sure thing. Any ideas?”
They each came up with some names, and before long we had good selection of likely sponsors to hand over to the sales team, who’d undoubtedly come up with more.
“Good job, you two,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”
Rob and Katie left the office, his arm casually draped over her shoulders. Back when the two starred in the top-rated kids’ show of my childhood, it was rumored that they were an “item.” It looked to me as though they still were—and that made me smile.
I gathered up my notes on the proposed show name and possible sponsors—with a silent vow to pull them into an orderly presentation really, really soon—stuck them into the folder, jammed it into the top drawer of my desk, and hurried out the door and into the newsroom.
“Scott,” I said, speaking to Scott Palmer—not one of my favorite people at the station, but the first reporter I happened to run into. “What’s up with the drowning victim? Francine says it’s not an accident.”
Scott didn’t look happy. “Seems that way. Their live shots should be coming any minute. The new kid seems to be getting all the plum assignments, or hadn’t you noticed?”
I had noticed, but didn’t see any advantage in belaboring the point. “Did you check the police scanner?” I asked. That’s the first thing I would have done if I’d been the field reporter who got left behind. I was pretty sure Scott would have too.
“Yeah, sure,” he admitted. “The guy probably drowned, but let’s say he didn’t jump into the water voluntarily.”
“How do they know that?”
“Looks like his hands had been bound.”
“Murder?”
“Seems so. Hard to swim if you can’t use your hands.” He pointed to a TV monitor on the wall. “Hey. There’s the fair-haired nephew doing the stand-up. Looks like they’re over near Collins Cove.” We both moved closer to the screen. Howie Templeton stood on a stone wall, his back to the narrow stretch of beach where a Salem police department cruiser was parked on the sand. A crime scene investigation vehicle was visible on the street to the reporter’s left and the familiar yellow tape was staked out along the perimeter of the stone wall.
“Must be low tide,” Scott mumbled.
Templeton used a clip mic on his collar. I’d always preferred the stick mic myself. He looked good though. Confident. He’d learned a lot at that Maine station.
“This morning at around eight a.m., the Salem police received a 911 call about a man’s body on the beach in the vicinity of Collins Cove,” he said, his voice properly solemn. “Preliminary investigation indicates that the unidentified man was possibly a drowning victim. According to a police report, however, foul play is indicated. The medical examiner describes the victim as male, aged around forty, six feet tall, weight one hundred and sixty-five pounds, brown hair, blue eyes. He wore blue jeans and a white shirt. There was no form of identification on the body. No visible scars or tattoos. If you have any information as to the identity of this person, or if you have observed any unusual or suspicious activity in the Collins Cove area within the last forty-eight hours, please call the number on your screen. I’m Howard Templeton reporting for WICH-TV. Stay tuned for the latest updates on this breaking news.”
“Possible homicide?” I said.
“No doubt about it,” Scott said. “One of my contacts says there are rope marks on both wrists.” He added a grudging, “The kid didn’t do bad.”
“He’s learning,” I said. “Looks good on camera too.”
“You going to ask your cop boyfriend what’s going on?”
“Of course I am,” I said. “But he doesn’t tell me much about police business.” That was true. Pete rarely talks about his job unless I ask, and even then he doesn’t tell me much about any ongoing cases he might be working. Of course I was going to ask him about the dead man—rope marks on his wrists—how could I not? However, with a sigh I hoped nobody heard, I returned to my new office, putting one-time field reporter thoughts about a brand-new murder investigation aside and concentrating on the job of program director.
That’s what I did. Ignoring as much as possible the frantic activity going on in the newsroom behind me, I skipped lunch, ate my granola bar, and pulled together the material I had so far on the stage set and show name. I’d have to type it into a presentable form for Mr. Doan’s approval. All I had to do then was wait for Dakota Berman. I used a few sheets of copy paper and one of the yellow number-two pencils and made a few rough—very rough—sketches of the way I thought the Ranger Rob’s Rodeo set might look. I printed “Ranger Rob’s Rodeo” in block letters on each one.
I took time out to watch the afternoon news, where Howie did another report on the murder, this one from the police station where Chief Tom Whaley gave one of his brief interviews. The chief doesn’t enjoy doing these things and keeps them as short as he can get away with. Confirming for me what Scott had said about rope marks, the chief said that the medical examiner’s report indicated that the drowning victim’s wrists had been bound and the death was now classified as a homicide. The man was still unidentified, but now there was a two-thousand-dollar reward offered for information leading to the capture of the killer or killers. The chief also displayed an artist’s pastel sketch of the victim. With light-brown hair and blue eyes, he was an average looking middle-aged man—nothing outstanding about him that I could see. I wondered if Dakota Berman had thought about doing sketches for the police department and made a plan to ask him.
I stopped watching TV and dragged my attention back to current duties. I thought about what Marty had said about looking up “bull chute.” It wasn’t a bad idea. I’ve seen one or two at rodeos and some on TV, but never had to give much thought to their actual construction or functioning. I turned on the computer, typed in “bull chute,” and found plenty of images. It didn’t look too complicated—a narrow blue gate with horizontal metal bars. There were a few for sale too, in the four-thousand-dollar range. We could safely forget about those. I’d most likely have to fake the gate with plywood and wooden closet poles, but the general effect would be okay—as long as we didn’t use real bulls. I sketched the imaginary wooden blue gate with a blue Crayola, and watched the clock.
Dakota Berman showed up a few minutes before five. I was happy to see my old friend, and after greeting one another enthusiastically and catching up on what was new in our lives—me with the new job, Dakota and Shannon expecting their first baby—we got down to business. We walked to the empty set where the show would be staged, and he paced off approximate measurements. With pencil and ruler I marked feet and inches on graph paper as he called the numbers out. At the same time, I explained the basic idea behind the show. It would be aimed at kids on weekday mornings. I wanted it to be fun and educational at the same time. Back at my office I showed him the newest publicity shots of Rob and Katie, then hesitantly shoved my stack of copy-paper pencil sketches across my desk.
He pointed to the photos. “I remember them. I used to watch them when I was a kid. Is the little clown as cute as she used to be?”
“Those are fairly new pictures. They both look good. I know my drawings are rough, but they’ll give you an idea of what I have in mind.”
He shuffled through them. “Can you make me copies of your—um—artwork.” He smiled. “I’ll get right to work on this.”
I stood and fed the papers into the copier. “Oh, Dakota? The police released an artist’s sketch of the murder victim they found this morning. Do you ever work with the police on that kind of thing?”
“I haven’t, but maybe I’ll look into it. Don’t tell me you’re working on that murder besides producing this new show for kids!”
I held up both hands. “Nope. That’s Howard Templeton’s baby now. I’m trying hard to block out what’s going on out there.” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder toward the newsroom. “Not easy to ignore when it’s practically in my lap.”
“I’ll bet. Well, I guess you’re in a rush for this.” He held up the sheets of copy paper. “I’ll get back to you tomorrow afternoon with a preliminary. Okay?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “That will be great. Thanks so much. Just attach your bill.”
“How about we trade for a little commercial time for my gallery?” he said. “Think Doan will go for that?”
“I can practically guarantee it,” I said. “Thank you. See you tomorrow.”
By the time I’d straightened up my office and lined up my meager supplies neatly in their proper drawers, the early news broadcast was nearly over and Phil Archer replayed part of the earlier interview Howie had done with the chief. Still nothing new on the matter. The victim was still unidentified and no suspects had been named. I tucked my artwork and the notes on program names and possible sponsors into my briefcase.
I phoned Aunt Ibby to tell her I’d be along shortly. She’d been watching the news too, and peppered me with questions about the body they’d found at Collins Cove. I told her that there was nothing more to tell other than what Phil had just reported. “Good heavens, Maralee,” she insisted. “You must know something more. You work with the news media. and this is a murder case.”
“Aunt Ibby, if I knew anything else I’d tell you. Remember, I’m not a reporter anymore. I have other duties to think about now.”
“Of course, but you know how interested I am in this sort of thing. Keep your ears open, won’t you, dear?”
My aunt’s intense interest in suspicious deaths was fairly new. She and a couple of her “girlfriends,” Betsy Leavitt and Louisa Abney-Babcock, had recently become involved in investigating the murder of a man all three of them had known in high school. I promised to keep my ears open, said good night to Rhonda, and started for home.
It was nearly dusk when I reached the Salem Common. I took the shortcut—a diagonal path across the middle of the park instead of my usual sidewalk around the perimeter route. The popcorn wagon was gone and the hot-dog guy was setting up for his evening business. Stacia had left and the pigeons had probably gone to roost, but oddly enough, the woman I’d seen in the morning still sat there, alone on Stacia’s bench.
Strange. Has she been there all day? I shrugged and walked a little faster. “None of my business,” I told myself. “It’s a public park. If she wants to sit there it’s okay with me.”
But it wasn’t okay and I knew it. I turned and hurried back toward the bench and the lone woman.
“Hello,” I said. “Are you all right?”
She looked up, facing me, pale blue eyes open wide, but didn’t speak. I moved closer. “Are you all right?” I asked again.
She shook her head. “No.”
I sat beside her, trying to avoid white splashes of pigeon poop. “What’s your name?”
She began to cry. “I don’t know.”
CHAPTER 3
Hesitantly, I reached over and patted her shoulder. She doesn’t know her name? I looked into her eyes. They looked clear, bright, not at all as though she was drugged or drunk or somehow impaired. “Have you been injured?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t know. Nothing hurts.”
“Do you have a purse?” I looked past her, onto the seat beside her. “Maybe you have some identification in it.”
“I already thought of that,” she said. “No purse. No wallet. No money. Nothing much in my pockets either—except some tissues.” She pulled out a wrinkled white square, dabbed at her eyes, blew her nose, and stuck it back into the pocket of her pink sweater.
“Do you know where you are?” I waved my arm, encompassing the common, the bandstand, the hot dog wagon. “I mean, do you know you’re in Salem?”
“I didn’t. The other lady. Stacia. She told me.”
And she left you here? Alone?
“Well, you can’t just sit here. It’ll be dark soon. Come on with me. We’ll figure out something.” I stood up, motioned for her to follow and pointed toward Winter Street. “I live right over there.”
She stood, then abruptly sat again. “I don’t know you,” she said.
“You don’t know anybody,” I reasoned, “and you can’t just sit here all night. It isn’t safe.”
“Well, okay. I guess. I’ll just have to trust you.”
Hey. I’m the one taking a chance here.
I led the way through the iron gate and across Washington Square to Winter Street, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do with the woman once I got her home. Stranger danger buzzed around in my head. She didn’t appear to be armed so I figured Aunt Ibby and I would be safe for the moment. But I’d call Pete as soon as I got home. I glanced around almost furtively when we passed the big stone Civil War memorial on the corner. Was there somebody behind it? Were we being followed? What if the woman was being followed? I shook away the feeling and turned to her.
“Here’s my house,” I said as we approached the front steps. “Look, there’s our cat, O’Ryan, peeking out at us. Do you like cats?”
We climbed the granite steps together and the woman stood close to the tall, narrow window on the left side of the door. She bent down, looking closely at the big yellow striped cat on the other side of the glass. “I think maybe I do. He looks friendly.”
