See Something, page 7
“Your kitchen always smells wonderful, Ms. Russell.” Janie sat, hands folded in her lap while I poured coffee for both of us.
“Do you bake, Janie?” my aunt asked, transferring scones to a napkin-lined basket.
“Yes,” she said. “I mean, I think so. The smell of your scones seems familiar to me. Like some kind of biscuits maybe.”
“Good. See? It’s all coming back to you, isn’t it?” She slid a few scones onto a plate. “Just as the doctor said it would. All these need is butter. Lots of butter. Oops. There goes O’Ryan. Pete must be on his way downstairs.”
She was right. About Pete and the butter. Pete joined us at the table. So did Aunt Ibby. It was while the four of us partook of excellent coffee with real cream and Nigel’s mother’s fabulous English date scones that Pete broke the news to Jane Doe that she was about to be questioned in regard to the murder.
She took the news remarkably well, considering what she’d already been through in the past twenty-four hours. “So I’m going back to the police station this morning instead of—where was it you thought people might know me? Know me as Emily, if that’s my real name?”
“Brookline,” he told her. “Mr. Sawtelle’s real estate offices are in Brookline. We may not need to go there after all.”
“Do I get to stay here then? In Salem? Here?” She looked from my aunt to me and back to Pete.
“Not up to me,” Pete said. “Hopefully your memory will return and you’ll be able to give us some help in the Sawtelle matter.”
Janie/Emily broke off a piece of her scone, buttered it thoughtfully. “Hope so,” she said. “This is delicious. When do we leave?”
“Detective Sergeant Rouse will be along soon,” he said, checking his watch. “She’ll transport you to the station. I’ll be along later.”
I realized then that he hadn’t told her about the Audi they’d found behind the church, or about her handbag with ID in it that identified her as Emily Hemenway, or about her fingerprints on the steering wheel. I guessed that she’d be in for some intense questioning by police experts when she arrived at the station, and I also guessed that Pete would be going to wherever that Audi was being stored—and was undoubtedly being gone over with the proverbial fine-tooth comb.
We’d finished breakfast when Joyce Rouse arrived to pick up her charge. I was glad there were no handcuffs or Miranda rights involved when I said a hesitant “so long” to Janie. Pete hurried away shortly after that. Aunt Ibby had library duty on her schedule, and I was free to get started on my own busy day as program director. Without a minute’s hesitation I decided that there’d be no walk across the common on the way to or from work. I grabbed my briefcase with the hastily prepared presentations Janie and I had produced, backed my beautiful but impractical Corvette convertible onto Oliver Street, turned on the radio, and hummed along with Taylor Swift all the way to Derby Street and WICH-TV. It was a new day and I was darned glad of it.
I was greeted by Rhonda as though I’d been gone for a week. “Jeez, Lee, everyone around here is looking for you!” She pulled out a sheaf of those little pink “while you were out” memos Mr. Doan still favors. “Doan wants to know where the plan for the morning show is and for you to see him as soon as you got here. The cowboy wants to know if it’s okay to bring a horse on set like he used to in the old days. Marty says they got the wrong color blue for the bull chute. Scott wants to know if your boyfriend told you anything new about the dead guy they found on the beach.” She put the memos down on her desk and added, “Francine says she wishes you still had your old job because the new guy talks too much.”
“Gee, I got real popular all of a sudden, didn’t I?” I patted the briefcase. “Mr. Doan first. I have the goods right here. And about the horse, there are a lot more rules about animal performers than there used to be. Can you check with somebody and find out if we need special permits or anything? It will be cool if he can do it. The kids will love it.” I headed for the office manager’s door. “I’ll see Marty later and try to dodge Scott. Nothing I can do about the new guy.” I tapped on the boss’s door.
I was barely inside the office when the barrage of questions began. “What about it, Lee? Where’s my info about the new show? What’s taking so long? We need to get moving on this right away. When do I get something to show to sponsors?”
“Right now, sir.” I opened the briefcase and fanned the copies of the presentation across his desk. “I’ll have an artist’s rendering of the set for you later today, and a PowerPoint when I get it all together, but here’s some ammunition for the sales force.” I could tell from his expression that Janie’s ideas for the cover had made a fast and positive impression. The spiral-bound poly covers almost glowed in the light from his desk lamp and the collage of photos and sketches and graphs looked totally professional from where I stood, awaiting his judgment as he perused the pages.
After what seemed like a long time, he looked up, favoring me with a rare smile. “Good job, Ms. Barrett,” he declared. “I knew all along that I’d made a very wise decision with your promotion to program director.”
I realized I’d been holding my breath. Hey, maybe he was right. Maybe being program director was going to be okay. “Well, sir,” I said, “I’m pleased that you’re pleased. If you’ll excuse me now, I have to see a woman about some blue paint.”
CHAPTER 11
By the time I’d caught up with Marty, she’d already straightened out the blue paint dilemma. “I just called the paint store guy and opened that gallon of paint right in front of him. Durn fool couldn’t tell the difference between sapphire blue, Olympic blue, and cornflower. Durn fool.”
“So we’ve got the right color now?”
“Of course. Olympic blue. A fresh new gallon all ready for your bull chute. When are we going to get started on building the thing? Chester is a good enough wood butcher to make it. He can hardly wait to get at it.” Chester is the night watchman/security guard. Apparently, he was ready to don yet another hat. Mr. Doan would be pleased, and I assured Marty that as far as I was concerned, construction of the bull chute could begin as soon as the measurements of the space involved were verified. “I have some good photos of the real thing in my office, and I expect to see Dakota with the floorplan today.”
Rhonda, efficient as usual, already had the information regarding Ranger Rob’s horse, Prince Valiant, performing on the show. “There’s the federal Animal Welfare Act,” she reported, “that says that the animal must be provided ‘humane care and treatment,’ so there’s no problem there. Also, because Rob owns his own stable, he already has all the necessary state and local permits. He even has a veterinarian on retainer. The horse is good to go.” We exchanged high fives.
I managed to avoid Scott Palmer for most of the morning. He finally tracked me down by knocking at the window of my office—the window that faces the newsroom. He made that little two-fingers-and-a thumb hand gesture beside his ear that means “call me.” I nodded and gave him a see-ya-later wave and ignored the request. Anyway, Dakota Berman had just arrived at Rhonda’s desk and he was on his way downstairs. I could hardly wait to see what he had to show me. I wasn’t disappointed. Who knew that an artist’s rendering of a simple stage set could be not only accurate, but quite beautiful in its simplicity and stylistic rendering?
“Oh, Dakota. It’s perfect. Mr. Doan will be amazed. He’ll probably want to frame it for his office. No, for his living room.” I almost hugged the shy young artist. “I’m going to make a few copies and mount them on foam board for the sales team, and we’ll get started right away on the actual construction. Just leave your invoice with Rhonda, or if you still want to trade for commercial time, she’ll take care of it.”
“Yep.” He grinned. “We’re all set. She’s already got me penciled in. Ranger Rob’s Rodeo is going to be a sure hit.”
“Hope so,” I said, “and thanks for this.” I held the drawing up, admiring it once again. “I can hardly wait for Mr. Doan to see it.”
We said our goodbyes and I was right behind him when he left. I hurried back upstairs, anxious to show off Dakota’s work. Rhonda, behind the reception desk as usual, was doing something that for her was quite unusual. She was watching, and listening to, the large television set on the wall behind her. Most days she turns down the sound and pays no attention to the programming.
Phil Archer used his network announcer voice and his most serious TV anchor face. On the screen the image of a white 2020 Audi Q8 loomed large, the Massachusetts license plate plainly visible through the chain-link fence of an impound lot. “A reliable source has informed WICH-TV that a 2020 Audi now situated in a police impound lot is in fact registered to a John Sawtelle of Brookline, Massachusetts. A person by that name was found deceased yesterday morning at Collins Cove beach. Foul play is indicated in that death. Police have not yet released information on whether this vehicle is involved in that matter. Stay tuned to this station for updates.”
Rhonda pointed to the screen. “You know about this?”
I shrugged. Tried to look disinterested. “Yeah. I heard something.” I wondered who the reliable source might be, since the police apparently hadn’t chosen to talk about it yet. Maybe Sister Judith told somebody. Pete hadn’t even mentioned it in front of Aunt Ibby or Janie. Was I the only person he’d confided in this morning?
“Pete tell you about it?”
I pretended I hadn’t heard the question. “Is Mr. Doan in his office? I’m dying to show him this.” I held up Dakota’s artwork. “Isn’t it great?”
“Wow. Yes, it is. He’s in. Wait a sec. I’ll buzz him and tell him you’re here. He’s been on and off the phone all morning.” She tapped on her console. “Go right on in.”
I knocked, then walked in, the drawing under one arm. “I have something to show you,” I announced. “I think you’re going to like it.”
I was right about that. He loved it. I was hardly surprised when he said. “You know, that might look good in a frame in the lobby.”
“I think so too,” I said. “Dakota is an amazing artist. I’ll get copies made for the sales guys and potential sponsors.”
“Good thinking. And why haven’t we used this Dakota fellow more often? You need to stay on top of these things, Ms. Barrett.” He handed the illustration back to me. “Get it framed when you’re through with it.”
“Yes, sir.” I scooted back through the reception area, glad to see that Rhonda was on the phone so that I didn’t have to face any questions about the Audi. I had questions about that myself. A horrible thought occurred to me: Pete might think I’d been the reliable source who’d leaked the news about the Audi—just when he’d begun to trust me a little more with occasional tidbits of what was happening in his world.
I hurried back to the newsroom. I was going to have to talk to Scott Palmer after all. He’d probably know where the leak came from. I knew the darned whistleblower wasn’t me, so I needed to know who else had the early-morning information? If Scott had discovered it on his own, he would have done a flashy stand-up in front of the impound fence, with all the bells and whistles and breaking news banners. But he hadn’t, so the reliable source was being kept under wraps for some good reason.
I dropped the precious drawing off on my desk, then made my way to the glass-doored entry to the newsroom. Scott was at his desk, headphones in place, his eyes on the computer screen. I sat quietly in the chair beside his desk. He held up on finger in wait-a-minute mode. I waited.
After a minute or so, he took off the headphones. “Hey, Moon. What’s up?”
“Scott, I need a favor,” I said, cringing inwardly as I spoke the words. “I hope you can help.”
He smiled. I knew it was because I’d put myself in the dreaded “I owe you one” position. I try to avoid that because he never fails to collect on favors done.
“I need to know if you know who the ‘reliable source’ was on the Audi story.”
He leaned back in his better-than-mine office chair. “To answer your question, of course I do. Is that all?”
“No. Will you tell me who it was?”
“Why do you need to know?”
I sighed. How much of my personal business did I have to give up? “Because I knew about it early this morning and I didn’t tell a soul. I don’t want—um—any-body to think it was me.”
He twirled a pencil with two fingers. I never have been able to do that, but he does it all the time. Annoying. “You think the boyfriend will figure you ratted him out? Doesn’t trust you yet, huh?”
“Of course that’s not why,” I stammered, knowing that it was exactly what I was concerned about. “I’d like to know who it was, that’s all. That kind of information shouldn’t be on the air until the police think it’s safe to release it.”
“Uh-huh. It’s important to you, right?”
Uh-oh. Looks like I’m going to owe him big-time for this one.
“Yep.” I waited.
He twirled the pencil, turning his chair to face me directly. He dropped his voice and glanced around the room. “Lot guy,” he said.
“Lot guy?”
“Right. I have him on sort of a ‘retainer,’ you know? He calls if any cars show up that look interesting. Like with bloodstains, or significant dents like from a hit-and-run. This one still had fingerprint stuff all over the wheel and dash. I passed it on to Phil. I can’t rat my source out.”
Relief. “Thanks, Scott,” I said.
“My pleasure. But now you owe me—big-time.”
CHAPTER 12
With my mind pretty much at ease about the whistleblower question, and with confidence kicked into high gear by Mr. Doan’s enthusiastic approval of the kids’ show project, I moved on to the next item on my to-do list: foam-board-mounted copies of Dakota’s artwork to be produced quickly. I carried the precious original out to the parking lot, placed it carefully onto the passenger seat of the Vette and headed for the nearest Staples store. It’s a pleasant ride, past the sprawling Essex County University campus and the nearby heavily wooded Conant River Conservation Area. Salem isn’t a really big city, a little less than twenty square miles, but Aunt Ibby says that more than half of it is under water—counting ocean, lakes, and marshes.
They’re beginning to know me at the copy center of the big office supply store. Mr. Doan hasn’t seen fit to invest in up-to-the-minute office machines for the station, so I’ve become accustomed to using either Aunt Ibby’s excellent copier at home or the even bigger ones at Staples when I need quality work. I shopped around the store while Dakota’s art was copied, mounted, and wrapped—ready to go in what seemed like no time—then headed back to the station.
I’d only been on the road for a few minutes when my opportunity to pay Scott Palmer that big-time debt presented itself. Just between County U and the nearby conservation area, I saw maybe half a dozen Salem PD vehicles pulling into the road leading to the river. One of them was marked CRIME SCENE. I texted Scott in a hurry. “Something’s going on at the Conant River Loring Avenue entrance. Lots of cops.”
I drove the rest of the way back to the station a little faster than usual. I’d barely reached Derby Street when I saw the WICH-TV’s second-string mobile unit, a converted Volkswagen bus with Old Jim—the second-string driver—at the wheel, streak by me going in the opposite direction. Scott was on the way to what might be a crime scene. I figured we were even, and it hadn’t escaped me that Pete was looking for a fresh-water crime scene in the John Sawtelle murder case. I wished for a long moment that it was me chasing a breaking news story.
I delivered the mounted copies to Rhonda’s desk—reserving one for myself—along with the original with a request that she check out the frame stores and get it framed to suit Doan’s décor. “Just saw Scott tearing down Derby Street,” I said innocently. “Did he say what’s going on?”
“Beats me.” She propped the drawing against an artificial flower arrangement of purple iris. “He didn’t even check with me before he grabbed Old Jim and took off.”
“Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” I said. I still had plenty of time left to check out the progress on the Ranger Rob’s Rodeo stage-set-to-be.
Chester, the newly designated official station carpenter, had already completed one of the three-tiered bleacher stands where Ranger Rob’s in-studio “little buckaroos” would be seated. When I arrived on the set, he’d begun making chalk marks on the floor where the planned bull chute would be. “Wow, Chester,” I said, “you’re making great progress.”
“Thanks, miss.” Wide smile. “I love messing around with wood. This is fun for me.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Chester had a few questions about what my concept for the set was. I showed him Dakota’s drawing, and together we pored over it, Chester using his tape measure more than once on the nearly empty floor. “Sometimes artists get carried away with making pretty pictures. Carpenters have to make things fit.” He scribbled figures on a piece of scrap wood with a stubby oval-shaped pencil. “But,” he declared finally, tapping the drawing gently, “this guy knows what he’s doing.”
“So do you,” I said and headed for my office, pleased by how well my day was going, but wildly curious about Scott’s day. And Pete’s. And Janie’s. I turned on my office TV set. It didn’t take long for me to learn how Scott had fared. His field report rated a “Breaking News” banner, interrupting right smack in the middle of Wanda the Weather Girl’s morning advisory.
Scott had positioned himself in front of a low split-rail fence with a worn and weathered “No Trespassing” sign on it. A little beyond the fence was a Salem PD van with all lights flashing, blocking a narrow dirt road. Scott pointed out several more official vehicles a distance away, where yellow plastic tape was festooned between trees and bushes. He told the audience that this property bordered on a portion of the Conant River.
“Although there’s been no official confirmation that this site may be associated with the death of real estate executive John Sawtelle, whose lifeless body was discovered yesterday morning on Collins Cove beach, the appearance of so many police vehicles indicates the possibility that such is the case. Sawtelle’s death has been ruled a homicide.” He walked the length of the fence, where there was a gated opening that appeared to be wide enough for a car to pass, but it too was blocked by yellow tape. “I’ve hiked in this park many times,” he said, “but as you can see, right now there’s a large area that’s off-limits.” He lifted one foot and looked regretfully at the mud-soaked boot. “It’s not a good day for walking here anyway.”
