Caught Dead Handed (20 page)

“I'll be okay,” I said “I can handle it.”

I hope I'll be okay. I hope I can handle it.

“I know you can. Listen, Lee, we've only got a few minutes before boarding, and there's something I need to ask you about.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“Please understand that I'm only asking because it's my job.”

I had a sinking feeling. “Go ahead.”

“It's about that crystal necklace. You seemed to think the Pelletier woman might be wearing one.”

“Right.”

“The chief is wondering how you knew that Yvette Pelletier had that necklace. Tell me again, will you? How did you know that?”

What makes me so trusting?
I should have learned something when Scott took me to a football game so he could ask me how I knew Yvette Pelletier had died in her kitchen. Then he'd made a date with me for the Witches Ball only because Mr. Doan had told him to. Had Pete wormed his way into my confidence just so he could find out what I knew about the dead woman's necklace?

Which was actually nothing. I knew the crystal necklaces existed and Ariel gave them away to favored callers. Period. The reason I'd asked about it was that I was positive the two deaths were connected and that the neckace might be the link between them. I couldn't very well tell him the
other
reason I was sure of a connection—that I'd seen a vision in the obsidian ball of the camouflage-suited killer stepping on Ariel's hands—could I?

I took a deep breath. “Look. You told me yesterday that I sounded like Nancy Drew, looking for clues,” I said. “Maybe I do. Maybe I should take one of those online criminology courses. Maybe someday I'll be an investigative reporter. I don't know. I'm just interested in what's going on. That crystal necklace might explain the connection between Evie . . . Yvette and Ariel. You can't tell me that I'm the only one who thinks the same man killed both of them!”

“Lee, you know I can't tell you anything about an ongoing investigation, don't you? And you do believe me when I tell you that I don't think now, nor have I ever for one second thought, you had anything to do with anybody dying, ever?” He'd put his suitcase on the floor and placed both hands on my shoulders, looking directly into my eyes. “The thing is, Lee, sometimes people know things that they don't know that they know. You know?”

I had to laugh. The sentence was so goofy, and the tone so sincere. “I think I know what you mean,” I told him. “And if I think of anything at all, even if I don't know that I know it, I'll call you right away.”

Pete laughed, too. “Exactly,” he said. “See you in Boston.”

Once again I drew a window seat, and I pressed my face against the pane like a little kid as we lifted off over the blue expanse of Tampa Bay. My choice of reading material this time was
The Witchcraft Delusion in Old Salem Village.
The book, like those I'd been assigned in middle school, told of poor innocent souls, mostly women, who'd been subjected to dreadful accusations and horribly intrusive physical examinations, all carried out by the town's most pious religious leaders. Their final indignity was a public hanging at Gallows Hill.

Several of the books I'd borrowed from Ariel's library contained highlighted paragraphs and underlined words and sentences. I'd often marked college textbooks that way myself. But in this book, Ariel, or whoever had used it, had made copious notes in the margins of nearly every page in cramped, but legible handwriting.

The book detailed the court proceedings for each of the people accused of witchcraft. In the margin beside each case description were handwritten notes. Next to the paragraph about Sarah Good, an accused witch who was hanged at Gallows Hill, someone had written “S.G. was a practicing witch,” even though the book treated her sympathetically. A paragraph about Rebecca Nurse, who was pronounced not guilty and was usually regarded as an innocent victim of mass hysteria, also had margin notes, which stated, “The court was wrong. Nurse was absolutely a witch.” Page after page spelled out the margin writer's conclusions as to the guilt or innocence of the accused. I was surprised to see that Ariel, or whoever the margin writer was, most often agreed that the long-ago court had it right in the first place. Old Salem Village was a nest of pin-sticking, image-making, fit-throwing evil hags who consorted with the devil and his minions and delighted in torturing their neighbors.

The hanged witch whose trial received the most coverage, both in the text and in the marginal notations, was Bridget Bishop, whose apparition reportedly haunted the restaurant where I'd recently had that memorable lunch. The book, which treated most of the accused as innocent victims, hinted that perhaps Bishop was actually a practitioner of the black arts. The margin writer was more specific. “An extremely skillful witch” was underlined. “We have so much to learn from her!” said another note. Particularly chilling was the sentence printed in large black letters: “Her spell book is the Holy Grail.”

That spell book sounded intriguing. I flipped to the bibliography in the back of the book. My
Nightshades
audience would love to hear some real witch spells. I planned to run
I Married a Witch
with Veronica Lake later in the week. A harmless spell or two would be a good lead-in. I ran my finger down the page listing primary sources. No spell book there. Surprising. It should have been an important reference. Surely some enterprising publisher had produced a paperback reprint. It was just the kind of thing Salem tourists love. I'd look for a copy in one of the souvenir shops when I went shopping, per Doan's orders, for something glitzy and sexy.

The thought of shopping reminded me of Scott Palmer and that phony-baloney semi-invitation to the Witches Ball. I'd show him. I'd glitz his eyeballs out, then ignore him for the rest of the evening. I smiled at the thought, closed the book, and settled in to enjoy the rest of the flight to Boston.

We landed on schedule, greeted by gray skies and rain falling in a fine, biting cold mist. Rhonda hadn't been kidding about the lousy weather. I called George right away. He said he was parked nearby and promised to be at the terminal in five minutes. I huddled in my jacket, jamming my hands into my pockets, wishing I'd brought a warm hat. As I watched for George's car in the passing parade of buses and taxis, I glanced around at the crowd of arriving passengers, thinking I might see Pete.

“Looking for me?” George skidded the car to a halt at the curb, and in seconds we were speeding away toward Salem.

“How was your trip? Bet the weather was nicer than this gunk.”

Are we going to discuss the weather? Surely he knows that I interviewed his father, that he and his sister are positively connected to the weapon that killed Yvette Pelletier.

“The weather was lovely,” I said. “Even went for a swim this morning.”

If he doesn't want to talk about what I really was doing in Florida, that's all right with me.

“A swim, eh? Sure wouldn't want to go for a swim around here this time of year.” He gestured toward Boston Harbor, a dark gray line in the distance. “Brrr. A body wouldn't last long in these waters.”

Is that a casual observation or a veiled threat?

Or am I taking this girl detective thing a little too far?

I took a sideways glance at his profile. He looked the same as he usually did. Calm. Pleasant. Nothing nervous or menacing there. Was he just going to carry on as though nothing had happened? As though nobody knew about Sarge's razor? As though the police weren't investigating his connection to the case right this minute?

The man had nerves of titanium. Maybe other body parts, as well. I wondered how Janice was faring. I hoped she hadn't turned to pills and booze, but I was afraid she might have.

“It'll be nice to be home,” I said. “Bad weather or not.”

“Like Dorothy says, there's no place like it.”

“Right.” My mind raced, searching for small talk. I couldn't think of a thing, so I settled for looking out the window, listening to the
swish-swish
of the wipers.

George broke the silence. “The cops searched our condo.”

“Oh?”

“I know you're wondering what's going on.” He turned and faced me briefly, smiling. “But you're too polite to ask.”

“You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.”

“You'll hear it all when you get to the station tonight, anyway.”

“Is Janice okay?” I asked. “Will she be screening my calls tonight?”

“Afraid not. She came down with one of her bad headaches.”

“Not surprising. Considering all the . . . stuff going on.”

“Yeah.” His smile was gone. “They were looking for the old man's footlocker.”

“The police?”

“Yeah. I told them where it was.”

“You knew?”

He laughed. A short, unfunny sound. “Sure. It was right in my living room. Been there all along.”

I thought about the glimpse I'd had of George's living room when Janice had brought me in there while she rifled through his bureau drawers. In a moment I realized that I'd seen the footlocker. This was one of those things Pete meant about people knowing things they don't know that they know. It didn't seem so goofy anymore. The missing footlocker was the base of George's glass-topped coffee table, and probably the inspiration for his khaki and navy color scheme.

I couldn't very well admit that I'd been snooping around in his place, so again I said, “Oh?”

“I use the old thing as a base for my coffee table. When I was a kid, I thought it was kind of cool. Then I just got used to it and carted it around whenever we moved.”

“When I talked to your dad in Florida,” I said, “he told me that he remembered the razor being in it. I know it's none of my business, but did you know it was there?”

“The cops asked me that, too. But, no, I don't remember it. I hadn't looked inside the thing in years. Cops had to break the lock. The key is long gone. All I remember being in there was some old clothes and shoes and stuff and the old man's medals. I always meant to take the medals out and get one of those shadow box things done with them. Too late now.”

“I'm sure the police will give it back as soon as they're through with it.”

“Doesn't matter. Darn thing was empty.”

“Empty?”

“Yep. Not a damn thing in it except a couple of mothballs rolling around.”

I'd barely had time to react to the fact that the footlocker was empty when we turned the corner onto Winter Street.

“But how can that be?” I asked. “Where could everything have gone?”

“Beats me.” He shrugged. “We've moved at least three times, maybe four, since I remember it being opened. So the stuff could have been lost, could have strayed, or could have been stolen anytime. Anyplace.”

We pulled up in front of Aunt Ibby's house. George hurried around the car, opened my door, and picked up my carry-on.

“Well, here you are. Home again, safe and sound.”

“Thanks so much for the chauffeuring, George. I really appreciate it.”

“My pleasure, Lee. I'll see you later tonight.”

“I hope Janice will be feeling better.”

“Hope so.” He waved and drove away.

Poor George. He had way too much on his plate. On top of the police hounding him, his regular work at the station, his sister pitching a sick headache every other day, and having to ferry me around, now he'd drawn the late-show call-screening duty.

I'd just retrieved the house key from my purse when the front door flew open. A smiling Aunt Ibby offered a welcoming hug, and O'Ryan made figure eights around my ankles.

“Maralee, we missed you,” said the aunt.

“Mmruff,” said the cat, which I took to mean something similar.

“I missed you both, too,” I said. “It's good to be home.”

“Come on in and tell me everything.” She picked up my bag and placed it on the bottom step of the curved staircase. “Take off your jacket. I've made tea. I want to hear all about your interview.”

I followed her into the living room. She gestured toward the TV.

“You didn't even get credit for it, you know. They doctored it up somehow so it looked as though old Phil Archer had asked the questions.”

After taking off my jacket and boots, I relaxed in the big chair, wiggling my toes and accepting the pink china cup of hot tea and honey. O'Ryan sat, watching, then carefully climbed onto the arm of the chair and settled quietly beside me.

“I knew about that. Mr. Doan said he didn't want the viewers to get confused between Lee Barrett and Crystal Moon.”

I'm just glad if somebody else was going to get credit for my work, it was Archer and not Scott Palmer!

Aunt Ibby nodded. “Makes sense, I guess. Anyway, what was the old soldier like? He seemed nice.” She paused for breath, bright eyes curious. “Tell me everything.”

I tried not to leave anything out as I described my visit to the VA hospital and my conversations with Bill Valen, both on and off camera.

She was silent for a moment when I'd finished. “So,” she said, “apparently, there's another child? Willie? The boy who sends the postcards?”

“Quite a surprise, isn't it? And if it's true that the sergeant and Marlena had only the two boys, where does Janice fit in?”

Aunt Ibby put down her teacup. “I've wondered from the start if it was possible that she's the girlfriend, not the sister. What with the shared living space and all.”

“I've wondered about that, too,” I admitted.

“So now that the police know about the connection between Sergeant Major Valen and the TV station Valens, are they being investigated? WICH-TV hasn't mentioned anything about it yet, but the
Salem News
and the
Globe
are both on it.”

“Not surprising,” I said. “And it seems that the missing footlocker has been in George's living room all along.”

“No kidding? And did he know the razor was in it?”

“He says not. And even stranger, when the police broke the lock, they found the footlocker empty. Nothing in it at all.”

“Empty?”

“Empty,” I repeated. “Nothing in it but a couple of mothballs.”

“Mothballs,” she said. “That's the second time mothballs have been mentioned here lately.”

“It is?”