Caught Dead Handed (5 page)

I fanned Ariel's books out on the table. Bright graphics on the covers showed crystals, pyramids, astral charts, tarot cards—there was even a unicorn on a field of stars. Clearly, I had a lot of studying to do if I was going to pass as a credible replacement for the drowned woman.

The overhead monitor clicked to life, and Phil Archer's face appeared on-screen.

“It's not an ordinary happening here in Salem when two unusual deaths are discovered on the same day, on the same street,” he began. “As many of you already know, WICH-TV's own Ariel Constellation was the victim of an apparent accidental drowning in the harbor, just behind this station's Derby Street headquarters. There has been another death on Derby Street, this one under suspicious circumstances. Scott Palmer filed this report a short time ago.”

“We're on Derby Street, at the home where the body of a woman was discovered this morning.” The field reporter spoke in hushed tones. “Here's Police Chief Whaley to update us on the situation.”

A makeshift podium had been set up in front of a four-story, wooden tenement-style house. The chief adjusted a microphone, which squealed briefly, and began speaking.

“This morning, at approximately eleven a.m., a 911 call was received reporting the discovery of an unresponsive woman in a first-floor Derby Street apartment. The victim is a white female in her forties. Identification is being withheld pending notification of next of kin. We are treating the death as a homicide. The victim had sustained upper body trauma. A weapon has been recovered that may be associated with this case. That's all the information I can give you at this time.”

He turned away from the microphone and cameras and headed for a nearby police vehicle amid cries from the press of “Chief ! Hey, Chief!” and “Who found the body?”

Whaley paused before climbing into the car. “It was the landlady.”

The reporters persisted.

“Where did you find the weapon, Chief?”

“In a pile of trash,” he said. “But we're not sure it
is
the weapon.”

The cruiser sped away. A second officer stepped forward. “No more questions right now, folks. We're waiting on the medical examiner. We'll call a news conference as soon as we have something to report.”

“That was it for word from the chief,” Scott Palmer announced. “But stay tuned as WICH-TV brings you an exclusive interview with the man who discovered what may be the murder weapon.”

The next shot showed the field reporter with a handheld mike, standing next to a shabbily dressed man. In the background yellow tape surrounded a trash-strewn area, a large rusted Dumpster at its center. The reporter looked into the camera, his expression serious.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Vergil Henry. After the chief's remarks, as the WICH-TV crew was putting away the camera equipment and preparing to return to the station, Mr. Henry approached us.” He extended the mike toward the man. “Mr. Henry, would you tell our audience what you found here this morning?”

The fellow smiled, revealing missing teeth. “Well, sir, I was looking for aluminum cans in that there trash bin. It was early morn, y'know. Just turnin' light. Well, I seen this nice green plastic raincoat, all folded up neat like. I pick it up, 'cause, you know, I could use something like that, what with the rainy weather we've been gettin'.” The old man paused, staring into the camera, as though he'd lost his train of thought.

Scott Palmer nodded and spoke quickly. “Yes, indeed. What happened after you saw the raincoat?”

“Oh, yeah. I pick it up, you know, and it feels kinda heavy, like there was something wrapped up in it. Well, sir, I unwrap it, and it's got one of them old-fashioned razors in it.”

“A razor?”

“Yep. One of them old kind that flips out, like a switchblade knife.”

“A straight razor.”

“Right. And it's all wrapped up nice and neat in that raincoat. But it's a good thing I wear gloves when I'm looking for cans.”

“Why is that?” Scott Palmer asked.

“The durned thing had blood on it. I don't like blood.”

“So, did you just leave it there?”

“Course not. I figure the thing has to be worth something, even if some danged fool cut hisself shavin' with it. I tossed it in my shopping cart, along with the cans and stuff.”

“I see.” The reporter looked into the camera and then back toward the old man. “So when did you tell the police about it?”

“Soon's I heard about that lady getting herself killed over here. They was glad I kept my gloves on. Case there's some fingerprints on the thing.”

“Thanks, Mr. Henry.” Scott stepped away from the trash-strewn area. “Stay tuned to WICH-TV, folks, for the latest information on this tragic death. This is Scott Palmer, reporting from the scene of an apparent murder on Derby Street in Salem.”

The sound clicked off, and Marty McCarthy reentered the studio. “Pretty exciting stuff, huh? The new guy did a good job, finding that old homeless dude. Looks like none of the other stations got to him yet.”

“He did okay, I guess.”

“You don't sound too thrilled. Can't say I blame you. I heard that you'd applied for that job, too. Tough luck.” Her expression was sympathetic. “Anyway, welcome to WICH-TV.”

“Thanks. Say, did you have to edit a lot in Palmer's report? It looked a little choppy in spots.” I remembered the graphic scene I'd seen reflected in the black ball.

Much too gory for daytime TV.

“Yeah. We had to cut out some stuff. Palmer got a little too close to the house, like you could see the house number in one shot. And that old guy tended to wander a little in his story. We cut some of that.”

She turned, as though to leave the studio. “Oh. And naturally, we cut the part about that bloody raincoat having a WICH-TV logo on it.”

I was just about to question Marty about the raincoat, and what connection the station might have to the murdered woman, when Rhonda appeared in the doorway with Aunt Ibby in tow.

“Hello, dear. I finished up at the library and thought you might like a ride home.” She nodded to the brunette. “Thank you, Rhonda. It's nice to see you again.”

I looked from my aunt to the receptionist. “You two know each other?”

“A reference librarian gets to know just about every high school student who needs to write a report or use a computer.”

Rhonda smiled, flashing dimples I hadn't seen before. “Nice to see you, too, Miss Russell.” She gave a little wave. “Gotta get back to my desk. And, Ms. Barrett, George says he can do a test taping tomorrow morning, around ten, if that's okay with you.”

“That'll be fine. Thanks, Rhonda.”

I introduced Aunt Ibby to Marty, and as they exchanged pleasantries, I put the tarot cards and most of the books into a pile.

“Have you collected all the things you need, Maralee?” my aunt asked.

“I think so, but I guess I should have brought a bag.”

“No problem,” Marty said. “We'll just grab a canvas bag from George's locker.”

“Will he mind?”

“Oh, no. They're not his. Just some station giveaways. He's got a slew of 'em. Wait a sec.”

She disappeared into the shadows for a moment and reappeared with a good-size canvas bag.

“This ought to do. It's plenty sturdy. You can even fit that obsidian ball in it.”

“No,” I said, refusing quickly. “I won't need it.”

“Obsidian,” said Aunt Ibby. “A most interesting material. It's really glass, volcanic in nature, you know.”

I didn't know, and I didn't want to look at the thing again. “Yes,” I agreed. “Interesting.”

Marty chuckled. “Your niece here thought she was seeing pictures in it, until I explained that they were just reflections.”

“Is that so, Maralee?” Aunt Ibby looked concerned. “Did you see pictures in it?”

“Not really,” I said. “It was just a reflection from the TV monitor.” I gestured to the screen overhead. “But I admit it was . . .” I reached for a word. “Unsettling.”

“Yes, I imagine it might be. Are you sure you have everything you need?” She glanced around, looking at the things on the table and finally peering behind the couch. “Nothing back here except a bag of cat food. Guess it must belong to the yellow cat. By the way, what's going to become of him now that Ariel's gone?” Aunt Ibby frowned. “Did she take him home with her at night?”

Marty shook her head. “No. He didn't really belong to Ariel. He just showed up at the back door of the studio one day. Somebody let him in, and he's just stayed here. Doesn't really belong to anybody.”

Aunt Ibby sighed. “Poor thing.”

“I know.” Marty repeated her concern about the cat, who had refused to come inside the building. “Janice put a bowl of cat food out for him this morning, but he just sniffed at it and ran away.”

“What's the cat's name, anyway?” I asked.

“Ariel called him Orion.”

“O'Ryan?”

“Yes. Like the constellation.”

“Oh, I was thinking O'Ryan, like the Irish name.”

“Cute. That suits him better.” Marty smiled. “But I do worry about him. Cold weather's coming, and if he refuses to come inside, I'm afraid he'll freeze out there. Even worse, he could get run over. This is a busy street. I'd take him myself, but my apartment doesn't allow pets.”

Aunt Ibby looked thoughtful. “I wonder if the station manager would let us take him to our house. I've always been good with cats, and he'd be safe there.”

She was right. I remembered a series of fat, happy tabby cats during my growing-up years on Winter Street. None of them had ever run away.

“You could ask Mr. Doan,” Marty said. “I'm pretty sure it'd be okay. He doesn't like cats, anyway.”

“But a cat's really useful for keeping the rat population in check,” I said.

“Not if he won't come inside,” Marty offered reasonably. “Want me to call Doan for you?”

“Would you? I haven't officially met him yet. Seems a little soon for me to be asking for favors.”

“Sure.” She pulled a cell phone from her pocket. “Rhonda? Marty. Ring Doan for me, will you?” She gave me a thumbs-up. “Mr. Doan? Marty McCarthy here. Yeah. Say, look. I've found a home for that old yellow cat. Okay with you? It is? Okay. Thanks.”

She put the phone away. “Piece of cake.”

“Lovely!” Aunt Ibby said. “I saw the poor animal just sitting by himself under a tree. I'm going to try to coax him to come to me.”

“He may not want to leave,” I warned. “After all, he thinks this is his home.”

“See you outside.” Aunt Ibby waved my concern away and headed for the exit. I knew that determined walk. The poor cat didn't have a chance. I finished stuffing books and a couple of pamphlets into the sturdy bag and slung it over one shoulder, my handbag on the other.

“Thanks, Marty,” I said, “for all your help.”

“I'll come outside with you. I want to see if your aunt has corralled O'Ryan.”

“I'd bet on it,” I told her.

I was right. Beneath a tree stood Aunt Ibby, looking pleased, the big cat purring in her arms.

“How about that?” Marty shook her head. “Listen. I've got to get ready to shoot the cooking show.
Cool Weather Cooking with Wanda the Weather Girl.
”

I had to laugh. “Does everyone here wear two hats?”

“Pretty much. Say, why don't you run in and pick up another bag and grab that cat food? The lockers are behind the sports desk, and George's is the biggest one. It's never locked.”

I did as she said, and located the locker she'd described. The locker door, marked
GEORGE VALEN,
stood ajar. The light was dim, but I could easily make out a pile of T-shirts, a stack of coffee mugs, and a package of canvas bags. There was a carton half full of folded green plastic raincoats, too. Each item bore the WICH-TV logo. I selected a bag and loaded the cat food into it.

I looked back at the obsidian ball on the nearly empty table.
Don't be silly. It's a chunk of volcanic glass!

“What the hell,” I muttered. I picked the thing up and tossed it into the bag.

I had ambitious plans for what was left of the day. I'd watch the rest of that first Ariel DVD, begin studying some of the borrowed books, and maybe finish unpacking. Not that I'd brought much with me. My Florida wardrobe wasn't suitable for fall in New England, let alone winter. I'd donated cartons of clothes to a women's shelter before I left, which meant I had some serious shopping to look forward to.

When we arrived at the Winter Street house, Aunt Ibby carried O'Ryan into the kitchen. I brought the canvas bags into the dining room and dropped them onto the long mahogany table, where there'd be plenty of room to sort through everything later.

We watched the big cat as he explored the kitchen, making a leisurely inspection of every corner of the room.

“Do you think he needs a litter box?” I wondered aloud. “Maybe that's what he's looking for.”

“Nonsense. All our cats did their business in the back garden. He will, too.” She sounded convinced. “I'll just take the latch off the cat door. He'll be fine. But he must be hungry. I'll open a nice can of tuna for him. And a lovely saucer of milk.”

“There's part of a package of cat food in one of the bags in the dining room. Shall I get it?”

“Oh, he doesn't want that old dry stuff, do you, O'Ryan?”

The cat gave me a disdainful “What are you thinking?” look, then curled himself around Aunt Ibby's ankles at the first whir of the can opener. He ate hungrily, took a few pink-tongued laps of the milk, and then headed straight for the old cat door, as though he'd done it all his life.

“What if he climbs over the garden wall and runs away?” I said.

“He won't. He likes it here.”

Feeling slightly voyeuristic, we peeked out the kitchen window into the brick-walled garden. Sure enough, O'Ryan sniffed around Aunt Ibby's carefully tended chives, rosemary, and basil plants, then dug a neat hole under a little cedar tree and efficiently accomplished his mission. When he looked directly at the window, we both ducked behind the curtains and pretended nonchalance as the cat door creaked open. Barely glancing at us, he trotted down the hall toward the living room, where he curled up on a blue velvet throw pillow, blinked golden eyes a couple of times, and went to sleep.

“I think I'll head upstairs,” I said. “I have some studying to do.”

“I'll send out for pizza. It's not too late to change your mind about this job, you know.”

“I know. Don't worry about me. Pizza sounds good.” I returned to the dining room, selected a book on crystals, retrieved the Ariel DVDs, and headed up the stairs, filled with good intentions.

My old bedroom looked much as it had when I'd left Salem nearly ten years ago. The four-poster bed faced a fireplace, flanked by two tall bay windows, each with its own comfortable window seat. Over the white-painted mantel, where a Tom Hill painting of Yellowstone had once hung, was a new flat-screen TV. The closet held plenty of hangers, an ironing board, and iron, and the French Provincial dresser had fresh lavender-scented liners in each drawer. Aunt Ibby, as usual, had thought of everything.

Some multitasking was in order. I'd get my clothes pressed, hung, and folded while watching a few more
Nightshades
episodes. I set up the ironing board and started the Ariel DVD I'd watched before, fast-forwarding past the program we'd seen earlier. Ariel's theme music, “The Night Has a Thousand Eyes,” played as the WICH-TV credits rolled.

I aimed spray starch at a cotton shirt and listened to the first caller. She said her name was Evie and she was calling to thank Ariel for some advice she'd received on a previous show.

“I feel so much better about everything now, Ariel,” she said. “The kids and I are better off without him, what with him bein' so mean and all. I just want to thank you. You were so right.”

“You and your boys deserve happiness, Evie. Be sure to meditate every day.”

“I will, Ariel. Blessed be.”

“Blessed be, Evie.”

The next caller was Herbert, who gave a November birth date and was contemplating leaving his job to work full-time as a writer.

“Have you published anything yet?” Ariel asked, silver hair ornaments bobbing. “I mean, has anyone paid you for your work yet?”

“Well, no. Not yet. But I'm working on a novel, and I think if I could spend more time on it, I can sell it for a lot of money.”

I folded my one cashmere sweater carefully and watched as Ariel touched her forehead with her left hand in a meditative pose.

“Herbert, I don't see you leaving your place of employment just yet. Perhaps you already know this. You have Scorpio's mystical penetration into the secrets of the universe. You know your time will come. I feel that through your present job, you may make an important contact in the publishing business.”

“I never thought about that before. We do see a lot of people there.”

“Meanwhile, Herbert, if you can write just one page a day, you'll have a three-hundred-and-sixty-five-page book at the end of a year.”

Once again, I was impressed with the way the psychic gave plain, commonsense answers, delivered with a sprinkling of astrological terms and metaphysical trivia.

Ariel delivered a commercial for one of the shops on Pickering Wharf, I put my Tampa Bay Buccaneers shirt on a hanger, and Aunt Ibby tiptoed into the room, bearing two big slices of pizza and a generous glass of red wine. I thanked her, nibbled and sipped, and continued ironing and folding, sorting and hanging. On the big screen Ariel's soothing voice dispelled the fears of William, who wanted to move out of his mother's house; encouraged Alicia, who wanted to go to college; and suggested that Jean and her husband get some counseling. O'Ryan appeared on-screen occasionally, sometimes sleeping on Ariel's ample lap, other times prowling about, batting at a bowl of crystals on the table or stalking along the back of the turquoise couch.

Unpacking chores complete, and with the
Nightshades
end credits rolling, I put on pajama bottoms and one of Johnny's old T-shirts and climbed into bed. Relaxing against a soft pile of pillows, I shut off the TV and picked up the book on crystals. Flipping through the pages, I found a paragraph that jumped out at me as though it had been highlighted.

When the crystal ball is not in use,
it read,
it should always be covered. The purpose of the cover is not only to protect the surface from dust, but, even more importantly, to prevent random reflections, which would disturb the ball's rest period. A black silk handkerchief makes an excellent cover.

Having recently viewed a “random reflection,” I was happy to find such a quick solution to that particular problem. I'd intended to do more studying, but between that day's strange activities and the wine, I knew I couldn't stay awake much longer. Just as I began to doze off, the bed shook gently. A moist nose nudged my hand, and purring loudly, O'Ryan curled up beside me. An apologetic pink-tongued lick tickled my bandaged palm, and the unblinking golden eyes looked into mine for a long, oddly comforting moment.