I look up. The elderly man holds an oblong, silver colored gadget about six inches by three.
An old Dictaphone.
“Where did you find that?” I ask.
He points upstairs. “In the bedroom that had the desk and computer. I want to experiment with dictating my family history. I thought I’d practice on this, and if I’m any good at it, I can invest in a better device.”
“You can practice dictating on your phone,” his younger wife insists, rolling her eyes in exasperation.
Ignoring his spouse, the man pops the device open. “There’s a tape in it. But I’ve never used one of these. Do you know how it works?” He presses different buttons with no result. “Maybe it needs new batteries. I don’t suppose you have any?”
Normally, I’d tell a customer who wants fresh batteries included with a gadget that I’m selling for less than the price of a package of Duracells to hit the road.
But this is a Dictaphone.
My hands tremble as I pop open the battery compartment. Two corroded Double As fall out. There was a whole drawer full of fresh batteries down in Mr. Leonard’s shop. I tell Donna to run down and get some, and she looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Since when am I so accommodating to make a three dollar sale?
But Donna never questions authority, and the urgency in my voice sends her scurrying to the basement.
I realize Donna must have priced this without knowing exactly what it was. To her, it was just another outdated piece of electronic equipment in the Leonards’ home office. Stick a price on it and see if someone will bite.
Could this belong to Cordelia Dean? Could it contain the lost Plan for Extinction bootleg tape?
Maybe Cordy gave it to her neighbor for safekeeping and forgot about it? That seems unlikely since Cordy has only recently realized the tape’s value and her memory is quite sharp. Could she have loaned it to Elspeth years ago and forgotten to get it back? That would be just like Cordy, but not, I think, like Elspeth. Elspeth strikes me as the kind of woman who’d promptly return anything she borrowed.
My speculation is interrupted when Donna returns with the batteries.
I slide the two new Double As in and press play. A tinny version of a very familiar song emerges from the small player.
The customer smiles. “It works!”
His wife scowls.
The woman behind him covers her ears with her hands. “Oh, my Ga-a-w-d! That song—make it stop. I listen to it all day long with my kids. It’s everywhere, even here.”
My toe taps. I know this song.
Yes, it’s Lo’s favorite, “Dig It” from Boom, Trucka Lucka.
But the singer isn’t extolling the virtues of digging and hauling dirt.
The lyrics are entirely different. He’s singing about drugs and sex.
But the tune is the same.
Exactly the same.
Chapter 38
EVEN THOUGH MY MIND is miles away, I somehow manage to complete my responsibilities at the Elspeth Leonard sale. Her house has been swept clean. Her life’s possessions have been sold, donated, or discarded.
Except for the Dictaphone, which was never hers.
I’ve got it right here in my living room, having appeased my outraged customer with twenty bucks and advice to buy a cheap voice recorder on Amazon.
I’ll return the Dictaphone to Cordelia Dean, but not until I’ve played its contents for Sean and shared all that I’ve learned tonight.
Clearly, Cordelia Dean recorded the final Plan for Extinction concert on this Dictaphone, which she used to record interviews as she followed the band’s tour. This recording proves the tune for “Dig It” was originally created by the members of the band.
Ever since I got home tonight, I’ve been searching for Pelletierre’s connection to Boom, Trucka Lucka. The credits that roll after the show are ridiculously long: A Purple Carrot Creation, Produced by TV for Kids, in collaboration with The Sunshine Animation Studio, and then finally, in association with RP Vision Productions. A quick Google search confirms that RP Vision is one of Ross Pelletierre’s many companies. As I suspected, he does have a hand in the production of this show.
Twenty-five years after Plan for Extinction dissolved, Ross Pelletierre made a fortune incorporating one of their songs into his hit children’s show. I suspect one of the band members noticed and wanted to be paid for his work.
But he couldn’t prove the song was his without a recording. So perhaps he lashed out in anger and killed his former manager. I think this explains why Pelletierre came to Palmyrton and why he’d be willing to meet in a remote spot. The producer knew his attacker and thought he could prevail in a confrontation. He wanted to protect his investment—it can’t be good for a children’s show that promotes sharing and caring to be caught up in a lawsuit over theft of intellectual property and cheating artists.
Maybe Pelletierre underestimated his opponent—after all, Pelletierre had become hugely successful over the years, while the members of Plan for Extinction became, well, extinct.
My brain continues to churn and I take notes so I can explain all this to Sean once he gets home. After I discovered the Freeman lyrics, Cordelia Dean regained some of her lost fame in rock circles. Perhaps some of those many phone calls from people in her past that she’s been receiving came from members of Plan for Extinction. Cordy must realize she had the needed recording somewhere in her house. And she’s been looking for it ever since.
The fact that Cordy wanted Ty to help her look tells me she doesn’t totally trust Ariel and Gif with the task. Yet someone warned Gif away from Cordy—was that person a friend of Cordy’s or a foe? Again, I could kick myself for asking Gif if the person who threatened him was Hank van Neff. I put that idea in Gif’s head and gave him an easy way to divert me. Well, Sean can talk to the man. Much as I hate to admit it, my husband is a better interrogator than I am.
At eight, my doorbell rings. Who could be calling at this hour?
Before I open the door, I check the video monitor and see a familiar figure on the front porch: Sean’s partner, Pete Holzer.
No. No. NO.
I throw open the door, feeling the ground slip away beneath me. “What? What happened?”
“Easy, Audrey.” Pete grabs my arm to steady me and steps into the foyer. “Sean’s okay—just a little banged up. They’re keeping him in the hospital overnight for observation. I’ll take you there.” Like the good parent he is, Pete finds my coat, shoes, and purse while I stand swaying in shock.
“What happened,” I manage to choke out. “What are they observing him for?”
“We arrested a suspect in the Pelletierre murder today. He didn’t come quietly. In the struggle, the perp hit Sean over the head.”
I shudder. That’s how Pelletierre died—skull crushed with a concrete block. “What did he hit Sean with?”
“We were at the guy’s apartment. He swung a heavy lamp.”
“Who is this guy?” I question Pete as I follow him to his car.
“Some punk actor with a pill addiction pissed off that he didn’t get a part in one of Pelletierre’s shows,” Pete explains as he drives toward Palmyrton Memorial Hospital.
I’m so confused. I’d been calling Sean all day with no answer. I thought that meant he was busy in the city. “I thought you two were interviewing people in Manhattan. How did Sean get hurt in Palmyrton?”
“We started the day in the city, but we learned early on about this actor who had a grudge against Pelletierre. When we discovered he lived in Palmyrton, we knew he had to be our man. And we were right.” Pete speeds through a yellow light. “Quincey John Caravelle. What a name! But the piece of shit is locked up now.”
“Did he confess?” I ask.
“Nah. He’s been arrested before. Knows the drill.” Pete drives with only one hand on the wheel. “He asked for a lawyer. I’ll interrogate him tomorrow when he gets his public defender.” He glances at me. “Don’t you worry, Audrey. He won’t get released. Suspe
cted murder and assaulting an officer. He’ll be awaiting trial behind bars.”
I can see the lights of the hospital in the distance and fall silent, too agitated and worried to ask more questions. A disgruntled actor killed Ross Pelletierre and almost killed Sean. The theory I’ve been weaving about members of Plan for Extinction is just a crazy fantasy.
Clearly, I’ve fallen down a conspiracy theory rabbit hole.
Pete parks the car and guides me into the hospital. I cling to his arm, grateful for support as the stomach-churning smell of sickness hits me, and my knees wobble.
When I enter his hospital room, I see Sean’s face as a tiny, slack caricature underneath a giant white turban of bandages.
“A-a-ahh!” a strangled cry of shock escapes me. I rush to the bed and pick up his hand, tethered to wires and tubes. “Why does he look like this? You told me he wasn’t badly hurt.”
Another person enters the room. The name tag pinned to his white lab coat says, “Dr. Armando,” but he looks like a frat boy who wouldn’t make it past the bouncer at Blue Monday. Where is the real doctor?
“Mrs. Coughlin?” No one calls me that but the plumber Sean hired to update our powder room. “Your husband sustained a traumatic brain injury. His MRI looks good, but we need to observe him for signs of brain swelling. He’s sedated now to keep him still. If he continues to look good by the end of tomorrow, we’ll release him. But he won’t be able to return to work for a couple weeks.”
“Does he have...” I can’t bring myself to say the words “brain damage.”
“He was alert and talking when they brought him in,” the child doctor says. “We expect a full recovery.” He pauses. “Assuming he gets through the next twenty-four hours with no complications.”
“I’m not leaving him. I’ll sleep here.” I sit on a vinyl covered visitor’s chair next to Sean’s bed. A kind nurse brings me a blanket. While I keep my vigil, the words of Ty’s old English teacher echo in my mind. It’s when we’re sure we’re right that we make our biggest mistakes.
As soon as Sean is well enough to be left alone, I’ll return Cordelia Dean’s Dictaphone.
And then I hope never to see the woman again.
Chapter 39
THE NEXT DAY, SEAN passes all his tests. A neurologist with considerably more gravitas than the child doctor signs his release form and spends twenty minutes issuing strict rules: no lifting a weight more than five pounds, no driving, no running, limited reading. “He may experience some short-term memory loss,” the neurologist says. “Perfectly normal.”
“What am I supposed to do all day?” Sean grumbles as I get him settled on the sofa. I trot back and forth with soup and tea and fresh fruit, grateful—so grateful—that my husband is alive and that the essential spark that is Sean Coughlin hasn’t been dimmed.
Sean needn’t have worried about how he’d occupy himself. His first day at home is filled with an endless stream of Coughlin relatives coming to check that he’s really alive and that I can be trusted to keep him that way. By seven, Sean is asleep and Ethel and I are contemplating what to do with an array of casseroles left by our visitors. My sister-in-law Adrienne’s chicken Provençale looks fabulous. The same cannot be said of Aunt Betty’s turkey/cream of mushroom/Velveeta extravaganza. Ethel watches attentively as I try to cram all the aluminum pans into the fridge.
One won’t fit.
“You can have some cheese and turkey if you promise not to barf on the carpet,” I tell the dog. She does her part to reduce food waste.
Then I pass through the house locking doors and turning out lights.
Cordy’s Dictaphone still sits on the family room bookshelf, a symbol of my overactive imagination.
THE NEXT DAY, SEAN’S partner comes over with an update. “Caravalle won’t confess, but he’s got no alibi for the time of the murder, and several people heard him threaten Pelletierre.”
I listen while they discuss the need for more forensic evidence. They’ve sent the actor’s clothes to the lab to look for Pelletierre’s blood or detritus the suspect could have picked up at the scene of the murder.
“It’s a waiting game,” Holzer says. “Luckily, we can hold him on assaulting an officer and resisting arrest. But if we can’t turn up more solid evidence in the murder, the DA says this’ll turn into a plea bargain.”
Sean sinks into a funk after his partner leaves, disgruntled that the scumball who injured him might get away with murder. I leave him alone, knowing that reassuring platitudes won’t help.
Half an hour later, Sean calls my name. His voice sounds plaintive, like a lost child in the supermarket.
I drop the laundry I’m folding and run downstairs to the family room. “What’s wrong? Are you dizzy?”
Sean is stretched out on the sofa, his face drawn and pinched. “Is it time for my pills yet?”
I glance at the clock. “Ten more minutes, but I’m sure it’s okay to take them a little early if you’re in pain.” I scurry to the kitchen for the pills and some water.
When I return, Sean points to the bookshelf. “What’s that thing?”
I hand him the pills. “That’s Cordelia Dean’s Dictaphone which contains the last concert of Plan for Extinction.” I tell my husband the story of how I found the recorder at Elspeth Leonard’s sale. He presses the play button and the catchy, hard-driving rock tunes fill the room.
Sean taps a pen on his leg in time to the beat. “I like their stuff. This album probably would have been a big hit. Too bad the sound quality on this recording is so tinny.”
“If you could hear the full drums and guitar on this, it would explode your poor brain,” I say caressing the shaven spot on his head. “But I bet my buddy who runs the PlanFan website would love to hear this.”
“Why do you still have it?” Sean asks. “This must be what Cordy’s been searching for. Why didn’t you give it back to her on the day you found it?”
“Oh, I thought you’d get a kick out of hearing it,” I say vaguely. I don’t want to confess my convoluted and clearly misguided theory of Pelletierre’s murder to my husband. He’ll tease me mercilessly. I had told him about my clash with Noreen and my subsequent confrontation with Cordy, but he seems to have forgotten that I have reason to be angry with the old woman. I don’t want to remind him of anything upsetting now. “And then you got hurt. I’ll take it to her tomorrow.”
Sean’s eyelids flutter. “Mmmph.” His head slumps back on the sofa cushion and he falls asleep.
Man, those pills must hit fast. I cover him with a throw. In sleep, my husband looks so vulnerable. I stroke his cheek lightly. The man who murdered Ross Pelletierre by smashing his head with a concrete block tried to end the life of my husband in the same way. Thank God only a lamp was at hand for his weapon, and that Pete Holzer’s intervention prevented him from taking a second swing. A shiver passes through me.
I rise, making an effort to shake off my morbid thoughts, and my gaze rests on the Dictaphone. I may as well take it to Cordy right now. Sean will nap for an hour or two. I can get to Locust Avenue and back in thirty minutes.
I don’t plan to stay and chat.
On the drive over to Cordy’s, I think again about how the recorder came to be in Elspeth’s house. Elspeth’s key had been floating around in Cordy’s house without Cordy knowing where it was. So anyone at Cordy’s house could have used the key to enter the house across the street.
I slap my forehead. Gif! Gif did odd jobs for Elspeth as well as Cordy. And he told me Cordy had him looking for a Dictaphone so she could dictate her memoir. It must have been him.
But why? This tape is such poor quality. I’m not an expert, but it seems unlikely a sound engineer could make the recording good enough to be released. Why would Gif want it? Why is it so important to Cordy?
Who else wants it?
Whomever warned Gif away from Cordy, I suppose. Maybe Gif moved the Dictaphone to protect Cordy. Of course, he didn’t know I’d be holding a sale at Elspeth’s house. The
Plan for Extinction tape nearly wound up being recorded over with some old guy’s memoirs of sailing around the Bahamas or launching his dry cleaning empire.
I’ve saved it from that fate.
What happens next is up to Cordelia Dean.
Chapter 40
AT CORDY’S HOUSE, I park in the driveway and walk around to the back door. It’s just past one o’clock, so Cordy should be awake. But when I peek through the kitchen window, her chair at the table is empty. Perhaps she’s writing upstairs.
I try the door, and the knob turns.
I could simply slip in, leave the Dictaphone on the table, and slip out.
A smile spreads across my face. Wouldn’t that knock Cordy for a loop—to enter her kitchen and find the thing she’s been seeking for weeks waiting in front of her favorite chair! She’d suspect she was hallucinating.
As much as that vision amuses me, the unlocked back door makes me suspect Cordy might not be alone in the house. What if I leave the Dictaphone here, and Ariel finds it? Even though I’ve sworn off worrying about what happens to Cordelia Dean, I really hate the idea of Ariel getting her hands on something Cordy wants.
While I’m standing there considering what to do, Cordy appears walking unsteadily down the hall toward the kitchen. I tap lightly on the half-window in the door.
Cordy jumps in surprise.
When she recognizes me, a look of irritation crosses her face.
Yeah, me too, Cordy.
I hold up the Dictaphone for her to see.
Immediately, her expression changes. She attempts to hurry, but the result isn’t breaking any records. I open the door and step into the hall to meet her.
“Where did you...?” Cordy’s voice quivers with excitement. “Where’s Gif—?” She breaks off at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. “Hide it!” she hisses.
I left the house with my keys, phone, and wallet stuffed in my coat pockets. There’s no room for the Dictaphone, and no handy drawer or cabinet in the small back hall. I scoot around Cordy and plop myself in a chair at the kitchen table, putting the Dictaphone in my lap. Just as Ariel enters the kitchen, I pull the chair up close to the table.
Rock Bottom Treasure (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 7) Page 22
