Late Checkout

by Carol J. Perry

  “That’s something else Phil Archer might know about,” she said.

  “Right. I’m going to ask him about the sports star personal appearances, and I’m going to find out what he knows about Wally Williams.”

  I didn’t linger too long over breakfast, although it deserved more attention than I gave it. Aunt Ibby and Tyler were both going to work the Sunday shift, one to five o’clock. My aunt promised to research old newspaper ads and reviews of the collectibles shows Larry Laraby had hosted. I thought about the picture of the man in the station lobby and tried to picture him at one of his shows, surrounded by autographed baseballs and hockey sticks and brightly colored T-shirts and ball caps and crowds of memorabilia fans. But my mind kept returning to that sad foot in the black shoe I’d seen in the mirror.

  By nine-thirty I’d backed the Vette out onto Oliver Street and headed for WICH-TV. If traffic was kind to me I’d be at the station in plenty of time to catch Phil doing his show prep for the noon news. The month of October in Salem attracts a lot of tourists and visiting witches, so we never know exactly what to expect on the roads. “Halloween Happenings” is more than a Chamber of Commerce catchphrase. There seems to be something happening relative to the witchy holiday in virtually every part of the city. Tour buses clogging narrow streets are the norm. I took the long way via Bridge Street, avoiding the Witch Museum and the Hawthorne Hotel and checked in with Rhonda at a little after ten. (Rhonda actually likes working Sundays. She gets time and a half, and Mr. Doan comes in late and leaves early.)

  “Hey, I hope this doesn’t bother you,” she said, “but Chief Whaley just announced a presser about the library murder and I had to send Templeton over to the police station to cover it.”

  Is he getting time and a half too?

  It did bother me just a little but I tried not to show it. “Well, that’s exactly the kind of face time he needs, isn’t it? What time is the presser?”

  “They’re trying for ten-thirty, but you know how skittish the chief is about these things. The man has terminal stage fright.”

  “At least they’re never very long. The better Templeton handles this kind of report, the quicker he’ll be ‘movin’ on’ to bigger and better things.”

  She arched perfectly penciled eyebrows. “Guess that’s one way to look at it. What’s your plan for today?”

  “I need to talk with Phil again. It’s about the anniversary reunion thing. He still here?”

  “Still here,” she said. “I think he’s in the downstairs studio. Something about a promo for the Witches’ Ball. They’re using River’s set to shoot it.”

  “Makes sense,” I said, thinking of the star-studded blue backdrop. “I’ll just run on down there and try to grab Phil for a minute.”

  “The anniversary show, huh?” She cocked her head to one side and looked at me closely. “And maybe a little investigative reporting on the side?”

  “Maybe,” I admitted. “Just a little bit.” I took the stairs down to the studio instead of the elevator. There was no red light glowing above the green metal door, so I let myself in. From the doorway I could see that the Tarot Time set was fully lighted. River’s furniture had been replaced with three good-looking wing chairs and a long table with a centerpiece of fall flowers arranged in a black cauldron, flanked on either side by a pointed witch hat and a lighted pumpkin. A wispy cheesecloth ghost and a fluttering black bat animated by an offstage fan bounced above the set.

  Marty was on camera and Phil sat in one chair facing an attractive woman I recognized as one of the major organizers of Salem’s annual Halloween extravaganza—The Witches’ Ball. The third chair was occupied by Christopher Rich. Chris is kind of a self-promoting genius, always available to anyone who’ll let him talk about his shop, Christopher’s Castle. I expected that he was there because the shop—which I admit is quite nice—carries a big selection of excellent costumes and jewelry. He undoubtedly does a good business with well-heeled ball-goers.

  I tiptoed down the center aisle, pausing for a moment beside the Saturday Business Hour cubicle. I need to find time today to get a peek at that miscellaneous file. I slipped into a seat across the aisle from the set. Phil raised a hand in greeting. I waved back. Chris Rich noticed me too, and mouthed “Hello Lee.” And made the “call me” motion with thumb and little finger forming a mock telephone. The man loves talking to anybody in the media—even those of us whose hours have been reduced.

  I watched the group as they prepared to record the promo. Marty moved some props around, adjusted the sound mechanism, placed the teleprompter so that it was invisible to viewers, then pointed to Phil and the red light went on.

  Phil introduced the guests first, then read from the prepared script on the teleprompter. “The chill winds of autumn whisper to witches and strangers alike who journey to Salem from around the globe to celebrate the season with the one and only Salem Witches’ Halloween Ball!”

  The chairwoman of the event described the grand ballroom and the laser light show, the free psychic readings and the ritual drummers’ performance. She gave the costume theme of the ball, “Earth, Air, Water, Spirit, or other elements,” and announced the thousand-dollar first prize for best costume, and another thousand for best group. Rich mentioned that he stocked costumes for fairies, elves, and other ethereal beings, and waxed poetic about the designer swag bags guests would receive and mentioned pentagram rings and crystals, also available at Christopher’s Castle. “Don’t forget,” he added. “I carry a full line of magic tricks too. Mystify the guests at your own home celebration!”

  Of course. I remember now. Chris carries all kinds of professional as well as amateur magicians’ needs. I’ll bet he might even know where Professor Mercury is! I’d definitely take him up on that “call me” suggestion. Phil asked a few more questions, advised viewers to make reservations soon, and gave the contact numbers. The haunting strains of “O Fortuna” from Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana filled the studio as the phone and website numbers rolled. The red light clicked off and Phil and his guests rose from their chairs and shook hands all around.

  With a dramatic bow, Chris Rich took the chairwoman’s arm and escorted her toward the exit. Phil stopped to say a few words to Marty, who’d already begun putting River’s set back together, then came across the aisle to where I sat. “Hello, Lee. Rhonda texted me that you had some questions about the anniversary show.” He took the seat next to mine. “How can I help?”

  “Couple of things,” I said. “Do you remember Wee Willie Wallace working here?”

  He frowned. “I remember him being on Larry Laraby’s show occasionally.”

  “My aunt does too. Was Wee Willie the one who brought the big sports stars with him to the show?”

  “Willie was the contact for most of the baseball guys,” he said. “He knew a lot of the big-name players. Willie was kind of a novelty in the sport, you know? He was so darned small. Around five foot three or four, as I remember. The big men used to get a kick out of hanging out with him I guess.”

  “So he used to introduce them to Laraby and they’d appear on his show?”

  “Sure. There weren’t a lot of stations back in those days. The players liked the publicity and Laraby liked the ratings. He was good, Laraby was.”

  “Thanks Phil. I noticed that Willie gave Laraby a team-signed ball for his collection. With all the famous players coming by, I guess he got lots of souvenirs.”

  “Oh, yeah. But he didn’t hold onto many of them. He used to place ads in the collectors’ magazines and sell them. Baseballs, game shirts. I suppose he saved some of the loot for the collectibles shows he ran later. Ran those all over the country. Right up until he died.” Phil’s expression changed. He looked sad. “He was a popular guy. Everybody missed him. Big funeral.”

  “I’ll bet. Say, Phil. What did you mean when you mentioned Wally Williams and told me it was a good place to start? I found out it was just one of Wee Willie’s names,” I explained, “but what was that suppos
ed to be the start of?”

  “You’re a good reporter, Lee.” He looked around and dropped his voice. “And a darned good investigator. I told you about how Larry Laraby died. I’ve always thought Wee Willie had something to do with it but I can’t prove anything. I thought maybe if you got interested, maybe you could dig into it. Then, when Willie died the same way—well, almost the same . . .” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “Now I don’t know what to think.”

  “For now, Phil, I’m working on the station’s anniversary show,” I said. “But Larry and Willie are part of that—so yes, you might say I’m interested. I’m trying to round up some of the other old-timers. Oops. Not that you’re old . . .”

  He laughed. “It’s all right. Have you found Katie the Clown yet? Agnes Hooper? She still lives in Salem.”

  “Hooper,” I repeated. “Thanks Phil. I was looking for her last name. And I know where to find Ranger Rob too. That leaves Professor Mercury. Know where he is? I loved that show.”

  “Sorry. No. I heard he left town years ago. Not much work here for kid show TV performers after the cable stations came. Disney and Nickelodeon and the cartoon channel.”

  “I know,” I said. “Too expensive. I hope I can round them all up for the anniversary show though. It’ll be kind of like one of those ‘what ever happened to . . .’ specials.”

  “We know what happened to Larry Laraby, and now Wee Willie, don’t we?” Phil shook his head. “Let’s hope the others have fared better.”

  “I wish I’d had a chance to talk to Chris Rich for a minute. He sells lots of props for magicians. I thought he might still have contact with Professor Mercury. But he seemed to be focused on the Witches’ Ball organizer.”

  “Probably trying to score a couple of passes to the ball, I expect,” Phil said. “Those tickets aren’t cheap.”

  “I know. I scored free tickets once but never quite made it to the ball.”

  “I remember that night, Lee.” Again, that pensive head shake. “A frightening memory for you.”

  “I try not to think about it.” I looked at my watch and hurriedly changed the subject. “Almost ten-thirty. Time for the chief’s presser. Templeton’s covering it. I think I’ll run upstairs and watch with Rhonda.”

  “Let me know if I can help with the anniversary,” he said. “Good talking with you.”

  “Thanks, Phil. I pushed open the metal door and climbed the stairs to the upstairs lobby, thinking for the umpteenth time that between the stairs in the Winter Street house and the stairs in this building, I’d never need to join a step class.

  Rhonda had spun her chair around and was already watching the monitor behind her desk. “Pull up a seat, Lee,” she said. “Wish I’d remembered to bring popcorn. Let’s see how the kid handles his first real breaking news standup.”

  “I hope he does okay.” I moved one of the turquoise-upholstered chrome chairs closer to the screen. “He probably doesn’t know the chief is just as nervous as he is.”

  “So far they’re just showing the front of the police station.” She squinted, moving closer to the monitor. “Look at that. They’re using the big portable TV screen. They must have pictures. Didn’t get any from us. I wonder what they’ve got. Hey, shouldn’t Howie be doing some kind of voice-over or something while they wait for the chief to come out?”

  “I would be,” I said, silently willing Howard Templeton to do something, say something. “If there’s anything Mr. Doan can’t stand, it’s dead air.”

  “You’ve got that right,” she whispered. “Here he comes now.” She motioned to the glass door. Bruce Doan had just stepped from the elevator.

  “Come on, Howard!” I said aloud. As though he’d heard my urging, a smiling, confident-appearing Templeton looked into the camera, stick mic in hand. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Howard Templeton here, for WICH-TV, reporting directly from the Salem police station, where we’re awaiting the appearance of Chief Tom Whaley.” Mr. Doan pushed the glass door open and stood behind me, facing the monitor as his youngest field reporter continued. “We expect an update on the ongoing investigation into the death of William Wallace—known to baseball fans as ‘Wee Willie Wallace.’ Mr. Wallace was found dead on Friday afternoon in the stacks at the city’s main library building on Essex Street. The medical examiner’s report cites severe damage to the upper vertebrae as the cause of death.” Templeton’s expression was appropriately earnest, his tone pleasantly modulated. He dropped his voice to golf-commentator-pitch as the camera focused on the chief, resplendent in full dress uniform, medals and all, emerging from the building and stepping before a bank of microphones arrayed in front of a lectern. “Here’s the chief now,” Templeton said, “let’s listen in.”

  “Good morning, ladies and gentleman,” the chief said. “Just a brief update on the matter of the death of William Wallace.” He shuffled the notes on the lectern. “Mr. Wallace was found deceased this past Friday on an upper floor of the Salem main library. The coroner’s office has determined that Mr. Wallace died from violent trauma to the upper body, not consistent with an accidental injury. The matter is being investigated as a suspicious death. Several security cameras in the vicinity of the library, both inside and outside of the building, have yielded footage of persons who may be of interest in this case.” He motioned to the TV screen, which flickered to life.

  “These people were filmed at, in, or nearby the library during the time we believe Mr. Wallace arrived on the second floor of the library, known as ‘the stacks.’ First, here’s Mr. Wallace entering the front door of the library. Next we see Mr. Wallace climbing the stairs to the stacks. Here he is on the second-floor area.” The chief used a pointer, tapping the screen where the man, gray hair touching his shoulders, seemed to be reading the cards attached to the shelves, then disappearing around the corner of the front row of books.

  “Next,” the chief continued, “we have a series of still pictures showing four—so far unidentified—people. The time stamps on these photos indicate that these four people may possibly have had some contact with Mr. Wallace. If you are one of these people, please call the number at the bottom of your screen and identify yourself. If you recognize any of these people, please call that number.”

  A series of stills followed. No one I knew. There was a tall bearded man wearing a backpack; a teenager in a hoodie with a blonde girl in a mini skirt; an old woman carrying a satchel with a picture of a cat on it. There were several shots of the bearded man and the two young people. There was one of the old woman exiting from the side door that seemed to have been taken from somewhere behind the library, maybe from a security camera in a nearby building.

  The camera returned to the chief. “Please note that none of these people are considered suspects in this investigation. We’d simply like to talk to them regarding anything they may have seen or heard while in the stacks area. That’s all for now. Thank you.” As usual, he managed to dodge most of the shouted questions from the assembled press, but replied to Templeton’s “the dead man is Wee Willie Wallace, the ball player, is that right?”

  “That’s correct.” The chief edged closer to the doorway. Someone else yelled, “Was there a weapon?”

  “We have not found a weapon.” He scooted inside the building.

  The camera once again focused on Howard Templeton. “There you have it, folks,” he said. “Chief Whaley has just confirmed what WICH-TV reported earlier. The deceased man is Wee Willie Wallace, a one-time baseball player, whose short career was plagued with scandals. Wallace was imprisoned for several years for allegedly doping horses at a New Hampshire racetrack. We’ll show you those pictures again of the four people who may have seen or heard something.” He repeated the telephone number the chief had given. “Also, ladies and gentlemen, the Friends of the Library organization has posted a one-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of whoever killed Wee Willie.”

  The pictures rolled once more and Templeton signe
d off with a professional sounding “Howard Templeton here, reporting from the Salem Police Department for WICH-TV. Stay tuned for further updates on this breaking story.”

  “The kid did all right,” Mr. Doan remarked. “Don’t you think?”

  “Not bad,” I agreed. “He should be ready to move on in no time.”

  “No time,” Rhonda echoed. “Some other station will be calling to grab him up real soon.”

  “That’s what his Aunt Buffy thinks too.” He looked at me. “By the way, Ms. Barrett, how’re you coming on that magician for the party?”

  “Got a good lead just today, sir,” I said. “I’m on it. Don’t worry. Mrs. Doan will have her magic show.”

  “Counting on you.” He disappeared into his office.

  “You got a lead on Professor Mercury?” Rhonda asked.

  “Not exactly a lead,” I admitted. “More of an idea. I think Chris Rich may know where the old magician is. Chris’s shop has the best selection of professional magician supplies outside of Boston. If the professor is around here at all, Chris must know him.”

  “We keep calling him Professor Mercury. Haven’t you found his real name yet?”

  “Still haven’t finished with those old files. When everyone clears out of the studio I’ll go back to my snooping. I’ve got Katie the Clown’s name—Agnes Hooper—she lives over on Highland Avenue, and I already knew that Ranger Rob is in Rockport.”

  “Not bad,” she said. “You’d probably make a good cop.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “So I’ve been told. Not interested.”

  “Hey, I fixed you up with that lamp you wanted. The Saturday guy loved it.”

  “I’ve got to listen to his show some day,” I said. “Might learn something.”

  “I’ve learned a few things from him,” Rhonda said, “and I have a degree in business administration.”

  “One of your degrees.”