Late Checkout

by Carol J. Perry

  “I understand why he took several photos of things he had for sale. Must have sent them around to likely buyers,” I said. “But why all the pictures of himself?”

  Pete tilted his head from side to side, studying the snapshots, and didn’t answer.

  “I think these were intended as a clue for those he wanted to know that the book was special,” Aunt Ibby offered. “He must have given one to his daughter. I’ll bet Mrs. Laraby had one too.”

  “If it’s all right with you, Lee,” Pete said, “I’d like to give one of these to Sharon Stewart—to replace the one that was stolen.”

  “I’ll have to ask Mr. Doan,” I said, “but I’m sure it’ll be okay.” O’Ryan, after a few puzzled looks around the room, had retreated to the bedroom once again. I stifled a yawn. Bed seemed like a good option. “Since we’ve found what we were looking for, can we put the albums away? I’m beat.”

  “Me too,” Pete said. “Chief’s got everybody working extra hours. It’s this way every October. The Witches’ Ball tomorrow night is the height of the craziness. Media from all over the world will be here clogging up the streets even worse than they are now.”

  “That’s hard to imagine,” I said. “But this is one time I’m glad young Howie is on hand to cover a big story instead of me. He’s going to love being part of it and it just holds terrible memories for me.”

  “I remember.” Pete covered my hand with his. “I remember.” The room grew still then, for about three ticks of Kit-Cat’s tail.

  My aunt stood, breaking the awkward silence. “I guess I’ll toddle on downstairs,” she said. “Thanks for dinner, Pete, and thanks to both of you for letting me help with this investigation. I do love snooping!”

  “I’ll walk you home,” Pete said, standing and offering his arm. (He often escorts my aunt downstairs. Especially if we’ve had wine!) They exited onto the third-floor landing. I looked toward the bedroom again, but the cat had apparently decided to spend the night with us. I grabbed my navy blue satin pj’s and headed down the hall to the bathroom.

  Chapter 41

  I tidied up the kitchen while I waited for Pete to come back upstairs. Carrying the albums into the living room, I put them on the coffee table, planning to return them to the station in the morning.

  “I’m back,” Pete called from the kitchen. “Aunt delivered safe and sound.”

  “Thanks,” I said, hurrying back down the hall. “Not everybody gets a police escort home after dinner. She really appreciates you.”

  “My pleasure,” he said. “I appreciate her too. You two snoop sisters make a good investigative team.”

  The comment pleased me. “I think we all did a good job with the albums tonight, didn’t we? I’m going to return them to the station tomorrow so if you need them for evidence or anything, you’ll have to deal with Mr. Doan.”

  “That’ll work. We’d both better get an early start. With the Witches’ Ball going on tomorrow night it’ll be crazy wild out there all day.”

  “I know,” I agreed. “I’m just glad I don’t have to cover it. That’s one assignment I’m glad to turn over to young Howie.”

  Pete pulled me close. “I know the Witches’ Ball holds bad memories. You were terrified that night.”

  “I was,” I said. “And you were there for me.”

  “I hope I can always be there for you whenever you’re frightened.”

  I smiled at that. “Can you come with me every time I have to return a book to the stacks? That place still scares me.”

  “Because of finding Wee Willie?”

  “Not entirely. It goes back to when I was six and got lost up there in the dark. Never got over it.”

  “I’d do it if I could.” He ruffled my hair. “Childhood terrors can be the worst of all.”

  “They are,” I said. “The vision I saw in my patent leather shoes when I was five still haunts me.”

  “Your parents’ plane crash.”

  “Yes.” I shook the terrible image away and changed the subject. “Shall I set the alarm for six-thirty? Traffic might not be too awful then.”

  “Right. I’ll go grab a shower.” He looked at the clock. “Time for the late news. Want to see what Covington has to say?”

  “Sure.” I reached for the remote. “Hurry back. You might get to see me with cute puppies and kitties in Halloween costumes.”

  “Be right back,” he said. And he was, wearing the Arizona Diamondback pajama bottoms and smelling deliciously of Nautica Voyage. Buck Covington had just read (flawlessly) the first commercial and had announced that several high-profile entertainers were in town for the Witches’ Ball. There was a report from Howard Templeton on a haunted house display in South Salem that had drawn so many people that they’d had to block off the street.

  “Chief had to call off-duty guys for that one,” Pete said. “I’m glad Halloween only comes once a year.”

  “Amen,” I said. “Look. Here’s the pet shop segment.” I lowered my voice. “I was tempted to bring home that black kitten dressed up as Batman.”

  “Shh,” he said, with a glance toward the darkened bedroom. “Don’t let you-know-who hear that.”

  “I’ve already apologized for the thought,” I said. “He knows I wouldn’t do it.”

  “That cat knows a lot of things, doesn’t he?”

  I didn’t answer, just watched as the spot played out. We’d done a good job on it and the animals had all been photogenically adorable. “I don’t know yet whether Mr. Doan expects Marty and Francine and me to put together some kind of field report from Buffy’s party,” I said. “He hasn’t mentioned it but since we’ll all be there, I’ll bet he does.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised.” Pete stifled a yawn. “You’re cuter than those puppies, by the way. Want to watch the rest from bed?”

  “Good idea.” I turned off the set. “You go ahead. I’ll fix the coffee for morning and set the alarm.” I did as I’d promised, then joined boyfriend and cat—both sound asleep—on my big bed. I turned off that TV too.

  * * *

  Pete was up before the alarm sounded and O’Ryan had already left for greener pastures downstairs before I followed the smell of fresh coffee and made my sleepy way into the kitchen. “I found English muffins and eggs,” Pete said. “That what you had in mind?”

  “Yep,” I said. “There’s some orange marmalade in the fridge too.” Pete toasted and buttered the muffins while I scrambled half a dozen of the eggs and poured the coffee. We were both dressed, fed, and ready to leave before Kit-Cat showed seven a.m. We work well together.

  We left the house, Pete backing the Crown Vic onto Oliver Street, me—glad I didn’t have to drive—on foot, wearing sensible shoes and with one of Larry Laraby’s albums under each arm, heading for Hawthorne Boulevard.

  I had to pass the Hawthorne Hotel, where the big Witch festivities would take place later that night. Several trucks were parked, more or less illegally, in front of the building, while workman-types carried boards and panels, boxes and cases, lighting and sound paraphernalia inside. Buffy’s party will be in the same ballroom as the Witches’ Ball. I wonder if it will need as much stuff.

  I’d just passed the Nathaniel Hawthorne statue when I saw three familiar figures. The laughing trio of Marty, Rhonda, and Wanda descended the steps of one of Salem’s fashionable new time-share condos. This must be Wanda’s boyfriend’s place. Nice. Marty spotted me first. “Hi, Moon,” she called. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Good morning,” I said. “You all look cheerful.”

  “Having a ball,” Rhonda said. “You should join us. We have the place ’til the end of the month. There’s plenty of room. Francine’s coming over tonight after she covers the Witches’ Ball with Howie.”

  “I’d love to,” I said. “But I have aunt and cat to consider. Hey, Doan’s going to be amazed. All of us showing up early to work!”

  “That might make up for us taking a long lunch hour later,” Wanda said. “We need to check out
the boutiques on Pickering Wharf.”

  “Completing our costumes for Buffy’s party,” Marty explained. “We need one more thing.”

  “Four more things,” Wanda corrected. “One apiece.”

  “One pair apiece,” Rhonda said. “Or would that make eight?”

  The three dissolved into giggles. “As long as they’re all green,” Marty said, to more laughter.

  I’m sure I looked confused and felt just a little left out of all this girly chatter. “Sounds intriguing,” I said.

  “Oh, Lee, I’m sorry,” Rhonda said. “We’re being awful. But there’s a prize for best costumed group. We’ve been working hard on ours. They’ll be four of us, including Francine. I think everyone’s going to be surprised.”

  “I understand,” I said, and I did. It was good to see them having fun together. “I can hardly wait to see what you’ve come up with.” The albums were growing heavy. I switched each one to the opposite side, trying for better balance. “Gotta go put my homework away.”

  “I’ll carry one.” Wanda reached for one of the albums. “These for the anniversary show?”

  “Yes,” I said, gratefully handing it over. “Thank you. It’s taking more research than I thought it was going to, but it’s all pretty interesting.”

  Conversation about Buffy’s party continued on the way to Derby Street without further reference to group costumes. We all agreed that it didn’t seem right that River and Buck, Old Eddie and Scott all had to work on Halloween eve and miss Buffy’s party, but as Mr. Doan had said, “Somebody has to watch the store.” Howie and Francine had drawn late-night duty for the Witches’ Ball so they had the night before Halloween off. River and Buck had their regular live shows to do. Old Eddie and Scott would cover production and videography and—if it happened—late-breaking news.

  We all clocked in and Rhonda wrote my name on the white board for “anniversary show prep on site.” I walked down the center aisle of the darkened studio to the Saturday Business Hour set, still feeling a little guilty about never actually watching the program, turned on the desk lamp, and put the albums on the desk for one last look at the contents.

  I realized that I hadn’t brought along a magnifying glass and pulled open the narrow center desk drawer. That’s where I’d keep one, if this was really my desk. Bingo! There was one in there along with a small stapler, a WICH-TV ballpoint pen, three paper clips, and a couple of rubber bands. It wasn’t much of a glass—small with a black plastic rim and a two-inch-diameter surface. Oh well, better than nothing. I pulled a tissue from my purse, polished the glass surface, then held it up to inspect for spots. Big mistake. The swirling colors began right away.

  It only took a few seconds for the image to register. Silver colored with round black eyes, the robot moved with typical jerky motions, arms bent at the elbows, head turning left and right. The visions are always silent but I knew that if this one did have sound, I’d hear Professor Mercury’s sidekick Marvel’s happy “beep-beep.” The robot stopped moving and faced me as though it was looking into a camera. Then his head began to turn away, turning ever so slowly to the left—and didn’t stop turning. That silver head turned all the way around. I remembered Rhonda’s words when she’d heard the M.E.’s report on Wee Willie.

  “Someone must have twisted his head around like a corkscrew.”

  I put the magnifying glass back where I’d found it and shoved the albums—rather unceremoniously—back into the bottom file cabinet drawer. I opened the top drawer, pulled the file containing the names of those old sponsors, and immediately headed upstairs to get the key to the well-lighted, cozy, familiar dataport.

  I knew that examining the files, separating the information on the businesses that were still doing business in Salem from those long gone was what Aunt Ibby calls “busy work.” It was an excuse for me to get away from the vision, from thinking about the way Wee Willie had died. I read yellowed pages of advertising copy, looked at the attached photos and artwork, put aside the items I thought might be useful to the sales department. So far I’d found more than a dozen places still doing business in Salem.

  I realized that my motions had become almost as robotic as Marvel’s—mechanical and unthinking. Using the old ads to generate new business for WICH-TV was a damn good idea and I wasn’t doing it justice. I picked up a sheet dated August 1987. A thirty-second spot for Dube’s Seafood restaurant read just as well today as it had three decades ago. I imagined how it would sound if Buck Covington read it, or River North or even Scott Palmer. There was an old photo of the restaurant on Jefferson Avenue too. It was one of Pete’s and my favorite places. I turned on the desktop computer and began to write a proposal for Mr. Doan on updating the wealth of historic material in the files, blending it with new features, and pitching those faithful advertisers on a new program of television advertising to coordinate with the WICH-TV anniversary shows.

  He has to love it! Time flew by and my enthusiasm for the project grew. The files were each neatly cross-referenced with dated tapes, which, I devoutly hoped, were still on the premises. I was really getting into this research project, with its exciting promotional possibilities. There was a gentle tap-tap on the glass-windowed door behind me. “Just a minute,” I called, holding up one hand, just a tad annoyed by the interruption.

  I spun around in my chair and faced Francine and Howard Templeton peering in at me. I stood and opened the door. “What’s up, you two?”

  “Sorry to bother you while you’re working, Lee,” Francine said, “but I hope you can do us a favor.”

  “I’ll try,” I said. “What do you need?”

  “I really need your expertise,” Howard said. “I’m kinda new at this.”

  Yeah. We’ve all noticed.

  “Here it is, Lee,” Francine said. “Doan wants Howard and me to go over to the Hawthorne Hotel while they’re arranging the ballroom for the Witches’ Ball. Buffy’s party is the next night and Doan thinks Howard needs to know how the setup should be done.”

  “Makes sense,” I said.

  “The thing is,” Francine continued, “he wants us to do it at noon. On our lunch hour. And I have other plans.”

  “I heard,” I said. “The group costume shopping trip. Sure, I’ll do it. Give me a few minutes to get all this organized, Howard.” I waved at the mess of papers on the desk. “I’ll meet you in Rhonda’s office at twelve o’clock.”

  “That’ll be super,” Howard said. “Aunt Buffy made a sketch for us of the way her party has to be set up, so we can make sure it will work the way she wants it to.”

  It had just better work. Aunt Buffy doesn’t take no for an answer.

  The two left and I bundled up the various files as neatly as I could. I printed out what I’d done on the proposal for Mr. Doan so far, took a deep breath, and headed back downstairs to the studio. Separating the papers I’d been working on from those remaining, I replaced them in the top drawer, took a quick look around making sure I’d left everything as I’d found it, grabbed my jacket, and hurried up to Rhonda’s office.

  Francine and Marty stood in the hall next to the elevator and Rhonda looked ready to bolt from behind her desk any second. “Wanda’s already over at Pickering Wharf checking out the boutiques,” she explained, slinging her purse over her shoulder and moving toward the door. “There’s a recording on the phone to take calls. We’ve got a lot of shopping to do in just an hour. Thanks a lot, Lee. You’re a real friend. Have fun, Howie. See ya!”

  Young Howard, looking slightly confused by the sudden whirlwind of female shopping activity, but at the same time willing to proceed with the task at hand, gestured toward the station manager’s office. “Do you think I should tell Uncle Bruce we’re going now?”

  “I’m sure Rhonda’s already told him,” I said. “But go ahead. I’ll wait for you by the elevator.” While he knocked on his uncle’s door, I stepped out into the hall. That vintage elevator, slow and noisy, is to many people one of the most attractive features of the
old building. The intricately patterned brass doors have become a matter of pride for Mr. Doan. They are polished regularly and I’ve even seen him pull a handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe away an imagined fingerprint from the gleaming surface.

  Gleaming surfaces are not a good thing for me. I’d only been there for a few seconds, waiting for Howard Templeton to report his plans to his uncle when the flashing lights and swirling colors appeared. The silver robot was back. This time he reached toward me with both arms, his round robot eyes blank, his little robot hands full of money, green bills falling around him.

  Howard’s voice came from behind me. “Ready to get out of here?”

  I certainly was. “Let’s take the stairs instead of Old Clunky,” I said. “It’s way faster.”

  Chapter 42

  I enjoyed our walk to the hotel. It gave me a chance to spend some overdue one-on-one time with my part-time replacement. He asked good questions and made intelligent comments about WICH-TV, the broadcasting business in general, and about Salem. He turned out to have a quirky sense of humor and by the time we’d reached the corner of Essex Street any earlier awkwardness between us had dissolved. Laughing and chatting easily together, we entered the spacious and elegant Hawthorne lobby. Here Howard took the gentlemanly lead, explaining our mission to the manager and politely asking permission to check out the ballroom in preparation for the upcoming party.

  The Hawthorne ballroom is often the venue of choice for wedding receptions, debutante presentations, big-bash birthday parties, meetings, and conferences, and of course, the world-famous Witches’ Ball. Howard and I were immediately escorted to the elegant room by the event manager, a tall blonde named Willow. “There’s a lot going on in here right now,” she said, “what with the carpenters, the decorators, the caterers, the floral designers . . .” she waved an inclusive hand. “It looks a little chaotic I know, but believe me, we know what we’re doing. Everything will be in place in a couple of hours.” She consulted a clipboard. “I have your aunt’s proposed layout here. It’s pretty similar to what they’re doing now.” She pointed to a corner of the room where a stage was under construction. “Your stage will be a little smaller than this one with lower elevation. They come in various sizes—all prefabricated, quick to assemble. Come on. I’ll show you.” We followed, carefully threading our way between a row of cauldrons filled with fresh flowers and several long tables piled high with boxes overflowing with orange and black decorations. “Your party will have more tables and chairs than this one does. Mrs. Doan has arranged for a wonderful buffet meal. And wait ’til you see the cake! She designed it herself. The witch people prefer nibbling on appetizers, drinking, dancing, moving around in the room.”