Late Checkout

by Carol J. Perry

  We’d reached the stage area, where workmen assembled prefitted dark-stained wooden panels, some with carved details. I could see how the finished product would look as though it had always been there. “Your stage will be about half the size of this one,” Willow explained, “but it’s just as pretty. You just have the one stage act. Jerry knows the layout.”

  I was surprised. “You know Jerry Mercury?”

  “Sure. He’s worked this room before. Corporate meetings, bar mitzvahs, kids’ birthdays. Nothing recently though. It’ll be good to see him.” She led us around a pile of Styrofoam tombstones. “Come on. There’s a little dressing room just behind the stage. Used to be a cloakroom back when the hotel had a hatcheck girl.”

  “Hatcheck girl?” Howard smiled that winning smile.

  “Yep. That was then. Now we have coat racks with numbered hangers out in the lobby near the magazine stand. Nice matronly lady runs the stand and keeps track of the coats,” Willow explained. “More efficient that way.”

  “I guess so.” Howard’s smile faded a bit. “We don’t have a band either, huh?”

  “Mrs. Doan has hired a wonderful organist. The organ will be to one side of the stage. You’ll see. He makes that thing sound like an entire orchestra.” We followed Willow into the cloakroom/dressing room. A faded sign read YOUR TIPS ARE APPRECIATED. Howard’s smile was back and I guessed he was imagining a beautiful, scantily dressed hatcheck girl.

  Willow opened a door at the end of the narrow room. “You see, it opens onto the lobby. Not an ideal setup if there’s a play with a large cast or, God forbid, a kid’s ballet recital, but for most events it’s just fine.” She pulled the door closed and we returned to the ballroom.

  “I think this beautiful room with the little tables with fresh flower centerpieces and the Halloween decorations and the organ music is going to be just what Buffy—Mrs. Doan—has in mind,” I said. “Do you agree, Howard?”

  “I do,” he said. “It looks as if you have everything under control, Willow. Thank you.” He put a guiding hand under my elbow. “I think we have time for lunch at Nathaniel’s, Lee,” he said, steering me out into the lobby and toward the entrance to the hotel’s popular restaurant. “My treat.”

  “I have something I’ve been dying to tell you,” he said when we were seated and had ordered sandwiches and sodas. “I haven’t even told Uncle Bruce or my parents yet. Can you keep a secret?”

  I made a little cross on my lips with one finger. “Promise,” I said.

  “I’ve been sending all my tapes up to a little station in Maine. They’ve offered me a job.”

  “Oh, Howard. That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you!” And for me too. “Have you accepted?”

  “I think I’m going to. It’s not much more than an internship to start, but I’ll get a little salary. Most of all, they don’t have to hire me like Uncle Bruce did—because I’m a relative. They really want me.”

  “I hope you’ll accept it, Howard. When can you start?”

  “As soon as I can get there.”

  I think my fortune cookie dearest wish just came true. I’m going to get my job back! “I’ll bet your parents will be pleased,” I said.

  “I’m not sure. My dad doesn’t think being on TV is a real job. You know, like being a dentist or a stockbroker or something.”

  “You might not get rich,” I said. “But doing what you love is important. Besides, some TV people do actually get rich. What does your dad do, by the way? I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

  “He used to be a lawyer. He’s retired now. Spends most of his time on his collection.”

  “Oh yes. Rhonda told me. Sports memorabilia, isn’t it?”

  He smiled. “That Rhonda! She knows everything, doesn’t she? Yes. Dad’s really into collecting. He probably has one of the best collections of sports-related stuff in the country. Baseball especially.”

  I pushed a little. “Rhonda says he bought a Pete Rose rookie card recently.”

  “He was thrilled to get that. Expensive, but to him—it was worth it. I don’t get it myself. You collect anything?”

  “I have a little collection of NASCAR stuff,” I said.

  “No kidding? You like the car races? Me too.” His eyes widened. “Wait a minute. Barrett. Johnny Barrett? You . . . ?”

  “Right. Johnny was my husband.”

  “Oh, wow. My dad will be thrilled to meet you. He’ll probably try to buy your collection.”

  “Not for sale,” I said. “I understand your dad knew Larry Laraby—one of the station’s old-time sports announcers. Larry used to run collectibles shows all over the country.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Dad used to love those shows. Most of it is online now, though. You bid from home. Probably not as much fun as going to a show, I’ll bet.”

  “I think you’re right. Buying online is okay but I like to see what I’m buying, especially if it’s expensive.”

  Howard looked around the restaurant and lowered his voice. “It’s a good idea to know who you’re buying from too. Dad had a chance not too long ago to buy a baseball card he’s always wanted but he had to turn it down.” He shook his head. “Dad called it ‘the holy grail of baseball cards.’”

  “A Honus Wagner, I’m guessing,” I said. “Right?”

  “Right. How’d you know?”

  “I’m older than you,” I said. “I know a little bit about a lot of things. How come he didn’t buy it?” Tell me it’s the same card everybody is looking for.

  “The seller seemed kind of shady. Wanted cash and he didn’t seem to plan on telling the IRS about it, if you know what I mean.”

  Sounds a lot like Wee Willie Wallace—with those greedy little robot hands reaching for money.

  Chapter 43

  Howard and I made it back to the station before our costume-shopping friends did, but only by a few minutes. We were still in the reception area when the four women, all smiles and giggles, tumbled from the elevator and joined us, each one laden down with bags and boxes.

  “Did you find your four pairs of green whatevers?” I asked.

  “Tights,” Marty said. “Took us three stores but we got ’em.”

  Green tights? Are they going to be elves? Martians? No point in asking, I knew. I’d have to wait for the party.

  Rhonda headed straight for her desk, piled her packages on one of the chrome chairs, and turned off the recorded greeting. “Doan isn’t back from lunch yet, is he?” she whispered. “He likes the phones answered live.” The phone in question rang immediately.

  “WICH-TV,” Rhonda said, “where Halloween is happening. Rhonda speaking. How may I direct your call?” There was a short pause. “Oh wow. Listen, you guys. Old Eddie and Scott are stuck in traffic over at Bertram Field and there’s a truckload of pumpkins spilled all over the road blocking traffic both ways on Federal Street. We’re the closest. You guys have to cover it. Francine? Howie? Lee? Marty? Somebody?”

  “I’ve got it,” Howard spoke first. “Come on, Francine. Let’s grab a camera and the golf cart and get over there.”

  I looked at the sunburst clock. “It’s after one,” I said. “My shift.” But I was speaking to three retreating backs as Francine, Howie, and Marty ran for the exit leading to the newsroom. Rhonda and Wanda looked at one another, then at me.

  “I have to get changed for the afternoon weather spot.” Wanda, still burdened with packages, beat a quick retreat back to the elevator.

  Rhonda smiled, shrugged, and turned on the TV over her desk. “Oh well, if you snooze, you lose, Lee.”

  So much for the Kumbaya moments young Howie and I had shared in the morning. We were competitors in the field reporter business once again. I could only hope his coverage of the great smashed pumpkin saga would enhance his resumé for that Maine TV station.

  I held out one hand to Rhonda. “Key to the dataport, please?” I figured I might as well get back to work on my old-time ads project. She dropped the key into my palm. “Don’
t worry,” she said. “I heard he had an offer from some station up in Vermont.”

  “Maine,” I said. “I’m pretty sure he’s going to take it.”

  I hurried down to the studio, retrieved the files and printouts I’d left in the file cabinet, and climbed the stairs to the little sanctuary where I could pout in private—and hopefully, get some work done that would enhance my resumé. I was pretty sure that Mr. Doan, the sales department, and the ad clients would like my proposal. I decided to call it “Project: Yesterday.” Subtitle: “Everything Old Is New Again.”

  It took almost all of the rest of the day, but by five o’clock I had a complete, illustrated, annotated, cost-projected advertising campaign proposal—complete with sample ad copy for each client, spiral binding, and plastic cover. My college advertising and promotion class professor would have been proud of me.

  Tomorrow morning I will knock Bruce Doan’s proverbial socks off with this.

  It was with that positive attitude that I set off down Derby Street on my way home. On Hawthorne Boulevard, fantastically costumed people—fairies, elves, sprites, mermaids—were already lined up in front of the hotel in anticipation of the ball. Christopher Rich must have enjoyed excellent sales in his costume department. I decided to take the shortcut across the common, where speakers housed in the old bandstand blared spooky haunted house sound effects and a drum circle surrounding the structure kept time. What a noisy, crazy, colorful place my city is in October. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

  My mind was busy as I walked past the playground swings, where costumed toddlers were being pushed by smiling moms and patient older siblings. I waved absently to Stasia, the pigeon lady, who wore jack-o’-lantern deely boppers over newly dyed pink hair. I’ll need a verbal pitch to go along with my presentation, I thought. I’ll practice it on Aunt Ibby. I would have liked Pete to hear it too, but I knew he’d be working overtime. I wanted to tell them both about Howard Senior’s near miss at buying a Honus Wagner too.

  I entered home through the Winter Street door, where O’Ryan—as usual—greeted me with delighted rubs and happy cat sounds. “Aunt Ibby,” I called from the foyer, “I’m home. I have something to show you. Got a minute?”

  “I’m in the kitchen,” she answered. “Come on back. I’m watching something funny on TV.”

  “We’re coming.” I followed the cat across the living room and into the bright, cheerful, and always good-smelling kitchen. My aunt sat at the round table, eyes focused on the TV.

  “Look at this, Maralee,” she said. “Did you ever see such a thing? The tailgate of that big truck popped open and about a thousand pumpkins rolled out onto Federal Street. Oh my goodness, what a squishy mess. Here. Sit down.” She patted the back of the chair beside her. “The Templeton lad is so funny. Talking about making a world’s record pumpkin pie with them or inviting the high school soccer team to kick them out of the way. He’s really doing well, don’t you think so?”

  “Yes,” I tried hard to sound enthusiastic. “Getting better all the time. He’s been offered a job at a good station in Maine.”

  “I’ll bet he’s thrilled about that.”

  “He is,” I said. “He told me all about it when he took me to lunch at Nathaniel’s today.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Maralee. I thought for a while you were a bit resentful about his taking on some of your responsibilities.”

  Who me? Resentful?

  “Not at all,” I lied. “It’s given me a chance to develop some of the skills I haven’t used lately. Like selling. I used to do a home shopping show in Miami, remember?”

  “I do. You have many talents. I’m sure Bruce Doan recognizes that.”

  “I think he will tomorrow.” I put my presentation folder on the table. “Ready to hear about my new idea for the station’s anniversary?”

  It took about an hour for her to see my work and to listen to the plan of action I had in mind. She closed the cover on the last page and leaned back in her chair. “It’s perfectly wonderful, Maralee,” she said, “and I’m not just saying that because I’m your aunt and I love you. But be careful. You know how Mr. Doan is. If you don’t watch it, he’ll probably want you to work in sales—along with being both field reporter and investigative reporter.”

  As usual, of course, she was absolutely right.

  I was in bed that night by eleven, cozily tucked in with a warm cat curled up beside me, the TV tuned to the late news, listening to Buck Covington’s soothing voice while a searchlight from the roof of the Hawthorne Hotel shone intermittent patterns on my kitchen windows and music from the bandstand on the common accompanied Buck’s reading of the headlines. There were shots of beautifully costumed people at the ball and some more pictures of the pumpkin truck disaster. Buck said that Federal Street was such a mess that the city had changed the route of tomorrow night’s scheduled Horribles Parade. Pete called to wish me a good night, and while the rest of Salem celebrated, I slept like the proverbial baby.

  Chapter 44

  On Wednesday morning I was only halfway through my verbal pitch when Mr. Doan sent Rhonda to Staples to make copies of the presentation for all of the station’s sales staff. “How come you never told me you could do this stuff, Ms. Barrett?” he blustered, not waiting for an answer. “I’m asking all of the salespeople to join us. You do that pitch you gave me. Don’t leave out the part where Katie the Clown has offered to do guest appearances. Get the other two to do commercials too, Ms. Barrett. The cowboy and the magician. I’m sure you can convince them.”

  And voilà! Like magic, my third WICH-TV hat was bestowed upon me. I wasn’t required to actually make sales calls, but I was to be “invited” to attend weekly sales meetings. I was sure the “suggestion” that I get Ranger Rob and Jerry Mercury to cut commercials was meant seriously. Since I knew where to find Rob Oberlin and still had no idea where the professor hung his top hat (or his crown) I called the number for the Double R Riding Stables. Rob Oberlin answered the phone in that rich baritone voice I remembered from childhood. It occurred to me that even though his television career hadn’t gone as planned, he could easily have transitioned into radio if he’d wanted to.

  “Hello Ranger Rob—I mean, Mr. Oberlin. This is Lee Barrett.”

  “Of course. The pretty lady from WICH-TV. Are you ready to take me up on my offer to ride Prince Valiant?”

  “Not quite yet, thank you,” I said. “But I haven’t forgotten about it. I’m calling about the anniversary celebration here at the station. Agnes has offered to cut some promotional commercials as Katie the Clown and Mr. Doan sees a tie-in with some of our long-time sponsors. I wonder if you’d be open to doing something similar. There’d be extra pay involved, naturally.”

  There was a pause. “I’ll do it if I can wear my regular Western riding clothes. I’m not dressing up like Mrs. Blatherflab, no matter what Doan wants to pay me.” His voice became harsh. “Especially after what she did.”

  “What she did?”

  “Mrs. Blatherflab. She killed somebody, you know. At least somebody wearing my costume did.”

  “I’m sure your regular clothes will be perfect. All of your old fans—like me—would know you anywhere. Don’t worry about costumes at all.”

  “You’d recognize me? Really?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Agnes thinks Jerry Mercury looks the same as ever,” he said. “Jerry never drank or smoked like the rest of us. Worked out all the time. Biking, running, swimming, karate, body building. Thinks a lot of himself. Agnes thinks he had a face lift.”

  Karate? Does Pete know about that?

  “I wouldn’t know.” I dodged the cosmetic surgery topic. “But speaking of Mr. Mercury, did you ever find that business card you said you had? I still don’t have his telephone number.”

  “Wait a sec. I think I stuck it under my desk calendar.” Pause. Sound of papers shuffling. “Yep. Here it is. He wrote a phone number on the back. Ready?”

  Pen poised,
I said, “Ready. Shoot.” He recited a number with a local area code. “Thanks, Mr. Oberlin. Our audience is going to love seeing you again.”

  “Thanks for inviting me. And you come on over for that ride, hear?” I promised that I would and said goodbye, anxious to use that elusive number.

  I was disappointed, but not surprised, when my call was answered with a recorded message. “Hello. You’ve reached the Magic King—Professor Jerry Mercury. Mystify your friends and business associates! The Magic King, master illusionist, is available for children’s parties, trade shows, corporate events. A touch of magic makes any gathering more fun. Leave your name and number and the professor will return your call promptly.”

  I followed the instructions and left my cell number, hoping the reply would be prompt as promised. If I could offer all three of the station’s long-ago top kid show performers delivering commercials for those loyal advertisers, I might add “sales promotion” to my resumé. I’d see the professor later at the party anyway, but he’d be up on stage and I’d just be one of the crowd. I hoped he’d call.

  I checked Rhonda’s white board to see if there was anything there for me. This close to Halloween there are so many citywide events going on, there’s no way the station could cover all of them, along with the regular news, the traffic and weather spots, and the all-important commercials, but Rhonda had posted a list of “Halloween happenings.”