Late Checkout

by Carol J. Perry

  “You can pretty much take your pick of those,” Rhonda said. “Howie’s been recruited to help his aunt with last-minute details for the party. Doan says we only need one from the list but you should stick around anyway in case of breaking news.”

  “No kidding?” I moved in for a closer look at the list. “How about this one? Last-minute costumes at Christopher’s Castle. Francine and I could walk over to his shop.”

  “Good choice. He’s an advertiser. Takes all the free publicity he can get.”

  “I know. Is Francine in yet?”

  “She’ll be along in a few minutes. She’s back at the apartment sewing initials on head scarfs.”

  “I guess I’m not allowed to ask what that means, am I?”

  “Nope. I’ll ask Marty to get her shopping cart ready to carry the camera and sound gear over to Chris’s shop.”

  “Good idea. I’ll call Chris and tell him we’re coming,” I said, “but if anything more interesting shows up, let us know.”

  Nothing more interesting did—no overturned pumpkin trucks or police department press conferences—so within half an hour Marty, Francine, and I were trundling the official WICH-TV decorated shopping cart along the Essex Street pedestrian mall toward Christopher’s Castle. The weather was pleasant, and we were met with the smiles we generally encountered whenever we used the unusual but efficient mode of transporting our gear when driving was out of the question.

  I tried without success to get the two to tell me what the green tights and initialed head scarves indicated and admitted willingly that my costume required little imagination. “A cowgirl,” I said. “From some movie called Bad Girls.”

  “Is Pete going as a cowboy?” Francine asked.

  “No. He’s going to rent something.”

  Chris, naturally, was delighted to see us. “Business has been fabulous!” he gushed. “Between the regular Halloween costumes—you know, like Spiderman and Wonder Woman and Princess Ariel—and the beautiful high-end fantasy outfits like everyone wore last night at the Witches’ Ball, well I couldn’t ask for more! And now another big party coming tomorrow night. Life is sweet.”

  The shoot went smoothly. Chris had rounded up a few regular customers to serve as models and did most of his own narration. I introduced him, asked a few questions as women and teens paraded back and forth in front of the David Copperfield photo dressed as witches and fairies, princesses and vampires. I thanked Chris for sharing his beautiful costumes with the viewers and did the usual sign-off. While Francine disconnected Chris’s mic, I began putting equipment into the cart. “By the way, Lee,” Chris said, “thanks for sending Pete Mondello in. He stopped by earlier and picked out his costume for the Doans’ party. With that dark hair and brown eyes he makes a fabulous Lawrence of Arabia.”

  Quick mental picture. I’ll just bet he does!

  Chapter 45

  Once back at the station I checked the white board again. Nothing had changed. I asked Rhonda for the dataport key again. I planned to call Pete about Jerry Mercury possibly knowing karate. I liked the privacy of the dataport for phone calls.

  “Rob Oberlin told me that Jerry Mercury knows karate,” I told him. “I don’t know if he’s a black belt or anything like that but I thought I’d better tell you.”

  “Thanks, babe. It’s good that you keep your eyes and ears open around there. But be careful. Remember, none of the people you deal with every day are officially murder suspects, but both the TV station and the library have ‘persons of interest’ wandering around freely.”

  “I’m always careful,” I said, “but I’m glad you worry about me. Makes me feel safe.”

  “I feel as though I should be there to protect you all the time.”

  “My own personal Lawrence of Arabia,” I said.

  “Chris told you!”

  “Of course he did! We did a little costume fashion shoot there this morning. You know Chris. Not much for keeping secrets.”

  “I’m going over to my sister Marie’s before I pick you up so she can help me get into it,” he said. “Miles of white cloth and a fancy headpiece with sides that drop down and a fake dagger stuck in a waist sash thing.”

  “I can hardly wait to see you in it. Chris says you look fabulous!” (That comment brought the expected snort of denial.) “My costume is easy. Jeans, boots, plaid shirt, and a cowgirl hat. What time should I be ready?”

  “Around eight, I guess. I’ve got a friend right around the corner from the hotel who says we can park in his yard, so we won’t have a parking problem.”

  “Good deal. I’ll be getting out of here by five. See you soon.”

  There wasn’t a great deal of productive work getting done at WICH-TV. It was like being in school on the afternoon of prom night. Mr. Doan left right after lunch. Howie hadn’t been in at all. Wanda taped all of her forecasts for the whole day, changing outfits in between each one. Marty, as usual, stayed busy and Rhonda answered the phone whenever it rang, but there was a general feeling of “let’s get out of here!”

  At four thirty, with nothing new on the white board, Rhonda suggested that I might as well go home, since I had to walk all the way to Winter Street. She and Marty and Wanda and Francine just had to go to nearby Hawthorne Boulevard and Mr. Doan had said they could use the golf cart for transportation to and from the party.

  Aunt Ibby wasn’t at home when I got there. I let myself in through the back door, accepted and returned O’Ryan’s loving greetings, and climbed the twisty stairs to my quiet apartment. I’d already hung faded jeans, plaid shirt, and red neckerchief on my bedroom closet door. Newly polished boots were next to my bed and my trusty old cowgirl hat was on top of the bureau. Wardrobe ready, I had plenty of time to fool around with hair and makeup. I even treated myself to a long, luxurious bubble bath. By seven, with hair washed, curls tamed, eyes and lips carefully made up, I was ready to don my Bad Girl Western outfit.

  What did those cowgirls do that was so bad? I must ask Aunt Ibby.

  I dressed, pulled on the boots, and placed the hat at just the right angle, then stood in front of the long oval mirror in my bedroom to check out the effect. Quite Western, I decided, giving the red neckerchief a tweak. I transferred wallet, phone, comb, and lip gloss into a tiny tooled leather handbag, tossed a denim jacket over my shoulders, and went downstairs to get Aunt Ibby’s approval.

  “It’s just perfect, Maralee,” she said. “All you need is a horse. You know you really should take Rob Oberlin up on his offer of Prince Valiant.”

  “I intend to,” I said, “and just wait until you see Pete’s costume. He could use a horse too.”

  “Oh, a cowboy?”

  “Nope. Far more literary. You’ll see.”

  O’Ryan announced Pete’s arrival by ducking through the cat door into the back hall. I pulled the kitchen door open so Pete would know I was at Aunt Ibby’s instead of upstairs. When Pete stepped inside, O’Ryan stopped short, sat, and stared at the man. Chris was right.

  Fabulous.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Let me get my camera,” Aunt Ibby said.

  “I feel like a damned fool,” Pete said, but he agreed to pose with me for a few pictures. By then, O’Ryan had overcome his initial surprise at seeing this stranger in white robes, and joined us at the foot of the front stairs, which has always been my aunt’s favorite spot for photos.

  Photo session over, Aunt Ibby and O’Ryan escorted us to the back door and stood in the doorway together. “Have a wonderful time,” my aunt said. “You both look great.”

  “Oh, Aunt Ibby,” I said. “Exactly what did the bad girls do to earn the name, in case anyone asks?”

  “They were—um—ladies of the evening. Have fun, you two!” She closed the door.

  “Maybe you’d better claim to be Dale Evans or Annie Oakley,” Pete said, managing a straight face. We climbed into the Crown Vic, taking the long way around Washington Square, arriving at Pete’s friend’s place with remarkably little trouble, and pr
oceeded on foot toward the hotel.

  A uniformed doorman admitted guests, checking names against a list. There were several people ahead of us, sporting a colorful a variety of costumes. But it wasn’t difficult to identify my four co-workers, Francine, Wanda, Marty, and Rhonda. From green tights to green-painted faces, they were unquestionably the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

  “Lee! Pete!” The turtle with the purple headband extended green-gloved hands and executed a 360-degree turn, displaying a nicely detailed oval shell. “What d’ya think?”

  “Amazing,” I said. “If you guys don’t win the prize, there’s just no justice.”

  “You’re Donatello, right Marty?” Pete said. “The smart turtle.”

  “Right,” she said. The other three, Wanda with an orange headband, Francine with blue, and Rhonda with red, gathered around us, all talking and laughing at once.

  Pete pointed to the three, one at a time. “Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphael.”

  “How do you know?” I asked, seriously impressed.

  “Two nephews,” he said. “You can tell the turtles apart by the headbands. I’ve seen all the movies, read all the comic books.”

  The line moved forward. Our names were duly checked off the list and we, along with our turtle friends, joined the festivities. Organ music soared. Willow had been right. It sounded like a whole orchestra. The buffet table was almost embarrassingly sumptuous. People danced, glasses clinked. The undercurrent of conversation and muted laughter was at a perfect level—pleasant, unobtrusive. This had all the makings of a truly great party.

  “Excuse me, babe,” Pete said. “I need to take a walk around the room every once in a while. Just checking things out. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “No problem,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.” I gave him a smile and a little wave.

  When Professor Mercury made his entrance into the hall, it was pretty spectacular. A drum roll sounded, loud enough to silence conversation and turn heads toward the stage. There was a crackling noise, a flash of brilliant light, a puff of sulfurous smoke, then the shimmering glitter of what looked like a thousand Fourth of July sparklers. From the center of this circle of manufactured fire and brimstone strode the professor, looking very much like the cartoon magician pictured on Jerry Mercury’s business card—tuxedo, cape, white gloves, even the gold crown instead of a top hat. He carried a magic wand too. Spontaneous applause rose from the audience and many of the guests left their tables and moved toward the stage.

  When the silver curtains behind the magician parted and the organist began to play some appropriate background music, I found myself standing in the front row. In tweed, with tousled hair and tragic expression, Christopher Rich as Heathcliff stood on one side of me with my four turtle friends in a bright green row on the other. “See the tall black box behind him?” Chris whispered, a little more loudly than necessary. “He bought it from me. Absolutely top quality. It’s for the disappearing woman trick. Same one Criss Angel uses.”

  “Expensive, huh?” Marty whispered back.

  “Oh, yes indeed.” Chris was obviously proud of his connection to the star of Buffy Doan’s show. “Nothing but the best for Jerry Mercury these days.”

  On stage, Jerry Mercury produced a long-stemmed rose—seemingly from thin air—and with his other hand pointed the wand off stage. With a nod to the audience, and amidst another burst of applause, Buffy Doan, as Cinderella, magnificent in purple chiffon and clear plastic pumps, walked toward him. With a broad gesture, he held the rose toward her and, as we all watched, the single rose became a full bouquet. Amazing! I could smell the roses. They were clearly real, not the crepe paper kind he’d produced for Tyler in the library.

  “For our lovely and gracious hostess,” he declared, handing her the flowers. Buffy, blushing, accepted the bouquet, and with a smile, and amidst more applause, left the stage and joined her husband and the Templetons. The magician crossed the stage, passing just in front of us, and gestured toward the table where the Doans and Templetons sat, and once again pointed the wand. “Howard Templeton Jr. is our guest of honor this hallowed evening,” he said. “Come on up and join me, young man. Howard is a rising star in the television industry,” Mercury announced, as Howie, dressed as Robin Hood, hurried toward the stage.

  “Rising star, my butt,” I heard Rhonda, aka Raphael, mutter. “The kid’s still wet behind the ears.”

  “Professor Mercury hasn’t lost his touch,” I said. “In fact I think he’s even better than he was back when he was on TV. More professional.”

  Chris nodded agreement. “He doesn’t just do kid shows, you know. He gets plenty of corporate meetings, private parties like this one.”

  “I don’t like him.” Wanda-Michelangelo spoke softly, but firmly. “Don’t like him one bit.”

  “Who?” Marty-Donatello asked. “Howie or Mercury?”

  “Mercury, of course. Howie is sweet. Mercury is bad news.” Wanda sounded positive.

  “You know Jerry?” Chris Rich asked.

  The “M” on Wanda’s orange head scarf wobbled back and forth as she shook her head. “Nope.”

  “She doesn’t have to know him,” Rhonda put in. “Wanda knows men!”

  Marty agreed. “Meteorology and men. Wanda knows ’em.”

  On stage, with Howard Jr. as his willing assistant, Jerry Mercury proceeded to dazzle Buffy’s grown-up party guests with a barrage of astonishing card tricks and sleight-of-hand magic. I remembered how those long-ago TV shows had mesmerized me, along with the rest of Professor Mercury’s vast audience of children, as he and his robot, Marvel, had used magic tricks to open to us the world of science. Pete managed to blend his cop-at-a-party obligation with his escort-of-a-bad-cowgirl duties, appearing at my side every so often with the occasional glass of punch or whispered “I love you.”

  The magician handed Howie a dollar bill, had him write his name on it and put it into an envelope, then put the envelope onto a chair and sit on it. Then, with a flourish, he pulled what appeared to be an egg from behind Howie’s ear, tapped it with the wand. He handed the sitting man a bowl. “Crack the egg, Howard,” he instructed. “Be careful not to get any on that nice costume.” Howard did as he was told and—of course—the egg contained the signed dollar bill and the envelope on the chair seat was empty. For nearly an hour, Jerry Mercury performed trick after trick. Howard Junior’s face reflected the happy wonder of a six-year-old. Probably all of our faces did. The professor hadn’t lost his touch.

  “For my final illusion of the evening,” he announced, “I’m going to attempt something I’ve never tried before.” With the wand, he gestured toward a tall black box. “I recently purchased this most amazing and miraculous item from my friend Christopher Rich. Chris, as you may know, is purveyor of all things magical, a personal friend of the great David Copperfield.”

  Chris, publicity lover that he is, dropped his sad Heathcliff face, beamed, turned to face the crowd, and lifted both arms in the air. “He’s going to do the disappearing woman act,” he said. “You just watch.”

  “I know how it works.” Wanda shrugged, managing to make the motion look graceful even under her green turtle shell. “I moonlighted as a magician’s assistant for a while when I was in college. I was really skinny then. Got to wear some super cute tiny little outfits. There’s a false bottom in the thing. I don’t think I could fit in it now though. I’m sure Howie can’t. Just watch. He’ll ask for a volunteer. There’s probably a ringer in the crowd. You watch.”

  “A ringer?” I asked.

  “A shill. A setup. Somebody he’s rehearsed,” she said. “You’ll see.”

  I watched—and was not prepared for what happened next. The magician pointed that magic wand at me. Those piercing blue eyes focused on mine. “Yes. You. The cute little cowgirl. Come on up and join me, young lady.”

  I handed my purse to the closest turtle and felt myself walking toward the stage, climbing the two steps up, reaching for Professor Mercury�
��s extended hand. He continued to hold my hand, pulling me across the stage until we stood together in front of the black box. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Maralee,” I heard myself say. “Maralee Kowalski.”

  * * *

  From that moment on, the night of Buffy’s Halloween party was like an out-of-body experience. I was aware of what I was doing. I walked and talked, responded to the professor. Although my thought process was that of thirty-three-year-old Lee Barrett, my responses, my voice, my actions were that of six-year-old Maralee—and little Maralee was thrilled beyond belief to be one of the kids on Professor Mercury’s TV show.

  “Ready to go on a magical trip, Maralee?” Jerry Mercury asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Maralee answered, clapping her hands together. My hands. But I can’t control them. What’s going on?

  Maralee’s gaze was fixed on the professor’s face. His eyes. I don’t want to see his eyes. I can’t look away.

  Howard Templeton Jr. stood beside the professor. Maralee didn’t recognize him and tried to hide behind Jerry Mercury. “This is my friend Howard,” Jerry Mercury pulled me forward, keeping those eyes fixed on mine. Naturally Howard looked confused. I know perfectly well who Howard is and he knows me.

  “Okay,” said Maralee.

  No. This is not okay. Make it stop.

  I saw the door to the black box swing open. “Step right in here, young lady,” he said.

  No! I don’t want to!

  “Okay,” said Maralee. She smiled with my lips. Stepped into the box with my feet. My legs.

  “Don’t worry,” the professor said. “I’m coming with you.”

  No! Let me out!

  “Okay.” Maralee reached for his hand.

  He pushed me to one side and crowded in beside me. “Howard,” he said. “I want you to close the door of the box. Turn it around once. Go to the front of the stage and close the silver curtains behind you. Then you and the audience must count slowly to thirty. Got it?”

  Howard said, “Yes.”