Look Both Ways

by Carol J. Perry

  “What are the three plays you’ve decided on for the summer performances?” I asked. “I think you said you’d give me copies.”

  “I did indeed,” he said. “First will be Hobson’s Choice. We’ll be giving it a 1930s setting and I’ve already begun gathering props for that one.” He pointed to the sheet-covered mound in the corner. “I didn’t have to go far.” He beamed. “The action takes place in a cobbler’s shop, so all I had to do was raid your classroom of shoe-related memorabilia.”

  “I wondered what had become of it all,” I said. “What’s the next one?”

  “The easiest one of all. Our Town. Virtually no scenery at all! All we need is lots of chairs and a few boards.”

  “And the third?”

  “It’s another period piece. Takes place in the nineteen forties. Born Yesterday. Know it?”

  “I’ve never actually seen it performed onstage, but I’m sure Aunt Ibby has the movie. I’ll watch it.”

  “Fine, fine. Come along, then, down to my office, and I’ll give you the plays to study.” He took my arm once again and steered me past the wooden cage that served as a freight elevator. “I’ll give you the keys to your truck, too. It’s not a pretty thing, but serviceable. It must have belonged to one of the Trumbull boys, I guess. The engine is good, and the air conditioner works.”

  “I have my car here, you know.”

  “Of course. You’ll just need the truck for transporting large items once you locate them. You can leave it inside the lower-level warehouse when you’re not using it.”

  “Sounds good. I guess finding props for the third play will be the most challenging. But I’m sure there’s still plenty of nineteen forties stuff around Salem. Actually, there’s probably some at our house.”

  “I have every confidence that you’ll find everything we need.” He smiled, then shook his head and sighed. “I’m hoping that I, too, will succeed in finding everything I need when casting these shows.”

  “You don’t have all the casts in place yet?”

  “Almost. Hobson’s Choice is already in rehearsal, and Our Town is nearly ready. There’s only one part that has me a bit flummoxed, I’ll admit. It’s the part of Billie Dawn, you know, the Judy Holliday part in Born Yesterday.”

  I didn’t know but silently vowed again to watch the movie. “Well, I’m sure it’ll all work out just fine.” I followed the school director down the stairs to his office, where a stack of three slim playbooks had been placed on the polished surface of his big desk.

  That desk had originally belonged to the store’s founder, Oliver Wendell Trumbull. Next to the plays, an oblong silver tray with the monogram O.W.T. held a pen and an inkwell. It had once held a silver letter opener, too, but I guessed that the opener might still be in the Salem Police Department’s evidence room. Not too many months ago I’d had to use that sharp, slim little device to save myself from a killer. I looked away from that sad reminder and picked up the paper-covered books Mr. Pennington had indicated.

  “I’ll take these up to my new, um, office and get started.”

  “Excellent, my dear. You’ll find paper, pens, etcetera in your desk, and feel free to ask for anything else you might need, and here’s the key to your truck.” He handed me a Ford key on a key chain with a yellow plastic smiley face attached. “It’s down in the warehouse. I started it myself this morning, so I know it’s in good running condition.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I said, with more confidence than I felt.

  Minutes later I sat at my new/vintage desk. I placed the three plays on the scarred surface, then reached into my handbag, pulled out the dream book, and put it on top of the pile. After a tiny hesitation I pulled my phone from the handbag, too, and punched in Pete’s number.

  He answered on the first ring. “Lee? You okay? I’ve been worried about you.”

  “I’m fine, and sorry about all the drama,” I said. “How about a do-over tonight? I’ll send out for pizza, and we can tear into that bureau.”

  Long pause.

  “Well, babe. I’m sorry. Can’t do it tonight. Something, um, came up. Maybe another time. Okay?”

  Another long pause. This time on my end.

  “Uh, all right . . . okay. Talk to you later.”

  “Sure. And look, I know you’re dying to see what’s in the secret compartments. Why don’t you just go ahead and open them without me?”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, my tone a little too frosty. “Maybe I will. Bye.”

  I hung up, then stared at the phone in my hand for a long moment before I put it back in the handbag. I moved the dream book to one side and picked up the first play, Hobson’s Choice. I honestly had never even heard of this play, so I checked Wikipedia for information. I began to read.

  Hobson’s Choice is a play by Harold Brighouse, the title taken from a popular expression, Hobson’s choice—meaning no choice at all . . .

  CHAPTER 12

  By noontime I had read the entire script of Hobson’s Choice and had unveiled the sheet-covered blob in the corner of my so-called office. The action of the play, as Mr. Pennington had explained, takes place in a 1930s-era shoemaker’s shop A dozen or so of the Thonet chairs from the shoe department had been carefully stacked in the corner, and Buster Brown, the Poll-Parrot macaw, and the giant patent-leather pump, each one tissue paper–wrapped, had been arranged atop one of Trumbull’s old wooden counters. It seemed that Mr. Pennington had done a good job so far, but I’d need to find some old-fashioned shoes and boots and maybe an iron shoe last and cobblers’ tools. The costume department might have 1930s dresses and suits. I made a note to check on that and tossed the sheets back over the blob. I started a list and then moved on to the second play in the pile.

  My phone buzzed, and I reached for it eagerly, hoping it was Pete calling to explain his strange behavior. Caller ID revealed River North’s name.

  “Hi, River,” I said. “I was going to call you later.”

  “You were? Any new visions? Advances in the romance department?”

  “No visions, and the romance department might be moving in reverse. I had a weird dream, though. Want to hear about it?”

  “Sure I do. But first, what’s up with you and Pete? Is he coming back to open the secret compartments?”

  “Guess not. He says he has something else to do tonight.”

  “Nothing odd about that. He’s a cop. He always has stuff to do. How come you sound so down about it?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “It was more the way he said it, not what he said. Know what I mean?”

  “Not really. I’ll read your cards. Now, what about the dream?”

  “I have an idea,” I said. “Why don’t you come over to my place around five o’clock? I’ll send out for pizza, and we can analyze my dream and open all the secret compartments.”

  “Me? Really? I’d love to. And while I’m there, I can help you figure out your bagua.”

  “My what?”

  “Your bagua. It’s a feng shui thing. To help you relate the areas in your house to the aspects of your life.”

  I had to laugh. “Isn’t my life complicated enough already? Let’s stick with the cards for now.”

  “You need all the help you can get, girlfriend. I’ll see you at five. Bye.”

  The second play in the pile, Our Town, was, as Mr. Pennington had said, the easiest one to stage. The Thornton Wilder classic required only the simplest of props, and we already had a lot of those on hand.

  My tummy, rather than the clock, told me it was lunchtime. After tucking the Born Yesterday script, along with my props list, into my handbag, I headed downstairs to the diner, which had become one of Salem’s favorite eateries for both students and the public alike.

  I pushed open the chrome-trimmed glass door that led directly from the Tabby’s main floor into the diner. A quick glance told me that all the high-backed, red vinyl–upholstered booths, with their tabletop jukeboxes, were occupied, but there were a
few chrome bar stools available at the counter. I hurried across the center aisle and claimed one. I looked around the long room, fully expecting to see some familiar faces. After all, I’d been teaching at the Tabby since the first of the year. I was surprised to find that, other than a couple of instructors I knew only by sight, I’d be lunching among strangers. I shrugged, realizing that summer students and teachers were likely to be an altogether new group, propped Born Yesterday against a napkin dispenser, ordered an egg salad sandwich on whole wheat and a Dr Pepper, and began to read.

  This happens in the sitting room of Suite 67D, a large part of the best hotel in Washington, D. C. It is a masterpiece of offensive good taste, colorful, lush and rich . . .

  What the heck is “offensive good taste”?

  I read on and decided that I’d be on the hunt for ornate furnishings, with plenty of satin, velvet, and gilt. That pretty much crossed Aunt Ibby’s house off the list, but there’d surely be some likely prospects in Salem’s many thrift stores.

  I thought of my bureau. With its simple lines and smooth patina of age, it was far from opulent. What was the rest of Helena Trent’s home like? Would a ten-carat diamond be considered “offensive good taste”? Maybe Helena thought so. Maybe that was why she treated it so casually after her first husband’s death. The diamond reminded me of my recent dream, so I snapped the play shut and tried to think about something else.

  But the only something else that came to mind immediately was a handsome Salem detective. Why had I been so snippy on the phone? River was right. Pete is a cop. He always has cop stuff to do—stuff he can’t discuss with me.

  I’m probably just on edge because of discovering Shea’s body. I should call him and apologize.

  I reached for my phone, and it buzzed just as I took it from my handbag.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Barrett? This is Bob, from Bob’s delivery service. I have your table and chairs and dishes from Jenny’s on the truck, and I can deliver them to your house at around four o’clock, if that’s convenient.”

  I told him I could be there at four, put the play and the phone back into the handbag, paid for my lunch, and returned to the school. I still had a couple of hours before I needed to leave to meet the delivery truck. I put the idea of calling Pete aside for the moment. What could I say, anyway? That I’d behaved like a bad-tempered brat? He had so much on his mind, he probably hadn’t even noticed my snarkiness.

  This would be a good time to get acquainted with my new truck. I headed for the exit that led into the warehouse garage behind the old store. Mr. Pennington was right. The 1980s vintage truck wasn’t pretty—just a plain old, dull, tan-colored regular-cab Ford F-150 pickup. The remnants of a faded DUKAKIS FOR GOVERNOR sticker still clung to the rear bumper, contrasting with the bright new Massachusetts license plate. The tires seemed okay, and when I climbed inside, the interior looked clean enough. I turned the key, and the engine cranked to life immediately. So far, so good. A garage-door opener rested on the dashboard. I pressed the button and watched as the wide aluminum door slid open. I was ready to take my new wheels for a spin around Salem.

  I drove slowly onto what had once been Trumbull’s Department Store’s warehouse receiving lot. I rounded the building, emerged in the Tabby’s parking lot, and with one regretful look toward my own beautiful blue Corvette, pulled out onto Essex Street.

  I headed down Washington Street, past the post office. I turned onto Margin Street, trying to tell myself I’d chosen that route because there’d be less traffic that way—that it was just a coincidence that the police station was located there.

  It’s still lunchtime. Maybe I’ll see Pete.

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Aunt Ibby always said.

  I slowed down when I saw a familiar Crown Vic pulling out of the station’s driveway. It was Pete, all right. But who was that blonde sitting beside him?

  CHAPTER 13

  I saw Pete glance at the truck, but of course, he didn’t recognize it. Or me. I’d turned my head away as we passed one another, then immediately regretted it, because I hadn’t been able to get a good look at the blond woman.

  I took Jefferson Avenue all the way down to Salem State University, probably driving a little too fast, before I turned the truck around and headed back to the Tabby. What was the matter with me? I was acting like a silly teenager. Getting snippy with Pete because I didn’t like his tone of voice, then being upset because he had a woman in his car. She was probably a fellow police officer, or maybe even a shoplifter he’d just arrested.

  Preferring, although doubting, the latter explanation, I stopped at the market on my way back, picked up a bottle of wine to go with tonight’s pizza, then drove straight to the warehouse garage. I parked, locked the truck, and walked back into the school. Mr. Pennington’s office door was partially open, so I knocked gently and entered.

  “I’ve just taken a ride in the truck, sir,” I said, “and I think she should do fine.”

  “Excellent, my dear,” the director said, pulling his top desk drawer open. “Here’s a credit card for you to use in the acquisition of properties.” He extended the card toward me, then hesitated. “You understand, I’m sure, that our budget is extremely limited.”

  “I do,” I said, “but it would be helpful if I knew exactly how limited it is. Could I have a dollar figure to work with?”

  “We think seven hundred and fifty dollars total would be a good figure.”

  I accepted the card and tucked it into my bag. “Probably doable if I can borrow some of the furniture and get lucky at thrift stores and yard sales.”

  “We have every confidence in you, Ms. Barrett.” He smiled, stood, and shook my hand. “Of course, the gasoline for the truck is included in the seven-fifty.”

  “Of course,” I said. “That’s only fair. Guess I’ll get started shopping right away, and thanks again for this opportunity.” I gave him a big smile and headed down the broad staircase to the Tabby’s first floor.

  I wonder exactly how much offensive good taste I can get for seven hundred and fifty bucks?

  I still had some time to spare before I was supposed to meet Bob at the house on Winter Street, and checking out a thrift store or two would give me some idea of what I might expect to find in my conservative price range. I left through the parking lot exit, climbed gratefully into my own car, and headed for the closest Goodwill store.

  I have to admit that for the next hour or so I happily mixed business with pleasure. I bought a plump blue velvet–upholstered chair complete with ecru crocheted antimacassars on the arms and back for thirty dollars. It looked eminently suitable for suite 67D. Even better, I found a great-looking Biedermeier-style bedside table for my own suite. It was antique white, and the curvy lines had just the look I wanted for my bedroom. I put the chair on the Tabby’s card, the table on my own, and promised to pick up both pieces with my truck the following day.

  I hope the table has the proper feng shui. Even if it doesn’t, I’m keeping it.

  I found myself humming happily on the way home. I was off to a good start on my summer job, and I’d already acknowledged to myself that I was undoubtedly imagining problems in my relationship with Pete, problems that had absolutely no foundation in fact.

  By the time I pulled into the garage back home, I was feeling pretty darned good. It was still a few minutes before four, so I’d be right on time to welcome Bob and my new kitchen furniture.

  I paused in the back hall, deciding between the two doors facing me. One led to Aunt Ibby’s kitchen; the other, to the narrow flight of stairs leading to my third-floor apartment. The wonderful smell issuing from the kitchen made the decision easy. I knocked, pushed the door open, and called, “Aunt Ibby? It’s me.”

  “Come in, Maralee.” My aunt, wearing a red-and-white-striped apron, with KISS THE COOK in black letters, waved me inside. “You’re just in time to do a taste test on Tabitha’s Joe Froggers.”

  Aunt Ibby had been working for seve
ral months on preparing a cookbook of Tabitha Trumbull’s recipes. She’d discovered a loose-leaf notebook full of them while helping my class with research on the Trumbull family. Proceeds from the sale of the book would benefit the ongoing construction of a state-of-the-art sound and lighting studio in the old building’s basement.

  Big, plump, round, dark, and fragrant, the cookies were displayed on square racks. “They smell great,” I said, reaching for one of the still-warm goodies. “What’s in them?”

  “There’s molasses, the dark kind. Some ginger and clove and nutmeg. Salt water and a healthy shot of rum,” she said. “Sit down and pour yourself a glass of milk to go with it, and tell me what you think.”

  I did as I was told. One bite, and I closed my eyes, leaned back in my seat, and gave her a silent thumbs-up. “This one’s a keeper,” I said. “No doubt.”

  “Thought so.” She smiled. “They have a bit of history. The fishermen in Marblehead used to take Joe Froggers to sea because they never got hard. That’s because of the rum and salt water.”

  “Smart fishermen.” I looked at the clock. “Almost four,” I said. “Bob’s Delivery should be along any minute. I’d better go up and unlock my door.”

  “Oh, it may already be unlocked,” she said. “I was up there earlier, planning a couple of little surprises for you. Hope you don’t mind my going in uninvited, but I’m going to a concert with Rupert this evening, and I wanted to get things in place before I had to leave.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. What’s the surprise?”

  “Oh, you’ll see soon enough. Look, there goes O’Ryan, heading for the front door. I’ll bet that’s Bob arriving now.”

  She and O’Ryan were right, and before long my new table and chairs had replaced the folding ones. The borrowed dishes were back downstairs in Aunt Ibby’s sideboard, and the Russel Wright china was safely housed behind my glass-fronted cabinet doors. Bob and his partner returned to their truck with a check for the safe and prompt delivery of the furniture, along with a brown paper bag full of Tabitha Trumbull’s Joe Froggers.