Look Both Ways

by Carol J. Perry

My aunt was seated beside me. “Looks like everybody who is anybody is here,” she whispered. “Look. There’s the mayor and his wife, and isn’t that Tripp Hampton over there with a pretty blonde?”

  I looked to where she pointed, and nudged Pete. “There’s Tripp Hampton,” I said. “With Daphne.”

  “Saw them,” he said. “Gar y Campbell’s here, too, with Jenny.” He nodded toward the couple a few rows ahead of us, their heads bent over a play program.

  I wasn’t surprised by Gary Campbell’s choice of a theater date, but Daphne being Tripp Hampton’s escort was a shocker now that her boyfriend was free. Was it possible that Tommy didn’t mind Tripp playing Henry Higgins to Daphne’s Eliza Doolittle? I turned in my seat and looked toward the back of the theater, halfway expecting to see Tommy Trent’s angry face, but the houselights had dimmed and the curtain rose on the Tabby’s first play of the summer.

  By intermission the success of Hobson’s was assured. Pete and I and my aunt and Mr. Pennington headed to the lobby. A discreet cash bar had been set up, where a tuxedoed bartender served wine and soft drinks. A beaming Mr. Pennington mingled with the crowd, and Aunt Ibby, as usual, was surrounded by friends. Pete and I carried our wineglasses to the far edge of the long lobby, where I happily eavesdropped on the enthusiastic comments of passing patrons. Pete, his cop face in place and his back to the wall, stood close at my side, watching the crowd.

  “Oh, there you are. Hi, Lee! Hi, Detective!” Daphne, splendid in a gold, all-over sequined mini with matching four-inch-high heels, enveloped me in a Juicy Couture–scented hug. “The play is good so far, isn’t it?” She frowned. “Wish we could have got front-row seats, though, so I could see better.”

  Tripp Hampton, in black Armani, stood back for a moment, looking at her much the way a proud daddy might look at his cute four-year-old. Then he stepped forward, right hand extended, first to Pete and then to me. We all spoke the expected greetings, commented on the actors’ performances, the attractiveness of the set.

  “The cobbler’s bench looks absolutely authentic, Tripp,” I said. “Thank you again so much for lending it to us.”

  “My pleasure,” he said.

  “Tripp,” Daphne said, all dimples and smiles. “Want to get me a glass of white wine?”

  “Of course. Refill, Lee? Detective?”

  “No thanks,” I said. We each lifted our glasses.

  “We’re fine.” Pete tapped my glass with his.

  Tripp headed for the bar, and Daphne squinted, watching his retreating back. “I’d get it myself except I didn’t bring any money,” she said. “I’d like to get a closer look at the cute bartender. Love men in tuxes. Do you have one, Detective?”

  Pete laughed. “Not me. I rent one when I need it.”

  Tripp returned and handed Daphne her glass with a flourish. “Cheers, dear.”

  She favored him with a dimpled smile. “Tripp has one. Looks good in it, too. One time he took me to a black-tie thing where all the men wore them. What a feast!” She laughed the silvery little giggle she’d perfected as Billie Dawn. “The only problem that night was, I didn’t have the slightest idea who I was dancing with most of the time. They all looked alike to me!”

  The five-minute-warning buzzer sounded. I looked around the lobby, hoping to see Gar y Campbell so I could thank him for the loan of the cash register. Not only did it look good onstage, but its loud ring also brought hearty laughter from the audience every time the old man dipped into it for drinking money. I remembered what Campbell had said about knowing what that was like. When we all trooped back into the theater for the last two acts, I saw that he and Jenny were already in their seats, and resolved to thank him later.

  We watched while Maggie swore to Will that she’d wear her brass wedding ring forever, and cheered when old man Hobson got his comeuppance. The place erupted with applause. A standing ovation for the cast and three curtain calls! Mr. Pennington was ecstatic. Again, I searched for Gar y Campbell but couldn’t spot him in the crowd.

  The mood was still celebrator y when we arrived back at the house on Winter Street, and Aunt Ibby’s latest creation from the Tabitha Trumbull cookbook to be, served with hazelnut-flavored coffee, was received with enthusiasm. It was after midnight when Mr. Pennington and Pete left, and while my aunt and I dealt with the dishes, something nibbled at my mind. It was something Daphne had said.

  “Aunt Ibby,” I said, “want to do a bit of research for me?”

  “Love to. Research is my middle name.” Her face lit up, and she rubbed her hands together. “What do you need?”

  I smiled at her eagerness. “Do you think you could dig up some newspaper accounts of any big society events that happened in Salem on the night Helena was murdered?”

  “Sounds intriguing! I’ll go to the library and get on it first thing in the morning.”

  “I’d appreciate it. Thanks.”

  She hung up her dish towel and turned off the kitchen light. We headed for the front stairs together, O’Ryan trotting along behind us. “Want to give me a hint about what I’m looking for?” she asked.

  “I’m not even sure myself,” I admitted. “It may be nothing. May be something.”

  We’d reached the door to her second-floor bedroom. “Good night, then, Maralee. Sweet dreams.”

  I climbed the stairs to my own apartment, O’Ryan scampering ahead of me. I heard his cat door open and saw the flick of his yellow tail as he went inside. By the time I opened the door, he was already sprawled out along the windowsill.

  “That seems to be your favorite perch lately,” I said. “Are your friends in the yard again?”

  Leaving the kitchen light off, I knelt beside the window and looked in the direction the big cat faced. The bars of the fire escape blocked the view from that vantage point, so I stood and looked through the panes at the top of the sash. The moon had paled, but the back fence was still visible. At first I didn’t see the lone cat sitting there, black as the night sky.

  CHAPTER 36

  Things were upbeat at the Tabby’s diner when I stopped in for morning coffee. Newspapers were in evidence all over the place as actors and directors, stagehands and volunteer staff members searched for reviews of the previous night’s opening performance. The Salem News, the Boston Herald, the Boston Globe, and a few tabloids I’d never heard of were spread out on the counter and on most of the tables.

  Mr. Pennington called to me from a booth tightly packed with players from the cast of Hobson’s Choice. “Ms. Barrett. Do come and join us. The reviews are stellar! Look. The News even mentions the excellent set design.”

  I stood at the edge of the table and looked at the paper, pleased that my efforts had brought positive editorial notice. There was clearly no room for me to join the happy group, but two seats at the crowded counter behind me were vacated as I stood there, and I hurried to claim one. As I slid onto the round red stool, a man captured the one next to me, and we bumped elbows.

  “Well, Ms. Barrett, we literally keep running into each other, don’t we?” Gar y Campbell rubbed his arm. “You okay?”

  “I am,” I said, relieved that we were finally acknowledging that collision on the steps of Shea’s shop. “You?”

  “Smacked my funny bone, that’s all. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said.

  “I’m not so broke, I can’t afford coffee,” he said, smiling.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I looked for you last night. I wanted to thank you again for the cash register. Did you and Jenny enjoy the show?”

  “Ver y much. The old man got a laugh every time he opened it to grab his booze money, didn’t he?”

  “It added a lot to the story. And thanks, too, for being so gracious about the candlestick.”

  He shrugged. “It’s nothing. Glad to help out when I can.”

  “You’re very generous.” As soon as I said the words, I remembered what River had said about the blue-eyed, blond man. He can be generous,
but he can be cruel or brutal. What had he said to Shea that was cruel enough for a judge to issue a restraining order? Had they really reconciled, agreed to go back into business together? I sipped my coffee and looked at his reflection in the Coca-Cola mirror behind the counter. He was still smiling.

  “I understood how the old man felt, though,” he said.

  “The old man?”

  “In the play. When he was stealing from the company to support a bad habit.” He turned and faced me. “I used to steal. Out of that same cash register. For almost the same reason.” The smile had disappeared.

  What the heck are you supposed to say to an admission like that? I was saved from having to say anything when Daphne’s reflection appeared between us in the mirror. “Hey, Lee! Did you see the reviews? Awesome, huh?”

  “Wonderful. Mr. Pennington is so happy.”

  “I know. I wonder if the papers will say such good stuff about my play.”

  “I’m sure they will. Daphne, you know Mr. Campbell, don’t you?”

  “Sure.” She faced the man, squinting. “Can I sit with you guys?”

  “Here. Take my seat,” I told her. “I have to get up to my office. Thanks for the coffee, Mr. Campbell.”

  “You’re welcome. Please call me Gar y, Lee.”

  I left the diner through the doors leading to the Tabby. When I looked back, the two were in animated conversation.

  On the third floor, the Our Town actors were going over their lines in front of the old S&H Green Stamp redemption center, while one of the stagehands ran a vacuum cleaner over the rug on the suite 67D stage. Once again, I left my office door ajar, finding the sounds of activity soothing. I cleared the top of my desk, putting a few folders into the file cabinet. As I arranged the bound scripts into a neat stack, I noticed one of River’s tarot cards. I turned it over and found myself face-to-face with the Knight of Wands . . . that blond, blue-eyed mystery man. I turned him facedown again and smiled as I texted River, telling her she was no longer playing with a full deck. She texted me back, telling me to keep him as a reminder to be careful. I taped old blue eyes to the wall beside me.

  I read through the property lists on the back page of each of the remaining scripts, checking off the things we’d decided to use and crossing out the ones the director thought unnecessary. I looked up from my work when I heard the office door swing open. This time Tommy Trent didn’t look angry, but he didn’t look particularly friendly, either.

  “Please don’t close that door,” I said as he started to push it shut.

  “Oh, sorr y.” He opened the door halfway. “That better?”

  “Yes, thank you. What do you want?” My phone was close at hand.

  “I took my car to the car wash today,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “Had a full detail. They vacuumed the whole inside.”

  “Uh-huh.” My hand crept closer to the phone.

  He pulled a wrinkled sheet of paper from his pocket. “They found this under the front seat. It’s got your name and address on it. First the card in my bureau drawer and now this. What are you trying to prove, lady?” He shook the paper close to my face. I recognized the name on the heading.

  Bob’s Moving and Delivery.

  “I’ve never seen it before,” I told him, “but I know it was stolen, and I know that the police are looking for it. If somebody put it in your car, that somebody is trying to get you into trouble.”

  “One thing I don’t want is more trouble,” he said. “I’ve had enough of it.” He put the paper on my desk. “If the cops need it, they can have it. Call them if you want to. Maybe they can figure out how it got into my locked car. I’m calling my probation officer.” He reached into the breast pocket of his shirt. “Something’s going on here that can land me back in prison.”

  My mind raced, and my first thought was Daphne. She’d claimed she’d found the index card, and I knew she had access to Tommy’s car. Gar y Campbell had been in the shop with Shea’s body. Had he taken the index card from the register? Were Daphne and Gar y working together? Was that a chance meeting downstairs in the diner, or had they arranged it?”

  I almost blurted out, “What about Daphne?” when the door swung open all the way. Pete stood in the door way, and my aunt Ibby was right behind him.

  “Put your hands where I can see them, Trent,” Pete ordered. “What are you doing here?”

  Tommy put his phone down and spread his hands out flat on the desk. “I found something in my car that I thought might belong to Ms. Barrett here. Has her name on it.” He jerked his head in my direction. “She’ll tell you.”

  I walked over to where my aunt waited in the doorway, and stood beside her. She squeezed my hand.

  “That right, Lee?” Pete stepped closer to the desk and looked down at the crumpled work order.

  “That’s right,” I said, “and I’m pretty sure that’s the paperwork somebody took from Bob’s, isn’t it?”

  “Looks like it. You say you found this in your car, Trent? Let’s step outside, and you can tell me all about it.”

  Aunt Ibby and I moved aside as Tommy Trent and Pete left the office.

  “Good heavens, Maralee,” she said. “What on God’s green earth was that all about?”

  “It’s pretty much what Tommy Trent said. He found that paper with my name on it and wanted to know what was going on.”

  “Pete seemed to know Trent was here.”

  I smiled. “Pete’s keeping an eye on me. But what are you doing here? Is anything wrong?”

  “Not at all. I did as you asked and learned a few things about the night Helena died.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I thought we might go to lunch together so I can show you what I’ve found.”

  “Good idea,” I said, grabbing my purse. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I closed my office door as we left, and looked around for Pete and Tommy in the Theater Arts Department. “Pete must have taken him outside to see what he has to say about the work order.”

  “Did you believe what the man said about it, Maralee?” my aunt asked. “That he found it in his car and didn’t know how it got there?”

  “You know something? I did believe him. Strange, isn’t it?”

  “Not so strange. If he’d stolen it, he’d hardly carry it up here and show it to you, now would he?”

  “That’s probably what Pete’s thinking. So if both the index card and the work order were planted on Tommy, who did it? And why?”

  “I’m sorry to say it,” she said, “but little Daphne comes to mind.”

  I sighed. “I thought of that, too.”

  Aunt Ibby stopped at the head of the stairs leading down to the second floor and looked around the huge space. “This used to be Trumbull’s furniture department, you know. And over there was the beauty parlor. And I think over there, where those actors are, was the place where Mother used to cash in her Green Stamps.” She shook her head as we started down the stairs. “Things change.”

  CHAPTER 37

  The diner was still pretty crowded, so we opted for Rockafellas just down the street, in the old Daniel Low Building, because Aunt Ibby loves the way they do Caesar salad. We each ordered the salad and raspberry iced tea, and my aunt again pulled the sheaf of papers from her handbag.

  “There were several of what you might call ‘society events’ going on in Salem the evening that Helena died,” she said. “And the Salem News had reporters at most of them. I cross-checked the reports with the articles about the murder, trying to narrow it all down to what I thought was of the most interest to you.” She pushed several pages across the table to me. “See what you think.”

  The top one showed a photo of Tripp Hampton posing next to a large painting he’d donated to a charity auction sponsored by the North Shore Patrons of the Arts. “I remember reading that he and Daphne attended that auction together.” I checked the date at the top of the page. “This paper came out the next morning, before they fou
nd Helena’s body.”

  “That article is quite extensive,” Aunt Ibby said. “It was apparently an A-list party, and extremely well attended.”

  “Must have been,” I said. “It says here they raised well over a million dollars.”

  “Read on,” she said, sipping on her iced tea.

  I skimmed through the report on the event, which had taken place at a private home. The reporter had been seriously impressed. The story fairly bristled with adjectives. Hundreds of wealthy guests. Fabulous music. Exquisite hors d’ oeuvres. Beautiful women, all in gorgeous gowns. Handsome men, all in black tie . . .

  I stopped reading and looked across the table at Aunt Ibby. “Bingo,” I said.

  “Find what you were looking for already? That didn’t take long.”

  “Mr. Pennington has told you about Daphne’s poor eyesight, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes, indeed. He says the poor child is probably legally blind, but she still refuses to wear glasses.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “And last night she mentioned that Tripp Hampton took her to a party once where all the men wore tuxedos.”

  “Could be the charity auction.”

  “She said all the men looked so much alike, she didn’t know who she was dancing with half the time.” I looked again at the picture of Tripp. “She and Tripp were pretty much each other’s alibis on the night Helena was killed.”

  Aunt Ibby nodded. “You’re thinking Tripp could have left the party, and she wouldn’t have noticed.”

  “Uh-huh. And he could have mingled enough and posed for enough photos that among over a hundred guests, it wouldn’t be hard for him to slip away for a little while. Did you happen to find the address where the party was held?”

  “The Garland mansion,” she said. “It’s right over near the Hampton place, and it’s even bigger.”

  “Walking distance?”

  “Maybe, for a young person. One thing, though, Maralee.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Was Pete with you when Daphne mentioned the men in tuxedos?”

  I remembered Pete saying he always rented a tux if he needed one. “Yes, he was there.”