“Go home, O’Ryan. Bad boy. Scat!” I pointed toward the house. “It’s too cold for you out here.”
Aunt Ibby pressed the garage door opener, and the cat trotted inside, looking back at us.
“Shall we take him with us?” Aunt Ibby asked. “I think he wants to come.”
I shrugged. “Sure. Why not? He likes to ride.”
She climbed into the passenger seat, and O’Ryan curled up on her lap. I eased the car out of the garage, and we headed slowly toward Bridge Street, where the Sullivans lived. Happily, Bridge Street had been plowed, and when we pulled up in front of the apartment house, Mrs. Sullivan was already waiting at the curb. A tiny little bird of a woman, she looked very small in the big backseat.
“Thanks so much, Ibby, and it’s so kind of you to drive, Lee, on such a dreadful night. I’m terribly worried about Bill. Junior sounds worried, too. It’s just not like Bill to go off and not tell anyone.” The thin voice broke.
Aunt Ibby murmured comforting words. I concentrated on the road as the windshield wipers tried to keep up with the icy droplets pinging on the glass. O’Ryan purred.
Even though Essex Street is practically around the corner from our house, Salem’s eccentric pattern of one-way streets and pedestrian malls made a roundabout route to Trumbull’s necessary. The plows had done a good job of clearing the main streets, though, and the trip wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. The parking lot next to the old store was nearly empty. There was one police cruiser, Pete’s unmarked Crown Vic, an old red van marked SULLIVAN AND SON with an attached U-Haul trailer, and a couple of other cars I didn’t recognize.
I parked as close to the building as I could, and we climbed out, leaving O’Ryan in the driver’s seat, peering out the window. There were lights on inside the building, and a uniformed officer stood outside the glass double doors. For as long as I could remember, those doors had been covered on the inside with some kind of thick fabric, preventing anyone from seeing in. All the display windows had been covered, too, but now light shone from each one and newly polished glass gave a clear view of the grand staircase Aunt Ibby had described. Pete Mondello stood just inside the door, in apparent conversation with a man who wore a black, velvet-collared topcoat and a gray fedora hat. I recognized Rupert Pennington, the new director of the Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts. Mr. Sullivan’s son, Junior, sat on the bottom stair, his head in his hands.
Aunt Ibby spoke to the uniformed officer. “This is Mrs. Sullivan. She needs to talk to her son, to help you fellows figure out what’s become of her husband.”
CHAPTER 3
The officer tapped on the glass and motioned to Pete, who held up a finger, signaling, “Wait a minute,” then, seeing us standing outside, quickly approached the double doors. He frowned as he pulled one of them open . . . not a grouchy frown, but one that meant “What the hell are you doing here?”
Pete stood in the open doorway. “Lee? Ms. Russell? What’s going on?” He caught sight of the woman with us. “Is this Mrs. Sullivan? Please come in, ma’am. I’ve been trying to call you.”
He bent to take Mrs. Sullivan’s elbow and guided her toward the stairs where Junior sat. His cop face firmly in place, he turned and spoke to us over his shoulder. “You two can come in. Can’t leave you standing out in the cold. Don’t touch anything.”
So there we stood, as Aunt Ibby says, “Like a tree full of owls,” in the middle of that vast, nearly empty, hardwood-floored, retail time capsule, Trumbull’s Department Store. I looked around. There was very little not to touch.
Mr. Rupert Pennington, who stood nearby and was also carefully not touching anything, broke the awkward silence.
“Ms. Barrett? Is that you?”
“Yes, sir. Aunt Ibby, this is Mr. Pennington, the director of the school. Mr. Pennington, my aunt, Isobel Russell.”
The director carefully removed one gray leather glove, and we shook hands all around.
“We drove Mrs. Sullivan here,” I explained. “She’s terribly worried about her husband.”
“Ah, yes, indeed. The dear lady appears quite distraught.” The director’s voice was clearly that of a trained stage actor. I’d met Mr. Pennington before, when I was first approved by the board to be an instructor at the Tabby, so I wasn’t surprised by his Shakespearean tone. I could tell by Aunt Ibby’s expression, though, that she didn’t know whether to be impressed or amused.
“How did you happen to be here on this dark and stormy night, Mr. Pennington?” my aunt asked.
“The young constable there”—he waved in Pete’s direction—“asked me to come and perhaps be of some assistance.” He reached into his overcoat pocket and produced a jangling ring of keys. “Apparently, I possess the only extant complete set of keys to this little kingdom.”
“Do you know if they’ve figured out where Mr. Sullivan might have gone?” I asked. “Whether he might have left the building for some reason?”
“Aha!” He’d replaced his glove and pointed his index finger into the air. “We traversed the perimeter of the main floor and unlocked each and every egress onto the street level. Not stepping outside, the officer examined the newly fallen snow to see if there were any footprints indicating that any person had recently exited the building.”
“And?” Aunt Ibby asked. “Were there?”
“Alas. Not a one. The only footprints were those at the front door, made by the missing gentleman and the strapping lad on the stairs”—he pointed at Junior—“as they went in and out, to and fro, so to speak, loading items into the truck.”
“Junior said his dad went into the basement,” I said. “Did you check the exits down there?”
Mr. Pennington shrugged. “There are none. It was explained to me that the basement was never used as a sales area for just that reason. No exits. Unsafe in case of fire, you know. So it’s just a storage place. The school can’t use it for classrooms yet, either. But someday, with sufficient funding, we’ll make it into a state-of-the-art sound and lighting studio. But for now, it’s a huge expanse of wasted space.”
“It’s like one of those ‘locked room’ mysteries,” Aunt Ibby said. “As in ‘Colonel Mustard did it in the library with the candlestick.’ What’s down there?”
“Mannequins,” he said. “Rows of mannequins. Men and women; boys and girls; headless torsos; assorted arms, legs, hands, and feet; various heads and other body parts. All naked, of course, but discreetly covered with sheets, each and every one.”
“That must be a strange sight,” Aunt Ibby said. “But isn’t the city going to sell the mannequins along with the other old fixtures? Perhaps that’s why Bill Sullivan went down there.”
“Originally, that was the plan,” he said. “But the costume division of the Theater Arts Department asked if they could have them, and the city agreed.”
“So we still don’t know why he went into the basement,” I said. “Maybe he was just curious.”
“Sorry to keep you people standing here.” It was Pete with a sobbing Mrs. Sullivan at his side. “Lee, maybe you and your aunt could talk to Mrs. Sullivan for a minute to help her calm down.”
“Well, certainly.” My aunt put an arm around the woman’s quaking shoulders. “Could you find her a chair, Pete? And maybe a glass of water?”
Rupert Pennington, looking distinctly uncomfortable, backed away from Mrs. Sullivan, whose loud sobs were interspersed with hiccups. “I’ll get a chair. There are still quite a few in the old shoe department.” He hurried away toward the staircase, motioning to Junior, who still sat at the foot of the stairs. “Come along, young man. We’ll get a chair for your poor mother.”
“Pete,” I said. “I have some bottled water in the car. I’ll get it. And would you mind if I brought O’Ryan inside? I didn’t think we’d be here this long, and it’s very cold out there.”
“You brought the cat.” It was a statement, not a question. But he couldn’t keep a straight face and broke into a half smile. “Sure. Why not?” He shook his he
ad. “I’ll come with you.” He shrugged into his coat.
A wintry blast of air hit us as soon as we pushed the door open. He took my hand. “Watch it,” he said. “This sidewalk is getting slippery.”
He was right. With unsteady steps and short strides, we approached the Buick. The light from an overhead streetlamp showed O’Ryan stretched out along the top of the backseat. His pink nose was pressed against the glass, fogged from his warm, probably catnip-scented breath.
I unlocked the door, and O’Ryan, with a happy “mrrup,” hopped over into the front seat.
“Pete, there’s a six-pack of bottled water on the floor in back. I hope it hasn’t frozen. If you’ll grab a bottle, I’ll carry O’Ryan.”
“Do you always carry water in the car?”
“Yep. Ever since Aunt Ibby got caught in a three-hour traffic jam on Route 128 on a hot summer day.”
“Makes sense.” Pete stuffed the plastic bottle into his coat pocket, while I held the big cat against my shoulder with one hand and Pete’s steadying arm with the other. Still walking gingerly, we approached the old store. O’Ryan suddenly shifted his position, and I grasped him more tightly.
“Hang on, boy,” I said. “We’re almost there. Stop wiggling. You won’t like it if I drop you into a snowbank.”
“Mrrow,” he said and, poking his head over my shoulder, strained to look up at the roof.
“Do you think he’s looking for the top-floor ghost?” Pete teased. “You keep telling me he’s a witch’s cat.”
“Well, he is. He can’t help it.” I let go of Pete’s arm and looked upward, too. “Is that where the ghost is supposed to be? On the top floor?”
“So they say. But what town in New England doesn’t have a lady in white haunting a house or two? That story must be number one on the urban legend list. Crazy, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh,” I agreed. “Absolutely crazy.” I grasped his arm again, a little more tightly.
I still don’t like walking past this place at night.
Even after we were back inside the Tabby, I held O’Ryan in my arms. If a big man like Bill Sullivan could disappear in there, how hard would it be to find a wandering cat? Aunt Ibby and Mrs. Sullivan were each seated in vintage bentwood chairs. Pete handed the water to the no longer sobbing, but still sniffling woman and after a moment, speaking in low tones, led her back toward the stairs.
With O’Ryan curled up on my lap, I sat in the vacated chair. Junior Sullivan and Mr. Pennington stood a few feet away, in conversation with the uniformed officer, who had come inside and was stamping his feet and blowing on cold-reddened hands.
“Mrs. Sullivan seems better,” I said. “What made her start crying so hard? She sounded almost hysterical.”
“They asked her if she and Bill were getting along. She thought they made it sound as though he was running away from her.”
“Well, I guess it’s a fair question. Were they? Getting along, I mean?”
“That’s what made her cry so,” my aunt said. “Seems they’d had a little tiff about him leaving home to come here on Christmas Day. Junior’s wife was upset about it, too, so the whole family was squabbling the last time she saw him.”
“I don’t see a man like Bill running off over a little thing like that.”
“She doesn’t, either. She’s just afraid the police will think so, and they won’t seriously try to find him.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll make sure Pete understands.”
“Make sure I understand what?” Pete’s voice came from just over my shoulder. Mrs. Sullivan stood silently beside him. Mr. Pennington, the uniformed officer, and Junior moved closer to us, and Mr. Pennington rubbed his gloved hands together.
“Well, boys,” he said in his most sonorous tone, “we’ve a man’s work ahead of us this day.”
“Pardon?” said Pete.
“Huh?” said Junior.
“What’d he say?” asked the cop.
“Fort Apache,” said Aunt Ibby. “Victor McLaglen. 1948.”
The look the new director of the Tabby bestowed on my aunt was one of pure adoration. “Dear Lady,” Pennington intoned, “what an honor to meet a fellow motion picture aficionado!”
Aunt Ibby gave a polite nod. “Not really. Just an old reference librarian with a head full of trivia.”
Mr. Pennington beamed. “You are too modest, Miss Russell. Or is it Mrs.?”
Oh my God. My boss is hitting on my aunt.
Pete cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. We’re going to take a closer look at the basement. Something has turned up that no one bothered to tell us about.” His cop-face stare was directed at Mrs. Sullivan. In his hand he held a purple cloth bag—the kind liquor comes in around the holiday season. It bulged with lumpy contents and clanked slightly when he shook it. “This bag is apparently the property of Mr. Sullivan. Your son says it has something to do with a hobby of your husband’s. Is that right?”
The tiny woman seemed to be on the verge of tears again. “Oh, dear. I told Bill he should have asked permission, but he said nobody would care if he did it.” She reached for the bag. “Did you find it down there, in the basement?”
Junior went to his mother’s side. “It’s okay, Ma,” he said. “I told them already. I told them what Dad was doing.”
Bill Sullivan doing something shady ?
“Mrs. Sullivan,” Pete said, handing the bag to the uniformed officer, “we’ll hold on to this for the time being. You and your son may as well go home while we keep looking for your husband. We’ll do one more sweep of the building tonight. If you think of anything at all that might help . . .” He handed her a card, and his voice softened. “I’ve put my cell phone number on the back, so you can call me anytime.”
“We’ll drive you home, Mrs. Sullivan,” I said, “unless you’d prefer to ride with your son.”
“It’s hard for me to climb into the van,” she said, “so, if you don’t mind . . .”
Rupert Pennington volunteered to stay so that he could be sure everything would be “locked up tight” when the police left, even though Pete assured him that they’d secure the place. O’Ryan had been uncharacteristically passive during the time we’d been inside, making no cat comments, no moves to get down from my lap to explore this cavernous place. Instead, his unblinking, golden-eyed gaze had remained fixed on the narrow door that, apparently, led to the basement. Even when I stood to leave and shifted his weight to my shoulder, he twisted his head and continued to watch that solid panel with its faded NO ADMITTANCE sign.
Rather than have Aunt Ibby and Mrs. Sullivan trudge through the deepening snow, I handed the cat over to my aunt and set out to get the car, while the two waited inside the glass doors. I resisted a strong temptation to look up at the row of dormer windows protruding from the mansard roof of the weathered brick building.
I have no desire to see a ghost this Christmas night. What was it Scrooge said when he saw all those ghosts at Christmas ? Something about a crumb of cheese, a blot of mustard? Aunt Ibby would know. So would Mr. Pennington.
The Buick’s windshield had acquired a thin coating of ice, requiring a couple of minutes with the plastic frost scraper—one chore I hadn’t missed in Florida. I turned the heat on full blast, backed the Buick out, and chugged slowly to the front of Trumbull’s. Normally, I’m not a nosy person, but I hoped that on the ride home Mrs. Sullivan would tell us what it was that Bill had done and what was in the lumpy purple bag.
Pete escorted the two women onto the sidewalk, and he helped each one into the passenger side of the car, then came around to the driver’s side and motioned for me to lower the window a crack. Leaning close to the glass, he whispered, “If that offer of pumpkin pie is still good, I’ll drop by when we finish up here.”
I smiled my reply, and with my passengers buckled in and O’Ryan again curled up on Aunt Ibby’s lap, I headed back to Bridge Street. We’d barely started when Mrs. Sullivan began to talk.
“It was because of the co
ins, you know. That’s all it was. That’s how come Bill and Junior gave the low bid for the job. Bill wanted the silver.”
“Silver coins?” Aunt Ibby prompted.
“Oh, yes. There should have been lots of them in an old store like that. Coins roll under the counters all the time, and those big wooden ones probably hadn’t been moved in years. And since they closed the store in the sixties, Bill figured all that loose change would be the real silver kind.” She sniffled. “He’s been finding them all week. I told him he should’ve asked permission. They prob’ly would’ve said he could keep whatever he found. He wouldn’t listen. Said the city would figure it was theirs.”
“Is that what’s in the purple bag?” I asked. “Money?”
“Sure. But at least now I know that Bill isn’t running away from me. He’d never run off and leave all that silver behind. Anyway, Junior says he didn’t even take his coat. He’s in that old store somewhere. They’ll find him.”
“They found the bag in the basement,” I said, thinking out loud. “There aren’t any counters down there.”
“Wouldn’t matter to Bill. Not a bit.” Her voice sounded stronger. “When he’s hunting for coins, he’ll go anywhere. He’s searched the whole place. The basement must have been the only part he hadn’t checked. He even took a flashlight one night and looked in the attic.”
“The attic?” Aunt Ibby turned and faced the woman.
“Sure. The part with the funny-looking windows. Where they used to keep the old woman.”
CHAPTER 4
Aunt Ibby and I exchanged surprised looks.
Where they used to keep the old woman?
We’d reached the Sullivans’ apartment house, and the red van with the U-Haul trailer was already parked in front of the building. Before we could question his mother further, Junior Sullivan stepped over a snowbank, extending an assisting hand as she climbed from the backseat.
She thanked us again for our help and hurried away.
Tails, You Lose (A Witch City Mystery Book 2) Page 2
