Murder Go Round

by Carol J. Perry

  The papers and books and index cards were still spread out on the counter. I carried the books and legal pad into my bedroom and, avoiding looking directly at the mirror, stashed them in my antique writing desk. I hurried back to the kitchen—and the waiting stack of fresh index cards. I kicked off my shoes and began scribbling:

  The carousel horse was in the cellar of the Williams Street house when Mr. McKenna was a little kid back in the sixties.

  Colleen McKenna and Stasia were friends.

  Scott Palmer was friends with Dillon and is keeping his secrets.

  Nikita Novikova’s wife was named Lydia. (Did she make the quilt?)

  Chief Whaley’s clipping file: There was a similar murder to Dillon’s in Connecticut in the 1970s.

  Connecticut murder victim was a Russian baker who said he worked in the czar’s court. Baker came to America in 1915.

  Did Nikita and the baker come to America together in 1915 on the ship I saw?

  The murder weapon—A leather garrote with metal triangles in it.

  The Russians in Connecticut blamed witches. (Ask River why.)

  I put all the cards, the new ones and the ones I’d written earlier, into a neat pile.

  Now what? I have a stack of questions without answers.

  I picked up the cards and absentmindedly began shuffling them, the same way I’d shuffled the tarot cards.

  Maybe if I lay them down in some sort of pattern like River does, I thought, they’ll begin to make sense.

  Feeling a little silly, and glad no one was watching except the cat, I carried the stack of cards over to the kitchen table. Sitting down, I slowly lifted the top card, turned it face up and placed it in the center of the glass.

  Why did somebody kill Eric Dillon?

  Interesting. That was, after all, the main question. I lifted the next card, turned it over and put it above the first one.

  What is somebody looking for that was in our locker?

  I turned over the next two. Both showed the same name.

  Colleen and Stasia were friends.

  How is Stasia involved?

  Coincidence? What was it Pete had said just about an hour ago? “I don’t believe in coincidences,” he’d told Leonard. I decided right then that I didn’t either. I gathered up all cards on the table, grabbed a rubber band from my junk drawer, secured the stack and put it, along with a couple of blank index cards, into my purse. Tomorrow I’d go over to the Common and look for Stasia. Nobody, including Pete and Aunt Ibby, seemed to believe the eccentric woman could contribute anything helpful. “Just a local character,” they’d called her. Yet, Stasia continued to show up in places that related to our locker, and the items we’d found there.

  She knows something we don’t know. No coincidence there at all, I thought.

  “What do you think about that, cat?” I asked O’Ryan, who was once again stretched out along the windowsill like a long, furry draft protector. “I’m going to interview the local crazy lady. Maybe get my palm read in the process.”

  O’Ryan gave a cat equivalent of a shoulder shrug, hopped down from his perch and strolled toward the bedroom. He was right. It was definitely bedtime. Cuckoo agreed and announced midnight.

  I changed into pajamas and climbed into bed. But sleep didn’t come easily. I lay awake for a long time, something elusive nibbling at my brain. I mentally ran through the index cards, and through the day’s events. What was I missing? Was there an important clue I’d overlooked? I couldn’t help thinking about the things Aunt Ibby and I had learned in the short time since we’d bought the locker. Things. Maybe I should compose a card about the actual things involved so far. Samovar. Horse. Mickey Mouse. Black Toyota. Ship. Garrote. Doll dresses . . .

  It had the same effect as counting sheep. I knew there were more, but I felt myself drifting off to sleep, the brain-nibbling missing clue still missing.

  * * *

  In the morning I padded out into the kitchen, turned on the TV, then headed straight for the window and closed it. Somehow, during the night, summer had gone away and fall had arrived in New England, complete with a chill wind and, according to WICH-TV’s Wanda the Weathergirl, reports of snow flurries in the White Mountains. I was anxious to watch the morning news, hoping I’d learn some more about the dead Eric Dillon and the break-in at Carbone’s.

  Considering that the previous evening’s fare had consisted mainly of heavily buttered popcorn and sugary, gooey s’mores, I decided that a reasonably healthful breakfast might be in order. Though I’m admittedly no cook, I can scramble eggs, make toast and pour orange juice. I watched the screen while I assembled the ingredients on the counter. Phil Archer, who used to be the night anchor at the station, had been relegated to morning show host duties. He read a few commercials, announced the score of the Red Sox–Royals game and ran a brief video of the opening of a new Nordstrom store.

  “Come on, Phil,” I mumbled. “Get to the real news, will you?” O’Ryan climbed up onto a stool and made a few kittenish swipes at my egg. I rescued it before it could roll off the edge, then reached for the large-sized box of his favorite morning kitty kibble. “Keep your paws off my breakfast, cat. I haven’t forgotten yours.” I turned my back to the screen while I filled O’Ryan’s bowl and almost missed the shot of Scott Palmer standing in front of Carbone’s shop.

  It was hard to believe that the station would assign Scott to cover an event he might possibly be involved in. It occurred to me almost immediately that Scott, being Scott, probably hadn’t told the station’s management that he was involved.

  The report was pretty forthright and didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t already heard from Pete. There was an artist’s sketch of what the forensics people had determined the murder weapon might look like. Scott didn’t point out the triangular metal pieces, but the sketch showed them clearly. He didn’t mention what assignment Eric Dillon had been pursuing in Salem either, nor what business he had in the vicinity of Carbone’s shop. I guessed that the police had limited the information the station could release. The part that interested me most was an interior shot of the inside of the shop. Obviously filmed from outside the open doorway—yellow crime-scene tape visible at the edges of the frame—the camera panned around the large room. The Peter Hunt–style table looked just as it had when Pete and I were there, ditto the Victorian chairs. But spread out in the center of the room was what was left of my poor horse.

  I put two slices of whole wheat bread into the toaster and moved closer to the screen. The camera had zoomed in on the horse parts. It occurred to me that maybe the carnage wasn’t as bad as I’d first thought. The four legs were lined up in a row, and the hindquarters were in two equal pieces above the legs. The head section was pretty scary-looking, leaning against the base of Paul’s workbench, and I could see where the jewels had been pried out. The carved rose dangled forlornly at an awkward angle.

  The camera lingered the longest on the body section, which was clearly hollow inside. The camera panned the parts as Phil Archer intoned, “Police speculate that the intruders may have suspected that something of value was hidden within this old carousel horse. It has not yet been determined whether or not the murder of investigative reporter Eric Dillon, whose body was discovered within the warehouse property, is connected to the break-in at the Carbone studio.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I told the screen as I scrambled my egg harder than necessary. “Of course they’re connected. Don’t you think Eric Dillon was interested in the horse too?”

  Naturally, Phil didn’t answer my question. I listened as Scott wound up the segment. “Chief Whaley has announced that he’ll make a further announcement about the Dillon murder at noon today. WICH-TV will bring it to you live.”

  I poured the orange juice, carried the reasonably healthy breakfast to the table and turned off the TV. Phil Archer’s words about Eric Dillon lingered in my mind. Not so much about Dillon’s connection to the break-in, but that Phil had referred to him as an investigative
reporter. In the next room I had a desk full of books on the subject, and in a couple of weeks I’d have a class full of students wanting to learn what I knew about the job. It was about time I put my book smarts to use and got into the field myself. That would give the Tabby’s investigative reporting 101 class some real-time relevance and, with a little bit of luck, would give me some answers. I’d start today with a walk over to the Salem Common, and maybe an interview with the palm-reading Stasia Novikova.

  I remembered some of the things I’d read for my class preparation about interviewing. I’d underlined quite a few passages in the Barbara Walters book and the important thing I carried away was Barbara’s philosophy about how people need to be treated. She wrote that it was her responsibility to make people comfortable, that the interviewer needs to make them feel good about themselves, to keep their dignity.

  There’s no arguing with success like Barbara’s. I can do that.

  I thought then about how the people I knew thought about Stasia. River said she’s a “local character.” Pete told me he doesn’t expect to “get much there.” Her childhood friend Colleen didn’t even talk to her anymore. Even Aunt Ibby seemed dismissive of the woman. But maybe there was something more to Stasia than we were seeing behind the shapeless clothes, the dyed orange hair, the bubblegum. If there was, maybe I could find out what it was. Another thing Barbara’s book advises is “listen for as long as you are interested.” That’s exactly what I intended to do.

  By nine o’clock, showered, dressed and with notebook, pen and index cards in purse, I set out at a brisk walk for the Salem Common. I’d catch up with Aunt Ibby later to give her a full report on our late-night campfire adventure with the McKenna clan. I turned off my cell phone; I didn’t want any interruptions if I could get the woman to open up to me.

  I saw Stasia before I’d even crossed Washington Square. That orange hair was hard to miss. She sat on one of the benches at the perimeter of the Common, just inside the iron fence, the pink scooter parked beneath a nearby tree. She tossed bread crumbs from a brown paper bag to the congregation of cooing pigeons gathered around her feet and perched on the back of the bench. There was even one on her shoulder.

  I hadn’t considered that pigeon poop might be involved in this interviewing process, and wished I’d worn a hat. The woman looked up when I approached, her expression blank, inscrutable. It was hard to determine her age under that orange hair. Older than me. Younger than Aunt Ibby, I decided. Fortyish?

  “Read your palm, ma’am? Tell your future?” She tossed what was left of the crumbs over her shoulder onto the ground behind the bench, thus dismissing the pigeons. She patted the bench beside her. “Grand Duchess Stasia sees all.” She smiled then, displaying small, even teeth, several of them capped in gold.

  Trying not to look too closely at what I might be sitting in, I returned the smile and sat. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ve never had my palm read before.”

  She gave me an up-and-down look, undoubtedly appraising how much I might be willing to pay to see into my future. I thought about that. The jeans and sweatshirt didn’t hold much promise, but I was certain that she recognized the Frye boots and the Brahmin purse.

  “Ten dollars okay?” Her voice was low, throaty. I’d expected some sort of an accent, but couldn’t detect any.

  “Okay,” I said. “Which hand?”

  “You right-handed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right hand to start.” She took my hand in both of hers, turning mine over from back to front a couple of times, then smoothed my open palm with a gentle touch. She traced a line from just below my index finger toward my pinkie.

  “You are content at the moment with your love life.” It was a statement, not a question. I could only nod in agreement.

  She touched a spot near the base of my ring finger. “Your heart was broken here. Sad. But it wasn’t the man’s fault. He died?”

  Again I nodded.

  “I’m sorry for that.” She looked up from my palm, focusing brown eyes on mine. “I need to tell you that I know who you are. Your name is Lee Barrett. My reading of your hand is true and correct, but not because I already know some things about you.”

  I was surprised. Sure, I’d been trying to learn all I could about her, and even though I’d seen her a number of times lately, it hadn’t occurred to me that she could be studying me at the same time. I quickly dismissed that thought. She’d probably recognized me from my short stint as a TV psychic.

  “I know your name too,” I admitted. “You’re Stasia Novikova.”

  She leaned back against the bench, not letting go of my hand. “That’s true. Everyone knows that.”

  “You told me just now that your name is Grand Duchess Stasia.”

  “True also.”

  “My grandfather Kowolski used to call me Princess Maralee.” I smiled at the memory.

  “Kozlovsky? Russian?” Her eyes widened.

  “No. Kowolski. Polish.”

  “Polish. That’s okay. My grandfather Novikova told me my true name was Grand Duchess Anastasia. I believed him. Everyone calls me Stasia, but my real name is Anastasia.”

  “Everyone calls me Lee,” I told her.

  Nodding, still smiling, she returned to the palm reading. “Your head line is long, deep.” She tapped the line. “Your thinking is clear and focused. You must be a good teacher.”

  “I am a teacher. Did the palm tell you that or did you know?”

  “Which do you think?”

  Hey, wait a minute. Who’s doing the interviewing here?

  “I’d like to think you saw it in my palm.”

  “You’d be correct. It’s there. And look here.” She tapped a curved semicircular line that started at the base of my thumb. “See how your fate line crosses your life line. Someone has given you great assistance in your life, from a very early age. Was it the grandfather?”

  “No. My aunt.” I wanted to get the conversation back to her. “I met an old friend of yours last night.”

  She frowned, not looking up from my hand. “Let me see the other hand now, Maralee. I don’t have many friends. I don’t need a lot of friends. My grandfather had the same five friends his whole life. But I’m curious. Who did you meet?”

  I extended my left hand. “Colleen McKenna. I understand you were pen pals when you lived in . . . Where was it? Somewhere in Colorado?”

  “Yes. Somewhere there. Look. This hand gives us a peek into your future. Your heart line says that you will become more free with expressing your emotions. You haven’t yet been able to share your feelings completely. It will come, with time.” She patted my hand. “Don’t worry.”

  “You’re a very interesting woman, Stasia,” I said, testing my Barbara Walters philosophy. “I enjoyed the reading. Where did you learn to read palms?”

  “Many Russian women can do it,” she said. “It’s not that difficult.”

  “I don’t know much about Russian culture,” I admitted. “I guess your grandfather was a strong influence in your life. Did he come here from Russia?”

  She seemed to relax, letting go of my hand. “Yes. He arrived here in 1915. He was a carpenter in the court of the great Czar Nicholas II.”

  The Connecticut murdered man was a baker in the court of Nicholas. “He must have been a very fine carpenter then, to have such an important position.”

  I saw the pride in her eyes. “He was wonderful. He could build anything. He was young, in his twenties, and already a master carver. Carved the royal crests on the czar’s throne back in the old country.”

  “What an honor that must have been. Did he find similar work in America?”

  “Nothing as grand as working in a palace, but he was happy here. He learned to carve likenesses of animals.”

  “Colleen and her brother remember your grandfather fondly. Your grandmother too.”

  “Grandmother Lydia. She was kind to me—before she grew old and sick and couldn’t remember anything.”

  �
�Oh, that’s so sad. I’m sorry.”

  She reached into a pocket and pulled out a pink square. She unwrapped it, popped the gum into her mouth, shrugged her shoulders and picked up my left hand again. “Yes. It was bad. She couldn’t remember where she’d put anything. Even important things.”

  “She didn’t remember you?”

  “Nope. Didn’t know anybody.” She tapped my hand. “Listen. You be careful about relationships. You’re too trusting.” She shook her head. “Not like me. Not like me at all.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I’ve heard that you’re . . . well . . . a little bit reclusive.”

  She took a deep breath and blew an enormous bubble, then inhaled and made it disappear. I stared. If I’d done that, it would have popped and I’d have been picking gum out of my hair.

  “You’ve probably heard that I’m a little bit crazy. Maybe I am.” She held out her hand. “Ten dollars.”

  I reached for my purse, taking my time, searching for a way to keep the conversation going. But Grand Duchess Anastasia’s face was once again expressionless. Without another word she tucked the ten-dollar bill I handed her into a pocket of the voluminous dress, and motioned to a woman passing by.

  “Read your palm, ma’am? Tell your future?”

  CHAPTER 16

  I stood there for a moment, confused. Was I supposed to shake her hand, thank her for the reading, wish her a good day—what? The potential customer, with a negative shake of her head and a rather obvious side step to the outer edge of the path, hurried away. I figured I’d pretty much booted my first attempt at investigative-reporter interviewing. Too many questions still unanswered. I’d learned very little about Stasia, her grandparents or her interest in our storage locker acquisitions. Barbara had said to “Listen for as long as you are interested, and then a few minutes longer.” Had I listened enough? Maybe I could give it one more shot.