Murder Go Round

by Carol J. Perry

  “I’ll get to it. Don’t worry. I found out that Stasia lived ‘somewhere in Colorado.’ I thought maybe we could check the census reports and maybe learn something about what was going on with the Novikovas back then.”

  She nodded, smiling. “We can do that. Can hardly wait to get going on this. What fun!”

  “Okay. That’s about all I learned from the McKennas. Except that they all seem to have saved some gifts Nikita and Lydia gave to them. Colleen has an embroidered tablecloth and a matryoshka, and her mother has the most amazing nested Easter eggs. I grabbed a cell phone picture of it for you.”

  “You say you’ve actually talked to Stasia?”

  “I did. This morning. Walked over to the Common, had my palm read and practiced my amateur interviewing skills.”

  “And . . . ?”

  I fanned out the cards. “Stasia says her grandparents came to America from Russia in 1915. Grandfather was a carpenter, a wood-carver, important in the court of Czar Nicholas II. Lydia was kind to her, but apparently suffered from some sort of dementia in later years. Stasia seemed quite agitated about that.”

  I found myself talking faster and faster, anxious to get everything in. I told her about Chief Whaley’s newspaper clippings and the murdered baker in Connecticut. I described the artist’s drawings of the trash stealers too, and how I’d recognized the blond man. Finally, out of breath, I leaned back in my chair. “I’m sure I’ve left some things out, but, anyway, this pretty much catches you up on where I am on all of this.”

  “On this ‘caper’?” Her grin was wide and contagious. She clasped her hands together. “This is so exciting. An excellent adventure.” Her expression grew serious. “I mean, except for poor Eric Dillon dying like that. How’s Pete doing with the investigation? Any progress there?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but Scott Palmer said this morning that they’d be holding a presser at noon today.” I checked my watch. “It’s time. Want to go into the den and see what’s going on?”

  “Let’s go.” She beat me to the den and already had the remote in her hand when I got there. Click. There was Scott with the police station in the background. He’d managed to position himself right in front of the lectern they’d set up for the chief. I had to admit he was getting pretty good at his job.

  Scott spoke in the hushed tones the announcers at golf tournaments use. “We’re expecting Chief Whaley within a few minutes. He’ll be updating us on any progress that’s been made on the Eric Dillon murder. As you know, Dillon was an investigative reporter and the writer of a series of popular books on the subject of treasure hunting. He was working on a new book before his untimely death. Oh, here comes Chief Whaley now. Stay tuned to WICH-TV, folks, always first with the news on Boston’s North Shore.”

  The chief, in dress uniform complete with star and medals, approached the lectern. Looking uncomfortable, he adjusted the microphone and put a couple of sheets of paper on the lectern.

  “He doesn’t look happy,” Aunt Ibby said.

  “Pete says the chief hates these public-speaking things,” I told her. “He gets through them as fast as he can, and answers as few questions as he can get away with.”

  Chief Whaley cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s been brought to my attention that some people in Salem, especially those in the neighborhood where Mr. Dillon’s death took place, are afraid that this was a random killing, and that they may be in danger too. We have reason to believe that Mr. Dillon personally was targeted and that the public at large is not in any danger. This is not to say that you should be careless. Lock the doors in your homes and your vehicles. Our department is working aggressively to bring this case to a close. If you have information about Mr. Dillon, his whereabouts on the night of his death, or any companions you may have seen him with, call the number at the bottom of your screen.” He lifted the piece of paper from the lectern. “I have here two artist’s sketches to show you. Please bear in mind that these men are not suspected of any wrongdoing whatsoever. We think that one or both of them may have some information that may be important to this case.”

  He held the papers up, one in each hand, displaying the artist’s sketches Pete had shown to me. “If you see either of these men, please don’t approach them. Just call the number at the bottom of your screen. That’s all for now. Thank you.” He took one hesitant step away from the microphone before the questions began.

  A reporter shouted, “Let’s get a better look at those pictures, Chief!”

  “Okay. There are printed copies available to all of you inside the station.” He held the pictures up again and the camera moved in.

  “Those are the pictures Pete showed you, aren’t they?” my aunt asked, leaning closer to the screen. “I remember that blond man. He was at the sale. And the bearded man. I’ve seen him before too.”

  “Really? He doesn’t look familiar to me at all. Where did you see him?”

  “It was quite awhile ago. Over a year. Maybe even two. Let me think.”

  I watched the hand-waving reporters, listened to a few more shouted questions.

  “What about the murder weapon? Have you found it?”

  “Was anything stolen from the furniture shop?”

  “Fingerprints?”

  The chief walked toward the relative safety of the police station, his answers terse. “No prints. Carbone says nothing’s gone. Weapon’s still missing.”

  The camera once again focused on Scott, who briefly recapped what the chief had said, then turned the program back to Phil Archer in the studio. Aunt Ibby hit the MUTE button. “Didn’t learn anything new, did we? Except that they don’t think it was a random killing.”

  “You know, it looked like one,” I said. “Robbers being interrupted by somebody peeking in the window. Killing him so he wouldn’t identify them.”

  “You’re right. How do they know it wasn’t exactly that?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “There’s a lot Pete doesn’t tell me.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Aunt Ibby and I were at Shaw’s Market in the pet food aisle when she suddenly stopped the cart and snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it,” she said. “I remember.”

  I looked down at the shopping list in my hand, pretty sure we hadn’t forgotten anything. “Remember what?”

  “His beard was much longer then, bushier too, but I’m pretty sure it was the same man.”

  “The artist’s sketches?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is he?” I reached for my phone. “Should I call Pete?”

  “I don’t know who he is. I just remember where I saw him. He was at the library and he asked me for help. He was researching . . . something.”

  “Can you remember what it was? Might be important.”

  “I’m trying.” I recognized the look she gets when she’s concentrating, so I studied the shopping list silently and tossed things into the cart as we moved up and down the aisles. She didn’t speak again until we reached the toy aisle. “Got it,” she said. “He wanted information on amusement parks. Yes, That was it. Amusement parks.”

  “Local amusement parks? Or amusement parks in general?”

  “Historic parks. He was interested in the old ones. Especially the one at the Salem Willows. He was a little difficult to understand. Strong foreign accent.”

  “The Willows? Where the carousel is?”

  “Right. We didn’t have a lot on it. He was mostly interested in old photos of the place, as I recall. I suggested that he go down to the Essex Institute to see what they might have.”

  “Did you ever see him again? Did he come back?”

  She shook her head. “He was from out of town. I remember that because he didn’t have a library card. Never saw him again.”

  “Ms. Foster at the Goodwill store said that one of those trash stealers had an accent. Anyway, if you saw him, so did other people. Someone must know who he is.”

  We moved through the checkout line, where I added a c
opy of Car and Driver and a Mounds bar to the groceries on the moving belt. Aunt Ibby handed the woman behind the cash register several canvas bags, and with bags full we headed for the car. “You know, Maralee,” she said, “things just keep getting more and more complicated ever since we bought that locker—and the more we learn, the more complicated everything seems to get.”

  “You’ve got that right,” I agreed. “Let’s do something uncomplicated this afternoon, something that can’t possibly get us into any trouble.”

  “Good one. Let’s hurry home, put this stuff away and plan the rest of our day. I have a good idea brewing too.”

  * * *

  With the groceries safely stashed in our respective kitchens, Aunt Ibby and I repaired once again to her living room. I hadn’t come up with any particularly original thoughts, and since she’d already said that she had an idea, I waited for her to tell me about it.

  “Here’s my thought,” she said. “Since we seem to be involved with things Russian, and since I’m in the throes of planning a high tea, what do you say we combine the two?”

  “Fine. How do we do that?”

  “We take afternoon tea at that new place, the Russian Tea Experience, around the corner from St. Vladimir’s.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “I’ve never been there. Have you?”

  “No, although I’ve been meaning to. I thought maybe I could add some Russian goodies to the menu to complement the samovar. Maybe even add some Russian touches to the table decorations.”

  “Good idea. Maybe you could use some of Grandpa Nick’s carved toys.”

  “We’re thinking along the same lines,” she said. “Let’s put on some going-to-tea clothes and do this.”

  So that’s what we did—me in crinkle skirt and white blouse, and Aunt Ibby in hunter-green pantsuit. We set out in my car for an uncomplicated afternoon pastime that couldn’t possibly get us into any trouble.

  The bright blue onion domes of St. Vladimir’s came into sight and we rounded the block to the parking lot next to the tearoom. The good-sized lot was already about halfway filled with cars. “Looks like this is a popular place,” I said.

  “I’ve heard some excellent reports about the food,” she said, “although I’m mostly interested in the pastries.”

  “I’m glad I ate a healthy breakfast. This kind of research is kind of caloric.”

  We ordered Russian tea, which had a pleasant citrusy taste. A two-tiered cart appeared beside our table and there began a sugary parade of desserts. Naturally, my aunt wanted us to try each one. We nibbled on chernika tartaletki (blueberry tartlets), slivovyi pirog (plum cake) and biskvitnyi abrikosovy torta (apricot torte). We topped it off with Strawberries Romanoff (Russian by way of Beverly Hills). There were plenty of other desserts offered, but we decided it would be prudent to save those for another day.

  “I’ve got to get the recipe for that apricot torte,” my aunt said. “Do you suppose they’d give it to me?”

  “No harm in asking,” I said, but she was already on her way to the hostess station. I ordered a loaf of Russian poppy seed bread to go and asked for the check. As I made my way to the cash register, I saw my aunt being escorted by the hostess to the door marked KITCHEN. As she passed me, she smiled, gave a thumbs-up signal and whispered, “I’m going to meet the chef. See you at the car.”

  Figuring that this might take a while, I picked up a free copy of the Salem City Guide from a stand of brochures outside the door, and made myself comfortable in the driver’s seat. I was only up to the section on museums when my aunt burst through the restaurant door and hurried across the parking lot, waving a sheaf of papers. She slid into the seat beside me, slightly out of breath. “Maralee, you won’t believe this!”

  I started the car. “Apparently, you got what you were after. Did the chef give up the recipe easily, or did you have to plead for it?”

  She folded the papers and put them into her purse. “Oh, that. No problem. Got a printout of all the ones I asked for. People ask for them all the time. No. It’s the chef!” Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “I recognized him the minute I stepped into the kitchen.”

  “Wow! Who? Bobby Flay? Emeril Lagasse? Gordon Ramsay?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, silly. It’s him. The chef is the blond man we saw at the auction—and in the artist’s picture on TV. His name is Chef Karl. He’s one of the men Chief Whaley is looking for. You’d better call Pete.”

  She didn’t have to say it twice. I pulled away from the tearoom lot and drove around the corner to the larger lot beside St. Vladimir’s and parked once more. Pete answered on the first ring. “Pete,” I said, “the blond man is . . .”

  “I know,” he said. “He’s the chef at the Russian Tea Experience. We’ve had a dozen calls this afternoon. How did you know?”

  I explained about the Russian-pastry hunt. “Are you going to question him?”

  “He came in this afternoon right after the news show. With his lawyer. We didn’t get much. By the way, you were right about the locker auctioneer’s mailing list. He’s on it. Karl Smith.”

  “Smith? Doesn’t sound Russian.”

  “I know. He says he isn’t.”

  “Did he admit to taking our trash?”

  “Oh, sure. Says he was just helping out an acquaintance. Says the other guy is sort of a hoarder. Likes other people’s cast-off stuff.”

  “Did he tell you who the other guy is?”

  “Says his name is Boris. Claims he doesn’t know the last name. Says Boris doesn’t speak much English.”

  “Aunt Ibby thinks the bearded man was in the library a year or more ago. He was looking up historic amusement parks.”

  “The kind with merry-go-rounds, I’m guessing. Was his name Boris by any chance?”

  “She didn’t get a name. He didn’t have a library card. He wanted photos of old carousels. She referred him to the Essex Institute. Maybe they got something.”

  “Maybe. We’ll check. Talk to you later. Gotta go.”

  My aunt raised an eyebrow. “Pete already knew about Chef Karl?”

  I backed out of the lot and headed for home. “He did. Seems Chef Karl Smith turned himself in as soon as he saw his picture on the news.”

  “I guess he’s not under arrest for anything then. Did Pete ask him about our rubbish?”

  “Seems that his friend—Boris something or other— is a hoarder. Likes other people’s stuff. Smith says he was just helping a friend with his hobby.”

  “A likely story!” she scoffed. “What did Pete say about the man I saw in the library? The bearded one?”

  “Same as he says about everything. Going to check it out.”

  “Well, I’m sure this nice chef hasn’t done anything illegal.” She smoothed the stack of papers on her lap. “He’s writing a cookbook. I told him about my Tabitha Trumbull recipe collection that I’m turning into a book. We’re going to meet tomorrow afternoon and compare notes.”

  “You’re what?” I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. “The police are questioning this man in regard to a murder, and you’ve just made a date with him?”

  “Not a real date, of course. I wouldn’t do that.” She frowned and gave me a sideways glance. “We’re just going to meet at the library. I’m going to help him with his indexing, and with any luck, I’ll get him to cater some of those gorgeous pastries for our tea.”

  “Sure. If he isn’t in jail by then,” I muttered.

  “Maralee, I’m an excellent judge of character. Chef Karl is a perfectly nice gentleman. And,” she added, “a marvelous cook.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Besides, he’s quite good-looking, don’t you think?”

  I didn’t have an answer for that either. “I hadn’t given his looks a thought,” I said. “You just be careful. We don’t know anything about this man past his Strawberries Romanoff.”

  “Don’t you worry, dear. By the time I finish helping him with his index, I’ll know everything there is to know abou
t Chef Karl Smith.” She gave a sly wink. “Maybe I’ll even help you and Pete solve the great Goodwill caper!”

  “I’m serious, Aunt Ibby,” I said. “Don’t forget there’s a murder mixed up in all this, and your oh-so-very-nice chef friend may be in it up to his apricot tortes.”

  CHAPTER 19

  It was practice night for Pete’s peewee hockey team, so we hadn’t made any plans for the evening. I’d agreed to join River for a late, pre–Tarot Time supper at In a Pig’s Eye, the restaurant across the street from WICH-TV—one of those friendly neighborhood places where everybody knows your name. It was around ten o’clock when I arrived. River, glittering in a strapless silver-lamé number, her trademark silver moons and stars braided into her long, black hair, waved to me from a corner table. Most of the regular patrons of the place were accustomed to seeing the glamorous late-night movie host in costume, but a few newcomers gawked unabashedly. A few approached and asked for her autograph on their paper Pig’s Eye menus.

  She waved the autograph seekers away with a smile, motioning me to take the seat opposite her. “It seems as though I haven’t seen you for ages,” she said. “I ordered the ribs and coleslaw for both of us, okay?”

  I nodded. “Fine with me.”

  “Good. Catch me up on everything. Is your horse okay? Did Pete catch the bad guys? Did any of your friends go to jail?”

  I held up my hands. “Whoa. It’s only been a couple of days since you read my cards, but so much has happened! My horse is damaged, but it can be repaired, and nobody I know is in jail. Pete hasn’t caught the bad guys yet. How much do you know about the Dillon murder from the news?”

  “Oh, Lee. You know I never watch the news. Too depressing. I heard from Rhonda that a dead man was found next to the place where your horse was. She says he was a famous writer.” River shook her head and the silver stars and moons seemed to flash in reflected light. “Did you know Rhonda belongs to a book club? Who knew? She doesn’t seem the type.”

  I refrained from commenting on the station receptionist’s literary interests. “His name was Eric Dillon. He wrote about lost treasures.”