“A necklace of bear teeth? Did you tell Pete about that?”
“No.” He wiped the wet spots on the table with a paper napkin. “Just thought of it now. Why? Is it important?”
“Maybe important. Maybe just interesting. Were you going to tell me about the secret Eric told you?”
“Almost forgot. That’s the point of this meeting, isn’t it?”
“I really think I need to know, Scott, because of Medvedev. But I’m glad I came here today. It was good to see the girls again—and you.”
“All right. I’ll tell you. But it probably won’t make a lot of sense. We were both kind of drunk when he told me.”
“Go ahead.”
“The first thing he said was ‘Six, six, six.’”
“Like the mark on the kid Damien in The Omen?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? I told you, we were drunk. After that, he said that there would be six chapters in the new book. All different and yet all the same. He said he was tracking six treasures. All different, and yet all the same. He said he had also tracked six men—all different, and yet all the same. ‘Five down and one to go,’ he said. Then he laughed. ‘But like any good detective story, there’s a trick ending. Don’t tell anybody. But . . . “Cherchez la femme!’” Then he laughed some more. I laughed too, but I didn’t see what was so funny. Still don’t. You?”
I frowned. “‘Cherchez la femme.’ ‘Look for the woman.’ I know Alexandre Dumas used it. But Eric Dillon’s books, from what I’ve read, seem to be gender-neutral treasure hunt stories. I don’t get it either.”
“Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. I guess it will be okay for you to tell Pete about it if you want. Since Eric is dead, I guess I don’t have to keep my word about not telling anybody.”
“Thanks, Scott. I’ll mention it to Pete and I’ll tell Aunt Ibby, if you don’t mind. I won’t say anything to anyone else.”
“I appreciate that.” He signaled for the check. “Well, back to the old grind for me. Time for show prep. Good to see you again.”
“It was good to see everybody,” I said. “Thanks for inviting me.”
I stayed there for a couple of minutes, checking online to see exactly where Dumas had used “Cherchez la femme.” Then on the way home I stopped at Wicked Good Books for a paperback copy of Dumas’s The Mohicans of Paris so I could see if his use of the French phrase made sense in today’s world and why Eric Dillon thought it was important. Once back at the house I tossed my jacket onto the back of a chair and got right to work on those cards. Didn’t want anything to slip away from memory. I wrote down the things Scott had told me first—they seemed the most important, then finished the notes I’d begun about Stasia’s revelations. The stack of cards was impressive and was, I realized, actually somewhat informative. I moved the whole pile over to the kitchen table and spread them out on the clear top. O’Ryan appeared from the living room and sat underneath in his Sphinx position, paws extended, head unmoving, watching.
By five o’clock I’d separated the cards into six stacks. Six? Was that a coincidence? I told myself that it was, that there was nothing mystical or magic about the number. In pile one I’d put the cards that related to the storage locker auction. Pile two began with the car that followed Aunt Ibby home and the vision of the man I’d seen in my mirror, and the discovery of Dillon’s body. Pile three was about the vision in the samovar, the six men at the rail of the ship and about the theory Aunt Ibby and I had come up with about them. It included cards on each of the men based on what we’d learned from the census records, and the things the McKennas had told us. Pile four was the thickest one. It conveyed all the information I had about Stasia and all of the things she’d told me. Pile five covered the murder investigation. Pile six—well, that was a mishmash of everything that was left over, including Scott’s “secret,” and the mysterious shapes, numbers and symbols on Aunt Ibby’s quilt.
I put a rubber band around each stack, then carried them into my bedroom and put them into my bureau. It’s a vintage piece with several concealed compartments. I rarely use the hidden spaces, although Pete does put his gun in one of them when he stays overnight. It seemed like a good place to stash the growing collection of clues.
CHAPTER 29
While I sat in my kitchen, attempting to sort through thoughts, index cards and creepy visions, downstairs in the Winter Street house, plans for the high tea were in full swing. Aunt Ibby had invited her friend, and prominent Salem socialite, Louisa Abney-Babcock for an evening “brainstorming” session. Plans called for my aunt’s New Scotland Yard gentleman friend, Nigel, to participate via speakerphone from London, and she’d also asked Chef Karl to sit in and give his input on recipes, both British and Russian. I’d been summoned too, to offer suggestions about publicity.
I joined the three at my aunt’s dining-room table. The silver samovar once again served as centerpiece. It was flanked by a place setting of Louisa’s delicate, heirloom Canton blue-and-white pieces. I avoided looking at the samovar, commented on the beauty of the china and focused on what was obviously Karl Smith’s contribution to the conference. A gorgeous display of pastries was artfully arranged on Grandmother Forbes’s silver platter.
“Come and join us, Maralee,” my aunt said. “You know my good friend Louisa, and this is Karl Smith, the famous chef from the Russian Tea Experience.”
“Hardly famous, Ibby,” Smith protested with a smile. “How do you do, Maralee?”
So person-of-interest Smith is on a first-name basis with my aunt.
“Call me Lee,” I said. “How do you do?”
Louisa patted the chair next to her. “Sit by me, dear. What do you think about our fund-raiser? I think Ibby’s idea is marvelous.”
O’Ryan had quietly followed me into the room. He hopped up onto a Hepplewhite side chair next to the fireplace and sat facing the chef, focusing those golden eyes on the man with the kind of riveting stare he usually reserved for mice and birds. Not even the ringing of the house phone, which Aunt Ibby had placed on the table, diverted the cat’s attention.
“Oh, that will be Nigel!” she exclaimed, clearly pleased. “He’s always so prompt.”
I’d never met Nigel St. John, but I’d seen photos. He looked to me a bit like Sean Connery, with black-rimmed glasses and a tweed jacket, very British. I’d always imagined that his voice would be on the deep side, with the kind of clipped English accent you hear on the PBS mystery channels. I wasn’t disappointed. He was perfect.
“I’ve made arrangements to pick up our order at Harrods at four a.m., our time,” he said. “They don’t open to the public until ten, but”—a modest laugh—“the Yard has its privileges and, of course, the cooks there work all night anyway.” He rattled off a list of possible pastry choices he might bring with him on the morning of the tea party.
“Perhaps your guests would enjoy the salted caramel biscuits,” he said, “a favorite of mine. The demerara shortbread is popular here, and the almond loaf cake travels well. Cocoa cream pastries are a bit flaky, but if I hand carry the lot, I’m sure they’ll be fine. Of course, dearest Ibby, I’ll bring your favorite Highland whiskey cake.”
Was my aunt blushing? I thought so. “Those sound perfect, Nigel,” she said, “and it’s so kind of you to do this for us. The bookmobile is such a worthy cause.”
“Nonsense. It’s my great pleasure. I say, another visit to Salem will be a welcome change. Weather’s dreary here.”
Another visit to Salem? What have I been missing?
Karl Smith spoke up. “Chef Karl here. It all sounds good, except maybe the salted caramel biscuits. Perhaps an assortment of their sweet biscuits to complement the citrus tea?”
“Done,” said Nigel. “Mrs. Abney-Babcock, any suggestions?”
“The menu sounds delightful,” Louisa said, “but if it isn’t too much trouble, could you pick up a teensy tin of their rum and raisin fudge for me?”
“No problem at all, dear lady. Happy to oblige. Are you there too
, Maralee? Or do you prefer Lee?”
“Either one is fine, sir,” I said. “I’m here.”
“Do you happen to be acquainted with Chief Tom Whaley of the Salem Police Department?”
“Yes. I know him.” This was a surprise. “Why do you ask?”
“Your name was mentioned. I’m doing a bit of international inquiry for him. Plan to see him while I’m in the city.”
Big surprise. Why had Chief Whaley, who decidedly isn’t one of my fans, mentioned my name in connection with an international inquiry to New Scotland Yard? And how did he know Nigel? Pete had to be the connection there. I’d be sure to ask him about it tonight.
My aunt and Nigel discussed plane schedules and pickup times at Logan Airport; Chef Karl asked a few more culinary questions; Louisa enthused about shopping at Harrods and asked Nigel if he’d seen Will and Kate’s newest baby. Turns out, he’d been to the christening! I was impressed. After the phone call ended, it was my turn to propose the various ideas I’d come up with for publicizing the event. The three agreed with everything I mentioned. I asked for permission to photograph the place setting, clicked off a couple of shots with my phone, and assured Louisa that I’d already arranged for security.
I excused myself and called, “Come on, big boy. Let’s go upstairs” to O’Ryan, who hadn’t stopped staring at Karl. I could see that the man was uncomfortably aware of the attention. I didn’t blame him. The cat obediently jumped down from the chair and trotted behind me without a backward glance.
* * *
I had a lot to tell Pete when he arrived at eight o’clock. We’d planned to catch a movie and a couple of burgers, but decided to settle for Netflix, Hamburger Helper and conversation at my place. So much had happened that day that I hardly knew where to begin. I was dying to know how my name had turned up at New Scotland Yard, but maybe the things I’d learned on my visit to the station were priority. The Helper du jour was simmering and we hadn’t turned on the TV. Pete sliced rye bread while I chopped tomatoes and celery for salad. O’Ryan apparently didn’t find the menu interesting and left via the kitchen cat door.
The first thing I told him about was the strange shapes and numbers we’d found on Aunt Ibby’s quilt. “We haven’t figured out what they mean yet, but we thought you should know about it, since the quilt was in the locker and somebody seems to be awfully interested in something else that was in there.”
“Hmmm.” He stopped slicing bread for a few seconds. “That is interesting. Let me know if you two come up with anything. What else is new?”
“I went to see Scott Palmer at WICH-TV today,” I said, “and he told me a few things you might want to hear about.”
“How’d you happen to go see him?” Pete didn’t look happy.
“He’d invited me to come down and see the old gang,” I said, “so I thought I’d try to find out what secret Eric had told him.”
“And?”
“And I did.”
The scowl disappeared. “No kidding? What did he say?”
“It doesn’t make a lot of sense.” I repeated what Scott had said, as closely as I could remember it, from “six, six, six” to the part about “Cherchez la femme.”
“Make any sense to you?” I asked.
“Not a lot. Never sure about anything that guy says.”
I gave him a playful poke in the arm. “Hey, what happened to ‘it’s not my job to believe him or disbelieve him.’”
He put down the bread knife and pulled me close. “You’re right. I guess where Palmer’s concerned, maybe I’m not completely objective.”
“And why is that?”
His jawline tightened. “I can’t be objective about anything that concerns you. Especially good-looking ex-boyfriends.”
I put down my tomato-chopping knife and took his face in both hands. “Listen to me. You have nothing to worry about in that department. Nothing. And, anyway, he’s not half as good-looking as you are.” I gave him a long, wholehearted, wickedly suggestive kiss, which I was sure convinced him of my devotion. It also delayed dinner for a while.
* * *
I had so many things to tell Pete that we never did get around to watching a movie. Pete stayed busy scribbling in his own notebook as I tried to remember everything that had happened since I’d talked with him last.
“When you talked to Scott, did he tell you that Eric went out that night to take pictures?” I asked.
“Yes, he did. But the memory card is still missing, along with the laptop.”
“I suppose his whole book manuscript is in that laptop. Whoever took it probably wouldn’t know his password though. So they’ll still be looking for—whatever it is they’re looking for. Hey, did you know about the necklace of bear’s teeth that Boris used to wear when he was wrestling?” I asked.
“Real bear’s teeth? No, I didn’t. Did Palmer tell you that?”
“Um-hum. He said he remembered it from an old publicity poster they had in the sports department at the Illinois station. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
He nodded and kept writing. “The garrote with the pointed triangles.”
“Can’t be a coincidence.”
“Nope. Maybe Palmer will be helpful, after all.”
“Could be,” I said. “Now I have a question for you. We had a meeting downstairs tonight about the charity tea party. Aunt Ibby’s New Scotland Yard friend, Nigel, was on the phone with us and said that Chief Whaley called him and mentioned my name. I guess you have something to do with that.”
“Nigel St. John,” he repeated, pronouncing it as “Saint John.”
“Sin Jin,” I corrected. “Nigel pronounces it as Sin Jin.” He raised an eyebrow and went on. “Chief wants some background information on our friend Boris. I told him a long time ago that you and your aunt had a friend in New Scotland Yard. He figured they probably have better access to foreign records than we do.” He smiled. “I gave him the name, even though I pronounced it wrong.”
“Did he find anything?”
“Not sure. But he thanked me for the tip. Anything else to tell me?”
I closed my eyes, running over the conversation with Scott in my mind. “Eric said he was going to take comparison pictures.”
“Compared to what?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know. Oh, and one more thing. About the meeting tonight—Chef Karl Smith was there.”
“Boris’s pal?”
“Yes. He’s going to prepare the Russian goodies for the tea.”
Pete didn’t look happy. “I’m not crazy about him being in this house. There’s something I wasn’t going to mention, but since you and your aunt have involved yourselves . . .”
“What is it?”
“When we brought Medvedev in for questioning, he gave the same address as Karl Smith’s.”
“They live together?”
“Apparently. Of course they’d already admitted they were friends, so maybe it doesn’t mean anything. I just don’t like it.”
“I know, but Aunt Ibby is stubborn. She seems to think Karl is okay. He brought samples.”
“She’s probably right. I worry about you two. Just be careful,” he said, then paused. “What kind of samples?”
“I have a plateful in the refrigerator. Coffee?”
Smiling, he headed for the bedroom while I started the Mr. Coffee. I heard the secret cubby panel where Pete secures his gun open and close. “Guess I’ll stay over, just to be sure you’re safe,” he said as he came back to the kitchen. “Did he bring any of those powdered-sugar things?”
CHAPTER 30
It seemed to be my week for renewing acquaintances. Not long after Pete left for work, my boss at the Tabby, Rupert Pennington, called and asked me to stop by the school for an “informal tour of the new sound studio.” I looked forward to seeing the changes that had been made over the summer. School would start in a couple of weeks and we’d been anticipating the new addition for months. I asked if I could bring Aunt Ibby along and the sugg
estion was welcomed with undisguised enthusiasm. Mr. Pennington and my aunt have an on-again, off-again relationship, and I was pretty sure they’d both be happy to see one another. I was glad to have an opportunity to check out my classroom area, to make sure everything was shipshape for the start of the new school year.
It was another cool but glorious almost-autumn day, so Aunt Ibby and I decided to walk to the school. Salem is a good city for walking when the weather is fine. Pleasant, tree-shaded pedestrian malls provided contrast to narrow, cobblestoned streets and wide, modern highways.
“Look, Maralee.” My aunt pointed to a group of people gathered across the street from the Tabby. “They’re all taking pictures of the statue of Samantha.” She indicated the life-sized statue of Samantha Stephens of Bewitched fame, which occupies a prominent spot in the center of the city. “It’s nice that she’s still so popular after all these years.”
I agreed. “Samantha made witches cool. No wonder Salem loves her.” It was, however, an unusually large crowd of photographers for so late in the tourist season. I took a closer look. “Uh-oh,” I said, tugging on my aunt’s arm. “It’s not all about Samantha. Look at who’s posing right in front of her.”
“It’s that man. The bear man,” she said. “What on God’s green earth is he doing there?”
“Let’s go,” I said, pulling her toward the glass doors of the school. “I’d rather look at Boris Medvedev from inside the building. The paper said he’s enjoying the publicity he’s had lately. He’s trying to remind people of what a big deal he was in the wrestling world years ago.”
“A brand-new fifteen minutes of fame for him, I suppose,” she said as the door of the school closed behind us. “Look, there’s Rupert.” She hurried across the gleaming expanse of hardwood floor to the base of the broad, curving staircase, where Mr. Pennington stood, arms extended.
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