“I will,” I promised.
* * *
When I joined the group at the diner they were all crowded into the back booth, even the twins. Therese had enlarged Roger’s photo of the cemetery ghost tree and made an eight by ten–inch print. The resulting image of a milky, filmy blob was the object of much excitement. Ray moved over, making room for me.
“It’s all nonsense, of course,” he said. “But it sure is strange looking.” He turned the picture toward me so that the tree was right side up. “What do you think?”
I squinted at the whitish thing and shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe the Michelin Tire man?”
“I was thinking Pillsbury Dough Boy,” Shannon added with a giggle.
“No, look.” Therese used a spoon handle to outline the shape. “See? There’s his head. See the ears? And he has a high collar. Here’s his shoulders and one arm. See it?”
Hilda thought maybe it looked a little like a flower. Dorothy tipped her head from side to side, inspecting the photo but didn’t comment. I still didn’t see a resemblance to anything human. We gave the waitress our orders—just coffee for me—and the conversation turned to our next official cemetery visit with ghost tour guide Kelsey.
Back in the classroom we pooled our notes on the Howard Street excursion. Hilda was fastest on the keyboard, so she began the compilation of information. There was a lot about Giles Corey, and some good notes about the Richard Manning tomb that housed the late Hawthorne siblings. The twins had collaborated on a description of the ghost tree which was so good—darn near poetic—that it drew applause from the class. They’d also made a phone call to Dakota Berman, who’d turned down their request to submit a drawing for their brochure, pleading time constraints. They’d decided to go with a photo instead.
I was anxious to get a moment alone with Dorothy—and to get a look at that letter. The moment didn’t happen until noon, when we were ready to break for lunch. When the others stampeded to the stairway heading back to the diner, I motioned for her to stay behind. “Can I speak to you for a moment, Dorothy?”
“Sure thing.” She nodded and returned to her desk. I took the seat next to her.
“Did you bring it?”
She reached into her purse, slowly withdrawing the white oblong. “Here it is.” She pulled a folded single sheet from the envelope, put it on the desk and smoothed it with both hands. She pushed it toward me. “It isn’t very long. She sounded so happy, Lee. So pleased that she was going to see James again.”
“I wonder if he ever showed up,” I said, almost to myself, and picked up the letter. It was written in the same, round handwriting, on the same delicate paper with fancy cut edges.
Dear Dot, Good news. Remember I was a little bit upset when I wrote to you about that guy who said he’d call me and then didn’t? Well he did. Call me I mean.
His name is James and he’s very good looking. And single. Well anyway, I have to go to a company party tonight. I’d skip it except it’s kind of for me. I asked him to go with me but he said he can’t go but that I should call him when I get home no matter what time it is and we’d go have a nice late dinner somewhere. I can hardly wait! I’ll write again and let you know how it goes!
Love,
Your Em
I looked up. “Well, what do you think about it?”
“Oh, I think he showed up all right,” she said, her face stern. “What if he was the one who killed her?”
CHAPTER 15
I folded the letter slowly, carefully, picked up the envelope and tried to process her words. How did the fairly casual acquaintance of her sister’s move from a man whose name Dorothy didn’t know until yesterday to murder suspect?
“May I ask what makes you think so? What if he stood her up again? Couldn’t that have prompted her to take the sleeping pills?”
She shook her head. “She didn’t take those pills voluntarily. I’m sure of it. He probably slipped them into a drink. That’s how they do it on TV.” She stuck out her chin in a defiant gesture. “She didn’t take them. I’m sure.”
“I don’t mean to disagree with you,” I said. “I’m just playing devil’s advocate here, but you haven’t actually seen Emily, spent time with her, for months. Maybe years.” She looked down and her head bobbed in a tiny affirmative nod. “Okay,” I continued, “She could have felt the need for the pills. Maybe she was losing sleep because of her job. That happens. Sometimes things keep me awake nights too.”
They certainly do.
“Me too. Try sleeping when you hear a wolf howling right under your window. But I don’t take pills. Do you?”
I had to admit that I didn’t although that howling wolf scenario might cause me to pop a few. “Even so,” I said, “what kind of motive would this James have? She barely knew him.”
She shrugged. “Em didn’t always tell me everything, you know. Any more than I told her everything about my life. Maybe she knew him better than she’d let on.”
I had to agree with the logic in that. “Would you let me show this letter, or a copy of it, to Pete?”
“I guess it would be okay.”
“He might ask you to let him see the other letters too.”
Her expression brightened. “Does that mean he’s interested in finding out who killed her?”
“No. It means he’s willing to look into her death a little more. He doesn’t think she was murdered. He agrees with the medical examiner. Accidental overdose.”
“But at least he’s interested.”
“Yes. I’m sure he is.”
“You think it’s just because you asked him to look into it?”
“Maybe. But what does it matter as long as he does it?”
“You’re right. Do we still have time to grab some lunch?”
The diner was packed but we found a couple of seats at the counter. A crowded lunch counter, sitting side by side with strangers, is not a good place to talk of murder. We chatted about Roger’s ghost tree picture and even that topic earned us a few questioning looks. But this was Salem after all, and talk of ghosts and witches wasn’t as unusual as it might be in another city.
The class reconvened with full tummies and good spirits and got right down to work. Within the next few hours, Therese surprised us with a short video she intended to offer to WICH-TV. Shannon, in keeping with her interest in fashion, had compiled a collection of Mexican-inspired outfits for men, women and children, culled from national mail order catalogs. Hilda and Dorothy had consulted online catalogs too, and found wholesale price listings for sugar skulls, paper skeletons, sugar coffins and altar decorations. Hilda consulted the Internet and informed us that sugar skull art is called calavera. This was turning out to be a true learning experience for all of us and things were moving faster and better than I’d anticipated. Before long we’d be ready to involve some of the city officials we’d need to contact to get approval for our plan.
On the other hand, I’d produced little of value to the project. Instead, I realized, I’d been concentrating on Dorothy and Emily and James. I tried to push the intrusive thoughts to the back of my brain. “Therese,” I whispered, “do we have a list of city officials? I think I’ll make a preliminary call or two to City Hall.”
Ever efficient, Therese handed me a sheet of names with several highlighted in yellow. “Those are the ones with the most clout I think,” she said.
I carried my phone to the far side of the mezzanine so that my conversation wouldn’t interrupt the others. I recognized the first name on the list. I’d worked with Marcia Monagle on a Halloween Witches Ball project back when I was at WICH-TV. I called Marcia and gave her a brief rundown on what we had in mind for Day of the Dead. She remembered me and agreed to walk me through the permitting process. “It’s not too complicated,” she said. “I’ll get to it as soon as I can, but things have been a little bit hairy around here since the big brawl.”
I drew a blank for a moment. “Oh sure,” I said, recalling the brief clip I’d seen on
the late news. “Have the warring councilors kissed and made up yet?”
“Far from it. They’re promising to sue one another. They’re both lawyers you know.”
“Afraid I haven’t been paying much attention to local politics. What’s it all about, anyway?”
“Land use. Environmental impact studies. Endangered species. Nothing for you to worry about. Your request is comparatively simple. Of course your school director will probably have to meet with the cemetery board, arrange for security, cleanup crews. It’s a one-day event, you say?”
“Yes. Just the one day. I’m thinking it won’t be a lot different from Memorial Day in the cemeteries. Just quite a bit more colorful.”
“And noisier,” Marcia said. “I went to Dia de los Muertos in Louisiana once.”
“I think Salem will like it,” I said. “My class is working hard on the idea.”
Long sigh on her end. “Hope so. We thought everybody would like that other idea too, but now it’s all snarled up.”
“That other idea?”
“Yes. The one the fight was about. The new mall. Wildwood.”
“What’s the problem there anyway?” I asked. “I only caught a little bit of it on the news.”
“Oh, boy, Lee,” she said. “You have no idea. At first it seemed so simple. Good taxpaying use of land that’s been sitting there forever producing nothing. The client owns the land and a few old empty buildings outright. Clean it up, clear it out. Build a mall. Everybody’s happy. Right?”
“Sounds like a good plan to me,” I agreed.
“We thought it was a done deal,” she said. “Council has already approved most everything. Some top-flight stores are ready to sign leases, then—wham!”
“Wham?”
“All of a sudden the wildlife people are in a snit about squirrels and birds. The City Planner’s office is questioning the blueprints. Citizens are calling my office with questions about water runoff and land contouring. Meanwhile Shores has a grader and cement trucks, at no small expense, standing by ready to put in a five-acre parking lot in the middle of the place, while everything is stalled because of all the objections coming out of the woodwork. Out of the Wildwood work you might say.” She gave a short, rueful laugh. “Oh well, I’m sure it’ll all pan out. Eventually.”
“I’m sure it will.”
“I’ll get to work on your event, Lee. Shouldn’t have any problems there.”
“Hope not. Thanks, Marcia.” I walked back to where my students waited, glad I hadn’t opted for a career in city government.
Roger and Ray stood side by side next to my desk. “What’s up, gentlemen?” I asked.
“Want to take a look at this rough of our brochure?” Ray said.
Roger placed two sheets of paper on my desk—one for each side of the proposed ad. “Take a look,” he said, “at the art and the copy.”
Their experience as information officers must have included layout and copywriting. The artwork on the cover of the piece included a Halloween pumpkin and a sugar skull. The words Day of the Dead and the date of the event were rendered in old-fashioned lettering on a tombstone where the name of the deceased would ordinarily appear. The copy they’d prepared cleverly combined history, humor and hard facts. I couldn’t find a darned thing wrong with it.
“It’s wonderful, you two,” I said. “Did you guys learn to do this when you were in the service?”
“Some of it,” Ray said.
Roger nodded. “Yep. Some.”
“I think we can get a better photo though.” Roger sounded undecided.
“I think so too,” Ray agreed.
“Looks fine to me,” I said. “What did you do when you were on the Boston police force?”
“Worked our way up from patrolmen.” Ray tapped his chest. “I worked the North end.”
“Southie for me,” Roger said. “Walked a beat.”
“I wound up on the missing persons detail. Investigations.” Ray picked up the brochure. “But this is more fun.”
Missing persons, huh? Maybe Ray would know how to trace Emily’s mystery man. . .figure out what happened to him between here and Florida.
“They put me on CSI,” Roger offered. “And no, it’s nothing like the TV show.”
CSI. Wow! Roger’s knowledge could be useful . . . if there really was a crime scene.
“If you’re aiming for TV jobs as investigative reporters, I’d say you have a good start.”
“That’s what we’re aiming for all right, Ms. Barrett.”
“You can call me Lee,” I said. “All the others do.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thanks.” Smiling identical broad smiles, the men returned to their desks.
With Marcia’s assurance that our journey through the permitting process would be comparatively uncomplicated, I allowed my thoughts to drift back to the Emily-Dorothy conundrum. Of course Pete had asked me to “stop snooping around,” but satisfying a healthy curiosity and keeping a promise to a student isn’t exactly snooping. I’d consider it more on the order of analyzing available information. Anyway, I’d promised to tell him about anything I—or Aunt Ibby—learned about the case. I smiled as soon as I thought about calling this thing a “case.” If Pete heard me say it out loud he’d call me Nancy. But then, I rationalized, he’s the one who convinced me to take an online course in criminology, in which I was making A’s on a regular basis. But in this matter, so far, there was no criminal to analyze.
I fully intended to be very careful, but at the same time I intended to learn as much as I could about Emily Alden’s last days—especially her last hours. I thought then about Pete’s method of keeping clues in order when he’s working a case—the ever-present notebooks. Most recently I’ve been a big believer in the index card method of keeping track of things. Write each fact or question on a separate index card, then shuffle them around until they make sense. Effective perhaps, but the ever-growing stacks of cards were bulky, unwieldy and invariably wound up in the recycling bin when I was through with them. Maybe a less obvious way would be a nice little, discreet notebook—one which would fit neatly into a bureau drawer in the event that I ever decided to take another look at it.
One thing a school setting can guarantee is a wealth of paper goods. I unlocked the supply cabinet and surveyed the contents. Plenty of spiral bound notebooks, black-and-white marbled composition books, but nothing small enough to fit into purse or pocket. I squinted at the pile of school supplies and remembered exactly where I’d seen the perfect notebook.
“Everybody,” I said, closing and relocking the cabinet. “I need to run out to my car for a minute. Be right back. Carry on.”
I dashed down the stairs and out the front door. The swag bag from Happy Shores was still under the passenger seat. I grabbed it, hurried back to the classroom and dumped the contents onto my desk. Calendar with photos of Happy and Trudy. A thick brochure advertising apartments for rent. A ballpoint pen, half-a-dozen refrigerator magnets, a copy of Finding Your Dream Home by Happy Shores. The last thing to fall out of the canvas bag was the notebook I was looking for. A neat little leather-bound book with lined pages and an H. S. stylized monogram on the cover. Stashing all of the Shores swag back into the bag, I made a mental note to give it all to Aunt Ibby who’d surely find a use for some or all of it. I gathered papers with notes on Salem’s cemeteries, prints of tombstone photos and ghost tour literature and put them in one neat stack. I opened the notebook and stared at the blank lined pages.
Okay. Where do I start? Wish I’d looked over Pete’s shoulder once in a while.
I thought about my old index card system which was a kind of “stream of consciousness” method. Good enough.
Emily was found dead in her bathtub.
Q. Who found her? The newspaper account didn’t say. Neither did Pete.
The M.E. says she had sleeping pills and alcohol in her system. The prescription is in her name.
Q. Has anyone checked with her doctor?
Emily ha
d been to a party at the Shoreses’ house.
Q. Who else was at the party?
Trudy Shores followed her home to be sure she got home safely.
Q. Did Trudy actually see Emily go inside?
Emily had arranged a “late date” with H. James Dowgin.
Q. Did anyone see him in Salem that night?
Hilda must have said my name more than once before I looked up from my note taking. “Yes, Hilda?”
“I just found a recipe for sugar skull cookies. They’re really cute. I was thinking, since you know people at the TV station—maybe we could do a video cookie making demonstration.”
She held up a magazine spread showing the smiling skulls. “Aren’t they cute? It would promote our Day of the Dead and give some of us real TV credits. What do you think? Would the station let us do it?”
“I’m not sure, but do any of you know how to cook?”
She hesitated, then smiled. “I’ve baked a birthday cake before—from a mix. Shannon says she used to make Christmas cookies with her grandmother. How hard can it be? Therese says she doesn’t cook and doesn’t want to, but if we can find a nice kitchen to use she can write, direct and produce the video.”
“I have a practically new kitchen,” I said. “and I’m not proud to say the oven has barely been used.” I closed the notebook and slipped it into my purse. “I’ll check with the TV station and my friend River North will talk it up on her show too, I’m sure.”
“River North from Tarot Time? I love those old movies she shows.”
“I’m pretty sure she can find some about Day of the Dead,” I said. “I’ll ask her.”
All in all, it had been a really productive day at the Tabby. And by the time the closing message played I’d become confident that this class project would be a piece of cake—or cookie.
Fat chance.
CHAPTER 16
The day had gone well and the evening promised to be the same. O’Ryan greeted me at the back steps with purrs, mrows and ankle rubbings. Aunt Ibby had posted a note on my door telling me that she had some more information on James Dowgin. Pete called and said he was bringing over a big pan of his sister Marie’s lasagna for dinner and River texted that she’d read my cards again and it was all good news.
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