Bells, Spells, and Murders

by Carol J. Perry

  I took a half-step back. “No. Of course not. I’m just interested in learning all I can about him. His secretary said he had a ‘serving heart.’ I guess you agree with her.”

  The smile returned. “Lilly said that? That’s nice. She’s right. He liked serving other people. All the time. That was him.”

  I felt as though I’d been dismissed. I clearly wasn’t going to get any more information here. “Well, thanks again, Santa, for keeping me from falling. Say, I can’t keep calling you Santa. What’s your name?”

  He walked toward his kettle, reaching it in two long strides. He gave me a red-gloved thumbs up. “You can call me Nick.”

  “Okay then, Nick,” I said, hurrying past him and up the two granite steps leading to the station’s front door. “Thanks again.”

  I took the clanking elevator up to the second-floor suite of offices. Rhonda was at the reception desk and the gold sunburst clock on the wall read nine-twenty-five. On time for work with minutes to spare. “Hi, Rhonda,” I said. “Anything interesting on the docket for me today?”

  “Yep. We just got word Chief Whaley’s going to do another presser at ten. Scottie’s not here so you get to cover it. Guess it’s about the dead guy you found yesterday.” She handed me an assignment sheet. “After that you’ve got some ladies at the senior center who’ve been knitting little Christmas hats for newborns at Salem Hospital and there’s a big push for people to adopt shelter pets down at the Northeast Animal Shelter on Highland Avenue. Francine is already in the van. She says she’ll be out front in two minutes.” Rhonda leaned over the counter around her desk. “Cute boots.”

  “Thanks. Not good on slippery pavement though. See you later.” I hurried down the elevator and out the front door. Francine was there. Nick wasn’t.

  I climbed into the passenger seat. “Might as well head right over to the police station,” I said. “Let’s get a front row position.”

  “Yep. That’s what Scotty always does when he gets this assignment. Even if we’re not the first ones there, he elbows his way up to the front.” Francine glanced over at me. “’Course he’s a lot bigger than you.”

  “True,” I said, sneaking a look at my own elbows. “I’ll try saying ‘excuse me, please.’ Think that’ll work?” No reply.

  We pulled up into the parking area of the police station. Francine handed me a mic, pushed a few buttons on her control panel, grabbed a shoulder mount camera, and the two of us ran toward where the chief’s lectern had been set up. No sign of the chief yet, and I didn’t see any of the Boston mobile units.

  “Hurry up, Lee.” Francine was ahead of me. (Of course she was wearing sensible boots.) We got a good position anyway without using either elbows or polite requests. I stood between a rep from the radio station and a new guy from the Salem News.

  “You got any idea what’s going on?” the WESX rep asked. “Maybe some new info about the Eldridge murder, don’t you think?”

  “Could be,” I said. “You heard anything?”

  “One of the guys at the station lives next door to the old man’s secretary and he says there was a cop car over there last night.” She shrugged. “That’s all I know.”

  Hoping there was nothing wrong with Lilly, I focused my attention on the big window behind the lectern where a few uniforms had begun to gather. The chief walked into view with Pete right behind him. The door opened and Chief Whaley took his customary spot behind the mic, wearing his customary “I’d rather be any place but here” expression, along with his medals and gold braid. Pete stood beside him, cop-face in place. I looked behind me, where some of the Boston reporters had begun to show up. I resisted a couple of elbows and maintained my front-row status.

  “Good morning,” the chief said. “I’ll have a brief statement and then I’ll turn the microphone over to Detective Mondello for any questions.” He nodded in Pete’s direction, then, reading from a single sheet of paper, began. “As you know, yesterday morning it was learned that Mr. Albert Eldridge was found dead in his home office. The medical examiner has determined that death occurred due to a blow to the head from a blunt instrument. In short, this was a murder committed by a person or persons unknown. We are asking once again for the community’s help in apprehending the perpetrator. If you recall seeing anyone in the vicinity of the Historical Charities of Salem building on Washington Square—between midnight and seven yesterday morning, call the number on your screen. Anyone at all. If you can identify that person, do not attempt to apprehend him or her. Call the number at the bottom of your screen. All calls will remain confidential. I speak with some urgency because last night at eleven-ten p.m., a person closely associated with Mr. Eldridge reported an attempted break-in at her home. We have reason to believe the attempt was associated with Mr. Eldridge’s death. We have taken necessary steps to protect this person. I’ll turn this program over now to Detective Mondello who is the lead detective in this matter. Thank you.” He picked up his paper and hurried back into the police station.

  Someone tried to break into Lilly’s house. She must have been terrified.

  Pete moved into the position behind the mic which the chief had just vacated. He held up one hand. “Questions?”

  I raised my hand.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Yes?” Pete pointed at me.

  “Lee Barrett, WICH-TV,” I said. “How do you know the attempted break-in had to do with Mr. Eldridge’s death? That it wasn’t just some random thing?”

  “We don’t know for sure,” Pete admitted, “but the householder has reason to believe that it does. I can’t give out any more information at this time.”

  Maybe he’ll be able to give it out later. To me.

  Questions after that came quickly. Answers were pretty much as vague as the one he’d given me. “Why do they even bother?” Francine mumbled. “They could just put the information online. They must just like the face time on TV.”

  “Not the chief,” I whispered back. “Not Pete either.”

  The Salem News reporter asked Pete if the person whose house it was knew what the perp was after. It was a good question. I should have asked it.

  “She believes she knows and has turned over relevant material to us.”

  That was new information. The print reporters were on their tablets and phones. A few cameras clicked and flashed. Follow-up questions didn’t result in much. Pete repeated the chief’s request for help from the community, then ignoring a few shouted requests, ducked inside the big glass doors and disappeared from sight.

  I thought about how Pete had left extra-early for work. I figured that he probably knew all about Lilly’s call to the police. Son of a gun. You’d think he would have told me that much!

  Francine and I headed back to WICH-TV and picked up the information sheets on the knitting ladies. “That’s nice,” Francine said, looking over her copy as we rode down in the elevator together.

  “What’s nice?” I asked. “Red and green bonnets for the Christmas babies?”

  “That too,” she said. “But I meant that the ladies get together and do something like that. They don’t just sit around and get old.”

  “You should meet my Aunt Ibby,” I told her. “She’s a pistol! She’s well over sixty, still works part time, is a computer whiz, she’s writing a cookbook, still dating, does church work—she’ll never grow old!”

  “I hope I’ll be like that,” Francine said as we approached the Senior Center on Essex Street.

  “Me too,” I agreed. “My aunt’s even in that Christmas Belles group that Lilly Jeffry mentioned when we were there yesterday.”

  “Yeah. I remember. I went to their concert last year. The one where they all sang Christmas Carols from other lands. And I loved the one a couple of years ago when they wore costumes and each one played Christmas music on a different instrument.”

  “I missed a lot of the concerts when I was living in Florida,” I said, “but I saw last year’s. I loved the part when they sang the Gaelic carol and tr
ied to do an Irish step dance. They all got laughing so hard they couldn’t sing. I think what people love most about the Belles is that they don’t take themselves too seriously. But I know they each play one or more instruments. Aunt Ibby plays both piano and flute.”

  “They don’t always do music, I guess. I remember once when they did a funny version of A Christmas Carol. What a hoot. All those ladies playing the guys’ parts. What are they going to do this year?”

  “I haven’t asked. I’ll find out tonight and let you know. Whatever it is, everyone says the Belles always put on a good show.”

  We met with the “KnitWits” as they called themselves. Their ages varied from young moms to some great grandmas. They were an interesting and funny group, and the interviews and displays of the tiny hats and bonnets filled a good ten-minute segment. We moved on to the pet shelter where it was all I could do to resist taking a new furry friend home with me. (Would O’Ryan like a new sibling?) The shelter had dressed up some of the kitties and puppies with Christmas-themed collars and even skirts and bonnets. Another fast-moving ten minutes, and Francine and I were on our way back to the station.

  I hoped to have time to call Lilly Jeffry. I hoped she was okay although naturally having someone try to break into your house would be terrifying. I knew it from experience. I also hoped that she’d be willing to share some new information about her late boss. He must have had some interests besides his charities. He must have had some acquaintances besides his associates in the Historical Charities of Salem. And frankly, even though I didn’t like to admit it even to myself, I found it hard to believe that the man had no flaws. Was he some kind of saint who thought of nothing but good deeds? Maybe.

  There was nothing new on my schedule. Rhonda was going to lunch at the Scratch Kitchen, down Derby Street a little way from the station. I asked her to bring me back a chicken salad sandwich—toasted, and a diet Pepsi. That gave me time to call Lilly. She answered on the first ring.

  “How very kind of you to call, Lee. Yes, it was frightening. Especially right after . . . you know.”

  “If you don’t feel safe there, Lilly,” I said, “we have a guest room. “I’m sure Aunt Ibby would love to have you stay with us—as long as you like.”

  “You’re very kind,” she said again. “The police have arranged for me to stay at the Hawthorne for a while. Isn’t that something? I’m sure my home is safe though. It was my alarm system that chased the burglar away.”

  “We have a good alarm system too,” I said. “Do you have any idea what they were looking for?”

  “Whoever it was tried to get in through my home office window. I suppose they were after my computer. It’s nothing special as computers go. It’s not new, but it does contain everything the computers at the Historical Charities do. Mostly dates and times for events and, of course, all the financial records. Did you know Mr. Eldridge kept a ledger—an old-fashioned ledger? He didn’t believe in computers.” She paused and her voice quavered just a little. “That’s what he was studying when you—you know, shook his shoulder.”

  Interesting. An old-fashioned ledger. I can use that.

  “I guess the police took the computers and the ledgers from the office?” I asked.

  “Right.”

  “So you think maybe someone else is interested in what was on them. Did the police know you had duplicate records?”

  “They didn’t ask. They know now.”

  “This’ll give you a few days off, I suppose,” I said. “What’ll you do with all that time?”

  “Oh, this and that. Housework, long neglected. And,” her voice brightened, “I’ll have time for the Belles’ concert rehearsals.”

  “Francine and I were just talking about that. What’s the theme this year?”

  “Well dear, it’s in perfect harmony with the theme for the holidays. We’ll be bell ringing!”

  “Bell ringing?” A mental picture of the Santas flitted through my head.

  “Yes. We’re really excited about it. The handheld bells are beautiful, of course. Bright brass. And the sounds! Amazing. We each hold two or sometimes three bells and the sheet music tells us when to ring them. Conrad has had experience with them before so he’s the perfect director.”

  “He has a musical background I understand. How did he wind up with a historical society?”

  “He and Albert met some years ago at a Boston Pops concert. Conrad’s family owned a construction company Albert had hired to do some work on one of our historical homes. Conrad was involved in giving estimates on reconstructing older buildings. Conrad and Albert were both Boston University alums and Conrad’s major at BU was business administration with a minor in music. It was a perfect match!”

  “Fascinating,” I said. “I’m trying to gather enough information to do a piece on ‘Albert Eldridge, the man.’ He’s so well-known for his charities, his good works for the poor, and the vets and the homeless. I’m looking for more. His interest in music gives another facet. I’d like to know more about that part of the man.”

  “He was a very private person, mostly staying in his office, letting me face the public, letting Conrad take care of the business of keeping all the properties in good repair. But the music was something he loved. For instance, he bought the set of hand bells for us.”

  “He did? I remember that we had bells like that when I was in second grade. They were different colors and the music had colored dots.”

  The silvery laugh. “Oh no. The principle was the same. But these are professional choir bells. The set cost several thousand dollars.”

  “Wow. I guess those are kept locked up tight.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Well, Lee, thank you for calling me. Tell dear Ibby I’ll see her at Belles’ rehearsal. Must go now. ’Bye.”

  That was apparently all I was going to learn from Lilly Jeffry for now. I’d picked up a couple of bits of information though. He was a music lover and kept his records the old-fashioned way. Didn’t trust computers. That would fit in with his desire to rehab those old houses, to make things the way they used to be.

  Rhonda returned with my lunch, checked the schedule for more appointments. Nothing yet, so she gave me the key to one of the little cubicles the station reserved for reporters to use (but made sure they were readily available if needed). Mr. Doan called them “Dataports.” I carried my lunch, purse, Eldridge bio, and notebook into the small room. There was a desk, a computer and printer along with copy paper, one pen, one pencil, and a gooseneck lamp. Sparse, but adequate.

  I checked online for more information. Disappointed. Nothing new there. What I needed, I realized, was someone who was an expert at digging out facts. I needed my tech-savvy, research librarian, information guru, Aunt Ibby. Fishing my phone from a cluttered purse, I called her.

  “Help,” I said when she answered. “I need some inside information on Albert Eldridge. Human interest, you know.” I explained what I wanted to do for the news segment. “Fifteen minutes worth will do it I think. Therese and Francine are looking up film clips for me.”

  The calm voice was full of reassurance. “Of course I can. I take it this isn’t to be about his death, but about his life.”

  “Exactly.” My feeling of relief was immeasurable. After we hung up, I whipped together a bit of introductory script which sounded all right when I read it aloud to myself. I leaned back in the not-too-steady chair, finished off my sandwich and Pepsi, printed out the couple of pages I’d produced, and trusted in my aunt’s able assistance for the rest. I’d just reached to click off the gooseneck lamp when Rhonda buzzed me on the intercom.

  “Got another stand-up for you and Francine, Lee,” she announced. “You need to go over to the yacht club and check out the lighted boat parade they’re planning for next week. After that, Mr. Doan says you can go on home if you want to. Scott Palmer will be doing the High School basketball game live. Doan really likes the puppies and kittens thing you did this morning. Plans to run it after the five o’clock n
ews. I told him about your investigative thing on old man Eldridge. Loves it. He’s blocking out fifteen minutes on Covington’s eleven o’clock. Hope that was okay.”

  I hoped it was okay too. My newfound confidence lagging just a bit already, I grabbed coat and hat and met Francine in front of the station. It had become a habit to look for the Santa named Nick. He wasn’t there but I was happy to see that another Santa had taken his place. This one didn’t have a camo or brass kettle, but a rainbow painted one. I guessed that before long, I’d learn to identify them all by their individual kettles.

  Another idea for a story! Maybe I’m getting good at this!

  Maybe.

  CHAPTER 12

  I’d covered a few lighted boat parades at Christmas time back in Florida, but wondered how they planned to pull it off in December in Massachusetts. What if the harbor was full of ice? What if we had a blizzard?

  Turns out, they had a pretty good plan. The lighted boats would tie up at Pickering Wharf. If weather permitted, they’d parade around that section of harbor. There were plenty of viewing places, restaurants, and hotels on the wharf, and along Derby Street, benches here and there, bordering the harbor. If they couldn’t leave the wharf, the many lighted yachts around it would be pretty anyway. Even the upper floors of WICH-TV would have a clear view. Either way, it would make for good television.

  I interviewed the Commodore and a couple of yacht owners who were already installing elaborate lighted decorations on their boats from stem to stern. If the weather cooperated, this would be a great show. Francine was excited about the videography possibilities and we both wished them all well on the idea.

  When we returned to the station, Francine dropped me off in the parking lot. I started the big engine and waited a few minutes for the heater to kick in. (Okay. I know a convertible isn’t practical in Salem in the winter, but she’s so pretty!) I called Aunt Ibby and told her I was on my way.