Bells, Spells, and Murders

by Carol J. Perry

  “You know, that’s the first thing I asked him. Why? Why would you do such a dumb thing?”

  “What did he say?”

  “What a silly kid. He said he might be in trouble because he made some mistakes when he got his business cards printed.”

  That was a surprise. “Business cards?” I echoed.

  “Yeah. Did you see his cards? They’re nice. Made out of that shiny white cardboard, with a little cartoon of a yellow lightbulb with those little lines coming out so you can tell it’s turned on, you know?”

  “Uh-huh. Go on.”

  What in the world do business cards have to do with anything?

  “It wasn’t about the picture. It was about the words.”

  “The words?” Again, I echoed her, sounding astonishingly unprofessional in the process.

  God, I’m glad no one is recording this.

  “It was the part about him being ‘licensed and bonded.’”

  “That’s on most cards people in that business use, isn’t it?” I asked, finally managing a full sentence.

  “I guess. Only he isn’t.”

  Wow! “You mean he’s not really an electrician?”

  “Well, I think he is. I mean, he’s real handy about that stuff. Always has been. But I guess he didn’t get around to getting the license and all.” A sigh. “The boy never was much for doing paperwork.”

  “I see. Well, I hope he can get that problem straightened out,” I said, thinking that Joseph was probably in a world of trouble with whatever agency keeps track of such things. Moving right along, I asked my next question. “Another thing I wondered about was why he wanted to use his cousin’s name and how he managed to do that.”

  There was the tiniest giggle from her end of the line. “He was naughty. Just drove up to Portland to his Auntie Mae’s house and swiped Joey’s birth certificate out of her desk. We all know where she keeps it. He put it right back after he was through with it. No harm done. She never even missed it.”

  “I think you said he did it for ‘business reasons’?”

  “That’s right. That’s what he said. Business reasons. That’s all I know about that.”

  All right. On to the next one.

  “I can tell that you two are really close.” I led into my final question.

  “Oh, yes. He loves his mom.”

  “You told Mr. Covington that he almost always takes your advice. Can you think of any times that he didn’t?” I asked.

  “Sure. More than once or twice, like any kid. For instance, I’ve tried to get him to give up bad habits. Just like every mother does. Smoking, drinking, gambling, that stuff. You know?” Another sigh. “Dying his hair, growing a mustache. Well, at least he cut down on the smoking, and I’m pretty sure he’s not gambling any more. I make him go outside to smoke so he don’t stink up the house.”

  “Does he live at home?” That was a surprise.

  “Oh yeah. He’s tried to go out on his own a few times, but he always comes back to his old room.”

  “I see.” I did see too. After all, I’d done the same thing just a few years ago when I moved back into the house on Winter Street—my childhood home. Another question popped into my head, so I asked it.

  “Do you call your son Joseph at home? Or do you use his given name?”

  “Oh, I call him by his real name.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Anthony. Anthony Prescott. Named for a saint, he was.” Another pause. “He’s no saint I guess. But I love him to pieces.”

  “I understand completely. Thank you, Ms. Prescott. I appreciate your talking with me.”

  “Any time, hon. You call me anytime. Enjoyed chatting with you. ’Bye now.”

  I reached for my ever-present stack of index cards, happy to have something new to record, not at all sure of where this recent information might lead. So, as usual, I called my aunt.

  “Aunt Ibby? I’ve found Joseph Marshall’s real name. He’s Anthony Prescott. Want to see what you can dig up on him?”

  “I can hardly wait to get started!” I could tell by her tone of voice that she meant it sincerely.

  “I found out about his license problem too. The problem is, he doesn’t actually have a license at all. I’m betting he got a phony one somehow with Joseph Marshall’s name on it.”

  “Could be. I’m on it.” She sounded gleeful. She loves this stuff.

  Time to start my day job. Rhonda handed me the neatly typed list with times and places highlighted in yellow. First one looked promising. I was going to Leavitt Street to treat the viewers to a tour of the production area of a chocolate candy workshop.

  I’ll do some Christmas shopping there. Who doesn’t like a big box of chocolates?

  Francine loved the idea too. “I’ve gone past that place a hundred times,” she said. “You can smell the chocolate just driving by.” Later in the day we had appointments at three of the decorated mansions we’d planned to see the day Albert Eldridge died.

  “We’ll film the chocolate shop tour, then send it back to Marty to edit,” Francine said. “I wonder if they have free samples for the media.”

  “If we don’t come back with candy they might not let us in,” I said. We moved slowly along Leavitt Street, then parked across the street from the neat brick building with its identifying oval sign. We didn’t need a sign to find it though. Francine was right about the yummy chocolate aroma. We just followed our noses through the front door to the candy kitchen.

  A knowledgeable guide made my job easy. From a brief explanation of the care with which the cocoa beans are harvested, through the hand dipping of the lovely stuff, she gave the viewers an entertaining ten minutes. I knew the audience would love it, and yes, they gave us a generous sample pack of the chocolates.

  After we (reluctantly) left, and headed for the first decorated house on our list, we passed the narrow road Lilly Jeffry had once mentioned as a possible site for Mr. Eldridge’s hoped-for Heritage Park.

  “Francine, can you drive around the block one more time, and stop on the corner of that little alley back there.” I said.

  “Sure. See something interesting?”

  “Not sure.” I rolled down my window, focusing on a white van parked in front of a modest clapboard house. “Looks the same. But it can’t be.”

  “What can’t be?” Francine coasted the vehicle to a stop and peered over my shoulder. “What do you see?”

  I pointed. “That white cargo van. The 2007 Ford E150. Right over there. Recognize it?”

  “Yeah. It’s big and white. How do you do that anyway?”

  “Do what?” I pulled an index card from my purse and jotted down the license number of the van.

  Francine leaned closer to my window. “How do you always know the year, make, and model of every darned thing on wheels?”

  “Oh that. I was married to a professional driver, remember? I hung around cars a lot. Like ’em,” I said. “Look, can you pull into the alley? I want to read the sign on the side door of that van.”

  She did as I’d asked. “That’s funny,” I said, puzzled. “I was sure it was the same one.”

  “Same one as what?”

  “The Prestigious Electrical van. The one we saw in the yard where the man was going to jump off the roof.”

  “Yeah. It does kinda look like it.” She leaned back in her seat. “Ready to go?”

  “Not just ‘looks like it.’” I said, writing down the name I saw on a magnetic sign on the van’s driver side door. “It is it.”

  “Can’t be,” she said. “Sign says Acme Plumbing.”

  “Right, I said. “Wait a sec. I need to take a picture.” I pulled my phone from my purse and climbed out of our van. I walked up to the white Ford and took pictures of the sign and the number plate. I was just about to photograph the passenger side where a long scratch marred the white paint when the door of the house opened and an angry male voice bellowed, “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

 
“Come on, Lee!” Francine yelled. “Let’s beat it.”

  She didn’t have to say it twice. I jumped back into my seat. Gravel from the rough road scattered in all directions as we sped away. Francine was quiet for a minute, concentrating on her driving. We were a couple of blocks away when she spoke again. “Okay, Lee. Like the mean man said, ‘what the hell do you think you’re doing?’”

  “It’s the same cargo van,” I said. “As soon as I saw that scratch down the side I knew it was. But the sign threw me for a minute. It’s an electrical work truck one day and a plumbing truck another day? How can that be?”

  “Don’t know,” she said as we turned onto Chestnut Street heading for our first mansion. “But I’m pretty sure you’re going to find out. Right, Miss Investigative Reporter?”

  “Darn right,” I agreed. “Or die trying.”

  CHAPTER 23

  We were back to being all business when we set up Francine’s camera and my mic in front of a beautiful Chestnut Street home where baskets of fresh pink and red poinsettias flanked granite steps leading to one of the magnificent, often photographed front doors this street is famous for. The flowers were a far cry from the glitter-sprinkled lavender plastic ones on the reception desk back at the station. Rhonda had provided us with an information sheet on Historical Charities of Salem stationary providing details on the age of the house, a bit of its history, and a nicely worded description of the decorations. I detected the efficient hand of Lilly Jeffry in the printed copy.

  Our next two mansion stops went just as smoothly as the first one. Between the bright and articulate guide who’d conducted our chocolate kitchen experience, and the neatly prepared scripts and gorgeous buildings on our decorated mansion assignment, our day’s work had been the proverbial “piece of cake,” or in this case, “pound of candy.”

  We, along with our sweet chocolate offering, were welcomed back to the station with open arms or more accurately, extended fingers, reaching into the gold foil covered box for truffles and nougats, fudge and clusters.

  I asked Rhonda if she had anything else on the docket for us. She had nothing further on her schedule, and it wasn’t even two o’clock yet. “Want to go to lunch with me?” Francine asked.

  “I’m not hungry yet,” I said. “Too many candy samples I guess. You go along. I have a couple of phone calls to make.” Once again, I headed for the privacy of my cozy little dataport.

  Who should I call first? Pete or Aunt Ibby?

  No contest. Pete needed to know about the cargo van and its two identities. I had no idea what it meant, and as far as I knew there was no law against using one vehicle for two different businesses. But it seemed unusual enough to warrant some official attention. Besides that, if the guy who chased me away from it reported me for trespassing, it was best that I notify the police department myself.

  I told Pete what I’d seen and sent him the two photos. “I thought you might be interested,” I told him. “It just seems . . . odd. And it was on a road that Mr. Eldridge was interested in.” I told him about the man who’d yelled at me too. “Maybe I was trespassing,” I said, “or maybe I shouldn’t have taken pictures.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s possible that he might have taken a pretty dim view of some random redhead wandering around on his property. Especially if she’s taking pictures.”

  I could see his point. “I guess so,” I said, “but don’t you think . . .”

  He interrupted. “Yes, I do think. And I’ll look into it. But Lee, for God’s sake be careful. This reporter thing could put you in danger. I mean, there’s been a murder, remember?”

  “I know. I am careful,” I insisted. “It was broad daylight with cars and people all over the place. What could go wrong?”

  “Things can go wrong anywhere. Any time.” Exasperated cop voice. “Just be careful. I’ll call you later. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I know Pete’s just being protective when he delivers his occasional “for God’s sake be careful Lee” lectures, but sometimes I wish he had more confidence in me. I called Aunt Ibby immediately. She wouldn’t lecture.

  “Oh, Maralee, that’s interesting, isn’t it? I wish I’d been there. You say it’s the very same big truck you saw when Joseph Marshall was thinking of jumping?”

  “Yes. A white Ford cargo van.” I told her about the scrape on the side. “I know there are a lot of those Fords around, but they don’t all have identical scrapes, and magnetic signs instead of painted graphics.”

  “I’m sure you’re right about that. You know about such things. What did you say the name of the plumbing company is?

  “Acme Plumbing. Not very original, is it?”

  “Not very. I’ll see what I can find out about it. And you think it was parked near the spot where poor Albert had planned his little village of old houses?”

  “From what Lilly described, I’m quite sure it’s the same place,” I said. “Do you think maybe somebody has started work on the project? The house the man ran out of looked like it was maybe from the 1920s or 1930s.”

  “Just about right for preserving how things looked for the regular folks back then. I hope somebody is going ahead with it.”

  “I told Pete about it,” I said. “He seemed to think I might have put myself in some kind of danger by getting out and taking those pictures.”

  “He did? I wonder why.” Long pause. “For goodness’ sake, Maralee. Be careful.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Ibby. See you when I get home.”

  Okay, she’s protective too.

  I made notes on fresh index cards, trying to recall every detail from the time I’d asked Francine to back up the mobile van until we’d sped away toward the TV station. I tried to remember exactly what the yelling man had looked like. Closing my eyes, I tried to visualize his face. No luck. His expression had been angry, I was sure of that. But his features wouldn’t materialize for me. Maybe later I’d have more luck. I put the rubber band back around the growing stack of index cards and stared at them. Blankly. No inspiration there either.

  But the cards made me think of River and her reading of the Tarot. One had come up during her Eldridge reading that meant the acquiring of real estate. The ten of something? Pentacles? I’d check it out later. I hoped it might mean that Heritage Village might become a reality, a tribute to a man who’d done so much for Salem. That at least was a positive thought in the midst of my tangled mess of thoughts leading nowhere in particular.

  I packed up my papers and cards once again, locked up the small room, and dropped the key off with Rhonda. “Anything happening anywhere yet?” I asked her. “Salem can’t be that dull. No traffic jams? Brush fires? Cats in trees needing rescuing? Anything?”

  “That’s the way it goes sometimes,” she said. “You’ll get used to it. Scott always complains about it too. That’s how come he took on so many extra jobs around here. They’re not all going to be crazy busy days with murders and suicide jumpers you know. Sometimes it’s just candy and Christmas lights. Then you just have to sit around and be ready in case something breaks.” She gave me an encouraging smile. “You’ll get used to it. Here. Have a chocolate raisin cluster.”

  I held up my hand. “No thanks. I think I’ll run across the street and grab a sandwich or something. Just buzz me if anything breaks.”

  Something broke.

  I was nearly finished with my BLT and had already signaled the waitress for a second cup of hazelnut coffee when my phone jingled. Caller ID read “Isobel Russell.”

  “Hi, Aunt Ibby.”

  “Hello Maralee. I believe I’ve found something quite interesting.”

  “Good,” I said. “In reference to what?”

  “To the case silly child! What else?” I could almost see her raised eyebrow. “In reference to Anthony Prescott in particular—the overall case in general.”

  I wasn’t sure what the “overall case” consisted of, so I didn’t comment on that part. But anything she’d been able to learn about Anthony Prescott was definitely w
elcome. “I talked with Anthony—Joseph’s—mother this morning,” I told her. “Picked up a few things. I can hardly wait to hear what you’ve been able to come up with.”

  “All right. Here goes. You were right when you guessed that he isn’t properly licensed to do the work he’s doing.”

  “Not a surprise,” I said.

  “Just about the only electrical training he’s had—at least the only thing I’ve found so far—is the fact that he took lots of shop classes when he was in high school.”

  “Oh, boy. He’s in a heap of trouble, I’d say.”

  “I agree. Although I must say he had As in all of his classes, so he could undoubtedly do a lot of the things he has to do in that job.”

  “His mother says he’s always been handy at that stuff.”

  “I’m sure he is. Now, about the other name. He has a Massachusetts driver’s license in the name of Joseph Marshall and the address on it matches his mother’s address.” She paused, maybe for effect. She had my full attention. “He also has one in his own name. Same address. I guess that’s not uncommon these days, what with people living together and all. Anyway, the pictures on the licenses looked very different from one another. Joseph Marshall looks like the picture they showed on the news. Anthony Prescott is a platinum blond with a mustache and sideburns. Looks like he even has different color eyes.”

  “He had access to original birth certificates for both identities. Peroxide, facial hair, and contact lenses would account for the rest,” I reasoned aloud. “But why would he go to all that trouble? Does Anthony have an arrest record he’s trying to dodge? Anything along those lines?”

  “Not that I could find. Nothing serious. Couple of speeding tickets and a DUI about ten years ago.”

  “I suppose Pete already has all this. No reason he’d share it with me,’ I said, more to myself than to my aunt. “But I guess I should tell him about the two licenses anyway.”

  “He’ll know we’ve been snooping.”

  “That’s my job now, remember? I’m an occasional investigative reporter.”

  “True enough. Oh, there’s one more interesting thing. It’s about that van you took a picture of.”