I didn’t answer. “See you at the station,” I said, and walked quickly toward my Vette.
Chapter 15
On the way to the station, I thought about Alan Armstrong’s answer to my question about the editor. What was the big deal? Lots of writers hire editors to polish their work before they submit to the publisher. In fact, probably most of them do. What’s so different about this one, even if he or she is actually a ghostwriter? Who cares anyway? Can the three of them be so vain that they can’t admit that they need help sometimes? It’s not as though a little how-to book for college students is headed for the best seller list.
Marty, as usual, was prepared and ready to shoot well ahead of time. She’d neatly rearranged the Saturday Business Hour layout so that it looked almost like a brand-new set. The big world globe had been replaced with a fake ficus tree borrowed from River’s area, a modern glass-and-brass clock stood in place of the vintage desk lamp, and the four-drawer file cabinet had disappeared entirely. A famed print of Grant Wood’s The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere hung on the wall, the photos of Joseph White and Dick Crowninshield lay on the desk, and a pair of red upholstered club chairs replaced the straight-back versions favored by the Saturday morning host.
“Nice job, Marty,” I said. “Shall I sit behind the desk and put the guest in one of the red chairs?”
“I think so. Gives you the position of authority, you know?”
“Sounds good.”
“Besides, it’ll cover up those jeans. You’ve been wearing them all day. Viewers notice that stuff.”
There was no answer to that. Anyway, Marty’s usually right about details like that one. I hid my briefcase under the desk, along with my lower body.
Details. That’s what I need from Alan Armstrong.
“Is the guest here yet?” she asked.
“He should be along any minute,” I told her. “His car was right behind me.”
I’d no sooner spoken the words when Alan, led by a smiling Rhonda, entered the long, darkened studio. “Right this way, Alan,” Rhonda said. “It’s the lighted set dead ahead. I see that Lee is all ready for you.”
Alan’s voice carried clearly in the high-ceilinged room. “Oh, Rhonda! It’s dark in here. Want to take my hand so I don’t get lost?”
I could tell that Rhonda was stifling a laugh. “Don’t worry, Professor. I’m sure you know your way around. There you go. Straight ahead.”
Alan joined us without further comment about darkness. I introduced Marty, and the two shook hands. Somewhere along the line, between the hotel and the station, he’d managed to change his shirt, exchanging the white polo for a colorful, camera-friendly print. I took my designated spot behind the desk. Alan sat in a red chair, pulling it a little closer to the desk.
“So, are you ready for me, Lee?” Somehow he made even that innocuous question sound suggestive. In my mind Professor Dreamy grew less dreamy by the minute. Does he think every woman is a starstruck teenager?
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I believe I am. We’ll record for about fifteen minutes, do some editing, and the finished interview will air in the seven o’clock hour and also on the late news.”
Marty took her position behind the big studio camera, wheeling it into the three-sided cubicle, focusing on Alan and me. “Counting down, Lee. Ten, nine, eight . . .” At “one,” she pointed to me, and the tally light clicked on, indicating that the camera was recording us.
“Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” I began. “Lee Barrett here with my very special guest, Professor Alan Armstrong.” Marty had posted Alan’s bio notes on the teleprompter. I read them carefully, throwing in a few adjectives I knew he’d appreciate, like “popular teacher,” and “well-known educator.” I aimed a big smile in Alan’s direction. “Professor Armstrong, you’ve been in the news lately, not only here in Salem but nationally as well. Tell us a bit about your support for your fellow university professor, your close friend and associate Cody McGinnis, who has been named as a suspect in the murder of another of your friends, Professor Samuel Bond.”
I leaned back in my chair, still smiling, and awaited his answer. Marty pointed the big lens in his direction. “Thank you for your interest in my efforts to help Cody, Ms. Barrett,” he said, his expression on that movie-star face totally earnest and utterly adorable. The station had run promos all day for this interview, so I was sure a good number of Armstrong’s fans would be waiting anxiously to see him on TV. “Cody, as many of your viewers may know, is an associate professor at Essex County University and at the same time an instructor at the Tabitha Trumbull Academy. We teachers don’t earn a great deal of money, you know. We teach out of our love of learning, our great love for our students.” Self-deprecating shrug. “I am not a wealthy man either. So I started a GoFundMe page for Cody. I’m proud to say the student community has stepped up to the challenge and we have already raised more than twenty thousand dollars for Cody’s defense!” He gave the contact information for the fundraiser. “Lawyers are expensive. Perhaps the viewers of WICH-TV will help.”
I was surprised by the sum collected. “That’s a significant amount, Professor Armstrong. I’m sure Cody McGinnis is grateful.”
“I guess he is. I haven’t been in touch with him since all this started.”
“Is that by his choice or yours?”
“It may be mutual,” he said. “As you might imagine, I’m a bit conflicted over all this. Both men have been important in my life.”
“I understand that the three of you have been working together on a publishing project,” I said. “Of course the death of Professor Bond and the Cody McGinnis situation must have brought that project to a halt. How do you feel about that?”
He appeared to bristle at the suggestion. “Fortunately, we’d finished the actual manuscript before all of this unpleasantness occurred. It’s more or less fallen to me to deal with the marketing aspects of the project. I’ve been working on that.”
I thought about Louisa’s mention of the editor she saw with the men in Alaska, and Aunt Ibby’s recollection of the conversation in the library. I decided to press for an answer again. “I suppose you’ll be working hard with your editor, tying up all the loose ends.”
The perfect brow wrinkled into a frown. Alan Armstrong stood so fast he nearly knocked the chair over. Then, favoring me with a big smile, he tapped his watch. That looks like a Rolex—or a very good fake. “Good heavens, look at the time. It’s been a joy talking with you, Ms. Barrett. I must get back to campus. Thanks again, ever so much, for your interest in helping Cody during this difficult time.”
He faced the camera and gave the hand-to-the-throat universal “cut” signal. Marty’s head popped up from behind the camera hood. She stood in front of the desk, hands on her hips. “What’s the matter?” she said. “You leaving already? I’ve got you booked for ten more minutes.”
I stood and faced him. “Alan, I have more questions. You were going to talk about Cody being denied the full professorship. Besides, didn’t you want to say something about where people can contribute to your fund? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t like the direction your questions were heading, Lee. Some things need to be kept confidential. I don’t like your attitude at all. Don’t call me again.” He moved toward Marty, both hands in front of him as though he intended to push her. She stepped aside as he quick-walked toward the exit door.
He apparently hadn’t noticed that the yellow tally light was still on, that the camera was still recording.
Chapter 16
“What the hell was that all about?” Hands still on her hips, Marty watched the retreating figure, then turned off the camera.
“Not exactly sure,” I told her, “but the good professor seems to be very touchy about the idea that there’s an editor involved with the book project he and the other two have been working on.”
“Guess we’ll have to go with what we’ve got.” She shrugged. “It’s shorter than I expected, but we’ve been promoting th
is guy all day. Gotta use it. You want I should delete that extra footage? The part where he blew up?”
“We certainly can’t run it, but for sure hang on to it. He’s worried about something, and the cops may be interested in whatever it is.” I looked at my own watch—not a Rolex. “Well, at least I’ll get home early.” I sighed. “Maybe Pete and I can go somewhere and watch the game on TV.” I looked around at the red chairs and the Grant Wood print. “Can I help you put the Business Hour back together?”
“Nah. I’ll drag the fake tree back over to River’s set for tonight’s show. The rest of it can wait until Saturday. I’ll get the night security guard to help me with it.”
“Speaking of River’s show. Do you know if Therese Della Monica is the call screener for her tonight?”
“Yep. I think Therese’s already in the building.” Marty pointed toward the news department. “Doan’s got her working part-time doing some phone soliciting for new advertisers. The kid’s got a good phone voice.”
Therese had been one of my Television Production 101 students at the Tabby. She has a good voice, and she’s a pretty blonde with a future on camera, I’m sure. She’s also busy learning to be a witch. “Thanks, Marty,” I said. “I need to ask her a question.”
Sliding the photos of White and Crowninshield into my briefcase, I headed for the row of glass cubicles adjacent to the news department. Therese has one. Scott Palmer has one too. So do Buck Covington and Phil Archer. I don’t rate an office yet, but an occasional trip to a dataport serves the purpose for me.
I knocked on the glass door. Therese took off her headphone and waved me in. “Hello, Lee. What’s going on?”
“Hi, Therese. Quick question. Do you keep track of phone numbers from River’s callers?”
“Sure do. You asking about the lady who’s worried about her son too?”
“Too? Why? Who else is asking?”
“Scott Palmer. I gave it to him this afternoon. Wait a sec. I have the phone log right here.” She reached for a black-covered book. “Here you go.” She scribbled a number on the back of a business card. “I have my own business cards now,” she said. “See?” I turned the card over and read THERESE DELLA MONICA, SALES CONSULTANT. She smiled. “Cool, huh?”
I thanked her for the number, agreed that her card was cool indeed, and headed for the parking lot. Damn Scott. He beat me to it! I hoped he hadn’t used the number to call the poor distraught woman, and I was positive River wouldn’t appreciate his contacting her tarot callers. I decided to call Roger Temple. If this was his sister’s number—and I was convinced that it was—I wanted to tell him about the tarot reading. I used the metal staircase down the two flights to the parking lot exit, unlocked my car, sat in the front seat, and called Roger’s number.
“Hello, Lee,” he said. “I was about to call you.”
“Are you and Ray in Salem yet?”
“Arrived about twenty minutes ago. We’re at Phyllis’s place.”
“How’s she doing?”
“About as well as could be expected, I guess. We’re going to take her and our brother-in-law, Joe, out to dinner, try to cheer them up a little.”
“Good idea,” I said. “I wanted to give you a little heads-up on something.” I gave him a quick rundown on the call to River’s show and gave him the phone number Therese had given me.
“Yes. That’s Phyllis’s number all right. But Lee, what harm could it do? I know River wouldn’t say anything harmful, even if that hocus-pocus stuff of hers is all baloney.”
“It seems Scott Palmer has the number too, and I wouldn’t want him harassing your sister. Can you guys kind of monitor her calls for a while? Scott is a good newsman, but he can be—well, persistent.”
“Sure. That’s the house phone number. We’ll have her leave it on voice mail for now. How’s the snooping going? Can we get together tomorrow some time and catch up?”
I had no doubt that Doan would approve a meeting with Cody’s uncles no matter what else was on the white board. “Tomorrow for sure,” I promised.
“Ray and I are going to have a sit-down with Cody first thing in the morning. Then we’ll see what the lawyers have to say. We’ll be checking in with Tom Whaley around one o’clock to see what new evidence Salem PD has come up with. How does your afternoon look?”
“This has turned into kind of a team effort,” I said, searching my mind for a way to explain the Charlie’s Angels thing. Word choices, I reminded myself. “My aunt and I have located some acquaintances of the deceased professor who have the kind of information you’re looking for,” I said. “I’ll round them up and get back to you about the exact time we can all get together tomorrow. Will that work?”
“Sounds like a plan,” he said. “Talk to you tomorrow. Thanks, Lee, and thank your aunt for us too. Oh, by the way, Ray wants to know if she’s still single.”
“Aunt Ibby? Ray? Well, yeah. Sure. She’s still single.” I could have made better word choices with that response! “See you guys tomorrow.”
I aimed the Vette for home, glad this day was over. I passed the Hawthorne Hotel, recalling the day’s strange interactions with Alan Armstrong. I mentally echoed Marty’s observation. What the hell was that all about?
The usually charming Professor Armstrong had clearly lost his cool when the subject of the editor had come up. I wondered what Roger and Ray would think about it. Besides that, I was anxious to open Louisa’s Ultimate Alaska Cruise photo envelope. Getting a look at the mysterious “editor” hadn’t seemed like such a big deal last night, but it had certainly become one during the past twelve hours. I hoped they were nice sharp pictures.
Aunt Ibby’s Buick was in the garage, and Betsy’s Mercedes and Louisa’s Lincoln were in the driveway. The Angels were obviously in session. I’d locked the garage, when O’Ryan popped out of the cat door onto the back steps, then ran all the way down the flagstone path to meet me. I picked him up. “Why the special welcome?”
I carried the purring armful of stripy yellow cat into the house. “Okay, cat,” I said, putting him down. “Upstairs or downstairs? Your choice.” He didn’t hesitate, but started up the twisty staircase. I followed, a little surprised, knowing that it was close to happy hour at Aunt Ibby’s—an occasion he rarely misses.
O’Ryan is much faster than I am at stair climbing—and between the house on Winter Street and WICH-TV—I climb a lot of them. I attribute his speed to the fact that he’s lighter and has twice as many legs. As usual, he was inside when I got there—not in the zebra chair, though, and not faking sleep. He waited, pacing impatiently, then led me through the hall to the kitchen, where he jumped onto the neat pile of materials I’d left on the table, sending outline, notepad, and assorted printouts flying. He pounced on the Ultimate Alaska Cruise envelope.
I nudged him aside, straightened out the papers, and picked up the envelope. “You didn’t need to remind me. I was going to look at this first thing.”
“Meh,” he said.
“What do you mean, ‘Meh?’ I was too!” I declared, opening the pronged clasp and sliding a thick stack of glossy color photos onto the table. At first glance they seemed to be mostly pictures of Louisa in a variety of shipboard and shore excursion settings. Does the woman never wear the same outfit more than once? I decided to separate the Louisa-alone shots from the ones showing groups.
I pulled my biggest magnifying glass from the kitchen junk drawer and began close examination of faces. Particularly men’s faces. The first one I recognized was, not surprisingly, Alan Armstrong. Of course, he was the only one of the three I’d seen in person. I’d seen TV and newspaper photos of Cody McGinnis and Samuel Bond, but that’s different. A group seated at a dining table offered the first picture showing Louisa, Armstrong, Bond, and McGinnis, along with two women I didn’t recognize and a youngish-looking man with an unruly mop of black hair and sunglasses. Could he be the mysterious editor?
Chapter 17
I didn’t even bother to change clothes—just k
icked off the boots, slipped into flip-flops, picked up the stack of photos with that dining room group shot on top, stuck my phone in my jeans back pocket, and opened the kitchen door onto the front hall. “Come on, O’Ryan,” I said. “Let’s show this to the Angels. Maybe Louisa has this guy’s name.” Cat and I descended the two flights of polished oak stairs—much prettier, broader, and straighter than the back-door version, with a sweet wide bannister—perfect for a little girl to slide on—and arrived in the foyer outside Aunt Ibby’s living room. There’s an antique hall tree just inside the front door, with a full-length mirror and a lift-up seat. I paused for a brief moment to check my appearance.
Mistake. Flashing lights, swirling colors, and—surprise! The red-gloved Knight of Pentacles, plumed helmet and all, looked back at me. Instead of sitting astride a red-bridled horse, he rode a giant dog-shaped Monopoly game piece like the ones I’d seen at the Toy Trawler. The knight raised his right hand. The red glove didn’t look quite right. I realized that it was a rubber kitchen glove—like the ones my aunt uses for cleaning the oven. The palm of the glove was red, though. Bloodred.
Blink! He disappeared. Damned visions never make the least bit of sense. More annoyed than enlightened, I followed the cat.
“Aunt Ibby, it’s me.”
“We’re in the kitchen, dear,” she called. “The Angels are here. We’re having a brainstorming session. And some wine. Come join us.”
The three were gathered at the round oak table. In front of each woman was an open spiral-bound notebook, a couple of pens, and a full wineglass. An untidy pile of books and newspapers dominated the center of the table, along with an aluminum ice bucket where a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon chilled. Aunt Ibby manned a laptop.
“Wow!” I was seriously impressed. “You three look like you mean business!”
“Naturally. What did you expect?” She pointed to the ice bucket. “Pour yourself a wine and join us. We’re working on contacting friends who might be helpful in solving the case. Did you bring your phone?”
Murder, Take Two Page 9
