Late Checkout Read online

  Also by Carol J. Perry

  Final Exam

  Bells, Spells, and Murders

  It Takes a Coven

  Grave Errors

  Murder Go Round

  Look Both Ways

  Tails, You Lose

  Caught Dead Handed

  LATE CHECKOUT

  Carol J. Perry

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  RECIPE

  Acknowledgments

  Teaser chapter

  CAUGHT DEAD HANDED

  TAILS, YOU LOSE

  LOOK BOTH WAYS

  MURDER GO ROUND

  GRAVE ERRORS

  IT TAKES A COVEN

  BELLS, SPELLS, AND MURDERS

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Carol J. Perry

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1462-6

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1463-3 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1463-6 (ebook)

  For Dan, my husband and best friend

  Author’s Note

  Sincere apologies to the Main Public Library in my hometown of Salem, Massachusetts. I have taken the liberty of completely rearranging the interior of that fine historic structure to suit my story.

  For now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face . . .

  1 Corinthians, 13:12

  Chapter 1

  It was a cool, pretty October Friday morning in my home town of Salem, Massachusetts. My beautiful Laguna blue 2014 Chevrolet Stingray Corvette convertible was in the shop because some inconsiderate dope had run a shopping cart down one side of it, leaving a significant gouge in the passenger door. My aunt Ibby was in Boston at a librarians’ convention, so her vintage but trustworthy Buick wasn’t available either. My hours as a field reporter at WICH-TV had just been cut nearly in half because the station manager’s wife’s nephew had just graduated from broadcasting school and “needs some experience.”

  I’m Lee Barrett, nee Maralee Kowalski, thirty-three, red-haired, Salem born, orphaned early, married once, and widowed young. My aunt Isobel Russell and I share the fine old family home on Winter Street, along with our big yellow-striped gentleman cat, O’Ryan.

  “Might as well walk to work,” I grumbled to the cat, who watched with apparent interest as I pulled on cordovan boots over faded jeans, then tossed my NASCAR jacket over a white turtleneck shirt. “With the new schedule I don’t have to get there until noon anyway.” O’Ryan gave a sympathetic “Mmrrow,” and followed me to my kitchen door and out into the front hall.

  Aunt Ibby had surprised me with an apartment of my own on the third floor of the house when I returned from Florida a few years ago after the death of my race car driver husband, Johnny Barrett. Coming home to Salem had so far been a really good choice for me, and the field reporter job at WICH-TV had seemed like a dream come true.

  “Listen, Ms. Barrett, this is only temporary,” station manager Bruce Doan had said when he’d told me about my lowered occupational status. “The kid just needs a little television face time in local TV before he moves on. Meanwhile, your workload will be reduced, but you can still do your investigative reports on the late news once in a while.” The “kid” in question was Buffy Doan’s nephew, Howard Templeton. The reduction in income wasn’t a problem. Between Johnny’s insurance and the inheritance from my parents, I’m fine financially. Besides, Templeton seemed like a pleasant enough guy, but I was trying hard not to dislike him for disrupting my more or less orderly world. It was becoming a challenge.

  I locked the kitchen door and started down the curvy, wide-banistered staircase to the first-floor foyer with O’Ryan padding along beside me. He paused at the arched entrance to Aunt Ibby’s living room, peeked inside, then joined me at the front door. I patted his fuzzy head, wished him a nice day, unlocked the door, and stepped out onto our front steps facing Winter Street.

  October days can be delightful in New England—some call it “Indian summer.” This was such a day. Leaves had begun to turn to red and gold and the sky was an impossible shade of blue—think Maxfield Parrish paintings. My peevish mood began to melt away as I strolled along the edge of Salem Common, a pastoral oasis in the midst of a busy city. I waved across the wrought iron fence to Stasia, the pigeon lady who sat on her regular bench, surrounded by cooing birds. Across Washington Street, the tourist buses lined up in front of the Witch Museum while the massive statue of Roger Conant gazed down benignly upon us all. I could even smell the aroma of fresh, hot, buttery popcorn wafting from the same four-wheeled red-and-white wagon I remembered from my childhood.

  Things aren’t so bad, I told myself. Howard Templeton will “move on” eventually. My car will be repaired in a day or so. I still have a job. I’m blessed to have my aunt who loves me, and Pete Mondello, the wonderful man in my life. Everything is going to be okay. . . .

  Those rose-colored glasses slipped off in a hurry when a horn tooted and the WICH-TV mobile van rolled past, a happily waving Templeton kid in the front seat and my favorite videographer, Francine Hunter, at the wheel. Great. That automatically left me riding around in the station’s beat-up Volkswagen work van with Old Eddie for my driver. That’s in case anything worth covering happened during my shift, and in case Scott Palmer—who wears about fourteen different hats around the station including occasional field reporter—didn’t grab the call.

  I turned onto Hawthorne Boulevard, kicked a crumpled-up candy wrapper aside (darn
ed urban tumbleweed), trudged past the Nathaniel Hawthorne statue (old Nate, sitting up there, all famous and beloved), and headed for Derby Street, getting crabbier by the minute.

  WICH-TV is housed in one of Derby Street’s wonderful old waterfront brick buildings that hadn’t been destroyed during the urban renewal madness of the 1950s. The front door opens onto the main lobby, where the brass-doored elevator still gleams and the black-and-white tiled floor is scrubbed daily. Before I went inside, I took a quick look into the adjacent harbor-side parking lot, checking to be sure Templeton hadn’t glommed onto my parking space along with everything else. He hadn’t.

  Sometimes, in the interest of saving time, I use the metal stairway to the second-floor office suite, but being in no great hurry, I opted for “old clunky,” trying not to focus on the brass panels. I have a thing about reflective surfaces. I’m what’s called, in paranormal circles, a scryer. My best friend, River North, calls me a “gazer.” River is a witch and one of the few people who know that sometimes when I look at a shiny object I see things that others can’t see. Aunt Ibby knows all about my so-called “gift.” My detective boyfriend, Pete, knows about it too, and struggles to understand it. That’s all right. So do I.

  I pressed the UP button. And waited.

  The brass doors slid open and Scott Palmer stepped out. “Hi, Moon,” he said. “Boy, am I glad to see you!” I’ve known Scott since I got my first job at WICH-TV. I was the last-minute replacement for late night show host and practicing witch, Ariel Constellation, who did psychic readings between old horror movies on a show called Nightshades. (Unfortunately, Ariel hadn’t foreseen her own death and I was the one who’d found her body.) Anyway, I’d used the name Crystal Moon for that short-lived career and Scott sometimes still calls me Moon.

  “Hi, yourself,” I said. “When you’re that happy to see me it usually means you want something.”

  “Yeah, well, I kinda do. Me and Old Eddie were all set to cover the golf tournament over at the Salem Country Club, when Doan decided he wants me spend my whole afternoon digging up background on some dead guy.” He gave me the big smile and the long, innocent, deep-into-your-eyes look he’s perfected. “How about it, Moon? You always liked that research stuff. Me? I’m all about action.”

  “I’d like to help, Scott,” I said—because having been raised by a research librarian, I really do like that research stuff—“but my wheels are in the shop. I’m grounded. Stuck right here.”

  The smile faded for a fraction of a second, the eye thing didn’t even flicker. “That’s perfect. You can grab a company computer and do a fast workup on the guy.”

  “Who are we talking about anyway?” I asked. “Somebody famous?”

  “I guess he was at one time. Name’s Larry Laraby. Ring any bells?”

  I frowned. The name was familiar. I snapped my fingers. “Sure. His picture is in the lobby. He worked here a long time ago.”

  “Right,” Scott said. “Laraby was the station’s first sports guy. Back in the sixties and seventies, I think. Anyway, will you do it? Old Eddie’s waiting out front.”

  “Might as well, I guess,” I said, “since you’ll have the VW and Templeton has the mobile. By the way, why are we doing this?”

  “The station’s seventieth anniversary is coming up. Doan’s planning some kind of special about the old-timers who worked here.”

  I thought about what I’d watched on WICH-TV when I was growing up. “I remember Katie the Clown. She used to do a kids’ show in the morning.”

  “She’s probably still around town somewhere. And did you watch Ranger Rob? He was on in the afternoon.” A short laugh. “Hey, Phil Archer is still working here. He’s pretty old. He might even remember Laraby.” He gave me a quick salute and headed for the door. “Thanks, Moon. I owe you one.”

  The brass doors had closed by then, so I hit the UP button again. Scott was right about Phil Archer, the station’s long-time news anchor. I remembered watching Phil on the evening news when I was a kid. Phil had since been moved to the noon news, so there was a good chance he’d still be in the building.

  As the elevator clunked its slow way up to the second floor, I thought about a simple plan. Just a little something to fill my spare time until Howard Templeton “moved on.”

  Sometimes even the simplest little plan can turn serious.

  Deadly serious.

  Chapter 2

  I pushed open the glass door to the office suite and wished a “good morning” to Rhonda, the station’s way-smarter-than-she-looks receptionist.

  “Hi, Lee.” She pointed to the dry-erase schedule board behind her desk. “I don’t have anything booked for you yet today. Mr. Doan said for you to just stand by in case anything turns up. By the way, Scott was just in here looking for you.”

  “Yep. Saw him downstairs. He needs some help on the Larry Laraby project. I can work on that, if it’s okay.”

  “Don’t see why not. I’ll put you on the schedule.” She scribbled my name in red marker under the heading “Anniversary show.”

  “Thanks. Is Phil Archer still here? I think I’ll start with interviewing him.”

  “He’s still down in the newsroom. I think he hates to leave this place.”

  “I know. It must seem like a second home to him, he’s been here so long.” I opened a green metal door and headed down the long narrow corridor leading to the newsroom. The glass-enclosed studio is by far the most impressive space in the building, with a floor-to-ceiling wall of monitors, banks of overhead lights, and a handsome curvy anchor desk backed by a panoramic photo of the Salem Common that changes with the seasons. The scene of the moment showed trees ablaze with fall colors. Even the offscreen positions manned by technical crew members, directors, and editorial staff looked attractive and comfortable. I spotted Phil Archer watching the BBC monitor. I checked to be sure the red on-the-air light was off and let myself into the studio.

  Phil agreed right away to help with the Larry Laraby project. “I remember him well,” he said. “Strange how he died, wasn’t it?’

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m starting from scratch here. I don’t know the first thing about the man.”

  “No reason you would. It was a long time ago—in the seventies. I was a young intern here and Larry was sports reporter. A real V.I.P. in the New England sports world. He’d been with the station from the beginning and knew all the big stars, Larry Bird, Johnny Bucyk, Carl Yastrzemski, Bobby Orr.”

  “You said his death was . . . strange?”

  “A lot of people thought so.” He nodded. “Yes. A lot of people. Anyway, he’d retired from the station and was going all over the country managing a sports collectibles show. You know, baseball cards, autographed footballs, game jerseys. It was a big business.” I know that. I have a sizable collection of NASCAR memorabilia stashed in Aunt Ibby’s basement.

  “What happened to him?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “His wife found him dead one morning in their house. Found him in his library. He had a huge collection of sports books. I heard he was even planning on writing one himself. Anyway, there was poor Larry, dead on the floor with his books scattered all around him. He had one of those moving ladders that reach to top bookshelves. They said he must have fallen off of it. Broke his neck. They said that’s what killed him.”

  “You didn’t believe it?”

  “No. But hey, that’s just me. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. Come on. I’ll show you where the old videos are. That’s a good place to start.”

  He was right. I viewed a couple of hours of Larry Laraby’s videotaped sports shows, taking notes all the while. By three-thirty I felt that I had a pretty good overall idea of what the man was like. Knowledgeable and passionate about sports. Good sense of humor. Happy at his work. I would like to have known him.

  Aunt Ibby had planned to be home from Boston by four, so I phoned her to beg a ride home. “Of course I’ll pick you up, Maralee,” she said. “I have to stop at the library for
a bit though. We have a new woman on the desk and I want to help her close. You don’t mind coming in with me for a few minutes, do you?”

  I laughed at that. “Did I ever mind going to the library?”

  I clocked out with Rhonda, asked her to try to fix me up with a ride and camera for the next day’s shift and—using the stairs instead of the elevator—hurried down to the lobby and out onto Derby Street to meet my aunt.

  She pulled the Buick into the parking lot, stopping just behind the bench bearing a memorial plaque for Ariel Constellation. That bench was a gift from Ariel’s coven. Our fine cat O’Ryan is, in a way, a gift from Ariel too. He was a regular feature on her late-night show, Nightshades. I inherited both the show and the cat. Some say O’Ryan was Ariel’s “familiar.” In Salem a witch’s familiar is always much respected and often feared. He came to live with us and seems to be pleased with the arrangement. So are we.

  I was interested in what my aunt would think about my plan for filling the idle hours my shortened work schedule had created. At least it would beat binge-watching back-to-back seasons of The Bachelorette or joining Stasia feeding pigeons on the Common. I began talking before I’d even closed the car door. “I have an idea.”

  “Good,” she said. “Tell me about it.”

  “Since I have more time off than I want, and the library can always use volunteers, why don’t I spend some half-days helping out there instead of wandering around feeling sorry for myself?”

  “Oh, dear. Is that what you’re doing? I think shelving books is a much better alternative.”

  “So you can use the help?”

  “Absolutely. Give us as many hours as you can.”

  “Thank you. I’m thinking I can get some work done while I’m there on another assignment for the station that Scott Palmer kind of passed on to me.” I told her about the Larry Laraby project.