Murder, Take Two Read online

  “It doesn’t to me,” she said. “But then, that’s probably what Dick Crowninshield thought too.”

  “Crowninshield had accomplices. The papers—especially the tabloids—have been speculating that there may have been others involved this time too.”

  “I’ve read that,” she said. “One with a club or a lead pipe of some kind and the other with a knife.”

  I checked my watch. “Have to go,” I said. “I’m afraid we don’t have a lot of information for the twins.”

  “We haven’t heard from Louisa and Betsy yet, remember. And Rupert knew both Bond and McGinnis.” She wore a look of confidence as she picked up her newspaper. “You’ll see. Leave it to us. We’ll figure it all out.”

  I patted the cat, wished my aunt a good day, then backed my blue Corvette out of the garage and headed for Derby Street. I decided to take my aunt’s advice and leave murder solving to the girlfriends and Mr. P.—at least for now.

  WICH-TV is housed in one of the lovely old brick Federal buildings that fortunately escaped the urban renewal madness that gripped Salem, along with too many other New England towns, back in the 1950s. I’ve been with the station long enough to rate my own parking space in the harborside parking lot, and when the weather is nice, I always enjoy taking a deep breath of good salt air before I go inside. It was a beautiful morning, my tummy was full of good breakfast, and I looked forward to an interesting day at work. I was scheduled to cover the opening of a new toy store first, then a tour of a historic candy store after lunch. Toys and candy. What could be more fun? I love my job. Naturally, those cushy assignments would be cancelled if there was breaking news somewhere else in town.

  I crossed the black and white tiled floor of the lobby and pressed the UP button beside the polished brass doors of the elevator. We call it “Old Clunky” with good reason, and I thumped and bumped my way up to the second floor. I pushed open the glass door marked “WICH-TV” and greeted Rhonda, the receptionist. “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, isn’t it? Am I still on for Toy Trawler?”

  Rhonda is surely not your everyday average receptionist. We don’t know exactly how many degrees she has, but she is one smart woman, and Bruce Doan has always left most of the scheduling up to her. She keeps track of all of the on-air reporters on a white board next to her desk. She pointed to the board where “Barrett: Toy Store: 10:00 a.m. America’s Oldest Candy Company: 1:00 p.m.” was written in purple dry marker. “Francine’s driving and filming. I’ve got some prep material for both places printed out for you. I understand the owner of the toy store does a good interview.” She handed me a folder.

  “Thanks, Rhonda.” I rifled through the pages. “I wonder why it’s called Toy Trawler.”

  “That’s easy,” she said. “Remember that old restaurant on Route One that was shaped like a ship? It’s in there.”

  “I don’t think that was a trawler.”

  “It is now. They took the masts off and cut it in half. The owner is a retired Gloucester fisherman.”

  “Ship ahoy,” I saluted her and tucked the folder into my hobo bag. “I’ll go down to the dressing room and slap on some makeup, then find Francine and get going.”

  Francine is my favorite mobile photographer. We work together well, and we’ve produced some darned good TV. We’ve also been through a few pretty hairy shoots together too. I took the stairs down to the first floor, where the dressing room has a good mirror and decent lighting. Rhonda’s a Mary Kay rep, so there’s always a box of samples down there to work with. I cut through the long, dark room with its black painted walls and an assortment of show sets—Sports Roundup, The Saturday Business Hour, Cooking with Wanda the Weather Girl, Shopping Salem, Tarot Time with River North. That last one was the same set where I’d done my short-lived call-in psychic show—Nightshades. My best friend, River North, has had much more success in that space than I ever did.

  I ducked into the dressing room and added a little more eye shadow and redder lipstick, then smoothed out and sprayed my too-curly red hair. I texted Francine. “Where are you?”

  “Outside. Motor’s running.”

  “On my way.”

  Francine had the WICH-TV mobile unit facing Derby Street, ready to roll. I climbed into the passenger seat. “Ever been to the Toy Trawler before?” I asked. “I haven’t, but I’m dying to see what the fisherman/toy guy has done to the place.”

  “Captain Billy,” she said, pulling onto the street. “Wait ’til you see it. I took my sister’s girls there. I think adults like it even more than the kids do. He has a room full of the old collectible toys as well as the latest ones.”

  “Sounds like fun. Then after that we go to a candy store. Gonna be a good day,” I promised, opening the facts folder Rhonda had prepared, trying once again to push all thoughts of murders, past and present, out of my mind.

  Chapter 5

  Captain Billy’s Toy Trawler was every bit as charming and interesting as Francine had promised. She started shooting as soon as we got out of the mobile unit. I carried the stick mic, talked to the audience, and walked backward toward the gangplank entrance to the store. Smart idea. Nautical and wheelchair accessible at the same time. It’s taken me a while to master that walking backward while smiling, talking, and facing the camera trick. Rhonda had phoned ahead, so Captain Billy, in full captain’s regalia, waited for us at the entrance.

  “Welcome, welcome aboard ladies,” he boomed. He looked every bit the fisherman part. Think a kind of attractive cross between Spencer Tracy in The Old Man and the Sea and Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean. Francine followed the captain and me with her camera as he led me from a rubber raft full of teddy bears, to a fully outfitted yacht peopled by Barbie and all of her well-dressed friends, to a walk-in fish bowl where the Little Mermaid, the Ninja Turtles, Nemo and other toy denizens of the deep were artfully displayed.

  “Come along to the game deck,” Captain Billy ordered. “This month’s special is board games—all the ones you remember from when you were a kid, along with all the newest ones.”

  Francine and I dutifully followed him into a large room where the walls were papered with board game labels and box covers. Kids climbed on giant Monopoly game pieces and others played on a slide from Candy Land. Counters were stacked with hundreds of games. A central display featured an enormous game board from one of my favorites, Clue. “Clue is our game of the month,” Captain Billy explained. “Lot of interest in it locally lately, of course.”

  “Why so?”

  He looked at me as though I wasn’t quite bright. “The murder. Lots of folks think that the game of Clue was inspired by the murder of Captain Joseph White. Happened in Salem and Parker Brothers games were made in Salem, so why not? Look, there’s a game character named White, like the murdered guy, Joseph White At first they’d thought the old man had been killed with a lead pipe like the one in the game. Dick Crowninshield hanged himself with a silk scarf—so there’s the noose. Perfect tie-in for me and my games with the murder of that professor.”

  So much for getting my thoughts away from that topic. “That’s really interesting,” I said. “Especially the tie-in aspect of the Captain White murder. That’s something to think about, isn’t it? Are you selling a lot of Clue?”

  “Not only the games. People all over are throwing Clue mystery parties. Here.” He handed me a colorful brochure. “All the directions for hosting a Clue party. We even sell life-size plastic weapons. The wrench, the rope, the lead pipe, the revolver, the knife, and the candlestick. Say, you ought to throw one and take the video. It would make a good TV show. I’d even sponsor it!”

  Francine tapped her watch and gave me the “cut” sign. That meant something must have come up at the station. It looked as though we’d have to leave early.

  “Thanks, Captain Billy,” I said. “We’ll think about that. Thanks so much for showing us the Toy Trawler.” I gave the store’s address, hours, and website, and signed off.

  Francine reached
for my mic. “Come on. Let’s roll. Rhonda says there’s some kind of student protest going on over at the college.” I hurried to keep up with her. I wore heels because, after all, I was on camera, while Francine can wear sneakers every day if she wants to.

  “Is the candy store gig cancelled?”

  She stashed camera and sound equipment in the back of the van, and we climbed into the front seats. “She told them we’d be a little late. They said they’d be open until nine tonight.”

  “Looks like we might be in for a long day,” I said.

  “You don’t sound too happy about it.” She turned on to Route 1, heading back to Salem.

  “I kind of have plans,” I told her.

  “With Pete?”

  “He’s probably working late tonight himself on that murder. No, it’s a get-together with my aunt and a few of her friends.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “No offense to Aunt Ibby, but that doesn’t sound very exciting.”

  I had to smile, thinking of the particular friends involved. “You’d be surprised. All of them knew Professor Bond. Cody McGinnis’s uncles are friends of ours, so we’re all trying to put together anything we can think of that might help clear their nephew.”

  “That’s nice,” she said politely. “Listen, Lee, I don’t know if this is important, but you remember my roommate’s brother’s muscle-bound trainer, Rocky?”

  “Sure.” I did remember Rocky. He’d been instrumental in helping to dig up some really important information for me not too long ago—information that may have saved Aunt Ibby’s life.

  “Well, according to my roommate’s brother, Cody McGinnis has a membership in one of the gyms where Rocky works out. He said the cops came in the other day with a warrant and emptied Cody’s locker.”

  Yes, that could be important. “Interesting, Francine. Thanks.”

  “No problem,” she said. “Anyway, I doubt this student thing will take long. They’re always getting riled up about some cause or other. It was that way when I was there too. I carried signs for all kinds of stuff. Save the whales. Free lunches for students. It was fun.”

  “Did Rhonda give us a hint about what they’re protesting this time?”

  “Nope. Want to give her a call?”

  “Sure.” I tapped in the station’s main number. “And speaking of clues, that Clue mystery party idea might be something we should try. Hello? Rhonda, we’re on our way to Essex County University. What’s going on over there?”

  We could hear the noise before we turned onto Lafayette Street. We drove onto the campus without being stopped, parked in one of the student parking lots, and unloaded the camera and mic once again. It didn’t take long for us to figure out that the students weren’t protesting anything at all. It was actually a rally to gather support for the Cody McGinnis Defense Fund—and it seemed to be going well. “It’s almost time for the noon news,” Rhonda said. “Tell Francine to send, we’ll edit as you go, and maybe we’ll get some of it in before twelve-thirty.”

  Francine motioned for me to follow her. She pointed to where much of the crowd seemed to be gathering in front of one of the school’s older buildings. A man in a white shirt, his arms upraised, a megaphone in one hand, appeared to be about to speak. We pushed our way through the mass of young people—we’re both getting pretty good at that—and staked out a position a few feet away from the man.

  I activated my mic, and Francine began recording. “Lee Barrett here reporting to you from the campus of Essex County University, where a rally is in progress.” I spoke to a young woman standing close to me. “Could you tell me who the speaker is?” I asked. “Is he a student here?”

  “That’s Alan Armstrong,” she said, “aka Professor Dreamy because he’s so handsome. He started the GoFundMe for Professor McGinnis.”

  The man lowered the bullhorn and spoke into it. “Can you hear me okay?” A quick roar of approval answered. I wished we’d brought a good sound engineer with us. Filming was going to be a challenge between the bullhorn, the crowd noise, and a recording of “Where in the World but in America” playing somewhere in the background.

  “Thanks for coming out,” he said. “This is important.” The crowd noise stopped. The music stopped. Just like that. Unusual. The man had somehow commanded instant full attention. I was impressed.

  “Cody McGinnis is a friend of mine,” he began. “You all know that. There’s no way he could have done what the papers, the TV, even some members of the administration right here in this fine university—what they’re saying he did.” There was a dramatic pause, and still the crowd remained silent. “Samuel Bond was a friend of mine too,” he said. “Professor Bond was my teacher and my mentor when I was a student here, some twenty years ago. Now one good man is dead, and another good man is facing imprisonment. Nothing we can do will bring Samuel Bond back to us.” His voice grew louder, more urgent. “But there is something we can do for Cody! We can help him pay for the best defense money can buy! We can facebook and tweet and instagram. We can contact all of our friends and family and neighbors. We can dig deep in our own pockets. We can save Cody!”

  Cheers erupted. The man lowered the bullhorn and came down the steps directly toward me. I stuck my mic right in his handsome face.

  Chapter 6

  “Excuse me. Professor Armstrong? Lee Barrett, WICH-TV. A couple of questions please?”

  He didn’t answer right away but gave me a quite un-professor-like up-and-down look. I was pretty sure Francine’s camera must have caught it. He smiled a perfect toothpaste-commercial-worthy smile. “Yes indeed, Ms. Barrett. Always happy to talk to the press. Get the word out to the community about our cause. What would you like to know?”

  Who’s your orthodontist? was the first question that came to mind, but I smiled back. “There’s been talk around that Cody and Professor Bond had some serious differences. Do you know what the problem between them was?”

  He sighed. “Ah, yes. There’s always talk around, isn’t there, Ms. Barrett? Usually unfounded gossip.” He held up one hand. “Yes. I know what the problem was. A tiny, insignificant disagreement between colleagues.”

  That sounded familiar. It was almost what the lawyer had claimed—plus a couple of adjectives. “A disagreement?” I asked. “Do you know what it was about?”

  “Internal university business,” he said. “A minor scheduling problem in the History Department, as I understand it. Not a big deal.”

  Not a big deal. That’s what the lawyer said.

  “You said that Professor Bond was your mentor. Do you teach history also?”

  “I don’t. I started as a history major, then switched to political science. A better fit for me. Thank you for your interest in our funding for Cody’s legal expenses. Your viewers can help.” He rattled off a website and handed me a card. “Have a good day.” He flashed the smile again, this time directly at the camera, and walked away.

  The crowd had pretty much dispersed, but I found a few students willing to talk about the case. Two fervent male Samuel Bond fans who thought Cody McGinnis had probably done it and one girl who was just as sure Cody wasn’t guilty. “I can fully understand why somebody could hate Professor Bond, though.” She shook a head full of bright blue curls. “He gave me a D on my midterm. I couldn’t believe it. What a jerk. I switched my major to earth science.” There didn’t seem to be much more of interest going on. I thanked the three, did my usual sign-off, and handed Francine my mic. “Time to go to the candy store? We seem to be back on schedule.”

  “Absolutely—and Rhonda says they can fit almost all of the hunky professor’s speech and some of your interview onto the noon news. Good job.”

  “Thanks. It’s lunchtime. Do you suppose we should eat some actual food before we start with the candy samples?”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” she said. Once again we loaded our gear into the van, then headed for the nearest drive-through. After a filling, if not particularly healthful lunch, we passed the WICH-TV building
with a toot of the horn and proceeded all the way to the end of Derby Street, where the candy store is right across the street from the House of the Seven Gables. I’d glanced at Rhonda’s notes about it, but I’d been there before and so had Francine. Ye Olde Pepper Candy Companie dates back to 1806 and is, after all, the oldest candy company in America—so named because one of the long-ago owners was George Pepper.

  That interview went well too, and we headed back to the station with our day’s scheduled stops completed and with several boxes of chocolates, fudges, truffles, and the signature lemon-flavored “Salem Gibralters” along with complete instructions on how to throw a Clue party to share with the crew. A good day’s work—and I’d still be able to attend the meeting of “Snoop Station Central.”

  We’d put our candy haul on the curved Formica counter surrounding Rhonda’s reception desk. It didn’t take long for word to get around, so pretty soon several of our fellow employees, along with the boss, had joined us for an impromptu tasting party.

  “So, what did you think about what the professor had to say about the murder?” Scott Palmer wanted to know. Scott’s not one of my favorite co-workers, but I always try to keep things civil between us.

  “He didn’t say much of anything about it,” I said, “except that Cody didn’t do it.”

  “I mean about the disagreement between Cody and Bond. You buyin’ it? That it was no big deal?”

  It was a good question. “I think it needs a lot of investigation—a lot of explanation. I didn’t see the news show myself. Did they get the interview with the three students in?”

  “So,” he said, stuffing a truffle into his mouth, “you’re not buyin’ it either.”

  Rhonda interrupted. “We didn’t get the students in. We’ll do the whole thing in the six p.m. slot.”

  “What did they say?” Scott wanted to know.

  “Two against Cody, one for,” I said.

  “Men or women?”

  “Two guys. One girl.”

  “Who was for?” he mumbled. “And why?”