Bells, Spells, and Murders

Poe

CHAPTER 1

It was the first day of December in Salem, Massachusetts, my hometown. Wanda the Weather Girl had advised the WICH-TV audience to expect afternoon snow flurries and overnight plunging temperatures and, as the old song says, it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas. I’ve been associated with the local TV station in one way or another for a couple of years, but this December first was also the beginning of a brand-new broadcasting position for me.

I’m Lee Barrett, née Maralee Kowalski, thirty-two, red-haired, Salem born, orphaned early, married once, and widowed young. I wasn’t nervous about the new job. I have a solid background in TV—Emerson College graduate, worked in Miami as a home shopping show host, did a stint on a network weather channel, taught Television Production at a local school, and even spent a short time as a TV call-in psychic. (Not too proud of that one,)

My boss at the station, Bruce Doan, likes all of his employees to wear more than one hat, so in addition to doing occasional investigative reports on the late news, I’d just become WICH-TV’s newest field reporter and I was excited about it. It meant that I’d be covering events on location, reporting from the scene where news was happening. It was, I thought, a dream job come true, and just in time for Christmas.

The holiday season is a big deal in Salem. It seems that everything that can hold a lightbulb blazes brightly, and since the year’s theme was Ring in the Holidays in Salem, a whole lot of bell jingling was going on too. My Aunt Ibby had even tied a bell with a red ribbon onto our cat O’Ryan’s collar. He was not pleased about it. Aunt Ibby and I share the big old family home on Winter Street, where I have my own apartment on the third floor.

So far on my first morning as a field reporter, I’d stood in front of the bandstand on Salem Common telling the audience about the traditions involved in the decoration of the annual community Christmas tree there. Next, I’d visited with a group of veterans who repaired and repainted donated used bicycles for underprivileged kids as part of a Veterans Helping Santa program.

There was nothing further listed on my schedule until an eleven o’clock appointment with Albert Eldridge. Mr. Eldridge was, among other things, chairman of the Holiday Walk committee, overseeing a popular walking tour through one of Salem’s beautifully decorated historic districts. So by nine-thirty Francine, the mobile unit driver/photographer, and I were headed back to the waterfront TV station on Derby Street where a light dusting of snow had begun to fall.

Having the opportunity to work with some of my old friends at WICH-TV on a daily basis made this new job even better. I checked in with Rhonda, the way-smarter-than-she-looks receptionist. How’d you like your first morning? she wanted to know. I watched the Christmas tree segment. You looked good. If you were nervous it didn’t show.

Not nervous, I said. Excited.

She leaned across the curved purple Formica-topped reception desk, pushing aside an improbable arrangement of glitter-sprinkled lavender poinsettias. Okay, tell me everything, she said. You still dating the hot cop? The hot cop in question was detective Pete Mondello and the answer was a resounding yes. Still dating, still a cop, and definitely, still hot.

I caught her up on recent day-to-day happenings in my sometimes ordinary, sometimes very strange life—carefully omitting the stranger parts. Aunt Ibby is going to London for the holidays, I told her. Her friend Nigel invited her when he was here last year.

Oh? Good for her. But does that mean you’ll be alone for Christmas?

Not alone, I said. O’Ryan will be with me and, anyway, Pete’s sister and brother-in-law have invited me for Christmas dinner at their house.

That’ll be nice, Rhonda said. Did you know that the Doans are inviting everybody to a Christmas Eve party here at the station?

Got my invitation. I’ll probably go. Sometimes Pete volunteers to work on holidays so that officers with kids can be with their families. That meant there was a pretty good chance I’d be spending Christmas Eve with my friends at WICH-TV. New Year’s Eve is always reserved for Pete though.

It didn’t take long for Rhonda and me to catch up on each other’s lives the way good friends can and by ten-fifteen Francine already had the mobile van parked in front of the building, engine running and heater cranked up when she phoned. Ready to roll, Lee? If this snow doesn’t stop you’ll have to do your interview with the old guy indoors instead of in front of the fancy-ass mansions.

I glanced at my watch. She was right. We’d be a little early for our appointment, but if Mr. Eldridge wanted to give viewers a peek at some wonderfully decorated old homes we’d better do it right away before blowing snow made filming difficult. I said good-bye to Rhonda, pulled up the fake fur collar of my plaid wool jacket, plunked a knit hat over red hair gone wild, and hurried downstairs. The snow had picked up in intensity. Not the soft, fluffy kind, but the icy, face-stinging variety. I hurried along the sidewalk to the waiting van, pausing only to stuff a few dollars into a camo-painted kettle manned by a bell-ringing Santa with an obviously fake beard and a just-as-obviously genuine smile. I climbed into the passenger seat. Let’s roll.

It’s not far from Derby Street to Washington Square, so within minutes we pulled up in front of what one might describe as a stately brick home. A discreet black and gold sign over an exquisite Samuel MacIntire carved doorway identified it as Historical Charities of Salem. The annual Holiday Walk was just one of the numerous fund-raisers Albert Eldridge chaired throughout the year. Some of the proceeds went to maintenance and restoration of Salem’s many historical sites and buildings. Other funds supported veterans’ causes, aid to needy families, a community Bookmobile (my librarian aunt’s favorite) and—especially at holiday time—toys for kids. I felt honored to be able to meet and interview such a prominent and important citizen.

While Francine remained in the van, making camera, sound, and lighting adjustments, I climbed the stairs to the handsome front door and, following instructions posted on the glass inset, entered the reception areas without knocking or ringing. A cushy oriental runner on a polished hardwood floor led to a massive mahogany desk where a diminutive gray-haired woman welcomed me with a smile. A fragrant Scotch pine Christmas tree with Victorian-themed ornaments stood to one side of the desk and a tall wing chair upholstered in green and gold stripes flanked the other. Several comfortable looking club chairs were arranged attractively around the long room.

Only the white plastic topped metal table next to the door seemed out of place. An untidy row of cardboard boxes, canvas bags, and plastic tubs, all filled with a variety of items, were spread across the top. More boxes were piled beneath the folding legs. I saw canned goods, cake mixes, shampoo bottles, candy bars, detergents, packages of diapers. A pile of stamped envelopes in a wire basket marked outgoing beside a matching one marked incoming was at the end closest to the door. A tall barrel marked Toys stood at the opposite end.

Good morning. May I help you? The smiling woman greeted me from behind the desk. I handed her a business card, one of my new ones identifying me as Field Reporter. I’m Lee Barrett, I said. I’m early for an eleven o’clock appointment with Mr. Eldridge.

Oh, yes. She peered at the card through granny glasses perched at the end of her nose. Lee Barrett. Of course. I’ve seen you on TV. You’re Isobel Russell’s niece, Maralee. She speaks so highly of you.

You know my Aunt Ibby? I wasn’t surprised. In her position as head research librarian at Salem’s main library, I think my aunt has met just about everybody in Salem at least once.

Yes indeed. She and I are both members of the Christmas Belles, you know. We’re going to start rehearsals this week for our holiday concert. She offered her hand across the broad expanse of desktop. I’m Lillian Jeffry. Mr. Eldridge’s secretary.

How do you do, Ms. Jeffry. My aunt has told me about the Belles. Sounds like a lively group of musicians.

We do have a grand time together. She glanced at a grandfather’s clock in the corner. You’re quite early for your appointment. Mr. Eldridge likes to keep a timely schedule so I’ll announce you at precisely eleven. Meanwhile, just make yourself comfortable. She waved a hand toward the wing chair. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll continue with my work while we chat. Mr. Eldridge likes to have all of his holiday cards hand addressed, and as you might imagine, a man of his stature has hundreds of friends. I started toward the chair she’d indicated. Oh, just a moment, dear. While you’re up would you add these cards to the outgoing basket? The letter carrier should be along any minute. I accepted a stack of envelopes, admiring perfect cursive, mentally comparing it to my own back hand scrawl, and added them to the pile.

You have beautiful handwriting, I said. No wonder Mr. Eldridge likes to have you address his cards. I paused in front of the table. Are all of these things for needy people?

Yes. Sorry if it looks a little bit messy. People come in and leave donations. Then some of our people pick them up and take them to the right charities. Toys for the kids, new socks and underwear for the vets, diapers go to the battered women’s shelter, candy for all of them. She smiled. I know it looks disorganized, but it really runs quite smoothly. Things come and go from that table all day long. Look, here comes the letter carrier now.

The postman entered, said, Hi, Lilly. Stayin’ out of trouble? Not waiting for an answer he picked up the outgoing stack of envelopes, dropped a few pieces of mail into the incoming basket, and hurried away.

’Bye Howie, she said to the already closed door.

The grandfather’s clock chimed eleven. All right, Lee. I think you can go right on into Mr. Eldridge’s office now. I know he’s expecting you. I checked just a little while ago to see if he wanted me to order some lunch for him, but he’s so deep into his work he didn’t even answer. A break will do him good. He’s been poring over the books since I got here this morning.

Thanks. We’re going to try to do the shoot outside. He’ll probably enjoy the fresh air. I walked carefully across the polished floor, hoping the heels of my boots wouldn’t mar its perfection, and tapped gently on the door marked A. Eldridge before pushing it open.

It was a beautiful room, as one might expect in such a house. Here was more oriental carpeting on gleaming floors and portraits of distinguished men and elegant women lining cream-colored walls. Ashes from a dying fire smoldered in a wonderful huge fireplace with boughs of fragrant evergreen and holly arranged on the mantelpiece. Mr. Eldridge, chin resting on his chest, red Santa hat slightly askew, appeared to be concentrating on a book that lay on his desk. I approached from the right side of his desk. Mr. Eldridge? I said. I’m Lee Barrett from the television station. We have an appointment. No reply. I shook his shoulder gently. Mr. Eldridge? The chair rolled back and the man slid forward ever so slowly, feet first, until almost all of him was under the desk. Just his head and shoulders remained propped against the chair seat, the Santa hat at a rakish angle covering one eye. The other eye was open, bloodshot, unseeing.

I backed out of the office. Ms. Jeffry, I said, trying hard to remain calm. Please call 911.

CHAPTER 2

Ms. Jeffry’s eyes widened. Her jaw dropped, mouth open. But, good secretary that she was, she reached for the phone, dialed 911. Tell them we need an ambulance. I struggled to maintain a normal tone. Something is wrong with Mr. Eldridge.

She repeated my words, gave the address, dropped the phone, and ran for the open office door. The ambulance will be here soon, I said. Maybe we shouldn’t touch him. Ignoring my warning, she knelt beside his chair, pushed the Santa hat aside, and pressed anxious fingers against the side of his neck.

Cold, she murmured. So cold.

Sirens sounded outside. Francine appeared in the doorway. What’s going on? There’s an ambulance out there. Holy crap! She moved closer. Is that him? The guy we’re supposed to interview? What happened?

I don’t know. Steering Francine back toward the reception area, I looked over my shoulder to where the kneeling woman rocked slowly back and forth, shoulders trembling. He looked as though he was just sitting there, reading, I whispered. I shook his shoulder and . . . I shrugged, unable to finish the sentence.

Oh, wow. Francine covered her mouth with one hand. You shoved him out of his chair like that? Is he dead? Oh, wow!

I’d just begun to protest the shoved him out of his chair part, when two uniformed EMTs, one man and one woman, wheeled a stretcher past us and into the office. The woman gently helped Ms. Jeffry to her feet and guided her to where Francine and I waited in the doorway. The man moved the chair aside, lowering his silent patient to the floor.

The woman, whose embroidered name tag read T. J. Wells, faced us while her partner focused his attention on Albert Eldridge. What happened here? she said. Did any of you see him fall? Wordlessly, Francine and Ms. Jeffry each looked at me.

I . . . I guess I was here when he slipped out of the chair, I said, watching as the male half of the team (name tag: Dom Marafa) placed latex-gloved fingers on the patient’s neck, much the way Ms. Jeffry had, shook his head, turned Mr. Eldridge onto his left side, then looked directly at me. He slipped out?

I thought he was asleep. I shook his shoulder to wake him up. Then he just kind of slid out of the chair. I told Ms. Jeffry and she called 911.

Uh-huh. Marafa touched the back of Mr. Eldridge’s head, then carefully removing both gloves and placing them into a red bag, he stood and walked toward us. T. J., note male patient. Unresponsive. Minimal rigor. Call off SFD. No need. I’ll phone in the triple zero. Facing us, he closed the door of the office behind him. I’m going to call for some police assistance and we’ll need to get a little information from you ladies.

I’ve spent enough time with my detective boyfriend to know what triple zero means. It means that there’s no point in performing CPR or attaching cardiac monitor leads, that the patient is beyond their help. Calling off the Salem Fire Department’s emergency vehicle offered further proof. Marafa turned his back and spoke into his phone. T. J. Wells spoke softly into her own phone, then, with pen and pad poised, nodded in the secretary’s direction. The patient’s name?

Ms. Jeffry drew herself up to her full height of about five feet, and answered in a firm voice. He’s Albert Eldridge. Executive Director of Historical Charities of Salem. He is a very important man.

Why are they calling the police? Francine stage-whispered. Should I get my camera?

No camera, Marafa returned the phone to his utility belt and faced me. You’re Lee Barrett, aren’t you? I recognize you from TV. Are you here on some kind of TV business?

I nodded. We’re here on assignment. An interview. I shrugged and glanced toward the closed office door.

Okay. I see. Will you ladies give T. J. your full names and addresses, please? The police are on their way.

Ms. Jeffry had resumed her seat behind the desk. She’d placed a box of tissues in front of her. I’m sorry to say it, but I think Mr. Eldridge may be dead. I touched him, you know. His skin felt cold. Quite cold.

My investigative reporter hat was firmly in place. There was no doubt in my mind that Albert Eldridge was dead. The EMT had told his partner to note minimum rigor. That meant that rigor mortis had begun and the man had been dead for some hours before I’d touched his shoulder. Besides that, I was quite sure I’d seen a red streak on one of Marafa’s gloves after he’d touched the back of Mr. Eldridge’s head.

Maybe the very important man didn’t die of natural causes.

One at a time, we gave T. J. the requested information. By the time she’d snapped her notebook shut, and Francine and I had each unzipped our warm jackets and chosen one of those comfortable club chairs, the sound of sirens once again split the wintry air. Two uniformed police officers joined us. The room, which at first glance had seemed quite large, had begun to feel crowded. Marafa, once again gloved, opened the office door and the police, one at a time, looked inside but didn’t enter.

There was a low-toned conference between the officers and the EMTs. Straining to listen, I picked up enough to figure out that the medical examiner had been called. More than once I heard the words crime scene.

As soon as the ME gives the okay, Officer One told the EMTs, you guys will be able to take your gear and leave. You’d better bring the stretcher out here for now.

T. J. remained with us while Marafa reentered the office. Be careful, the second officer warned. Try not to walk in any, um—fluids. Did you move anything when you were in there before? Did you put your bag down on the floor?

Moved the chair, Marafa answered. Left the patient on the floor. Bag was on the stretcher. The wheels made the tiniest squeaking sound as he pushed the gurney out of the room.

The front door suddenly burst open, admitting a blast of cold air. A young man stood on the top step, a Santa hat on his head, his arms laden with gaily wrapped packages, looking just as surprised as I’m sure we all did.

Hey! What’s going on? Somebody sick? What’s up with the ambulance and the TV truck? He peered around the room. You okay, Lilly? I got presents here from the church lady. S’posed to pick up diapers for the girls down at the shelter. He pushed his way past T. J. and piled the packages onto the table. Ooops. Cops. He frowned. What’s going on? he asked again.

One of the officers moved forward. Who are you? And what’s all this stuff? He pointed to the table.

Donations. For Christmas. I’m John Campbell. Santa’s helper.

Don’t get smart, kid. The second officer spoke up.

Ms. Jeffry leapt from her chair and hurried to the young man’s side. He’s not being smart, officer. John is one of our Veterans Helping Santa crew. There are about a hundred of them around the city. They all wear special Santa hats with a little American flag sewn on. See? She pointed to the man’s hat.

Did Mr. Eldridge’s hat have a flag on it? I wasn’t sure.

Okay. Got it. What’s all this about diapers then?

John Campbell answered. They need ’em down at the women’s shelter. Some guys get mean around the holidays. The girls grab the kids and beat it. Don’t blame ’em. He picked up the stack of Pampers and Huggies. I’ll just take these and be on my way.

Officer One held up his hand. Just a minute. You’re not supposed to remove anything.

Oh, for heaven’s sake officer, it’s diapers. Ms. Jeffry piled one more package of Luvs onto John’s outstretched arms. The babies need them.

Officer One pointed to the table. Leave them here, son. You can’t remove anything from a crime scene. CSI is on the way.

John Campbell put the diapers on the table and held up both hands. Okay, man. There they are.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Ms. Jeffry pulled a small metal box from her top drawer, opened it, and removed several bills. Here’s fifty dollars, John. Buy some diapers to tide them over. We’ll straighten this out later.

Thanks, Lilly, he said. He touched the white fur edge of his Santa hat and faced the officers. Okay if I leave?

Okay, Officer One told him. Don’t touch anything on the way out.

I won’t. Anyone going to tell me what’s going on here?

No, said Officer Two, as John Campbell hurried away. Through the open door I recognized the medical examiner’s unmarked black van.

Ms. Jeffry’s voice rose just then. Wait a minute. Did you say ‘crime scene’? What crime scene?

CSI? Francine chimed in. Crime scene investigation? Wow! Just like on TV. Can I get my camera now?

I was thinking of Francine’s camera too, and about how my first day as a field reporter was turning out to be pretty darned interesting. Mind if I call my office? I said, already punching in the number. Rhonda? Tell Mr. Doan to get ready for a breaking news spot.

CHAPTER 3

With a sideways shake of her head, Francine motioned toward the closed front door. I gave an answering nod of mine and together we moved to the exit. I’d just reached for the brass knob when a figure loomed in the glass pane and the door swung open. The medical examiner, traditional black bag in hand, stepped inside the room.

Well, well, Ms. Barrett, he said, why am I not surprised to see you here?

Hello, Doc. I wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t surprised. During the past couple of years he and I have met before under similar unfortunate circumstances. Several times, actually. He didn’t elaborate and neither did I, so as he disappeared into the dead man’s office, and with Francine impatiently poking me in the ribs, I reached again for the doorknob.

This time Officer One noticed the move. Just a minute, ladies . . .

He was interrupted by another arrival. The Crime Scene Investigation team had landed and the first person through the door was Detective Pete Mondello. He didn’t look surprised to see me either. He frowned. Hello Lee. Francine. I saw the TV van outside. Thought it might be you. What’s going on?

I had an appointment to interview the . . . I motioned toward the closed office. To interview Mr. Eldridge.

Okay. Stick around. When Pete’s working, he’s one hundred percent all business. No one would guess that he’d just left my bed a few hours ago. I might have questions, he said.

I waved a hand toward the front door. Can Francine and I . . . ?

Not yet. Your audience will have to wait a while.

I shrugged. Francine pouted. We returned to the club chairs. The ME poked his head out of the office and dismissed the EMTs while Pete introduced himself and his three crew members to a tearful Ms. Jeffry. My phone buzzed.

Hello Mr. Doan. I grimaced, knowing that the station manager, having been told to brace for breaking news, wouldn’t be pleased to hear that we didn’t have permission to break it yet.

What’s going on over there, Ms. Barrett? His voice was even more gruff than usual. Why aren’t I seeing video? I know the CSI is there. The ME too. We stay tuned to the police band here, you know. So does every other TV and radio station. WHERE THE HELL IS MY STORY? Hmmm?

I’m on it, Mr. Doan, I said. I’m inside the building. The other stations aren’t. Just need to tie up—um—a few loose ends with the police.

Okay. Get on with it. Right now. Bam. The connection ended. I knew he’d slammed his phone onto the desk. By then Pete, his three assistants, and Officer One had gone into the office, leaving Ms. Jeffry, Francine, and me with the remaining officer.

Officer Two gave me a sympathetic look. Your boss?

Yep, I said. He’s not happy. I’m supposed to be out front telling our viewers what’s going on in here.

Guess you can’t do that, huh? I mean, you can’t name names. Notifying next of kin and all that.

There’s no next of kin. Ms. Jeffry spoke up. No one at all. He was a widower. Had no children. No siblings. His whole life was his charities.

No kidding. Poor old guy. The officer looked at me. Say, Ms. Barrett. Want me to speak to the detective? See if you can do your story?

Would you? That’d be great.

I’m a fan. He colored slightly. I even called you once, back when you used to do the late movie show. When you used to be a psychic.

It was my turn to blush. I wasn’t really a psychic, you know. Just played one on TV.

Could have fooled me. You found my lost dog for me.

I did?

Well, actually you gave me the number of the Animal Rescue League and they already had him there. He headed for the closed office door. Anyway, I owe you one. Let’s see if I can convince Detective Mondello to let you and your friend go outdoors for a few minutes. He dropped his voice. Mondello’s a good guy.

I already knew that. But did I have to tell the kind officer that Detective Mondello and I were dating? I hadn’t been entirely truthful about not having any psychic powers either. Back when I was playing the part of Crystal Moon, psychic, I found out that I’m a scryer. My witch friend River North calls me a gazer. For some unknown reason, I can see things in reflective surfaces—mostly things I don’t want to see.

I decided to keep quiet about both circumstances and watched Officer Two knock, then enter the closed room. Within the minute, he reappeared. I knew by his grin he’d been successful. Okay Ms. Barrett. Detective Mondello says go ahead and get your scoop. but keep it brief and come right back inside. No names. He says you know all the rules. Do you?

Sure do. C’mon Francine. The two of us zipped up our jackets, pulled open the door, and ran for the van. If I know Pete we’ll have about two minutes to do this. What mic are we using?

Handheld in this wind, she said, yanking the van door open. Here you go.

Without the luxury of taking our time selecting the most advantageous spot for filming, I grabbed the mic and picked a spot on a corner facing the house. A car marked with the logo of a local radio station had pulled up behind the CSI truck but I’d managed to find a location where a large oak tree blocked the view of both vehicles. A bell-ringing Santa near the front door of the place was probably going to be in the shot but that couldn’t be avoided. I signaled Francine to start shooting.

This is Lee Barrett reporting for WICH-TV, I began. I’m speaking to you from Salem’s Washington Square. A 911 call from one of the city’s most historic buildings brought emergency vehicles here to the scene of an apparent fatality. An unresponsive man was found alone in his office at eleven o’clock this morning. Police and the medical examiner are presently inside the building. I was just warming up, ready to get to the part about notifying next of kin, even though maybe there weren’t any, to intimate without actually naming names, that the apparent fatality involved a person well-known in Salem’s historical community. That’s when Francine gave the index-finger-across-the-throat signal that meant Cut. I gave a rapid sign-off. Stay tuned to WICH-TV for more on this breaking news story, I said, then handed Francine the mic. What’s wrong? What happened?

Wordlessly, she pointed to where Officer Two stood just out of camera range, frantically waving in our direction. Frowning, I approached him. What’s the matter? I was just getting started.

Mondello says for you two to come back inside right away.

What for? I said. I don’t think I broke any rules, did I?

Dunno. He just said for you to come back inside. That’s all I know. He shrugged. Didn’t sound too happy about it.

You did tell me that he said I could get my story as long as I kept it brief and followed the rules, didn’t you?

Yep.

Puzzled and a little bit peeved, I hoped Pete had some good reason for stepping on my first really important field report.

I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk to me, Francine said. I’ll just stash the equipment and lock up the van. I’ll follow you in a couple of minutes.

I hurried up the steps and entered the beautiful, and by-now-familiar front door just in time to see the medical examiner and his associates pushing the gurney with its dark blue covered sad burden toward the exit. Good-bye, Ms. Barrett, the doctor said. Perhaps we’ll meet sometime under more pleasant circumstances.

Hope so, Doc, I said, noting the time. It was ten minutes before noon. Ms. Jeffry had started to cry again and I hesitated, not wanting to leave the poor woman alone. Can I get you a glass of water, Ms. Jeffry, or anything?

I told the detective you’re here. Officer Two held the front door open for the departing group. And I’ll get Ms. Jeffry a glass of water.

Officer One appeared then, and beckoned to me to cross the threshold which the county morgue’s gurney had just rolled over. Just step inside here, Ms. Barrett, he said,