Murder, Take Two. Carol J. Perry

      Chapter 8

      After the three guests had left, Aunt Ibby and I worked on our outlines. Top on our new information list was Aunt Ibby’s announcement that there was someone—an editor—who had contact with Professors Bond, Armstrong, and McGinnis.

      “Why didn’t you mention the book collaboration earlier?” I asked. “When I first told you about Roger’s call?”

      “Remember, Maralee, we didn’t even know that Cody was Roger and Ray’s nephew until you got that call. Then Professor Armstrong showed up on your newscast, and things started to fit together. Academic types ask me for help all the time. Nothing unusual about it at all. Publish or perish, as the saying goes, and many of them need a great deal of help to produce anything even remotely publishable.”

      “Did any of them mention a name for this mysterious ‘editor’?”

      “No. They referred to ‘the editor.’ I don’t know if it was a man or a woman. Maybe it isn’t even important. I’m kind of curious.”

      “Does ‘editor’ get a Roman numeral?” I asked.

      “Hmm. No. I think it’s more of a subheading. We need a numeral for Bond-McGinnis-Armstrong collaboration, though. ‘Editor’ goes somewhere under that.”

      “Did the book they were writing have a chapter on how to make an outline?” I gave the three names Roman numeral IX in my notebook, then held the page at arm’s length. “It all looks quite orderly, doesn’t it?”

      “It does,” she said. “But murder is never orderly.”

      I helped her clean up the kitchen. We finished the coffee, nibbled on a few leftover dainty madeleines, then O’Ryan and I climbed the front stairs to my apartment.

      It was still fairly early. I changed to pj’s—white cotton printed with fiftieth-anniversary Sesame Street characters. Kit-Cat showed eleven o’clock. I turned on the bedroom TV and tucked my notebook away in the bureau, wondering if either the Toy Trawler story or the candy store tour would be on the WICH-TV late news. O’Ryan had followed me into the bedroom. I plumped up my pillows and slipped under the covers while he made his usual three turns, then lay down at the foot of the bed.

      Buck Covington began the newscast with an interview Scott Palmer had done earlier with Salem Police Chief Tom Whaley. It appeared to have been shot in the chief’s office. Chief Whaley does not like live interviews, and I wondered how Scott had managed this one.

      “Chief Whaley,” Scott began. “The medical examiner has released some new information today about the stab wounds on Professor Bond’s body. He says that the wounds were made by a ‘long dagger.’ This would seem to preclude the idea that a small letter opener which has gone missing from the suspect Cody McGinnis’s desk was the murder weapon. Is that correct?”

      “Yes,” the chief said. “The idea that a letter opener was involved came from the media. It was never the position of this department.”

      “Does the department now have a knife like that in evidence?”

      “We do.”

      “Is it the murder weapon?”

      “We don’t know that. At this point it’s simply an item of interest.”

      I was surprised by the answer. From the look on Scott’s face, he was surprised too.

      “Whose knife is it?”

      “It apparently came from Professor Bond’s own kitchen.”

      “Is that where it was found?”

      “No.”

      Scott leaned forward, looking expectantly toward the chief. “No? Where then?”

      The chief looked even more uncomfortable than usual. “As I said, we aren’t representing that this knife is the murder weapon.”

      Scott pressed on. “Where was it found?”

      “It was at the university.”

      “County U?”

      “Yes.”

      “Where?”

      “In Professor Bond’s office.”

      It was a “holy cow!” moment. I could tell that Scott was momentarily speechless. That doesn’t happen very often. It gave the chief a chance to escape, and he took advantage of it.

      “Thank you, Scott,” he said. He stood so quickly his chair tottered slightly, and he made a quick exit from the room.

      “Uh—thank you, Chief Whaley,” Scott said, recovering enough to do a quick wrap-up of what he’d learned, along with a standard sign-off. “Stay tuned to WICH-TV, everybody, for continuing coverage of this rapidly unfolding story.”

      Not unfolding so rapidly, I thought, then stopped thinking about murder completely when my own image appeared on-screen. (Can’t help it. Was my hair okay? Do I look fat in those jeans?) I decided that the interview with Captain Billy went well, and the shots of the kids on the giant game pieces were adorable. Buck moved on to coverage of Salem’s newest public park, named for Abolitionist Charlotte Forten; a story about a kid’s big catch of an enormous halibut; and a detailed report on a city council meeting.

      My friend River North’s show follows the late news, and I often manage to stay awake long enough to watch Tarot Time. River features scary old movies and TV shows, like The Twilight Zone, and takes calls from viewers, reading the beautiful cards for them. The show is wildly popular and, to Bruce Doan’s delight, sometimes outpulls the big network late-night programs.

      I was happy to see that the night’s movie was a true classic—Stephen King’s Misery. River, as usual, looked amazing in a black velvet off-shoulder gown with a sparkling jeweled spider above her left breast. Silver moons and stars were woven into her long black braid. She sat in a giant fan-backed wicker chair, facing a matching table. There was another chair opposite hers, which usually meant that Buck Covington had stayed after the news and was on hand to shuffle the cards—the viewers loved that part—and since Buck and River had started dating, he’d become quite adept at some fancy card handling. Because sometimes a card being read is upside down, which usually yields an opposite meaning from the right-side-up position, Buck riffled the cards, holding them so that the tops in each hand faced each other. That way they get mixed well.

      O’Ryan, on hearing River’s voice, abandoned his foot-of-the-bed position and snuggled in beside me. He loves River. After she gave a few words about the movie, and as Buck shuffled the cards, she took her first call.

      “Hello, caller. Your first name and birthday, please?”

      A woman’s reply was hesitant, soft voiced. “My name is—um—do I have to?”

      “No. You don’t have to give your name and birthday if you’re not comfortable with that. Could you speak up a little louder, though?”

      “All right. River, I’m very worried about one of my children. Can you read his future?”

      “I’m sorry.” River shook her head, and the moons and stars in her hair quivered and sparkled. “I can’t read for your child without his permission. I believe that would be an invasion of his privacy. Would it help if I read for you?”

      “Yes. Yes. I think it could help.”

      River placed her hand onto the deck of cards in the center of the table. She bowed her head. “I dedicate this deck to serve others with their spiritual growth, for wisdom, knowledge, and to bring healing and peace to all who seek its guidance.”

      “That’s nice. Thank you, River.”

      I recognized the same ten-card arrangement she uses most often, beginning with a single card in the middle of the table to represent the caller. I recognized that card as “The