Caught Dead Handed (21 page)

“Didn't Mr. Litka tell us that the person who tried to steal O'Ryan smelled like mothballs?”

“You're right. He did.”

Again, we know something without knowing we know it.

Our tea finished, my aunt stood and picked up the tea tray. “Why don't you see if you can get a little sleep before you go to the station? I know you haven't had time to shop, so I've put together another attic costume creation for you. It's hanging on your closet door. I'm going to go over to the library for awhile to see what I can dig up about Marlena Valen.”

“Thanks, Aunt Ibby. What would I do without you?”

“Nonsense. I'm having fun. Makes me feel needed.”

“You are needed, and a nap seems like a good idea.”

“And Maralee?”

“Yes?”

“Did George say that the trunk had been moved several times since he'd looked inside?”

“That's right. He says the key's been lost for years.”

“It seems to me that at some point during moving, he would have noticed that it felt lighter or that he could hear those mothballs rolling around inside.”

“That would mean it'd been emptied after he put it in his living room when they moved here.”

An imaginary lightbulb turned on over my head.

“Uh-huh.” She paused on her way to the kitchen. “Unless, of course, they used professional people who put the furniture in place before they moved in.”

Right down to the books in the bookcase and the color-coordinated magazines on the coffee table.

My imaginary lightbulb clicked off. I was back to square one.

Before she left for the library, Aunt Ibby explained about arming and disarming the new alarm system. She'd also had video cameras installed on the front and back of the house, as well as on the garage and in the courtyard.

“Couldn't resist it,” she said. “You know how I love my electronic gadgets! Don't know why I didn't do this long ago.”

“I'm glad you've done it now. I admit I worried about you while I was away.”

O'Ryan, who was sitting on the stairs, next to my luggage and purse, said something that sounded like “Mmehhe?”

“Yes, you too.” I stooped to pat him. “Let's go upstairs and unpack.”

“I'll be back soon,” Aunt Ibby promised. “This shouldn't take too long. Don't forget to disarm the system when you open an outside door. The instructions are right on the control pad.”

“I'll be careful, but I don't expect to be opening any doors.”

A blue circular skirt and a yellow satin blouse hung on padded hangers against the closet door. An embroidered vest completed the outfit, and long strings of blue and yellow beads were arranged on the dresser.

I am so spoiled! She thinks of everything.

Unpacking could wait until later. I hung up my jacket, put the boots in the closet and, taking the cell phone out of my purse, sat cross-legged on the bed and called Pete Mondello's number.

My call went directly to his voice mail.

“Hi. This is Nancy Drew,” I said. “This might not be important, but I promised I'd call if I thought of anything. Did the police report about the footlocker note that there were a couple of mothballs in it? The guy who tried to grab my cat smelled of mothballs. Just thought I'd mention it. Bye.”

I really wanted to add “Call me” but resisted the temptation. The next phone call, if there was to be one, would be up to him.

I called River North. She answered on the first ring.

“I'm so glad you're back safely,” she said. “I've been worried about you.”

I assured her I was fine, and told her about the new alarm system.

She said she felt relieved. “Look, Crystal,” she said, “I'm taking part in a candlelight tea-leaf reading tomorrow evening at the Lyceum. You had to miss the one on the common, so I hope you can come to this one. It's for charity. I can reserve a ticket for you. It'll give us a chance to talk a little more about what the tarot told me. If your aunt would like to come, too, I think she'd enjoy it.”

The candlelight tea-leaf reading, it turned out, was a fund-raiser for a new bookmobile for low-income neighborhoods, one of Aunt Ibby's favorite projects. I asked River to reserve two tickets and promised to be at the Lyceum at six the next evening. I was curious about the tarot message, and I wanted to ask about that spell book.

“I'll see you then. And, Crystal, I have big news! I've been invited to join Ariel's coven. They need another member to balance the power, and out of all the witches they could have chosen, they picked me!”

“Congratulations,” I said, hoping that was the correct response to news of a coven joining.

“Thanks,” she said. “Blessed be. I'll be watching tonight.”

“Bye, River. See you tomorrow.”

I plumped up my pillows and lay down, O'Ryan stretched out full length beside me, his throaty purr providing a soothing, melodic sound. I was asleep in a matter of minutes.

Apparently, however, uninterrupted sleep wasn't in my future. Within an hour the insistent buzz of the cell phone roused me from a silly dream about Ariel chasing O'Ryan up a flight of stairs.

“Hello, Maralee dear. I hope I didn't wake you, but I think you'll want to hear this.” My aunt was using her quiet, calling-from-the-library voice, but even so, she sounded excited.

“That's okay,” I said, struggling to sound wide awake. “What did you find?”

“I didn't have to look far,” she said. “Marlena Valen's death made the front page!”

“Front page? Why?”

“Seems she died under what they called ‘unusual circumstances.'”

“How so?”

“Here. I'll read some of it to you. Listen. ‘Police were called to a suburban Cincinnati home this morning, where they discovered the body of Marlena Valen, forty-two, at the foot of a staircase in the three-story town house. Mrs. Valen had sustained a broken neck and other injuries. She was nude. The police have indicated that alcohol may have been involved. Due to the unusual circumstances, the possibility of foul play has not been eliminated. The only other person on the premises was a minor child, whose name is being withheld. The child apparently discovered the body early this morning and ran to a neighbor for help.'”

“Wow!” was all I could think of to say. “I knew that she'd fallen down stairs, but I didn't know she was nude or that one of her kids found her.”

“Wow indeed. I'll read further and see what I can learn from reports in the days following this one. I'll print all this out for you if you like.”

“Yes, please. As Alice said, ‘Curiouser and curiouser. '”

Going back to sleep was out of the question.

So Marlena Valen had died sans clothing. And she'd posed for naked photos, taken by her own teenage son. It occurred to me just then that perhaps Marlena Valen was simply a nudist. I'd known several people in Florida who favored that lifestyle, men and women comfortable enough in their skin to bare it all. From the photo I'd seen of Marlena, she had good reason to feel comfortable in hers.

If that was the case, young George had simply photographed someone he saw every day. Maybe the whole family ran around in the buff. As strange a mental image as that produced, I liked it better than some of the creepy scenarios I'd contemplated earlier. But what about the “possibility of foul play” aspect of the fall down the stairs? I'd have to wait for Aunt Ibby to complete her newspaper research before I'd learn what had actually happened to Marlena.

What about the minor child who'd found the body? Did the article refer to Willie? Or had Janice made the terrifying discovery? George had said he had come home after his mother's death and had taken thirteen-year-old Janice away with him. But how had Janice come into the picture in the first place? Had Marlena taken her in for some reason? Was she a foster child or the daughter of a relative? And why hadn't George taken Willie with him, too? Or had he?

Was the relationship between George and a thirteen-year-old girl something he needed to hide?

Now I was all the way back to creepy George again.

That unpleasant thought process was interrupted by another phone call. Caller ID showed
VETERANS ADMINISTRATION.
Had something happened to Sarge? I hoped not.

“Hello. Lee Barrett here.”

“Oh, hello, darlin'. Glad I caught you in.”

I was relieved when I heard the old soldier's voice. “Hello, Sarge. What's up?”

“You said I could call you if anything happened here that I thought you should know about.”

“Absolutely. What's going on?”

“Well, honey, it's the darnedest thing.”

“What's happened? You okay?”

“Oh, sure. I'm fine. But listen, babe. I got another one of them postcards. From my boy.”

“From Willie?”

“It's from Willie, all right. I know his writing. But the thing is, it's got a picture of a witch on it. It's from right where you live. From Salem, Massachusetts.”

So Willie was here. Or had been recently. Why hadn't George mentioned that his kid brother was in town? Or did he even know it?

“Want to read it to me, Sarge?”

“Sure. It says ‘I saw you on TV, Dad. You look good. I am fine. If that lady said anything bad about me, it is not true. I did not steal her cat. Love, your son Willie.' Does that make any sense to you, honey? Did you lose a cat?”

“My cat is right here beside me, Sarge. Somebody did try to take him a while back, but why would Willie have anything to do with it?”

“Don't rightly know, babe, but do you think I should call that cop about it?”

“I think so.” I was sure Pete would want to know about Willie being in Salem. Or was he really here at all?

“Sarge,” I said, “look at the postmark. Does it say Salem or someplace else?”

“Funny you should ask about that. I was just going to tell you. It has those letters on it. You know, like the letters on that bag of yours. WICH-TV. One of the other postcards he sent me had that mark, too. Remember I told you I'd seen them letters before?”

That postmark came from the postage machine next to Rhonda's desk.

“I remember, and, Sarge, when you talk to Detective Mondello, be sure to tell him about that, too. Okay?”

After he promised he'd tell Pete the whole story, we said our good-byes. O'Ryan's ears had perked up when he heard me mention the word
cat,
and now he sat up straight, fully alert, with his head tilted at a “What's going on?” angle. I scratched his neck, and he responded with a happy “Mrruff.”

“Who has access to the postage machine, O'Ryan?” I asked aloud, then answered my own question. Everybody at the station. And anybody in the whole building. And when Rhonda took her frequent breaks, anybody wandering in off the street who knew how to operate a vintage Pitney Bowes machine.

Another thought occurred to me. How did Willie know it was a “lady” who'd interviewed the old soldier? Aunt Ibby had said that the report gave the impression that Phil Archer had conducted the interview.

How many people at the station knew I'd been sent to Florida? Doan had seemed quite secretive about the whole thing, not wanting rival stations to get the idea. Mrs. Doan knew, of course, and Janice and Marty. Rhonda and Phil Archer were in on it, and then there was George. Things always seemed to come back to George.

“Did George send the postcard?” I asked the cat.

O'Ryan had gone back to sleep, or was at least pretending to snooze.

But no. Sarge had said that he recognized Willie's handwriting and the postcards had spanned many years. How could that be? Had George and Willie switched places somewhere along the line? Was that why George never went to see his father? Because he'd be recognized as Willie?

No. That didn't make any sense, unless both Willie and George were professional photographers.

“I give up,” I told the cat, who opened his eyes briefly, then squeezed them shut. “I guess I'll go to work early and see what I can find out. I'll start with Marty. She seems to know everything that goes on there.”

O'Ryan reached out a paw and patted my hand. “Rrritt,” he said.

Since Aunt Ibby wasn't back from the library yet, I wrote a quick note telling her where I was going, and that I'd get a cab home. I stuck the blue-and-yellow outfit into a garment bag and called Jim Litka. Within ten minutes the green-and-white taxi pulled up in front of the house and the cabdriver rang the doorbell.

I disarmed the alarm system and let him in.

“No luggage or lost cats today, Jim,” I said. “I just need a ride to the station.”

“You're early,” he said, reaching for the garment bag, which I'd draped over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. “Let me help you with that.”

O'Ryan, hearing the masculine voice, came running. He rubbed against Jim's denim-clad leg and purred a greeting.

“He's sure friendly. Hi there, big boy.”

“He knows you're a friend. After all, you saved him from who knows what.”

“My pleasure. Glad I was there to help. Did they catch the guy yet?”

“Not that I've heard.” I punched the code into the keypad.

“Got an alarm system, huh? Good idea.”

We walked to the cab. Jim opened the door for me and hung the bag on the backseat hook. There was plenty of pedestrian traffic along the route to Derby Street. Lighted storefronts and lines in front of restaurants indicated that business was thriving in downtown Salem.

“Gonna need a ride home tonight?” he asked when we arrived at the station.

“Don't know yet,” I said. “I'll call if I do.”

“Anytime, Ms. Barrett. Anytime at all.”

“Thanks, Jim.” I hurried up the stairs and into the warmth of the building.

Rhonda wasn't at her desk, so I went directly to the black-walled studio, passing darkened sets all the way to the back of the cavernous room, then headed for the dressing room, where I could hang the costume du jour.

I was about to turn the knob when I heard voices inside.

Who would be doing wardrobe or makeup at this time of day? Network programming would be running until the late news came on at eleven.

I stepped back into the shadows and listened.

“Why are you here? George said you were gone. That I didn't have to listen to you anymore.” It was Janice's voice.

What's she doing here? George said that she was at home, with one of her bad headaches.

Another voice, one I couldn't identify. The tone was mocking, unpleasant. “Shut up and listen, you stupid cow. You'll do what I tell you to. The same as always.”

Janice's voice again. Almost a whisper. “You shouldn't be here. What if someone sees you?”

A harsh laugh. “You'll make sure that doesn't happen. Where did you put my clothes?”

“Clothes?”

“Don't play dumb with me. You know what I mean. And I can throw
you
down a flight of stairs anytime I want.”

I put my hand over my mouth to muffle an involuntary gasp.

“I think the police took them. They took some sheets and pillowcases, too.”

“They didn't take the clothes. The trunk is empty. You took them. Don't you remember, cow slut?”

“I . . . I really don't know. Sometimes I can't remember things. Ever since . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, I know all about it. I was there. You were glad she was dead. Remember?”