Caught Dead Handed (22 page)

“No. No. I don't know what you're talking about.” Janice sounded close to tears.

“I wish I'd broken the other one's neck, but I saved her kids, didn't I? They'd thank me if they could.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. You'd better go away. I'll try to find the clothes. I really will.”

“Quiet, cow. I hear something. Look outside and see who's there.”

I scampered behind the refrigerator on the
Cool Weather Cooking with Wanda the Weather Girl
set. I heard the door open and the
click-click
of Janice's high heels.

“There's nobody here. Probably just a rat.”

The door closed. All was quiet. Carefully, I crept along the far edge of the studio, finally reaching the door to the parking lot. I pushed it open inch by inch and, taking a deep breath of cold, salty air, made my way around the building. For the second time that evening I entered the front door of WICH-TV. Almost at a run, I crossed the black-and-white tile floor, punched the UP button, and began the slow, clanking ride to the second floor.

I hurried from the elevator and pushed open the glass door. Rhonda was at her desk. The security guard/cleaning man leaned on a broom, in conversation with the receptionist. Mr. Doan stood beside the fax machine. Everything was back in place. Where had they all been a few minutes ago? Had I wandered into some kind of twilight zone? Was Janice really down there in the dressing room, being threatened, or was I so overtired that my mind was playing tricks on me?

Mr. Doan spotted me first. “Well, well. Look who's here! Welcome back, Lee. How was your trip?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“Hey, Lee,” Rhonda said. “Your tan is darker. Got in a little beach time, huh?”

“A little.”

“Yeah, Wanda and I were talking about you being down there while we're freezing our tails off up here. Lucky stiff ! Why can't we get special assignments like that, huh, Mr. Doan?”

The station manager ignored her question and looked at the sunburst clock on the wall. “You're early, Lee.”

“I know. But I missed a day. Thought I'd look over the movie notes and the commercial docket for tonight's show, and I have some questions about the screening.” I tried hard to sound casual. “Is Janice around?”

“No. Went home sick again.” He didn't sound pleased.

“How about George? Is he here, Rhonda?”

Was Janice really here in the building or not? If she was in danger, I had to tell George. If he thought I was nuts, that was the chance I had to take.

“I think so,” she said. “I saw his car in the lot when I came back from dinner. Spaghetti night at the Pig's Eye.”

“He's in the building,” said Doan. “We had a brief meeting in my office a short while ago.”

“Want me to page him?” Rhonda offered.

“Yes, thanks.”

“No problem.” She tapped a few buttons and reported. “He's in the control room, fixing stuff. Go on down.”

I hurried through the green door, still carrying the garment bag. I'd just have to keep carrying it for a while. There was no way I was going into the dressing room. Not until I was sure no one else was in there. The more I thought about it, the surer I became that what I'd heard behind the closed door wasn't my imagination.

I knocked on the control room door. The red “on the air” light was off, so I entered as soon as I heard George's muffled “Come in.”

“Hello? George?”

He was on his back, with his head inside the cabinet where, Janice had told me, the mess of wires connected to the outdoor cameras was housed, his legs and feet extending into the small room.

“Hi, Lee. Excuse my big feet. Doan wants the surveillance cameras fixed pronto. What brings you here so early?” He bent his knees and scooted himself away from the cabinet.

“I had stuff to do. Nothing important. Look, George, I'm worried about Janice.”

“Nice of you to be concerned, Lee.” He stood up. “But don't worry. She has these headaches every so often. Has pills for them. She'll be right as rain. I left her sound asleep. Dead to the world.”

“That's just it, George. I don't think she's home asleep. I'm quite sure she's here. In the building.”

“What do you mean?” He took a step toward me, and I took an involuntary step back. “You saw her here?”

“No,” I admitted, still backing away from him. “I didn't actually see her. But I heard her voice. She was over in the dressing room. Talking to . . . somebody.”

His eyes narrowed. “Who was she talking to?”

“I don't know.”

“A man? Was Janice meeting with a man?” George looked angry. “Could you hear a man speaking in there, or could she have been talking to someone on the telephone?”

I hadn't thought of that. “Speakerphone maybe,” I offered. “I didn't recognize his voice. But, George, he called her names. Threatened her. I think you'd better see if she's all right.”

George's expression made me think that maybe his relationship with Janice was something other than brother and sister, as Aunt Ibby had suggested. Jealousy might account for the look of fury. But no matter if he was jealous or not, I wanted him to get to the dressing room to help the frightened woman.

“Okay then,” he said, opening the door. “Come on. Let's go.”

“Me?” I squeaked. “You want me to come with you?”

“Come on!”

He approached a large panel and, one at a time, flipped all the switches to the ON position. One by one the studio lights came on, illuminating each set.

“See? All clear. Nothing to be afraid of here.” We arrived at the dressing room door. The garment bag had grown heavy on my shoulder. George threw the door open.

The room was empty. Just as empty as an old army footlocker. I hung my costume on the rack, then sat on the bench in front of the vanity.

“There's nobody here.” I stated the obvious.

“Not now,” said George. “Nobody here now.”

He pulled a phone from his pocket. A very high-tech, very expensive phone. He pushed a couple of buttons, moved his fingers over the screen, then turned the device toward me. The illuminated oblong showed a big bed beneath a rosy chintz-patterned comforter, I saw Janice. She appeared to be asleep.

It was comforting to know that Janice was safe at home. At the same time it was disturbing to know that her brother—or her lover or whoever he was—had a camera focused on her bed.

And had George noticed, as I had, that in the dressing room there lingered the faint fragrance of J'adore?

We left the dressing room, George walking ahead through the lighted studio with quick, angry steps. I deliberately slowed my pace, stopping before I got to the
Nightshades
set, where I saw Marty already at work.

What I'd overheard amounted to a confession of murder. I needed to tell Pete, even though I had no way of proving that it had happened at all. Apparently, no one had actually noticed me entering the building earlier. But they'd all seen me the second time. Mr. Doan had even checked the time on the sunburst clock. I couldn't identify the man who'd confessed. I'd never even seen him. And Janice, who'd been threatened so cruelly, was apparently safe at home, in her bed. I called Pete's number, anyway. Again the voice mail.

“Call me. It's important.” Next call was to the police department number I'd given to Sarge.

“This is Lee Barrett. May I speak to Detective Mondello?”

“Sorry. He's not here. Wanna leave a message?”

“Yes, please. Would you ask him to call Lee Barrett as soon as possible?” I repeated my number. “It's important,” I said again and headed for the
Nightshades
set.

“Hi, kid,” Marty called. “Glad to see you got back okay. That interview was pretty good, even if Archer got the credit for it.”

“Can't have the late-show audience confusing Crystal Moon with Lee Barrett.” I parroted Mr. Doan's sentiment.

“Yeah, I guess. Here. Take a look at tonight's bumper shot. Like it? We're showing
The Witches,
so I'm using the witch hat for the centerpiece, along with the plastic tombstone and the flying bat and some of the flowers from your arrangement. Cute, huh?”

I tried to focus on what she was saying. Tried to put aside what I'd just heard.

“Looks good to me. Got notes on the movie? I remember watching it over and over when I was a kid, but that was a long time ago.”

“Got notes,” she said. “It's a kid flick, I know, but everyone seems to like it. Say, did you borrow the pumpkin we used the other night?”

“No, I didn't. You said it was George's. Maybe he took it home.”

“Nope. I asked. Oh, well, somebody probably grabbed it. It's an antique, you know. Made of papier-mâché
.
They don't make them like that anymore. Fire hazard.”

“I'm sure it will turn up.” I kept my tone light. “Janice might know where it is. Have you seen her tonight?”

“Janice? Nope. Haven't seen her. Though when Rhonda and I were leaving the Pig's Eye after dinner— it's spaghetti night—Rhonda thought she saw Janice's little red Porsche going by.” She gave the witch hat a final pat. “But it couldn't have been her, because George says she's home with a headache. Migraine, I guess.”

“Too bad. She seems to really suffer from those things.”

“That's a fact. Though when they first came to work here, she was hardly ever out sick. This is all pretty recent.”

“How recent?”

“Oh, about a couple of months.”

Was the man with Janice in the dressing room the cause of the headaches?
Come on, Pete! Call me! For all I know, there might be a murderer still hiding somewhere in the building!

Marty gave me the neatly typed sheets containing a synopsis of
The Witches,
a list of the night's scheduled commercials, and the triple-spaced script for the ones I'd be reading from the teleprompter.

“Looks like we've picked up a couple of new sponsors.” I was surprised and pleased.

“Doan's wicked happy about that. He never liked Ariel, you know, but he liked her ratings. He seems to like you, though. Mrs. Doan does, too. But then, she and Ariel were great pals at one time.”

“Really?” I remembered how Mrs. Doan had behaved when the witch coven boat had arrived. “She seemed glad Ariel is dead. What happened between them?”

“Don't know, exactly. It happened right after Ariel and Doan had a big row. The missus got the idea that Ariel had put a witch spell on her husband. She begged Ariel to take it away.” Marty ducked behind her camera, then reappeared. “Naturally, Ariel swore there was no such spell.”

“What kind of spell was it supposed to be?”

Marty smothered a snicker. “It seems that Mr. Doan hadn't been performing his husbandly duties as well as he used to, and Mrs. Doan was convinced that Ariel had made his whatsit malfunction, if you know what I mean.” She shrugged. “Maybe she did, for all I know. She did a lot of weird shit lately.”

I had no desire to comment on the state of the boss's whatsit.

It was getting close to the time I'd have to put on my Crystal Moon outfit, and I didn't look forward to going back into that dressing room.

“Guess I'll go get into character,” I said. “Be right back.”

She had ducked behind the camera again and gave me a brief wave. “Okay. See you in a few.”

I didn't hurry.

Maybe if Rhonda is still here, I can ask her to come down and help me with my hair and makeup so I don't have to be alone in there.

I reached for my phone. The ring tone sounded as soon as I touched it.

Oh my God!
I hadn't turned my phone off when I was listening outside the dressing room door. What if it had rung then?

I shook away the bad thought and looked at the caller ID.

Pete Mondello.

“Oh, Pete. I'm so glad it's you!”

“Wow!” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Thanks. I was glad to hear from you, too. What's going on?”

“Pete, something really strange has happened here at the station. I think I might have overheard a murder confession.”

His tone immediately became serious. “What murder? Who confessed?”

“I don't know exactly. A man. He threatened Janice. Only, she might not have been here. . . .”

“Slow down, Lee. I can't follow what you're saying.”

“I know. I'm sorry to sound so rattled, but, Pete, I'm scared.”

“Are you doing your show tonight?”

“Yes.” I looked at my watch. “In about an hour.”

“I'm coming over. You can tell me the whole story then.”

“Thank you, Pete.”

I hung up and pushed the door of the dressing room open. I sat at the vanity and looked into the mirror. Pete was coming. I felt better already.

The lighted vanity mirror intensified the shadows in the room. I was alone, yet the feeling of someone—something—being nearby was almost suffocating. I dressed quickly in the blue-and-yellow outfit. My makeup was a hurry-up affair, too. I put my street clothes into the garment bag and took it out of the room with me. I didn't want to go back in there after the show, when the whole building would be virtually empty.

The studio lights were still off as I hurried up the darkened aisle toward the
Nightshades
set, nearly bumping into Pete Mondello.

“Pete! I'm glad you're here.”

“Is there someplace we can talk? So you can tell me what's going on that's got you so upset.”

He put an arm around my shoulders, steering me back toward the dressing room. “Here. How about this little room?”

I suppressed a shudder. “I guess it would be okay.”

I sat on the vanity bench, facing Pete, who'd pulled up a folding chair opposite me. He took both of my hands in his. “Now, what's going on?”

“Can it be off the record?”

“You know I can't do that, Lee. I'm sorry.”

“I know. Okay. I'll tell you, but I warn you, you might think I'm crazy.”

“I promise not to think you're crazy.” He smiled and gently squeezed my hands.

“All right. But first, did Sarge—Bill Valen—call you about the new postcard?”

“He did. It was definitely mailed from here.”

“And he told you that the WICH-TV postmark was on one of the other postcards?”

“He did. The postmark was faded and blurred, but once he called it to our attention, we recognized what it was. It was mailed two years ago. Had a nice picture of snow in Vermont.”

“Do you think the missing kid, Willie, was here?
Is
here in Salem?”

“It's beginning to look as though that's possible. Now tell me what's going on that's got you so spooked.”

I related the conversation I'd overheard, trying hard to recall the exact words. “The man was so mean, and poor Janice sounded terrified.”

He had the cop face on again. He reached into his pocket for notebook and pencil. “You're sure the female voice was Janice's?”

I was.

“You said on the phone that Janice might not have actually been here. What did you mean?”

I explained about George's security cameras at the condo, including the one he had in Janice's room. “George showed me pictures of Janice asleep in her bed.”

“He monitors his sister's bed?”

“Apparently. I found that strange, too.”

“I'm not making a judgment.” His voice was suddenly gruff. “Just making sure that was what you meant. Now tell me about the man's voice. Have you heard it before?”

“I'm not sure. It seemed sort of familiar. Like someone I've heard before, but not exactly. I just can't place it. I'm sorry.”

“That's okay.” His nice voice was back. “And you say nobody else that you know of witnessed this?”

I shook my head.

“And no one even knew you were in the building at the time?”

“I'm pretty sure. At least I didn't see anyone. And I've checked around a little, and nobody saw Janice here, either. But I'm sure I didn't imagine it. I was here. Janice was here. And a man was here.”

Pete leaned back in the folding chair and looked at me intently. After a long moment he said, “I don't think you're crazy, Lee. I think you heard just what you say you heard. But now we have to prove it.” He stuffed the notebook back into his pocket and put the pencil behind his ear. “How far from the station is the Valen place?”

“Not far at all,” I said. “Closer than my house. Just on the opposite side of the common. It's one of those beautiful old Federal houses.”

“How long would you say it takes to drive from here to there at night?”

“Oh, I don't know. Five or six minutes. Maybe less.” I saw where he was going with that train of thought. I snapped my fingers. “And Rhonda and Marty thought they saw Janice's car go by on Derby Street at around the time I was inside the station.”

He pulled the notebook out again. “What does Janice drive?”

I thought for a moment. “A little 2012 red Porsche Cayman. Six-cylinder, six-speed manual. Two-seater. Goes from zero to sixty in five point five seconds.”

Pete put the notebook down, smiling. “A bit of a gearhead, are you?”

I returned the smile. “Can't help it. I was married to Johnny Barrett for five years. Hung around cars a lot.”

“Impressive.” He made a few notes. “So I think we can safely assume that Janice could easily have been home in bed within minutes of the time you heard her speaking to a man in this room.”

“Yes, she could. And if nobody saw me in here, then maybe they didn't see her, either.”

“That car wouldn't go unnoticed, though. We'll check it out.” This time the notebook and pencil went into his inside pocket, and once again the gun was noticeable. “Meanwhile, you think hard about that other voice, will you? And, Lee, do you have a ride home?”

“No. I was going to call a cab.”

“I'm going to hang around. Do a little snooping. I'll drive you home, okay?”

It was more than okay. A ride home with a police escort was exactly what I needed just then. “Thanks, Pete. I'd really appreciate that.”

“No problem. Come on. I'll walk you back to the set.”

Marty looked comfortable on the turquoise couch, feet up on the coffee table. “Oh, there you are. Listen, you want to run through the movie intro so I can time it?”

“Sure. What would you like it to be?”

“Minute and a half is good.”

I'd read the notes Marty had given me, and that, coupled with my memories of the good old Anjelica Huston film, provided an easy ninety-second recitation of Luke's adventures with witches who turn children into mice.

“Perfect,” Marty said. “Minute and a half on the button. You're good at figuring time.”

“Logged lots of hours with a stopwatch on the racing circuit. After a while it gets automatic.”

Pete gave a wave and walked toward the door leading to the control room, where George Valen would be preparing to field calls from the
Nightshades
faithful. Maybe Pete, with his powers of persuasion, not to mention the power of the badge, could get George to fill in some of the blanks in the strange happenings that centered around WICH-TV.