Caught Dead Handed (28 page)

At around nine thirty I dressed in one of the new Crystal Moon outfits, added a long wool cardigan sweater, and called Jim Litka for a ride to the station. I planned to get to the
Nightshades
set early. I wanted to look through Ariel's books for some witchcraft lore to sprinkle into my introductory monologue leading into the night's feature movie—
I Married a Witch.
I'd hoped to use Bridget Bishop's spell book, but clearly, that wasn't going to happen.

I didn't tell Aunt Ibby about seeing Ariel standing on the site of Bishop's house. I needed to think about what River had said. Was it possible that I was being haunted by a dead witch? That these
visions,
or whatever they were, weren't coming from my mind, but hers?

Marty was already on the set when I arrived—no surprise there. She'd found more Halloween-themed decorations, and bouncing spiders had joined the bats suspended from the ceiling on invisible threads, and a large stuffed black cat took up about a third of the space on the turquoise couch.

“Hi, Moon,” she called as soon as she saw me. “How do you like the big cat?”

“Cute,” I said. “O'Ryan will be jealous. I'm going to grab one or two of Ariel's books and find someplace quiet to curl up and study some Salem witchery. I'll be back in plenty of time to run through the intro and look over the commercials. Okay?”

“Sure. And, Moon, George was looking for you.”

“Oh, they're back? Good.” I selected a small chamber of commerce booklet called
Bewitched in 1692
from the pile on the table. “This ought to be all I'll need. Where is George now?”

Marty shrugged. “Who knows? That boy moves around a lot.”

“Well, if you see him before I do, tell him I'll be in the break room.”

“Gotcha.”

The break room was unoccupied, but the coffee was still hot. I poured a mugful and settled down in the tattered recliner and began to leaf through the pages. I read of the terrible death of poor Giles Corey. The old man had refused to plead one way or the other, so he was taken out into a field, where, one at a time, heavy weights were piled onto his naked body. The pressure was so great that his tongue was forced out of his mouth, and the sheriff, with his cane, forced it back in while the anguished man was dying. Pretty gory stuff, but the
Nightshades
faithful could handle it.

I made a few notes on index cards, then finished my coffee. I was rinsing out my mug when George Valen appeared.

“Lee. Glad I found you. Have you heard anything from Janice?”

“No. Last time I saw her, she was with you, heading for Boston. Why? What's wrong?”

He sat opposite me on a folding chair, his face ashen. “I made a mistake taking her to that doctor. Now she's gone. Run away.”

“Are you sure? Has she ever done this before?”

“Not for a long time. I'm really worried.” He put his head in his hands. “She seemed to get along with the doctor all right. I mean, I wasn't in on their discussion, of course, but she didn't scream or try to run out of the office or do anything like she used to. She was quiet at dinner, but that's not unusual.”

“Then what makes you think she's run away? Maybe she just had some errands to do before work.”

“She took my car. Left hers in the driveway.” He looked about to cry.

Or laugh, God forbid.

“Maybe hers didn't start. Did you use it to get here? Did you call her cell?”

He shook his head, looking down at the floor. “Went right to voice mail. I walked over here. Her car is a stick shift. I've never driven one. Always afraid I'd tear the clutch out or something if I used that fancy little red car of hers.”

I looked at my watch. “I can drive one. We have some time before the late news. Do you have keys?”

“There's a set in her desk.” He stood up. “Let's go. We'll borrow one of the company trucks. And thanks, Lee.”

I still didn't see what was such a big deal about a girl borrowing her brother's car, but I followed him into Janice's office. I glanced around the room while George opened and closed several drawers. The closet door stood ajar, and I peeked inside before pushing it closed to check on the million-dollar dress. It was there on the hanger, just as I'd left it, right next to the fairy princess costume, Janice's silver sandals neatly lined up just below. As the door clicked shut, it occurred to me that the Little Tramp shoes weren't there. George had probably reneged on playing Charlie Chaplin. I didn't blame him.

“Got 'em,” George said, slamming a drawer shut. “Let's go. Have to get you back in time for your show.”

I shrugged back into my sweater as we dashed for the parking lot. Carefully lifting the skirt and petticoat, I climbed into the truck's high passenger seat. Tires squealing, we lurched out of the parking lot and onto Derby Street.

Good thing Doan isn't watching. Tires cost money.

We pulled up and parked in front of George and Janice's condo. George tossed the key on its heart-shaped silver key ring to me. “The car's in the driveway on the side of the house. You try to start the thing. I'm going to run inside and see if maybe she's come home.”

It was dark back there, but as I approached the red Porsche, outdoor floodlights illuminated the space. George must have turned on the lights for me. Unlocking the door, I slid into the driver's seat and started the engine. It purred sweetly to life. I checked the gauges. More than half a tank of gas. Everything else looked normal.

A Porsche was much more fun than an old Buick. I could imagine myself opening her up on an open road. I was about to reluctantly shut off the engine when I noticed something on the seat next to me. A piece of folded fabric. I switched on the interior lights and knew without touching the thing exactly what it was.

I was looking at the mate to the pillowcase O'Ryan had been trapped in.

I knew I needed to tell Pete Mondello right away about the pillowcase. Too late, I realized I'd left my purse—phone, wallet, and all—back at the station. After all, I hadn't expected to be wandering around Salem, looking for my missing call screener in the middle of the night.

George's tap on the glass startled me, and I quickly turned off the interior lights and opened the window. “All okay here,” I told him. “She started right up. Plenty of gas, and all the gauges look normal.”

“Janice isn't in the house,” he said. “Want to drive this thing back to the station for me?”

“Love to,” I said, meaning it. “See you back there.”

In what seemed like minutes I pulled the Porsche into Janice's parking space at the TV station. Now, what was I going to do about the piece of percale evidence on the seat next to me? If I picked it up, I might be compromising evidence. If I left it in plain sight, whoever put it there might take it. I locked the car, put the key in my sweater pocket, and ran for the studio door.

I didn't even speak to a surprised-looking Marty as I grabbed the phone from my purse. Pete answered on the first ring.

“Pete,” I said, “I've found a pillowcase. I'm pretty sure is the mate to the one the cat stealer used. It's in Janice's car out in the parking lot here, and no one seems to know where Janice is. I'm afraid something may have happened to her.”

“Is the car locked?” he asked.

“Yes. I have the key right here.”

“Hang on to it,” he ordered. “I'm coming.”

George and Pete arrived on the
Nightshades
set at the same time.

“Good that you're here, Valen,” Pete said. “Saves me getting a warrant. I'll need permission to search your sister's vehicle. I understand she's missing.”

“Sure. Anything you want. Just find my sister before . . .” He looked down at the floor. “Before someone else does.”

“The key?” Pete held out his hand, and I dropped the silver key ring into it. “Can you come outside with me, Lee . . . er . . . Ms. Barrett?”

I checked the studio clock. The late news would be on in a few minutes.

“Yes, Detective. I can.”

Together we hurried out to where I'd parked Janice's car. Pete unlocked it. He opened the door and aimed a flashlight toward the passenger seat.

There was nothing there.

“Who else has a key?” Pete asked.

“Janice, I guess, “I said, “but I'm sure the pillowcase was right there less than fifteen minutes ago.”

“I'm sure it was, too,” Pete said. “And I'm pretty sure Janice Valen grabbed it.”

“Janice? But why?”

“Look, I know Janice is a friend of yours, but I'm afraid she's pretty deep into this mess.”

“Pete, I'm sure Janice is in danger!”

“Remember the night you heard Janice talking to someone in the dressing room?”

“I'll never forget it. She was so scared.”

“That same night Marty and Rhonda said they thought they saw her car speeding down Derby Street when they were coming back to the station after dinner.”

I nodded. “Spaghetti night at the Pig's Eye.”

“Right. We checked around to see if anyone else had seen her.” He closed the door of the Porsche.

“Had anyone?”

“We didn't make the connection right away, but one of the shop owners in that little strip mall”—he pointed down Derby Street—“calls us all the time if anybody she doesn't know uses the Dumpster out back. She's a nuisance caller, actually.”

“She saw Janice?”

“She called the desk that evening. What she said was that some ‘rich bitch in a fancy car' was dumping her trash out of a big cloth bag into their Dumpster.”

“You think it was Janice? Using somebody else's Dumpster isn't a big crime.”

“Usually we wouldn't give it very high priority, but it was the same one Bill Valen's razor turned up in. So the chief sent a uniform over to check the next day. Sometimes people who do that leave a piece of mail or something with their name and address on it.”

“And?”

“We were too late. There was no mail, nothing interesting at all. An old homeless guy, the woman said, was out there first thing in the morning, rooting through the trash.”

“Vergil Henry,” I said.

“Right. It took a couple of days to locate him, and by then he'd already sold some of what he found. But he was really proud of his new boots.”

“Sarge's boots?”

“Most likely. We talked him into letting us take the boots and what he had left of the rest. We're checking the pawnshops where he remembers selling some of it.”

“You think Janice threw the contents of Sarge's trunk into the trash?” I asked.

“Looks that way.”

“And took the pillowcase out of her car tonight.”

“Probably.”

“She's still protecting him then.”

“Who's protecting who?”

“Janice. Protecting Willie. George told me she always protects him.”

He locked the car. “I'll give the key back to George,” he said as we started back toward the station. “Let's get you back inside. Almost time for your show. I'll talk to Janice.”

“If you can find her.”

“She can't be far away if she was here taking the pillowcase a few minutes ago.”

I looked around the lot. “Then George's car must be here somewhere, too. She was driving it. Pete, the cameras are working again. Can't you look and see if Janice opened her car?”

“I can do that.”

“But, anyway,” I said, “I guess she has a right to open her own car if she wants to.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I'm going to stick around for a while. I'll be here if you need a ride home.”

“Thanks. That would be nice.”

I did a fast makeup job, reread my notes about old Giles Corey getting squashed, rehearsed the intro to
I Married a Witch,
and took my seat beside the large fuzzy black cat.

“You're in luck,” Marty announced. “You don't get Rhonda for call screener. Janice got back in the nick of time.”

Janice is here. Safe.

I was surprised by the intensity of the wave of relief I felt. But I just said, “Cool.”

“By the way, Doan called. Wants you to stay awhile after the show so George can get a few still shots of you in the fancy dress on the
Nightshades
set for Friday's papers.”

“Can't that wait until tomorrow, when we go to the party? I'm sure all the papers will be there.”

She gave a “Who knows?” hand gesture. “He says he wants to be sure the papers have really good pictures. George's pictures.” She ducked behind her camera. “Showtime. Counting. Four . . . three . . . two . . .”

I started the show with the Giles Corey story. It gave me a chance to be a bit dramatic, and it even drew early comments from callers. One man said he'd heard that whenever there was a disaster in Salem, the old man's ghost appeared. Said his grandfather saw it, fully clothed and unsquished, standing in a cemetery the night before the Great Salem Fire.

I tended to believe it. Seeing ghosts in Salem seems to be a fairly common occurrence. It was the Salem Fire reference, though, that made me think about the old wooden fire escape on the back of the building. At the next commercial break I asked Marty about it.

“Does anyone besides Mr. Doan have a key to the secret staircase?”

“I don't know for sure,” she said. “But I suppose someone must have one. In case of an emergency, you know.”

What if whoever killed Yvette Pelletier and stepped on Ariel's hands and disappeared behind this building simply unlocked that door and ran up the stairs into Doan's office? Certainly the police must have checked that possibility.

Once
I Married a Witch
started, I'd find Pete and ask about those keys. I could hardly wait. By the time lightning had struck the tree where the witches' spirits were imprisoned and Veronica Lake had begun working her magic on Fredric March, I had dialed Pete's phone and was on my way upstairs to meet him.

“Pete, can I ask you a question?” I knew he probably wouldn't want to discuss police business, but he seemed to trust me more and more lately. “It's about the fire escape out back.”

“Like, who had a key?” He smiled.

“Exactly. Do you think the killer could have ducked inside here that night?”

“We've checked that possibility.”

“And . . . ?”

He held up three fingers. “Doan has one. Mrs. Doan has one. And the fire department has one.”

“But someone could have a duplicate key.”

“Doan says no, but the odds are someone does.”

“Janice?”

“Probably. He keeps his in his desk. She's in and out of that office twenty times a day.”

I thought about what George had told me about Janice always protecting Willie. “If Janice has a key, Willie must know where she keeps it.”

“What does this Willie have on her, anyway? Is there anything more about this family you think I should know?”

“Did either of them tell you they were abused by their mother as children? Sexually, I mean.”

“Jesus! Are you sure? Who told you that?”

“George.”

His cop face was firmly in place. “Anything else?”

“Did George tell you that he took Janice to a doctor today? That she's afraid of doctors?”

“Is she sick? What's wrong with her?”

“I don't know. He said she's being treated for a psychosomatic disorder.”

“That can mean anything. What else?”

How much could I tell him without sounding like a total kook? If I left out the things I'd seen in the obsidian ball and the stuff River had read in the tarot, what was left? Should I tell him about what Aunt Ibby and I had learned about Marlena's death? Did he have to know we'd been checking up on the Valens' life in London, thanks to Nigel? Was all this useful, or did we come off as just a couple of very nosy women?

I took a deep breath. “Okay. But I know you're going to think I'm taking this Nancy Drew thing a little too far.”

“Try me.”

I told him Marlena had died from a fall down a flight of stairs, that she'd been drunk and naked, and that the body had been found by a “minor child.”

“Naked?” he asked. “Does that tie in with the sexual abuse somehow?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “But they did call her death suspicious. There's another thing. Maybe it means something. Maybe not.” I told him about the picture of Marlena that George had taken.

“You and your aunt have been busy. Anything else?”

“My aunt has an old friend at New Scotland Yard. She asked him to look into the time George and Janice spent in London.” I told him what Nigel had learned about the Purple Dragon and how George and Willie had come back to the United States together.

“I think the chief would like to know about the New Scotland Yard contact,” he said. “You have the guy's number?”

“No. But my aunt does. He's going to call her again soon. Nigel told my aunt that one of the Purple Dragon performers was called Billie Jo Vale. We're wondering if that was a stage name for William Joseph Valen. Willie.”

“Lee, I wish you'd told me all this sooner.” His expression was stern.

“I was just trying to figure out how to help Janice, Pete,” I said. “We were looking into things that happened to the Valen kids a long time ago. It has nothing to do with Ariel or Mrs. Pelletier and how they died.”

That doesn't really make a lot of sense right now, even to me.

He put his hands on my shoulders. “Listen to me, Lee. Stop trying to help. Let the department take it from here. Nancy Drew isn't real. You are.” He pulled me close for an instant, then let go. “Now, go back to work. I need to talk to George and Janice. I'll drive you home.”

I felt relieved. He was right, of course. Aunt Ibby and I needed to stop being so nosy.

Just as soon as we get that picture of Billie Jo Vale. And when we can be sure that it's safe for O'Ryan to go outside.

“I have to stick around for a while after the show,” I told him. “Doan wants George to take some photos of me in the dress I'm wearing tomorrow night.”

“I'll wait,” he said. “I hear that dress is worth it.”

I hurried back down to the
Nightshades
set. It was nearly time for the first round of callers. I pushed the large black cat over a little more and settled myself on the couch. If Janice's day had been as bad as George thought, it hadn't affected her call-screening ability. The calls were varied and pretty easy to handle. I coasted through the requests for help with romance, work, in-laws, and one lost parakeet.

During the second half of the movie I made some notes on the next night's program—a marathon of good old Halloween-themed
Twilight Zone
s and
Outer Limits
shows—rehearsed my closing commercials, and wondered how Pete was doing with his questioning of George and Janice Valen.

The end credits rolled. I patted the stuffed cat and said good night to Marty.

“If you don't mind, Moon, I'll stick around for a while.”

“Fine with me.”

“Good. I want to get the set looking nice. For the pictures.”

“Thanks. And lose the big cat, okay?”

Smiling, she gave me a thumbs-up and began dusting and straightening the already straight book pile. She stashed the black cat behind the couch, opened a cupboard door, carefully removed the obsidian ball, and placed it almost reverently in the center of the table.