Caught Dead Handed (3 page)

“Give me a couple of hours to think it over,” I said. “I'll get back to you this afternoon.”

“Good. Thanks. I appreciate this.” There was relief in her voice. “By the way, were you able to help the cops out any?”

“I doubt it. The detective just asked me to describe what I saw.”

“Sorry you had to be the one who found her. Must have been a shock. I'm going to call downstairs. Get one of the uniforms to escort you to your car, keep the vultures away from you.”

“Thanks.”

Within a few minutes I was behind the wheel of the Buick, driving carefully away from the yellow tape, the gray harbor, and the gawking strangers.

The yellow cat still sat under the tree. He stretched and yawned as I passed, then trotted to the curb. Head cocked to one side, he seemed to watch with interest as I turned onto Derby Street and headed for home.

I rolled the Buick carefully into the garage behind Aunt Ibby's house, dutifully waiting for the tennis ball suspended from the ceiling to tap the windshield. Opening a black iron gate, I cut through the garden, where late season marigolds and winter geraniums still nodded, defying the chill autumn air. I hurried up the back steps and pushed my key into the center of the brass doorknob.

“I'm in the den, Maralee,” my aunt called. “Come tell me all about the job.” The den in the Winter Street house was my aunt's favorite room. The furnishings were appropriate to the style and age of the fine old home, but the giant TV, the computers, printers, speakers, fax machine and other communication devices were strictly state of the art.

“It didn't turn out exactly the way I'd thought it might,” I said. “But they did offer me one.”

“Good,” she said. “Sit right down. You must tell me all about it. But first, let's watch the noon news. Seems they've found a body in the harbor!”

I wasn't surprised by the response. My aunt Isobel Russell, a youthful sixty-five-year-old, semiretired research librarian, voracious reader, and computer whiz, is a true TV addict. To her, the invention of the remote control ranks right up there with the wheel and the safety pin.

I sat and felt some of the tension of the morning slipping away.

“I know.” My voice sounded shaky. “I . . . sort of . . . found the body. It was a woman who worked at the station.”

She dropped the control and faced me. “My dear! How horrible! And look at your poor knees. And your hands. What on earth happened to you?”

“Oh, that. I'm all right. Just tripped over a cat. Anyway, I'd parked down by the seawall. I was about to leave when I heard something that made me look down into the water. There was a body floating there. They say it's one of the show hosts. A woman called Ariel Constellation.”

We each grew silent when, like an eerie echo, the same name sounded from the TV.

“Ariel Constellation was the victim of an apparent accidental drowning.” The announcer spoke solemnly about the dead woman. “The body of the popular WICH-TV night-show host was discovered just hours ago near the seawall adjacent to the building that houses this station.” The newsman recited some facts about Ariel, probably hastily culled from her personnel file.

“Her real name was Gladys Renquist, but her many fans have known her as Ariel Constellation for the nearly a decade she has worked here. Ms. Renquist was unmarried and apparently has no relatives in the Salem area. We go now to field reporter Scott Palmer, at the scene of the accident. Scott?” A rugged-looking guy faced the camera. He looked like a jock. Obviously, that nose had been broken a time or two.

He looks nervous. I'll bet he's not used to doing a stand-up. That could just as well be me. And I know enough to use extra hair spray in that wind.

I couldn't resist a tiny speck of satisfaction that the new field reporter's first day's tapings would show him with that nice wavy hair standing darned near straight up.

“The police have removed the lifeless body of this station's popular nighttime host from Salem Harbor. The medical examiner has not yet determined the cause of Ariel Constellation's death, although it appears to be an accidental drowning. Station officials have told police that due to WICH-TV's no smoking policy, Ms. Constellation often stepped outside for a cigarette while the feature was running. Here's what was recorded earlier, when the victim was removed from the water.”

The scene was the same, except for the Buick parked by the wall, the white van with rear doors open, and a wheeled gurney with its grim burden.

“Look, Aunt Ibby.” I pointed at the screen. “There's the cat I tripped over.”

“That's Ariel's cat,” she said. “She has him on the show sometimes.”

I was surprised. “You watch
Nightshades?
”

“Well, I've certainly never called and asked for her advice, but, yes. I guess you might say I'm a fan. I love all those old movies and TV shows. Why, in the last couple of months Ariel showed twenty episodes of
Dark Shadows
back to back. The real
Dark Shadows.
Not that movie thing.” She wrinkled her nose. “Whatever will they do now that she's gone? Do you suppose they'll find someone to take her place?”

“That's what the plan is. And they've offered me the job.”

“Oh, dear.” My aunt looked genuinely distressed. “You can't be serious! You aren't the least bit psychic.” Her eyes widened. “Or are you?”

“Of course not!” I had to smile. “Neither was Ariel, according to the program director. It's all an act. But it is a foot in the door at the station. And, as she told me, if the field reporter they hired doesn't work out, why, there I'll be!”

“I see. So that good-looking young fellow doing the report about Ariel has the job you applied for?”

I glanced again at the screen. “You think he's good-looking?” Then, not waiting for an answer, I explained as well as I could about Mr. Doan's habit of hiring people who could do more than one job. “And,” I added, “I told them I'd decide in a couple of hours about taking over
Nightshades.
”

“That's awfully short notice, isn't it?”

Before I could answer, the phone rang. Aunt Ibby picked it up. Handing it to me, she put her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “Better think fast. It's that program director. Janice somebody.”

So I thought fast.

“Hello, Janice.”

“Hi, Lee. Look. I don't mean to pressure you, but Doan is getting antsy.”

I pictured the red-faced man I'd seen at the elevator. “I can imagine.”

“Well, have you thought about it?”

“I think I might like to try it. I have enough of an acting background. But I'll need time to watch the DVDs you gave me to see how the show's supposed to run.”

Behind me, I heard Aunt Ibby's sharp intake of breath.

Janice was clearly relieved by my answer. “Whew, Lee. You have no idea how much I appreciate this. Can you possibly come in tomorrow and look over the
Nightshades
set just to get the feel of it? And then maybe sometime this weekend you can do a test video.”

What the hell was I thinking? How could anyone prepare a show that fast? Back when I was doing weather reports, I had a week of rehearsals just to learn how the green screen works!

But I heard myself say, quite calmly, “Yes. I could do that.”

Janice hadn't finished. “Now, you'll have to think up a name for yourself, and I guess you need to work out some kind of fashion statement. Ariel's costumes obviously won't fit you. Anyway, I don't see you as the ‘lavender satin with crystal stars and moons' type.”

“You're right.” I smiled, picturing my red hair teased into a beehive, lacquered stiff, and decorated Ariel style. “No crystal stars or silver moons! I presume there's a wardrobe budget?”

“There is, but maybe you can just throw something together for the test. Then, when you get the okay from Doan, we'll set you up with all that stuff.”

“I'll find something to wear. I come from a long line of women who never throw anything away. It's all here in my aunt's attic.” I turned and grinned at Aunt Ibby, who was clearly hanging on every word.

“Super,” Janice said. “Just call Rhonda and set up some times. And, Lee, thanks.”

“Good-bye,” I said, but she had already hung up. “That's that.” I faced Aunt Ibby. “I start Monday.”

“Doesn't give you much time to prepare, does it? What was all that about crystal moons?”

“Oh, Ariel's costumes. I need . . . Wait a minute. Say that again.”

“Say what?”

“Crystal moon.”

“Very well. Crystal moon.”

“I like it. I think that's my new name. Crystal Moon.”

She nodded. “It does have a certain New Age ring to it.”

“Can we go up to the attic and see if we can throw together some kind of costume to get me started in the psychic business?”

She frowned. “I'm sure we can. But aren't they asking a bit much? Wanting you to take on a job on short notice, then expecting you to provide your own wardrobe?”

“It'll be just for the weekend. After that, if Mr. Doan approves my test video, the station buys the costumes for Crystal Moon.”

“You always did love going to the attic to play dress up.”

“True. Let's go see what we can find. I'm thinking of a sort of Gypsy look.”

“Just a minute, young lady!” She sounded exactly the way she had when I was a kid. “If you're determined to go through with this, first you hop upstairs and take a nice shower,” she ordered. “Put some antibiotic on those scrapes and get into some comfortable clothes. Now shoo!”

She was right, of course. I gave her a hug, picked up the handbag from where I'd tossed it on the floor, and headed up the curving oak stairs. They gleamed with lemon oil polish and the patina of years of meticulous care from a series of housekeepers. It would feel good to get out of the suit and heels.

The warm shower was soothing. I felt some of the tension from that strange morning's happenings wash away. I dutifully applied healing lotion and adhesive bandages to hands and knees, then pulled on comfortable jeans and a blue T-shirt. I plugged in the cell phone, and within twenty minutes I was back downstairs, anxious to clothe my new persona, Crystal Moon.

Aunt Ibby was quiet as we climbed the first- and second-floor stairways. We approached the door leading to the attic. “You don't need to rush into anything, you know.” The matter-of-fact voice held reassurance. “There's no financial need for you to work at all.”

I knew that. The income from my parents' estate totaled far more than my salary at WICH-TV would ever be. I had used some of the money to pay my way through college, then had left the rest to Aunt Ibby's financial advisers to manage. I'd made my own way since graduation, and Johnny Barrett, a rising star on the NASCAR racing circuit, had earned more than enough to keep us nicely during our too-short time together. Not many knew it, but I was, by anybody's standards, a wealthy woman.

“And you know, too,” she continued, “you're welcome to stay here as long as you like.”

The idea of staying indefinitely at the Winter Street house held some appeal. It had been, after all, my childhood home. When I was five, I'd stayed with Aunt Ibby for the weekend, while my parents took a trip to Maine in Daddy's bright yellow Piper Cub. There'd been a crash, and they'd never returned. I'd just stayed on with Aunt Ibby, walking across the common to school when I was little, later taking the bus to Salem High School, and then commuting by train to Boston's Emerson College, where I'd learned the skills that landed me on TV.

Aunt Ibby produced a large, round ring with a jangling assortment of keys. She inserted one into the lock at the foot of the narrow staircase leading to the attic, and we climbed up into the long, slant-ceilinged room.

“I'm sure we can piece together a costume,” she said, “but piecing together a character on short notice is quite another matter.”

“I know. But it's worth a try. If I mess up, I'm no worse off than I was in the first place.”

“Can't argue with that logic.” She opened the curved lid of a 1925 Louis Vuitton trunk and began removing tissue-wrapped parcels. “Here. This red skirt might do. It was mine back when I was about your size.”

Unfolding the colorful circle of fabric, I held the skirt to my waist. “This'll do fine.”

She pulled another parcel from the trunk. “This blouse was your mother's. Try it on.”

After removing the blue T-shirt, I slipped the silky embroidered blouse over my head, then pulled the elasticized neckline down over Florida-tanned shoulders. Then I hastily drew it up again, looking at my reflection in the dusty, and slightly wavy, surface of an oak-framed oval mirror.

My aunt smiled. “She never could decide which way to wear it, either.”

“I wish I could really remember her. Daddy too. Sometimes it seems as if I'm remembering something—there'll be a picture in my mind, like a freeze-frame from a movie—and I can see them. But I don't know.” I frowned into the mirror. “Probably they're just times you've told me about, or maybe snapshots I've seen in one of your old albums.” I tugged at the blouse, exposing one shoulder. “I like it that this was hers, though. Maybe it'll bring me luck. It looks kind of Gypsyish, don't you think?”

“Quite. How about jewelry? You'll need gold earrings, it seems to me, and maybe some beads?” She pulled the top drawer from a small mahogany bureau and dumped its contents onto the seat of a rocking chair. “Prowl through these,” she advised. “There must be some hoop earrings in there somewhere.”

I sorted through the jumble of costume jewelry. “No earrings in this pile.” I tugged at the second drawer. “This one is stuck. What's in it?”

“I don't remember. Try the next one.”

I selected a pair of dangly hoop earrings, a strand of blue glass beads, and a couple of chunky rings from the third drawer of the little bureau and placed them on top of the red skirt. “That should about do it,” I said.

“Look. Here's a shawl that belonged to Great-grandmother Forbes .She brought it back from Spain in the twenties. It used to be on top of her grand piano. You could drape it around your hips.”

I tied the deeply fringed square loosely over one hip. I turned slowly. “Dum-dum-da-da-da-dum-dum-da.” I hummed the repetitive rhythm of “Habanera.” “What do you think? Would I make a good Carmen? Or maybe Esmeralda, the goat girl?”

“I hope not.” Aunt Ibby returned the last of the tissue-wrapped parcels to the trunk and closed the lid. “Carmen was stabbed to death by her lover, and they hanged poor little Esmeralda as a witch.”