Читать книгу Murder, Take Two - Carol J. Perry - Страница 10

Chapter 2

O’Ryan strolled into the office, hopped up onto Aunt Ibby’s desk, positioned himself in front of the computer, effectively blocking my aunt’s view of the screen, and proceeded to groom his magnificent whiskers.

“O’Ryan seems to think we’re wasting our time searching for information online,” my aunt said. “He’s right. Everyone in the world has access to that story. We need to do what Daniel Webster did back in eighteen thirty—talk to people the press hasn’t found yet.”

The 1830 court case she referred to was currently prominent in newspapers, tabloids, and television in Salem and elsewhere—and no wonder. The murder of Professor Samuel Bond was remarkably similar to the nineteenth-century murder of Captain Joseph White, wealthy ship-master and trader who’d been found dead in his Salem bedroom—beaten and stabbed to death—with a ladder leading to his bedroom window.

“Roger was quite specific about what we should look for,” I told her. “To quote him more or less exactly, ‘Somebody had good reason to off the old SOB.’ I guess we need to help the twins figure out who that somebody is. Any bright ideas on where to begin?”

She’d coaxed the cat into her lap by then, and scratched behind his ears, prompting some sonorous purring. “I think I do,” she said after a moment. “I have a couple of girlfriends who might have known the old SOB—uh—the gentleman—socially. Shall I call them?”

“Absolutely. Which girlfriends?”

“The first one who comes to mind is Betsy Leavitt,” she said, mentioning one of her high school classmates, “and the second is Louisa Abney-Babcock.”

Both suggestions made perfect sense. Both women moved comfortably in Salem’s social circles. Betsy, probably because in her mid-sixties she was still uncommonly beautiful and still worked as a professional model—and Louisa, by virtue of tons of old money and a pedigree as long as your arm. My aunt was no stranger to the newspaper society pages either and was well-known in the area’s literary and artistic worlds.

“Good idea. Do you think either of them knew the professor?”

“I’d be surprised if they didn’t,” she said. “I’ve met him a few times myself. Assisted him with some library research. He was an associate of Rupert’s too, and—if you ask me—a bit of a social climber.”

Rupert Pennington was the director of the Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts and a special “gentleman friend” of my slim, trim, and attractive red-haired aunt—and had also been my onetime boss. “Mr. Pennington. Of course.” I snapped my fingers. “They must have known one another through the university.”

“That’s right. Rupert occasionally gives talks on Shakespeare to the English classes at County U. Shall I invite the three of them over? Say, tomorrow evening?”

“Good idea. What are you going to tell them? That we need their help in doing some snooping?” I asked.

“In a manner of speaking, yes, but I’d phrase it differently.”

“Like, how?”

She paused in her cat-scratching, prompting a pink-tongued cat-lick of her fingers, furrowed her brow for an instant, then smiled. “How’s this? I’ll tell them that a couple of Boston TV executives are looking for some creative people—the kind who think ‘outside the box’—to help with an important project.”

“You amaze me,” I told her. “That’s the absolute truth. Sort of.”

“Word choices, my darling child,” she said. “It’s all about word choices.”

I shook my head in admiration. O’Ryan climbed back onto the desk, watching as my aunt picked up her phone and pressed a key. “Hello, Betts?” she said. “If you’re available tomorrow evening—sevenish—for an hour or so, Maralee and I have an idea for something that’s right up your alley.”

She made two more similar calls, then leaned back in her chair wearing a look of satisfaction. O’Ryan stretched, yawned, then—maybe bored with the conversation—vacated his desk position and trotted out of the room. “Done and done,” she said. “Now we have to sketch out a presentation of sorts. Catch them up on all they need to know about the case so far, and point them in the direction of digging up any deep dark secrets Professor Samuel Bond may have had.”

“I think maybe we’ve found the perfect snooping crew. Louisa knows everybody who is anybody just about anywhere. Betsy could charm the Supreme Court out of their robes—let alone gather dirt about an old professor. You are the research expert and word master. Mr. Pennington will be our Daniel Webster, and I’ll dig around in the media world.” I was excited. “Let’s get started.”

“Have you had dinner yet?”

“Mac and cheese.”

She gave a well-bred sniff but didn’t comment on my choice of cuisine. “I think O’Ryan has repaired to the kitchen for his happy hour snack. Shall we join him?” My aunt gathered up a few papers, pulled a couple of college-lined notebooks from a desk drawer, and together we walked through her living room and out into the big warm kitchen.

“Maybe we should have tomorrow’s meeting here,” I suggested, pulling out a captain’s chair and sitting at the round oak kitchen table. “This table has always been a great place for brainstorming.”

She smiled, poured some special treats into the waiting cat’s red bowl, put two wineglasses on the table, and took a chilled bottle of Moscato from the refrigerator. “And for homework and school science projects and cupcake decorating and writing Christmas cards . . .”

“And for making wonderful memories,” I said. Aunt Ibby had raised me in this house after my parents died together in a plane crash when I was only four. After my race car driver husband, Johnny Barrett, died in a terrible accident and I’d come home from Florida, she’d made the third floor of the house into an apartment for me.

“You’re right,” she said, pouring wine into our glasses. “But for right now, it’s Snoop Station Central.” She pushed one of the notebooks and a pen to my side of the table and kept the other in front of her.

“To Snoop Station Central,” I repeated, and we raised our glasses in a toast.

At that moment we hadn’t the slightest idea of what kind of mess we were getting ourselves—and our friends—into.