Читать книгу Murder, Take Two - Carol J. Perry - Страница 14

Chapter 6

“Excuse me. Professor Armstrong? Lee Barrett, WICH-TV. A couple of questions please?”

He didn’t answer right away but gave me a quite un-professor-like up-and-down look. I was pretty sure Francine’s camera must have caught it. He smiled a perfect toothpaste-commercial-worthy smile. “Yes indeed, Ms. Barrett. Always happy to talk to the press. Get the word out to the community about our cause. What would you like to know?”

Who’s your orthodontist? was the first question that came to mind, but I smiled back. “There’s been talk around that Cody and Professor Bond had some serious differences. Do you know what the problem between them was?”

He sighed. “Ah, yes. There’s always talk around, isn’t there, Ms. Barrett? Usually unfounded gossip.” He held up one hand. “Yes. I know what the problem was. A tiny, insignificant disagreement between colleagues.”

That sounded familiar. It was almost what the lawyer had claimed—plus a couple of adjectives. “A disagreement?” I asked. “Do you know what it was about?”

“Internal university business,” he said. “A minor scheduling problem in the History Department, as I understand it. Not a big deal.”

Not a big deal. That’s what the lawyer said.

“You said that Professor Bond was your mentor. Do you teach history also?”

“I don’t. I started as a history major, then switched to political science. A better fit for me. Thank you for your interest in our funding for Cody’s legal expenses. Your viewers can help.” He rattled off a website and handed me a card. “Have a good day.” He flashed the smile again, this time directly at the camera, and walked away.

The crowd had pretty much dispersed, but I found a few students willing to talk about the case. Two fervent male Samuel Bond fans who thought Cody McGinnis had probably done it and one girl who was just as sure Cody wasn’t guilty. “I can fully understand why somebody could hate Professor Bond, though.” She shook a head full of bright blue curls. “He gave me a D on my midterm. I couldn’t believe it. What a jerk. I switched my major to earth science.” There didn’t seem to be much more of interest going on. I thanked the three, did my usual sign-off, and handed Francine my mic. “Time to go to the candy store? We seem to be back on schedule.”

“Absolutely—and Rhonda says they can fit almost all of the hunky professor’s speech and some of your interview onto the noon news. Good job.”

“Thanks. It’s lunchtime. Do you suppose we should eat some actual food before we start with the candy samples?”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” she said. Once again we loaded our gear into the van, then headed for the nearest drive-through. After a filling, if not particularly healthful lunch, we passed the WICH-TV building with a toot of the horn and proceeded all the way to the end of Derby Street, where the candy store is right across the street from the House of the Seven Gables. I’d glanced at Rhonda’s notes about it, but I’d been there before and so had Francine. Ye Olde Pepper Candy Companie dates back to 1806 and is, after all, the oldest candy company in America—so named because one of the long-ago owners was George Pepper.

That interview went well too, and we headed back to the station with our day’s scheduled stops completed and with several boxes of chocolates, fudges, truffles, and the signature lemon-flavored “Salem Gibralters” along with complete instructions on how to throw a Clue party to share with the crew. A good day’s work—and I’d still be able to attend the meeting of “Snoop Station Central.”

We’d put our candy haul on the curved Formica counter surrounding Rhonda’s reception desk. It didn’t take long for word to get around, so pretty soon several of our fellow employees, along with the boss, had joined us for an impromptu tasting party.

“So, what did you think about what the professor had to say about the murder?” Scott Palmer wanted to know. Scott’s not one of my favorite co-workers, but I always try to keep things civil between us.

“He didn’t say much of anything about it,” I said, “except that Cody didn’t do it.”

“I mean about the disagreement between Cody and Bond. You buyin’ it? That it was no big deal?”

It was a good question. “I think it needs a lot of investigation—a lot of explanation. I didn’t see the news show myself. Did they get the interview with the three students in?”

“So,” he said, stuffing a truffle into his mouth, “you’re not buyin’ it either.”

Rhonda interrupted. “We didn’t get the students in. We’ll do the whole thing in the six p.m. slot.”

“What did they say?” Scott wanted to know.

“Two against Cody, one for,” I said.

“Men or women?”

“Two guys. One girl.”

“Who was for?” he mumbled. “And why?”

“The girl,” I said. “She thinks Bond was a jerk. He’d given her a D on her midterms.”

“She has blue hair,” Francine offered.

“Kids,” Scott scoffed. “They screw around partying for a whole semester, then blame the teachers when they don’t get the As and Bs Daddy is paying for.”

“Not exactly worth killing over, though,” Mr. Doan put in. “And that professor you interviewed didn’t give much of an answer when you asked about what was going on between McGinnis and Bond.”

“I know,” I admitted. “He apparently agrees with the lawyers that whatever it was is ‘no big deal.’”

“Get another interview with him, Ms. Barrett,” Bruce Doan ordered. “You can do better. Get the answer.” He pointed to the candy spread. “Rhonda, wrap up some of those dark chocolate–covered orange peels. They’re Buffy’s favorites.”

“I’d already set some aside,” Rhonda said, handing him a small candy box. “I know Mrs. Doan loves them.”

“Thanks.” He retreated to his office, looking back over his shoulder. “Get on that ‘disagreement between colleagues’ thing, Ms. Barrett. Pronto!”

I gritted my teeth and didn’t answer. Scott grinned. “Need help, Moon?” Scott’s called me ‘Moon,’ ever since I first came to WICH-TV. “Crystal Moon” was the name I chose for my phony psychic routine.

“No thanks. I can handle it.” I believed I could. The twins undoubtedly knew all about whatever the problem was between the two professors. Besides that, I had a meeting in a few hours with some crack busybodies who might already have the answer to that too.

As the bounty of goodies on Rhonda’s counter grew smaller, so did the group gathered there. After a while it got down to the women—Francine, Rhonda, and me—by this time wetting our fingers and picking up little shreds of chocolate.

“So, are you going to call the hot professor?” Rhonda wanted to know.

“The kids call him ‘Professor Dreamy’” was Francine’s helpful observation.

“We all saw that look he gave you,” Rhonda teased. “I’ll bet he’ll spill the whole story if you ask nicely.”

I thought about calling him. Gave it a moment’s serious thought. “Don’t think I’ll need him,” I decided.

“Doan would probably like you to do it,” Rhonda said. “All those college girls would watch because he’s so handsome. Doan’s always looking to attract a younger audience.”

“That’s right,” Francine offered. “The only eye-candy guy we’ve got around here is Buck Covington.”

“Don’t let Scott hear you say that.” I laughed. “He thinks he’s all that and more.” But she was right. Buck Covington is wicked handsome, and in addition to that, he reads from the teleprompter flawlessly, every time. Never needs a second take on anything. The late news ratings went up as soon as he was hired. Buck is dating my best friend, River, who is also gorgeous. They’re definitely WICH-TV’s “beautiful couple.”

“Think about it,” Rhonda advised. “Anyway, you two have another hour or so before you clock out. Got any time fillers in mind?”

“I have to get an oil change on the van,” Francine said. “I’d better get going.”

“I’ve got some more research to do on Dick Crowninshield,” I said. “I think I’ll use the computer in one of the data ports if that’s okay.”

“Sure.” Rhonda handed me a key to one of the secure little cubicles where reporters can work without interruption or background noise. The data ports were one of Mr. Doan’s better ideas, and I use them often.

I closed the dataport glass door behind me, tossed my handbag onto the desk, and typed in “The murder of Captain Joseph White Salem.” Even though the crime happened almost two hundred years ago, there’s still a surprising amount of information about it on the internet. What I hoped to find was some more ties between the murder of Samuel Bond and the killing of Joseph White. It would all be coincidental, of course, but Bruce Doan would like it, and it could make a great story. Maybe I’d even get an investigative reporter shot on the late news with it.

It was pretty much agreed by all concerned that Dick Crowninshield had killed the old man for money. He was simply a hired killer who, rather than face the consequences of his crime, had hanged himself in his jail cell with a fine silk scarf. Nothing was stolen or even disturbed in the captain’s bedroom. The same was true of the Bond killing. Nothing missing that we know of. There were accessories to the White murder. A man named Frank Knapp and his brother Joseph were later hanged for their part in the crime. Did Bond’s killer work alone?

I noted both things on one of the index cards I always carry in my purse. Did they mean anything? Maybe not, but I guessed they were worth a Roman numeral apiece. I jotted down VII—Bedrooms; VIII—Accomplices. I’d figure out the ABCs and 123s later. I added a PS to the bottom of the card. I didn’t know what else to do with it. “Cops emptied Cody’s gym locker.” I closed and locked the dataport door, returned the key to Rhonda, and left for home—anxiously awaiting the evening’s meeting with my own willing accomplices.