Chapter Five
Pete looked up at the kitchen clock. “It’s almost nine. Do you think Christopher’s Castle is still open? I’d like to get one of those space suits. We need to examine the boots.”
“I’ll call Chris,” I offered. Chris Rich is a major advertiser on WICH-TV, so I have his number in my phone.
“Hello, Lee. Don’t tell me you’re still working at this time of night,” he said.
“Not exactly,” I told him. “The station just ran that interview you did with Howard Templeton, and Pete and I were wondering if you’re still open. We’re interested in buying one of your astronaut costumes.”
“We close at nine,” he said. “I’m just getting ready to lock up. I’ll put one aside for you. You can pick it up tomorrow if you want to. Is it for Pete?”
“Not exactly,” I said again. “If you’ll still be there for a little while we can come right over and pick it up tonight.”
“An early party going on? Sure, I’ll be here. I appreciate the publicity you guys give me. I missed seeing the interview. Did everything look good?”
“Everything looked really good,” I said. “You have a great selection and I’m sure you’ll get rid of all those space suits pretty fast.”
“I hope so. It’s kind of funny, isn’t it? Picturing a hundred and forty-four astronauts wandering around Salem at the same time?” He chuckled. “Say, that might be worth another feature.”
“Could be,” I said. “I’m doing a bit with Scott Palmer tonight on Buck’s show at eleven, so if we come right now that would be perfect. Okay?”
“No kidding. Boy, it’s been a long time since you’ve done one of those, hasn’t it? I’ll be here for another fifteen minutes or so. Come right on over.”
Reminded once again how few and far between my TV appearances had been lately, I told Chris we’d be right along.
“We should go right now,” I told Pete. “There’ll be lots of traffic to contend with.”
He grinned. “That’s what lights and sirens are for, sweetheart. Let’s go.”
Pete thanked Aunt Ibby for sharing the video and I gave O’Ryan a kiss on the head and a whispered, “You are the smartest cat in the world.” He acknowledged the compliment by giving me a pink-tongued lick on the chin.
It turned out that we didn’t need lights and sirens to get us to Christopher’s Castle in the allotted fifteen minutes. Pete’s a good driver and because of his job he knows his way around every inch of street, avenue, way, lane and boulevard in Salem. We traveled what seemed to me to be a strangely circuitous route and somehow wound up in the parking lot right behind Christopher’s Castle in ten minutes flat. Chris, wearing a magician’s outfit, complete with top hat and monocle, greeted us at the door.
“Welcome to my castle,” he intoned, “where wonders await you.”
“Thanks for letting us in, Chris,” I said. “I know this is a busy time for you.”
“Glad to help a friend,” he said. “Are we looking for the astronaut suit to fit you, Pete?”
“Sure. Why not? I might get invited to a Halloween party. Can I ask what size the space boots are that come with it?”
“Sure. Size eleven medium.”
“Close enough,” Pete said. “I wear a ten.”
“Do you want to try the whole outfit on?” Chris asked. “No returns at this price.”
“No problem. We’ll take it as is.” He handed Chris his credit card and pocketed the receipt. “You mentioned to Templeton that you’d sold a dozen or so of these costumes. Do you happen to have the names of the people who bought them?”
Chris looked thoughtful. “A few of them are regular customers, so I know them,” he said, “and most people used credit cards, so I could look them up. Some paid cash though. Is it important?”
“It might be,” Pete told him.
“I’ll try to make a list for you as soon as I can find time to do it,” Chris promised. “This is my high season, you know.”
“I understand. Thanks for staying open for us. We have to get going. Lee has a news show to do.”
“Sure thing. Break a leg, Lee,” he said. “Ask Doan about a feature on the hundred and forty-four astronauts, okay?”
“I will,” I promised, thinking that one of those anonymous astronauts might show up on a crime show before long.
The ride to WICH-TV took a little longer to negotiate, but we were still in plenty of time for Buck’s program. We left the wrapped space suit in the backseat of Pete’s car, and I tapped my code into the keypad beside the studio door. The long room was mostly in darkness, but I could see from the doorway that River’s Tarot Time set was brightly illuminated.
“I’d like to drop by and tell River we’re here,” I suggested. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to her in a couple of days. There’s something I wanted to ask her about.” I’ve always hesitated to call her on the days she worked. I used to work that midnight-to-two-in-the-morning slot myself, so I knew that River needed her daytime sleep. I really wanted to talk to somebody besides Pete about the cabin in the woods vision though, and River could often make some sense out of things when I couldn’t. She said it was something like dream analyzing.
“You go ahead,” Pete said. “I’m going to see if I can track Scott down. I’d like to get a close-up look at that shot he took through the window of the bakery kitchen. I’ll see you in the newsroom.”
I hurried down the wide aisle to the set with its blue nighttime sky backdrop, replete with sparkling stars and moon. River, gorgeous in a red satin gown with a large rhinestone spider pin on one shoulder, silver stars braided into her long black hair, sat in her big fan-back wicker chair facing the round table where candles, crystal clusters and amethyst geodes shared space with the beautiful tarot deck.
Camerawoman Marty McCarthy stood nearby, her head beneath the covering hood of a wheeled studio camera focused on what appeared to be a large greeting card with an illustration of angels on it. River is fond of ethereal images on screen while her theme music “Danse Macabre” introduces the show. She jumped up to greet me with a patchouli-scented hug.
“Oh, Lee, I haven’t seen you in days. I miss you.”
“Miss you too.” I dropped my voice, which seemed to echo in the long, silent room. “I have so much I want to talk to you about.”
She reached for the tarot deck. “Do you think we have time for a quick reading? I know you’re doing Buck’s show tonight.”
“I’m afraid not,” I said. “But something has happened today. I’d like to know what you think it might mean.” I looked toward the camerawoman. “It’s kind of personal.”
Marty poked her head out from behind the camera. “I’m heading for the break room anyway. I’ll leave you two to talk.”
I hadn’t meant to scare Marty away, but I was glad to be alone with my friend. “I had a vision today. Actually, I’ve seen it twice. I’d like to know what you think it means.”
“A vision is different from a dream, you know, but the symbols may tell the same stories.” She gestured toward a chair on the opposite side of the table. “The symbols may refer to things happening in the present, the past or the future. But you already know that. Have a seat and tell me about it.”
“It’s not an unpleasant scene,” I recalled. “It’s just a cabin in the woods.”
“Do you recognize the place, Lee? Maybe a cabin you visited or stayed in when you were a child?” she asked.
“I don’t think so. It’s just a cabin.” I closed my eyes. “It has a chimney on one end, and several windows. There’s a small porch.”
“It’s an unknown place to you then. Is it a place you want to explore?”
“I think so. Yes.”
“In the dream world,” River said, “this can be a place of danger. Or refuge. Or a chance for adventure. Some readers compare it to the Little Red Riding Hood myth.”
“Not very specific.”
“In a way it is. I’d guess it’s a calling from the unconscious relating to an outside threat that you don’t fully understand yet.” She paused. “In your case, considering some of your other visions, it could be a real place. A real cabin in real woods.”
“And if it is?”
“You’ve had the same vision twice. If—or when—it comes again, try to move closer. You say there are windows. Try to look inside.”
“I will,” I promised. “And I hope the big bad wolf isn’t in there.”
“Have you told Pete about the cabin?”
“No. You know he doesn’t like to talk about these things.” It was true. He loves River, but calls what she does “River’s hocus-pocus.”
“Maybe you should mention it. What if you find it by yourself and it really is a place of danger?”
“Thanks, River,” I said. “I’d better get up to the newsroom now. I’ll think about all you’ve said. I love you.” I stood and stepped back into the aisle.
“Love you too, Little Red Riding Hood. Be careful.”
I hurried through the darkness toward the metal door leading to the news department, glad when I reached the brightly lighted corridor beside the glass wall where the hustle of a lively news team was already visible. It takes quite a few people to make a live newscast happen. Wanda the weather girl was already in position in front of the green screen, and the producer, the news editor, a sound engineer, camera crew and several technicians were all busily occupied. Buck Covington was seated at the anchor desk while makeup woman Dolly dusted a bit of bronzer onto his already handsome face. Across the room I saw Scott at his desk in his usual corner. Pete was alone in the section reserved for guests, looking at his phone. I held up my station ID card and entered the roomful of activity, thinking again about how much I like being part of this team.
Pete saw me right away and started across the room in my direction. I met him halfway and asked, “Did you find anything new in that kitchen shot?”
“Maybe. I’m not exactly sure. Did River answer the question you had?”
“Maybe,” I echoed, “I’m not exactly sure.”
“You look beautiful,” he said. “Break a leg.”
* * *
Apparently, my makeup job wasn’t too bad. Dolly added a bit of blush and did something with a comb and hairspray to tame my curls and adjusted the clip mic on my shirt. During a commercial break after some national news and a promo about the Haunted Happenings marketplace, I took my seat beside Scott—who was seated next to Buck. Third seat on the nightly news was a lot better than no seat at all.
Buck started the segment with a clip from Scott’s original coverage of Pat Duncan’s disappearance. “You were one of the first on the scene, Scott,” he said. “How did you find out about it?”
Scott did one of his trademark long stares into the camera. “To tell the truth, Buck,” he said, “it was just a case of dumb luck. I’ve been walking to work because of all the traffic you know, and I picked up the habit of stopping every morning at the Pretty Party for coffee and a couple of doughnuts to go. There were a few police cars out front. Dolores—that’s Mrs. Duncan—was working the front counter and I asked her what was going on. I didn’t have any crew with me. Those shots you just aired were from my phone camera. I was lucky to get the picture of the kitchen through the window. Mrs. Duncan told me about how her husband always baked the cupcakes at night—and how he’d never leave them to burn. There was a picture of the cat he named Cupcake on the wall of the shop and I got a shot of that too.”
“That brings us to our other guest, Lee Barrett, a familiar name and face to regular viewers of WICH-TV.” He smiled in my direction. “Lee, you had more than a picture of little Cupcake, the calico cat. You got to meet her firsthand with a daring tree rescue. We’ll give our audience a look at what happened when you decided to help a treed cat. Tell us about it.”
“I was there because our station manager, Bruce Doan, thought helping a cat in trouble would tell a story people would like to see,” I told him. “We had no idea that the sad kitty crying in the branches of a huge oak tree on Winter Street would turn out to be connected to a current missing person case being investigated by the police. The tree happened to be close to my home, and my cat—his name is O’Ryan—was the one who let us know about poor Cupcake being stranded up there.”
“O’Ryan may be familiar to WICH-TV viewers,” Buck put in. “He once belonged to Ariel Constellation, who many remember as the host of the late show Nightshades. Now he lives with you, is that right, Lee?”
“He lives with my aunt and me. If it wasn’t for O’Ryan’s yowling to get our attention we might not have been able to save the cat in the tree.” I watched on the monitor as Cupcake dropped from the branches and landed on the ladder’s platform. Talk about dumb luck! “Cupcake is happily at home with Mrs. Duncan now. I’m glad we could help.”
“We are too, Scott and Lee. Thanks for sharing your stories with us. Salem police are asking for the community’s help in locating the missing bakery owner, Patrick Duncan.” A picture of the missing man flashed onto the screen. “If you have any knowledge of where he might be, please call the number at the bottom of your screen. Now, let’s hear about the weather from our meteorologist, Wanda.”
Scott and I were ushered off the set while Wanda took over from in front of the green screen. “Good job, Lee,” Scott said. “We should work together more often. Thank O’Ryan for me and—by the way—see if he has any ideas about where Pat Duncan is hiding out.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, as we walked together toward the edge of the glassed-in room to where Pete waited.
“You might ask Pete too.”
I didn’t bother to answer that one. “Good night, Scott. See you tomorrow.”
Pete and I left the building quietly via the studio door with River’s theme music issuing from the lighted set midway down the long studio. “Want to take a side trip up to Rockport? The chief ran that license number so we know where the cab took our astronaut. I’d like to see just where he went.”
“Sure. Why not? We can both sleep in tomorrow. Do you know who called the cab in the first place?”
“We don’t know who called. The dispatcher said it sounded like somebody with a bad cold—and the call came from the Pretty Party Bakery.”
“No kidding. Do you guess it was somebody disguising their voice? Sounding like they had a cold?”
He held the passenger door open for me. “It’s not my job to guess,” he said in a very stern cop voice, effectively ending conversation on that topic. I climbed into the passenger seat and figured I might as well change the subject. “How did you like the segment? Scott thinks we should work together more often.”
“It looked good. As Scott said, he lucked into the story. O’Ryan helped to put you into the mix.”
“Don’t I know it. You say you’re not sure if Scott’s kitchen window picture was helpful or not?”
“That’s right. There was something about the orange footprints. Our team found shoe prints from Pat, naturally, and from Tommy LaGrange, the general manager who shut off the oven and took the burned cupcakes out, and there were prints that look like they could be from the space boots, and some from the cat, of course. Tommy, the GM, showed us the shoes he’d worn that morning and Mrs. Duncan said that Pat wears a size nine, so his were easy to identify. The thing is, the prints from Pat’s shoes were mostly around the work space. None of them led to the outer door. So how did he get out?”
“Do you think he didn’t go outdoors willingly? Do you think somebody might have actually carried him out of there?”
He shrugged. “Anything is possible.” Pete pulled the cruiser onto Derby Street and before long we were heading north on Route 128. I recognized some landmarks along the way. “I’ve always liked this ride,” I said.
“Me too.” Pete smiled. “When I was a kid I went to a Boy Scout camp in the woods just between Rockport and Gloucester.”
“I used to go horseback riding around there when I was a kid,” I remembered. “Boy, could you get lost in those woods.”
“I know,” he said. “Acres of trees and dirt roads and stone fences and the occasional old run-down cabin.” Old cabin? Was River right? Was my vision just a recollection of a place I’d seen when I was a preteen?
“I hope you’re not planning to get us lost in those creepy woods,” I said.
“Absolutely not. Just a drive-by. The cab driver says he dropped off a guy in a space suit at Sam’s Super Scoops right at the edge of those woods. I checked it out. They’re open until two a.m. You up for some late-night ice cream and maybe a nostalgia trip past Camp Red Arrow?”
I agreed. “I’m always ready for chocolate ice cream, and a ride in the woods is okay as long as I can stay in the car.”
“Done,” he said as we turned onto a dark and winding road—needed high beams—and located the faded ghost sign that marked the entrance to Camp Red Arrow, not far from the riding stables where I’d fallen in love with a pony named Smoothie. Returning to the main road, I thanked him for the trip down memory lane, but welcomed the cheery, brightly lighted, pink and blue Sam’s Super Scoops sign. Inside, the shop was warm and welcoming. We each took a seat at the bright pink counter. The chocolate ice cream—with some hot fudge added—was worth the trip to me.
We were the only customers in the place. Pete questioned the server about the costumed spaceman who’d arrived by cab a day earlier. “I just work the night shift,” he said. “The daytime crew would have seen him. They work ten to six. I’m here from six to two.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the counter. “But I think I might know where that costume is.”
“You do? Where?” Pete stood, opened his wallet and showed his badge. “It may be important.”
“It’s in the Dumpster out back,” he said. “At least that round helmet is. I was going to grab it for one of my kids, but there was a bunch of trash on top, coffee grounds, banana peels, dirty paper plates, yucky stuff from the rest rooms. You know. You have to be careful about germs these days.”
“Mind if I take a look?” Cop voice.
“Go right ahead. You want some rubber gloves? I have plenty of the food-service kind. I’m telling you, it’s pretty gross.”
“Thanks,” Pete told him. “I have gloves and a flashlight in my car, but I could use a big plastic bag if you have one.”
Within minutes, and before I’d had the last spoonful of my ice cream, we were behind Sam’s Super Scoops with the Dumpster lid propped up, both of us in police department issued gloves, me with a flashlight in one hand, holding a huge black plastic bag open with the other while Pete dove into the mess and came up with not only the bubble helmet, but the silver suit and a pair of boots.
We each cleaned up the best we could in the restrooms, bought a couple of quarts of ice cream to go—vanilla for Pete and chocolate for me—and headed back to Salem with the bag of evidence in the trunk of the cruiser.
It was darned near three a.m. when we reached Winter Street. “I need a shower,” he said. “Have you got anything in the apartment for breakfast?” he asked.
“Strawberry Pop-Tarts, cold pizza and coffee,” I offered.
“Good deal,” he said, and it was mutually agreed that—after we each took showers—he’d stay the night.