Chapter Seven
As soon as I closed my glass door I turned on the TV. I didn’t want to miss a word of the chief’s update on the missing man while I hurriedly ordered oats and treats online. Within minutes, the “Breaking News” banner flashed and a shot of the Salem Police Station came into view. Scott did a voice-over while the camera focused on an empty lectern on the podium in front of the building that the chief always uses for these events.
Scott used his hushed announcer voice. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We’re awaiting the arrival of Police Chief Whaley, who will make an announcement regarding the disappearance of Patrick Duncan, known to many as the owner of the Pretty Party Bakery, long a family-owned Salem landmark business. Mr. Duncan was last known to be in the bakery’s kitchen during the early morning hours two days ago.”
The chief approached the lectern, resplendent in full uniform complete with medals. He dislikes doing these appearances and I was sure it would be a brief statement, with as little time for questions as he could manage. “Here’s Chief Whaley,” Scott announced. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”
Chief Whaley, looking uncomfortable, rustled the papers on the lectern and looked into the cameras. “Good morning. Patrick Duncan went missing from his bakery the day before yesterday under unusual circumstances during the early morning hours. We are requesting the public’s assistance in searching for this man.” He held up a large photo. Scott’s camera zoomed in on it. Pat was a pleasant-looking man—graying hair, blue eyes, a slim, athletic build. I’d seen him at the bakery many times. I remembered hearing that he worked out regularly at a local gym. He knew me by name, but we’d never had any social connections. “He is fifty years old, five feet, nine inches tall, about a hundred and sixty pounds, light complexion, blue eyes, gray hair,” the chief intoned. “In hopes that it will encourage citizen cooperation in the hunt for her husband, Dolores Duncan is offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to his safe return to his family. Mr. Duncan did not take his automobile, his wallet, his watch or his phone with him. It has not been determined whether he left the premises willingly or unwillingly. We’re asking people in the vicinity of the Pretty Party Bakery who have security cameras to check their footage for possible sightings of Mr. Duncan. A person of interest in this matter is a man or woman wearing an astronaut costume, last seen in the vicinity of Winter Street yesterday morning. People in the Winter Street area are asked to check their security cameras for footage of this person.” The chief shuffled the papers again. I couldn’t help smiling at the description of the “person of interest.” If Chris’s costume sales promotion worked out, before long there could be 140 people walking around in Salem who’d fit that description. He gave a special hotline telephone number where people could call with information. The number flashed at the bottom of the screen.
I hoped that when the chief asked for questions, Scott would pick up on that “willingly or unwillingly” line and ask for some clarification. For instance, is the department thinking of kidnapping as a possibility? Has there been a ransom note? I know I’d have some questions about it if I were behind the mic.
The question period came and went. Most of the questions were about the reward money. If several people came up with the same information, who would get the money? What if somebody has him tied up somewhere and they bring him in? Do they get the reward anyway?
Chief Whaley said that the first caller with good information gets the reward. As to the other unlikely event, Mrs. Duncan would have to make the reward decision, but the captor would face criminal charges. After that question was answered, Scott, to his credit, did ask if there was any indication of this being a kidnapping situation. The chief answered that all aspects of Pat Duncan’s disappearance were being considered and investigated—then hurriedly said “thank you,” and practically ran back into the building. He really hates doing these things. A picture of the missing man and the telephone number for information came up on the screen—good fast work by the WICH-TV graphics crew.
Pete hadn’t said a word about this being a kidnapping, but my inner Nancy Drew had kicked in. What if there had been a ransom note? What if Dolores Duncan had agreed to pay it? And if she had, where was the money coming from?
Scott signed off and the station returned to regular programing—in this case, a documentary on whale watching. I’d already seen it, so I turned off the set and tried to get my mind to focus on my job. But, between the disturbing vision of a seemingly dead man on a nondescript floor in an old cabin in some woods, and the increasingly interesting search for the local cupcake baker, it wasn’t easy to concentrate on groceries for dog and horse. I couldn’t help looking at my watch very few minutes. It was still much too early to start my walk over to the Pretty Party to pick up Buck’s birthday cake. Maybe while I was there though, I’d be able to pick up some more information about Pat Duncan to share with Pete. He’d been right about the guys at the Friendly being willing to talk to me about things they wouldn’t tell a cop. It only made sense that the same might be true at the bakery.
By 11:15 I couldn’t wait any longer. I told Rhonda I’d be out for an hour, avoided Old Clunky and that polished door, and walked downstairs and out onto Derby Street. The bakery is a few blocks away, located among other attractive shops on Salem’s downtown pedestrian mall. I could smell cinnamon buns while I was still five or six storefronts away. Very tempting. I’d probably return to the station with more than Buck’s cake. The mall was busy, with costumed people moving among the shoppers in a sort of good-natured ballet. I stopped to let a clown who was having trouble walking with his giant shoes get ahead of me in the short line in front of the bakery. “You here for the giant cupcakes?” he asked. “Everybody seems to want them because of the Halloween colors.” He winked. “Or maybe we’re all just nosy because of the missing man.”
“Just picking up a birthday cake,” I said, telling myself I wasn’t being nosy—only curious.
“You know what I heard?” he whispered. He didn’t wait for an answer. “I heard that Pat owes everybody in town and he’s run out on his creditors. I wouldn’t be surprised, would you?”
I was surprised by the question. “I didn’t really know him,” I stammered, realizing immediately that I’d used the past tense—that I knew in my heart that Pat was dead.
“Well, thanks for letting me cut in line,” he said. “I’m having a problem with the shoes. I should have worn my own shoes inside these so they wouldn’t be so floppy.”
I’d stayed a few steps behind him, anticipating possible shoe-related collisions ahead. “No problem,” I mumbled as he entered the store. Then I quickly stepped out of the line and called Pete. “Have you turned the Dumpster suit over to forensics yet?” I almost shouted.
“I just left there,” he said. “They were in no hurry to touch the thing. What a smelly mess. Why? What’s going on.”
“I know why Pat’s footprints didn’t lead out the door. It was definitely Pat Duncan in the costume—not some mysterious kidnapper looking for ransom. He put the space boots on over his own size-nine shoes,” I announced. “I’ll bet they’ll find the orange goo inside the Dumpster boots.”
Short pause before the cop voice. “I’ll bet you’re exactly right,” he said. “Did I ever tell you you’d make . . .”
“Yes, you did,” I said. “No thanks. Let me know what you find out. I have to go pick up a birthday cake now.”
Within a minute or so I was inside the bakery where it was good to see that the famed triple-layer cupcakes were back in the display case alongside the cinnamon buns. It was a surprise though, to see a smiling Dolores Duncan behind the counter, serving customers. She caught my eye. “Hello there, Lee! We have Buck’s cake all ready for you. It’s in the refrigerator case out back. Wait a sec. I’ll get it.” Stripping off disposable gloves, she pushed open the windowed door to the kitchen. I recognized it because of Scott’s photo. “Will there be anything else, Lee?” asked another of the familiar pink-smocked counterwomen.
I ordered a dozen of the cinnamon buns for the break room. “It looks as if everything is moving smoothly,” I said. “I’m sure this is a difficult time for you all.”
“It is,” she agreed, “but Dolores keeps us all going. Such a strong person. And Tommy—you know Tommy? He’s the manager. He’s doing his best to keep everything moving along as usual. He even got hold of the secret triple-layer cupcakes recipe somehow and showed us how to make them. He’s keeping Dolores encouraged. She’s positive that Pat will be back with us soon and she was absolutely thrilled that you saved his little cat. I’m sure she’ll thank you herself.”
She was right. Dolores reappeared with a square, white, pink-ribbon-tied cake box, came around the counter and gave me a hug. “How can I ever thank you enough for saving little Cupcake,” she said. “I cried happy tears when I saw how you held her and how she snuggled against your shoulder. I know Pat is grateful too.”
I held back my own tears, sure that her happiness was misplaced, and returned her hug. “She’s a dear little cat and I’m so glad she’s safe at home again.” I used the company credit card, picked up my purchases and hurried away, beginning to feel somewhat underdressed among the many creatively costumed pedestrians. I’d developed the habit of watching for astronauts in particular among the superheroes, sexy nurses and green-faced witches. During the short walk back to Derby Street, I spotted two space-suited men and one boy, and wondered if any of them had been reported so far on the chief’s special hotline.
Back at the station I put the boxed cake into the break room refrigerator with a sticky note warning “Do Not Touch,” and left the bag of cinnamon rolls on the table with a “Help Yourself” note. There was still nothing for me on Rhonda’s whiteboard, so I retreated to my cozy glass cage, knowing I should be doing some prep work for the upcoming week’s programs. Ranger Rob and Katie the Clown needed some new “knock-knock” jokes to share with their little buckaroos on Ranger Rob’s Rodeo and I needed to get the Halloween book list from the Wicked Good Books bookstore for Shopping Salem. I kept looking through the glass wall at the news studio clock. How long could it take for the forensic people to clean up a messy space boot and check inside for orange marmalade?
It turned out that it didn’t take long at all. Pete sounded excited, in a cop-voiced sort of way. “You called it, babe,” he said. “Pat Duncan walked out of the bakery via the back door wearing an astronaut costume. He made it as far as Winter Street where the cab picked him up. We’ve interviewed the driver again. He says the customer told the dispatcher that he’d be wearing an astronaut suit and to watch for him walking from the Hawthorne Boulevard end of the mall toward Bridge Street by way of Winter Street.”
“So that’s how he happened to turn up under the oak tree in front of our house,” I said, “and little Cupcake must have followed him all the way there.”
“Seems so,” Pete agreed. “And that dog on your aunt’s surveillance film chased her up into the tree.”
“Cats are amazing creatures,” I told him. “You have to admit it.”
“Some of them seem to be,” he agreed, “including O’Ryan, of course.”
“He kept her in the tree until it was safe for her to leave it,” I said. “I’ve got to get back to work now. Let me know if anything else interesting turns up.”
“You do the same.”
I promised that I would. It was surprising how soon something interesting actually did turn up.