LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      Chapter 7

      Rupert Pennington had arrived early, impeccably dressed as always. Tonight he sported a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches and a melon-colored ascot. By seven o’clock he’d arranged five chairs around the kitchen table and placed a copy of our outline, along with a brand-new notebook and pen, in front of each place. Aunt Ibby stood at her kitchen counter, putting the finishing touches on a plate of dainty sandwiches. A nice Merlot chilled in a hammered aluminum bucket, coffee would be ready with a touch of a button, and assorted exotic tea bags awaited boiling water.

      I stood in the front hall, facing the big mirrored hall tree, listening for the doorbell. I peered at my reflection. Usually after work I’m makeup-free, wearing comfortable sweats or even pajamas. Tonight I dressed up a little, knowing that Betsy would be a model-perfect fashion plate and Louisa would be understatedly elegant. I didn’t want to embarrass my aunt by looking tacky, so I’d chosen a nice, middle-of-the-road blue denim jumper with a white blouse. Good enough, I decided, and hurried to pull the door open as the first chime of “The Impossible Dream” sounded.

      Betsy whirled through the door in a cloud of Flower-bomb, looking fabulous in pink shantung, long platinum hair in a perfect upsweep. She gave me a side hug and an air kiss. “This is so exciting, Lee,” she said. “Thinking outside the box is so me! I can hardly wait to see what Ibby has in mind.” Louisa Abney-Babcock, immaculate in a gray linen pantsuit, arrived shortly after Betsy, and the two hurried to the kitchen with me right behind them.

      After Mr. Pennington had bowed graciously, kissed hands, and pulled out chairs for all of us, Aunt Ibby got down to business. With her usual appropriate “word choices,” she laid out the problem.

      “You’ve

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