Final exam, p.1
Final Exam, page 1
Also by CAROL J. PERRY
Bells, Spells, and Murders
It Takes a Coven
Grave Errors
Murder Go Round
Look Both Ways
Tails, You Lose
Caught Dead Handed
FINAL EXAM
CAROL J. PERRY
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
EPILOGUE
Teaser chapter
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 Carol J. Perry
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
KENSINGTON BOOKS and the K logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1460-2
Electronic edition: March 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1461-9
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1461-X
For Dan Perry, my husband and best friend.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practice to deceive!
—SIR WALTER SCOTT
CHAPTER 1
As a field reporter for WICH-TV in my hometown of Salem, Massachusetts, I rarely report the news from an actual field. But on a sunny afternoon in early May, there I was, knee deep in weeds—including some hay fever–inducing goldenrod—chasing down a not-too-reliable lead.
I’m Lee Barrett, née Maralee Kowalski, thirty-three, red-haired, Salem born, orphaned early, married once, and widowed young. My aunt, Isobel Russell—I call her Aunt Ibby—raised me after my parents died, and we share the old family home on Winter Street with our cat, O’Ryan.
I’m WICH-TV’s newest and youngest field reporter, and I know I have a lot to prove—to myself and to others—about on-the-spot, breaking news reporting. That’s why camerawoman Francine Hunter and I had just climbed partway up a steep hill, through a rusted barbed-wire fence, past several beat-up NO TRESPASSING signs and a couple of NO SWIMMING signs that looked as though they’d been used for target practice. I stumbled over a pile of empty beer cans—shiny, bright colors gleaming through crabgrass and ragweed. Clearly, there’d been recent sign-ignoring trespassers in this bleak landscape besides us. I just hoped our source—Francine’s roommate’s brother’s personal trainer—was right about what might be going on in the abandoned granite quarry just ahead. He said he’d overheard it in a dive shop. Something underwater, he’d said. Something the police were looking for.
“Look,” Francine whispered, pointing to a blue Chevy truck, half hidden behind a small grove of maple trees. “Somebody braver than me drove on that godawful, pot-holey, overgrown road and made it all the way up here. Maybe it’s divers.”
“Bet it is. Anyway, I think leaving the station’s only mobile van safely parked down on the street was the right thing to do,” I assured her. “I’m sure our beloved station manager wouldn’t enjoy sending a tow truck to rescue us if anything went wrong.”
“Oh, sure.” Francine positioned her shoulder-mounted camera and started toward the Chevy. “Since Doan doesn’t even know we’re here, barring a van wreck, what could go wrong? We’re trespassing on posted land trying to interview some divers who might be cops, who could be looking for something under a couple hundred feet of water—all on a tip from some guy’s personal trainer we’ve never even met who hangs around in a dive shop.”
“Come on,” I said. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“I think I left it in the van with the bug spray,” Francine grumbled, aiming a swat at her ankle. “Let’s get this over with.”
I gave the handheld mic a quick testing tap, adjusted the lanyard with my plastic-coated press pass on it, and hurried to keep up with her. She was right about the divers. As we drew closer to the blue truck, discreet lettering on the door was visible: S.P.D. DIVE TEAM. So she was right about them being cops too. My police detective boyfriend, Pete Mondello, had told me about these full-time police officers who volunteer to become divers so they can help in water rescue operations and even search underwater for evidence to help with investigations.
“They really are looking for something—or somebody—in the quarry,” I said, “and it looks like we’re the only news team here.”
We pushed our way through weeds surrounding the maple trees and circled around the Chevy, emerging onto a broad ledge just a few feet above water. We were at the lowest possible access to the abandoned granite pit, facing a semicircle of geometric gray stone megaliths, looming far above us like a vertical moonscape over the lake of blue water below. I took an involuntary step back.
“Weird,” I said, with a little fake laugh.
“Beautiful,” Francine declared. “Look at that sunlight and shadow contrast.” Stepping dangerously close to the edge of the wide outcropping where we stood, she panned her camera in a semicircular motion. “Beautiful,” she repeated.
I squinted, still not moving any closer to the edge, my back to the Chevy, trying to see the beauty she saw in this dreary gray environment, which I’d probably soon need to describe for my audience.
The voice came from directly behind me. “Hey. What are you doing here?” The man wore scuba gear, a dark blue wetsuit with two air tanks on his back. A mask dangled from his left hand. He walked toward me, flippers slap-slapping on the rough granite ridge. He didn’t smile. I did, and lifted my ID badge to his eye level. “Hi,” I said, speaking into the mic, “Lee Barrett, WICH-TV News. We had a call about SPD working up here today. How’s the search going?”
Francine had moved closer to us and I held the mic in his direction. He gave me a head-tilted, quizzical look and didn’t answer for a long moment. Dead air. “Oh yeah.” Finally he nodded. “Lee Barrett. I know you. Saw you with Detective Mondello at the PAL Pee Wee Thanksgiving hockey tournament.”
“Right,” I said. “Nice to see you again Officer . . . ?”
“Andrews,” he said. “Bill Andrews.” He reached to shake hands and I made a quick switch of the mic to my left and grasped his. “Hey, are we on TV now?” He glanced at Francine, frowning.
“WICH-TV News,” I repeated. “Not a live broadcast. Just gathering material right now about the search. How’s it going?” I asked again, still fishing for information that might give us a clue about what was happening underwater. “Any luck?”
He looked at a wide yellow band on his wrist. “My buddy is still down. Got about a minute left on this dive.”
“How long has he been under?” I moved one step closer to the edge, peering into the blue, blue water.
“Thirty minutes,” he said. “Then it’s my turn again.”
“Very deep, I suppose,” I said, still fishing.
“Some say the pit is bottomless.” He smiled. “Actually it’s probably around two hundred feet at the deepest point. We’re looking at around a hundred, hundred and fifty.”
“Why there?”
“The tipster who contacted the chief said the car went into the water from up there.” Officer Andrews pointed upward, to the mountain of gray stone looming over our heads. “Probably the same tip you got, huh? We figure we know about where it might have landed.” He waved the hand holding the mask. “God only knows how many cars have been ditched down there in that murky mess.”
“Ditched?” I asked.
“Sure. For the insurance money. Course, not all of them have human remains inside.”
CHAPTER 2
I tried not to look surprised. Francine didn’t even try, just kept on filming, eyes wide, mouth open. Fortunately, our new diver friend had already flipper-flopped down to the next level of the ledge, about a foot closer to the water, and was no longer paying attention to us. Bubbles appeared on the surface, a f
He yanked the mask off. “Got it!” he shouted. “Hundred twenty. She’s stuck sideways under a big chunk of rock. Gonna be a pisser to get out of there. Hard-hat guys and a crane will have to take over.” He noticed us then, jerking a gloved thumb in our direction. “Who are they?”
“TV newspeople,” Andrews said.
“Oh, boy. The chief’s not gonna like that.” He looked away, ignoring us, removed his flippers, then lifted a small yellow camera from a pocket. “Got a few pictures. Wicked dark down there though.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it. Could you tell what color it is?” Andrews seemed to be ignoring us too. Francine kept filming. I kept recording.
“Couldn’t tell much, but I’m pretty sure it’s an old Mustang. Still got that little horse on the front grille. Maroon or red maybe” Sea-monster diver looked in our direction. “You girls better run along now. Nothing to see here.”
“She’s Mondello’s girlfriend.” Andrews offered. “Did you see . . . you know, anything inside?”
“Not much. Anyway, if there was a body there wouldn’t be much left of it by now, would there? Listen, Chief’s gonna be steamed if this winds up on television.” He frowned. “Say, this isn’t one of those live-shot things, is it?”
I ducked the mic behind my back. “No sir.”
“Good thing it isn’t. Say, how’d you get onto us being here anyway?”
“They’re gathering material,” Andrews said, quoting me. He had removed his flippers and tucked them under his arm. “They got a tip. Same as the chief.”
Not exactly the same, but sort of true.
Sea-monster diver scowled. “Does Mondello know you’re here?”
I bristled at that. “Of course not.”
“Well, you two better scram out of here. We have a permit. I’m guessing you don’t?” He didn’t wait for an answer and with a quick shake of his head, motioned for Andrews to follow him. The two men stepped easily over the two ledges onto the edge of the field and disappeared into the maple tree grove. Francine and I picked our cautious way across the rough granite ridge, slippery from the divers’ dripping wetsuits.
“You sure my kitchen countertops started out like this crap?” Francine grumbled as we made our way over the final outcropping, and onto the field.
“I know,” I said. “Not so pretty close up, is it? And imagine someone deliberately driving off that huge cliff.”
“Kids used to jump off of it all the time,” she said. “That’s why they have all the No Swimming signs.”
We’d reached the Chevy where the divers, who’d stripped down to T-shirts and shorts, were busy stowing their gear into a long metal locker in the truck bed.
Andrews looked up and gave a little salute. “Nice to see you again, Ms. Barrett,” he said. “I’ll tell Pete we ran into you.”
“Thanks, Officer,” I said, forcing a smile. Pete might not be too happy about me messing around with police business. He worries about me. Too bad. Police business is also news business.
Francine and I trudged across the weedy terrain, Francine grumbling and me sneezing. Darn goldenrod. We were only about halfway to the top of the rut-filled excuse for a road we hadn’t dared to drive on when we heard the Chevy start up.
“Think they’ll give us a lift down to the van?” I wondered.
“Doubt it,” Francine was still scowling. “They’ll probably be in trouble for telling us anything about what they were doing.”
“Which wasn’t much,” I said, “Enough for a teaser maybe. Let’s take what we’ve got back to the station and get Marty McCarthy to edit. She’s the best. Have to take out the part about Pete and all the dead air. The most interesting thing is that they’re looking for a body—or remains of one. I’ll do a voice-over. Explain that it’s an ongoing investigation.”
“Why don’t you just call Pete?” she said. “Maybe he’ll tell you what they’re looking for. And who they’re looking for.
“Maybe I will.” And maybe I won’t.
The Chevy passed us with both divers looking straight ahead. “See?” Francine sputtered. “Told you they wouldn’t stop. Big jerks. But look. They must have cut the barbed wire over there. Let’s follow them. At least we won’t have to climb through it.”
“They probably didn’t have room for us with all that equipment,” I reasoned. “Anyway, I don’t think police are supposed to transport random people unless there’s a problem.”
We changed direction and followed the path the Chevy had taken. It was downhill, and without the barbed wire seemed much easier than the way we’d come up. The WICH-TV van was a welcome sight and we hurried toward it.
We stowed the mic and camera, then climbed into the front seats, Francine behind the wheel. I pulled a notebook and pen from a side door pocket and stared at a blank page. “I wish I knew more about diving,” I said as we pulled away from the curb.
“Ever try it yourself?”
“Just some snorkeling down in the Keys,” I said. “You?”
“Sure. I’m certified.”
“No kidding? I should have let you ask the questions.”
“Not me. I like my side of the camera better than yours. You did great. I like the way you acted as though we were actually supposed to be there!”
“One of the first things I learned. It fools most people. I couldn’t have faked it much longer though. I’m going to have to do a lot of research on this one.”
“For instance?”
“‘Hard hats and a crane,’ the man said. I need to know exactly what a hard hat is and how a crane works.”
My phone buzzed and I smiled when caller ID revealed my Aunt Ibby’s name. “Hi,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Hello, Maralee. Where are you right now?”
“Route 128.”
“Perfect,” she said. “Do you have time to stop in Gloucester for a minute?”
I looked at Francine and mouthed, “Gloucester?”
She nodded okay. “It’s a little out of the way, but sure we can,” I told my aunt. “What do you need?”
“My class reunion committee is coming over this evening and I haven’t had time to bake. Could you stop by Virgilio’s and pick up a dozen cannoli and a dozen of those cute Italian cookies?”
On the open page I wrote Virgilio’s—12 cannoli, 12 cookies. “A dozen of each. That all?”
“Yes, dear. Thank you.”
“I have to go back to the station for a while. See you a little after five. Okay?”
“Perfect.”
“And Aunt Ibby, if you have a minute, would you check and see if we have any books on diving. Scuba diving? I’m working on a story.”
“I’m sure we must,” she said. “Seven-nine-seven I should think. I’ll check on it.” (Not many home libraries are arranged according to the Dewey decimal system, but ours is.) We said our goodbyes and Francine looked over at my notes.
“Virgilio’s? Cannoli and cookies? Somebody having a party?”
“Class reunion. My aunt’s forty-fifth. There’s a committee meeting at our house tonight.”
“Oh my God. That’s so cute! A bunch of old people drinking tea and eating cookies and looking at their yearbook pictures.”
I shook my head. I don’t ever think of Aunt Ibby as old. Her hair is still red, her figure still a trim size ten, and her computer skills are amazing. “I haven’t met her classmates yet,” I said, “but I understand that one of the men was a star hockey player and another was a basketball coach at Boston College. Oh yeah, one of the women still models in TV tea commercials, and one guy is running for Congress. Not too stodgy a group, I guess.”
“Wow. Cool. I’ll bet there aren’t any coaches or congressmen in that bunch of party animals I graduated with.” Francine grinned. “Think you’ll get to meet them all tonight?”
