Murder, Take Two. Carol J. Perry

Lee, I don’t know if this is important, but you remember my roommate’s brother’s muscle-bound trainer, Rocky?”

      “Sure.” I did remember Rocky. He’d been instrumental in helping to dig up some really important information for me not too long ago—information that may have saved Aunt Ibby’s life.

      “Well, according to my roommate’s brother, Cody McGinnis has a membership in one of the gyms where Rocky works out. He said the cops came in the other day with a warrant and emptied Cody’s locker.”

      Yes, that could be important. “Interesting, Francine. Thanks.”

      “No problem,” she said. “Anyway, I doubt this student thing will take long. They’re always getting riled up about some cause or other. It was that way when I was there too. I carried signs for all kinds of stuff. Save the whales. Free lunches for students. It was fun.”

      “Did Rhonda give us a hint about what they’re protesting this time?”

      “Nope. Want to give her a call?”

      “Sure.” I tapped in the station’s main number. “And speaking of clues, that Clue mystery party idea might be something we should try. Hello? Rhonda, we’re on our way to Essex County University. What’s going on over there?”

      We could hear the noise before we turned onto Lafayette Street. We drove onto the campus without being stopped, parked in one of the student parking lots, and unloaded the camera and mic once again. It didn’t take long for us to figure out that the students weren’t protesting anything at all. It was actually a rally to gather support for the Cody McGinnis Defense Fund—and it seemed to be going well. “It’s almost time for the noon news,” Rhonda said. “Tell Francine to send, we’ll edit as you go, and maybe we’ll get some of it in before twelve-thirty.”

      Francine motioned for me to follow her. She pointed to where much of the crowd seemed to be gathering in front of one of the school’s older buildings. A man in a white shirt, his arms upraised, a megaphone in one hand, appeared to be about to speak. We pushed our way through the mass of young people—we’re both getting pretty good at that—and staked out a position a few feet away from the man.

      I activated my mic, and Francine began recording. “Lee Barrett here reporting to you from the campus of Essex County University, where a rally is in progress.” I spoke to a young woman standing close to me. “Could you tell me who the speaker is?” I asked. “Is he a student here?”

      “That’s Alan Armstrong,” she said, “aka Professor Dreamy because he’s so handsome. He started the GoFundMe for Professor McGinnis.”

      The man lowered the bullhorn and spoke into it. “Can you hear me okay?” A quick roar of approval answered. I wished we’d brought a good sound engineer with us. Filming was going to be a challenge between the bullhorn, the crowd noise, and a recording of “Where in the World but in America” playing somewhere in the background.

      “Thanks for coming out,” he said. “This is important.” The crowd noise stopped. The music stopped. Just like that. Unusual. The man had somehow commanded instant full attention. I was impressed.

      “Cody McGinnis is a friend of mine,” he began. “You all know that. There’s no way he could have done what the papers, the TV, even some members of the administration right here in this fine university—what they’re saying he did.” There was a dramatic pause, and still the crowd remained silent. “Samuel Bond was a friend of mine too,” he said. “Professor Bond was my teacher and my mentor when I was a student here, some twenty years ago. Now one good man is dead, and another good man is facing imprisonment. Nothing we can do will bring Samuel Bond back to us.” His voice grew louder, more urgent. “But there is something we can do for Cody! We can help him pay for the best defense money can buy! We can facebook and tweet and instagram. We can contact all of our friends and family and neighbors. We can dig deep in our own pockets. We can save Cody!”

      Cheers erupted. The man lowered the bullhorn and came down the steps directly toward me. I stuck my mic right in his handsome face.

      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