We stopped to admire Aunt Ibby’s garden, where daffodils had just begun to poke green shoots above ground and lilies of the valley had already established fragrant clumps along the fence. River paused before heading for her car. “Well, aren’t you going to ask me?”
“Ask you? About what?”
“About what my bad thoughts were about them. About the dead witches.”
“No, I didn’t even think of it—except maybe regarding Megan. I can’t imagine a single bad thought about her.”
“True.” River’s big, dark eyes were downcast. “That one wasn’t exactly a bad thought. It was more a case of jealousy on my part.”
I frowned. “Jealousy? Of what? I don’t get it.”
She spoke so softly I could barely hear the word. “Therese.”
“Therese? You’re jealous of Therese? Why?”
“I thought . . . think . . . maybe Megan loves—loved—her better than she loved me!”
“River. What on earth makes you say that?”
“I know it was wrong to think it. Megan spent a lot of time studying with me too, before I was admitted to the coven.” She climbed into her car. “It was Therese’s turn. Now neither of us has her anymore.” She began to cry again. “But I still don’t care about Mr. Bagenstose. I was mad at him because once he turned me down at his bank for a tiny little loan. And Gloria was just plain mean. I’ll call you later. Bye.” River hiccupped, shut the car door, then rolled down the window. “I still don’t believe in coincidences.” I lifted my hand in a silent good-bye wave as she backed out of the driveway, leaving me standing there alone and puzzled.
A soft “merrow” from O’Ryan called me back to the garden, and after a quick circle around my left leg, he led the way back to the house. The sound of music from Aunt Ibby’s kitchen told me that she must have arrived home while River and I were upstairs. O’Ryan was first into the back hall via his cat door while I entered the more traditional way. Aunt Ibby’s kitchen door opens onto that hall, as does the door leading up two narrow flights to my apartment as well as one to our shared laundry room. I tapped on my aunt’s door.
“Aunt Ibby? It’s me. You busy?”
“Come in, Maralee. Door’s open.”
O’Ryan and I entered the warm, cozy room. My aunt looked up from the round oak kitchen table, which was strewn with papers, index cards, and lots of sticky notes in assorted colors.
“I’m just doing a little revision on the cookbook,” she said. “There’s fresh coffee in the pot. Turn Alexa down and help yourself.”
I lowered the sound of Dean Martin singing “That’s Amore,” poured a cup of coffee, but passed on the plate of cookies on the counter. My recent cake binge had provided quite enough sugar to keep me wired for hours. The cookbook my aunt referred to was “The Tabitha Trumbull Cookbook,” an updated assemblage of the recipes collected by the namesake of the Tabby—Tabitha Trumbull. The school is located in the building that long ago housed Trumbull’s Department Store and Tabitha was the wife of the old store’s founder, Oliver Wendell Trumbull. My aunt had discovered the cache of old recipes and planned to release the completed cookbook as a fund-raiser for the library.
“How is it coming? Nearly finished?”
Long sigh. “I keep thinking I’ve finished it and then another one of Tabitha’s dishes sounds appealing and I’m off again—translating pinches of this and dabs of that and lumps of things ‘the size of a walnut.’”
“Pete will be glad you’re not finished with it. He loves being part of the taste-testing team.”
She smiled. “He’s not very impartial. He likes everything. Was that River’s voice I heard a few minutes ago?”
“Yes. She was feeling a little down so I invited her over and fed her cupcakes from Pretty Party. I guess you heard that Megan the witch died.”
“It was on the radio.” She closed her notebook and gathered the assorted papers and notes into a neat pile. “Megan was a Salem treasure. No wonder River is upset by the news.”
“River is involved in planning the funeral.”
“I saw her at another one recently,” my aunt said. “She was at Mr. Bagenstose’s services.”
“I know. She told me. Megan’s will be her third funeral within the past few weeks. That’s pretty upsetting for someone not yet out of her twenties.”
Aunt Ibby frowned. “Who was the third? Anyone I know?”
“Gloria Tasker.”
“Oh yes. I read about it. I didn’t go to that one.” She gave what I recognized as a disapproving sniff. “That witch.”
CHAPTER 3
Aunt Ibby knows Gloria Tasker was a witch? I thought that was supposed to be a secret.
Maybe I’d misunderstood the comment. I tried a gentle inquiry. “Is that why you didn’t go to her funeral?”
“That was rude of me. I’m sorry. Speaking ill of the dead and all that. But, Lee”—she spread her hands apart and widened green eyes, so like my own—“she was truly a dreadful woman. Nobody liked her. Well, hardly anybody.”
I realized my aunt had meant “witch” in the generic sense. “River didn’t like her,” I said, “but she didn’t tell me exactly why.”
“Why do I dislike thee? Let me count the ways!” She paraphrased Browning. “It’s really no wonder somebody ran her over.”
“River says maybe the driver didn’t even know he’d hit anything. I’ll ask Pete about it. There must have been a police report.”
“The newspaper called it a hit-and-run, but said the car had probably just brushed against her.” Aunt Ibby gave another one of those sniffs. “She was getting quite broad in the beam, if you know what I mean. Anyway, the car didn’t even dent her bike. What killed her was getting pitched forward over the handlebars smack into the post of a chain-link fence. Silly woman wasn’t wearing a helmet.”
She grew silent then. I was surprised by the harsh words from my aunt, who was usually so careful to avoid criticism unless it was of a constructive nature. “That witch,” didn’t qualify as constructive. Neither did “no wonder somebody ran her over.” I sipped my coffee and waited for her to continue—to explain why she had such strong feelings about the dead woman.
She scribbled, “What is a ‘dash’ of nutmeg?” onto a bright green sticky note and stuck it to one of Tabitha’s recipe file cards, then looked up at me. “Do you remember Gloria at all?”
“Just vaguely,” I said, thinking back to high school days when my friends and I had occasionally frequented the old-fashioned diner on North Street where Gloria Tasker had worked. “I remember that none of the kids wanted to sit at her tables. She didn’t like us. Used to slam the plates down and tell us to hurry up and eat.”
Aunt Ibby nodded understanding. “That was because you didn’t tip enough. She only liked to wait on the businessmen. The big tippers.” She raised an eyebrow. “Gloria really was an excellent waitress—when she wanted to be.” Her tone had softened.
“Guess everybody has at least a few good points,” I said, hoping to lighten the mood.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have said those unkind things about her. Just because I had an old grudge against the woman doesn’t mean she was a bad person. I’m sorry.”
“No problem,” I said, wondering—but not asking—what the old grudge might be about. O’Ryan chose that moment to make his presence known with a plaintive “merrow” and a gentle scratch at the cupboard door where he knew Aunt Ibby kept his kitty treats. That cat always seems to know when an interruption is welcome.
My aunt pushed her papers aside and hurried to grab a handful of treats for our big yellow spoiled cat, then returned to the table. “Speaking of businessmen,” she said, “I ran into an old friend of yours this morning. Bruce Doan. He said he’d like you to call him when you get a chance.”
“Mr. Doan? Really? I wonder what he wants.” Bruce Doan was the station manager at WICH-TV. He’d been my boss back when I hosted the ill-fated Nightshades program, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t int
erested in repeating that experience. “Did he give you a hint about why he wants to talk to me?”
“Not really. He said something about ‘a mutually beneficial situation.’”
“That could mean anything. I’ll call him,” I said. “My classes at the Tabby will be over in a week or so. He probably wants to know if I can recommend any of this year’s TV production students. I know he’s glad he hired Therese Della Monica from last year’s class.”
“A talented girl,” my aunt agreed. “And a lovely person.”
“She was with Shannon and me at the cake tasting today. She’s doing the video for the wedding.”
“That’s turning out to be quite a production itself, isn’t it? Did you realize that being maid of honor involved so much detail?”
“I didn’t. But school will be out for the summer in a few days. Then I’ll have plenty of time.” I looked at my watch. “Speaking of time, Pete’s coming over for dinner when his shift is over. I promised him lasagna. I’d better start putting it together.”
“You said Pete’s sister Marie promised to share her secret recipe. Did she give it to you?”
I laughed. “She did. Want to hear it?”
“Of course I do. I mean, if it wouldn’t be betraying a confidence.”
“Okay. Here goes.” My aunt picked up a pen, poised to write. “First, buy a package of Prince lasagna noodles.” I instructed.
Aunt Ibby wrote “Prince lasagna.”
“Follow the directions on the package.”
“That’s it?”
“Uh-huh. Except that you have to get the fresh grated Parmesan and mozzarella cheeses from the deli, not the packaged stuff in the aisle.”
“Well, thanks for sharing.” She put the pen down. “Guess you’d better get started. Does Pete know the secret of his sister’s lasagna?”
“Nope. He thinks it’s an old family recipe from Italy. Actually, Marie got it from her mother. So who am I to spill the beans . . . or the sauce?”
I promised to save a piece of lasagna for my aunt, patted O’Ryan, and headed out through the living room to the front hall, where I climbed the broad, polished main staircase the two flights to my apartment.
I climbed slowly, thoughts about secrets buzzing in my brain. The secret Marie had shared—putting together packaged pasta, sauce from ajar, and some fresh deli cheeses—would, I was sure, add up to the expected tasty result. But what about River’s secret—the one I hadn’t shared with my aunt, and didn’t intend to share with Pete either? Were the deaths of three witches—Megan, Mr. Bagenstose, and Gloria Tasker—just a strange Wiccan coincidence? Or was it possible that River might be right, that their deaths were connected somehow—though certainly not because of somebody’s “bad thoughts”?
Even if that somebody is a practicing witch.
CHAPTER 4
The lasagna bubbled and browned its melty, cheesy, tomatoey wonderfulness in the oven; a crisp and pretty salad chilled in the refrigerator along with a bottle of Merlot; and garlic bread was ready to pop under the broiler. The Lucite table was set for two and a new Jessica Molaskey album played softly in the background.
With a satisfied glance around my kitchen, I headed down the hall to the bathroom. Almost two years ago Aunt Ibby had surprised me with this, my own third-floor apartment in the house on Winter Street. The top two floors had been pretty much destroyed by fire one terrifying Halloween night, but the restoration, under Aunt Ibby’s careful supervision, was just about perfect. With the aid of state-of-the art appliances, my meager cooking skills had improved a lot too.
Showered and with damp red hair brushed into some semblance of order, I applied a little mascara, a touch of blush, and some pinky lip gloss, then hurried back to the bedroom, wearing comfortable old skinny jeans and a brand new white silk blouse. I pinned a vintage brooch with an oval miniature painting of a yellow cat—a gift from Pete—to the deep V-neckline, then, content with my reflection in the tall oval mirror, hurried back to the kitchen.
The oven buzzer signaled that the lasagna was done just as the doorbell chimed “Bless This House,” announcing Pete’s arrival. He has his own key, so I grabbed oven mitts and answered the summons from the stove.
O’Ryan appeared in the living room first, with Pete close behind. (A cat door makes for a faster entrance than the old-fashioned turn-the-key, twist-the-knob system.) Pete pulled me into his arms for a warm hug followed by a lingering kiss. It was the kind of greeting that occasionally delays dinner, but the Italian restaurant aroma—and maybe the fact that I still wore oven mitts—interrupted that train of thought.
“I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” he said. Mittless by then, I took Pete’s hand and together we followed O’Ryan to the kitchen.
“The lasagna?”
“You—and the lasagna.” With a quick peck on my cheek, he headed for the bedroom to secure his gun in one of the cleverly hidden compartments in my antique bureau, then returned and draped his denim jacket over the back of a chair while I pulled the garlic bread from under the broiler. Perfectly browned, if I do say so myself.
I could tell from his casual clothes, jeans and 2013 World Series Championship Red Sox T-shirt, that he’d gone home to change after the day’s double-shift duty as a detective on Salem’s police force. His dark hair, still damp from a shower, curled a little over his forehead and the T-shirt accented perfect pecs and washboard abs. I banished a few dinner-delaying thoughts, handed him the wine bottle and corkscrew, and served the salad in wooden bowls.
“Everything looks perfect, babe,” he said, filling our wineglasses, then cutting the lasagna into neat, plump squares. “You’ve had a busy day. How’d the cake tasting go? Bring home any samples?”
“Of course. That’ll be dessert. We decided on a chocolate and vanilla for the wedding cake. Therese got some sad news while we were there.”
He nodded understanding. “Megan’s death. She was an amazing old woman. Guess the whole city will miss her.”
“River is really upset about it. She came over in tears this afternoon.”
“They were pretty close, weren’t they? But after all, Megan was over a century old. It couldn’t have been a big surprise.”
“I know. But Megan’s will be the third funeral River’s attended in just a few weeks. Odd for someone so young.” I watched as Pete expertly served the lasagna. “Don’t you think so?”
If I mention the names of the other two deceased, will he see any connection between the three?
Pete took his first bite of lasagna. “Umm. Great. Just like my mother used to make. So three friends of River’s died in a row? I guess that happens sometimes. Bad things come in threes, they say. You know, like three old movie stars die in the same month. It happens.”
“Uh-huh. Not movie stars, though. One was a banker and the other one was a waitress.”
He put down his fork. “River knew those two? Bagenstose and Tasker?”
“Yes,” I said, surprised that he knew right away whom I was talking about, and even more surprised that he’d asked the question in what I’d come to recognize as his cop voice. “How did you know?” I asked, puzzled.
He picked up his fork and took another bite. He spoke after a moment, his tone returning to normal. “Oh, no big thing. Just that the department had to check a couple of details on each of those. No big thing. Nothing for you—or River—to be concerned about. Say, want to pass that garlic bread?”
I passed the napkin-wrapped basket. “Details? Like what?”
Does he know about them both being witches? I hope so. I don’t like keeping things from Pete, but a confidence is a confidence and River said I shouldn’t tell anybody about Mr. Bagenstose and Gloria Tasker being part of a coven.
Pete took a buttery round of the bread and paused with it halfway to his mouth. “You’re going to eat some of this too, right?”
“Absolutely,” I agreed, helped myself to a couple of slices, and waited for details.
Nothing.
So I prompted. “Aunt Ibby went to Mr. Bagenstose’s funeral too. Was there something—um—suspicious about how he died? River said it happened in his own backyard.”
He looked up from his plate, brown eyes all wide and innocent. “Suspicious? What gave you that idea?”
“You did. Checking details, you said.”
“Oh, that. Just some routine stuff. Some of his injuries didn’t seem exactly consistent with falling out of a tree. Medical examiner mentioned it to the chief. You know how Chief Whaley is about tying up all the loose ends.”
I did know that. Unfortunately, I’d been involved in a couple of “loose ends” myself. I’m definitely not one of the chief’s favorite people. “What about Gloria Tasker? More details?”
“Sure. That one’s still an open case. Hit-and-run. We’re still checking the neighborhood for security cameras that might have caught something. But it was dark and where she was riding is a long stretch of vacant riverfront with just a few houses nearby. Did you say something about cake for dessert?”
“I did. Want to start the coffee while I clear up these dishes?” I could see that Pete wasn’t going to share any more information about the dead witches. He’s always careful about keeping important police business confidential and the details he’d mentioned seemed pretty routine, just as he’d said they were.
I loaded the dishwasher, put a couple of squares of lasagna into a plastic container for Aunt Ibby, wiped the counters and table, and arranged the remaining cupcakes on an oval blue Fiestaware platter. Pete prepared the coffee and set our New Hampshire Speedway coffee mugs—souvenirs of the first weekend we’d spent together—onto the table. We tapped our mugs in a silent toast.
“Summer’s almost here,” Pete said. “First NASCAR race at the speedway is in July. Want to plan on it?”
“For sure,” I said. Pete understands my love for fast cars. My late husband, Johnny Barrett, was a NASCAR driver, and I still feel quite at home at an auto racetrack. “I’ll put that in big red letters on my summer vacation calendar. School is over next Monday, and to tell the truth, after Shannon and Dakota’s wedding I don’t have much of anything to write on it at all.”
It Takes a Coven Page 2
