I heard Elvis singing “How Great Thou Art”—appropriate Sunday music—as I knocked on the door, first gently, then a little louder to be heard above Elvis. Aunt Ibby opened the door, then turned down the sound just a tad.
“Come in, Maralee. My, don’t you look pretty. You missed a lovely sermon about faith. Did you go out to lunch?”
Maybe I should have gone to church instead.
“I did,” I said, “though I didn’t eat anything. I had a meeting with Bruce Doan.”
“Sit down and tell me all about it, dear. I was just having a nice cup of tea. Want some?”
“Yes, thanks.” I accepted the tea, served in one of Grandmother Forbes’s bone china cups. “He made me an interesting offer. One he said I couldn’t refuse.”
“What is it? Don’t keep me in suspense. I’ve been wondering what he wanted to talk to you about ever since yesterday.”
“Okay. Here it is.” I leaned forward, facing her across the table. She leaned toward me at exactly the same time. We both laughed and I relaxed a little bit. “He’s offered me a summer’s internship as an investigative reporter for the station.”
She leaned back in her chair and clapped her hands. “How wonderful! How very exciting for you.” She raised one eyebrow and looked at me intently. “You did accept, didn’t you? When do you start?”
“I did,” I admitted. “I promised to have my first report within the month. But I’m having second thoughts about it now.”
“Second thoughts? Why? It’s a great opportunity. I suppose there’s no salary involved. That doesn’t bother you, does it?”
“No. Of course not. Remember, I volunteered last summer for Mr. Pennington’s theater project. No pay then, either. That’s not it.”
Fortunately, money isn’t a problem for me. Between a substantial inheritance from my parents—well managed by Aunt Ibby’s financial advisors—and the insurance money from Johnny’s accident, there were no worries in that department. I could easily afford to volunteer a couple of months of my time.
“Then what’s holding you back? Seems to me it’s made to order for you.”
“I’ve never really done it before. Teaching’s one thing. Doing’s another.”
“That’s what internships are for, silly girl.” She smiled and squeezed my hand. “You can do this.”
She’d spoken the magic words. I repeated them.
“I can do this.”
“Of course you can. Faith, my darling child. Faith. Have you told Pete yet?” She refilled my teacup.
“No, haven’t talked to anyone but you.”
“He’ll be happy for you. It might give you a bit of an edge, you know? Having a gentleman friend on the police department.”
“Aunt Ibby! You know we don’t ever discuss his work.”
Again that raised eyebrow. “Do too.”
“Well, hardly ever,” I said, thinking about how just that morning I’d tried to figure out how to get Pete to tell me about the two dead witches without telling him what I already knew about them. “Maybe once in a while. A little bit.”
Elvis began crooning “I Believe,” and feeling much better about the proposed job and the world in general, I finished my tea, kissed my aunt, and went up the back stairs to my apartment. O’Ryan was already in the living room, lying on his back, feet up, on the zebra print wing chair.
“Well, you look relaxed, cat,” I said. “All tired out from playing with your friends?”
He rolled over, assuming a more gentlemanly position; yawned a long, pink-tongued yawn; and went back to sleep. No conversational possibilities there. I looked at my watch. River would be up and about by now. I called her and she answered on the first ring.
“Hi, Lee,” she said. “I was just about to call you. You heard about what happened to Chris Rich?”
“I did,” I said. “I know he’s a friend of yours. He was lucky.”
“I know. I talked to him this morning,” she said. “Of course, he says it has nothing to do with luck. Says he has a permanent spell of protection around himself at all times.”
“What do you think?”
“Who knows? Maybe he does. Some witches have more power than others.” She sounded pensive.
“At least you don’t have to go to another funeral,” I said. “That part is lucky. Did you talk to Chris about the two who weren’t out of the broom closet yet?”
“I did. Their secret isn’t a secret anymore, though. That Chris is such a publicity hound he’s blabbed all about it to some reporter. Gave an exclusive interview all about how ‘somebody is killing witches in Salem.’”
“No kidding. What reporter?”
“Don’t know. I was mad at Chris for telling—I mean, if they wanted it known they would have gone public. Maybe they’d even kept it secret from their own families. Anyway, I gave him hell about it. He hung up on me. I don’t even know what station will air it.”
I’ll bet anything it was Scott Palmer. He said he’d spoken with Rich. I’d turned off the news too soon.
“I’m sorry, River. You two used to be friends.”
“Oh well, we’ll get over it. People do. Anyway he’s involved with the plans for Megan’s funeral on Wednesday, so we’ll be fine.”
Had River had “bad thoughts” about Christopher Rich? I didn’t ask. “I heard that it’s going to be at the old town hall.”
Her reply was soft. “All of Salem loved her, so that seemed like the right place for the public service. It’s such a beautiful old building. Of course, we’ll hold our own ceremony, the real one, later. We Wiccans prefer to be buried without coffins, you know, to be returned to the earth, but that’s against the law so she’s already been cremated. But you called me,” she said. “What’s going on?”
“You’ll never guess who I just had lunch with.”
“I won’t even try. Who?”
“Your boss. Bruce Doan.”
“Oh my God.” Real gasp. “He’s not going to fire me and hire you back, is he?”
“Of course not. He’s not crazy. But he did offer me a job—sort of.”
I told River about the internship I’d just about accepted. All right, I’d definitely accepted. With a handshake.
“Awesome,” she said. “For you that’ll be a piece of cake.”
“You and my aunt have more confidence about this than I do, but I’ll admit—I’m starting to get kind of excited about it. It’s something I’ve always wanted to try.”
“Piece of cake,” she said again.
“No more cake please! I feel as though I’ve been bingeing on the stuff lately.”
“Oh yeah. Shannon’s wedding. How’re plans coming along? It’s pretty soon, isn’t it?”
“Too soon,” I sighed. “There’s so much to do and not much time to do it. The invitations aren’t even picked out yet.”
“Don’t worry. There are design programs that make beautiful ones in a day or two. They even make them at Walmart. Have they decided on a venue yet?”
“Just that they want it outdoors somewhere. Any bright ideas?”
A soft laugh on River’s end of the phone. “Since they met in a cemetery, maybe they’ll decide to get married in one.”
The mental picture of such a thing was so outrageous I had to laugh too. “You’re a nut,” I told her. “Seriously, if you think of any good wedding venues, let me know.”
Another snicker. “Gallows Hill is pretty this time of year.”
“Bye, River.” I shook my head, hung up, and went to my room to pick out something to wear on my “fried clams and a movie” date with Pete. O’Ryan eased down from his chair and trotted along behind me.
I opened my closet and pulled out a couple of possible outfits and laid them on the bed. O’Ryan, good boy that he is, jumped onto the bed, moving gracefully among pants, shirts, and sweaters without feet, tail, or whiskers touching even one garment. The cat moved to the edge of the bed then, stretching out one paw toward the cherrywood frame, craning his neck as t
hough he wanted to look into the glass.
“Want to see yourself? Vanity, thy name is cat!” I tilted the oval frame in his direction, then selected a blue-and-white-checked cotton shirt and a pair of navy cropped pants from the items on the bed. Holding the shirt to my chest with one hand, pants to my waist in the other, I stood where I could see my own reflection.
I was about to try the navy pants with a short-sleeved yellow blouse and navy sweater when my mirror image faded. The flashing lights and swirling colors that often precede a vision spread across the glass. As usual, I didn’t want to watch whatever was going to appear, and as usual, I couldn’t look away.
Once again, I saw the pretty gazebo, close-up this time, and in more detail. It was in full sunlight, and although the white paint looked fresh, I could tell that the structure itself was not new. The gingerbread and intricate curlicues on the sides showed the subtle cracks of age and the worn surfaces of long usage. The person I’d seen there before was still seated, facing away from me toward the calm, sparkling sea in the distance.
I could tell this time that the seated figure was a man. He wore a black jacket. Black trousers. Formal looking.
A tuxedo maybe?
A yellow paw snaked out, tapping the mirror, and as I watched, the scene revolved slowly until my vantage point was from the opposite side of the structure. Yes, I was right. The man, sitting upright and facing me, definitely wore a tuxedo.
O’Ryan tapped the mirror again, and, like the zoom lens on a camera, the man appeared in close focus. I recognized him immediately. Christopher Rich. He sat there, unmoving, eyes wide, facing the sea.
Once again, the close-up of the man. Those wide eyes were blank, unseeing. I’d seen eyes like that before.
Dead eyes.
CHAPTER 7
As quickly as it had appeared, the macabre scene vanished. The mirror showed only a startled redhead, a yellow blouse hanging limply from one hand.
Christopher Rich. Dead?
No. He was alive. River said she’d spoken to him this morning. He’d barely escaped death, though, according to the TV. I put the blouse on the bed and sat down next to O’Ryan, who’d apparently lost interest in mirror tapping and, facing the wall, had closed his eyes.
So what was the vision trying to tell me? The mysterious, but beautiful, gazebo that overlooked a nameless beach—or maybe a shadowy graveyard—was somehow associated with witches—or a witch—or, more specifically, a dead witch. Of course, it was one who wasn’t actually dead at all.
One of the many problems associated with being a scryer is the fact that the visions never have a distinguishable timeline. They can depict scenes from the past, the present, and occasionally the future. They also can appear on just about any reflective surface. For me, they started out by showing up on shiny black things. Now I’m apt to see them in mirrors, store windows, even silverware or kitchen appliances.
I decided to wear the yellow blouse and navy sweater and try to forget about the vision. I knew from past experience that the thing would probably eventually make some kind of sense.
But those dead eyes were pretty hard to forget.
By the time Pete arrived I’d managed to once again focus my thoughts on what was real—not some hazy mirror image of the nonexistent. What was real to me just then—and beginning to be quite appealing—was the internship at WICH-TV. I could hardly wait to tell him about my visit with Bruce Doan.
“Hey, you were right,” I said, the moment he opened the door.
“Good,” he said, and gave me a brief, but sincere, kiss. “About what?”
“Mr. Doan. He actually did offer me a job. Kind of.”
“What kind of kind of job?”
“Investigative reporter.” I paused for dramatic effect, then smiled. “Kind of. It’s an internship for the summer. What do you think about it?”
“Are you kidding? I think you should do it. When do you start?”
“I start a week from Thursday. Dube’s for fried clams to celebrate?”
“Absolutely. And Manchester by the Sea is playing again at Cinema Salem.”
“Perfect,” I said. “We don’t even have to do the ritual coin toss. That was my pick too.”
“Movie first?”
I agreed. We headed for the comfortable neighborhood theater (where the popcorn is made with real butter) and watched Kyle Chandler and Casey Affleck as the story played out against background scenery Pete and I know well. The real Manchester by the Sea is just a few miles away from Salem and we nudged one another and whispered as we recognized places we knew in Beverly, Lynn, and Gloucester. There was one distance shot that took my concentration away from the on-screen troubles. The actors were on a boat, passing the typical patchwork scenery of Cape Ann’s coastline—mansions and shacks, yachts and lobster boats, columning wharves and massive pilings, the old Tarr and Wonson Paint Factory and Hammond Castle. The thing that captured my attention, though, was a small white gazebo. It wasn’t the one in my vision. It was a much plainer version, but similar enough to bring back the beach and the dead Christopher Rich.
After the movie we drove over to Jefferson Avenue and Dube’s seafood restaurant. It’s been there forever. Aunt Ibby remembers going there with her parents! We ordered their justly famous fried clams. “Hey, we’re here to celebrate your new job. You okay?” Pete asked. “You’re awfully quiet.”
“I’m okay,” I said. “It’s just that, well . . . I know you don’t like to talk about it, but . . .”
“You’ve been seeing things?” That’s what Pete calls the scryer thing I do—“seeing things.”
“Yes. Afraid so. Can I tell you about it?”
He reached for my hand. “Of course you can, Lee. You can always tell me about anything. And it isn’t that I don’t like to talk about it. It’s the fact that you see these things, things that frighten you, and there’s nothing I can do to protect you from them.”
I hadn’t ever thought about it that way. There was such sincerity, such love in his eyes that I felt tears welling up in mine. “Thank you, Pete,” I whispered. “I always want to share these things with you, whatever they are—wherever they come from. But sometimes—no, usually—they don’t make any sense.”
He smiled and squeezed my hand. “Try me.”
I took a deep breath. “Okay. There’s been more than one in the past few days. I’ve tried to put them out of my mind but a scene in the movie tonight brought them back.”
Our food arrived and it gave me a moment to sort out my thoughts. Since Christopher Rich had, as River said, blabbed to a reporter about Gloria Tasker and Mr. Bagenstose being witches after the attempt on his own life, I didn’t have to protect their secret anymore. Pete and the rest of the police force undoubtedly knew now that someone wanted to kill witches in Salem.
What does a pretty little white gazebo have to do with it?
Pete put ketchup on his fried clams and passed the bottle to me. “Go on,” he prompted. “Tell me what you saw.”
I told him in as much detail as I could remember about each of the two scenes the mirror had shown.
He frowned. “So the figure you saw in the first one, the man sitting in the gazebo who had his back turned to you, turned out to be the shop owner Rich in the second one?”
“Right.” I nodded. “He was dead. At least he definitely looked dead to me.”
“He’s very much alive. Whoever took a shot at him last night missed him by a mile. There are a couple of bullet holes in the wall of the building. Forensics is working on that.”
“So maybe someone, even someone who’s a bad shot, is targeting witches?”
“I didn’t say that. I suppose your friend River must have tipped you off that Bagenstose and Tasker were witches?”
“She did,” I admitted. “I wanted to tell you but River said even their families might not have known about it.”
“We knew about them.”
I was surprised. “You did?”
“Sure. Some of t
heir fellow witches tipped us off as soon as Ms. Tasker got run down.”
“Of course.” I suddenly got it. “They were worried about their own safety.”
“I didn’t say that,” he repeated. “Why? Is River worried?” He cocked his head to one side the way he does when he’s trying to figure something out. “Did she say she was?”
Had River seemed worried about her own safety?
I paused before answering.
“Not exactly,” I said.
He raised a questioning eyebrow.
“You’re going to think this is strange,” I began. “I know I think it is. River is worried, but not about her own safety.”
“Go on.”
“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way”—I dropped my voice, aware of others at nearby tables who might overhear—“but River is afraid the deaths—including Megan’s—could be her fault.”
“Her fault? How’s that? What did she do?”
“Oh, Pete, she didn’t do anything. She said she had some ‘bad thoughts’ about Gloria and Mr. Bagenstose and even about Megan. She’s worried that she could have put some kind of spell on them.”
“Thoughts don’t kill people.”
“That’s exactly what I told her. She said that in the old days—in the old religion—bad thoughts could kill people.”
He was quiet for a long moment. The waitress cleared away our dishes, brought coffee and a doggie bag with a few fried clams for O’Ryan. Pete spoke in his cop voice.
“Did River have bad thoughts about Christopher Rich too?”
“She didn’t say so. I’m sure they were friends, even though she was a little bit annoyed because he’d talked to the press about the others secretly being witches.”
“Yeah, I thought that was a little over the top too.” His normal voice was back. “Especially since their friends and relatives didn’t know about it.”
“They didn’t?”
“Far as we can tell they didn’t. The board of directors at the bank wasn’t too pleased about learning that Bagenstose was one of those . . . um, people.”
“I’ll bet. Did Gloria have any family?”
“Not around here.” He picked up the check. “Ready?”
It Takes a Coven Page 4
