“No. They just show you certain rooms, then move on to the next mansion.”
“Well, you’ll get a good look at the whole place at the wedding.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
We emerged onto cobblestoned Front Street, where the old town hall stands. The publicity brochures call it “the jewel of Derby Square.” It’s been there since 1816, and though it’s not used for official city business anymore, it’s often the scene of weddings and other celebrations. Pete was right about the traffic. It was bumper to bumper and mobile units from a couple of Boston TV stations along with one from WICH-TV crowded the parking spaces near the building.
“We’re half an hour early,” I said, “but I doubt that we’ll get a seat inside.”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? Rupert reserved two seats for us in the VIP section.” My aunt pulled two tickets from her purse and handed one to me. “Here. Better hold yours in case we get separated.” Mr. Pennington seems to rate VIP treatment at many Salem events, and he often shares his good fortune with Aunt Ibby. This particular ticket was especially appreciated. I’d always been fond of Megan, and I felt honored to be part of the city’s farewell.
Our seats were near the front of the Great Hall, a bright, sunny room, with Palladian windows, gleaming wooden floors, and antique chandeliers. Its simple elegance made it seem just right for the city’s homage to its oldest witch. It appeared to provide seating for around two hundred people, too small, though, to accommodate the number expected on this day, so large TV screens and folding chairs had been set up on the large brick-paved plaza adjacent to the main structure.
“Lucky it’s a pretty day outside,” my aunt whispered, “and a blessing that the crows have left.”
“For now,” I said. “They’ve left for now.”
CHAPTER 19
The ceremony was every bit as lovely as I’d expected it would be. There were many tributes to Megan, some calling her “an ambassador of goodwill,” “a true historical treasure,” and “a woman of great strength and character.” There were few references to her Wiccan faith, and music from a string quartet was pleasant, classical, and nondenominational. Camera people, including Therese, worked as unobtrusively as they could while capturing the event for viewers. I spotted a few people in the audience I knew to be witches. Some, like Christopher Rich, were seated with us in the VIP section. I couldn’t help wondering how many people in that light-filled room were broom-closet witches, as Elliot Bagenstose and Gloria Tasker had been.
We filed out in an orderly and solemn line while the quartet played Strauss’s “Blue Danube Waltz.” Mr. Pennington caught up with us on the front steps and offered his arm to Aunt Ibby. “Fine send-off, don’t you think?” he asked. “I’d met the dear woman a few times. A good person despite her . . . um . . . unusual religious leanings.”
“She was a witch, Rupert,” my aunt teased. “It’s okay to say it out loud. ‘Begone, before a house drops on you!’”
Aunt Ibby and Mr. Pennington have a longstanding competition in trying to stump one another with old movie quotes. This one was almost too easy.
“Glinda, the good witch, in The Wizard of Oz.” he said. “Nineteen thirty-nine. I know it’s all right to say witch, but . . .” He looked over his shoulder and dropped his voice. “You never know who is and who isn’t these days.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” I admitted. “Who would have thought a serious senior citizen like Elliot Bagenstose would turn out to be a member of a coven?”
“You’re right, of course,” my aunt said. “A most unlikely suspect. I know I never suspected such a thing and Elliot and I have for years shared an interest in fine antiques. He and Claudine have a marvelous collection, you know. Gloria Tasker was quite another story. Not hard to picture her on a broom.”
Mr. Pennington smiled. “Ah, yes. Ms. Tasker. She applied for work in the diner at school when it first opened, you know. A most attractive woman.”
“You think so?” My aunt slipped her hand away from his elbow. “Gloria?”
“Certainly not nearly as lovely as you, dear Ibby,” he said, “nor as cultured and intelligent.” He pulled her hand back into the crook of his arm. “But she had a great deal of experience.”
Aunt Ibby gave a little sniff. “I’m sure she did.”
“What do you think about the crows leaving town so suddenly, Mr. Pennington?” I hurried to change the subject before things became volatile between the two.
“I was chatting with the mayor about that very subject earlier,” he said. “The folks at city hall believe it all has to do with climate change. Gulf stream currents and such. They’re hoping we won’t have to use pyrotechnics after all. That the creatures have returned to their normal flight patterns.”
“One can always hope,” Aunt Ibby said, her tone a bit less frosty. “Oh look, Maralee!” She pointed across the street. “There’s Pete. Doesn’t he look handsome in suit and tie?”
“Sure does,” I said, watching as Pete escorted the mayor and several other officials toward a waiting limo. “I picked out his tie. Blue, because it was Megan’s favorite color.”
“Oh, was it? That’s nice. And isn’t that River with that group of pretty girls over by the outdoor TV screens? They’re all wearing blue too.”
“Those are her housemates. They have a two-story over on Brown Street.”
“Are they all witches?”
“Yes. Coven mates too.” I waved in River’s direction and she started toward us. “Mind if I leave you? I’d like to talk to River for a minute.”
“Go right ahead. Rupert and I are going to Gulu Gulu for lunch. I saw a commercial this morning for their chicken salad wrap and it looked delicious.”
“I saw it too,” I said, not mentioning that I hadn’t the slightest recollection of what had been advertised, I’d been so anxious for it to end. “I’ll see you at home later, Aunt Ibby. Enjoy your lunch. Good to see you, Mr. Pennington. Thanks so much for our tickets. I’m saving mine as a special memento of Megan.” I patted my purse, where I’d placed the VIP pass with its City of Salem gold seal. I walked across the brick plaza toward my friend, hoping that she’d realized that Megan’s passing had nothing to do with her imagined “bad thoughts” and neither did anything else in the real world.
River greeted me with a warm, patchouli-scented hug. “It was a good service, wasn’t it?” she said. “I think she’d have liked it that so many people cared about her. I heard there was even a representative from the governor’s office here.”
“The service was just right,” I said. “How are you doing? I worry about you.”
“I’m fine,” she said, her smile bright. Maybe a little too bright. “Can we go somewhere quiet and talk for a few minutes?”
“Of course. Take a walk on Pickering Wharf?”
“Yes. Nice day for it. I’m so glad the crows have left.” She gestured toward the sky. “Look. Just regular birds. I saw Pete. Did you?”
“I saw him. He’s working. We’ll get together later today sometime.” I walked with my friend along the shop-lined wharf, neither of us talking, River studying the sky, me studying River.
There are old-fashioned park benches here and there on the long wharf, most situated where there’s a view of the harbor. “Want to sit down?” I asked. “Shall we take this bench in full sun or would you rather find a shady spot?”
“This is good,” she said. “Full sun shining on things is good.” She looked down at the ground. “Some things can’t stay in the dark forever.”
Uh-oh. This sounds ominous.
I didn’t respond, waiting for her to continue.
“This involves you, you know.”
I didn’t know. So I waited.
“Remember when I used to read tea leaves for the tourists, back before I got the TV show?”
“Sure. It was in the old Lyceum building.” The handsome old building houses a restaurant now, but back in the 1830s the Lyceum was where some
of the most famous people in America came to give speeches and lectures. Alexander Graham Bell even gave his first public demonstration of the telephone there.
“It’s right where Bridget Bishop’s apple orchard used to be,” she said, looking out toward the ocean. “Did you know that sometimes you can still smell apples there?”
“I know. Every ghost tour guide in Salem tells that story.”
“And you know for sure that her ghost appears there.” It was a statement, not a question. And it was true. River is one of the few people I’ve told about it, but I’m one of the people who have definitely seen that ghost.
“She was there,” I said. “I was at one of your readings and I saw her through the window.”
“You contacted Bridget Bishop, right?”
“Not on purpose,” I said. “I certainly didn’t do it on purpose. I saw her through a steamed-up restaurant window on a dark night. Didn’t even get a good look at her.”
“Okay.” She gave an impatient little wave of one hand. “That doesn’t matter. You saw her. She contacted you. But do you know why?”
“No. Except that it had something to do with Ariel Constellation.”
“Yep. Ariel was there right beside her. That’s what you said. Remember?”
“Right.” Do I remember? How could anyone forget a double dead witch ghost sighting?
“I know why you saw them. It was the spell book. You had Bridget’s spell book.”
I frowned, confused. “Ariel had it before she died. I didn’t have it. Didn’t even know where it was.”
“Doesn’t matter. It was in Ariel’s stuff and you had all of that.”
I was beginning to see where this was leading, and it was a disturbing place. “You have it now. You have the book.”
“You gave it to me.” A nod and a little smile. “I have it now and Bridget wants it back. It’s the toll I need to pay. I’ll give it back and then the witches will stop dying and the crows won’t come back.” She shrugged. “I probably can’t do it alone. It might take a whole coven.”
That would have sounded crazy to most people, but it made a certain amount of sense to me. I knew from reading old transcripts of the witch trials that Bridget Bishop was believed to be a very powerful witch, with the ability to appear as a crow, and sometimes a cat, among some other, more hideous, apparitions.
“I get it about the crows, but what about the dead witches?”
“I had the bad thoughts while I was reading some of her spells aloud.”
“You read the spells? Aloud? Oh, River!”
“I know. I shouldn’t have. But what’s done is done.” She fluttered her hand again. “Now what I need to know is how do I get in touch with Bridget Bishop?”
I didn’t have a ready answer. I was silent for a long moment while I thought about what she’d asked of me. “I don’t know, River,” I said. “But I think Megan might—and I might know how to get in touch with Megan.”
CHAPTER 20
“A promise made is a debt unpaid.” That’s one of Aunt Ibby’s favorite sayings. I’d more or less promised my best friend that I’d try to help her contact a witch who’d died three centuries ago so that she could return a long overdue book.
Ever since I’d learned that I’m a scryer, I’d tried only once or twice to deliberately produce a vision. It had worked on those occasions, so chances were that I could do it again, however reluctantly. Megan had recently “crossed over” and hadn’t yet been properly buried, so she was probably closer to our present time than Bridget Bishop was. Or at least, so I reasoned, not that any of this was even remotely reasonable. None of it was anything I’d be able to explain to Pete or Aunt Ibby. No one except River even knew the spell book existed. I’d have to do this by myself.
After my visit to Pickering Wharf with River I walked home, taking the long way across the common and around Washington Square. I needed time to think. I decided that my best chance of contacting Megan was to use the bedroom mirror, where she’d already appeared to me. I’d seen Bridget Bishop and Ariel through a window in a restaurant full of people, but I couldn’t count on that ever working again.
When I arrived home, O’Ryan greeted me at the front door with enthusiastic purrs and mrrows. I peeked into Aunt Ibby’s living room and determined that she hadn’t returned from lunch, which reminded me that I was hungry. The cat and I climbed the stairs together. Once inside my kitchen, he headed for his empty red bowl while I stood staring into the almost empty refrigerator. No inspiration there. One of the overhead cabinets yielded a can of chicken with wild rice soup and some saltine crackers. Another held a full bag of kibble.
I didn’t turn on either the TV or radio, so O’Ryan and I ate our lunches in relative silence. I put my bowl and plate into the sink, changed from black dress into Bermuda shorts and crop top, then sat on the edge of my bed. O’Ryan remained in the kitchen. The mirror was tilted at the proper feng shui angle, reflecting the kitchen window instead of me. I watched as the cat put both paws on the sill, then—as though changing his mind about sitting there—he turned and trotted to the bedroom.
I knew what I had to do but didn’t make a move to do it. As long as the mirror was tilted away from me, I didn’t have to see what it might hold. For what seemed like a long time I sat there on the edge of the bed, big yellow cat beside me, and did nothing. O’Ryan made the move for me. With one swift swipe of a big paw, the mirror tilted my way.
I didn’t have to speak or even to concentrate. Megan was already there. She smiled that beneficent smile and held up both palms. Within seconds a round ball filled with smoky mist appeared in her hands. A crystal ball? Yes. Just like the one in The Wizard of Oz.
Am I seeing this because of Aunt Ibby and Mr. Pennington’s silly movie quote game?
I leaned closer to the glass. The mist in the ball cleared. I saw a beach where a small fire glowed red, reflecting on white sand, and in a circle surrounding the flames were people, men and women, all clothed in black. I counted them. Thirteen. A coven.
River said it might take a whole coven to return the book.
From a tall tree at the edge of the scene, a bird flew over the circle, then alighted on the sand. It was large and black, with a huge wingspan. A crow, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?
As I watched, the crow changed shape. A tall woman in black velvet appeared where the crow had been, her arms outstretched like wings. Over her gown was a corset, as red as the flames. Then, very small, in the distance, I saw the gazebo.
In a blink, the scene was gone. The crystal ball seemed to melt. Megan smiled her lovely smile, waved her hands, and disappeared.
What had just happened? O’Ryan climbed into my lap. I’d seen a vision for sure, but, unlike my other visions, this one was more like a dream—the kind of dream where familiar things from the recent past find their way into the subconscious. As usual, it didn’t make a lot of sense. O’Ryan licked my chin in a loving way and headed back to his windowsill.
I’d contacted Megan just as I’d intended to do. But had I learned anything that would help River in her quest to return the spell book? Was the woman in the black dress with the red corset supposed to be Bridget Bishop? It seemed likely.
“Yoo-hoo! Maralee!” It was Aunt Ibby’s voice from outside the kitchen door. “Are you here?”
“I’m here.” I stood, smoothed the bedspread, and tilted the mirror back to its usual position. Starting for the door, I felt exactly as though I’d just awakened from a confusing, and more than slightly disturbing, dream. It was comforting to see my dependable, stable, no-nonsense aunt standing in the hallway. I hugged her. “I’m glad to see you,” I said.
She patted her hair. “My goodness. What a welcome. I’m glad to see you too.” She stepped inside. “I just came by to remind you to watch the five o’clock news. I saw Therese and she said there’d be a nice report about Megan’s service.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said. “And I hope that Megan is somehow aware of how
much Salem loved her, wherever she is now.” I thought of the vital, beautiful Megan I’d so recently seen in my mirror.
“I heard several people say that they could actually feel her presence.” Aunt Ibby sounded pensive. “Of course, I guess you’d have to be a particular kind of person to sense things of that nature. Like River, perhaps. Or you. Did you feel anything like that?”
“Not while I was there, no,” I said truthfully. “Maybe River did.”
“Well then,” her tone was matter of fact. “Megan was a good person, so I’m sure she’ll get along just fine wherever she is. Now about Shannon and Dakota’s wedding gift. Has she selected china or sterling patterns?”
I smiled at that. “I’m sure she hasn’t. Shannon’s dad has invited them to live at the house in Marblehead. He’s away much of the year so it saves him from hiring caretakers and gives them a beautiful home. They’ve asked guests to make donations to the new charity Dakota is heading up for the restoration of Salem’s old cemeteries. You know the two met in a graveyard and they’re concerned about the terrible condition some of the old graves and markers are in.”
“Grand idea. I’ll write them a nice check. Glad to help out. I’m sure Rupert will want to help too. By the way, lunch was delicious. And you’ll never guess who I saw there.”
“I give up. Who?”
“Claudine Bagenstose. And you’ll never guess who she was with.”
“I know you’re going to tell me.”
“I didn’t recognize him at first. I mean, I knew I’d seen him somewhere, but it wasn’t until Rupert said his name that I remembered seeing his picture in the newspaper.”
“Aunt Ibby, slow down. Whose picture?”
“Why, it was that man who called you. The art thief. Sean Madigan.”
Madigan? With the Bagenstose widow?
“You’re right,” I said. “I never would have guessed. What’s the connection there?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “but if you haven’t returned his call yet, perhaps you could—politely, of course—find out.”
“Hmm. Maybe I will. They certainly make an odd couple, don’t they?”
It Takes a Coven Page 12
