It Takes a Coven

by Carol J. Perry

  “Just like it says on the invitation. They’re asking for contributions to the fund for repairing broken tombstones in the old cemeteries.”

  “That’s easy. I don’t have to wrap it. The invitation says I have to wear black or white. Does that mean a tux?”

  “Not if you don’t want to,” I said. “Just black slacks and a black shirt will work. We have time to figure it out.”

  “Well, let’s not worry about it this weekend. Two whole days off. I’ve got tickets for the Sox and the Angels for tomorrow night. Sound good?”

  “Sounds perfect.” I kissed him good-bye and turned on the kitchen TV. Mr. Doan had said they might use a shortened clip of my report on Good Morning Salem. Call me vain—I wanted to watch it again.

  Someone had done a good job of editing the piece, hitting the most important bits and using the best visuals. The quince tree–stripping sequence was the most dramatic part. Downright eerie. I hoped once again that the poor tree would recover and provide more quince jelly for any future tenants of Gloria’s cute house. I studied my on-screen appearance too, more carefully than I had when Pete was with me. Carmine had done a darn good job.

  I knew Aunt Ibby would be curious about the outcome of Pete’s morning stroll on the fire escape and I wanted to talk to her about my recent scrying episodes. Even though Pete had managed to make me feel better about the things I’d been seeing, I was still filled with questions—and dread. I needed my aunt’s calming wisdom and felt lucky that she was just a couple of flights of stairs away.

  With O’Ryan a few steps ahead of me, we took the back stairs. I tapped on the kitchen door and the cat barged right on in through his cat door. “Come in, Maralee,” my aunt called. “It’s unlocked. I’ve been expecting you. What was that commotion on the fire escape all about? Come in here and tell me everything.”

  “That’s exactly what I came here to do,” I told her. “It may take a while. I’ve had a busy couple of days.”

  “Pull up a chair, my dear. Have you had breakfast?” Without waiting for an answer she filled a cup with fragrant hazelnut coffee and put a fresh, still warm corn muffin on a plate. She put the butter dish and a bowl of her homemade strawberry preserves within easy reach, then sat opposite me, fairly quivering with expectation. “What’s going on?”

  Where to begin? So much had been packed into twenty-four hours. I started my story with my visits to the Tasker and Bagenstose households. “Gloria’s cousin Jane was very nice. Showed me around the house. It’s really cute. Did you know Gloria didn’t own it? Rented it, I guess.”

  “I didn’t know that. I’ve never been invited over there.” Again that little sniff. “But then, of course I wouldn’t be.”

  “What do you mean? I get the feeling you and Gloria didn’t get along.”

  “Oh dear, is it that obvious? I may as well tell you then, now that she’s dead and gone.” Slight pause. She looked down at her hands. “Once, while you were living in Florida, I became engaged.”

  That was a shocker. “Engaged? You?” I gasped.

  “Well, you needn’t act so astonished. I’m not without some sort of appeal.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind. I know what you mean. Anyway, Gloria deliberately set her cap for him. Outright seduced him. I gave back the ring. She promptly dumped him and moved on to her next victim.” She sighed. “I’ve never quite been able to forgive her. Even though she’s dead.” She gave a shrug of her shoulders and a grim smile. “And poor River thinks she had ‘bad thoughts’ about Gloria! She should see inside my head!”

  Even though I’ve known her all of my life, my aunt continues to amaze me. I didn’t know exactly how to respond to this latest revelation, so without comment I proceeded with my own story, saying the first thing that popped into my head. “Jane has a dog named Zeus,” I said, “and she has a cat back in Nevada. She says she didn’t know Gloria well at all but she’s the closest living relative Gloria had. She inherited all the personal belongings and she’s packing what she wants to take home. She offered me a pretty teapot but I have no use for it.”

  “Did she know about the video her neighbor took of the quince tree?”

  “She did. Apparently the whole neighborhood knows about the nosy photographer. Jane thinks her cousin must have been the subject of more than one video.”

  My aunt made a “tsk-tsk” sound. “Bertha Barnes is a member of my library book club. I didn’t know she took her photography hobby to that extent. I wouldn’t like to have anyone knowing what’s going on in my own private space.”

  Like having crows and cats and God knows what else looking in your kitchen window.

  “Jane said that Mrs. Bagenstose dropped by, to express condolences I suppose, and they compared notes on the damage to their trees. That’s how I learned about Mr. Bagenstose’s last gift to his wife—a spray of apple blossoms. Nice story, wasn’t it?”

  “It was. Did you give Claudine my regards?”

  “I did. She’s quite attractive, isn’t she? She was wearing an exquisite lace dress from the nineteen twenties, and somehow, it looked just right on her.”

  “Yes. She has an amazing wardrobe of beautiful clothes spanning at least a century. Inherited most of them from her great grandmother, I’ve heard. Everything was black. The woman was widowed young, like you were, Maralee, and wore black for the rest of her life.”

  “I seem to be surrounded with little black dresses lately,” I said. “Shannon’s black and white wedding, River’s black velvet gown, Claudine’s flapper dress, the woman in my vision.”

  “Oh yes, tell me about the vision-woman. Have you figured her out yet?”

  “I haven’t figured her out, and I know it’s important that I do. It sounds nutty, but I believe she’s Bridget Bishop.”

  It was Aunt Ibby’s turn to act astonished. “Bridget Bishop? Why on earth would you think that?”

  Was it time to share the truth about that cursed spell book? The truth I’d kept secret for so long? I wasn’t sure. I hesitated. “Can you, just for now, trust that I have good reason to think so?” I asked.

  “Of course.” She reached across the table and patted my hand. “I have faith in you always, Maralee. But can you tell me what the woman in the vision was doing? Perhaps I can help to figure it out.”

  “I guess I have to back up and tell you about the shells.”

  “Seashells?”

  “No. Shell casings. From bullets A crow put two of them on my windowsill.”

  “How do you know a crow did it?”

  “I saw him put them there.”

  She nodded as though that made sense. “I see. Is that why Pete climbed out the window?”

  “Sort of. They’re the same caliber as the bullets they dug out of Christopher Rich’s wall. Pete was worried that a person left them there. A person who could get inside. Could get to me.”

  She gasped. “Oh, no. Go on.”

  It was my turn to pat her hand. “No. It’s okay. He checked. No one has been on the fire escape except a cat. She lost her collar there.”

  She assumed what I call her “wise owl” look. “A red collar? Was it the small black cat?”

  “Yes. I’m going to try to put it back on her if she’ll let me. It’s not broken. Must have slipped off.”

  “A black crow and then a black cat,” she murmured.

  “That’s right.”

  “You’ve been seeing Bridget Bishop dressed in black. I imagine you believe there’s a connection between the three?”

  It was a relief to hear someone else—especially my aunt—put that thought, that knowledge into words. “Of course I do. Bridget Bishop is, or was, an extremely powerful witch. She had special, uh, special methods.”

  “Spells? Special spells?”

  “Yes, and according to the old witch trial records, Bridget Bishop used animal familiars. Quite a variety of them.”

  “I know,” said my librarian aunt
, who knows a lot about everything. “I remember reading that she used a black pig, and some sort of strange monkey with the feet of a bird.” She cocked her head to one side. “I wonder if that’s where the idea for the flying monkeys in The Wizard of Oz came from. I must ask Rupert.”

  “A witch needs to find an animal willing to work with her, or him,” I said. “River says a witch can ‘ride’ a familiar. That means she astrally projects into the animal and can see through its eyes.” I remembered how the eyes of the woman in my vision had changed into crows’ eyes and shivered at the memory. “Call me crazy, I believe Bridget Bishop was on my fire escape. First as a crow, then as a cat.”

  There. I’ve said it out loud.

  “I’d never call you crazy,” Aunt Ibby said. “Have you told Pete any of this?”

  “No. I mean, I’ve told him about most of the visions, but have I told him I really think a long-dead witch is peeking in my kitchen window? Not exactly.”

  CHAPTER 33

  As well as I could, I brought Aunt Ibby up to speed on what was happening in my life. I told her about the brief encounter I’d had with Sean Madigan outside the Bagenstoses’ garage.

  “You say his car was parked inside the garage? As though he was part of the household?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” I said. “I mean poor Mr. Bagenstose is barely a few weeks in the grave—or rather in the urn. His ashes are on the mantelpiece next to the pink vase Claudine used for the apple blossom branch he cut for her.”

  “I didn’t mean that kind of part of the household, dear. Certainly not. Not Claudine. But Mr. Madigan does have a background in fine art. I wonder if she’s consulting him about Elliot’s art collection.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “And, regarding the poor man’s ashes, I wonder if she’s aware of the witch tradition about going back to the earth. I’m sure that must have been Elliot’s wish. Perhaps someone should tell her.”

  “I sure wouldn’t volunteer for that,” I said. “I think I’ll take Madigan’s advice and stay away from there.”

  “Is that what he said to you? How rude.”

  “That’s not exactly what he said,” I admitted. “He told me it was not a good place for me to be.”

  “Does Pete know about this?”

  “Yes. He seems to agree.”

  “Hmm.” Wise old owl look back in place. “Perhaps you should take the advice then.”

  “I intend to. I’ll move on to other things. Any bright ideas for future investigative reports?”

  “The crows appear to be gathering again,” she said. “I imagine you’ll be called upon to follow up on last night’s report with some in-depth information on how to get rid of them for good. Humanely, of course.”

  “You’re right. I suppose they’ll use fireworks. That’ll be a great visual. Everybody likes fireworks. Except crows, apparently.”

  “You should definitely include scarecrows too. How do you like mine?”

  “Theodore is magnificent. Maybe I’ll interview you for a brief tutorial on how to make one.”

  “Let’s look outside and see how he’s doing. I’ll bet there aren’t any crows in my garden.”

  O’Ryan was way ahead of us. As soon as Aunt Ibby uttered the word outside he scooted across the room and out the cat door. By the time we opened the door to the yard, he was at the garden gate, grooming his whiskers. My aunt was right. There were no crows in her garden, even though the branches of the oak, the maple, and the chestnut trees were dark with them, iridescent blue-black feathers glistening in the morning sun, raucous voices caw-cawing.

  “See?” she said, sounding almost gleeful. “My scarecrow works just fine.”

  “Could be,” I said, “but maybe it has something to do with the large yellow cat.” O’Ryan, his tail straight up like the plume on a drum major’s hat, patrolled up and down between the rows of plants.

  “Between the scarecrow and O’Ryan maybe this little plot of earth is safe from those rascals,” she said, looking in the direction of the clamoring crows, “but from here it appears that the city is in for another Corvus invasion, just as you expected.”

  “Afraid so. I think I should call River later today. This might be disturbing for her.” I remembered how thoroughly frightened my friend had been by the crows after they’d first appeared in Salem. “She seemed to think that somehow it was her fault they were here, and that was in addition to blaming herself for the deaths of the three witches.”

  “Poor River. I hope she’s come to realize that witchcraft has nothing to do with either circumstance.”

  “I hope so. She seems almost like her old self lately and she certainly looks wonderful. Have you seen Tarot Time lately?”

  “I caught the beginning of her show one night when she was wearing the black velvet dress we talked about. Stunning with the red corset.”

  “She looked great in it, didn’t she? But did it remind you of the clothes they say Bridget Bishop wore?”

  “Good heavens! You’re right. Did River dress that way on purpose, do you think?”

  We headed back toward the house, but O’Ryan maintained his pacing in the garden. “I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t asked her about it. Maybe I will.”

  Maybe I will. Someday, when all this is over.

  Aunt Ibby went into her kitchen. I thanked her for breakfast and climbed the curving staircase to my apartment and to my own kitchen—with the big window opening onto a fire escape. I’d always thought of that sturdy platform with its ladders to safety as a comforting presence in my life. Now, I didn’t even want to look at it.

  I’d told Pete I’d be working on ideas for future investigations for the show, and I fully intended to do it. I put the laptop on the kitchen table and began by listing possible topics.

  1. Methods of dispersing crows

  2. In-depth study of wedding planning

  3. Theft and forgery of paintings

  I’d already accumulated the general information on the methods other places had used when a murder of crows had descended on their cities. An interview with a pyrotechnics expert would be good. I could probably get an appointment with the mayor too. As for the wedding planning, thanks to Shannon and Dakota I already had contacts there. What about number three on my list? If I decided to do it, and that was a big if, a study of famous art heists would come first. One of the biggest, the robbery at Boston’s Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, tops the list and is still unsolved. If I did it right maybe even the big Boston TV stations would cover it. It could even go national!

  Whoa. I’m getting ahead of myself. Back to the cherry bombs and bottle rockets.

  I opened the folder I’d started earlier on crow dispersal methods. The point of all of them is to make the crows uncomfortable enough to get the desired result: make them move someplace else, and do it without harming the birds.

  Is Bridget Bishop trying to make the witches of Salem uncomfortable enough to get what she wants—the return of her spell book? Is she harming witches in the process? Or is that someone else’s doing?

  I was having a hard time staying focused on my duties as an investigative reporter. I kept mixing the job up with the other things on my mind. Things like the dead witch and cats and crows and a dead man in the gazebo and the art thief I’d soon walk beside at a wedding on a beach and black dresses. Way too many black dresses.

  Time to take a break. Refocus.

  I closed the laptop, pushed my chair back, stood, and stretched. I faced the window and wondered if O’Ryan was still assisting the scarecrow, performing crow-watch in the garden. I lifted the sash and looked down. Yes, O’Ryan—that noble beast—still proudly walked his new self-imposed beat. So far, so good. I saw no crows in the yard although I still heard a bunch of them chattering in the trees.

  I caught a flash of motion close to the edge of the window. There, approaching on dainty paws, was the black cat, sans collar. At just about the center of the wooden frame, she placed two front paws on the outer sill and looked up
, straight into my eyes. I heard an unfamiliar female voice.

  “Do you have it?”

  I couldn’t tell where the words came from. Not from inside the kitchen, yet not from outdoors either.

  The voice is in my head. Am I crazy after all?

  “You know what I want.”

  The cat’s eyes held mine. I looked away to where O’Ryan paced, robot like, between the green rows below.

  “Yes, yes,” I said aloud. “Wait right here. I’ll get it.” I hurried to the bedroom, hands shaking as I pressed the button hidden in a carved curlicue on my bureau. A compartment popped open and I picked up the red collar.

  The cat now sat on the sill. I put the collar on the table and lifted the screen slowly, carefully. Was it really a cat? Or was it a vision? I put a tentative hand forward. If it was a vision, I shouldn’t be able to touch it, to feel its fur. The idea that the thing was real was even scarier than the possibility that the whole thing was in my imagination.

  It was real. I felt behind me for the collar, fumbling for it, not taking my eyes from the cat’s eyes.

  “Hurry,” the voice commanded. The cat stretched its sleek head toward me.

  I placed the scrap of red leather around her neck and secured the silver buckle. With the briefest nod in my direction she darted to the top of the ladder, where Pete had so recently made his cautious way down to the second-floor platform. She paused for a few seconds, then with a graceful leap landed just outside Aunt Ibby’s window. With one last soaring bound she alighted in a cushioning patch of rosemary. Lifting those delicate paws one by one she approached O’Ryan. He turned, facing her. With his head down, front legs outstretched, he bowed.

  CHAPTER 34

  I closed the window against the increasing volume of rasping crow noise and once again sat at my table. I opened the laptop and stared at the blank screen. What the hell was that? Had I had a conversation with Bridget Bishop? I was pretty sure that was exactly what had just happened and I didn’t like it one bit.

  We have to give the damned book back. Then she’ll go away and take her crows with her. But how are we supposed to do it?