“I thought about selling it at first. Couldn’t do it. So I burned it to ashes. Not a scrap of it left.”
If it burned, it wasn’t Bridget Bishop’s spell. Christopher Rich, you were snookered by Ariel Constellation! I couldn’t tell him that, of course. But when the
I couldn’t tell him that, of course. But when the police figured out who’d really killed Elliot, Christopher could stop blaming himself. So could River. Anyway, the woman in the parking lot could very well have been Bridget. She wasn’t shy about appearing to me any darn time she felt like it, and I’m not even a witch. But I doubted seriously that a camera could have captured her image even if she was there.
“I understand why you might think you saw Bridget,” I said, “but you must admit, a woman in a black dress is a fairly ordinary sight.”
“You’re right, of course, Lee. I never should have mentioned it. Well, I’m sure you have better things to do than listen to an old man ramble.” He reached for a colorful brochure on the countertop and handed it to me. “By the way, I’m sure you know that I’m a bit of an expert on things magical. I’d be more than happy to be a guest on your program.”
Oh, I’ll just bet you would.
“Thank you, Christopher.” Realizing that I’d just been dismissed from Christopher’s Castle, I put the brochure into my handbag. “I’ll certainly keep you in mind.”
I was halfway back to my car when I realized I hadn’t asked Christopher why he was angry enough with a fellow witch to use such a powerful spell—or at least what he believed was one. And I was darn sure he wasn’t about to tell me who he’d cast it on.
CHAPTER 42
Pete’s peewee hockey team had a night game at the Rockett Arena over near the college, so I didn’t expect to hear from him until late. He always takes the team out for pizza after the game, win or lose.
I sat at my kitchen table and pulled out the notebook, realizing I had a lot to learn from Pete about note taking. O’Ryan watched from the windowsill as I ripped out the day’s sketchy, messy entries and attempted to make some sense of this very strange day. My maid of honor dress was safely stashed in my closet and Megan had shown me the way to return Bridget Bishop’s book, so I didn’t need to record those two items. I started a fresh page.
Talking crow? Maybe.
Madigan lives over Claudine’s garage, appraises antiques.
Bertha Barnes (adorable) DVDs and VHSs of neighbors. Video of Zeus. She knits.
C. Rich angry with River. Said he fired shots. Saw tall person in black behind shop. (B. Bishop?)
C. Rich used B.B. curse on man who died. (Elliot?)
Note: C.R. says Viktor P. reads about joining witches. Weird.
Okay, it looked neater, but did it make any more sense? I closed the book and faced the cat. “Sean Madigan must think I’m stalking him,” I said. “Or is he stalking me?” O’Ryan ignored my question and kept the golden eyes focused on the outdoors. I kept talking to him anyway. Sometimes I think it helps to hear my thoughts out loud.
“Mrs. Barnes is a doll. You’d like her. I saw a video about a good dog named Zeus. River thinks Christopher Rich shot those bullets himself. I don’t know what to think. Oh yeah, I might have heard a crow say ‘Murder.’”
He turned and looked at me when I said the word and gave a slow, solemn couple of nods of the big fuzzy head. So the crow and the cat think Gloria’s accident was not an accident. How can that be? Could someone have followed Gloria in the early morning darkness, deliberately forced her into the fence? It could have happened that way. Gloria and Elliot Bagenstose, both witches, had died a few weeks apart. Gloria had been first.
Had anyone checked Gloria’s eardrums?
I hoped Pete would call after the hockey game. I had a lot to tell, and even more to ask.
* * *
It was nearly ten o’clock when that welcome phone call came. I must have sounded like a babbling goof as I tried to explain the day’s happenings all at once. In his most professional, quiet cop voice, he said, “Take it easy, babe, relax. I’ll be there in half an hour. Got to drop the nephews off. Calm down, okay?”
The advice didn’t help much. By the time O’Ryan ran to the living room door and the bell chimed “Bless This House,” I was in full fidgety mode. Couldn’t sit still or think straight. I pulled the door open. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I told him. “I need to talk to you.”
“I got that,” he said, pulling me close. “What the hell is going on? You’re nervous as a bitsy bug.” I’ve always meant to ask Pete exactly what a bitsy bug is, but that could wait for another time.
We sat on the couch together and I told him in rapid succession about the crow, the nosy neighbor, Sean Madigan, Chris Rich, and the woman in black. He nodded, said all the right things, made me feel a lot better. It was when I got to the question about Gloria’s injury that he sat up straight, frowned, and said, “Jesus, Lee. I don’t know. She was a mess. Hit and run. Blunt trauma to the head with no helmet. I saw the ME’s photos. I’m sure her eardrums were smashed, along with most everything else in her head. Jesus! Never thought about it. You may be onto something there.”
We wound up drinking decaf in the kitchen, as usual. I told him in more detail about how Sean Madigan had followed me to the end of Dearborn Street, startled me, even leaned on my car. That last one still ticked me off. “He acts as though I’m stalking him,” I complained. “Fat chance of that ever happening.”
Pete’s smile was wry. “Yeah. I heard about that.”
It was my turn to frown. “What do you mean? Heard about it where?”
“From Madigan. He thinks you’re stalking him.”
I put my mug down so hard coffee splashed onto the tabletop. “What!?”
He leaned forward, both elbows on the table. “It’s police business,” he said, “but it looks as though I’m going to have to let you in on it before you get yourself hurt.”
“I don’t get it.” And I surely didn’t. “You mean the art thief is involved in police business somehow? With you?”
“Okay. Here’s how it all went down. A few months ago Madigan contacted us from the minimum security prison where he was doing his time. He said he had some information about stolen paintings we might want to know about. Wanted to make a deal.”
“What did you say?”
“He didn’t talk to me. Art crimes is above my pay grade, but it seems that after Elliot Bagenstose died, his widow got a message through to Madigan that she had about fifty pieces of major artwork to sell. Wanted to know if he could appraise them, then get rid of them for her in exchange for a piece of the action.”
“What made him think they were stolen?”
“She mentioned some titles and artists. He recognized some of them as stolen,” Pete said. “The guy knows his business.”
“Wow! Did he agree to do it?”
“No. He told us about it right away. Said he might be able to help us find some valuable paintings that have been missing for a long time.”
“Is that how come he got out of jail early?”
“Exactly. He got his sentence shortened in exchange for finding whatever stolen paintings are in the Bagenstoses’ house.” Pete leaned back in his chair. “Surprised?”
“Surprised that he’s on your side of the law,” I said. “But I still don’t like him.”
“That’s fine. You don’t have to like him. Just stay out of the way and let him get on with what’s he’s doing.’
“No problem with that,” I said. “Has he found any paintings yet?”
“I think I’ve told you all you need to know for now. Thanks for the tip about Gloria’s ear. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He stood.
“Oh yeah. Mrs. Barnes is sending over the video of Zeus barking at whoever was messing with Jane’s truck. You can’t see much, though. The action was behind the U-Haul. All you see is poor Zeus running with his tail down and a blur of a Toyota. And somebody cussing in the background.”
Pete sat
down again. “A Toyota?”
“Yep. Surprised?”
“Hmm. It fits right in with something Madigan told us. Son of a gun.” He stood up, smiling. “Thanks again, Lee. Good job.”
“You’re welcome. Can you tell me what I did?”
“Sorry. Not yet.” He looked at the Kit-Kat clock and stood again. “Can’t stay tonight, babe. Early meeting in Boston with some bigwigs. I’ll call when I get back. When you get that video will you forward it?” I said that I would, and after a few nice kisses and a promise to call me, he went out the living room door and down the stairs, leaving me with even more questions than I’d had in the first place.
So Sean Madigan was working with the police to solve some art thefts and Claudine Bagenstose might be in it right up to her Van Cleef & Arpels earrings.
CHAPTER 43
I added the bombshell about Sean Madigan to my notes. I found it hard to believe. The notorious art thief working undercover for the police. That’s the stuff that TV shows are made of.
You can’t tell a crook by his cover, I wrote, then sat back and smiled at my own little joke.
The video from Bertha arrived just then and I dutifully forwarded it to Pete. There was a new text message from Jane too. She was making good time and expected to be home by the next day. Zeus seemed fine. She planned on taking Pete’s advice about contacting an appraiser to check out the things she’s inherited from Gloria. That seemed wise to me. Besides, it might possibly tell us what the person behind the truck in Bertha’s video had been looking for. “Hope Zeus didn’t catch anything from whoever he bit,” she texted. I’d almost forgotten about that dog bite, but I was sure Pete hadn’t.
O’Ryan had abandoned his windowsill by then and joined me at the table. He concentrated on washing his face for a minute, then, with a big pink-tongued yawn, jumped down from his chair and trotted to the bedroom. I yawned too and followed him. Sleep was an excellent idea.
* * *
The next few days moved quickly. Hilda and Maureen and I gave a bridal shower for Shannon at the Salem Waterfront Hotel on Pickering Wharf. Pretty Party catered and guess who was part of the entertainment? The Fabulous Fabio, doing some wedding-themed magic tricks. He made a giant fake diamond ring appear on a guest’s finger, then pulled a stuffed bunny dressed like a bridegroom out of his tall white chef’s hat. His performance was surprisingly good, and when I had a chance to speak with him for a few minutes between the cake cutting and the Bridal Bingo game, I told him so. I also worked in a couple of questions about what he’d seen and heard after leaving the magic shop on the night somebody shot at Christopher Rich.
“Did you hear the shots?” I asked.
“Sure did.” He put a plate full of pink-iced cupcakes on a nearby table. “Try one of these. There’s a plastic engagement ring in one of them. Whoever gets it will be the next one to get married.”
“What if she’s already married?”
“Don’t know. It’s never happened.” He smiled and raised both hands in the air. “Anyway, like I told the cops, I was right at the edge of the parking lot. Then boom boom. Shots came from somewhere in the bushes behind me.”
“You must have been scared to death. What did you do?”
He smiled. “I’m ex-military so I hit the deck at the first one.”
“So you never saw the shooter?” I’d hoped he’d say something about a shadowy figure in black but he stuck to his story.
“Didn’t see a thing. It was dark and I had my head down.”
“Did you hear anybody running away?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean, ‘not exactly’? You heard something then?”
“Birds. I heard birds making a commotion so I knew something had disturbed them. They don’t usually squawk late at night.” He snapped his fingers and a paper rose appeared in his hand. “Sorry. Have to go make balloon animals. Nice talking to you.” He handed me the flower, then moved away. I knew without asking that the noisy birds were crows. I stuck the rose in my hair, reached for one of the pink cupcakes, then changed my mind. What if I got the ring? I wasn’t ready for another marriage just yet. Why tempt fate?
The shower was fun and a big success. Shannon looked so happy, so beautiful, absolutely glowing. She’d brought Poe along with her, thinking that it might help him become accustomed to being around a crowd, and it seemed to work. She’d handed his tether to Maureen while she unwrapped gifts and he didn’t seem to mind being passed from hand to hand. He did, however, single me out with a “Hey, Red! Who loves ya, baby?” He seemed to know me. Shannon said he watches a lot of television and might have seen me on Nightshades. Maybe she was right. I said, “Hi, Poe. Nice to see you again.” No point in being rude. After all, Poe wasn’t the only member of the crow community who’d spoken to me recently.
The shower was just one of many wedding-related events leading to that special day. Hilda and Maureen, along with some of Shannon’s other young friends from school, hired a limo and took Shannon to Boston for a “bachelorette party.” I bowed out of that celebration, pleading age and teacher status, leaving me a welcome evening free from making table centerpieces with net and glitter, constructing beach-themed place cards, and putting custom-printed “Shannon and Dakota” labels on champagne bottles. Naturally I spent it with Pete.
We held hands across a table at Greene’s Tavern. “Pete, if I ever again agree to be somebody’s maid of honor,” I said, “please talk me out of it.”
“I’ll try, babe,” he said, “but in just a few more days the bride and groom will walk down the aisle and say, ‘I do.’ Then you’ll say how beautiful it all is and be ready to do it again.”
I sighed and took a sip of light beer. “I know you’re right, but just now I don’t care if I never even get invited to another one. Let’s talk about something else.”
“How about this?” He pulled the ever-present notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped through the pages. I remembered that mine was at home on my desk. “Here it is. I heard from our friend Jane this morning. She thanked me for suggesting that she get an appraiser for Gloria’s things. Turns out the jewelry was worth much more than she’d thought, but the big surprise was one of the paintings.”
“I thought all along it would be a painting since Madigan was interested in them,” I said. “What was it? Something famous?”
“Not so much famous as stolen.” His expression was serious. “It was a small oil painting of Judith Sargent Murray by John Singer Sargent. It was stolen from a private collection back in the sixties.” He closed the notebook
“Wow. What will become of it now?”
“Jane returned it to the family it was stolen from. There’s a reward from the insurance company involved, but mostly she wanted to do the right thing. What we want to know is how a waitress in Salem wound up with it.”
Our pizza arrived, half pepperoni and half extra cheese. I helped myself to a big slice from the cheese half. “Is Sean Madigan helping with that?” I asked, knowing I was pushing my luck in the “that’s police business” department, but feeling as though I deserved an answer.
I got one. “He is.” Period. End of answer.
I tried another angle. “I talked to Fabio, the magician, about the night when he witnessed the shooting behind the magic shop. He says the shots came from the bushes behind him. That means Rich didn’t fire them himself, doesn’t it?”
“Seems to. We never thought he’d done it in the first place. He was too freaked out about it after it happened.” He reached for a second slice of pizza. “Hard to fake that much fear.”
“He believed in the idea that someone was loose in Salem killing witches. I think he still does.”
Pete’s cop voice kicked in. “He may be right about that after all.”
That surprised me. I was quiet for a moment. “Did you talk to Viktor Protector about it? Chris Rich says he goes around protesting everything, but he buys books about learning to be a witch. Strange, huh?”
>
“We’ve talked to him. He gets paid for leading the various protests. Claims he doesn’t personally believe in most of them.” He shook his head. “Strange damned way to make a living, but he certainly has the right to free speech.”
“Had he heard anything about who might be targeting witches? After all, he hangs around with those people.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Confidential information there.”
I sighed. “I understand, but the police department rules sure get in the way of some interesting conversations.”
We switched to a safer topic. Crows. We talked about the lessening numbers of them, halfway regretting that the city might not have to use the pyrotechnic system to chase them away. We both love fireworks. Although during the recent hectic days of wedding preparation Pete and I had talked on the phone every day and had lunch together a couple of times, I hadn’t brought up again the matter of the talking crow who may or may not have said, “Murder,” and I knew better than to ask him about the condition of Gloria Tasker’s eardrums, let alone Elliot Bagenstose’s. Knitting needles were not mentioned either.
But that hadn’t stopped me from thinking about them.
CHAPTER 44
It seemed as though it had been a long time since Pete had spent the night at my apartment. From the way O’Ryan carried on, purring and rolling over and meowing loving cat words, you’d have thought it had been months instead of a week. It felt that way to me too. Conversation about crows and stolen art and shooting stopped at the door. I didn’t even bother to look at my e-mail or check the table in the downstairs front hall, where Aunt Ibby always put whatever the letter carrier had left for me.
In the morning we had time for a leisurely breakfast, so I was able to use up some of my surplus groceries. I fixed bacon and eggs and English muffins served with coffee and Aunt Ibby’s homemade marmalade. It was a wonderful start to the day. Pete kissed me good-bye at nine o’clock with a promise to call later.
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