The wedding rehearsal dinner was scheduled for seven o’clock that evening. Wanda the Weather Girl promised no rain, warm breezes, and a late sunset. Summer had arrived in Salem. I’d scheduled a pedicure, shampoo, and blow-dry for three-thirty, but my time was my own until then. It felt good.
I’d finished making the bed, straightening up the kitchen, and putting the dishes away when there was a tap at the kitchen door. “Yoo-hoo, Maralee, it’s me,” my aunt called in a soft voice. I smiled and opened the door. Who else would it be?
“Good morning. Come in,” I said.
O’Ryan was first through the door, my aunt following. She handed me a stack of mail—bills, catalogs, letters, advertising flyers, a magazine or two. “These have begun to pile up in the past few days. I know you’ve been busy with the wedding and all, but I thought there might be something important here.”
I tossed the pile onto the table and gave my aunt a hug. “I doubt it, but thanks so much for looking after me. You always have. Got time to sit down and visit for a while?”
“Of course I do.” She pulled out a Lucite chair, picked up the cat, and sat with O’Ryan on her lap.
I pushed the coffeemaker’s ON button, then took the chair opposite hers. “We need to catch up on things,” I told her. “Shannon’s wedding has been a lot more time consuming than mine and Johnny’s was.” It was true. Johnny and I had been married in a tiny chapel just outside of Orlando. Johnny was a rising star on the NASCAR circuit and we’d wanted to avoid the army of sports reporters who followed him around. Our attendants had been a girl who worked with me on the home shopping show and one of Johnny’s fellow drivers. Johnny’s mom and Aunt Ibby and a few of our closest friends comprised the guest list. I wore white and carried orange blossoms. It was perfect.
“I have a bit of an ulterior motive in bringing your mail up here,” she admitted. “I’ve been consumed with curiosity about one of your letters ever since it arrived a couple of days ago.” She pulled a cream-colored oblong envelope from the pile and handed it to me. “This one.”
I accepted the hand-addressed envelope and recognized the return address immediately. “Claudine Bagenstose.” I gasped. “Why is she writing to me?”
“That’s what I’m dying to know too,” my aunt said. “Unless it’s none of my business, of course.” She leaned forward. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
“Oh, yes.” I unsealed the envelope flap and pulled out a creamy folded sheet bearing the monogram CB in raised black letters. After unfolding it, I read the short message aloud.
“‘My dear Lee,’ it says. ‘I’ve thought about your suggestion that some of the lovely antiques Elliot and I acquired during our many happy years together might be of interest to your viewers. I’ll be at home between two and three on the afternoon of the twentieth. If you care to drop by you can see if you think it’s a good idea. No camera yet, of course. Hope to see you then. If this is inconvenient we’ll do it another time. Cordially, Claudine Bagenstose.’” A telephone number followed.
“My goodness.” Aunt Ibby’s eyes were wide. “That’s today. What are you going to do?”
Conflicting thoughts flashed through my overstuffed brain one after the other. If I went, would it look as though I were stalking Sean Madigan? If I didn’t go, would I miss the opportunity to give viewers a peek inside the gates of a museum-like home most Salem people would never see any other way? If I went, would Pete think I was snooping? If I didn’t go, would I be behaving unprofessionally? If Claudine was actually involved somehow with stolen art, why would she invite TV cameras into her home? The obvious answer to that one was that she probably wouldn’t.
“I heard that she was thinking of moving to a smaller place now that Elliot’s gone.” Aunt Ibby interrupted my barrage of contradictory thoughts. “Must cost a fortune to heat and cool that old mausoleum. Claudine’s smart. I’ll bet she’s planning to use your TV footage to advertise the house and the antiques to prospective buyers.”
“Mr. Doan would probably like the idea,” I said, “and I’m sure there’s an audience for it.”
Aunt Ibby agreed. “Kind of a cross between Antiques Roadshow and Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. I know I’d watch it, even if I didn’t know you.”
“Pete asked me not to go snooping around there, and Sean Madigan thinks I’m stalking him.”
My aunt gave a ladylike sniff. “Stalking him! Outrageous nonsense. And pursuing your career isn’t snooping by any means. Besides, you’ve been invited.”
“True. I think I should do it. Let’s see. If I stick to Claudine’s schedule and leave there at three, I’ll still have plenty of time to get my hair and nails done.” My mind raced. So much for the leisurely day I’d planned. “If I can focus on the right collections, like furniture and clothes,” I said, “I’ll promote it as an investigation into Salem’s fashionable past. A time capsule of Salem history spanning decades—all in one historic home!”
Aunt Ibby clapped her hands, startling the cat. “I love it,” she said. “I can help with the research. Just take good notes. Try to get accurate dates. I can help you put together a proposal for Bruce Doan the minute this wedding is over.”
The more I thought about it, the better I liked it. If the visions Megan had shown me were correct, she’d be returned to the earth and be able to go on to a beautiful place the witches call “Summerland.” Bridget Bishop would have her book back from River, and the crows would be gone from Salem. There’d be no point in doing a follow-up on crows. It would be old news, and besides, without fireworks it wouldn’t be much fun.
“I think I’ll call and tell her I’ll be there at two,” I said. “And I’ll call Pete too, and let him know what I’m doing. Then he can tell Sean Madigan that if he sees my car he doesn’t need to worry about me stalking him. What a jerk.”
“I think it’s a good opportunity for another successful report for you. I’d love to go with you. What a treasure trove you’ll see.” She shooed O’Ryan from her lap and stood. “I can’t wait to get started. I know Claudine’s great grandmother was a suffragette. I’ll bet the old newspaper archives at the library reported on her. Probably in a not-too-flattering way. Those brave women put up with a lot. Don’t get up. I’ll let myself out.” She and the cat were out the door in seconds, and she hadn’t even had her coffee.
I did as I’d said I would. I called Claudine and confirmed the appointment for two o’clock. I called Pete too, but it went right to voice mail. I left a message. He’ll probably worry about me but what can happen at two in the afternoon on a sunny spring day in North Salem?
By one forty-five I was headed across the overpass to North Street. At one fifty-seven I was admitted through the gate at the Bagenstose house. I parked in the long driveway, far enough from the garage doors so that if anyone wanted to back out the Vette wouldn’t be in the way. Making sure that I had notebook, pen, and business cards, I walked to the front door and rang the bell.
A uniformed maid answered the door, giving me a questioning look. I handed her a card. “Lee Barrett from WICH-TV. Mrs. Bagenstose is expecting me.” She nodded, placed my card on the same silver tray where Claudine had put the last one, and motioned for me to follow. She ushered me into a different room this time, more of a den, with surprisingly contemporary furnishings. Claudine sat in a maroon recliner with her feet elevated on the footrest. No black flapper dress this time. She wore bright Gucci print palazzo pants with a white eyelet blouse and looked absolutely stunning.
She spread her hands in welcome but didn’t stand. “Lee, dear, thank you for coming. I’m just a bit wobbly on my feet today. A bit of arthritis in my knee has been kicking up lately.” She reached for a sheaf of papers on the mahogany drum table beside her. “These are notes about the collections we use for our occasional house tours. I’d like to show you around myself but I’ve asked my associate, Mr. Madigan, to escort you through the house.” A silvery giggle. “It’s easy to get lost in here if you don’t know your way a
round, isn’t it Sean?”
“Yes, ma’am,” came the now familiar voice from behind me.
“Sean, this is Lee Barrett. Ms. Barrett is a reporter from WICH-TV. Lee, Mr. Madigan is an expert antique appraiser, so I’m sure he can answer any questions you might have.”
“Mr. Madigan and I have met,” I said, trying hard to keep the frostiness out of my voice. “We have some mutual friends.”
He nodded oh so politely and accepted the tour script from Claudine’s perfectly manicured fingers. “Ms. Barrett. Shall we begin? I understand you’ve allotted just an hour.”
“If you decide to do this, Lee,” Claudine promised, “you and I will spend plenty of time prowling through this old wreck of a place together. Won’t that be fun?”
“I’m sure it will. Thank you for the opportunity. I hope your knee feels better soon.”
“Oh, arthritis comes and goes. Just part of the aging process, I guess. Go along now. Sean, be sure to show Lee my great grandmother’s suite.”
I followed the silent “appraiser” from the room, wondering whether having him serve as my guide had really been Claudine’s idea, or whether Pete had told him I was coming and to keep an eye on me. I didn’t have to wait long for an answer.
We climbed a curving staircase, longer and wider than the one on Winter Street. Once out of earshot of Claudine, he whispered, “I told you this isn’t a good place for you to be. What do you think you’re doing?”
“My job. Same as you,” I told him. “Are you going to show me great grandma’s room or not? We only have an hour.”
“It’s right down this corridor. Pete called and told me that you’d be snooping around and that I should be sure you’re okay. Had to talk the old lady into letting me play guide dog.” He opened a door at the end of a red-carpeted corridor. “Here’s the great grandmother’s room. She was a suffragette.” He consulted the paper. “She traveled to California and Washington, D.C. with Inez Mulholland.”
I already knew that, and how the press paid more attention to Mulholland’s beauty than to her message.
The room was wonderful, the wealthy Victorian lady’s bedroom from the curvy quilted headboard on the rosewood bed right down to the French Ivory comb, brush, and hand mirror on the matching dressing table. I made some notes under my escort’s watchful eye, then pulled my smartphone from my handbag. “Mind if I snap a few pictures? They’d be for my own use, not for broadcast.”
“All right with me,” he said. “None of my business.” He pulled open a closet door. “I guess you want to see her clothes, right?”
“Yes, please,” I said. It was a very modern lighted walk-in closet with shelves and drawers and hangers arranged to display the great grandmother’s wardrobe to its best advantage, some of the outfits displayed on vintage dressmaker’s forms “Wow. I’m sure this isn’t part of the original house. Too new.”
“You’re right. Mr. Bagenstose had it especially built for this collection.” He motioned for me to step into the closet, then, oddly, put his finger to his lips and pulled the door closed.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” I pushed against the door.
“Shh,” he hissed. “Room might be bugged. Listen. I’m only going to say this once.”
I listened.
“You know why I’m here. To ID the paintings for the cops. That’s all. Anything else I see here is none of my business. I’m a convicted felon. There are certain things I can’t afford to be involved with. You understand?”
“I think so. Yes,” I said, starting to feel claustrophobic inside that closet full of old black clothes.
“Okay. I’m going to show you another collection that’s not on the tour.” He rattled the papers Claudine had given him. “But I’m not going to say anything about it and you’re not going to write anything down about it. Got it?”
“Got it,” I said, not really getting it at all, just wanting to get out of the closet.
He opened the door and, reading from his script, returned to a normal tone of voice. “Mrs. Bagenstose’s great grandmother was a young widow when she joined the women’s rights movement. She never married again and wore black all of the rest of her life in mourning for her husband. That’s why all of these clothes are black. All of her hats are black too. They make up a separate collection. I’ll show it to you next, but first examine these outfits as much as you like. They are all perfectly preserved top-quality designer pieces and span about forty years. Mrs. Bagenstose enjoys wearing some of them occasionally.”
I moved to touch a two-piece velvet suit displayed on a vintage dress form, marveling at the tiny waist the woman must have had, when Madigan, with finger to his lips once again, pushed a row of clothes out of the way, revealing a sliding panel. I had just enough time to click off one shot of the suit as he moved the panel aside, long enough for me to see what was in the two-foot deep area behind the closet’s false wall. Then he closed it and repositioned the all-black, old-time high couture on the adjustable wooden hanging rods.
It was an odd contrast of collections—the rows of soft luxurious fabrics providing cover for the rows of hard metal guns.
“Okay then, we haven’t much more time.” His voice was brusque. Businesslike. “On to the hat collection.” He pulled open the door to an adjoining room. “She actually had a whole room devoted to hats.”
I still hadn’t moved away from the dress closet, trying to process what I’d just seen, and why he’d shown me the hidden guns. I was aware of his voice, reading once again from the script. The words droned on about the importance of hats in women’s wardrobes in the late 1880s and early 1900s. How the hunting of wild birds to harvest their feathers for the millinery trade had nearly wiped out the entire snowy egret population of the United States. The more recent hats were smaller and plumeless. Sean said early environmentalists had succeeded in stopping the bird-hunting practice.
I tried to focus on Sean Madigan’s recitation, forced myself to pay attention to the hundreds of hats displayed on tall wooden stands. Wide-brimmed bonnets decorated in elaborate concoctions of silk flowers and satin ribbons vied with plume-covered hats, some of them topped with entire stuffed exotic birds. It was fascinating and heartbreaking at the same time. I had to turn away from the evidence of the sad slaughter of so many beautiful birds. Instead I looked at a round marble-topped table, where a tall, delicately painted porcelain vase was displayed. No. Not a vase. More like a large round sugar shaker with holes in its top. I had a quick flashback to a round Quaker Oats box stuffed with long, sharp knitting needles.
This round container, though, was filled with long, sharp, jeweled hatpins.
CHAPTER 45
I could hardly wait to leave, to call Pete, to try to make sense of what I’d just seen. I checked my watch and almost sighed out loud. Still almost twenty minutes to go. I struggled to pay attention as Sean narrated, with what sounded like real enthusiasm, some history about a roomful of gorgeous Oriental furnishings that a four-times-great grandfather of Claudine’s had brought to Salem from China. It really was a beautiful display, definitely museum worthy. If this show idea ever actually happened, it would be good TV. I was sure of it.
My hour was finally up and I followed Sean down the grand staircase. I peeked into the room where Claudine had greeted me, but the recliner was empty. Seeing my questioning glance, he said, “Claudine has a doctor’s appointment. I have to drive her there. Something about her knee. I’ll let you out.”
He held the front door open. “I guess I’ll see you tonight at the rehearsal,” he said.
“See you there,” I said. “Thanks for the tour. It was interesting. It’s quite a place.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
I stepped out onto the terrace and he closed the door firmly behind me. I backed out of the driveway, probably a little too fast. I wanted to call Pete right away but realized that we’d probably need some time to cover everything I needed to tell him. I checked the clock on the instrume
nt panel. Three ten. I barely had time to get to my hair and pedi appointment. The phone call would have to wait a little longer.
At five, with toes pretty in pink and hair tamed, styled, and smelling good, I pulled into our garage. The Buick was there too, so I knew my aunt was back from the library. I’d already laid out clothes to wear to the rehearsal dinner. “Nothing too dressy,” Shannon had said. The dinner after the rehearsal was going to be at Turtle Cove. Mr. Dumas is a big fan of their local seafood.
I’d promised to tell Aunt Ibby about what I’d seen at the Bagenstose house. There wasn’t anything I had to tell Pete that she couldn’t hear too, so I decided to save time by calling him from her place. I could catch her up on the details about the clothes and those hideous hats later.
“I can tell by your expression that you’re excited,” she said as soon as she opened the kitchen door. “Tell me all about it.”
“I will,” I said, tapping my watch. “I’m going to report to you and Pete at the same time. I’ll put the phone on speaker, okay?”
“Good idea,” she said. “Time saver.”
Pete picked up on the first ring. “Are you okay? Did you run into any trouble? Jesus, Lee. Do I have to worry about you every minute? Maybe this new job isn’t a good idea after all.”
“Uh, hello, Pete,” I said. “Haven’t got time for a lecture now. I have to get dressed for the wedding rehearsal. I’m fine. Your friend Madigan watched me every second. I found out some stuff you need to know.”
“Oh, babe. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to lecture. I know you’re smart and savvy and capable and all that. I just worry, you know?”
“I know. I worry about you too. You’re a cop, for goodness’ sake. I worry about you all the time. But listen, this might be important.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“I’ve got you on speaker so Aunt Ibby can hear this too. Okay?”
“Yes. Hi, Ms. Russell.”
It Takes a Coven Page 25
