It Takes a Coven

by Carol J. Perry

  “This one seems to be,” I said.

  The photo of the partly open panel filled the screen. We could see parts of a few of the guns I’d seen hanging on the Peg-Board. “That’s what I thought I saw,” she said. “And I bet that’s what Pete saw too.”

  I squinted at the screen. “What is it? All I see is little parts of a whole bunch of guns.”

  She touched the screen. “That one. It’s small so you can see most of it. A Walther PPK.”

  “Uh-huh. What about it?”

  “It’s a .380-caliber gun. It fires the bullets that fit those shells you found.”

  The mental lightbulb went on over my head. “I see. Someone in that house had access to the kind of gun that was fired at Christopher Rich.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “Now let’s look at those hats.”

  “Wait a minute. How do you know this stuff? About the gun?”

  “Dr. No,” she said. “James Bond. Nineteen sixty-two.”

  I should have guessed.

  CHAPTER 50

  Aunt Ibby was right about the photo. Pete and Chief Whaley had spotted the small gun visible through the crack in the panel door. The search warrant had been obtained faster than Pete had thought it would be, which is why he’d had to leave so suddenly after the wedding. He called and gave me a hasty explanation of what was going on at the Bagenstose house, and promised more details later. “But for right now,” he said, “we’re busy trying to locate Claudine Bagenstose.”

  “Claudine is missing?” That was a surprise. “Is Sean there? He might know what her plans were for the day.”

  “He’s here. Doesn’t know where she is. She was here when we served the warrant. It kind of freaked her out. Sean was still at the wedding reception. Both cars are still here, hers and Elliot’s. Anyway, like I said, she was crying and carrying on about the warrant. She excused herself to go to the bathroom and poof! Disappeared.”

  I knew he didn’t mean “poof, disappeared,” the way Megan and Bridget Bishop did in my visions. “Didn’t anyone see her leave?”

  “Nope. There’s a cop at every entrance. Chief is taking this gun thing seriously. We’re clearing out the gun collection. There’s at least one that’s been fired recently.”

  “The Walther PPK,” I said.

  Surprised cop voice. “How’d you know that?”

  “Double O Seven,” I said. “James Bond used one.”

  “Oh,” he said, as though my answer made sense. “Anyway, Sean says this house is so full of secret panels and hidden rooms and underground passages, she could be hiding anywhere in here. He knows about them because of the hiding places they used for the stolen paintings. Claudine kind of got around to confiding in him about those lately. He’s showing a couple of uniforms around the house right now. He has all her passwords, so we’re going to see what’s on her computer.”

  So he used Claudine’s “crush” to get whatever he wanted. The location of the paintings and even her passwords. I wonder what else?

  “I hope she’s okay,” I said. “Will you let me know when you find her?”

  “Sure I will. You still planning to go to that witch thing you were talking about?”

  “I am. It’ll be at midnight on the beach at the Dumas’s place. I’ll be safe and sound inside Shannon’s room upstairs watching from the window. No worries.”

  “I know Megan was special to you and you really want to be there for her funeral. Be careful driving, babe. I’ll call you even if it’s late. Okay?”

  “Okay. I hope Claudine’s all right and she’s not guilty of anything too serious. The arthritis in her knee is pretty painful, I guess. And, Pete, don’t forget about the hat pins.”

  “I won’t forget. Lethal-looking darn things, aren’t they?”

  * * *

  Sometimes I’m braver than I know and sometimes I’m not smart enough to know when I should be scared to death. On my way from Salem to the beach at Marblehead that night I was alternately excited about the Wiccan funeral I was about to witness and, at the same time, worried about what else I might see. Maybe Megan’s return to the earth, the beginning of her journey to the Summerland, was something a nosy reporter had no business watching. On the other hand, Megan had appeared in my visions, apparently happy to help me.

  The return of Bridget Bishop’s book was something else. That was personal to me. After all, I was the one who’d more or less, however unwillingly, inherited it from Ariel Constellation. I was also the one who’d tried hard to destroy it. Maybe it was my fault that the long-dead witch had unleashed such fury on Salem.

  Even if it is my fault, I’m sure returning it to her is the right thing to do.

  I’d borrowed Aunt Ibby’s Buick and left my house early, thinking it would be wise to get there before most of the witches showed up. There were several vacant sandy lots along the street leading to the Dumas’s. Some had FOR SALE signs and none of them had NO PARKING signs. I chose one where there were a few trees and slid the Buick in behind the biggest one. I locked the car and began the short walk to the beach.

  I was glad I’d brought a flashlight. There was no sidewalk and I’d deliberately worn dark clothes. I hurried along on the side of the road, my feet sinking into soft sand. Very few cars passed and I was increasingly aware that maybe this wasn’t such a smart idea after all. Maybe when I’d assured Pete that I’d be in a safe place I hadn’t considered a lonely walk on a pitch-black road.

  When I reached the Dumas property there were already a few cars in the area where I’d parked the Vette this morning—mostly dark-colored Fords and Chevys. What had I expected? Brooms? I stayed well back in the shadows, skirting the edge of the house, not daring to use my light this close to the beach. I felt along the low wall surrounding the patio and found the conch shell. I slipped my hand under it and pulled out the key. On the beach below I saw the beginnings of a fire and several figures silhouetted against the white sand. I fumbled for the lock and inserted the key, then exhaled a long sigh as I closed the door behind me, realizing that I’d been holding my breath.

  Feeling my way across the room, I struggled to remember where the stairway began. When I found it I flipped the flashlight on and began to climb, holding on to the smooth maple bannister all the way. Tripping and breaking a leg at this point would not be smart. Shannon had left the door to her room open for me and a nightlight burned in the adjoining bathroom, giving enough light to keep me from bumping into the furniture.

  I turned the flashlight off and smiled when I saw that she’d pulled a chair up to the window. On a table a bottle of Pepsi chilled in one of the aluminum ice buckets that had held champagne at the reception. She’d also left a toy telescope marked Pirates of the Caribbean. Good idea. I should have thought to bring binoculars.

  I picked up the telescope and focused it on the glow of the fire. Toy or not, it worked well enough to magnify the scene on the beach below. The walkway and altar were gone, as were the tent and all the tables and chairs—not by any witch magic, but by the efficiency and coordination of the wedding planner. I was pleased to see that all of the black vases were missing too.

  Carefully, slowly, I opened the window a few inches, admitting a cool breeze off the water along with the sound of gently splashing waves. In the distance I saw the occasional flash of what New Englanders call “heat lightning.” It’s a harmless summertime phenomenon, and it produced just enough flickering light to help me see what was going on down there near the shoreline.

  Shannon’s bedside clock displayed eleven-thirty. The fire had grown larger, throwing green and gold showers of sparkles into the air. The flames were contained in a large round pit surrounded by stones. Black-clad witches began to appear. One by one and sometimes two by two, they made their way toward the fire. At first I tried to count them, remembering that extra witch in my vision, but they moved around too much. I guessed there were between twenty and thirty of them, and within the fire glow, I saw that a few wore masks or veils, secret witches like Elli
ot and Gloria.

  I picked up the toy telescope again and fiddled with the simple focusing mechanism. Christopher Rich’s platinum blond hair was easy to spot, and River wore the black velvet dress with the red bustier she’d worn on Tarot Time, so I recognized her right away. The witches joined hands, forming a circle around the fire. They moved in a slow, rhythmic dance-like pattern, all the while chanting melodic words that had no meaning to me but gave a peaceful feeling to the scene.

  Some of the faces were vaguely familiar. Perhaps I’d seen that woman at the market. Maybe that man was a high school classmate. Had I seen that one in church? About half of the crowd seemed relatively young—twenties, thirties maybe. There were some with gray heads among them too, moving more slowly than the younger ones, but no less enthusiastically. A few stood outside the circle. Therese, a novice witch, was among them—not yet coven members, I guessed, but trusted neophytes.

  I watched the seconds tick by on Shannon’s digital clock. 11:57, 11:58, 11:59, 12:00. At the moment of midnight, River lifted a white urn from beside the fire pit and moved to where a pentagram had been drawn in the sand. At the same time, Christopher Rich dropped from the line and, still moving in cadence with the others, walked toward the gazebo. He was really going to sit out the scattering of Megan’s ashes, just as he’d said he would. What a sore loser. A gray-haired witch wearing a veiled hat, perhaps needing to rest, slowly limped along behind him.

  Don’t go there, Chris. Don’t sit in the gazebo!

  A collective joyful cry of “Blessed be” went up from the witches gathered around the edges of the pentagram. I turned the telescope back to River, realizing that Megan’s ashes had been returned to the earth, then quickly looked back to the gazebo, where Chris now sat on the bench, hands folded in his lap, his eyes blank.

  Go back now and join the others, Chris. Don’t stay in the gazebo!

  But he stayed. Even without using the telescope I knew he’d be just as he had in my vision. My phone buzzed just as a sudden cackling call came from the direction of the aviary. “Better run, Red! Better run!”

  CHAPTER 51

  The veiled witch was on the first step of the gazebo when she reached toward her hat. I dropped my phone, grabbed the flashlight, ran down the stairway, raced for the door. “Chris, run!” I yelled, and hit 911 on my phone. When I got to the patio he looked in my direction, still not moving. The woman drew closer to him, tossing the veiled hat to one side. I’d heard that a person could be frozen in fear. Was that happening to Chris?

  “Run, run, run!” came the crow voice from the aviary. The man remained motionless The woman sat beside him. She raised her right hand and moved it toward his head. Toward his ear. I didn’t have to see the hat pin to know it was there.

  An echoing crow caw came from the opposite direction. Not Poe this time. This new crow appeared as if from thin air. It dove at the woman, claws tearing at her upraised hand, and raking her face. Chris still hadn’t moved.

  I ran toward the gazebo. “Help!” I yelled. “Help!” The woman slashed at the air with both hands. I knew that the flailing woman was Claudine Bagenstose, and that she was no match for the dive-bombing crow.

  Does she still have the weapon in her hand? Too dark for me to tell.

  It wasn’t too dark for the crow, though. It snatched the hat pin, the jeweled top catching rays from my flashlight, reflecting shattered sparkles of red and gold, and flew into the shadows.

  “Help!” I yelled again. I heard the sound of running feet pounding on packed sand as the witches streamed from the beach below and into the gazebo, surrounding the woman who lay moaning on the floor.

  Is she going to melt now, like the wicked witch in the movie?

  I hurried to Chris’s side. River was already there. “Chris,” I said, shaking his arm. “Can you hear me? Are you all right?”

  He blinked a couple of times and looked around. Sirens sounded in the distance. “It’s okay,” I said. “The police will be here in a minute.”

  At the sound of the sirens, the mention of the police, the masked and veiled witches hurried away. The others stayed, looking down at Claudine Bagenstose, some murmuring words I didn’t understand, others silent.

  “Lee,” River whispered. “What should I do about this?” She pulled the spell book from her pocket.

  I looked back toward the beach, to where the fire still glowed, to where the approaching tide lapped at the edges of the pentagram etched in the sand. A large crow now circled the space where, moments ago, the covens had gathered.

  “Come on,” I said. “I’ll go with you. Hurry.” We ran then, toward the ocean. River stepped to the center of the pentagram holding the book high above her head. The crow swooped down, grasped it in yellow talons, and disappeared in a blinding flash of light.

  When I opened my eyes I thought for a moment I was seeing double. River, her arms at her sides, stood facing another woman. Each of them wore a long black dress, each wore a red corset. The woman, with the spell book tucked under one arm, smiled and held up her hand. River did the same. They touched palms.

  Another flash and Bridget Bishop disappeared.

  * * *

  River and I returned to the gazebo, where no one there seemed to have noticed that we’d ever left. There was no mention of the flashes of light, of the circling crow, while Christopher Rich, standing erect and smiling, accepted congratulations on overpowering the hat pin–wielding woman who now lay prostrate at his feet. The jeweled hat pin, a good ten inches long, lay sparkling on the seat, where moments earlier Rich had sat frozen, immobilized.

  A wordless look passed between River and me. Somehow, during the few minutes we’d spent on the beach, there’d been a shift in realities. I knew that a crow had overcome Claudine, had flown away with the hat pin she’d been about to shove into Christopher Rich’s brain while he sat on the gazebo bench, unable to move. Yet now, the hat pin rested on the seat. Claudine lay on the floor of the gazebo, her face unmarked by razor-sharp talons, and Christopher Rich stood, enjoying the praise of his fellow witches who’d apparently all witnessed him bravely overcoming a crazed, would-be assassin.

  The police arrived. An officer helped Claudine to her feet and she shook his arm away. Another officer read her her rights from a Miranda card. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney.... Claudine ignored her rights. Especially the one about remaining silent.

  “Witches,” she muttered. “Witches. I hate them all.” She laughed, a short, unfunny, strangled sound. “I didn’t even know they were witches until I saw it on television. I killed them because they were lovers. Can you believe it? Elliot chose that sleazy waitress over me. He even gave her my favorite little oil painting. Carried it out of the house in a paper bag and drove straight to her place. Didn’t even catch on that I was following him. Stupid man. Did you know he bought that house for her?” Claudine shook her head. “I suppose I own it now.” She laughed. “I sent Sean over to buy my painting back, but he messed up.” She put her hands behind her, accepting the handcuffs as easily as if they were gold bracelets. She tilted her head toward Christopher Rich. “I decided to shoot him. People were starting to talk about somebody killing the witches in Salem. What a great idea. Just kill one or two more witches and nobody would ever connect Elliot and that tramp Gloria to me!” Again, the strangled-sounding laugh. “But he was the only witch I knew about for sure. He’s on TV bragging about it all the time. So he had to be next.” She bobbed her head in River’s direction. “I even called you up and told you I was going to kill him, you stupid girl.” She looked down at the ground almost apologetically. “But I missed with the gun. Had to go back to my great grandmother’s hat pin.”

  I heard Pete’s voice before I saw him. He and Sean Madigan rounded the corner of the house. Pete walked to where River and I stood. Cop voice. “You girls okay?”

  We both nodded. “We’re okay,” I said.

  “Good. I’ll talk to you later.” He touched my hand, then
climbed the steps to the gazebo and spoke in low tones to the officer.

  Claudine Bagenstose hadn’t stopped talking. “Is the dog all right? I’m sorry I stuck him, but he bit my knee when I kicked him.”

  Sean spoke to Claudine in a soft, friendly tone. “Zeus is fine. How come you swiped my car again?” he asked. “And how did you get out of the house without me seeing you?”

  “You don’t know all my secrets.” She spoke in a little-girl coquettish voice. “There’s a nice escape tunnel under my house that I haven’t shown you yet. Elliot built it. Be a good boy and I’ll show you later.”

  Claudine was taken away in one of the police cars. Pete took statements from the remaining witches. The WICH-TV mobile unit arrived and Christopher Rich got more television face time than even he could have dreamed of. Every witness told the same story. The heavily veiled woman, Claudine Bagenstose, had approached Christopher Rich, who was sitting in the gazebo observing a Wiccan funeral ceremony. She’d threatened him with a weapon of some kind and Rich had quickly, bravely subdued and disarmed her.

  Not a single one of the witnesses recalled seeing a crow dive bombing the woman while she tried vainly to shield her face from clawing talons. No one heard Poe telling me and Chris to run. No one saw the brilliant bursts of light or the circling crow or the two identically dressed women facing one another on the beach. Nobody mentioned Bridget Bishop’s spell book. Not that night or any other time. It was as though it had never existed.

  But it had.

  EPILOGUE

  Claudine just kept right on talking in spite of her high-priced lawyer’s advice. Like a courtroom scene in an old Perry Mason episode, she talked to anyone who’d listen to her. She freely admitted to killing both Elliot and Gloria. She’d become suspicious about the increasing frequency of Elliot’s after-hours business meetings and simply began following him. The path had quickly led to the little house on Southwick Street and Gloria Tasker. The decision to kill both of them had come just as quickly.