The hat-pin-as-weapon idea came, oddly enough, from her great grandmother’s reminiscences about her suffragette days. Society was transitioning back then, however slowly, from expecting and advocating female dependence on men to recognizing their ability to defend themselves. A foot-long hat pin plunged into a predator’s arm or eye turned out to be a popular deterrent to “mashers.” Forcefully pushed into an ear, her great grandmother had cautioned little Claudine, a hat pin would likely cause death.
Gloria’s habit of taking predawn bike rides was perfect for Claudine’s plan. She’d meant to simply run the woman over with Elliot’s car. The hat pin was to provide insurance that Gloria was actually dead. “She made it easy for me,” Claudine told a Boston reporter in the corridor of the Essex County Court House. “She ran into that post and splattered her brains all over. She was probably already dead, but I stuck her anyway.”
Elliot’s death was quite different. The story about the apple blossom branch was partly true, except for the fact that it had been Claudine’s idea for Elliot to climb up and cut a certain hard-to-reach bough while she steadied the ladder. “I yanked it out from under him,” she told Scott Palmer in answer to his shouted question as she walked the gauntlet of reporters on the courthouse steps. “The hat pin still had Gloria’s dried blood on it. I showed it to him before I stuck him.” Then she’d laughed her silvery laugh.
The paintings have been returned to their rightful owners. The case against Claudine is still ongoing, complicated by the “slayer law,” which prohibits inheritance for a person who murdered someone from whom he or she stands to inherit; by Claudine’s penchant for self-incrimination; and by questions about her competence. Both the Bagenstose mansion and Gloria’s little house still stand empty, but both of their fruit trees are blossoming once again. The twin Cadillacs are still in the garage; the Toyota is not. Sean said that Claudine was in the habit of borrowing his car to go to yard sales and flea markets because her black Caddy made vendors mark the prices up, so he’d given her a set of keys. He was sure she’d “borrowed” it for other reasons too, like for an attempted U-Haul break-in. He hadn’t known about the secret tunnel that had allowed her to get away with his car to follow Chris Rich on that fateful Midsummer night.
Pete had been on his way to the Dumas house even before I dialed 911. The police lab’s report on the voice pattern from River’s mystery call had just come in, identifying the caller as Claudine. He’d tried to call me, to warn me, but by then my phone was on the floor of Shannon’s bedroom and I was in the gazebo, watching a crow attack a murderer.
Christopher Rich is more famous than ever and has written a “tell-all” book about the case, since he was one of Claudine’s intended victims and was also the apparent hero of the story.
The crows disappeared that night, just as Megan had predicted. The scientists who study such things are still debating the cause of Salem’s murder of crows. Theories range from the birds’ pursuit of a particularly rare migrating grasshopper to the proliferation of cell towers interfering with their natural guidance systems.
Shannon and Dakota are obviously supremely happy together. Dakota’s fund for repairing damaged headstones is growing nicely and made a perfect topic for my second appearance as WICH-TV’s investigative reporter.
Sean Madigan has accepted a position at a prestigious museum as an art instructor and as an expert authenticator of old paintings. Pete convinced Bertha Barnes that photographing people without permission violates their right to privacy, so she has given up that hobby and now only photographs dogs and cats.
My relationship with Pete continues to develop in so many wonderful ways. Lately we’ve been double-dating occasionally with River and Buck Covington, whose relationship is still in the “getting-to-know-you” stage. Aunt Ibby and Mr. Pennington continue trading lines from old movies.
Rumors are flying about the station needing another field reporter, and Mr. Doan has hinted that my name is being mentioned. That was the job I applied for at WICH-TV in the first place. Wouldn’t that be something!
We haven’t seen the little black cat for quite a while. I like to believe she’s playing in the green fields of Summerland. O’Ryan watched for her from his windowsill for many nights and I think he still misses her.
Tabitha Trumbull, Aunt Ibby, and Pete’s Mother’s Ambrosia Fruit Salad (updated)
1 (8-ounce) container Cool Whip, thawed
2½ cups shredded coconut
½ cup chopped walnuts
1 (8-ounce) can fruit cocktail, drained
1 (8-ounce) can pineapple chunks, drained
1 (11-ounce) can mandarin oranges, drained
3 cups miniature marshmallows
1 (10-ounce) jar maraschino cherries, drained (optional)
1 teaspoon nutmeg
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1. In a large bowl, combine all the ingredients.
2. Mix together well and refrigerate for 30 to 45 minutes.
Aunt Ibby’s Peanut Butter Banana Smoothie (Aunt Ibby calls it “The Elvis”)
2 tablespoons creamy peanut butter
1 cup milk
1 fully ripe banana
3 tablespoons sugar-free Maxwell House International French Vanilla Café
8 ice cubes
1. Blend all ingredients except ice in blender until flavored coffee is completely dissolved.
2. Add the ice and blend on high speed until smoothie is thickened and smooth. Serve immediately.
Love following Lee’s adventures in the Witch City?
Keep reading for a sneak peek at
Bells, Spells, and Murders
Coming soon from Kensington Books
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Caught Dead Handed
Tails, You Lose
Look Both Ways
Murder Go Round
Grave Errors
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It was the first day of December in Salem, Massachusetts, my hometown. Wanda the Weather Girl had advised the WICH-TV audience to expect afternoon snow flurries and overnight plunging temperatures and, as the old song says, it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas. I’ve been associated with the local TV station in one way or another for a couple of years, but this December first was also the beginning of a brand new broadcasting position for me.
I’m Lee Barrett, nee Maralee Kowalski, thirty-two, red-haired, Salem born, orphaned early, married once and widowed young. I wasn’t nervous about the new job. I have a solid background in TV—Emerson College graduate, worked in Miami as a home shopping show host, did a stint on a network weather channel, taught Television Production at a local school, and even spent a short time as a TV call-in psychic. (Not too proud of that one.)
My boss at the station, Bruce Doan, likes all of his employees to wear more than one hat, so in addition to doing occasional investigative reports on the late news, I’d just become WICH-TV’s newest field reporter and I was excited about it. It meant that I’d be covering events on location, reporting from the scene where news was happening. It was, I thought, a dream job come true, and just in time for Christmas.
The holiday season is a big deal in Salem. It seems that everything that can hold a light bulb blazes brightly, and since the year’s theme was “Ring in the Holidays in Salem,” a whole lot of bell jingling was going on too. My Aunt Ibby had even tied a bell with a red ribbon onto our cat O’Ryan’s collar. He was not pleased about it. Aunt Ibby and I share the big old family home on Winter Street, where I have my own apartment on the third floor.
So far on my first morning as a field reporter, I’d stood in front of the bandstand on Salem Common telling the audience about the traditions involved in the decoration of the annual community Christmas tree there. Next, I’d visited with a group of veterans who repaired and repainted donated used bicycles for underprivileged kids as part of a Veterans Helping Santa program.
There was nothing further listed on my schedule until an eleven
o’clock appointment with Albert Eldridge. Mr. Eldridge was, among other things, chairman of the Holiday Walk committee, overseeing a popular walking tour through one of Salem’s beautifully decorated historic districts. So by nine-thirty Francine, the mobile unit driver/photographer, and I were headed back to the waterfront TV station on Derby Street where a light dusting of snow had begun to fall.
Having the opportunity to work with some of my old friends at WICH-TV on a daily basis made this new job even better. I checked in with Rhonda, the way-smarter-than-she-looks receptionist. “How’d you like your first morning?” she wanted to know. “I watched the Christmas tree segment. You looked good. If you were nervous it didn’t show.”
“Not nervous,” I said. “Excited.”
She leaned across the curved purple Formica-topped reception desk, pushing aside an improbable arrangement of glitter-sprinkled lavender poinsettias. “Okay, tell me everything,” she said. “You still dating the hot cop?” The “hot cop” in question was detective Pete Mondello and the answer was a resounding “yes.” Still dating, still a cop, and definitely, still hot.
I caught her up on recent day-to-day happenings in my sometimes ordinary, sometimes very strange life—carefully omitting the stranger parts. “Aunt Ibby is going to London for the holidays,” I told her. “Her friend Nigel invited her when he was here last year.”
“Oh? Good for her. But does that mean you’ll be alone for Christmas?”
“Not alone,” I said. “O’Ryan will be with me and anyway, Pete’s sister and brother-in-law have invited me for Christmas dinner at their hose.”
“That’ll be nice,” Rhonda said. “Did you know that the Doans are inviting everybody to a Christmas Eve party here at the station?”
“Got my invitation. I’ll probably go.” Sometimes Pete volunteers to work some of the holidays so that the officers with kids can be with their families. That meant There was a pretty good chance I’d be spending Christmas Eve with my friends at WICH-TV. New Year’s Eve is always reserved for Pete though.
It didn’t take long for Rhonda and me to catch up on each other’s lives the way good friends can, and by ten-fifteen Francine already had the mobile van parked in front of the building, engine running and the heater cranked up when she phoned. “Ready to roll, Lee? If this snow doesn’t let up you’ll have to do your interview with the old guy indoors instead of in front of the fancy-ass mansion.”
I glanced at my watch. She was right. We’d be a little early for our appointment, but if Mr. Eldridge wanted to give viewers a peek at some wonderfully decorated old homes we’d better do it right away before blowing snow made filming difficult. I said goodbye to Rhonda, pulled up the fake-fur collar of my plaid wool jacket, plunked a knit hat over red hair gone wild, and hurried downstairs. The snow had picked up in intensity. Not the soft, fluffy kind, but the icy face-stinging variety. I hurried along the sidewalk to the waiting van, pausing only to stuff a few dollars into a camo-painted kettle manned by a bell-ringing Santa with an obviously fake beard and a just as obviously genuine smile. I climbed into the passenger seat. “Let’s roll.”
It’s not far from Derby Street to Washington Square, so within minutes we pulled up in front of a large, and what one might describe as stately, brick home. A discreet black and gold sign over an exquisite Samuel MacIntire carved doorway identified it as Historical Charities of Salem. The annual Holiday Walk was just one of the numerous charitable fund raisers Albert Eldridge chaired throughout the year. Some of the proceeds went to maintenance and restoration of Salem’s many historical sites and buildings. Other funds supported veteran’s causes, aid to needy families, a community Bookmobile (Aunt Ibby’s favorite) and—especially at holiday time, toys for kids. I felt honored to be able to meet and interview such a prominent and important citizen.
While Francine made camera and lighting adjustments, I climbed the steps to that handsome front door and, following the instructions posted on the glass inset, entered the reception area without knocking or ringing. A cushy Oriental runner on a polished hardwood floor led to a massive mahogany desk where a diminutive gray haired woman welcomed me with a smile. A fragrant Scotch pine with Victorian ornaments, stood to one side of the desk and a tall wing chair upholstered in gold and green stripes flanked the other. Several comfortable looking club chairs in solid colors were arranged attractively around the room.
Only the long, white-plastic topped metal table next to the door seemed out of place. An untidy row of cardboard boxes, canvas bags, plastic tubs, all filled with a variety of items, spread across the top. More boxes were piled underneath between the folding legs. I saw canned goods, cake mixes, shampoo bottles, candy bars, detergents, packages of diapers. A pile of stamped envelopes in a wire basket marked “outgoing” beside a matching empty one marked “incoming’ was at the end closest to the door. A tall barrel marked “toys” stood at the opposite end.
“Good morning. May I help you?” The smiling woman greeted me from behind the desk. I handed her a business card, one of my new ones, identifying me as a field reporter. “I’m Lee Barrett. I’m early for an eleven o’clock appointment with Mr. Eldridge.”
“Oh, yes.” She peered at the card through granny glasses perched at the end of her nose. “Lee Barrett. You’re Isobel Russell’s niece. Maralee. She speaks so highly of you.”
“You know my Aunt Ibby?” I wasn’t surprised. In her position as head research librarian at Salem’s main library, I think my aunt has met just about everybody in Salem at least once.
“Yes indeed. She and I are both members of the Christmas Belles, you know. We’re going to start rehearsals this week for our holiday concert.” She offered her hand across the broad expanse of desktop. “I’m Lillian Jeffry, Mr. Eldridge’s secretary.”
“How do you do, Ms. Jeffry. My aunt has told me about the Belles. Sounds like a lively group of musicians.”
“We do have a grand time together.” She glanced at a grandfather clock in the corner. “You’re early for your appointment. Mr. Eldridge likes to keep a timely schedule so I’ll announce you at precisely eleven. Meanwhile, just make yourself comfortable.” She waved a hand toward the wing chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll continue with my work while we chat. Mr. Eldridge likes to have all of his holiday cards hand addressed, and as you might imagine, a man of his stature has hundreds of friends.” I started toward the chair she’d indicated. “Oh, just a moment dear. While you’re up, would you add these cards to the outgoing basket? The letter carrier should be along any minute.” I accepted a stack of envelopes, admiring the perfect cursive, mentally comparing it to my own back-hand scrawl, and added them to the pile.
“You have beautiful handwriting,” I said. “No wonder Mr. Eldridge likes to have you address his cards.” I paused in front of the table. “Are all these things gifts for needy people?”
“Yes. Sorry if it looks a little bit messy. People come in and leave donations. Then some of our people pick them up and take them to the right charities. Toys for the kids, new socks and underwear for the vets, diapers go to the battered women’s shelter, candy for all of them.” She smiled. “I know it looks disorganized, but it really runs quite smoothly. Things come and go from that table all day long. Look. Here comes the letter carrier now.”
The postman entered, said “Hi, Lilly, stayin’ out of trouble?” Not waiting for an answer, he picked up the outgoing stack of envelopes and dropped a few pieces of mail into the incoming basket and hurried away. “’Bye, Howie,” she said to the already closed door.
The grandfather clock chimed eleven. “All right Lee, I think you can go right on into Mr. Eldridge’s office now. I know he’s expecting you. I checked just a little while ago to see if he wanted me to order some lunch for him, but he’s so deep into his work he didn’t even answer. A break will do him good. He’s been poring over the books since I got here this morning.”
“Thanks. We’re going to try to do the shoot outside. He’ll probably enjoy the fresh air.�
�� I walked carefully along the polished floor, hoping the heels of my boots wouldn’t mar its perfection, and tapped gently on the door before pushing it open.
It was a beautiful room, as one might expect in such a house. More Oriental carpeting, portraits of distinguished men and elegant women lining cream colored walls. Ashes from a dying fire smoldered in a wonderful huge fireplace with boughs of holly and evergreen arranged on the mantelpiece. Mr. Eldridge, chin resting on his chest, red Santa hat slightly askew, appeared to be reading a book which lay open on his desk. He didn’t look up when I entered. “Mr. Eldridge?” I said. “I’m Lee Barrett from the television station. We have an appointment.”
No reply. I shook his shoulder gently. “Mr. Eldridge?” The chair rolled back and the man slid forward ever so slowly, feet first, until almost all of him was under the desk. Just his head and shoulders remained propped against the chair seat, the Santa hat at a rakish angle covering one eye. The other eye was open, bloodshot, unseeing.
I backed out of the office. “Ms. Jeffry,” I said, trying to remain calm. “Please call 911.”
Topical Focus Photography
Carol J. Perry was born in Salem on Halloween Eve. She has written many young adult novels, in addition to the Witch City mystery series. She and her husband Dan live in the Tampa Bay area of Florida with two cats and a black Lab.
CAUGHT DEAD HANDED
She’s not a psychic—she just plays one on TV.
Most folks associate the city of Salem, Massachusetts
It Takes a Coven Page 29
