“That’s one of those cards that can mean practically anything.”
She sighed. “I know. But listen. Just be careful around blond, blue eyed men, okay?”
“I’m careful around all men, River. You know that.”
“True. Anyway, tell me about the creative opportunity.”
“I don’t know how to handle all this free time, so I’ve been looking for something to do during school vacation,” I said. “Mr. Pennington offered me a chance to work as property manager for the plays the summer theater classes are producing.”
“Creative for sure. Congratulations. Now, what were you going to call me about? Please tell me you’ve opened all those secret compartments. I’m dying to know what’s in that bureau!”
“To tell you the truth, so am I. But I kind of promised Pete we’d open them together and um . . . he had to leave early.”
“Wow. You have a lot more self-control than I do. I would have had those little guys emptied out ten minutes after the thing was delivered.”
“Yeah. But I promised. What I wanted to tell you is that . . . a gazing thing happened today.”
“Really?” Her excitement was obvious. “Tell me everything.”
I explained about the messed-up mirror and how I’d seen the lights and colors while Pete was in the room. “I kind of freaked out, I guess. That’s why Pete left before we’d opened any more of the compartments,” I told her. “I knew there was something I was supposed to look at, but I waited until this afternoon to do it.”
River sighed. “So I guess you didn’t have the enchanted evening I was visualizing. You’re such a chicken. When are you going to tell that man what you can do?”
“I don’t know.” Deep sigh. I really didn’t know. Would I ever work up the nerve to tell Pete the truth?
“Never mind that now. So, what did you see?”
I closed my eyes and saw the picture again in my mind. “It was a pretty scene. Calm. Not frightening at all, like most of them have been. There’s a long beach. Waves along the shoreline. There’s a wall. It’s old, crumbling. In the distance I see a woman. Her back is toward me, and there’s a little dog with her. She throws a stick, and the dog retrieves it. She pats him on the head and throws it again. They move down the beach. She’s throwing. He’s bringing the stick back to her, till they’re just tiny spots in the distance. That’s all.” I took a deep breath. “Any idea what it means?”
“Is the dog happy?”
“Seems to be. He’s having fun chasing a stick. Why? Does that mean something?”
“If it was a dream, it would mean social activity. Good times. It’s probably about the same for a vision, I guess.”
“I like that. How about the beach? And the woman?”
“Have to look in the dream book for that one. Hold on a sec.”
I waited, heard pages being turned. O’Ryan moved to the back of the couch, with his head next to my shoulder, ears up straight. I knew he was listening, too.
“Okay. Here it is. A long beach can mean you’re looking for a change in your future. Make sense?”
“Oh, River. Everybody has changes in their future. Doesn’t mean a thing. How about the woman with her back to me?”
“Okay. There’s a lot here about backs. Is her back naked? Like in a bathing suit?”
“Don’t know. Maybe? She’s too far away for me to see clearly.”
“If it is, you’re keeping secrets from those in your life, it says here. You fear that the secrets may be revealed. Your subconscious wants you to come clean. Wow.”
“Wow, what?”
“Don’t you get it? Your subconscious wants you to tell Pete your secret!”
“Come on. She might be wearing a burka, for all I know. I think you’d better stick to the cards.”
She laughed. “You’re probably right. Anyway, I’m glad it wasn’t a scary vision. Talk to you later. Got to get ready for the show.”
“I’ll watch you, if I can stay awake that long.”
After we hung up, I couldn’t get what River had said about revealing secrets out of my head. I wished she hadn’t looked in that dream book. Maybe it was a scary vision, after all.
CHAPTER 10
It was still early when Aunt Ibby returned from her date, just as she’d promised. O’Ryan ran for the front hall, and moments later the lights from Mr. Pennington’s car reflected in the window as he drove away.
“Aunt Ibby?” I called. “That you?”
“Of course it’s me, dear.” She peeked into the living room. “I’m going to run upstairs and change into something comfortable. Then I’ll come back down, and we can chat.”
“Shall I make tea?”
“That would be lovely.”
I headed for the kitchen, filled the kettle with water, and put it on the old gas range to boil. I picked a red teapot from Aunt Ibby’s collection and tossed four Earl Grey tea bags into it. Aunt Ibby always uses loose tea, but I’ve never quite mastered that art. By the time my aunt appeared in the kitchen in a blue chenille bathrobe and bunny slippers, the tea was ready, and I’d arranged a few slices of homemade marble cake on a red plate.
I put the teapot, the cake plate and a couple of bone china teacups on the round oak table and we sat opposite one another. “How was your date?” I asked. “Poetry reading, was it?”
“It was quite delightful. I was surprised when Rupert went to the podium and read a poem he’d written. Did you know he was a poet?”
“Mr. Pennington is a constant source of surprises.” It was true. Some of the school director’s “surprises” had been quite pleasant. Others, not so much. But I could tell from my aunt’s happy countenance that she definitely approved of his poetic efforts.
She took a sip of tea. “Well, don’t keep me on pins and needles. What did River have to say about your latest vision? Could she figure out the meaning of the beach and the woman and the dog?”
“She wasn’t much help with the vision,” I admitted. “She tried looking up the symbols in a dream book, but it didn’t make a lot of sense. We agreed she’s much better with the cards.”
Aunt Ibby smiled. “I watch the readings she does on her show sometimes, and it surely seems as though there’s something to it. Did she read your cards again?”
“She did. She saw an offer of something creative—I’m guessing that’s the property manager position—and she told me to be careful around blond, blue-eyed men.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Any particular reason for that?”
I shrugged. “Kind of vague. He could be a bad guy. I told her I’m careful around all men.”
“Good answer! Say, speaking of bad guys, did you read today’s Salem News?”
“Not yet. Why?”
She leaned forward. “That Tommy Trent is out of jail. You remember. Helena’s husband? I guess his sentence was reduced for good behavior. Anyway, he’s out after only six years. I’m surprised Pete didn’t tell you about it.”
“No reason he would, I guess. Other than the fact that I have a bureau that came out of the Trent’s house, he’d have no reason to think I’d be interested.” I helped myself to a piece of cake.
“True enough. The paper says the reporter asked Pete what he thought about Tommy getting out of jail, on account of him being the detective on the case back then, and he just said, ‘No comment.’”
“Sounds like Pete, all right,” I said. “Want to watch River, as long as we’re up?”
“Might as well,” she said.
A few minutes later we were comfortably seated on the couch, teacups and cake plates arranged on the coffee table and the television set tuned to WICH-TV. The late news was just winding up, and my old coworker Scott Palmer wore a serious expression. “Convicted killer Tommy Trent was released from prison over the weekend,” he intoned. “When asked by this reporter what his plans for the future were, he said, ‘No comment.’”
“Seems to be a lot of that ‘No comment’ going around,” I said, watching a
s the image of Tommy Trent emerging from behind prison gates and getting into a waiting automobile flashed on the screen. He faced away from the camera, and a baseball cap shaded his features. “He looks thinner than he did in that newspaper photo.”
“Probably prison fare is quite different from what he was used to,” Aunt Ibby said, reaching for a piece of cake. “And I think I’ve read that men in jail do a lot of exercising. Muscle building and that sort of thing.”
“I’ve heard that. Look. Here’s River.” Our friend appeared on-screen while her theme music, Danse Macabre, played in the background. Her dark red sheath, shot with silver threads, glistened under the studio lights, and a spray of silver stars woven into her long black braid accented her exotic good looks.
“Good evening, friends of the night,” River said, smiling. “Our film tonight will thrill and delight you, I know. Prepare to be scared. But first, let’s see what the strange and beautiful tarot cards will offer us with their miracles of psychological insight, wise counsel, and accurate divination.”
She leaned back in her rattan fan-backed chair, bowed her head, and placed the deck of cards in front of her on the round table. A telephone number appeared at the top of the screen, and a moment later River spoke to her first caller, asked for his birth date, and chose a card to represent him. An overhead camera focused on the King of Cups, which she’d placed in the center of the table. While she delivered a rapid-fire explanation of the horoscope method of reading tarot cards, River arranged twelve cards in a circle around the first one.
“The cards are quite beautiful, aren’t they?” My aunt leaned closer to the screen. “Like lovely little paintings.”
River’s reading seemed to please the caller, and her running explanation of what she was doing and what each card meant kept the audience interested in the process. But when she announced the movie du jour—I Walked with a Zombie—I wished my aunt a good night, carried my teacup to the kitchen, and headed upstairs to my childhood bedroom.
I prepared for bed, wearing one of Johnny’s old DAYTONA RACE WEEK T-shirts. It was faded, soft, and comfortable, as only a well-aged T-shirt could be. A determined scratching at the door announced that O’Ryan didn’t want to watch zombies walking, either, and he joined me on the French Provincial bed. I looked across the room, toward a matching bureau. It had five drawers, like the one in my apartment, but no hidden mirror, no hidden compartments. Just a pretty, ordinary piece of furniture, with no secrets, no past, no memories of death . . . or murder.
What’s in the other four spaces? River is right. I’m dying to open each and every one. But I promised Pete....
I knew that Pete was probably curious, too—after all, he’d wanted to open them all before dinner. “I’ll call him tomorrow,” I told O’Ryan, “and tell him he has to come back tomorrow night.”
That matter settled in my mind, I set the alarm for 8:00 a.m., turned out the light, and with large cat purring beside me, fell asleep in minutes.
Anyone would think that after the jam-packed and eventful couple of days I’d had, I’d sleep like a . . . well, like a well-fed yellow-striped cat. That was not to be. Maybe the dream was the result of River’s foray into the dream book. Maybe it was because of the vision in the black mirror. Maybe it was because of all those old newspaper clippings. Whatever the cause, it was one of those disturbing dreams that could linger in the mind for a very long time.
I was on a beach. The sand beneath my bare feet was cool and pebbly, not like the sand on Florida beaches. I heard the sound of waves and looked around, wondering where I was. The water was calm and blue, gently lapping at the shoreline. I paused and picked up a large white clamshell. It seemed important that I should keep it, that I should put it in my pocket. I looked down and realized that I was wearing a bathing suit. So I held the shell in my hand, palm up, looking at it intently as I walked. The scene seemed to change then. The sky grew cloudy, and the waves began to crash on the beach. I felt cold. I heard a voice. “Follow me, Lee!” Someone was far ahead, running. I had started to follow when I heard barking. A small gray dog stood in my path, teeth bared, growling. I dropped the shell and began to cry, because it had broken open. I picked it up and saw the sparkling pink diamond inside.
CHAPTER 11
My cheeks were still wet with tears when the buzz of the clock radio’s alarm woke me. I don’t usually remember dreams, but this one was very clear. I’d read somewhere once that you should write down a dream while it’s still fresh in your mind, before it fades away. I wiped my face on my sleeve and padded over to my desk, pulled a sheet of college-ruled paper and a pencil from the drawer, and began to write. Beach. Seashell. Growling dog. Diamond. Running.
It was certainly far too early to wake River up with dream questions. Our study was just a few doors down from my room, and I was pretty sure I’d find a dream book there. I had time to grab a book before I needed to get ready for my first day at the Tabby.
“Come on, O’Ryan,” I said, picking up a few more sheets of paper and the pencil. “Let’s go look up a dream.”
He stretched, opened his mouth wide for a long, luxurious yawn, hopped down from the bed, and followed me down the hall to the study. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined every wall, and a small computer rested incongruously on top of an old-fashioned wooden card catalog. Our books are arranged according to the Dewey decimal system, courtesy of my librarian aunt, so it took me only a couple of minutes to find what I was looking for. Number 154.63, 999 Dream Symbols.
I carried the book back to my room and tossed it onto the bed. Trying hard to resist the strong temptation to take just a tiny peek at the index, I opened the closet and picked out a pair of faded jeans and a yellow TABITHA TRUMBULL ACADEMY OF THE ARTS T-shirt. I’d gathered from my conversations with Mr. Pennington and Aunt Ibby that I’d probably be prowling around in thrift stores, at yard sales, and even in attics and cellars in my pursuit of cheap or free props, so casual dress seemed appropriate.
I dressed and sat on the edge of the bed to tie my sneakers, that darned book just lying there, begging to be read. I’d just flipped it open when O’Ryan appeared and, with one of his cat flops, completely covered the pages.
“Okay, okay,” I grumbled. “I’ll read later. Get up so I can make the bed.”
The cat jumped down and waited next to the door, watching me as I made the bed, tucked the book into my handbag, and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. Then the two of us followed the smell of coffee down to Aunt Ibby’s kitchen.
A quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, along with a to-go cup of coffee, and I was headed out the back door to the garage. I backed the Corvette out onto Oliver Street and headed for the Tabby. It felt good to have a destination. A job. A productive way to spend summer hours.
Traffic was heavy, normal for a popular summertime tourist destination like Salem. In front of the Witch Museum, tour buses discharged their cargoes of chattering, camera-toting visitors. Across Washington Square, inside the wrought-iron fence surrounding the Salem Common, the popcorn man welcomed a line of customers, while women with babies in strollers walked along tree-shaded paths or sat on long wooden benches, watching the bigger kids toss balls around.
When I pulled up in the parking lot beside the Tabby, I was surprised and pleased to see that my old parking space once again bore the RESERVED sign with my name on it. I parked and locked the ’Vette, and with one backward admiring glance at the blue beauty, I walked to the big glass front doors and stepped inside. Bypassing the elevator, I hurried up the broad staircase to the second floor and Mr. Pennington’s office.
“Ah, Ms. Barrett. What a pleasure to see you once again.” Mr. Pennington rubbed his hands together. “Ready to get to work?”
“Yes, sir. Looking forward to it.”
“Well, then, let us proceed.” He stood and motioned for me to follow him.
Although I’d taught classes in TV production at the Tabby the previous school year, other than a brief tour during orient
ation week, I’d never spent much time in the Theater Arts section of the sprawling building. A rudimentary stage had been built in the area which had long ago encompassed Trumbull’s furniture department. Sharing that space was Scenery, with rows of painted backdrops, piles of assorted doors and windows, along with what looked like a forest of artificial plants. Make-up occupied the former beauty shop; and Costume, complete with whole families of 1950s-era mannequins in various periods of dress, was housed in the old S&H Green Stamp redemption center.
“Come along, Ms. Barrett.” Mr. Pennington took my arm and led me into a square room with an ancient-looking freight elevator at one end. The walls were of rough bare wood. An irregular-shaped pile covered with sheets loomed like a lumpy ghost in one corner. A small desk with a straight chair stood in another corner. A gooseneck lamp and an empty in-out box rested on top of the desk. The director made a sweeping gesture. “Behold! Your new domain.”
“Uh, wow,” I said, at a momentary loss for words.
“You see,” he explained, “the freight elevator easily transports large items from the warehouse at the rear of the building up to this very useful space. So as you unload your truck—”
“My truck?” I interrupted. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pennington. I don’t have a truck.”
“Oh, we have one for you. Not to worry. As I was saying, as the various and sundry items you find on your search for properties are unloaded from your truck, they are sent up here via elevator, where they can be refurbished or painted as necessary.” He beamed. “Then, when all is in readiness for the performances, we’ll just send them down to the first floor and carry them into the student theater and place them on the stage.”
I nodded my understanding. The Tabby’s student theater was a beautiful little venue, accessible from the main floor of the school and also from a public Essex Street entrance. During the fairly short time the school had been open, the theater had gained a reputation for presenting some professional-quality plays.
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