“And she went away when you wanted her to?”
“Turned her back and disappeared.”
“Good,” she said. “If you’re wise, you’ll forget about her and her keys. Good night, Maralee.” She clicked the TV on, then switched the channel to the Rose Bowl game.
I knew we’d have to talk about my vision and River’s card interpretation eventually, but for now I was free to hop into bed with my cat and wonder about the woman with two keys. I climbed the front stairs and tiptoed past the pink guest room, where O’Ryan paused, sniffing along the sill, and then together we went into my room.
I took a shower and got into pajamas. O’Ryan was comfortably curled up on the foot of the bed. I put my phone on the bedside table so I could reach it quickly in case Pete called to say good night. After moving my laptop from the desk to the bed, I plumped up my pillows, leaned back, and made a quick transcription of the notes, paper napkins and all, from our brainstorming session. I glanced at the TV, then at the books beside me. I wasn’t in the mood for watching football or for reading about criminology or girl detective mystery solving, but I wasn’t ready for sleep, either.
This year is off to a crazy start.
The happenings of the day tumbled through my mind, from the opening ceremony to the evacuation of the Tabby to the impromptu class at Greene’s Tavern and finally to River’s message about Moon Mother and my unwelcome gazing gift. And in the middle of it all was the discovery of an underground maze of tunnels, where our old friend Bill Sullivan had probably died.
The whole thing—Bill’s death, the tunnels under Salem, the Moon Mother card, the vision in the shoe—seemed like pieces of a gigantic puzzle. I smiled when I remembered what that famous girl detective had said about puzzles.
Keep on working on the case until the pieces fit together.
“That’s easy for you to say, Nancy,” I muttered and pulled the covers up. O’Ryan turned, looked at me with obvious indifference, and proceeded to wash his face.
“Want to see what River’s doing on TV tonight?” I asked the cat. “She says I need to watch her show more often.” I clicked the set on and relaxed against the pile of pillows as my friend’s smiling face appeared on the big screen. River’s show, Tarot Time with River North, used the same set I’d had for my old call-in psychic show, but with an updated look. The midnight-blue Nightshades background, with its sparkling stars and planets, had been replaced by a floor-to-ceiling tapestry depicting the various tarot signs.
River, looking gorgeous in a silver, long-sleeved gown, sat in an ornate fan-backed rattan chair next to a round table, where she arranged the tarot cards for each caller. I had no intention of watching the movie—Grave of the Vampire—but it was interesting to listen to my friend as she interacted with her phone-in fans. She’d just begun explaining to a woman that the dark-haired and domineering young man who had recently come into her life might lead her to make a speculative investment, when my phone chimed.
I hit the mute button on the TV control and said, “Hi there” to Pete.
“Am I calling too late? Were you asleep?” His voice was warm, concerned, and very sexy.
“Nope. Wide awake. You still working?”
“No. I’m home in my apartment, trying to get warm. I spent the afternoon down in the underworld. Jesus. It’s cold and dark down there. I’ll be glad when they get some lights strung up so we can see what we’re doing. Even then we won’t be able to work at night. It’s like a deep freeze once the sun goes down.”
“Oh, Pete. I’m sorry. Have you learned any more about what happened to Bill?”
“Guess there’s no harm in telling you. It’ll all be in the papers soon enough,” he said. “Bill fell into the tunnel, that’s for sure. A little spot of his blood soaked into the ground where he landed.”
“Then how did he get to the park?”
“Looks as though he was dragged through the tunnel for quite a way.”
“All the way to the park?”
“Don’t know yet. About a half mile in the damn thing was blocked with about a ton of rocks and dirt.”
I tried to picture it. “You mean the tunnel collapsed somehow?”
“Not just somehow. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to hide the way they got Bill out of there.”
It was a disturbing thought. I tried to erase the mental picture of Bill being dragged through that cold, dark place. By whom? Or what?
“But why?” I said. “He fell into the hole by accident. Why would somebody want to cover it up?”
Pete wasn’t about to answer any more questions.
“Look, Lee . . .” The sexy voice was back. “Since we didn’t get to go to supper, how about an early breakfast tomorrow morning? Pick you up at six?”
“I’d love to,” I told him. “Primrose has her car, so she can leave on her own.”
“Primrose? Nobody is named Primrose anymore.”
“She is.”
He laughed. “See you at six, then. And, Lee?”
“Yes?”
“I miss you. Good night.”
“I miss you, too. Good night.” I turned off the TV, set my alarm for five thirty, patted O’Ryan, turned out the light, and closed my eyes.
I’d barely begun to doze off when my eyes flew open.
Someone had moved Bill’s body. Who would be wandering around in a cold, dark underground tunnel on Christmas night ? And why ?
CHAPTER 11
I woke up before the alarm sounded. After dressing quickly, I dashed off a note to Primrose telling her where I’d gone, then tiptoed across the hall and slipped it under her door. I picked up my laptop and followed O’Ryan downstairs, where the unmistakable smell of fresh coffee greeted us.
“Aunt Ibby? What are you doing awake so early? Is everything all right?”
My aunt looked up from her Boston Globe, smiled, and lifted her coffee mug in salute. “I might ask the same of you. And your friend Primrose was up and gone before either of us. What’s going on? Am I missing something?”
“Primrose has left already?”
“Yes. I heard her car start. That’s what woke me, not that I mind. I like mornings.” She handed me an envelope. “She left a note for you.”
I poured myself some coffee. “I’m having an early breakfast with Pete. That’s why I’m up.” I opened the pink envelope.
Hi, Lee. Many thanks to you and Miss Russell for the wonderful dinner and the beautiful room. Would you please give me a call and let me know whether we have class at school today or not? Thanks again.
That was all. It was signed “Primrose McDonald,” and she’d included her cell number.
I handed the note to Aunt Ibby. “What do you think about this?”
“Interesting woman,” my aunt said. “It’s a perfectly proper bread-and-butter letter, you know.”
“I’m sure it is. But she doesn’t say a word about why she’s leaving the house at . . . what? Four o’clock in the morning?”
Aunt Ibby shrugged. “Approximately. But it’s none of our business where she goes or what time she goes there, is it? What about school? Will you hold a class today?”
“I don’t know yet. Pete seems to think the Tabby will be open in spite of the investigation.” I repeated what Pete had told me about Bill’s body being dragged through the tunnel. “He says it will be in the papers. Did you see anything in the Globe?”
“Not exactly. There’s a piece about the old tunnels under Salem, and some information about some similar tunnels under Boston. They say that there’s an ongoing investigation about a man disappearing from Trumbull’s basement, but that the police haven’t established a definite connection to the tunnel.”
“They have now,” I said. “Blood evidence. Guess it’ll be in the Salem News.”
“It’s all so sad, isn’t it?” she said. “I’ll call Mrs. Sullivan today and see if they’ve made funeral arrangements yet. And, Maralee, I’m going over to the library to check the vertical files where they have t
he primary source information on the Trumbulls. Original letters, diaries, and notebooks and such.”
“Awesome! That’ll be a big help with our documentary project. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Glad if I can contribute anything,” she said, “but I admit I’m satisfying my own curiosity about that family.”
“How so?”
“Well, there seems to be more than a little activity that one might call outside the law connected to the Trumbulls.”
“Criminal activity? Besides some old-time bootlegging ? I always thought the Trumbulls were the pillars of Salem society.”
“Oh, no doubt some of them were. I could be all wet about this. But pillars of society have many ways of covering up for their black sheep.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
“Maybe I’m just a nosy old woman,” she said, “but a little research couldn’t hurt, and it’s certainly interesting.”
“It does sound fascinating. But are there any Trumbulls around who might not like our digging around in their past?”
“Don’t think so. The Trumbull boys have both passed. And the daughter died years ago. Oliver too.”
I glanced at the clock. “I’d better get going. Pete will be here in a few minutes. I’ll check back with you when I know what’s going on at school.”
Still not sure whether I’d be conducting a regular class at the Tabby or we’d be meeting at Greene’s Tavern again, I took along my laptop for note taking, sure it would be more efficient than the paper napkin method. I stood by the front door, watching for Pete. O’Ryan joined me, and as usual, the cat was the first to spot the Crown Vic rounding the corner of Winter Street and let me know with a satisfied “mrrup” and a soft-pawed tap on my boot.
I zipped up my jacket, pulled a woolen cap down over my ears, and grabbing my laptop, I stepped out into the early morning cold and hurried down the steps to the curb. I slid into the passenger seat, leaned across the police computer between the seats for a quick good morning kiss, fastened my seat belt, and we were off.
“Ready for work, I see.” Pete noted the laptop. “Is the school officially open again?”
“I was going to ask you that. I haven’t heard anything from Mr. Pennington one way or the other.”
“The chief gave him the all clear late last night. Looks like we’ll be digging around in the basement for a while, but upstairs is okay. Guess the city council pulled a few strings to keep the taxpayers happy.”
“I’ll go over there after breakfast, then, and see what’s going on.”
“Breakfast first. How hungry are you?”
“My aunt reminds me every morning that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Feed me.”
He smiled his great smile. “That’s one of the things I love about you! Most women would say, ‘I’m on a diet,’ or ‘I’ll just have a piece of toast.’ Not you!” He laughed. “‘Feed me,’ she says.”
Did he just say the L word?
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“New place. They open at four a.m.”
“No kidding. Who goes there so early?”
“You’d be surprised. Commercial fishermen on their way out. Third-shift factory workers on the way home. Taxi drivers. Nurses. You’ll see.”
We drove down some of Salem’s twisty one-way streets and parked in a small lot next to a nondescript, gray, two-story house with a neon OPEN sign in the front window. The place was furnished with high-backed booths and plain wooden tables, and most of them were filled. There was a low hum of conversation, a clatter of plates and silverware, and the good breakfast smells of coffee and bacon. We slid into a booth near the back of the room, and a smiling gray-haired waitress handed us plastic-covered menus.
“Coffee?”
We both nodded, and brimming white mugs appeared almost instantly. We each ordered scrambled eggs, sausage, home fries, and toast. Pete was right about the variety of customers. I glanced around the room and saw nurses in scrubs, lobstermen in oilskins and white rubber boots, kids in hockey sweaters, who must have had early morning practice. With jackets unzipped and coffee mugs in hand, we began to catch each other up on the happenings of the days since we’d last been together.
“So do I understand that you actually held your class in a barroom?”
“That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? But it really was a logical choice. We all wanted to get in out of the cold and to find a TV. Mr. Greene made us feel welcome. It’s a pretty nice place. Maybe we could go there sometime. You and me.”
“Okay. We will. I’m having a hard time picturing it as a classroom, though. Did you use textbooks or what?”
“No books. We just talked about what topic we’ll choose for the documentary we’ll make. It has to have something to do with Salem history.”
“That’s a pretty big field.”
“We decided on the story of Trumbull’s Department Store from the time it opened until it became a school. What do you think of that?”
“I like it. That covers most of a century, right?”
“It does. Now it’s your turn. Tell me what you’ve been doing. Besides being in a big dark hole.”
Our food arrived, and our mugs were refilled. “My New Year’s Eve wasn’t any fun,” Pete said. “Just reading drunks their rights, mostly.”
“Guess you haven’t found the three carol-singing drunks you were looking for.”
He laughed shortly. “Nope. Still looking. How was your New Year’s Eve?”
“TV. Times Square. Champagne toast with Aunt Ibby. O’Ryan and I were in bed by twelve fifteen.”
“Whoopee.”
“I know. Maybe we’re getting old.”
We finished our breakfasts, and while Pete went to the front cash register to pay the check, I zipped my jacket, gathered up my purse, and slid out of the booth. I glanced around to be sure we hadn’t dropped anything. That was when I noticed the Manolo Blahnik boots on the woman in the booth behind us.
I knew immediately that the feet in those gorgeous boots belonged to Primrose McDonald. Her back was to me. The great legs were covered by dark blue sweatpants. A gray hoodie covered most of the platinum hair. The man seated across from her leaned forward, his eyes on her face, speaking in tones too low for me to hear. I was pretty sure they hadn’t noticed me, and I hurried to catch up to Pete.
Why is Primrose having an early breakfast with city councilor Jonathan Wilson?
I didn’t say anything to Pete about what I’d just seen. True, it was a bit strange, but as Aunt Ibby had reminded me, it was none of my business where the woman went or who she met when she got there.
It wasn’t quite eight o’clock when Pete dropped me off in front of the Tabby.
“Want me to wait until I’m sure you’re safely inside?”
I tucked my laptop under one arm and waved with the other. “Nope. I’m fine. If they don’t let me in, I’ll hang out in the diner until they open the doors. Thanks for breakfast.”
“I’ll call you later,” he said. “I have the night off. Maybe we can do something.”
“Great. See you then.”
I had no trouble getting into the school. I tapped on one of the glass doors, showed my instructor’s ID to a burly man wearing a security badge, and walked right in.
“Is Mr. Pennington around?” I asked.
“The guy who runs the place? Yeah. He’s downstairs with a couple of gents who look like big shots. One of ’em’s a cop.” He pointed to the basement door, where the discreet EMPLOYEES ONLY plaque had once again been replaced with a small hand-lettered NO ADMITTANCE sign.
“I need to talk to Mr. Pennington for a just a minute,” I said. “Is it okay if I go down?”
He shrugged. “Okay by me. That badge says you work here.”
I opened the door and started down the steep staircase. The space below was well lit, and the hum of conversation echoed in the huge empty room below. I paused after taking just a few steps. The conversation below
sounded confrontational, and I didn’t want to walk in on a dispute.
“Listen, Pennington, you and the rest of your people are going to have to do exactly as we say, or I swear, I’ll shut this place down.” The man’s tone was angry; the voice familiar. “I came in early this morning and found a couple of your so-called students wandering around down here. Apparently, your security guard thinks anyone with a school ID has the run of the place.”
“I apologize for that,” I heard the director say. “I’ll reprimand both young men. I’m sure they were just curious. Meant no harm.” He cleared his voice. “Let’s not make a federal case out of it.”
Another man spoke. “Look here, Pennington,” he growled. “What you don’t seem to understand is that it is a federal case. Now, you keep everybody out of here. That means everybody. Including you. Do I make myself clear?”
I began to back up. My question about school opening time could wait. I’d almost reached the door when my phone chimed. I grabbed it and turned it off. Too late. The conversation ceased abruptly, and all three men moved to the foot of the stairs.
“Ms. Barrett? Is that you?” Mr. Pennington shielded his eyes with one hand and peered up to where I stood in the shadows.
“Who is it this time? Another curious student? Come down here, ma’am, and identify yourself.” The man’s voice was firm.
Making my way down the stairs seemed to take forever, like one of those slow-motion shots on TV. The room below was silent, and the three men stood looking up at me. I recognized the tallest one as Salem police chief Tom Whaley.
Uh-oh. Chief Whaley and I have crossed paths before, and he’s definitely not one of my fans.
“So. Ms. Barrett.” His look was stern and disapproving. “Why am I not surprised to see you?”
Mr. Pennington looked from the chief to me and back. “You know one another? How nice.” He quickly introduced me to the other man, a serious-looking fellow wearing a black suit. “Mr. Friedrich is here to help with the local investigation of that poor man who fell into the hole.”
Mr. Friedrich is here from where to help with the investigation? What do they mean, it’s a federal case?
Tails, You Lose (A Witch City Mystery Book 2) Page 8
