Tails, You Lose (A Witch City Mystery Book 2)

by Carol J. Perry

The view of Salem from the top floor of the Tabby was, as Aunt Ibby had guessed, amazing. “Look,” River said, pointing. “You can see all the way to the ocean.”

  She was right. Salem doesn’t have a lot of really tall buildings, and most of the trees were leafless, so it seemed as though no matter in which direction we faced, there was a panoramic view of the city.

  “I think these dormer windows go all around the whole top floor,” I said. “I’ll bet every outside room has views like this.”

  “Want to try ’em all?” River pushed open a paneled door, and we entered what must have been a fabulous dining room. Three chandeliers, their crystal prisms still reflecting snippets of rainbow light in spite of cobwebs and layers of grime, were spaced along the center of the vaulted ceiling and tinkled slightly as we passed.

  “Let’s try to find Tabitha’s room,” River said. “I hope at least she had a nice view to look at, even if she couldn’t go outside.”

  “Hope so,” I said, and we pushed open another door at the end of the long room. “Better use the flashlight. It’s dark in here.”

  We hurried through several empty rooms, our footsteps and voices providing eerie echoes. At the end of a broad, carpeted hall we reached a set of ornately carved double doors.

  “This must be the ballroom,” I said. “Pete was up here and says it’s full of old furniture and stuff now.” I pulled both latches and threw the doors open.

  It was the highest ceilinged of all the rooms we’d seen so far, and even the hodgepodge of furniture couldn’t obscure its “once upon a time” elegance. There was a balcony overlooking the dance floor. Huge mirrors in gilded frames, which must have once reflected ladies in ball gowns and gentlemen in tuxedos, now displayed random piles of discarded furnishings—velvet-seated chairs juxtaposed with homely kitchen cabinets, a child’s rocking horse atop a satiny chaise longue. Bureaus, desks, lamps, bookcases, and hat racks loomed in precarious piles, chair and table legs sticking out at crazy angles. The general effect was unsettling. We slowly backed out of the place and closed the doors.

  “Let’s find Tabitha’s room and then go back downstairs,” I said.

  Several closed doors along the hallway opened into empty rooms—except for one. We’d found Tabitha Trumbull’s prison. We stood together in the doorway, neither of us crossing the threshold. Unlike the ballroom, with its unruly piles of furniture, Tabitha’s room was a picture of neatness, despite a fine layer of dust shrouding everything. River stepped onto the Oriental rug first, and I followed. There was a twin-size bed next to one of the windows, with a large framed photograph of President Franklin Roosevelt above the headboard. A marble-topped dresser displayed a wooden-handled hand mirror and a brush and comb.

  “Look,” River said. “It’s a corner room. She had windows on two sides.”

  Sheer once-white curtains hung in limp folds, partially covering the square-paned casements, and we hurried to see what view of Salem Tabitha had had. Two of her windows overlooked the stores and shops and restaurants that line Essex Street. The other two offered a similar vista to the one we’d seen from the parlor, and so she’d been able to see all the way to the ocean.

  River pointed. “There’s her piano, the one the tuxedo guy used to play.” She knelt and touched the wide pedals beneath the instrument. “I’ve never seen one of these before. Have you?”

  “Only in antiques shops,” I admitted.

  “Do you know how it works?” She pulled a long bench close to the keyboard and sat, hands poised, as though she was about to perform at a recital. “Do you push on these pedals?” As she spoke, she moved her feet up and down, and a slightly out-of-tune version of “I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm” issued from the old Pianola.

  “You’ve got it,” I told her. “Try pedaling a little faster.”

  River pretended to play, moving her fingers across the keys, smiling, and rocking her body from side to side in time to the music. “This is great! I want one. How does it know what song to play?”

  “I think there’s some kind of a roll behind that panel.” A wooden section with a raised design was just about where sheet music would be displayed. I slid it aside and revealed a perforated rolling cylinder. “See? There it is. When you pedal, the roll moves and those little holes pick out the notes.”

  “I love it,” she said.

  “I’m glad Tabitha had this to help her pass the time up here,” I said. “Especially after they didn’t let her go shopping anymore.”

  “She must have had some songs besides this one. Let’s find some more of these rolls.”

  “I know people keep sheet music in the piano bench. Maybe there are some piano rolls in this one.” I investigated the contents of the bench. Pushing aside some colorful song sheets, I exposed a row of the perforated rolls, each secured with a rubber band. “There’s a bunch of them here,” I said, “but they’re kind of tattered. I wonder what happened to the boxes.”

  “Let’s try this tall cabinet,” River suggested, tugging at the doors of an ornate armoire. “Oh, boy,” she said after opening it. “Jackpot!”

  Jackpot for sure. The armoire was packed full of neatly boxed piano rolls, top to bottom, side to side, each with its labeled end exposed. I put the song sheets back and closed the bench lid. Moving close to the armoire, I played the beam of the flashlight across the varicolored labels.

  “I know some of these songs, like ‘Heart and Soul,’” I said. “And look, there’s ‘Moonlight Serenade.’ But I never even heard of a lot of them. How about you?”

  “Uh-uh. Ever hear of ‘Cornfield Capers’? These names are a riot,” River said. “There must be hundreds of them. Maybe a thousand. Want me to play some more?”

  I glanced at my watch. “Sorry. We haven’t got time right now. Got to get back downstairs. My students will be showing up.”

  “I wish we didn’t have to leave.” She closed the piano lid while I secured the armoire doors. “Can we come back sometime? I want to see the rest of Tabitha’s stuff.”

  I wanted to see Tabitha’s stuff, too, very much. “Sure we can. And soon.”

  As we rode the elevator down to the first floor—the directory read BOOKS, HARDWARE, SMALL APPLIANCES, CHINA, River looked thoughtful. Just before the elevator door slid open, she said, “Lee, I hope you don’t think I’m too weird or anything, but when I started to play that song, did you notice anything, um, anything kind of strange in the room?”

  “Like the rocking chair rocking by itself ?”

  “You saw it, too?”

  “I did. But it was probably just the vibration from the piano, don’t you think?”

  “Sure. Maybe.”

  I walked with River to the door, then hurried back to the elevator for the short ride to my classroom. I discovered that none of the students had arrived yet. I was about to sit behind my desk when I realized that the key to the upstairs suite was still in my pocket. I hurried to Mr. Pennington’s office and knocked on his door.

  “Come in, come in, Ms. Barrett. My door is always open. Did you find your excursion into the building’s past enlightening?”

  “Really interesting,” I said. “I’d like to go back up there when I have more time.” I handed him the key.

  “Certainly, my dear. Absolutely.” He opened his top drawer and removed the round ring full of keys. He reattached the one I’d handed him, then placed the ring on his desk. “Did your attractive young friend enjoy it, too? What was her name? River?”

  “River North,” I told him. “She’d like to come back, too. She was particularly interested in the Pianola.”

  “A fascinating instrument,” he began and launched into a history of the player piano, but I barely heard his words. My attention was completely focused on the key ring. Particularly on two keys that were quite unlike the rest.

  Two long, dark-colored skeleton keys.

  My mind was buzzing as I hurried down the stairs.

  The same two keys I saw in the woman’s hand are on Mr. Pennin
gton’s key ring.

  Keys. An underground tunnel. A rocking chair. A dead handyman. Primrose McDonald’s breakfast rendezvous. And an old woman locked in an attic room. I realized I was beginning to frame my thoughts in a new way. I was actually thinking, WWND? What would Nancy do?

  I’d have to sort it out later. It was a couple of minutes before noon, and the sounds of arriving students echoed through the building. Footsteps on stairs, laughter, voices, buzzing phones, announcements over the loudspeaker—it must have sounded something like this when the doors of Trumbull’s Department Store opened every morning. All that was missing was a piano accompaniment.

  Sammy and Duke were the first to arrive, with Kelly, Thom and Therese close behind. Primrose hadn’t arrived yet.

  “Find yourselves a seat, everybody,” I said. “I hope you’ve all been thinking of more ideas for our documentary.”

  “Duke and I took a walk around the basement early this morning,” Sammy said, “and we’ve got some new ideas about the tunnel.”

  “Before we got tossed out by the cops,” Duke said with a smirk. “Guess we weren’t supposed to be down there.”

  “Yeah,” said Kelly. “What part of no admittance don’t you guys understand?”

  Duke and Sammy exchanged amused glances.

  “We showed the guard our student IDs, and Duke showed him a ten-dollar bill, and we were in,” Sammy said.

  “Don’t try that again, you two,” I warned. “The security man lost his job, and you’ve managed to tick off the chief of police.”

  They’d managed to tick me off, too, and it showed in my voice. Both men looked down at their feet, but whether that meant repentance or just a way to hide their smiles, I couldn’t tell.

  Primrose dashed into the room in a whirl of faux leopard, black velvet, fishnet hose, and the Manolo Blahnik boots. “Sorry I’m late, kids. Did I miss anything important?”

  “Not really,” I said, the trace of annoyance still in my voice. “Take a seat.”

  “You missed the part where Sammy and Duke almost got arrested,” Kelly said.

  “No shit? Tell me about it.” Primrose faced Sammy.

  “What happened?”

  “No big deal,” Sammy said. “We didn’t obey the sign. Went down in the basement, and the cops chased us out.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Primrose looked disappointed.

  Therese raised her hand. “Do you want me to take notes again?”

  “That would be a big help. I’ve transcribed all the notes from yesterday.” I placed the laptop in front of her. “Let’s get started.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Ideas, anybody?”

  Silence.

  Kelly frowned. “Come on, you guys. Therese and I thought up dozens last night, while we were helping in the bar.”

  Primrose spoke up. “What happened, Thom? You took the night off and let the girls pick up all those tips?”

  Thom shrugged. “Duke said it was about time I relaxed a little. He took Sammy and me out to dinner. Took us to breakfast today, too.”

  “Really? How nice.” Unsmiling, I stood in front of the whiteboard, picked up a marker, then printed a number one. “Let’s get down to business. Who’s first?”

  “How about this?” Kelly asked. “I heard that the Trumbulls used to live on the top floor. Let’s make a set that looks like Tabitha’s room. One of us dresses up like Tabitha, and she tells about living up there back then.”

  “I like it, Kelly,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I got to see Tabitha’s room this morning. I’ll try to arrange for all of you to see it soon.” I wrote, “Reenactment” on the board, while Therese tapped on the laptop.

  “Here’s another one,” Therese offered. “Let’s see if we can get a witch, or even a coven, to come and talk to us about today’s witches in Salem.”

  “I’ll work on that one.” I wrote, “Witch visit” for number two. I looked from Thom to Sammy to Duke. “Any ideas from the men?”

  “I’ve got an idea, ma’am,” Duke said, sounding so John Wayne-ish, I almost expected him to call me “pilgrim.” “How about this? We do a real investigation into what the Trumbulls used that tunnel for.” He lowered his voice and looked around the table. “They must have used it, ’cause the trapdoor ain’t no hundred years old, like they’re sayin’ the tunnel is.”

  “Nope,” Sammy said. “That sucker was put in long after that. And they must have used it for something kind of small, because the entrance panel is only about four feet high.”

  “Right,” said Duke. “But at some time they used tunnels for big stuff.”

  Therese looked up and stopped typing. “How do you know?”

  Sammy answered, “The tunnel entrance, the old one, is so tall that Duke here could stand up in it.”

  It was my turn to ask. “How do you know that?”

  Duke sounded proud of himself. “Tried it.”

  “Are you nuts?” I felt my redhead’s temper beginning to flare, and for a moment I forgot my teacher status. “Don’t you two dopes realize it might be a crime scene? You actually pushed the button and opened the door?”

  It was Thom’s turn to confuse things even more. “They didn’t actually go in,” he said. “Just sort of measured the entrance.”

  “You too? You were in on this?”

  “I didn’t go downstairs. It was my job to keep the guard busy. I kinda used to date him.” He flashed his gorgeous model smile in my direction. “I took off through the diner when I saw the cops pull up out front. We thought you’d be happy about it. Investigative reporting, just like on TV.”

  I put down the marker and sat, looking around the table at each of them. “Damn it. I’m probably going to have to tell somebody what you’ve done. One of the men who caught you walking around down there is a federal agent.”

  “No kidding?” Primrose leaned forward, exposing cleavage. “A Fed? Did you get his name?”

  “Friedrich,” I said. “Why? What difference does it make?”

  “No difference,” she said. “Just nosy, I guess.”

  “Are you really going to tell on them?” Kelly wanted to know.

  “I’ll have to tell Mr. Pennington,” I said, hoping this wouldn’t get half my class expelled.

  “Shall I put it in the notes, though?” Therese asked. “About what the Trumbulls could have used the tunnel for? It’s a good idea, even if they shouldn’t have gone down there.”

  “Put it down,” I said, “but any more investigative reporting has to be okayed by me from now on. Everybody got that?”

  Heads nodded. I wrote “Trumbulls’ tunnel use” at number three on the whiteboard. “How about you, Primrose? Ideas?”

  “No, but Sammy and Therese have the best voices, so they could do the narration.”

  “Voice-over,” I said. “Good idea.”

  I wrote “Therese/Sammy—voice-over.” “Duke?” I asked the big man. “Any preference for what you’d like to do for the project?”

  “I’ve done a little TV—commercials and bit parts. I think I’d like to learn about ‘behind the camera’ work. Maybe like writing or directing, you know?” He had dropped the phony Western tough guy act for the moment and sounded sincere.

  “I think we’re off to a good start,” I said. “Therese, as soon as you’ve finished adding today’s ideas to the ones we came up with yesterday, why don’t you all get to work on putting them into logical order for our documentary.”

  “We’ll start a storyboard,” Duke said.

  “Exactly. And, Primrose, you’ve expressed an interest in writing, so maybe you can begin a loose outline of the Trumbulls’ story, using the ideas we have so far.”

  “You’re going to help us, aren’t you?” Kelly sounded concerned.

  “I’ll be right here at my desk if you need me,” I said. “I have a little paperwork to do. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

  I left them at the round table and sat down at my desk. Still in WWND mode, I planned to write down all t
he puzzle pieces I had so far on index cards. Then, like my students, I’d try to put the information into a logical sequence. I pulled a stack of index cards from my purse and began to write.

  1. Bill Sullivan falls into the hole in the tunnel floor.

  2. There’s a second tunnel under the original one. Why?

  3. How did he get to the park?

  4. Does Primrose McDonald’s connection to Jonathan Wilson mean anything?

  5. Why is the federal government interested in Trumbull’s basement?

  6. Can Megan the witch shed any light on this?

  7. Why is the vision showing me two keys?

  8. Why do they look like the keys on Pennington’s key ring?

  9. Why did Tabitha tell Megan that Mary Alice has the keys if Mary Alice is dead?

  I stopped writing and shuffled the cards.

  They don’t make any sense, no matter how I arrange them. Not yet.

  If I looked into the shoe again, would the woman still be there? Would she tell me what the keys mean if I didn’t stop the picture?

  I spun the chair around. I was at eye level with the toe of the shoe. Almost immediately the swirling colors and the points of light appeared. The woman was there, her back to me, exactly as she’d looked when she turned and walked away when I first saw her.

  “Don’t go away,” I whispered. She turned, smiled, and held the keys aloft. She walked, or floated, through a wide brick archway. I felt as though I was following her. I knew that we’d entered the tunnel, not through the moving panel in the basement, but through the entrance as it must have been long ago.

  She turned, raising the keys over her head. With her other hand, she beckoned me to follow her deeper into the tunnel. As I watched, the figure grew smaller and smaller, until it finally turned a corner, still beckoning, and disappeared. It was only then that I noticed the shadowy figure of a cat following close behind her.

  “Lee? Ms. Barrett? You okay?” Kelly’s gentle tap on my shoulder startled me. Eyes still focused on the shoe, I watched as the vision disappeared as cleanly as if it had been clicked off by a remote control.

  “What? Oh, Kelly. I’m sorry. Guess I was . . . um . . . daydreaming. Woolgathering, my aunt Ibby calls it. How’s the storyboard coming?”