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

by Carol J. Perry

  “Oh, we didn’t buy it,” Kelly said. “Pa inherited it from Mamaw Greene.”

  Aunt Ibby and I looked at one another.

  “Your grandmother owned it, Mr. Greene?” my aunt asked. “Was she a Salem girl?”

  He shrugged and went back to polishing glasses. “Don’t know where she got it. We didn’t even know about it until Mamaw was dyin’. Anyway, it’s ours now.”

  “Come on,” Kelly said. “I’ll tell you about the fireplace. It’s made mostly from native fieldstone.” Kelly tapped the massive mantelpiece. “And there’s a stone wall all around the property that’s made out of the same kind of rocks.”

  “It’s a wonderful old fireplace,” I said.

  “Want to see upstairs?” Kelly asked. “That’s where we live.”

  “Oh, we don’t want to intrude on your private space,” Aunt Ibby told her.

  “It’s okay. Isn’t it, Pa?” Kelly had already headed for the narrow wooden staircase at the far end of the long room.

  “Sure, honey. Take ’em up if you want to.”

  We followed Kelly up well-worn stair treads to the second story. Wide floorboards were accented by a colorful braided rug. Kelly pointed to a sofa upholstered in dark red.

  “That’s where Thom used to sleep when he stayed over. I’m so worried about him, Lee.” Tears appeared in her bright blue eyes. “I tried to call his cell all night. It’s just going to voicemail.”

  “We’re all concerned, Kelly,” I told her. “Primrose has a couple of New York phone numbers that might give us a lead, and I’m sure Pete will help us any way he can. Thom’s going to be okay,” I said, with more confidence than I felt.

  “That’s what Pa says.” She wiped her eyes, then straightened her shoulders. “But you want to know about the house.” She resumed her memorized lecture, explaining sills and lintels and soffits in detail as we moved from room to room. We finished up in the kitchen, where modern appliances shared space with a soapstone sink and a long maple harvest table.

  “Thanks so much for the tour, Kelly,” I said as we returned to the downstairs bar, where customers had begun to congregate. “I’m really impressed with your knowledge. You’ll be able to contribute a lot to our Salem history project, I’m sure.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said. “Wait a sec. I’ll get your sunglasses out of the lost and found closet.” She pulled open a tall closet door behind the bar and reached for a box on the top shelf. “Lots of glasses here, but yours are right on top.” She pulled them out and handed them to me.

  “Hey, Kel,” called one of the customers. “I’m missing one of my jackets. I’m thinking I could have left it here.”

  “What jacket was that, Ronnie?” Kelly asked. “There’s about a dozen of ’em in here.” She slid wire hangers along the closet pole. “What color is yours?”

  “Kind of brown,” said Ronnie. “An old quilted brown jacket.”

  “Nope. Nothing like that here,” she said. “You haven’t seen it, have you, Pa?”

  “Not that I can recall, honey,” said Joe Greene. “You must have left it someplace else, Ronnie.”

  We said our good-byes to the Greenes and hurried across the parking lot, neither of us saying a word until we were inside the Buick.

  “The brown jacket,” I said. “What do you think? Is it the one they found on Bill?”

  “A bit too much of a coincidence, isn’t it?” she said. “I think Pete and your newfound friend Chief Whaley would appreciate hearing about this. Even if it is just a coincidence, they might want to talk to this Ronnie person.”

  “I think I’ll call Pete now,” I said. “Maybe he can get here before Ronnie leaves.”

  “I hope this won’t cause Mr. Greene any trouble,” Aunt Ibby said. “Such a nice man. It’s the strangest thing, Maralee. I have a feeling that I’ve met him somewhere.”

  “I had the very same feeling the first time I saw him, too. But since I’ve never been to West Virginia, I’m sure we’ve never met.”

  Pete answered after a couple of rings. “Hi, Lee. What’s up?”

  I told him we’d picked up my sunglasses at Greene’s Tavern and what we’d just heard about a missing quilted brown jacket. “I thought you and the chief would want to know about it,” I said.

  “Good going,” he said. “Is the man still there?”

  “We’re still in the parking lot, and he hasn’t come out.”

  “Okay. I’m coming over there right now. You two go along home,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Are you going to bring the jacket?” I asked. “To see if he can identify it?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Now you two get going. No need for anyone to connect you to the cops showing up.”

  Aunt Ibby had already backed the Buick up. “We’re on our way,” I said. “Be sure to call and let us know what happens.”

  We did as Pete had suggested and went home. It wasn’t as though we didn’t have plenty to keep us occupied there. After a quick lunch of sandwiches, Aunt Ibby grabbed a tape measure and began measuring for draperies for one of the new third-floor rooms, while I headed for our bookshelf-lined study, in search of some more books about Salem. Each volume there was cataloged according to the Dewey decimal system, courtesy of my librarian aunt. I pulled open the drawer marked 900–GEOGRAPHY AND HISTORY in the old wooden card catalog cabinet and found a handful of Salem history titles.

  I selected half a dozen books, sat down behind Grandpa Forbes’s old desk, and began to read. O’Ryan had followed me and found a patch of afternoon sunshine on the Oriental rug. He proceeded to give himself a good wash, then settled down for a nap.

  The only sound was the ticking of the brass ship’s clock on the wall and the whisper of pages being turned as I refreshed my knowledge about the Witch House, the Ropes Mansion, and the House of the Seven Gables. A slim volume of black-and-white photos offered reminders of long-ago Salem buildings—the beautiful Paramount Theater, the old Gothic-style train depot, the original Parker Brothers game factory—all gone in the name of progress.

  “If it hadn’t been for the government grants, the Trumbull building would be gone, too,” I told the sleeping cat, who twitched his ears but kept his eyes closed. “I’ll be sure to thank Councilor Wilson for his part in getting the funding to save the place.”

  It was when O’Ryan jumped up onto the desk and performed his favorite cat flop on top of the book I was reading that I realized that he’d run out of sunny spots and that darkness was approaching.

  “Are you trying to tell me something?” I asked and was rewarded with a pink-tongued lick on my chin. “Okay. Enough reading.”

  Together the cat and I headed downstairs and rejoined Aunt Ibby.

  “It’s been an eventful day, hasn’t it?” she asked. “I had pizza delivered. Want to just relax and watch a movie on TV?”

  “Good idea,” I said. “But I’ll keep the phone handy. I can hardly wait to hear about what happened at the tavern when Pete went to find out about the brown jacket”

  It wasn’t long before the call came. Aunt Ibby hit the mute button in the middle of the first commercial as I picked up the phone.

  “Hello, Pete,” I said. “What happened? Did you go to the tavern?”

  “Sure did,” he said. “I told Joe I just happened to be in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d stop by to get your sunglasses.”

  “Good excuse.”

  “Kelly said you’d already come in and picked them up, so I said something like, ‘I guess people are always leaving things here,’ and right away this guy Ronnie spoke up, complaining about his lost brown jacket.”

  “So did you tell him you knew where it was?” I asked. “Did you bring it with you?”

  “Nope. I told him we have a ton of lost and found down at the station, which is true. I told him if he’d like to take a look, I’d give him a ride over and back.”

  “So did you?”

  “Yep. He came right along with me. I put the coat on a
hanger, wrinkled it up a little, and showed it to him. He ID’d it right away. Wanted to know where it was found.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him somebody found it down by the marina.”

  “Well,” I said, “that was kind of true, too.”

  “Of course it was. So I asked him if he could remember leaving it around there.”

  “Did he?”

  “Not exactly. But he did admit that he sometimes drank in several other bars in the neighborhood besides Greene’s Tavern,” Pete said. “Could have left it in any one of them.”

  “Oh, wow. That doesn’t help much, does it? Did you give it back to him?”

  “No. Couldn’t do that. I told him he’d have to talk to the chief because his jacket might be involved in a case we’re working on. He wasn’t too happy about that.”

  “You don’t think Ronnie had anything to do with what happened to Bill, do you?” I asked.

  Pete sighed. “At this point, I don’t know what to think, Lee. We’ll just keep the investigation going, no matter how long it takes. Bill got from the basement of the store to the park near the waterfront somehow, and now it’s our job to put all the pieces together.”

  Put all the pieces together. That’s what I’m trying to do, too. If I could find just a few pieces that fit into one another, I’d have a clue about what the picture on the front of the puzzle box was supposed to look like. So far, nothing.

  CHAPTER 24

  I dressed extra carefully for Monday’s class, not so much because an important representative of city hall was going to be there, but because Pete was. I decided to borrow the Buick, too.

  “I’ll bring your car back at noon,” I told Aunt Ibby. “Then, if you’ll give me a lift to the dealership, I’ll pick up the Corvette.”

  I skipped breakfast at home, deciding instead to grab a quick bite at the diner. I was nearly an hour early for the nine o’clock class when I parked the Buick in my assigned space. The anticipated arrival of Jonathan Wilson for the morning session had apparently inspired some special housecleaning efforts at the Tabby. The grand staircase, wide bannisters and all, shone from a recent buffing. The tables and chairs, the monitors, and the whiteboard in my classroom fairly sparkled. A new potted philodendron had appeared on my desk, and the giant patent leather pump glowed with reflected light from the ceiling fixtures.

  Assured that all was shipshape for the great man, I headed for the diner. The before-school crowd was there, mostly students and instructors. I looked around for my group.

  “Hey, Lee! Over here.” I recognized Primrose’s voice and spotted most of my class crowded into one booth. Therese, Sammy, and Kelly sat on one side, with Primrose and Duke on the other. Duke drew his lanky frame closer to the window, while Primrose moved to the center, patting the space next to her. “Come on. Sit with us.”

  “Big day, huh?” Duke said. “We get to listen to a big shot from city hall.”

  “Be nice,” I told him. “I’ve heard that he’s pretty much responsible for getting our funding.”

  “Maybe we can get a few extra bucks for our project.” Duke pretended to punch Primrose’s arm. “The lady has come up with some expensive ideas.”

  Primrose smiled and gave a thumbs-up. Gone were the miniskirt and the cleavage-revealing top. Primrose wore a gray pin-striped pantsuit, and her platinum hair was neatly pulled back with a silver barrette.

  “I bet he’ll be impressed,” Kelly said, “but I wish Thom was here with us.”

  I changed the subject. “What’s everybody having for breakfast? What’s good?”

  A chorus of good-natured replies broke the tension as the waitress appeared to take our orders, and before long the normal chatter between classmates resumed.

  By 8:45 a.m., breakfast was finished and we were gathered in the classroom, where a few more changes had been made. Mr. Pennington’s podium now stood in front of my desk, and two rows of vintage chairs were lined up, facing it.

  “I guess we’re supposed to sit here, huh?” Sammy sat in the first row, directly in front of the podium.

  “I hate these little seats,” Duke said, slouching into a chair in the back row, with a glance at his favorite, much larger chair behind the news desk.

  Primrose took the seat closest to the rear, and Therese and Kelly sat side by side next to Sammy. I looked toward the mezzanine entrance, expecting to see Pete at any minute. The new furniture arrangement was confusing. If I sat at my desk, I’d be behind the speaker’s back. Apparently, I was expected to sit in the audience with the others.

  I walked to the back of the room, where I’d have a clear view of the staircase and could watch for the arrival of our guest. It was a couple of minutes before nine when I spotted Pete bounding up the stairs, two at a time, looking more like a student than a detective. In jeans and a sport coat, with an open-collared white shirt, he fit right in with the students milling around on the first floor below. I was so busy looking at Pete, I completely missed the councilman’s entrance. Accompanied by Mr. Pennington, he had arrived via the elevator from the second floor.

  Jonathan Wilson was a good-looking man, and he undoubtedly knew it. His golden tan, in midwinter Massachusetts, had to be either sprayed on or of the tanning bed variety. He had good hair, brown and wavy, with the perfect amount of gray at the temples.

  Mr. Pennington went straight to the podium and gave an open-palmed gesture indicating that everyone should stand. Pete got there just in time to stand in the second row, next to Primrose, while I moved forward, right hand extended, to greet the councilman.

  His handshake was firm; his smile, genuine. It was easy to see why Salem, including my aunt Ibby, had voted for him.

  “Ms. Barrett,” he said. “Thank you so much for allowing me this opportunity to address your students. The creation of the Tabitha Trumbull Academy has been my dream for a long time. Inviting all of you to accompany me on what I think may be an exciting journey into Salem’s past is a rare privilege, indeed.”

  “You’re most welcome,” I said. “And we thank you for all you’ve done to save this beautiful building.”

  “My pleasure,” he said and then joined Mr. Pennington at the podium, passing Primrose on the way without so much as a sideways glance, while I slipped into the back row and stood beside Pete.

  “You may be seated,” the director said. “Let us proceed. With us this morning is a man who needs no introduction, city councilor Jonathan Wilson, whose considerable influence in Washington, D.C., was largely responsible for the creation of this school. His words will surely provide a noteworthy addition to our Salem history documentary—which, as you know, is required as a condition of the NEA grant he was instrumental in obtaining for us.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pennington.” A smiling Wilson lifted a slim briefcase, placed it on the podium, and lowered his voice. “What I have in this briefcase is the only copy of an artifact that, I believe, has not been photographed or duplicated in any way for many years. I intend to share it with you. I believe it to be a rough, hand-drawn map of some area of Salem.” He tapped the top of the briefcase. “It is my hope that by identifying the unmarked streets and roads on the map, we can figure out exactly the area it depicts, and then we may be able to recover valuable government property that has been lost for several decades.” His pause was dramatic. “If we can do it, your contribution to the great city of Salem, and, indeed, to the United States of America, may be significant.”

  Sammy raised his hand and voiced the obvious question. “Why don’t you just get a current map and match up the streets and roads on your map?”

  “Of course I’ve done that,” the councilman said. “And bearing in mind Salem’s extensive urban renewal projects, I know that the topography of the city has changed over the years.”

  “I don’t get it. Why are you going to show it to us?” Therese wanted to know. “Most of us can’t even find our way around Salem yet. How can we help?”

  “Because I have
reason to believe that the map is in some way connected to the Trumbull family. When I heard about your history project, I realized that the six of you could supply the extra eyes and ears this investigation needs.” His broad gesture took in all of us, and I realized that not knowing Thom was absent, he probably thought Pete was the sixth student.

  “If it’s that big a deal, why doesn’t the city just go for it?” Duke said.

  “Because,” said the councilman, “they don’t know anything about it yet.”

  Jonathan Wilson’s pronouncement was met with silence. Even the voluble Mr. Pennington didn’t speak. The thump-thump of dancing feet from the floor above was the only sound in the room, until Primrose stood and, hands on hips, demanded, “But you can’t do that! You can’t just turn over some kind of government document to this bunch of amateurs.”

  That shocked Mr. Pennington out of his momentary loss of words. “Miss McDonald! A little decorum, please. I’m sure Councilor Wilson will elucidate his position.”

  “Primrose,” I heard Pete whisper. “Cool it.”

  The blonde sat, her expression sullen, and I stood, prepared to apologize for the disruption.

  “Mr. Wilson,” I began, “I’m sure Primrose—Miss McDonald—meant no offense, but perhaps you could give us a little more detail before we sign on to anything. We need your assurance that this project is completely . . . well, legal.”

  “It is indeed, Ms. Barrett.” He pushed a small gold key into the briefcase’s lock, turned it, and opened the case a crack. “I came by the document honestly, I assure you. I found it, quite unexpectedly, while doing some routine research at city hall on maps of various Trumbull properties in the geographic information department. I made a copy of it, along with some other less important papers, not realizing what it might be until much later.” He opened the briefcase wider and removed a single sheet of paper.

  Sammy, who was closest to the podium, leaned so far forward, he nearly fell from his chair. The councilman lifted the paper above Sammy’s line of vision.

  “I’ll let all of you see it in just a moment. But please know that I’m telling you all this in confidence. If this is as important a find as I think it may be, and if the city benefits as much as I believe it will, you’ll all be heroes.”