“Ibby, my dear! How wonderful to see you on this lovely day.” He nodded in my direction. “Ms. Barrett, thank you for coming, and for bringing your delightful aunt.”
The two exchanged a fast hug with over-the-shoulder air kisses, and then the three of us proceeded to the newly refurbished entrance to the downstairs studio. The once-unadorned entry to the old store’s basement now featured white-painted Doric columns flanking double glass doors. The overhead sign read: THE JONATHAN WILSON STUDIO. It had been named for the late city councilor.
“After you, dear ladies,” Mr. Pennington stood to one side and my aunt stepped onto a broad carpeted landing. “I’m sure you’ll find the area much changed from the last time you saw it. Behold!” He gestured dramatically with both arms to the room below. Mr. Pennington was once a Shakespearean actor and hasn’t forgotten it, or allowed anyone else to forget it either. I hesitated before following my aunt. My memory of that basement was the stuff of nightmares. I peered over her shoulder and realized immediately that the entire place had been completely transformed, without the slightest hint of the dark and terrifying place it had once been. So it was with a sense of grateful relief that I grasped the smooth wooden railing and walked down the stairway.
The tour of the new facility took nearly an hour. Mr. Pennington described in detail each piece of state-of-the-art sound and lighting equipment. It was impressive and he was justifiably proud of all of it. “And you, Ms. Barrett, with your class project on Salem history last year, can take a great deal of credit for this amazing transformation,” he said as we returned to the school lobby. “Without the generous government grant your class earned, none of this would have been possible.”
I mumbled something modest, but I really was proud of my part in this much-needed addition to the school. “I hope this year’s class will be able to do something just as helpful,” I told him.
My aunt and I expressed our thanks for the tour and our admiration for the project as a whole. I excused myself for a few minutes so that I could run up to the mezzanine floor and take a look at my classroom area, where the old store’s shoe department had once been. Some of the old décor had been retained. A vintage cutout sign featuring Buster Brown and his dog, Tige, shared space with a row of textbooks. A green screen, along with an enormous new TV monitor, dwarfed a neon wall piece advertising Poll-Parrot shoes, and the original Thonet bentwood chairs merged nicely with starkly modern student workstations.
“I’m really looking forward to opening day,” I told Mr. Pennington when I returned to the main floor. “Everything looks fine. The students are going to be excited to be here, I’m sure.” I moved to one side and looked out the big show window, giving the director and my aunt a bit of privacy for their good-byes. The crowd we’d noticed earlier had diminished, and I was relieved to see that the bearded man was no longer posing in front of beautiful bronzed Elizabeth Montgomery.
That sense of relief didn’t last long. Boris Medvedev, still smiling, now stood on the curb just outside of the Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts. Seeing him at such close range allowed me to realize how very tall, how very powerfully built, the man was, and this time the smile was directed at me. My first instinct was to turn away, to close my eyes, to hide, figuratively, under the covers from the bogeyman. But I didn’t. I returned the stare, but not the smile.
As I watched, he slowly lifted a huge right hand to his throat, resting beefy fingers on a gold-chain necklace. He pulled it away from his black shirt collar and, still smiling, revealed the neatly spaced row of yellowed, pointed teeth.
I took an involuntary step back. “Aunt Ibby!” The words came out in a harsh whisper. “It’s him.”
“What? Who? Are you all right?” She grasped my hand.
“Ms. Barrett, you’ve gone quite pale,” Mr. Pennington said. “I’ll fetch a bottle of water.” He hurried away in the direction of the cafeteria.
I clung tightly to my aunt’s hand, too tightly for her comfort probably, and pointed to the window. “He’s looking right at me.”
She looked where I pointed, then back at me. Her voice was gentle. “Who’s looking at you, dear heart? Who do you see?”
I blinked, then shielded my eyes with my free hand. There was no tall, frightening, smiling man on the Tabby’s sidewalk—just the normal, late-afternoon parade of mothers pushing strollers, laughing teenagers enjoying the last days of summer vacation, dog walkers—not a bogeyman in sight.
“I saw . . . I thought I saw Boris Medvedev. He was right there. Standing on the curb.” I turned away from the window. “He showed me the necklace—the necklace with real bear’s teeth on it. And he smiled.” I hadn’t yet let go of her hand. “It was a terrible smile.”
Mr. Pennington rushed across the main floor with the promised bottle of water. “Here you are. Perhaps you should sit down. Ibby says you walked here. Shall I call a cab for you?”
“No need for that,” I said, my heart still pounding and my voice still not sounding quite right.
“Yes, Rupert. Please do call a cab for us.” My aunt’s tone didn’t invite argument.
Aunt Ibby and I waited in one of several informal furniture groupings situated at the edges of the main floor. Comfortable leather chairs surrounded a low table. The attractive spaces, designed for small groups of students, were another new addition to the Tabby. I sipped cold water gratefully and felt my body returning to its normal rhythms.
“Feeling better?” she asked.
“Much. Sorry for all the drama, but he really frightened me.” I looked toward the front window again. “I don’t see how he disappeared so fast though. You didn’t see him?”
She shook her head. “Maralee, I looked as soon as you spoke. There was no one there. Have you considered the possibility that this was one of your . . . visions?”
I hadn’t. There had been no twinkling lights. No swirling colors. No warning. I didn’t answer her question. Couldn’t. The vision—if that’s what it was—had been so clearly defined, so solid, that it was difficult for me to believe that it wasn’t real.
The taxi pulled up in front of the building. Mr. Pennington accompanied us to the waiting vehicle, handing me into the backseat as though I was made of glass. Then he ran around to the other side to hold the door for Aunt Ibby. “Be well, Ms. Barrett,” he said. “Ibby, I’ll telephone you tomorrow to firm up our arrangement for Friday evening.”
“I’ll look forward to it, Rupert,” she said, and we sped away toward Winter Street. It was a quiet ride. I didn’t want to discuss the possible vision in front of the driver, and at that point I didn’t know what to think or say about it anyway. I was relieved and happy when my aunt and I together climbed the front steps to the safety and comfort of home. O’Ryan, as usual, waited just inside the front door to deliver his enthusiastic welcome.
“Coffee?” she said as soon as we’d hung up our jackets.
“Of course.” I followed her to the kitchen.
She began the soothing, familiar coffee making ritual. Cold water. Paper filter. Three measures of freshly ground beans. “Want to tell me about it?” She pushed a button and the heartening scent began to fill the room. Tight muscles relaxed as my aunt bustled about her kitchen, selecting my favorite mug, selecting a big round cookie from the old cookie jar. There’s no place like home, I thought. There’s no place like home.
“Yes, I do.” I closed my eyes, concentrating on the memory, and haltingly told her how the man had suddenly appeared on the curb in front of the window where I stood looking out. “I hadn’t realized how big he is—how threatening he is—until I saw him close up like that.”
“You said something about bear’s teeth.”
I told her about the wrestler’s necklace of teeth, and how Pete and I agreed that it was too similar to the garrote with its pointed triangles to be a coincidence. “He pulled that necklace out of his shirt. Pointed at it. He wanted me to see it.”
“Do you still think that what you saw was real, not a v
ision, a reflection in the glass?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It seemed so real. But if it was him, how did he disappear like that? He was there one second and gone the next. If it was a vision, why didn’t I get any warning? The lights. The swirling colors.”
She poured our coffees. “It seems to me, Maralee, that this ‘gift’ of yours is evolving as time passes. At first you only saw things in shiny black surfaces, remember?”
I nodded. “Yes. Then it was mirrors. Then silver.”
“The one you saw at the McKennas’. The terrible bear. That was in the glass front of a cabinet. Plain glass. Like the window of the school.”
She was right. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or more frightened. If it was a vision, then Boris Medvedev had not actually sought me out, had not shown me the garrotelike necklace. But if I’d really seen him there on the Tabby’s sidewalk, if he’d really been there, smiling his evil smile, deliberately trying to frighten me, what would his next move be? If the image of the old wrestler was a product of my scrying ability, and not an actual threat, I needed to figure out what the vision was trying to tell me. I felt much better after my talk with my aunt, and as O’Ryan and I made our way up the front stairs to my apartment, I thought about who would be the best person to help me decipher it. I dialed River’s number the minute I stepped into my own kitchen.
“Sure, I can come over. Another vision, huh? I’ll read the cards while you tell me about it, then maybe we can figure out what it means.” I could tell that River was excited by the prospect of understanding the significance of what I’d seen, no matter how scary it was.
* * *
It didn’t take long for her to arrive. I’d become so accustomed lately to River wearing her glitzy Tarot Time regalia that seeing her at my living-room door, sans makeup, in sweats and sneakers, with her long, black hair in a ponytail, made me smile. “Wow. You look like a cute twelve-year-old.”
“I know. I’m on my way to the gym. When I’m being the real me, like now, sometimes I feel as if I’m in disguise. I know I can walk right past people who watch me on TV and they never connect me with sexpot late-show River.”
“Wouldn’t sexpot late-show River be the disguise then?”
She put the ever-present deck of tarot cards on the coffee table, along with a paperback copy of A Dream Dictionary for Dummies, and sat in the zebra print wing chair. O’Ryan hopped up into her lap. He loves River. “Maybe. Sometimes I even mix the two of me up.”
“That must be how Stasia Novikova feels,” I said, sitting on the couch. “Part smart, articulate woman, who speaks at least two languages, and part monosyllabic, crazy bubblegum lady with a pigeon on her head.”
River cocked her head to one side. “She’s a puzzle, all right. I didn’t know about the languages.”
“Russian,” I said.
“Makes sense. Now let me do the cards, and you can tell me about the new vision.” She patted the yellow cover of the dream book. “I guess visions are sort of like dreams, so we might find something useful in here.”
When I began to talk, the words just bubbled out. It was such a relief to have a nonjudgmental friend, like River, who really listened. The slap-slap of the cards on the table, the rumbling purring of the cat, one “coo-coo” marking the half hour provided background for the one-sided conversation. I started by describing the two visions involving the bear. “They were both in plain glass,” I told her. “Does that mean anything?” I didn’t wait for an answer, rushing on to explain the yellow bear teeth and the garrotes that had killed Eric Dillon and the Connecticut baker. “The baker was one of six men who came here from Russia in 1915. Did I tell you about them before?” Again, I rambled on, not expecting a reply. “Aunt Ibby has a crazy quilt Stasia’s grandmother made. It has symbols and shapes we think mean something. But what?”
I jabbered about Karl Smith and Nigel and Mrs. Abney-Babcock’s china. I talked about Mrs. McKenna’s carved egg, with the numbers on it, about Colleen’s tablecloth and about Eric Dillon’s notebook. Finally, out of breath and out of words, I exhaled, closed my eyes and leaned back against the couch cushions. “Did you get all that?”
“Hmmm? Oh, sure. Of course.” She flipped a card over. “Reversed Two of Pentacles. You’re trying to handle two situations at once.”
I opened my eyes. “Only two?”
“Two major ones. You could find some answers in news and messages in writing.”
“News, as in WICH-TV? Writing, as in the missing notebook?”
“Maybe.” She turned another card. “Look. The Page of Swords. Know any diplomats? Someone in government service?”
“That would be Nigel, I suppose. What about him?”
“He has a message from far away.”
“Did I tell you Chief Whaley contacted him? Mentioned my name too.”
“You didn’t. But that’s interesting. Is Nigel a spy or something?”
That made me laugh. “Not that I know of.”
Another card turned faceup. O’Ryan sat up on River’s lap, leaned forward and sniffed at the colorful picture of a woman with a tame bird on her hand. “The Nine of Pentacles,” River said. “O’Ryan seems interested.”
“If the bird is a pigeon, that’s probably Stasia,” I said. “What does it mean?”
“It’s reversed. It can mean danger from thieves or a canceled project. Not a good card, Lee. Be careful. Sometimes it means an unfaithful friend.”
The cards made a now-familiar pattern as River put them, one by one, on the tabletop. She mentioned several things that had appeared in earlier readings: intuition, imagination, secrets, latent psychic powers, risk taking.
“Pete’s card hasn’t shown up yet. I’m kind of used to his card being close to mine,” I said. I was halfway kidding, but the Knight of Swords almost always turned up when River read me. So did Moon Mother, which we took to mean Aunt Ibby. They were both my protectors. I watched for them all the way to the end of the reading. This time neither one made an appearance.
“No protectors this time?” I asked. “So am I facing the damned bear all alone?”
“Maybe the bear isn’t as bad as he looks,” she said, reaching for the dream book. “If he’s a dream bear, there may be an explanation for why he’s appearing to you.”
“Twice,” I said.
“Twice,” she repeated, opening the book to the B’s. “Here we go. Let’s see if this makes any sense. ‘Bears are symbols of the cycle of life. You may be particularly introspective at this time.’” She looked up. “Ring any bells?”
I shook my head.
“Okay. How about this one? ‘To dream you are being chased or attacked by a bear can mean you are in a threatening situation, facing some overwhelming obstacle.’”
“Great. I don’t think I like that one.”
“Me either. The last one says the bear might be a mother figure, trying to encourage you to explore the world.”
“This bear is definitely not a fuzzy pink Care Bear. I’m afraid the threatening-situation bear might be the closest thing to the vision.”
“Sorry,” she said.
“Me too. Well, it is what it is. Thanks for coming and thanks for listening.”
She stood, gently dislodging the cat, and gave me a hug. “I’m not always right, you know. And I’m sure the dream book for dummies isn’t either. You’ll be fine. When I leave here, I’ll do a spell for protection of this house and all who dwell within. You burn red candles and ask your aunt and Pete to do the same. Okay?”
I promised to do as she asked and opened the door for her. She turned and gestured toward the bay window. “You’re still planning to put the horse and plants over there, aren’t you?”
“Yes. And I think I’ll have my horse back tomorrow. I can hardly wait to see what he looks like with his new paint job.”
“It’ll be perfect feng shui. I’ll help you pick the right plants. Let me know when you’re ready to do the arrangement.”
“I�
�ll walk downstairs with you. I want to check in with Aunt Ibby. Maybe she’s figured out what the weird-shaped pieces in the quilt mean.”
“If it’s a crazy quilt, aren’t they all weird shapes?”
“Some of these are crazier than others. Thanks again for coming over and listening to me. And for the reading.”
“My pleasure,” she said. “Even if it wasn’t what you wanted to hear.”
I waved good-bye as she walked down the path to her car. As I watched, she turned, facing the house, raised her arms and bowed her head. The promised spell, I guessed. Relocking the back entrance, I knocked on Aunt Ibby’s kitchen door. “It’s me,” I called. “Got a minute?”
The door popped open immediately. “Come in. It’s so exciting! I’ve discovered the secret of the old quilt.”
That made me smile. “Sounds like the title of a Nancy Drew mystery.”
CHAPTER 31
The quilt had been moved from Aunt Ibby’s bedroom and was now spread across the dining-room table. “I could hardly wait to show you,” she said. “I know what the odd-shaped quilt pieces are. They’re states! Look. Here’s Connecticut. Here’s Massachusetts. There’s Colorado.” She hurried around to the other side of the table. “California over here. And Kentucky.” Her smile was triumphant. “Five different states.”
“There should be six,” I said. “Shouldn’t there? For the six friends?”
“Ha! That’s what I thought at first. But don’t forget the valet and the butler were both in California!”
I took a closer look at the California patch. “That’s so obviously California,” I said. “How did we miss it in the first place?”
“I know. Kentucky, with all those wavy edges, is pretty obvious too.” She pointed at it. “And look at Cape Cod sticking out of Massachusetts! We should have noticed that one right away. Like anything else, once you figure out what you’re looking for, it’s easy.”
“Hidden in plain sight,” I said. “Very clever, isn’t it? The mixed-up fabrics, and all the patterns and colors and shapes, remind me of Where’s Waldo?”
Murder Go Round Page 20
