Grave Errors

by Carol J. Perry

  “Hi Lee, Listen. Do you still have any of those outfits you wore on the Nightshades show?”

  “I’m sure I do. Why?” The show River was talking about was a rather forgettable late show program on WICH-TV where I’d pretended to be Crystal Moon, a psychic. Between scary old movies I’d taken phone calls from viewers and tried my best to solve problems, find lost dogs and generally fake people out. Nightshades was mercifully canceled after a series of very bad happenings and had been replaced by Tarot Time with River North. River is an expert with the Tarot and her show was a big hit from the start.

  “We’re showing The Hunchback of Notre Dame tomorrow night. I thought maybe I’d dress up like Esmeralda if you’d saved any of your low-necked blouses and junk jewelry.”

  “Sure. They’re all packed away in the attic. Which Hunchback are you showing?”

  “Nineteen thirty-nine. Charles Laughton and Maureen O’Hara.”

  “The best one of all,” I said. “I’ll dig out the costumes. Do you want to come over here or should I drop them off at the station?”

  “Well, if I wouldn’t be interrupting anything, I could come over to your place on my way to the station tonight.” She paused. “Around ten maybe?”

  “Pete’s coming over for pizza. Why not come now and join us? I ordered extra large.”

  “Really? If you think Pete won’t mind I’d love to.”

  “Of course he won’t mind. You’re practically family.” I thought about the vision in the mirror. “And I wanted to talk to you about . . . something.”

  River knows me pretty well. “A gazing thing?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  River, Aunt Ibby and Pete are the only ones who know about my scrying ability. Pete avoids the topic as much as possible, Aunt Ibby accepts it because she loves me. River, though, more than anyone else, understands it. “It happened just a little while ago,” I said. “I’m trying to figure it out.”

  “I’ll be right over. Bringing the cards.”

  I smiled. “You always do.”

  As it turned out, everybody arrived at once. Pete and River came up the back stairway—Pete has a key to the door—while the Pizza Pirate delivery guy rang the front doorbell on the Winter Street side of the house. I dashed down the two flights to the front door, paid for the pizza, tipped the man, then hurried back upstairs. Pete and River were already sitting at the table, hiding smiles, pretending they’d been waiting for hours. Pete, his dark hair still wet from a shower, looked as handsome as ever in white shirt and khaki slacks. River was already dressed for her show, glamourous in silver lamé, trademark silver stars and moons sparkling in her long black braid. “If one of you two goofs will grab some glasses and pour the soda,” I said, “I’ll serve the main course.”

  Within minutes we three had put a healthy dent in the extra-large pizza while O’Ryan lurked watchfully under the table, hoping for scraps of pepperoni. Conversation was casual and at that point no one had mentioned cemeteries, murder or even the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I decided to simply say what was on my mind. Why not? I was with my best friend and the man I loved.

  “I had a vision today,” I began, “and I think it may have something to do with that woman I asked you about, Pete. Emily Alden.”

  “Really?” Pete frowned. “That was a couple of months ago. Young woman. Took a couple too many prescription sleeping pills with alcohol.” He shrugged. “It happens.”

  “Who’s Emily Alden?” River wanted to know.

  “She was the younger sister of one of my students.”

  “You didn’t tell me that,” Pete said. “I knew there was a sister but I thought she lived in Hawaii or someplace.”

  “Alaska,” I said. “But she’s here now.” I watched Pete’s face. “She’s trying to find out who murdered her sister.”

  “What about the vision?” River interrupted.

  “Her sister wasn’t murdered.” Pete spoke in what I’ve learned to recognize as his cop voice. “It was an accident. I told you that.”

  I took a deep breath. “Did she die in a bathtub? An old-fashioned bathtub with claw feet?”

  He nodded, stern cop face in place. “She did.”

  “Wow.” River sounded breathless. “That’s what you saw in the vision? A body in a bathtub? Wow. Shall I read you now?” She reached for her denim handbag, incongruous with the glittering gown. “I brought the cards.”

  “Not yet, River.” Pete held up one hand. “What makes her sister think she was murdered, Lee?”

  “I don’t know. Dorothy told me that she wanted to learn about investigative reporting because it would help her figure out who murdered her sister. That’s what she said.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Pretty much. She was Emily’s half sister. Dorothy is about four years older.”

  Pete reached for his jacket on the back of the chair and pulled his ever-present notebook and pencil from the inside pocket. “I’ll check into it but I’m sure there was no indication of foul play. Nothing there at all. You got a phone number for this Dorothy?”

  “Not offhand. I’m sure the school has it. I’ll get it tomorrow. Thanks for checking.”

  “Speaking of tomorrow,” River said. “Can we check out the attic costume stash?”

  “Sure. And don’t forget we have Aunt Ibby’s famous apple pie for dessert. Pete, want to make coffee while we run upstairs and get a couple of things?”

  “No problem. Hurry back.”

  I put the pie into the warming oven while Pete measured out coffee, and River and I went out the kitchen door into the third floor front hall. I was glad she was with me. Even O’Ryan stayed behind and I don’t like going up into that attic alone.

  CHAPTER 5

  I paused in front of the door that opened onto the staircase to the attic. Of course, none of it looks the way it did before the fire. The third floor with my sparkling new apartment and the top floor attic had been completely rebuilt since that awful night of flames and danger. I pulled the door open, pressed the light switch and started up the stairs—slowly.

  The smell of smoke was long gone. The place now had the pleasant aroma of new wood. Not as crowded with old furniture, trunks and boxes as it had once been, the well-lit space held a long garment rack, a couple of unpainted, undistinguished but sturdy and serviceable bureaus, some spare dining room chairs and a few cardboard cartons.

  Nothing here to be afraid of.

  I squared my shoulders and stepped onto the wide boards of the attic floor. River was right behind me. “Neat place,” she said, looking around the long room “It’s so organized. Good feng shui.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said. “Come on. Let’s find some of those Nightshades outfits. I think the skirts are in garment bags on the rack and the blouses and jewelry are in the bureau drawers.”

  It didn’t take long to put together a couple of Esmeralda-suitable combinations along with plenty of clunky, colorful costume jewelry. River sat in one of the dining room chairs.

  “I don’t see any books up here,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Was that one . . . the one you gave to me . . . the only one that didn’t get burned up?”

  The book she was talking about had once belonged to Ariel Constellation and for a long time I’d thought it had been destroyed in the flames. In fact, I’d hoped it had. It was an ancient witch’s spell book, dated 1692, and when I’d found it still intact—not even singed—I’d realized that it was quite likely that the damned thing couldn’t be destroyed. I thought that maybe a witch would know what to do with it so I gave it to River. “That was the only one,” I said. I’d never asked her what she’d done with it. Maybe I didn’t want to know.

  “It’s in a safe place,” she whispered. “No one knows about it except you and me.”

  “Good,” I said, not knowing whether it was or not. I looked over my shoulder. “Shall we go downstairs and have some of that pie?”

  “Okay.” She gathered up the clothes and headed for the s
tairway. “Let’s go. This place gives me the creeps. Maybe the feng shui here isn’t so hot after all.”

  No argument from me on that. She was first down the stairs with me close behind.

  Happily back in the cozy comfort of my own kitchen, warm with the smells of good coffee and perfect apple pie, I gave Pete a quick kiss and sat at the table.

  “There’s time for a quick reading,” River said, pulling a fat deck of cards from the denim handbag. “Maybe we can figure out what the lady in the bathtub means.”

  “Mind if I sit in?” Pete’s question surprised me. He usually tries to avoid what he calls “River’s hocus-pocus.”

  “No problem,” River said. “Pull up a chair.” But I knew she was surprised too. “You have a question you want to ask, Lee?”

  “Yes. What can you tell me about the woman in the bathtub?”

  Three humans and one cat gathered around the table. I shuffled and cut the cards at River’s direction. She placed the Queen of Wands—the card she always chooses to represent me—in the center of the table. (The red-haired queen sits on a throne with golden lions forming the arms. She holds a staff in one hand, a sunflower in the other and a black cat sits in the foreground.) In rapid succession, River placed nine other cards facedown in a pattern I’d seen many times before, then began to turn them over, one at a time.

  “Here’s the Page of Wands,” she said. “He’s a young man, possibly a messenger. You haven’t met him yet.” She turned another card. “The six of swords.”

  I peered closely at the card. It showed a man ferrying a dejected looking woman and a child across water. River tapped the card. “The woman was worried when she stepped into the water in the tub. She planned to ask someone for help with a problem.” She turned over the next card in the pattern. “Look, here’s the seven of swords. It shows a man stealing five swords, leaving two in the ground. See it?”

  “I see,” I said.

  Pete frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means dishonesty. A failed plan. Even spying. Could someone have been spying on the woman, Pete?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know why anybody would be. Nice ordinary girl. Low level job with a good company.”

  River smiled. “I can only tell you what the cards signify to me. Sometimes I’m wrong.” She turned another card. “Look. Here’s the King of Wands.”

  “What does he mean?” I asked. “He looks nice.”

  “He comes from good family. He’s blond. Probably married. He holds a scepter and also a magician’s rod. He’s powerful. He can use the earth’s forces for profit.”

  “Is that good?” Pete leaned forward and touched the card.

  “Usually. Sometimes he makes rash decisions though.” River glanced at the clock. “I still have to get to the station and do my makeup.”

  “Maybe we can finish another time,” I said

  River shook her head. “No. I’m going to race through the last five.” She flipped the remaining cards over, one after the other. “Interesting. The eight of swords. Did you shuffle these well, Lee? That’s six, seven and eight of the same suit.”

  “I’m sure I did. What does the eight mean? Looks like a blindfolded woman. Is she standing in water?”

  “Uh-huh. She’s in a situation she’s afraid to move out of. Not good.” River tapped the next card. “The four of pentacles. This is the miser, hanging onto his gold. But the card is reversed. He might be about to lose his earthly possessions. Okay. We’re down to the last three. Here goes.”

  She stood, running her forefinger across the three cards. “Three of swords. Separation and quarrels. Not for you. For the woman you asked about. The nine of pentacles. A project is canceled, and finally the Temperance card. Interesting. Even though she’s dead, what she thought might happen is going to happen anyway.” She gathered up the cards and put them into the denim bag. “Sorry to eat, read and run. Thanks for the costumes, Lee. Be sure to watch the show tomorrow night.”

  “You don’t have time for pie?” I asked.

  She patted her tummy. “One more calorie and I’ll pop the seams of this shiny dress.” She gathered up the pile of skirts and blouses, popped the jewelry into her bag, gave me a hug and headed for the back hall. “I’ll let myself out. Bye, Pete. How’d you like the reading?”

  Pete stood. “It was okay. Thanks, River.”

  O’Ryan followed River down the short hall toward the living room as I retrieved the pie from the warming oven and put it on the table. Pete was silent as he poured coffee into our matching mugs marked NEW HAMPSHIRE SPEEDWAY, souvenirs of the first weekend we’d ever spent together.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” I said. “Did the card reading bother you?”

  “Huh? Oh, no, that’s just River’s hocus-pocus. I was thinking about what you saw in that vision.” He reached for my hand. “That must be so awful for you. I have to see bad stuff. It’s my job. But it’s just not fair that you have to—you know—see things.”

  “This was one of the worst ones yet, Pete,” I admitted. “I keep trying to put it out of my mind, to just forget about it. You’d think I’d get used to it by now. I mean seeing things I don’t want to see.” I sliced a couple of neat triangles from the pie and handed Pete the plate with the biggest one. “I can’t seem to erase this one—or really, any of them.” I felt a quick rush of tears.

  Pete reached for my hand and squeezed it. “I never get used to it babe, and maybe you can’t either. I’m so sorry.”

  CHAPTER 6

  I left for school a little earlier than usual, allowing time for coffee in the Tabby’s fifties-style diner. The popular restaurant was attached to the school, but the chrome-trimmed front door opened onto Essex Street and the reasonably priced food and vintage décor had made it one of Salem’s most popular eateries.

  Therese Della Monica waved to me from one of the red vinyl–upholstered booths. “Come sit with us,” she called, moving over to make room for me at the gray marble–patterned Formica tabletop. Shannon and Hilda sat across from Therese and I noticed the twins sitting together on stools at the long lunch counter.

  The gang’s all here. Almost.

  I slid into the booth and ordered coffee and a small cheese Danish. “Everybody ready for our presentation?”

  Nodded heads all around. “I’m sure Mr. Pennington’s going to like it,” Hilda said. “How could he not? We’ve covered all the bases.” She counted on her fingers. “Salem history, videography, tourism promotion, interview skills.”

  “I’ve edited my video of the cemetery,” Therese said, “and put together a little slide show of the shots everybody took with their phones along with a couple of YouTube pictures of Mexican celebrations. Nothing fancy but it looks good enough I think.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I said. “Of course we haven’t really had a chance to practice our interview skills yet, but we’ll get to that soon enough.”

  “Shannon practiced hers,” Hilda said, with what could only be described as a smirk.

  “She sure did,” Therese agreed. “Did you get his phone number, Shannon?”

  Shannon colored slightly and twisted a strand of long brunette hair. “No I didn’t. But if I’d asked for it I bet he would have given it to me.”

  I looked around the table, from one smiling face to another. “What am I missing? Is anyone going to let the teacher in on it?”

  “The hot guy drawing the tombstone thing,” Hilda said. “You mean you didn’t notice him?”

  “OMG. Those eyes,” Therese said. “Gorgeous.”

  “I saw him, but only from the back,” I said. “What did I miss?”

  “Well,” Therese leaned forward, resting her chin on both fists. “When I took Costume Design last year we had a color theory class. They showed us some paintings by a guy named Maxfield Parrish. Ever hear of him?”

  “Sure. I took the same class at Emerson.”

  “He used some special kind of blue paint,” Therese said. “Ceru
lean, they call it. Anyway, the grave rubbing man has cerulean blue eyes.”

  “So, what did you talk to the blue-eyed gravestone rubber about, Shannon?” I teased. “Want to share?”

  Shannon shrugged, a dainty lift of one shoulder. “He’s an artist. He doesn’t really rub the gravestones you know. That’s against the law. I just asked him what he was doing and he rattled off a whole bunch of stuff about how he copies what’s on the stone. He uses special paper—rice paper he calls it—and a really soft black pencil. Underneath the rice paper he has a big sheet of some kind of rough sandpaper, so that when he draws it makes the surface look rough. You know. Like the real gravestone is. Anyway, when he’s done, he cuts the edges off the paper, puts it in a frame and sells it to tourists. It’s not the real thing of course but the tourists don’t care. They like it that he doesn’t harm the old gravestones by messing around with them.” Another pretty shrug. “Beats me why anybody wants a picture of a dead person’s tombstone hanging on the wall anyhow.”

  Hilda held up her smart phone. “I just Googled cerulean blue. His eyes are much prettier than the Sherwin Williams paint sample.”

  “Maybe we can interview him next time we go to the cemetery,” I said. “Meanwhile, first we have to get Mr. Pennington’s blessing on this whole project. See you all in class.” I paid for my coffee and waved to the twins as I left the diner via the side door leading to the school.

  I climbed the stairs to the mezzanine floor where my classroom dominated the space that once housed Trumbull’s shoe department. (Aunt Ibby loved getting her back-to-school shoes there when she was a kid.) No shoppers filled the sales floor any more, and at that moment I was all alone. The click-click of my heels echoed in the expanse of hardwood floor and high ceilings. My classroom area was carpeted though, and a dropped section of foam insulation over our simulated news desk, giant screen and wall full of TV monitors masked sound to some extent. For serious recording and filming work we used the new studio in the basement.

  I hurried to my desk, tucked my handbag into a bottom drawer and turned on my computer. Pulling up my recently begun file on Salem cemeteries, I swiveled the chair around so that I could reach the row of history books in the bookcase behind me. I knew there were some pretty famous people buried in Salem and it wouldn’t hurt our project to drop a few names. As I reached for my copy of Who Was Who in Salem and Where Are They Now? I caught a flash of light—of color—just above the bookcase. Hanging on that wall was the giant half-model of a black patent leather pump.