Mr. Pennington had insisted from the beginning that the Tabby would preserve as much of the flavor—the ambiance—of the old Trumbull’s department store as possible. School trophies and memorabilia are displayed in old glass-topped display counters. There’s a giant portrait of the founder, Oliver Wendell Trumbull, on the main landing of the giant staircase. The elevators still bear the old floor designations . . . hosiery, furniture, domestics. In the one-time shoe department we still have the vintage signs, the original chairs, and, on the wall, the half model of the patent leather shoe. It’s a highly reflective surface, one which I deliberately keep behind my back when I’m at my desk. It has, in the past, shown me scenes I didn’t want to see.
The flash of light, the swoosh of color told me that I was about to see something in that damned shoe and it would undoubtedly be something else that I didn’t want to see. The sound of voices, the clatter of feet sounded from the stairway. My class—minus Dorothy—had arrived right on time. I turned to face them—but not fast enough to avoid the quick glimpse of a picture forming on that gleaming patent leather surface before it blinked away. A picture of... what?
I tried to process what I’d just viewed and to, at the same time, smile, greet the five students and pretend that I hadn’t just had a puzzling vision. It had only lasted for a fraction of a second, but I was quite sure I’d seen a hand holding a small green-handled trowel filled with dirt.
This wasn’t the first time I’d had to pretend that all was normal in my world, that I didn’t have strange pictures popping up here and there—pictures no one else could see. I shook away the image of somebody’s backyard garden—or whatever it was. I’d deal with it later.
“Everybody ready for our big pitch?” I said. “Mr. Pennington will be here at about nine-thirty.” I looked at the round clock over the ninety-inch flat screen. “That gives us twenty minutes. Any questions?”
“Will you do the talking, Ms. Barrett?” Hilda wanted to know.
“I’ll introduce the topic, yes,” I agreed, “but you all need to be prepared to answer questions. Hilda, you’re our resident expert on Day of the Dead, so I think you can give a brief rundown on the history of the event. And Therese, you’ll narrate your PowerPoint presentation. Nothing elaborate. This is just to give him a general idea of where we’re going with this.”
“Can I tell him about that ghost?” Shannon asked. “The old man who touches people?”
“Giles Corey,” I said. “Sure. Why not? Ghost stories seem appropriate for the occasion.”
“No such thing as ghosts,” Ray sputtered.
“No such thing,” said Roger.
“Maybe he’ll touch you guys,” Hilda said, extending her arms and wiggling her fingers. “Then you’ll believe.”
The comment caused some good natured laughter and gentle kidding, which covered the sound of Dorothy’s tardy entrance. She gave an apologetic shrug and a soft “I’m sorry,” and slid into her accustomed seat.
“That’s okay,” I said. “We’re just doing some last minute prep for our pitch. Any suggestions?”
“Since this is Salem,” she said, “you might call it pitch-craft.”
“Good one, Dot,” Therese said, gathering up her materials and moving to a tall stool behind the news desk. “Everybody ready?”
* * *
Rupert Pennington stepped from the elevator at precisely 9:30. The school director was impeccably—if somewhat theatrically—dressed, as usual. On this particular day Mr. Pennington favored an old-school kind of British look, complete with an apricot-colored ascot tie and black-and-white herringbone tweed jacket. All of the students stood as he approached—just as I’d instructed them to do. “Well then, ladies and gentlemen,” he intoned. “Ms. Barrett has told me a bit about the class project you’ve envisioned and I must say it sounds exciting.” He rubbed his hands together and took the front row armchair seat I indicated. “Let’s get on with your presentation, shall we?” He gave a dramatic wave of one hand. “Please be seated.”
I introduced the class members, each by name, and announced that we’d like to propose a special city celebration of Dia de los Muertos, then turned the program over to Therese.
The twins had surprised us all by preparing a small brochure describing the project and incorporating a few of their own creative cemetery photos. Ray presented one to Mr. Pennington while Roger passed them out to the rest of us. Therese had not only carefully edited the graveyard footage, but had integrated appropriately mournful music to accompany the shots of individual stones. She gave a well-organized recitation of the history of Salem’s cemeteries and emphasized the possibility of extending the city’s important month-long Halloween tourism bonanza for yet another week. The funereal music merged neatly with a happy fiesta tune as the screen displayed some authentic Mexican Dia de los Muertos scenes and Hilda picked up the narrative, explaining the holiday customs. The slide show moved quickly, with photos of winged skulls, weeping willows and the tower of the nearby jail as Shannon gave a brief rundown of the Giles Corey saga. There was a good picture of the grave rubbing man, but his back was to the camera so the highly praised blue eyes were not displayed. The show ended with a close-up of a memorial stone bearing the name Giles Corey.
I was pretty sure all had gone well, and waited for the director’s reaction. There was a brief pause—a dramatic one—then he stood, clapped his hands together and cried, “Bravo! Well done! Please proceed with the project.”
We were all pleased, of course, but waited until the elevator doors had closed behind him for the high-fives and self-congratulatory comments.
“Okay. Now we begin the real work,” I said, returning to my desk. “We’re going to have to let the Chamber of Commerce and the VCB know what we’re doing and it’s important that we get the witch shops involved.”
“We can print up some more brochures,” Ray offered. “Maybe we can take them around to the shops and talk it up.”
“Talk it up,” Roger said. “The witch shops will need to order those candy skulls and Mexican costumes.”
“Good idea,” I said, turning to pick up the brochures I’d left on my desk, again facing the wall. The shiny black shoe. The swirling colors and flashing lights.
It was still there. A small, green-handled garden trowel partly submerged in rich brown soil.
CHAPTER 7
Once again, I managed to cover my surprise—confusion—horror—whatever mixed feelings the vision presented—and continued with the day’s lesson plan. “Keep calm and carry on,” like the old British war poster says. I was getting pretty good at it.
“Now that we have the official go-ahead,” I said, “I think the formation of a few key committees is in order. How about this? Hilda and Therese seem to me to be well qualified to handle the historical aspects of the holiday and its relevance to Salem.” The two women smiled and nodded to each other. “Ray and Roger clearly have a talent for publicity.” I picked up the brochure. “I’m sure we can arrange for a printing and advertising budget if you two agree.”
“Agreed,” said Roger.
“Absolutely,” said Ray.
“Dorothy and Shannon, I’d like you to work together on the interviewing aspects of the project. We’ll need to talk with city officials—especially the people who oversee the cemeteries and maybe the Hispanic American Society over at Salem State would like to be involved. Okay?”
With agreements all around, preliminary work on the project was soon under way. Some of the class members worked on the school-provided desktop computers, some chose to use their personal smart phones or tablets. The room was so quiet we could hear a muffled thump-thump from the dance class in the studio above us.
As the niece of a reference librarian, I still maintain great confidence in the printed word, not so much in Wikipedia. I texted Aunt Ibby. Need much Dia de los Muertos info. Interlibrary request?
Her response was almost immediate. Done.
I knew there’d be a hefty stack of b
ooks at our disposal within days. There was a lot to learn, and a short time to learn it. If we were going to top last year’s project, we’d better be good.
At noon, most of us returned to the diner for lunch and a note-comparing session. Six of us crowded into the widest booth at the far end of the diner. Dorothy excused herself, saying that she had to run home for an appointment with the super of her apartment building.
“Problems?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” she said. “I’m renewing my sister’s lease on the place and I guess there are papers to sign. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Her sister’s place? Wait a minute. What does that mean?
But Dorothy was gone. The woman had a disturbing way of disappearing and leaving unanswered questions trailing in her wake.
We ordered our meals, and began a review of the morning’s efforts. Hilda, who was beginning to remind me a lot of my tech-savvy Aunt Ibby, had already found and contacted a local photographer who’d spent the previous Day of the Dead in Mexico and had a huge file of photos. Therese had a friend who taught Spanish at Salem High and she’d arranged for him to help with any translation problems that might arise. The twins, it turned out, had both served as information officers during the Vietnam War, and still had contacts within the Boston press. Shannon and Dorothy had downloaded the directory of Salem city officials and had begun to put together a list of people who seemed relevant to our mission. I was impressed by the group’s industry and told them so.
“Great job, all of you,” I said. “It’s going to take a lot of work to pull this off, both artistically and logistically, but you’ve already convinced me that we can do it.”
“Going to have to involve the police department,” Ray said. “And you’ll need plenty of security in the old cemetery.”
“Can’t just have people running around in there willy-nilly,” Roger sounded serious. “And there’s an ordinance says nobody can be in there at night you know.”
“Roger’s right,” Hilda said. “I Googled it. All the cemeteries are closed after dark.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Most people don’t want to be in a cemetery in the dark anyway.”
“You’ve got that right,” Shannon said. “I sure don’t. You, Therese?”
“I don’t think I’d be scared,” the young witch-in-training said. “Witches like to meet after dark, but it’s usually in somebody’s yard or in a big field or on the beach.”
“Witches!” Ray snapped his fingers. “That reminds me. Somebody needs to contact the Ghost Tour people. Want us to do that?”
“Yes. Please do. That would definitely come under publicity,” I told him. “We’d better exchange lists of what we’re doing so we won’t be duplicating each other,” I said, pausing as our meals were delivered. “And I’ll post progress reports every day.”
“I’m going to interview the grave rubbing guy then,” said Shannon. “Put me on the list for that before somebody else decides to do it.”
“Did you get his phone number already?” Hilda teased.
“Not yet, but I’ll have it this afternoon.” Shannon looked smug.
“Really? How come you’re so sure?” Hilda giggled. “We don’t even have his name yet. Just his eye color.”
“Dorothy said she’d get it for me. She knows him.”
Dorothy knows the gravestone rubbing guy?
Hilda echoed my unspoken thought. “Dorothy knows the blue-eyed hottie?”
Shannon took a bite of her cheeseburger and nodded. “Yep. Ray, would you please pass the ketchup?”
For the remainder of the lunch hour the conversation veered from publicity ideas to how best to transition from the ghoulish craziness of a Salem Halloween to the happy noise and family friendliness of the Mexican Dia de los Muertos.
We returned to the classroom with a general feeling of accomplishment. In my case, the feeling was accompanied by confusion and curiosity—mostly about Dorothy—along with an extra large helping of wondering what the green-handled trowel was all about.
Dorothy rejoined the group in the classroom at one o’clock. She immediately took the seat beside Shannon and the two huddled over a shared computer, leaving no opportunity for my questions about things which were probably none of my business anyway. The twins were headed to the second floor art studio in search of a commercial art student who might come up with a suitably attractive logo for the event and Hilda was on speaker phone with a representative of the Salem Cemetery Commission, while Therese busily took notes.
So far, so good.
I opened a package of colored markers and began preparing a to-do chart on a large white board, trying to remember all of the varied duties we’d discussed. There were enough items to nearly fill the board. I paused after printing “Contact Ghost Tours,” and sat there staring at the list, unable to think of even one more thing to add.
I turned on my computer and checked my e-mail. I know. I know. Shouldn’t do it on company time. A brief note from River said thanks for the pizza, sorry she missed the pie, and reminded me to watch that night’s show to see how the costume turned out. It was unusual to see a message from Aunt Ibby. “Been thinking of Emily,” it read. “Look at this.” Attached was a copy of the police notes from the Salem News dated several days before the obituary we’d read earlier. “Woman found dead in Bathtub. A 25-year-old woman was found unresponsive in a bathtub at her apartment. She was transported to Salem Hospital where she was pronounced dead, police said. Her family has not yet been notified. A toxicology report is pending.”
Toxicology? Would that have something to do with whatever had been in the wineglass? Had Pete said something about pills? Found unresponsive? Found? Who found her? More questions. I looked toward the desks where Dorothy and Shannon now sorted through a stack of copy paper printouts. I planned to make a point of having at least a few words with Dorothy before she could manage another disappearing act.
Is she dodging me on purpose?
Another question. But no, that didn’t seem likely. After all, she’d signed up for this class because she wanted my help, and she’d been forthcoming with information about her sister so far.
At five o’clock the sound of an old-fashioned school bell rang—Mr. Pennington liked to keep things vintage wherever possible—and this time Dorothy didn’t disappear. Smiling, she approached my desk. “Is that offer of a ride home still good?” She pointed to her feet. “Wearing a pair of my sister’s shoes. I’m not used to heels and besides, these are too small. They hurt.”
“Of course,” I said, gathering up books and papers and putting them into the appropriate drawers and folders. “Be right with you.”
She gestured toward the giant black pump. “My feet feel so swollen right now I probably need a pair that size.”
Naturally, I didn’t look at the big shoe. I’d already seen quite enough of it for one day. We took the elevator down to the first floor—out of sympathy for her sore feet—and crossed Essex Street to the Tabby’s parking lot.
Dorothy again expressed admiration for my car—which always makes points with me—and climbed into the passenger seat. “Okay, where to?” I aimed the ’vette for the lot exit.
“Not far,” she said, indicating that I should turn right. “Just take Washington Street down to Norman. Ordinarily I’d walk.” She made a wry face and pointed once again to her feet. “Guess I’ve spent too many years stamping around in boots and Mukluks.” She glanced over at my own Arturo Chiang three-inch platform sandals. “How do you do it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Good thing. I didn’t have one. “Emily must have worn heels every day. Even weekends.” There was a note of wonderment in her voice. “She had a whole closet full. Every color. Oh, and one pair of beat-up hiking boots in a plastic bag.”
“I take mine off as soon as I get home,” I admitted, “and usually wear sneakers all weekend.”
“Turn here,” Dorothy instructed, and we pulled in behind a four-story apartment house. It was one of S
alem’s many rehabbed old homes. “You can park in any space marked ‘Visitor.’ Want to come up for a minute?”
“I’d like that,” I said. “Maybe you can fill me in on what makes you think Emily was murdered.” I glanced around the parking lot. There were a few cars in the reserved spaces, none in the visitor’s slots. “Didn’t your sister have a car?”
“She did. A little VW I think. Paula drove it back to Georgia. Didn’t want to just abandon it here. Anyway, I think she bought it for Emily in the first place.” She motioned for me to follow her to a side door of the building, and tapped a few numbers into a security pad. The door slid open, admitting us to a spacious and attractive foyer. We took an elevator to the fourth floor of the place, stepped out into a carpeted hall and arrived in front of a plain walnut door bearing the number 4-12.
Dorothy used both a key and a pad number on this door and pushed it open, allowing me to enter first. It was a pleasant place, muted earth-toned décor and furniture with modern lines. A few paintings of the interior-decorator-selected variety adorned beige walls. Dorothy waved one hand toward a French door. “The rooms here are tiny, but there’s a cute little balcony. My sister put some plants out there and she liked to sit and watch the birds.”
The open floor plan gave me a good view of a well-equipped kitchen where black appliances complemented pecan cabinets. “Coffee?” Dorothy asked, kicking off her shoes. “I haven’t figured out all the domestic devices yet but I can operate the coffeemaker.”
“Yes, thanks. I’d love some.” I sat on one of the stools surrounding a granite-topped island and watched her careful coffee preparations. After she’d pressed the “ON” button, she turned and faced me. “I suppose you want to see it, don’t you?”
Grave Errors Page 4
