I changed into comfy sweats—not my old gray ones but a new pink set—opened a bag of pre-made salad greens and added a beautiful ripe tomato, a cucumber and a couple of radishes, all from the backyard garden. When Pete said a BIG pan of lasagna, he wasn’t kidding. It was huge. We invited Aunt Ibby to come upstairs and join us and I texted River to come over if she had time before she had to go to the station.
It turned out to be quite a party. Good food and good friends. Aunt Ibby came upstairs immediately, whispered that she’d tell me about Dowgin later. River showed up right behind her with a bottle of sangria. Aunt Ibby had brought dessert of course, so by the time we’d cleared the table, and poured the after-dinner coffee, everyone was relaxed, full and happy. River put her stack of Tarot cards on the top of the table. “Reading, anyone? Pete? How about you? I haven’t read you in a long time. I did Lee’s yesterday and hers was all good. Love, money, job, the whole works.”
I was surprised when he said, “Okay. Why not?”
Within a few minutes he must have wished he’d given his usual “no thanks.” A reversed Page of Cups suggested deception, obstacles and unpleasant news. Next up was the Five of Cups, an unpleasant looking card at best, promising sorrow and loss. Pretty much the whole reading was like that. Just about the only good cards were the seven of wands and the nine of pentacles. The seven of wands, which River said meant victory through courage, showed a man defending his position on top of a hill with his wand.
“Look,” Pete said. “How come his shoes don’t match?” I studied the card. Pete was correct. One of the character’s shoes was buckled. The other one laced.
“Petruchio,” said Aunt Ibby. “From The Taming of the Shrew. Am I right?”
“You are,” River said. “And the nine of pentacles tells us of material well-being for you, Pete, with an accent on home and gardens. Kind of a ‘green thumb’ card.”
“That must mean you, Miss Russell,” Pete told my aunt. “Sure isn’t me.”
“Not me either,” I said, but in my mind’s eye the nine of pentacles was a green-handled trowel partly submerged in rich brown soil and the seven of wands with its mismatched shoes was a pair of muddy boots.
The last card she turned was one I really don’t like to see. It’s called the Tower and it looks too much like 9/11 in New York. There are even bodies falling from a jagged-toothed battlement. River sighed and said, “Sorry, Pete. Looks like some change, conflict at your job. An old idea will be upset.” At that point, O’Ryan leaped up onto the table, scattering the cards, then climbed into Pete’s lap, reached up and gave his face a lick.
“O’Ryan didn’t like your reading,” I said, “but he loves Pete.”
“Good thing I don’t have any faith in your hocus-pocus, River,” Pete said with a smile, “or I’d be spooked by all that.”
I knew Pete was sincere about not believing in the cards, so I wasn’t concerned that he’d be worried about conflict and obstacles and old ideas. I did wonder a little bit, though, about that green thumb and those shoes.
We all helped River reassemble her Tarot deck, and I put what was left of the lasagna into a plastic container for her to take home to share with her roommates. “Sorry to eat, give a bad reading and run,” River said, “but I need to go home and get into some sequins and glitter. Tonight’s movie is The Shining. Get it?”
“Meh,” said O’Ryan.
“I’ll watch if Pete’ll watch with me,” I said. “That movie scares me to death.”
Aunt Ibby said she’d pass on the movie, thanked us for dinner, said she’d talk to me tomorrow about “that other thing” and followed River and O’Ryan out my back door.
Pete and I loaded the dishwasher and finished off the pot of coffee. “What’s the ‘other thing’?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet,” I admitted, “but she said she’s found out something more about James Dowgin.”
“You’re planning to tell me all about it, right?”
“I told you I would.”
“And the visions? You’ll tell me if you have any more? Even if you think they don’t make sense?”
There was an intensity in his voice that hadn’t been there earlier. “Nothing new in the vision department I’m glad to say.” I watched his eyes. “But you sound concerned. Is there something about this case you’re not telling me?”
Oops. I’d said “case” right out loud. Maybe he hadn’t noticed.
No such luck. The vaguely apprehensive look and tone disappeared and he smiled broadly. “A case, huh, Nancy?”
I felt my face flush. “You know what I mean. The problem. The question. The missing piece of the puzzle.”
“I know.” He reached for my hand. “I’m just teasing. I know you think there are problems to solve—questions to answer about Emily Alden’s death. There’s just no puzzle there, babe. The answers are in the M.E.’s report. It was a sad, tragic, avoidable accident.”
“But you’re interested in what Aunt Ibby and I might come up with anyway, aren’t you?” I insisted. “You think there’s a chance, even a little one, that Dorothy could be right. I promised to tell you everything we find out. What aren’t you telling me?” I squeezed his fingers. “Come on. Fess up.”
“Okay. I went back over the paperwork we had on the case.”
“Ha! You said case!”
He pretended not to hear me. “It’s probably nothing. It was about the party—or whatever it was at the Shoreses’ place that night. According to Emily’s letter to her sister, she thought that the get-together was in her honor, a celebration of something she’d done.”
“That’s right. I saw the letter myself.”
“I checked my notebook. When I asked what the party was for, both Mr. and Mrs. Shores gave the same answer.”
“Which was . . . ?”
“There was no particular reason. They said they often hosted small cocktail parties and occasionally invited one or two of their employees to mingle with their other guests.”
“That’s odd. Did you check with the other guests?”
“Of course. There were only two. An elderly couple. Very nice folks. Both hard of hearing. They remembered Emily as a ‘nice girl.’ They left early.”
“They didn’t say anything about the party being in Emily’s honor?”
“I would have noted it if they had.”
“Interesting,” I said.
“Kind of.”
“Very.”
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll talk to them again. Probably nothing. I told you. They’re old. Hard of hearing.” He stood, yawned, and stretched his arms over his head and looked at the Kit Kat clock. “Getting late. Are we going to watch River’s scary movie? I’ll stay here so you won’t be scared if you like.”
“I like,” I said.
I didn’t even stay awake until the end of the movie. Just as well. It’s such a nightmare-inducing masterpiece. I did get to see River shining in her sequins and glitter though, with a neckline to rival some of Wanda’s best. Pete went to work early and brought me coffee in bed before he left. What a guy.
I skipped breakfast. Mr. Pennington had scheduled an eight o’clock teaching staff meeting in the top floor suite of rooms where the Trumbull family had lived back when their department store was the center of Salem’s downtown activity. A Pennington staff meeting always meant coffee and doughnuts with my fellow instructors at the long mahogany table in the Trumbulls’ handsomely restored dining room, along with a thirty-minute “state of the Tabby” speech from the school’s director.
When all of the Tabby teachers are gathered together in one place that way, it’s always a bit of a surprise to realize how many of us it takes to operate the Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts. Although my department, TV production, manages with just me at the helm, several of the classes require a full complement of instructors. Dance, for instance, has several including ballet, tap and ballroom disciplines. The Theater Arts group takes up a whole side of the table covering elocution, costu
me design, makeup, lighting, production and direction. Art has just two—who somehow manage to teach an amazing variety of techniques and media. Add to that the writers, singers, musicians . . . well, you get the idea. There are a bunch of us. And that doesn’t count the housekeepers, carpenters and custodians who keep the old place from falling apart, and the office staff who keep track of bill paying, tuition collecting, scholarship awards and government grants.
Mr. Pennington had apparently been considering the sheer numbers of us, including students. After giving us a brief—for him—rundown of Tabby facts and figures, he announced a new schoolwide exercise.
“In consideration of today’s climate of possible or perceived dangers—whether man-made disruptions or acts of nature,” he said, “I feel it imperative that we implement a plan to aid in the protection of all concerned.”
Here he did one of his elongated dramatic pauses—intended to draw particular attention to the utterance to follow. It had the desired effect. The room was hushed and all eyes were focused on him.
“The board of directors had at first considered the installation of an alarm system for each and every classroom.” A shake of the head, eyes closed. “Alas, the building is so old, so solidly built and with such a maze of wiring that the expense of such a system is financially unfeasible.” He raised one hand. “But do not despair! We have a solution. This very day, each of you will be presented with a personal alarm device.” He held up what appeared to be a white jewelry box. Inside was a simple oval pendant on a cord. “It’s on the order of those worn by the elderly or infirm to summon assistance. One of these shall be worn on your person or concealed within reach of your desks during school hours. A press of the button summons armed security. Simple. Effective. Hopefully never needed.”
There was a ripple of conversation, an undercurrent of nervous laughter, a few comments about falling and being unable to get up. Personally I thought the panic button was a good idea, remembering a time or two there in the Tabby when I could definitely have used the thing. After announcing an upcoming performance in the school theater, a special Saturday lecture on diversity in curriculum and the gift of costumes from a defunct Shakespearean road company in Vermont, he spoke briefly about the upcoming Day of the Dead event and congratulated me on the creation of a new celebration for Salem.
We were dismissed with several minutes to spare before the start of classes. I stopped to chat with some of my fellow teachers, received assurance from the office manager that he’d help with the permitting process facing us, helped myself to an extra half cup of coffee and finished off the crumbs of my second cinnamon doughnut. I took the elevator down to the mezzanine and managed to get to the classroom ahead of my students, but not ahead of a tall man wearing a green coverall with SECURITY embroidered on the breast pocket. He carried a cardboard carton filled with the white jewelry boxes we’d seen at the meeting.
“Here’s your alarm button, honey.” He looked me up and down, pausing at the bustline and smiled. “Want me to help you put it on?”
“No thanks,” I said, backing away a little. “I can handle it.”
“You think the old man is expecting trouble?”
“The old man?”
“Pennington. The guy who ordered all these.”
“No. I don’t think so at all. Just being cautious. Am I supposed to shut it off somehow when I leave for the night?”
“Nope. It’s in the on position all the time.” His smile was more like a leer. “Does a pretty lady like you worry about ever working late in here? Being all alone?”
I tucked the white box into my purse and took another step back.
The twins appeared, just as the opening bell sounded. They stood, one on either side of the man, towering over him. “Problem, Ms. Barrett?” Roger asked.
“Problem?” Ray echoed.
“Everything’s fine,” I said. “This gentleman was just leaving.”
“You know the way out, fella?” Roger gestured with a motion of his head toward the mezzanine landing.
“Yep, sure do.” Hurriedly, the man tucked the carton under his arm. “Have a nice day.”
Ray watched the retreating back. “That one bothering you?”
“Just made me a little uncomfortable is all. Thanks.”
The two started for their seats. Roger turned and faced me. “We’ve always got your back, you know, Ms. Barrett.”
I’d never thought about the pair of retired policemen “having my back” as Roger had put it, but it was a decidedly comforting thought. “I appreciate that,” I said, meaning it. “And please call me Lee.”
“Yes, ma’am,” they said in unison.
The women arrived all together, bringing with them a happy sound of chatter and laughter into the wide expanse of long-ago retail space. They took their respective seats beneath the sound insulating canopy covering our simulated broadcast studio.
“Missed you at breakfast, Lee,” Hilda said.
“Staff meeting,” I said. “Free coffee and doughnuts with the boss.”
“Good deal,” Therese sat behind the news desk. “Was it in the big beautiful dining room in the penthouse?”
“A penthouse? This place has a penthouse?” Dorothy sounded incredulous.
“I’ve heard about it before,” Shannon said. “The Trumbulls used to live up there.”
“It’s haunted, you know.” Therese was matter-of-fact about the top-floor ghost. “Tabitha Trumbull is still up there. Isn’t she, Lee?”
“So they say.”
“Is there really a ghost up there, Lee? Have you seen it?” Hilda persisted.
I dodged the question. “That would be hard to prove.” I managed a laugh. “There have been some strange happenings in those old rooms, that’s true. But Tabitha didn’t show up for doughnuts and coffee this morning and as far as I know, nobody’s claimed to see her lately.”
A loud guffaw from one of the twins. “Come on ladies. Ghosts in the cemetery. Ghosts in the attic. You’ve all been reading too much of that ‘haunted Salem’ literature. Let’s get back to reality.”
I was grateful for the change of subject, but Dorothy wasn’t ready to let it go. “I hope there really are ghosts,” she spoke softly. “Ghosts that can come back and tell the living about the things that happened to them when they were alive.”
I knew she wasn’t talking about Giles Corey or Tabitha Trumbull.
CHAPTER 17
We did “get back to reality,” after all. I related my conversation with Marcia from city hall, and with the Tabby’s office manager, which helped to allay some of the fears we’d all had about being sure everything was legal.
“All the T’s crossed,” Ray said. “That’s the way to do it.”
“All the I’s dotted,” Roger added. “That’s the way.”
Mr. Pennington had come up with some grant money from an endowment for the arts fund to pay for the printing of the Day of the Dead brochure. We hadn’t selected a date yet for the sugar skull cookie baking project, but I promised to clear that with Aunt Ibby. In short, things were moving along nicely. We spent much of the day working on some of the technical aspects of TV production, using the quite expensive, brand-new textbooks the Tabby had provided for us. I gave the first homework assignment of the semester. Everyone would study the section on interviewing skills, in preparation for the next day’s program.
I didn’t get any one-on-one time with Dorothy, but since I didn’t have the new information on James Dowgin Aunt Ibby had promised, I had little to offer in the “what happened to Emily” department. Shannon reported that she’d made “sort of a date” with the handsome blue-eyed gravestone rubbing building superintendent for the following Thursday night and we all looked forward to hearing about that . . . all of the women anyway. The twins just gave their usual synchronized exasperated head shake and eye-roll.
The closing bell dismissed us all in apparent good humor, looking forward to the next day. I hurried home, anticipating hearing what
Aunt Ibby had learned about James Dowgin. I didn’t have to wait long—she and the cat met me at the back door.
“He had a library card,” she announced, ushering me into her kitchen. “Come on in. I’ll tell you what I found out.”
I followed obediently, with O’Ryan tagging along behind me. “A library card, huh? At your library?”
An eye-roll worthy of the twins. “Of course, at my library. Here. Sit down. I’ve checked out the same books your James selected for reading material while he was in Salem. The library, for heaven’s sake! Why didn’t I think of it in the first place?”
A stack of books lay in the center of the round table. I sat, as directed, and she picked up the top volume on the pile and handed it to me. Soil Sampling Preparation and Analysis. It was a thick, heavy book. (I recognized it as the kind of dreaded college tome that runs the student over a hundred dollars.)
Next came Inescapable Ecologies. The subtitle described it as “a history of environment, disease and knowledge.”
The only book in the pile I actually recognized was Silent Spring by Rachel Carson. It was required reading in my eighth-grade science class.
“So our friend James was studying up on the environment,” I said, “and he took Emily with him on a soil sampling expedition. They both worked for the same real estate firm. . . .”
She finished my thought. “And they’re both dead.”
“Wow,” I said. “I’ll have to tell Pete about this.”
“There’s more you’ll need to tell him.” Her voice was solemn. “Emily Alden had a library card too. She’d also borrowed the one on soil sampling, and after she returned that one, she checked out Risk of Hazardous Wastes. Never returned it. You might want to ask Pete if he found the book at the crime scene.”
“You agree with Dorothy that it was actually a crime scene, then?”
Grave Errors Page 10
