Grave Errors

by Carol J. Perry

  To hear Ray tell about it (it was he who’d leaped the cemetery fence), it was no big deal. Although the twins had passed on the cookie baking project, they’d decided it would be a good idea to watch the house, “Just in case.” Roger had taken the first shift, observing our front door from a discreet distance while we baked and decorated sugar skulls upstairs. Later on, he’d followed Hilda’s Jeep until he was sure all four of the women were safely home. Then Ray had driven back here and taken over the stakeout, “Just to be sure.” Convinced that all was quiet on the premises after a reasonable amount of time had passed, he’d rounded the block to leave and noticed the lights in the garage. Starting to get out of his car to check, he saw the glow fade, the garage door open, and the Buick back out with two people inside.

  “So,” he said, “I figured, like anybody would, that the lights had been left on in the Buick and that Lee and her aunt were taking it out to charge the battery. Made sense to me. But the rain was getting worse, so I tailed ’em. Had to stay a good distance back, you know, ’cause Lee knows our car—and what with the storm and all—” He sounded embarrassed. “Well, I kind of lost ’em for a bit just after I passed the cemetery. I doubled back and saw the Buick in the construction site. Heard a shot. Stopped right there in the street, called 911, got out of my car and ran like hell to the cemetery. That’s when Lee came barreling out of there. I jumped the fence and caught a bullet.” He touched the sling on his right arm gingerly. “That crazy Shores woman shot me.”

  “You could see her plainly, you said?” Pete asked. “You were sure it was Trudy Shores?”

  “There was a flash of lighting,” Ray said. “Lit her up like a spotlight was on her. I knew who she was. She was standing under a tree, right next to one of those big tall old tombstones. Had that gun pointed right at me again. Then . . .” He looked down at the table. “Something . . . happened to her.”

  “Go ahead and tell them what you told me,” his brother prompted. “Even if it sounds nutty.”

  “Okay. But it does sound nutty.”

  “Is this something you didn’t include in your report?” Pete pulled out his notebook and pencil. “Something relevant to what happened?” The notebook cover looked wet, and he shook it off. “This is why I use a pencil,” he said. “Ink runs on damp pages. Pencil doesn’t.”

  Good to know.

  “It’s nothing that belongs in a report. Don’t worry. I’ve done enough of them. No. This was something weird.”

  “Just tell it, man,” Roger said. “They’re not going to laugh at you.”

  Ray took a deep breath, then blew it out. “Okay. Here it is. She was standing under that tall tree where I took those pictures. Remember? The ones with the big white blob?”

  “A white blob?” Aunt Ibby’s eyes grew wide. “In the cemetery? What did you think it was?”

  “I thought it was nothing,” Ray said. “Therese and Hilda tried to tell me it was some kind of a ghost. A spirit.”

  Pete folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind.”

  “Of course not. No such thing as ghosts.”

  Roger nodded agreement. “No such thing.”

  “Anyway,” Ray continued, “there was another big flash of lightning. That’s when something white whizzed past her and that tall tombstone just tipped over. Fell right across her chest.”

  Pete wore his skeptical cop face. “So you think this white blob of yours pushed over a heavy tombstone? That the thing didn’t simply tip over and crush her chest because it was leaning anyway, it was struck by lightning and the ground under it was completely saturated?”

  “Not at all. I know it happened just the way you said. The weird part was it looked like the white thing pushed it.”

  Pete was smiling by then. “The ghost blob?”

  Ray smiled back. “Wasn’t a blob this time. It looked just like a damned cat.”

  I sat up straight. “Where’s Frankie?” I demanded.

  “She’s in the living room with O’Ryan,” Aunt Ibby said. “Don’t worry dear. She’s fine. They’ve been playing together like kittens.”

  As though on cue, the two cats strolled into the kitchen together, candlelight reflecting in their eyes. They stood next to the kitchen door, nose to nose. O’Ryan backed away and gave a nod of the big yellow head. Frankie nodded back, then turned and went out the cat door.

  “They’re so cute,” my Aunt said. “O’Ryan taught her how to use his door. She’s been having such fun, running in and out of it all evening.”

  EPILOGUE

  Hurricane Penelope barely brushed the North Shore, doing little damage and providing photographers, including some of my students, with some amazing surf pictures. I had to testify about Trudy Shores’s confession to the murders of Emily Alden and James Dowgin, and it saddened me to see how hard Happy Shores took the bad news. He closed his Salem office and moved his business to the True Shores operation in Florida.

  The police investigation into Emily’s and James’s poisonings revealed that the warning about skin absorption of the deadly chemical was printed right on the plastic buckets of the diaper detergents. All Trudy had needed to do was use plenty of detergent and extremely hot water to kill her unconscious victims. The chemicals in the soil at the wild woods presented a far more dangerous and complicated problem. The Army Corps of Engineers took over the cleanup project and it was determined that the contamination was not widespread over the entire fifty acres. Even so, it will take a long time and cost a great deal of money to make the place safe. The good news about that is that there are plans to create a county park there instead of a mall. It will be a beautiful new attraction for residents and tourists, birds and bees, fireflies and butterflies.

  Our Dia de los Muertos celebration was an enormous hit with everyone . . . particularly with the paranormal community who remain fully convinced that the spirit of Giles Corey took revenge on Trudy for desecrating the scene of his death, by crushing her chest just as his had been crushed centuries ago. Naturally Pete, the Temple twins and Chief Whaley pooh-poohed that crazy idea, but Kelsey Roehl and the other ghost tour guides made the most of the story and had a wildly successful Halloween season which extended neatly into November. (By the way, our sugar skull cookie video went viral.)

  Dorothy stayed in Salem until the end of the semester, then headed back to Alaska, taking with her the portrait of Emily that Dakota Berman had given to her. Dakota is still painting, and is—with my aunt’s assistance—spearheading a drive to repair the broken tombstones in Salem’s historic cemeteries. He and Shannon are still an item.

  Of course, so are Pete and I.

  I’ve never told anyone about seeing Johnny in the mirror and hearing his voice in the cemetery. Anyway I’m pretty sure I imagined that part because I needed courage at that moment, and Johnny was always so very brave.

  One last peculiar thing. At just about the time I went out to the garage to check on the lights, the alarm company received an alert from my pendant—which was in my purse, on my couch, in the room with a TV-watching cat.

  After Frankie left through the cat door that strange night, she never came back inside. She hasn’t appeared on my fire escape either, although every once in a while, on a moonless night, I think I see her sitting on the fence in our side yard.

  But maybe I’m wrong. After all, when all candles be out, all cats be gray.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Sometimes it seems as though writing is a solitary pursuit, but the business of putting words on paper actually involves many helpers.

  The germ of the idea for Grave Errors came when fellow writer Richard Erlinger read his article about Dia de los Muertos to our regular Saturday morning critique group. Richard’s story reminded me of the wonderful historic cemeteries in Salem, the city of my Halloween eve birth. While researching Salem’s cemeteries for the book, I contacted Chris Dowgin, author, artist, tour guide and expert on the Witch City’s underground who willingly shared
a wealth of graveyard lore (and allowed me to borrow his last name for a couple of characters). I corresponded with Kenneth Dyke-Glover, guide on the popular “Sinister Stories of Salem” tour. Kenneth provided details of the legend of the haunted Giles Corey tree in the Howard Street Cemetery and even included a sketch of that infamous site.

  My “power group” critiquing partners Laura Kennedy and Rebecca Johnson as always provided valuable feedback along with punctuation, plotting and sometimes much needed praise. Writers’ organizations offer sound advice, encouragement and information. Mystery Writers of America (MWA), Sisters in Crime (SinC), Bay Area Professional Writers Guild (BAPWG), Pinellas Writers, Wordsmiths, Florida Writers Association (FWA) and Writers-Editors Network have all been willing helpers in the creation of my cozy mysteries. Radio personality Patzi Gil, host of Joy on Paper and friend of writers everywhere, is a special inspiration as is Dana Cassell at Writers-Editors network.

  Naturally a big share of thanks goes to my publisher—Kensington. Editor Esi Sogah, Production Editor Robin Cook, Publicity Manager Morgan Elwell and the amazing artist who does my fabulous covers each add considerable expertise. Together they make each book as good as it can be.

  It takes a literary village. . . .

  Thanks to you all.

  RECIPES

  Tabitha Trumbull’s Vanilla Bread Pudding

  (adapted by Aunt Ibby)

  1 quart of milk

  2½ cups firm bread cut into ½-inch pieces

  ½ cup of sugar, divided into two ¼ cups

  4 eggs

  ½ teaspoon of salt

  3 tablespoons butter

  2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

  1½ cups thinly sliced peeled apples

  ½ cup seedless raisins

  Scald milk in medium saucepan, stir in bread and set aside. In mixing bowl beat two of the eggs plus two egg yolks, setting aside two whites. Stir in ¼ cup sugar and the salt. Slowly pour in the cooled milk mixture, stirring constantly. Add butter and vanilla extract. Stir in apples and raisins. Turn into 1½ quart buttered casserole and set it in a large baking pan. Pour hot water into the pan within an inch of the top of the casserole. Bake in 350-degree oven about one hour, 15 minutes and remove from oven. With clean bowl and beaters, beat reserved egg whites and remaining ¼ cup of sugar until soft peaks form. Spoon meringue over pudding, spreading well. Return to oven and bake until meringue is light brown—about 15 minutes.

  Serves 6 to 8

  Tabitha Trumbull’s Cowboy Cookies

  (Tabitha’s notes didn’t explain why they are called “cowboy cookies” and Aunt Ibby’s research didn’t turn up any clues either.)

  2 cups flour

  ½ teaspoon baking powder

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  ½ teaspoon salt

  1 cup shortening (Aunt Ibby uses Crisco)

  2 eggs

  1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

  1 cup sugar

  1 cup brown sugar

  1 cup regular oatmeal (Aunt Ibby uses Quaker Oats)

  1 package chocolate chips (Aunt Ibby uses Nestlé)

  Sift and set aside the first four ingredients. Cream shortening, white and brown sugars and two eggs. Add flour mixture. Add oatmeal, vanilla and chocolate chips. Drop by full teaspoons onto greased cookie sheet, two inches apart. Bake at 350 degrees for about ten minutes or until browned lightly around the edges. Cool for a minute or two on cookie sheet before removing to wire racks.

  Makes about 3 dozen cookies

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at

  IT TAKES A COVEN

  Coming soon from

  Carol J. Perry

  And

  Kensington Books

  Love following Lee’s adventures in the Witch City?

  Be sure to read

  CAUGHT DEAD HANDED

  TAILS, YOU LOSE

  LOOK BOTH WAYS

  MURDER GO ROUND

  Available wherever books are sold

  CHAPTER 1

  I’d just finished my sample slice of almond cake with vanilla cream filling and vanilla buttercream frosting, and had taken my first bite of chocolate cake with chocolate ganache and chocolate glaze covered in chocolate cookie crumbs when I heard that Megan was dead.

  “I can’t believe it.” Therese Della Monica put down her phone. “I saw her last night and she looked fine.” She shrugged. “I mean as fine as anyone can look at a hundred and five.”

  Bride-to-be Shannon Dumas paused with a forkful of vanilla cake with hazelnut ganache and buttercream frosting halfway to her mouth. “You actually know a woman who’s a hundred and five years old? I mean, you knew her?”

  “We both did,” I said. “Therese, does River know?”

  “That’s who called me.” Therese brushed the back of her hand across misty eyes, picked up her camera and once again focused the lens on Shannon. “Megan was the oldest witch in Salem, Shannon. She’s sort of famous.”

  It had been a pleasant spring Saturday. Shannon and I sat in pink ice cream parlor chairs at a round marble topped table in the Pretty Party Bakery. We were tasting wedding cake samples while Therese photographed the occasion for an album celebrating Shannon’s upcoming marriage to Salem artist Dakota Berman. I’d accepted Shannon’s invitation to be her maid of honor, not fully understanding exactly what duties that honor might entail.

  I’m Lee Barrett, née Maralee Kowolski, I’m thirty-two, red-haired, Salem-born, orphaned early, married once and widowed young. My aunt, Isobel Russell, raised me after my parents died and now we share the fine old family home on Winter Street along with our cat, O’Ryan. Therese and Shannon had been my students at the Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts where I teach TV Production. It was because of my class at the Tabby that Shannon and Dakota met and fell in love.

  Actually they met in a graveyard, but that’s another story.

  I was sad about Megan’s passing, but she was, after all, more than a century old and blind, so the news wasn’t altogether surprising. I’d met Megan through my best friend, River North. River is a witch too, and a member of Megan’s coven. I knew she must be upset and I planned to call her just as soon as a decision on the cake was made.

  “I don’t know what to do, Lee.” Shannon held up two forks—vanilla cake on one and chocolate on the other. “Dakota loves chocolate and so do I, but a white wedding cake seems, I don’t know, like—more traditional.”

  “They’re all delicious,” I said, “so why not have a tiered cake with alternating layers—chocolate and white, with the yummy buttercream frosting on the whole thing? It’ll look like a regular white wedding cake with chocolate surprises inside.”

  “Perfect. That’s what we’ll do. Thanks, Lee. What would I do without you?” She popped the last bite of chocolate cake into her mouth and stood. “Want to go pick out invitations now?”

  “Maybe later,” I said. “I need to call River and check on funeral arrangements for Megan. That okay?”

  Therese packed up her camera equipment. “I’m guessing it’ll be a big event, even though Megan would have preferred something simple.” Her eyes were moist. The young photographer was a novice witch-in-training who’d studied photography at the Tabby, and studied witchcraft with the recently departed Megan. “I loved that old woman,” she said. “I just want to sit down and cry, but Megan would tell me to get to work. Come on, Shannon. Let’s check out that beginners cooking class.” She and Shannon left together, planning some cute shots of Shannon in a chef’s hat, holding a wooden spoon.

  I was anxious to talk with River and called her as soon as I reached my car, a blue Corvette Stingray—a major and much loved extravagance.

  “River, Therese just told me about Megan. What happened? Are you all right?”

  “Oh, Lee. She died in her sleep. We’re all so sad. Everybody loved her.”

  “I know. Want to come over to my place and talk about it? There’s nobody home but O’Ryan and me. Aunt Ibby’s training staff at the library and Pete’s
working a double shift. I’ll leave the downstairs door unlocked for you.”

  My aunt is a semi-retired reference librarian. She’s sixty-something and doesn’t look, act or sound it. My police detective boyfriend Pete Mondello knew Megan too. She’d actually helped him solve a tricky case a couple of years back. They’d both be sorry to hear the news. O’Ryan, our big yellow striped cat, had come to live with Aunt Ibby and me after Ariel Constellation, his previous owner—as if anyone can own a cat—had been murdered. Ariel was a witch too, and some say O’Ryan was her familiar. (In Salem a witch’s familiar is to be respected, and sometimes even feared!)

  River agreed to join me in my third floor apartment in the house on Winter Street. She’s the late-night host on WICH-TV, the local cable channel. Her wildly popular phone-in show is Tarot Time with River North, where she reads the tarot cards for callers in between scary old movies. I once hosted a phone-in psychic show called Nightshades in the same time slot on that same station. Though I’d had a number of years of previous successful on-camera experience, Nightshades did not turn out well, and that is one huge understatement.

  In less than half an hour, River walked through my living room door, with O’Ryan making loving figure eights around her ankles. “Thanks for inviting me over,” she said. “The coven has asked me to help plan Megan’s funeral and I can’t seem to stop crying.”

  “I’m so sorry. Come on out to the kitchen. Coffee’s on. I have some cute little cupcakes too. Shannon and I were at Pretty Party tasting cakes for her wedding.”