Bells, Spells, and Murders

by Carol J. Perry

  “The Five of Swords reversed,” she said. “A knave has captured the swords of his opponents. Not good.” She tilted her head to one side. “Loss and defeat. A funeral. Not a surprising card, under the circumstances.” She lifted the next card. “The Four of Pentacles shows a miser hanging onto his gold. There’s a city in the background. Someone in Mr. Eldridge’s city—that would be Salem, friends—someone is seeking power and money, but the person is not generous.”

  The camera closed in on the fifth card. The Five of Cups. “Here we see a man in a long black cloak. Looks sad, doesn’t he? See the three spilled cups of wine? Unhappiness. Loss of friendship. But there are still two full cups. He ignored them though.” River replaced the card, a look of sadness on her pretty face. “Poor guy,” she said.

  The Ten of Wands came next. It showed a man struggling to carry ten long poles toward the city. “Looks bad, doesn’t it,” River asked. “But maybe not. It could be a painful, difficult test, but there’s a good chance a problem will soon be solved.” She looked into the camera. “Let’s all hope so.”

  The next two cards were the Wheel of Fortune and the Ten of Pentacles. Both apparently good ones. River told her audience that the Wheel of Fortune card promised an unexpected turn of luck, a change of fortune. The Ten of Pentacles showed a man River called “a patriarch,” resting before his coat of arms with his family and his dogs. “This may indicate the solidarity of the historical society Mr. Eldridge founded carrying on in prosperity,” she said. “It often refers to the acquiring of real estate.”

  Next came a pretty card. A young man (Or is it a woman? Hard to tell.) holds a sword with both hands. A flock of birds fly overhead. The card is reversed. “Oh dear,” River said. “An imposter may soon be exposed, maybe through a message. Everybody, be prepared for the unexpected! Here’s our last card for this special reading.” She held the card in front of her face. “It’s the Seven of Swords. Not surprising under the sad circumstances of this reading. Someone, like the man on the card who is apparently in the act of stealing five swords, is attempting to get away with something dishonest. There are still two swords stuck in the ground, so the thief has been partly successful.”

  River swept up the cards with one graceful hand and returned them to the deck. “After these commercial messages, stay tuned for tonight’s special holiday movie. It’s one of my favorites, and I hope it’ll be one of yours. After the movie I’ll be back to read the tarot, maybe for you! Phone lines will be open after The Nightmare Before Christmas. Don’t go away!”

  River leaned back in her chair and I leaned back on my couch. A commercial for Crow Haven filled the screen. “Well, cat,” I said to O’Ryan who’d been paying close attention to River’s reading which may be because he understood it all, or just because he loves River. “What do you think? Did the reading reveal ‘the truth of the matter’?”

  He moved over closer to me and gave my chin a lick, then jumped down from the couch and started down the hall to the kitchen. Naturally I hadn’t expected an answer from the cat, and I had no idea myself whether the cards had revealed anything at all. I wondered if Pete had stayed awake throughout the whole reading.

  My cell phone buzzed. I had my answer. He’d stayed awake. “What did you think?” I asked.

  “I thought your part of the news was excellent and you are gorgeous, Pete said. “River’s hocus-pocus was as confusing as ever. Just wanted to say good night and tell you I love you.”

  “Good night,” I said. “Love you too.”

  I truly had meant to watch at least the beginning of the movie from my bed where O’Ryan already waited. I sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the cat to decide where to lie down. The tall antique oval mirror in its cherry wood frame was tilted toward the kitchen window so that I couldn’t see my own reflection from my bed. This was on instruction from River who, in addition to her tarot talent, was also an expert on feng shui, and advised me regularly on such matters. O’Ryan did his usual three-times-turnaround, but didn’t lie down right away. Instead, he reached across the edge of the bed and tapped the frame of the mirror. I found myself looking directly into the beveled glass. Immediately the flashing lights and swirling colors that usually precede a vision spread across the surface. The glass turned misty for a moment, then a picture formed covering the oval plane. It was almost identical to the card River had chosen to represent Albert Eldridge, except that the Hermit’s face was the face of the young marine we’d shown on the news. And in place of a lantern he held a brass kettle.

  “What in blazes is that supposed to mean,” I complained out loud. O’Ryan turned his head and stared at me. “I know,” I grumbled. “They never make any sense at first anyway. I’m just not going to worry about it.” I gave the mirror a little tap with my foot, sending it back to its correct feng shui position, reflecting the kitchen window.

  Not just the kitchen window. Outside on the sill sat a large but skinny white cat. “Look, O’Ryan,” I said. “Frankie’s back.”

  Frankie was sort of a mystery to us. She shows up in our backyard once in a while. Comes over the tall back fence. At first we thought she belonged to the next door neighbors, but they claim they don’t have a cat, and furthermore, they’ve never seen her in their yard at all. Strange. (I gave her the name Frankie because of an old Ben Franklin quotation, but that’s another story.) One more thing. She only shows up when strange things are happening in our lives. This was such a time.

  O’Ryan made a dash for the window and sat on the wide sill on our side of the glass and gave an insistent yowl. The white cat responded with a similar cry. “She must be freezing,” I said. “Shall we invite her in?” I pulled the lock at the top of the frame aside and lifted the sash. Aunt Ibby thinks that Frankie is a feral cat who became friends with O’Ryan and comes to us when she’s cold or hungry. This time she looked as though she was both. With a combination of purr and meow, and with dainty girl-cat feet she alighted on the chair closest to the window, then to the floor, then to O’Ryan’s red bowl where he’d left a bit of kibble (in case he wanted a midnight snack, I assumed), and with an inquiring glance in O’Ryan’s direction, she hunched down over the bowl and ate every bite.

  Frankie’s not the sort of cat who gets close to people easily, so I put a folded soft blanket in a warm corner of the kitchen, put some more kibble into O’Ryan’s bowl, and fixed a blue bowl full along with a saucer full of milk for her. I went back to bed. O’Ryan stayed in the kitchen with his friend.

  I didn’t fall asleep easily. When I did it was with a troubling dream of the tarot card man with the young marine’s face ringing a pair of those second-grade brightly colored hand bells. Didn’t make the least bit of sense.

  CHAPTER 14

  I woke to the ringing of the house phone. I reached for it, thinking it was probably Pete, since very few people have the number. (Aunt Ibby and I each use our smart phones most of the time, but as she explained, the old-fashioned phones still work even when the power is out.)

  I was right. It was Pete.

  “Morning, babe. Ready for an early breakfast?”

  “Love to. What time is it?”

  “Six. That okay?”

  “Sure. You on your way over here?”

  “Almost there. I’ll let myself in.”

  “Good.” I sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m getting up right now. Oh, Pete. Remember that white cat, Frankie? She’s back.”

  “In the house?”

  “Yep. She was cold.”

  “She shows up at weird times. You did great on the news last night. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thanks. Love you.” I hung up the phone (a great 1920s black candlestick telephone reproduction) and headed for the bathroom. Early breakfast means one of our favorite places. It’s on a side street in an ordinary looking two-story house. The only sign is a neon OPEN sign in one of the windows. It’s a perfect place for morning people. Fishermen, nurses, kids going to early morning hockey practice, third-shift people
going home, first-shift people going to work, taxi drivers, cops.

  I was showered, dressed in warm cozy gray sweats, with hair reasonably tamed when I heard Pete come in through the living room door. O’Ryan ran to meet him. Frankie was still asleep on her blanket, so I was extra quiet as I rinsed out the red and blue bowls and tiptoed out into the hall to greet Pete. We shared a long, really sweet kiss. “It seems as though I haven’t seen you for a long time,” he said, his voice husky.

  “I know. I missed you.”

  “We saw each other yesterday.”

  “I know. It was all business though.”

  “I’m ready for pleasure,” he said, holding me close. “But I guess I invited you for breakfast, huh?”

  “You did.”

  “Did the white cat sleep over?”

  “She’s still asleep.”

  “Think I can sleep over tonight?”

  “Absolutely.” Another long kiss. I pulled on the plaid jacket, knit hat, and boots and followed Pete down the narrow staircase and out into the cold.

  When we were seated in our favorite corner booth in the restaurant, where two steaming white ironstone mugs full of coffee had been placed on the table as soon as we came through the door, I told Pete about the two visions, the one in the brass kettle and the one in the mirror. “As usual,” I said, “they don’t make sense to me. How about you? Anything?”

  He leaned closer to me, looking into my eyes. “I don’t understand anything about how they work, Lee. The kettle one, of the picture book Scrooge—an old man wearing a stocking cap could relate to Eldridge with his Santa hat I guess, although he was no Scrooge. The guy on River’s tarot was meant to be Eldridge. So they both have to do with his murder. What, I don’t know.”

  “Does the man who tried to break in to Lilly’s house have to do with it too?”

  “Vinnie Drake?” I kind of doubt it. We’ve pulled him in for other attempts. A couple of times he got inside some unoccupied houses.” Pete’s smile was wry. “Actually, he’s not very good at his work.”

  “Lilly thinks he was after her computer.”

  Pete shrugged. The waitress arrived and took our orders. Veggie omelet and fresh fruit for me. Ham and eggs and pancakes for Pete. More coffee for both.

  “Do you think he was after her computer because of the Historical Charities’ records?” I persisted in my question.

  “I know she thinks so. But we checked it. Just as she said, other than her personal e-mail and some miscellaneous household figures of her own, it’s just as she told us. Duplicate records of the Historical Charities’ finances. Boring stuff. If he was after the computer, it was because it’s a fairly new one and he could sell it. We’ll return it to her today.”

  I pushed the grapes and melon around on my plate. “I keep thinking I’ve seen that Drake kid before. The mug shot on the news looked familiar.”

  “You might have seen him around. Local talent.”

  “Hmmm. Maybe. Speaking of talent, did you know that Conrad Gillette is the director of the Christmas Belles? The musical group of gals my aunt is part of?”

  “Yes. He told me about it. Mr. Gillette is quite proud of his good works. I guess he plans to step directly into Eldridge’s shoes.”

  “He seems very efficient. Gets things done fast.”

  Pete signaled the waitress for more coffee. “Like the bank drop off point for the Santa Claus money?”

  “Right,” I said. “Oh, wow Pete! That’s it. He was a Santa Claus! Vinnie Drake was a Santa Claus. But he didn’t have a flag on his hat and his beard was all wrong. That’s where I saw him. He had a sand pail instead of a kettle. A fake Santa Claus!”

  “Sounds like something he’d do. Picking up cash anyway he can.”

  “That’s just wrong. Taking money from people at Christmas like that. Do you think he could be the thief in River’s reading? The sword stealer?”

  Pete laughed. “No, Nancy Drew, I don’t think so. Vinnie’s a small-time punk. Not important enough to show up in a tarot reading. He’ll probably be in jail until after Christmas so he won’t be playing Bad Santa for quite a while.”

  “Well, that’s good. But we were talking about Mr. Gillette,” I said. “Did I tell you the Belles are playing hand bells this year for the concert he’s directing? And that these particular hand bells cost more than five thousand dollars for the set?”

  That brought a low whistle. “No kidding? You could buy a good used car for that much money. Who told you that?”

  “Lilly Jeffry. She ought to know.”

  “The woman’s a whiz with numbers,” he said. “She could recite most everything that was on her computer at the Historical Charities from memory.”

  “Just like Miss Lemon,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Miss Lemon. She’s in the Hickory Dickory Dock book.”

  “Mouse ran up the clock?”

  “No. The Agatha Christie one. It’s a mystery.”

  Pete signaled for the check. “So are you sometimes, babe. In a good way.”

  Pete dropped me off at home and he went along to work. I still had a few hours to kill before I had to check in at the station. O’Ryan waited for me inside, his pink nose pressed against a frosty pane in the narrow row of windows beside the front door. It was only seven-fifteen so I knew Aunt Ibby would be up, dressed, and busy working on the Boston Globe crossword puzzle in ink).

  I poked my head into her living room which opens through an arched opening from the foyer. “Aunt Ibby, it’s me,” I called.

  “I’m in the kitchen, Maralee. Coffee’s on.”

  The cat and I followed the sound of her voice and the aroma of fresh cinnamon rolls. I took off jacket, hat, and boots, and helped myself to a cup of coffee. “Are the cinnamon rolls for us or are you taking them somewhere?”

  “They’re for us. One of Tabitha’s holiday recipes. Pretty aren’t they?” They certainly were. Each perfect swirl was topped with frosting. “A little labor intensive for today’s add-an-egg-to-a-packaged-mix cooks, but worth it. Have one.”

  “Maybe later,” I said, patting my tummy. “Just had breakfast with Pete.”

  Wise old owl look. “Learn anything new?”

  “Why Aunt Ibby! Do you think we discussed police business?” I pretended shock. “Of course.” Her eyes sparkled and she put the newspaper down. I told her about Vincent Drake and how I’d remembered where I’d seen him before. “Lilly’s staying at the hotel until they get through investigating. Guess they need to figure out if there’s a connection between the attempted break in and—you know—what happened to Mr. Eldridge.”

  “Why, she could have stayed here with us.”

  “I know. I told her she’d be welcome. But Pete says she can have her computer back today so I guess she’ll go home. By the way, I found out something else interesting. Did you know the hand bells you girls will be using are worth thousands of dollars?”

  “My goodness! I knew they were valuable, but that’s a great deal of money. They say we’ll be rehearsing with a less pricey set, and we even have to wear gloves to use those. The real ones will be revealed at the concert. No wonder Mr. Eldridge always kept them under lock and key.”

  “I suppose that’s where they still are,” I reasoned. “But I’m sure Mr. Gillette will be able to get them released. He seems very competent.”

  “I’m sure he will,” she said. “Conrad truly was Albert’s good right hand.”

  “Between Mr. Gillette and Lilly Jeffry, he had a super efficient staff to keep things running smoothly, didn’t he?”

  She nodded, and poured herself another cup of coffee. “So he always said. Sure you don’t want one of these cinnamon rolls while they’re still warm?”

  “Stop twisting my arm. Maybe I’ll take one upstairs and eat it later.”

  “Suit yourself. They’re better warm though.” She lifted one of the rolls from the cooking rack and took a bite. “Yum. Say, we have our first rehearsal on the hand bells tomorrow eveni
ng. If you’re free, would you like to come along and see your old aunt make a fool of herself on an instrument she’s never played before?”

  “It’s easy. I did it in second grade, remember? Sure. If nothing urgent turns up at the station, I’d love to.” I picked up the promised cinnamon roll, wrapped it in a paper napkin, and headed for the front hall, then peeked back around the corner. “Will there be Irish step dancing?”

  CHAPTER 15

  Laughing at my own little joke, I followed O’Ryan through the living room and out into the foyer. I heard Aunt Ibby laughing too. Good thing we both have the same silly sense of humor. I hurried up the wide, curving front staircase. Seven-forty-five. Maybe I could still catch the early news and see how the shortened version of my investigative report looked.

  O’Ryan had already pushed his way through the cat door by the time I let myself into the kitchen. He and Frankie sat expectantly together in front of the cabinet where I keep the assorted varieties of cat food and treats. “Breakfast time for you guys too I guess.” I filled their dishes with one of Rachel Ray’s latest delicacies for kitties and added a big bowl of fresh water. I clicked on the kitchen TV, then went into the bedroom and turned that one on too. That way I could make my bed, reheat last night’s coffee, get dressed for work, move back and forth between the rooms, and not miss anything on Phil Archer’s morning news show.

  Is that multitasking?

  I poured a cup of coffee and pulled out a stool at the kitchen counter. I’d missed a little of the intro, but that was usually traffic reports and weather. I’d already been out so I knew the weather was clear and cold and the traffic was the same as it is every weekday when the tourists aren’t here. Albert Eldridge’s death—Phil Archer wasn’t exactly calling it murder—was still leading the news cycle in Salem. “Funeral plans for Mr. Eldridge, who died under suspicious circumstances, will be announced later today, according to Conrad Gillette,” Archer announced, as a photo of Albert Eldridge at his desk appeared on the screen. “Mr. Gillette has taken over the operation of Historical Charities of Salem by unanimous vote of the organization’s Board of Directors.”