Look Both Ways (13 page)

Keeping Pete informed about my schedule wasn't as easy as it had sounded at first. I could give him a general idea of what I was doing and where I'd be, but a minute-by-minute rundown of my day was impossible. We settled on a general outline. In the morning I'd tell him what time I'd leave the house for the Tabby and what time I'd pick up the truck to go on my daily “prop hunt.” I'd check with him at lunchtime and let him know what time I expected to get home after work. I found time to do some serious furniture shopping for the apartment, and between a few of the traditional furniture stores, Jenny's shop, and the occasional yard sale, I began to fill up the empty spaces quite nicely.

The collection of properties for the plays was growing, too. By the time rehearsals for
Hobson's Choice
were in full swing, nearly all the necessary paraphernalia for an old-time cobbler's shop was in place on the third-floor rehearsal stage. Mr. Pennington and I stood together at the rear of the darkened space and listened as the players spoke their lines.

“It's coming along swimmingly, don't you agree, Ms. Barrett?” he whispered. Then, not waiting for an answer, he continued, “We open in less than a week, you know. The carpenters have the backdrop in the downstairs theater nearly ready to receive the final stage setting. Do you anticipate adding any more items? The shop looks quite complete to me.”

“We need a cobbler's bench. They were quite popular as coffee tables at one time, so I'm hopeful I'll find one. I'm still looking for an antique cash register to complete the picture, you know, one that will make a nice loud ringing sound when Hobson reaches into the drawer to steal some drinking money.”

“Of course. One of those wonderful old ones with the handle on the side and numbers that pop up. Capital idea, Ms. Barrett. Any leads on such a treasure?”

“Buying one is out of the question given our budget constraints. But I know where there is one,” I said, picturing the great-looking brass machine I'd seen in Shea's shop when I bought my bureau. “It's possible that we might be able to borrow it, but just now there's a question about who the actual owner is.”

“Just do your best, Ms. Barrett. I have every confidence in you.”

I'd already asked Jenny about the status of Shea's inventor y, and the possibility of the school borrowing the cash register for the seven-day run of the play. She was weeks away from finishing her appraisal, so the shop would remain closed for the time being. Unfortunately, though, there was a strong possibility that the owner of the cash register and everything else in the shop—“lock, stock, and Wedgwood,” as Jenny had put it—was Gar y Campbell. It seemed pretty unlikely to me that he'd want to do any favors for the woman who'd identified him as “a person of interest” in Shea's murder, whether he was guilty or not. According to the
Salem News,
and to some tiny tidbits of information Pete had shared with me, it was beginning to look as though Campbell had walked into the shop after the murder, just as I had. With the opening of
Hobson's Choice
only a few days away, I needed to know if it was okay for me to talk to Gar y Campbell or not. I went into my office, closed the door, and called Pete.

“Hi. Look, I don't want to bother you at work,” I said, “but there's some stuff I need to know about. Can you come over tonight so we can talk?”

“Are you okay? Is anything wrong? I'll come right now if you need me.”

“Oh, Pete. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound as though it was something urgent. It's just that I have some questions. Mostly about Gar y Campbell.”

Relief showed in his voice. “Oh, that guy. Sure. It's no secret that he's lawyered up big-time. We might not have a case against him, after all.”

“So you'll come over after work? I'll pick up Chinese.”

“I'll be there. Can you get some of that crab Rangoon?”

“Absolutely. See you around six.”

Topic, time, and menu settled, I opened my door and returned to the rehearsal area. The actors and Mr. Pennington had left, so I felt free to wander onto the stage. I inspected the props I'd selected, feeling rather proud of myself. The wooden shoe forms, the shelves full of random pairs of worn shoes I'd found at thrift stores gave a look of authenticity to the set. The bentwood chairs and the brightly colored vintage signs Mr. Pennington had pirated from my classroom looked just right. The giant patent-leather pump had been placed just above the spot on the counter where I planned to put a cash register—hopefully the brass, hand-cranked beauty I'd discussed with Jenny.

The shoe was tilted just a tad, and I reached up to straighten it, wondering as I touched its gleaming black surface whether it still held visions. Or had the new mirror in my bureau replaced this shoe, as this shoe had replaced the obsidian ball on my old
Nightshades
set? Or had it? It occurred to me with sudden clarity that it was possible that they all still held visions for me—the mirror, the shoe, the black ball, the childhood Mary Janes, all of those and more.

I sat in one of the Thonet chairs and stared up at the giant black pump. After looking around the room, making sure I was alone, I spoke softly.

“Go ahead, shoe. Show me what you've got.”

The answer came swiftly. First, the twinkling lights, the swirling colors, and then I saw the beach. The woman was there in the distance, facing away from me. She was alone this time. No little dog. She turned and faced me for just the briefest moment before she disappeared around a corner.

There was no doubt now about the identity of the woman. I recognized her immediately from the newspaper photos I'd seen. It was Helena Trent, alone on the long, empty beach, and this time she was weeping, carrying something in her arms.

The picture faded away as quickly as it had appeared, and I found myself staring at the black pump. Just a harmless old display piece from a long-ago store's shoe department. I went back and sat at the beat-up desk in my office, trying to process this new idea. Apparently, like some of the scryers I'd read about, I could see visions in more than one object. I'd already figured out that I could usually turn the visions on and off whenever I wanted to.

“Yeah, maybe,” I said aloud. “Not yet. I still don't like it.”

I picked up my handbag, took out the key to the truck, and headed down to the warehouse. I still had props to find, primarily two fur coats for Billie Dawn. Real fur coats had been a no-no in Massachusetts for so many years that they were hard to come by, even in the vintage clothing stores. I'd checked with Costume, and they didn't have any furs—and didn't really want any. We could use fake fur, of course, and Daphne Trent already personally owned several of those coats.

Yes, Daphne had landed the part of Billie Dawn and, according to all reports, was a natural in the Judy Holliday part. Mr. Pennington thanked me at least twice a day for “discovering” her.

A used clothing dealer over South Salem had called to tell me he had an old full-length mink coat, and the woman at Goodwill had said she had a fox jacket and a mink stole she was holding for me. In the interest of onstage authenticity, and in keeping with the rest of the decor in suite 67D, I hoped we could use the real thing, and I set out on my own private fur-trapping expedition.

 

 

“You ain't planning to wear this, are you?” asked the used clothing dealer as I tried on the glossy brown mink coat. “People will throw red paint on you, you know.”

“I know,” I assured him, shrugging out of the coat and feeling a little guilty about how much I enjoyed the luxurious feel of it. “It's for a play. Just wanted to see if it will fit the actress who'll be wearing it.”

“It's only fifty dollars,” he said. “Somebody paid big bucks for it back in the day. Where's the play?”

“I'll take it,” I said. “The play's going to be at the Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts. They're doing
Born Yesterday.
”

“Oh, yeah. I heard about that. Is it true about the wife killer's girlfriend being in it?”

For such a sprawling city, Salem still has some definite small town aspects, the gossip mill primary among them.

“I don't do the casting,” I answered coolly and handed him the school's credit card. “Just props. Thanks for calling about the coat.”

After paying for the mink, I tossed it over my arm and, hoping there was no one with red paint lurking around, went back to the truck. I stuck the coat behind the passenger seat and headed for Goodwill. The fox jacket was kind of ratty looking, but the Autumn Haze stole was nice, so I bought it for seventy-five dollars. That finished Billie Dawn's wardrobe and darn near finished off my prop budget. I was going to have to start begging from friends and looking closely at curbside trash on collection days.

When I got back to the Tabby, I secured the truck in the warehouse, dropped the furs off at Costume, and returned to my office. I'd just started checking off recent purchases on my properties lists when I became aware of an unfamiliar sound. I put down my pen and swung around in my chair, trying to focus on where the noise was coming from. It didn't sound like anything I'd heard before.

I stood and, walking slowly, almost on tiptoe, moved in the direction of the sound. I realized almost at once what it was. The ancient freight elevator was on its way up from the warehouse. I peered through the wire gate to where a pair of woven steel cables moved in unison—one moving up, the other down. After less than a minute the sound grew louder and the cagelike top of the elevator appeared. There was one person inside. It was a man, and from my vantage point, I saw that he had a small bald spot on the top of his head. After a few more clanks and whirrs, the elevator stopped. I stepped back as the wide door slid open and the man stepped out. I recognized him as one of the stagehands I'd seen around the building. A look of surprise crossed his face when he noticed me standing there.

“Oh, jeez. I'm sorr y, miss. I didn't know anyone was up here.”

“That's okay,” I said, gesturing toward the elevator. “Noisy, isn't it?”

“She's an oldie but a goodie,” he said. “I'm just checking her out before we start carrying the stage stuff down to the theater.” He wiped his right hand on his coveralls, then stuck it in my direction. “Hi. I'm Herb Wilkins. I know who you are. You used to be on television. That psychic show.”

I shook his hand. “Lee Barrett. Glad to meet you, Herb.”

“Likewise. What do you say? Want to take a test run with me? I'll show you how to operate her.”

“Well . . .” I hesitated. “I don't know.”

“Oh, come on. You never know when you might want to take something heavy downstairs. Or when Mr. Pennington might want you to.” He leaned forward, as if studying my face. “You are over sixteen, aren't you?”

I laughed out loud. “Yes. I sure am. Does it matter?”

“Yep. Have to be sixteen or over to operate one of these babies.”

Since I couldn't think of any reason to refuse, I said, “All right. I'll go,” and as Herb held the door open, I stepped inside the freight elevator.

“See? Here's the control panel.” He pointed at a vertical board with four round black buttons on it. On the edge of the board, printed with black marker, were the numbers
THREE, TWO,
and
ONE
and the letter B. “We're on three now,” he explained. “Now watch while we go down to two.” He pushed one of the buttons. I watched as directed, then reached for a handhold on the chain-link enclosure as we bumped to a sudden halt. A door outside the cage was marked
TWO
.

“Looks simple enough,” I said.

“Okay. You tr y it.” He stepped aside and pointed to the button marked
ONE
. “Take 'er down.” I did as he said, and the elevator resumed its downward journey. Again, we stopped abruptly.

“You get used to that after a while,” he said. “Now we'll go down to the basement. That's the warehouse where your truck is. Okay? Push the B button.”

I gave the B button a tentative push, and we headed down. It was a rough landing, but I managed to stay on my feet.

“Good job,” he said. “Want to take her back upstairs?”

“I'll watch while you do it,” I said.

He pushed a button, and the elevator began to move upward. “See? It's easy. Anyone over sixteen can do it.” We reached the floor marked
THREE
, and Herb held the door open for me. “Got it?”

“Got it,” I said. “Thanks for the lesson.”

On the third floor once again, I returned to my checklist duties but found my mind wandering to the vision I'd seen in the giant shoe. I knew that the shoe had shown me Helena Trent. No doubt about that. But why was Helena carrying a package? What was in it?

But what had me puzzled was the apparent change in my gazing “gift, ”—my sudden ability to see visions in more than one object, whether I wanted to or not. I remembered reading that such a thing was possible. Jean Dixon could do it, and so, apparently, could I.

At least I'd learned how to turn a vision off when I didn't want to look at it. Like when Pete was in the room. That thought brought me back to the question I'd been asking myself for a long time.