Look Both Ways (21 page)

“Find anything else useful among the castoffs?” Aunt Ibby asked when I returned to the downstairs kitchen.

“A few little knickknacks,” I said, sitting at the round table. “Mr. Pennington says he likes realism on the sets, and he thinks the small incidental pieces are important.”

“You would have had so much more to choose from in the old attic,” she said with a tinge of sadness. “It looks quite bare now, doesn't it?”

“It does,” I agreed, picturing the long, almost empty space, with its new wood smell.

She shook her head. “Nothing left except memories and that one box of things the flames didn't touch. Did you find anything interesting in that one?”

“One box had so much tape on it, I didn't want to bother with it,” I lied. “Do you know what's in it?”

She laughed. “I've never opened it, either. Our old handyman, Bill Sullivan, told me he'd packed up a few things that hadn't burned with the rest. ‘Nothing valuable,' he said. It seems a heavy old mirror in a gilt frame had fallen onto one small pile of stuff and had protected it all from the fire.” She placed a round brown-glazed bowl of bread pudding on the table. “Doesn't this smell good?' She placed a smaller matching bowl of whipped cream beside it. “Help yourself.”

“Did Mr. Sullivan tell you exactly what's in the box?” I asked, keeping my voice level and taking a big spoonful from each bowl.

“‘Mostly paper things,' he said. Greeting cards, your old report cards, theater programs. Bill thought they might have some sentimental value, that's all. So he packed them up. He was such a thoughtful man, Bill was. May he rest in peace.” She looked down at the table. “Oh, and there was a scribbly old book.” She smiled. “That's what he called it. A scribbly old book.”

I knew what it was. And I knew why O'Ryan didn't want me to open the box. The “scribbly old book” was the witch Ariel Constellation's spell book. It had originally been the property of Bridget Bishop, the most notorious of the Salem witches and the first one to die on Gallows Hill in 1692. I'd deliberately thrown it into that raging fire, hoping the evil damned thing would be destroyed forever. I should have known better.

I decided then to leave the book exactly where it was—safe, for the time being, from falling into the wrong hands. I was pretty sure that there was no point in trying to destroy it again. Having made that decision, and having taken a vow to stay away from the attic as much as possible, I felt a little better.

“You're too quiet,” my aunt said, frowning. “Don't you like the bread pudding? Too much marmalade? What?”

“It's perfect,” I told her. “I'm just savoring. Don't change a thing.”

Her smile returned. “I think I'll save the rest for an after-theater treat for us to share. That is, if you two don't have other plans.” We'd already decided that we'd all ride to the theater together in Mr. Pennington's big Lincoln.

“We don't,” I said. “And you know how Pete loves your cooking. Speaking of food, I need to pick up a couple of things at the grocery store. Pete's coming over for a quick dinner before we go to the play. I'm thinking lasagna and a salad.”

“Are you going to take the things you found in the attic back to the school now?”

“Yes. Where's the little ladder?”

“In the back hall. I'll come upstairs with you and get the basket, if you can manage the chair.”

Between the two of us, and with O'Ryan supervising, we secured the chair and the stepladder in the truck bed and put the willow basket on the front passenger seat. I started the engine.

“I'll see you later,” I said. “Oh, I almost forgot. I promised O'Ryan some whipped cream. Will you give it to him please?”

She promised that she would, and I drove carefully back to the Tabby, steadying the basket with one hand, steering with the other, and trying to sort out the kaleidoscope of thoughts tumbling around in my brain. The distorted picture of Shea showing up on the polished surface of the brass candlestick, Helena Trent appearing on the toe of the giant black pump, Helena's grandpa in the mirror of Helena's own bureau, and the little gray dog named Nicky chasing sticks on that long, empty beach. What did it all mean?

I looked at the round clock in the dashboard and wondered if River was awake. I needed to talk to somebody who'd understand what was going on in my head, and that field was extremely limited. At this point, River was it. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialed her, and she answered right away.

“River,” I said, “I'm so confused. Do you have time to come by the school for a little while? You can bring the cards if you want.”

“Really? I think this is the first time since the day we met that you've actually asked for a reading. I'll be there!”

She was right about that. She'd offered to read the tarot for me many times, and occasionally I'd agreed, but my asking her to bring her cards was surely a first.

I knew River lived fairly close to the school. She and two other witches shared an apartment over on Lynde Street, right near the old dungeon where they used to keep witches awaiting trial back in the late sixteen hundreds. As a matter of fact, the apartment had previously been Ariel Constellation's home, and the three considered themselves lucky to have rented it.

I pulled into the warehouse and loaded the stepladder, the chair, and the wicker basket onto the freight elevator and rode up to the third floor with a minimum of bumps and jerks. I was actually getting quite good at this. I carried the basket over to my desk and left the larger pieces in the elevator. I'd barely had time to sit down when River appeared.

She was dressed in her full tarot-reading regalia—an outfit she wore only for the kind of readings she did for corporate meetings, birthday parties, state fair appearances, and the like—all of which paid handsomely. Her long, black velvet dress had an Elvira-like neckline, and her silver lamé turban sported a huge red stone at its center. I recognized the red velvet cape as one of several that Ariel had kept at the TV station. I'd worn some of them myself. River's waist-length black braid had bright crystal stars woven into it, and silver high-heeled sandals completed the picture of a most glamorous, but far from authentic, Salem witch.

“What's the occasion?” I asked, getting up and closing the office door. “All this elegance isn't for my benefit, I trust?” I asked, half wishing that it was.

“On my way to the Old Gentlemen's Home, believe it or not, for a ninety-first birthday party—no charge for the old gents—and I thought they'd like the outfit.”

“That's so cool,” I said. “Pencil me in for my ninety-first, will you? Meanwhile, please sit down. I don't know if I need a reading or just someone to talk to about my weird life.”

She'd already pushed aside my pile of scripts and file folders and placed one tarot card on the desktop . . . the Queen of Wands, which she always chose to represent me. She bowed her head. “May only the higher forces surround this seeker while this reading takes place and may the truth of the matter concerning her be revealed.” She sat up straight in her chair and placed the deck of tarot cards facedown on the desk. “Okay. Do you want to talk first or just ask questions as we go along?”

“Talk first, please,” I said. “There's so much going on that I don't understand. The gazing thing . . . it's expanding somehow.”

“Expanding? What do you mean? The pictures are getting bigger?”

“No. They're just showing up on more surfaces. It's not just the shoe or the mirror anymore. I've even seen one in a candlestick. Why is it happening?”

“Hmmm.” She handed me the deck. “Shuffle the cards and concentrate on
why.
Then, with your left hand, cut the cards into three piles and put them facedown.”

I did as she asked, concentrating on the various surfaces and the scenes I'd witnessed. I looked at the three piles of cards. “Did I do it right?”

She smiled. “There's no wrong way to do this. Relax. Tell me what's going on that's got you so freaked out.”

I began to talk . . . thoughts coming so fast, it would have sounded like mindless babbling to anyone but River. As I spoke, she silently—almost in slow motion—placed cards faceup in a neatly spaced pattern. I talked about the dog Nicky and about the grandfather in the doorway. I told her about Helena facing me, weeping, holding something in her arms, and about seeing Shea in the candlestick that might be the mate to the weapon that had killed her. I realized that my cheeks were wet with tears as I described the lonely beach, the voice calling me to follow, the little dog growling. All the while, River arranged the cards, their colorful pictures facing up.

I talked, too, about things that weren't a result of gazing. I told her about little girl Helena planting pansies because they were her grandmother's favorite flower, about the maze of corridors in Tripp Hampton's house, about Tommy Trent's angry face, and about Daphne needing glasses.

After a while the tumbling thoughts and the tears stopped. The room was silent except for the
slap, slap
of the cards. I leaned back in my chair. I felt empty, exhausted, but somehow calm, even peaceful.

River smiled across the desk. “Feel better?”

I returned her smile. “Yes. Thanks for listening. But what does it all mean?”

She began the reading, starting with the card she'd placed on top of the Queen of Wands. “This is the moon. It's the card of the psychic. It means you may be developing powers you've only recently discovered in yourself. You can control the visions, no matter where they appear.” She tapped the card with her forefinger. “This can be a good thing, a very good thing, but it can also mean unseen peril, and misfortune to someone you know.”

I nodded, pointing to what appeared to be two dogs on a path between two towers. “And the dogs? What do they mean?”

“One is a dog, and one is a wolf. They mean that you must travel between those towers of good and evil to reach your goal. But don't worry. Mother Moon is watching over you.”

She continued, moving cards, explaining symbols and the things they might mean in my life.

She smiled as she pointed out that the Knight of Swords, which she interpreted to be Pete, was watching over me, too. That one made sense.

A card called the Fool told me that I had an important choice to make.
Great. I have several. Do I tell Pete about the scr ying? Am I going to sleep with him or not?

The High Priestess card meant that I shouldn't talk about something that was supposed to remain secret.
Okay.
Did that mean Bridget Bishop's book should stay where it was?

The Empress symbolized the realization of a creative project.
An easy one.
The plays would turn out well.

The fact that the Priestess and the Empress were close to the Fool apparently meant that someone else would make the important choice for me.
See? Back to square one.

But I did feel better, and by the time River left in a swirl of red velvet, with a promise to meet me for lunch on her next day off, I really believed that I could control the visions, no matter where they appeared, and I resolved to leave the box in the attic unopened for now. I didn't much like the idea of someone else making an important decision for me, but since I didn't know which decision that might be, it didn't make much sense to worry about it.

Most of the things in the wicker basket went to the
Born Yesterday
set; a couple of pairs of men's shoes went to
Hobson's,
with an unspoken question as to where my maiden aunt had obtained them; and the stepladder and kitchen chair were set aside for
Our Town.
There didn't seem to be much more for me to do at the Tabby that afternoon, so I secured the truck, picked up my car, and drove to the grocery store for pasta sauce for my lasagna.

A play opening in Salem is a dressy occasion, much as it is in most cities, and I'd decided on a Chinese-inspired emerald-green silk dress with a mandarin collar and side slits. With the lasagna bubbling away in the oven and the salad crisping in the refrigerator, I showered, shampooed, and took extra care with my make-up. Then I slipped on the emerald dress, consulted my new full-length mirror, and messed up my hair just a little bit.

Pete was right on time, as usual, and on that particular evening, in a light gray suit with his jacket unbuttoned over a black turtleneck, he could easily have graced the cover of
GQ.
The lasagna was hot, the salad crisp and pretty, and I was—if I did say so myself—looking good in Chinese silk. I could tell that Pete thought so, too. The kisses we exchanged before dinner helped me answer two of the questions that had been on my mind that day. Yes, I was going to tell him I was a scr yer, and yes, I was going to sleep with him—and not necessarily in that order.

But . . . not tonight. Dinner was ready, there was an eight o'clock curtain, and my aunt was apt to knock on the door any minute to tell us that Mr. Pennington had arrived. Anyway, we needed to talk about the Ben Franklin coin and the missing pink diamond. There was no news yet about the missing candlestick, but we were both pretty sure it was the murder weapon. We hurried through the meal, not giving the lasagna the admiration it deser ved—as it was every bit as good as Aunt Ibby's. I loaded the dishwasher, then put Pete to work making coffee, while I, avoiding temptation, went into the bedroom alone and brought the two halves of torn tissue paper, the coin, and the dog license back to the table.

“See what I mean about the torn paper?” I said. “I can almost see Shea finding the necklace. She's amazed, and she stashes it, still in the tissue paper, someplace nearby, then looks around for something to put in its place so that whoever bought the bureau wouldn't think something was missing. She grabs the coin out of the case right next to where she's standing, tears the tissue paper that was on the dog tag in half, and fills the empty half of the compartment that way.”

“Good visual,” Pete said with a grin as he poured the coffee. “You make it sound like a movie!”

He picked up the pieces of tissue paper, fitted the torn edges together, then rewrapped the coin and the dog license. Nicky's license.

“I think you may be right about Shea finding the necklace, and it could have gone down just the way you described it,” he said. “Any thoughts about who has the necklace now?”

“Nope. Not a one.” I picked up the tissue-wrapped coin and tag and headed back to the bedroom.

“Need any help in there?” Pete had started to follow me when O'Ryan dashed from the living room, down the hall, into the kitchen and pushed his way through the cat door.

“That must mean Mr. Pennington has arrived,” I said. “We'd better go downstairs.”

O'Ryan was right—no surprise there. Pete and I joined my aunt and my boss, and the four of us piled into the Lincoln. As we pulled away from the curb, I waved to O'Ryan, who watched us from the bay window in Aunt Ibby's living room.

Downtown Salem might not look much like Broadway, but with a couple of rented searchlights sending bright beams into the sky, the flashing marquee, and the line of well-dressed first-nighters lined up in front of the Tabby's student theater, it was pretty impressive. Once we were inside, a uniformed usher led us to our seats. The houselights were on, and I looked around to see who I might recognize.

My aunt was seated beside me. “Looks like everybody who is anybody is here,” she whispered. “Look. There's the mayor and his wife, and isn't that Tripp Hampton over there with a pretty blonde?”

I looked to where she pointed, and nudged Pete. “There's Tripp Hampton,” I said. “With Daphne.”

“Saw them,” he said. “Gar y Campbell's here, too, with Jenny.” He nodded toward the couple a few rows ahead of us, their heads bent over a play program.

I wasn't surprised by Gary Campbell's choice of a theater date, but Daphne being Tripp Hampton's escort was a shocker now that her boyfriend was free. Was it possible that Tommy didn't mind Tripp playing Henry Higgins to Daphne's Eliza Doolittle? I turned in my seat and looked toward the back of the theater, halfway expecting to see Tommy Trent's angry face, but the houselights had dimmed and the curtain rose on the Tabby's first play of the summer.

 

 

By intermission the success of
Hobson's
was assured. Pete and I and my aunt and Mr. Pennington headed to the lobby. A discreet cash bar had been set up, where a tuxedoed bartender served wine and soft drinks. A beaming Mr. Pennington mingled with the crowd, and Aunt Ibby, as usual, was surrounded by friends. Pete and I carried our wineglasses to the far edge of the long lobby, where I happily eavesdropped on the enthusiastic comments of passing patrons. Pete, his cop face in place and his back to the wall, stood close at my side, watching the crowd.

“Oh, there you are. Hi, Lee! Hi, Detective!” Daphne, splendid in a gold, all-over sequined mini with matching four-inch-high heels, enveloped me in a Juicy Couture–scented hug. “The play is good so far, isn't it?” She frowned. “Wish we could have got front-row seats, though, so I could see better.”

Tripp Hampton, in black Armani, stood back for a moment, looking at her much the way a proud daddy might look at his cute four-year-old. Then he stepped forward, right hand extended, first to Pete and then to me. We all spoke the expected greetings, commented on the actors' performances, the attractiveness of the set.

“The cobbler's bench looks absolutely authentic, Tripp,” I said. “Thank you again so much for lending it to us.”

“My pleasure,” he said.

“Tripp,” Daphne said, all dimples and smiles. “Want to get me a glass of white wine?”

“Of course. Refill, Lee? Detective?”

“No thanks,” I said. We each lifted our glasses.

“We're fine.” Pete tapped my glass with his.

Tripp headed for the bar, and Daphne squinted, watching his retreating back. “I'd get it myself except I didn't bring any money,” she said. “I'd like to get a closer look at the cute bartender. Love men in tuxes. Do you have one, Detective?”

Pete laughed. “Not me. I rent one when I need it.”

Tripp returned and handed Daphne her glass with a flourish. “Cheers, dear.”

She favored him with a dimpled smile. “Tripp has one. Looks good in it, too. One time he took me to a black-tie thing where all the men wore them. What a feast!” She laughed the silvery little giggle she'd perfected as Billie Dawn. “The only problem that night was, I didn't have the slightest idea who I was dancing with most of the time. They all looked alike to me!”

The five-minute-warning buzzer sounded. I looked around the lobby, hoping to see Gar y Campbell so I could thank him for the loan of the cash register. Not only did it look good onstage, but its loud ring also brought hearty laughter from the audience every time the old man dipped into it for drinking money. I remembered what Campbell had said about knowing what that was like. When we all trooped back into the theater for the last two acts, I saw that he and Jenny were already in their seats, and resolved to thank him later.

We watched while Maggie swore to Will that she'd wear her brass wedding ring forever, and cheered when old man Hobson got his comeuppance. The place erupted with applause. A standing ovation for the cast and three curtain calls! Mr. Pennington was ecstatic. Again, I searched for Gar y Campbell but couldn't spot him in the crowd.

The mood was still celebrator y when we arrived back at the house on Winter Street, and Aunt Ibby's latest creation from the Tabitha Trumbull cookbook to be, served with hazelnut-flavored coffee, was received with enthusiasm. It was after midnight when Mr. Pennington and Pete left, and while my aunt and I dealt with the dishes, something nibbled at my mind. It was something Daphne had said.

“Aunt Ibby,” I said, “want to do a bit of research for me?”

“Love to. Research is my middle name.” Her face lit up, and she rubbed her hands together. “What do you need?”

I smiled at her eagerness. “Do you think you could dig up some newspaper accounts of any big society events that happened in Salem on the night Helena was murdered?”

“Sounds intriguing! I'll go to the library and get on it first thing in the morning.”

“I'd appreciate it. Thanks.”

She hung up her dish towel and turned off the kitchen light. We headed for the front stairs together, O'Ryan trotting along behind us. “Want to give me a hint about what I'm looking for?” she asked.

“I'm not even sure myself,” I admitted. “It may be nothing. May be something.”

We'd reached the door to her second-floor bedroom. “Good night, then, Maralee. Sweet dreams.”

I climbed the stairs to my own apartment, O'Ryan scampering ahead of me. I heard his cat door open and saw the flick of his yellow tail as he went inside. By the time I opened the door, he was already sprawled out along the windowsill.

“That seems to be your favorite perch lately,” I said. “Are your friends in the yard again?”

Leaving the kitchen light off, I knelt beside the window and looked in the direction the big cat faced. The bars of the fire escape blocked the view from that vantage point, so I stood and looked through the panes at the top of the sash. The moon had paled, but the back fence was still visible. At first I didn't see the lone cat sitting there, black as the night sky.