Look Both Ways (23 page)

We three sat there at the round table, with the notebook centered between us. Aunt Ibby read aloud, and we took turns looking at the handwritten pages and the items Helena had pasted in. The writing on the pages following the obituary notice was noticeably neater, clearly written by a more mature hand.

Pete pointed at the paragraph. “She must have been talking about Misery Island. Don't you think so, Miss Russell?”

“I think you're right, Pete. There used to be cottages, even some good-sized houses, on the island. All gone. Just a few chimneys, some stairways, cellar holes. It's a nature reserve now, and quite a lovely one. There's a ferry service that takes people out there.”

“I suppose an island that size has a nice beach,” I said, remembering my vision of Helena and the dog.

“It does,” Pete said. “Miser y's just a short boat ride from Salem Willows. Want to go some time?”

“I'd love to. Daphne told me that Helena had a speedboat. She told me about Nicky's life preserver, too. It's nice about the pansies, isn't it?”

“It is,” my aunt said. “Helena was an awfully nice person.”

“An angel,” Pete murmured. “That's what everybody says about her. An angel.”

“I know,” I said. “Even Tommy Trent calls her that.”

“He still claims he didn't do it, you know. He admits he married her for the money, though.” Pete shook his head. “He even admits he stole about a million dollars from her to pay his gambling debts. It's hard to believe anything a rat like that says.”

Aunt Ibby turned the page.

“Oh, dear, look at this. It's another obituary. John David Hampton, Jr. She lost her grandfather and then her husband. He was only seventy.” She made a “tsk-tsk” sound. “He was survived by his wife, Helena, and one son, John David Hampton the Third. Poor Helena. Here's another of her little poems.”

The very next entry was a wedding announcement engraved on heavy cream-colored stock. It announced the marriage of Ms. Helena Hampton to Mr. Thomas Trent. Another pressed flower was pasted onto the facing page.

“Must be from Helena's wedding bouquet,” Aunt Ibby suggested. “A white rose, I think. You can still smell the fragrance.”

“She should have quit when she was still ahead,” Pete grumbled.

The following several pages held candid photos. Helena and Tommy on a cruise ship. Helena and Tommy at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Helena and Tommy at the Grand Canyon. Helena and Tommy and Daphne at Disneyland. Helena and the little dog Nicky posing in front of a Christmas tree.

“Did you notice there are no pictures of Tripp? Didn't they get along?” my aunt wondered aloud.

“Maybe he was away at school,” Pete said. “He sure was broken up when he found out she was dead. Cried like a baby.”

“Really?” I was surprised. “He doesn't strike me as a very emotional type.”

“He was away at school a good deal of the time,” Aunt Ibby said. “Maybe Helena and Tommy didn't want him around.” She picked up the notebook and dropped her voice. “You know I don't like gossip, but there's a rumor going around that Tripp may be in some serious financial trouble at the investment firm.” She aimed a questioning look in Pete's direction.

He smiled. “I don't deal in rumors, Miss Russell. Let's read some more.”

Aunt Ibby returned his smile and turned a page. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “That poor woman.”

“What is it?” Pete and I each leaned closer.

“She had to put her little dog down. Look here.” She pointed. A receipt with a veterinarian's name on it was pasted onto the page. “It's a bill for euthanasia for a male dog named Nicky, aged twelve years.”

Pete shook his head. “What a run of rotten luck. I guess it's true, what they say. ‘Money can't buy happiness. '”

“I'm so sorry for Helena,” I said, feeling the sting of tears behind my eyes. “I feel as though I know her a little bit.”

“Yes,” Aunt Ibby agreed. “This notebook is extremely personal. I think we all do know her a little bit now. She had to deal with a great deal of sadness, didn't she?”

“And then to die the way she did,” Pete said, teeth clenched, cop voice activated. “It's not fair.”

“Sometimes life isn't,” my aunt said. “Look. Here's a nice long poem on the next page. Maybe it'll sound a happier note.” She turned the book toward us as she read so that we could see the staggered lines.

“Oh, my God. Helena must have written that after she caught Tommy and Daphne in the swimming pool.” I pushed the book away. “She never saw it coming.”

“She caught them in the pool? How do you know that?” Pete asked.

“Daphne told me. After that, Helena threw Tommy out of their bedroom. Told him to pack up his stuff and find another place to live.”

“That's what Trent claims, too. Says he was in a guest room on the other side of the house, packing, when she was killed.” Pete looked at the book again. “Nobody believed him. No wonder. What a creep. Imagine doing it right in his wife's house. In the pool, for Christ's sake.”

“Do we have to keep reading?” Aunt Ibby asked. “There are only a few pages left, but I'm getting depressed. How about we have some nice chocolate ice cream and save the rest of this for another day?”

I would have kept right on reading, but ice cream won. Aunt Ibby marked where we'd left off with a Salem Public Library bookmark, closed the notebook, and handed it to me. Chocolate ice cream was served, and the conversation turned from murder and deception to plans for a picnic on Misery Island. It was decided that Aunt Ibby and Mr. Pennington would join Pete and me for the excursion via ferr yboat on the following Sunday, Pete's next day off.

After Pete left to pick up his sister's kids, and after Aunt Ibby and I had taken care of those dishes, I carried Helena's notebook back up to my apartment. I planned to read it through again from the beginning. There was something about the last poem that had really hit home.

When I'd thrown Ariel's spell book into the flames, I'd been sure it was the right thing to do. But that book had survived somehow since 1692. It had once belonged to Bridget Bishop, easily the most notorious of the Salem witches and the first one hanged at Gallows Hill. Because of the things Ariel had done, and because of everything I knew about Bridget Bishop, I'd been thoroughly convinced that the book was evil. Say what you will, and believe whatever you want to about witches, but Ariel and Bridget Bishop were the real deal, and not in a good way. I knew, too, that River and her roommates, all of them far from being evil, were still searching in Ariel's apartment, looking for that same book.

But had I looked both ways? Was it possible that the magic in those ancient pages held good spells, as well as bad ones? Who was I to judge? Anyway, I knew in my heart that if Bridget's book held enough magic to preserve it from a fire of that magnitude, there wouldn't be much point in trying to destroy it again. When I got upstairs, I made a phone call.

“River? It's me. Tomorrow's Saturday, and since we both have the day off, want to come over to my place for lunch? There's something I need to tell you. And something I need to give to you, too, if you want to accept it.”

Was I doing the right thing? Or was passing the spell book along to River just a way to get it out of my house and off my conscience? Whatever it was, River happily agreed to join me the next day, and I hung up feeling just a little bit lighter in the conscience department.

O'Ryan had followed me upstairs, as he usually did when he thought it was bedtime. I donned pajamas, but I wasn't anywhere near ready for sleep. I put on a fresh pot of coffee, gave the cat a few of the kitty treats Pete had brought over, plumped up my pillows, and turned on my reading lamp. I'd just settled down with Helena's notebook propped against my knees, mug of coffee on the bedside table, when I realized that I could see myself in the oval mirror. River had specifically warned me against that.

Bad feng shui.

Grumbling just a bit, I climbed out of bed, turned the mirror to the right, fluffed up the pillows again, and got back into bed. Before picking up the book, I checked the mirror. Now it reflected the kitchen window and the big yellow cat sprawled out full length along the windowsill.
Much better.
Maybe this place was beginning to feel like home, after all.

The pages after Helena's sad poem held a variety of pasted-in items. There was a blue ribbon marked
BEST OF BREED
and a photo of Nicky wearing a little white sailor hat, being held by Helena, who was wearing a matching one. A short nonsense poem was printed beneath the photo.

A colorful packet that had once held pansy seeds shared a page with a ticket stub from the Misery Island Sea Shuttle. A folded copy of an official-looking deed assigned a parcel of land, with all buildings, improvements, and appurtenances, to the trustees of reser va-tions. A crude hand-drawn map took up a whole page. I smiled when I saw it.

“I feel even more as though I know you, Helena,” I said aloud. “I'm not much of an artist myself.”

O'Ryan, hearing my voice, jumped down from his windowsill perch and joined me on the big bed.

“Come on, cat. Let's look at the picture together.”

There was a shape, which looked to me like an upside-down elephant, surrounded by wavy lines, which I guessed represented water. At the top of the page she'd printed 42°32'55”N 70°47'53”W.

“I can look it up later,” I told the cat, “but I'm sure this is the latitude and longitude of Misery Island. Think so?”

O'Ryan said, “Mrrit,” which could mean anything, but in this case I took it to mean “Yes.”

I pointed to a little house-shaped drawing, complete with smoking chimney, close to the southern edge of the island. “And I'll bet this is Grandpa's cabin.”

O'Ryan nodded.

Just behind the cabin was a small, curvy-edged, roundish form. “What do you think that's supposed to be?” I tipped the notebook left, then right. “I don't get it. Do you?”

Out snaked a yellow paw. He lifted the page so that the edge of the previous page peeked through, displaying the seed packet.

“Of course. It's a pansy. Helena and her grandfather planted pansies behind the cabin, and Helena kept up the tradition.” I patted his head. “Good eye, O'Ryan. And look at this one.” I pointed to a stick figure with four legs and a tail. “That must be Nicky. Cute.”

O'Ryan yawned, gave my hand a pink-tongued lick, curled up beside me, and closed his eyes, showing no interest in the dog—or maybe dogs in general.

“Okay. Time for sleep, I guess.” I put the notebook on the bedside table and turned off the reading lamp. As I rearranged the pillows and snuggled under the blankets, I glanced again at the oval mirror, where the outline of the open kitchen window was dimly reflected. I thought for a moment that I saw a gray cat sitting on the fire escape outside, but the image quickly disappeared. I was about to close my eyes when the little cloud and the pinpoints of light danced across the mirror and the woman began to take form.

I sat bolt upright and kicked off the covers. This was no small vision. Because the mirror was of the full-length variety, the vision was, too. Helena—because this was surely Helena—appeared to be life size. I scooted down to the foot of the bed, closer to the mirror. She was smiling and held the little dog in her arms. She wore jeans and a black turtleneck. Around her neck was the pink diamond pendant on a leather thong. Then she pointed to the dog's collar. An identical pendant sparkled against the gray fur.

I gasped. The scene in the mirror changed. Helena was still there, but this was the weeping Helena I'd seen in the giant patent-leather pump at the school. She held something in her arms, as she had before. She extended both arms toward me so that I could clearly see the small metal coffin. Then she grew smaller and smaller, until she faded away and I was once again looking at my own kitchen window.

Two Helenas. A small coffin. And two pink diamonds.
Just try to go to sleep after that.

I finished the pot of coffee and watched
Tarot Time with River North
on WICH-TV, including the night's feature movie,
Zombie Apocalypse,
all the way to the end.