“No summer theater job lined up this time?”
“Nope. Not a thing. Maybe I’ll double up on the study time and catch up with you in the criminology course.” Pete and I were each taking an online course on why criminals do the things they do, but he was two years ahead of me. “I seem to be better at finding jobs for other people than I am at finding work for myself.”
“Other people?”
“I introduced River to the guys at WICH-TV and now she has her own show. I found Daphne Trent for Mr. Pennington’s theater group and now she’s in Hollywood. Therese is a call screener for River and videographer for the TV station. I’m the one who introduced her to Bruce Doan.”
“I see what you mean. Well, if nothing turns up, you could just go to the beach and work on your tan. Take it easy. Spend more time with me.” His smile was broad and he reached for my hand.
“That sounds good.” I returned the smile. “But speaking of Bruce Doan, my aunt saw him today and he wants me to call him.”
“Maybe he wants to hire you back.”
“I seriously doubt that! He probably wants to see if anyone from this year’s class is ready to join the WICH-TV crew.”
“What do you think?”
“I think a couple of them might be ready. The starting pay is never much but it’s a real opportunity to break into the business. Here. Have a cupcake.” I passed the plate, refraining from having one myself. We sat, sipping our coffees in companionable silence.
Pete’s cell buzzed and he reached into his jacket pocket. “Oops. Sorry, babe, have to take this. My office.” He spoke into the phone—cop voice engaged. “Detective Mondello. What’s up?” He nodded, expression grim.
“No kidding. Where? Uh-huh. You sure? Can you handle it? I’ve already worked a double today. Great. Thanks. I’ll take over in the morning.”
He tucked the phone back into his pocket. “Sorry. Where were we?”
“Come on,” I said. “What was that all about?”
“Shopkeeper on Essex Street says someone took a shot at him when he was leaving his store.”
“Is he okay?”
“Seems to be. Shook up is all.”
“Can you tell me what shop? Just curious.”
“It’ll probably be on TV anyway.” He checked his watch. “Almost time for the ten o’clock news.” He gave a Groucho Marx eyebrow wiggle and attempted a leer. “Want to watch from the bedroom?”
“Good idea,” I said. “I’ll be right back.” I carried the promised lasagna downstairs to a waiting Aunt Ibby, then hurried back up to my place. The TV in the darkened bedroom cast a bluish glow across my big bed, where both my boyfriend and my cat lay sound asleep. Poor Pete had worked all day and must have been exhausted. I don’t know what O’Ryan’s excuse was. I tiptoed to the bureau, pulled out a long nightshirt with a picture of Minnie Mouse on it, made a quick trip to the bathroom, and joined the two sleeping beauties on my bed.
The newscast had just begun. After a commercial for the new CX-9 from North Shore Mazda, the latest news anchor, Buck Covington, led off with the story about the shooting incident that had happened a few hours earlier behind an Essex Street store. The shooter had missed, but the intended victim had been taken to the hospital for evaluation. My old colleague Scott Palmer appeared on-screen with a handheld mic, doing the stand-up in front of a small shopping strip.
“The owner-proprietor of a popular downtown Salem store had a close call a few hours ago. He’d closed for the day and was preparing to enter his car, which was parked in a private lot at the rear of this building, when someone shot several times in his direction. Fortunately, the shooter missed. I spoke with shop owner Christopher Rich, who, though understandably shaken by his experience, was unharmed.” A photo of Rich popped up on the right side of the screen.
He looks familiar. I know him from somewhere.
It was dark on Essex Street, of course, but the portable spots from the WICH-TV mobile unit illuminated both the announcer and the storefront. I sat up and peered more closely at the screen, straining to make out the words on the display window. Christopher’s Castle was spelled out in Old English lettering. Below it, in smaller but still legible lettering, I read, “Your one-stop spot for psychic readings, charms, herbs, spell books, magic tricks, crystals and more.”
Pete stirred slightly beside me, and I turned off the TV. I remembered where I’d seen Christopher Rich before. He’d been a guest on River’s Halloween special show. One of the city’s most colorful, best known (and widely advertised) witches, Mr. Rich had dodged some bullets—and River had been spared her fourth funeral in a month.
CHAPTER 5
I woke to the smell of fresh coffee brewing. Sunday morning and Pete was in the kitchen, dressed, ready for work, humming an off-key version of “Rhinestone Cowboy.” O’Ryan had left the bedroom too, probably downstairs having breakfast at Aunt Ibby’s. I stretched, stood, and faced my antique full-length oval mirror on its swivel-tilt stand. (River, who’s an expert on such things, insisted the mirror had to be placed so that I couldn’t see myself in bed. Bad feng shui.)
At first, the beveled glass showed the usual morning me with sleepy eyes and messy bed head. Then, from the center of the mirror spreading outward, a different reflection began to take shape. I saw a sunny beach. Sea grass moved in the breeze and in the distance waves splashed onto the shore. A white Victorian gazebo with a cupola and lots of gingerbread and curlicues stood off to one side.
I don’t look forward to these visions. They come to me unbidden and unwanted. They’ve shown me scenes of death and destruction so often that I dread them. But this scene was a pleasant departure from all that. I had no idea what it meant, of course. I hardly ever know how to interpret these images. I moved closer to the mirror. “Can I get a better look at the gazebo?” I whispered. As though a camera had adjusted to close-up mode, the white structure grew larger. There was a seated figure inside, almost obscured by one of the pillars, it’s back toward me.
Just as quickly as it had come the vision melted away. Once again I saw myself, and from the doorway behind me, Pete’s reflection appeared in the mirror too. He retrieved his gun from the hidden cubby in the bureau and holstered it. “Did you say something, Lee? Coffee’s on. Sorry I conked out on you last night. Long day.”
Pete knows I’m a scryer, though it isn’t something he likes to talk about. Since I had no clue about what the beach meant, I didn’t say anything about it. Nor did I mention the previous night’s shooting. I knew, though, as Pete gave me a good-morning hug, that he needed to know about the four witches and that it was going to be up to River—or me—to tell him about the two who’d kept their witchcraft a secret.
“Just talking to myself in the mirror,” I said, returning his hug, “and you needed the sleep. I’m sorry you have to work so many weekends.”
“Me too. But I have three days off at the end of next week. Maybe we can do something.” I followed him to the kitchen.
“Let’s.” I poured a cup of coffee for myself and handed one in a to-go cup to Pete. “Something special.”
“Good idea,” he said. “I get off early today. How about fried clams and a movie tonight?”
“That’s a good idea too. Around six?”
“Yep. See you then.”
I walked with him to the living room door, where O’Ryan waited just outside. I stood in the tiny hall and waved a quick good-bye to the two as they headed downstairs, then returned to my cozy kitchen and my morning coffee. I looked at the Kit-Kat clock on the wall. River doesn’t do her show at WICH-TV on weekends, but it was still too early to call her. I remembered that Bruce Doan often worked on Sundays, though.
Wonder what he wants. After I get dressed and have something to eat, I’ll give him a call.
I usually have Sunday breakfast with Aunt Ibby before she leaves for ten o’clock services at Tabernacle Church. Sometimes I accompany her, sometimes not, but I never turn down the breakfast. I showered and dressed in tan
cargo pants and an old Indianapolis Speedway T-shirt of Johnny’s, tossed the previous day’s laundry down the bathroom laundry chute, turned off the coffeemaker, and went down the back stairs to where I could already smell bacon cooking.
I’d made a good choice. Bacon and eggs and hot baking powder biscuits make a happy start to any day. Aunt Ibby had seen the news about the previous night’s shooting on Essex Street and wondered if since Mr. Rich was an admitted witch he might be a friend of River’s.
“I’m sure he is,” I said. “He was on her show last Halloween. She never watches the news, though. Too depressing, she says. So she may not even know about it yet but I’m sure one of her roommates will tell her what’s happened.”
“How frightening for him. Poor man. Imagine being shot at like that with no warning. I hope the police will catch the criminal who did it soon. I wonder if it was what they call a ‘random shooting’ or if Mr. Rich was a target.”
I’m betting he was a target and it has something to do with his being a witch.
I wanted to tell her about that, but of course I didn’t. I told her about the vision, though, thinking that maybe she’d know where such a distinctive beachfront gazebo might be.
“Offhand, I can’t recall seeing such a place around here, but it sounds very pretty.”
“It is,” I said. “I guess it doesn’t necessarily have to be from around here. Could be anywhere. Even any time, I suppose. Darn visions never make the least bit of sense.”
“At first,” she said.
I nodded. “Yeah. At first.”
Aunt Ibby, properly high heeled and hatted, left for church. I tidied up her kitchen, loaded my laundry into the machine, and went back up to the third floor. O’Ryan, having spotted a few cat friends on top of the side yard fence, exited via his outside cat door, leaving me alone with a long, empty Sunday to fill.
Once upstairs I poured myself another cup of coffee and sat in the chair closest to the window overlooking the yard. O’Ryan had joined his friends. There were four cats in the garden now: our big yellow striped boy, a white female I called “Frankie” who stopped by occasionally, a small gray cat I’d seen only a couple of times before, and a sleek black lady with a red collar who hadn’t visited us in over a year. They made a pretty picture gathered there among the daffodils. Watching cats play gently together in a garden can be as relaxing as watching fish move in lazy circles in an aquarium.
By the time I stopped drinking coffee and cat watching it was nearly ten-thirty. Bruce Doan would probably be in his office. I dialed WICH-TV from memory, adding Doan’s extension number—remembering that Rhonda, the station receptionist, didn’t work on Sunday.
“Mr. Doan? Lee Barrett. My aunt Isobel Russell said I should call you.”
“Ah, Ms. Barrett. So good to hear your well-modulated voice. Indeed, there’s a matter I’d very much like to discuss with you.”
“Yes?”
“Could you come over to the station? Today if possible?”
“I can. What time is good for you?”
“Let’s do lunch at that little place across from the station. Say at noon?”
Sincerely wishing I hadn’t just eaten that big breakfast, “Noon it is,” I said.
“Looking forward to it,” he said, and abruptly hung up.
I had time to change into something more respectable—a turquoise linen jumpsuit with a gold braided belt and tan sandals looked both casual and professional. I twisted unruly hair into a loose bun and secured it with a gold filigree clip. I hesitated before looking at my reflection in the oval mirror—afraid the gazebo might be there. It wasn’t.
Summer was surely on the way—the sun bright and the breeze warm. I resisted the temptation to put the Stingray’s top down in favor of keeping the precarious hairdo intact and headed for Derby Street and WICH-TV.
I parked in the station’s waterfront lot, staying a comfortable distance away from the low granite wall where I’d once discovered a body floating in Salem Harbor, then walked along the side of the old building and climbed the three marble steps to the front door. After crossing the black and white tile floor of the lobby, I entered the brass-doored vintage elevator, which clanked and growled its way up to the second floor.
The empty reception area, with turquoise carpet, purple leather and chrome chairs, and a huge arrangement of silk lilacs (reflecting Mrs. Buffy Doan’s choice of office décor) used to make me cringe, but today brought a smile. The gold sunburst clock on the wall read five minutes before twelve. Right on time. I approached the door marked “Station Manager” and tapped gently.
“Mr. Doan? It’s Lee Barrett.”
The door swung open and Bruce Doan joined me in the purple and turquoise ambiance. “Right on time, Ms. Barrett,” he said, running a hand through thinning hair and smiling. “Time is money. Let’s go.”
He led the way to the elevator, punched the DOWN button, and we were on our way. The Pig is one of those places where, as they used to say on Cheers, everybody knows your name. I hadn’t been there for quite a while, but the pretty waitress remembered me. We sat next to a mullioned window facing onto Derby Street. I glanced at the menu. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Doan, I’ll just have some coffee. Had a big breakfast this morning.”
“Suit yourself.” He waved a dismissive hand, ordered my coffee and the soup and sandwich special for himself. (The station manager is notoriously thrifty, so my passing on lunch was probably good news.) “Now. Let’s get down to business. I have a proposition for you.”
I leaned forward. Interested. Waiting.
“Therese Della Monica says you’re still teaching about investigative reporting in that class of yours.”
“That’s true,” I said. “Until tomorrow. Then school’s out for the summer.”
“I reread your old resume.” His expression was solemn. “You’ve never actually been an investigative reporter.”
He was right. In addition to my short stint as a psychic, my main claim to TV fame had been a job as a second-string network weather girl and several years as a show host on a Miami shopping channel.
“True also,” I admitted, “but my course material is up to date and . . .”
He held up both hands. “Oh, I have no doubt that your course is adequate. I’m not criticizing your teaching qualifications. No. Not at all.”
“Then, what . . . ?”
“I want to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
With thoughts of a horse’s severed head flitting through my brain, I leaned back in my seat. “Go on.”
“What would you say to a summer’s internship as an investigative reporter on my station?” He beamed. “What would you say to that?”
Internship? Does that mean no pay?
My coffee and his lunch arrived, giving me a moment to think. “It’s certainly an interesting idea,” I spoke slowly. “Could you be a little more specific about just what an investigative reporting intern does?”
“Hey, you’re the one who teaches this stuff.” He shrugged, still smiling. “Find something interesting that the public needs to know more about. Nitty-gritty. Dirt. Low-down insider straight poop. You know.”
“But don’t you already have people on your staff who could handle this? What about Scott Palmer?”
“Nope.” He tasted his soup. “This is good. Sure you don’t want some?”
I shook my head “no” and waited for him to continue. I knew this was just the kind of reporting Scott would relish.
“Scotty’s already doing two sports shows, all the on-site mobile stuff, and subbing for everybody’s days off. Anyway, you’d be better at it.”
“How about the new guy? Covington?”
“You’ve seen him, huh? Let me tell you about Buck Covington. Good looking, isn’t he? The camera loves him. Great set of pipes too. Can read a teleprompter perfectly. Otherwise . . . dumb as a brick. No kidding, Lee. He wouldn’t know where to begin with a job where you have to think on your feet. Nope. It’s perfect for
you.” He pointed a finger in my direction. “It’s not as though you have to fill an hour every night. Nope. Just come up with something and we’ll block out a spot in the evening news—fifteen minutes maybe. If it works, we’ll package it and run it again in the morning. Just an occasional thing. Unless, of course, you stumble onto something really hot.”
Stumble?
I finished my coffee and signaled to the waitress for another. “Do you have a budget in mind for this, Mr. Doan?”
“Well, there’s no actual salary involved, of course. You’d just be an intern, after all. But the station will cover expenses.” Another shrug. No smile. Mr. Doan doesn’t smile about money. “Transportation. Occasional meals. Video and film production expenses. Bribes for snitches. You know.”
Bribes for snitches? The man watches too many TV crime shows!
He was right about one thing, though. He’d made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. And I didn’t. I agreed to come up with a topic, research it thoroughly, and be ready to present it to the WICH-TV audience within the next couple of weeks.
What was I thinking?
CHAPTER 6
Although a hodgepodge of thoughts had been whirling around in my head all day, by the time I drove home to Winter Street that sunny Sunday my poor brain was in a blender. What had I just signed up for? Of course, I hadn’t actually signed anything—the deal had been agreed upon with a handshake. But could I really do the job? As Mr. Doan had pointed out, I taught investigative reporting to others but had no actual on-camera experience doing it.
You can do this, I told myself.
Like a mantra, I repeated the words aloud all the way home.
You can do this.
I hoped Aunt Ibby was back from church. I was sure she’d speak those encouraging words. It would be good to hear them from another human—even one who loves me and thinks I can do anything. I pulled the Stingray into the garage, delighted to see that the Buick was already there, and hurried to the house.
It Takes a Coven Page 3