It Takes a Coven

by Carol J. Perry

  There was no more conversation about witches, living or dead, on the ride back to Winter Street. Instead, we talked about my summer job at the TV station.

  “I think you’ll enjoy it, Lee,” he said. “You still have friends at the station, so it won’t be like starting at a brand new place.” He smiled. “Even though the job description is a lot different than the last one you had there.”

  “You mean the ‘call yourself Crystal Moon, dress up in ruffles and beads and hoop earrings every night, consult the obsidian ball, ask people for their birthdates, and totally fake the answers to whatever they ask’? That job?”

  “That’s the one. You made an awfully cute fortune-teller, though.”

  I didn’t regret everything about my brief stint as the host of Nightshades. After all, that was how I met Pete. “I still have some of the costumes, you know. Wink-wink.”

  We pulled up in front of the house on Winter Street. “If I didn’t have to go to work early, I’d ask for a fashion show,” he said, pulling me close for a goodnight kiss. “Wink-wink back atcha.”

  He waited while I ran up the stairs to the front door. I turned and waved as I put my key in the lock. O’Ryan, as always, was just inside, peeking from one of the narrow side windows. Pete gave a brief wave and a tiny toot of the horn and drove away as I opened the door and entered the foyer.

  “Hi, O’Ryan,” I said, holding the doggie bag over his head. “Brought you a goodie.” The lights were off in Aunt Ibby’s living room and there was no sound of TV, radio, or Alexa issuing from the rest of the first floor, so I assumed that my aunt had already gone upstairs to her room on the second floor. I locked the front door, activating the alarm system, and climbed the stairs with the cat, pink nose and whiskers twitching, following me up to my apartment.

  While O’Ryan nibbled—more or less daintily—on his cold fried clams, I changed into jammies and turned on the bedroom TV. The new guy, Buck Covington, was in the anchor chair and I was interested in watching him work. As Mr. Doan had said, he looked good and his voice was excellent. The facial expressions matched the words—happy face for the kids’ lemonade stand for charity report, solemn demeanor for a four-alarm fire in Saugus. There was no further mention of the near-shooting of Christopher Rich. If Covington was really “dumb as a brick” it surely didn’t show. His reading of the prompter was letter perfect. Not a flubbed word or mispronounced syllable that I could spot.

  O’Ryan joined me on the bed, washed his face and paws, then curled up on the pillow beside me. Since it was Sunday, River’s show wasn’t on and I didn’t want to watch WICH-TV’s video of highlights from last summer’s Topsfield Fair. Flipping through the channels, I landed in the middle of one of my old favorites, the hilarious Hocus Pocus, where Bette Midler led the antics of three witches back in Salem after three centuries away. It reminded me of River’s warning that the old-time witches could really do some evil stuff with their “bad thoughts.”

  If only the deaths of three twenty-first-century Salem witches and the near-miss shooting of another were funny.

  They weren’t. I pulled my cat closer and turned off the TV. The deaths of Gloria Tasker and Elliot Bagenstose could easily have been dismissed as coincidental. Megan’s passing was quite certainly age related. But Christopher Rich’s experience led to the almost unavoidable conclusion.

  Even if Pete didn’t want to say so, someone out there was targeting Salem’s witches.

  CHAPTER 8

  It was Monday morning, the last day of the school year at the Tabitha Trumbull Academy for the Arts. I dressed carefully for the occasion in a gray striped business suit, white frilly blouse, and gray heels. It’s not exactly a graduation as the Tabby doesn’t award degrees. The programs in the arts including music, dance, painting, acting, writing, and—in my case—TV production are open to everyone. All that’s needed is a desire to learn (and the ability to pay the not-insignificant tuition). There’s a commencement ceremony, though, where students, guests, and faculty gather in the Tabby’s theater for school director Rupert Pennington’s final address of the year, followed by a reception with tea and punch, dainty sandwiches, and cookies.

  I joined my fellow faculty members on stage. We were seated in a double row of chairs behind the podium, facing the audience. Mr. Pennington, his back to us, approached his lectern raising his hands for silence. The hum of conversation stilled. I looked out over the sea of faces, trying to spot my TV production students. There’d been six of them this year—two men and four women. Dorothy Alden had already returned to her home in Alaska, but I expected that the rest of them must be part of the crowd. I spotted the Temple twins and Hilda Mendez sitting together near the front of the room. Therese would be filming the procedure, of course, and I was sure that Shannon Dumas would be there. Shannon had told me that she and her handsome artist fiancé, Dakota Berman, were coming and that they planned to bring a surprise member of the wedding party with them. I hadn’t yet met Dakota’s best man and assumed that would be the surprise. I looked forward to meeting him and wondered if he was another artist.

  “Welcome, welcome,” Mr. Pennington intoned. “We’ve come to the end of yet another successful school year here at the Tabitha Trumbull Academy for the Arts. Our dancers have earned acclaim, performing in venues around the country.” He paused for applause, and the instructors of the various disciplines of dance each rose, looking slightly embarrassed. Theater arts, oil painting, and watercolor instructors were introduced next, with ringing words about award-winning art exhibits and smash-hit play productions. The music department was lauded with mention of the Tabby Band taking part in the St. Patrick’s Day parade in Boston, and the school orchestra playing at the mayor’s inauguration ceremony. The directors, instructors, and arrangers stood and bowed. The creative writing classes were next, with instructors in poetry, short stories, novels, and magazine articles praised and thanked. TV production was mentioned last and, because I was the one and only instructor, least. “Ms. Barrett’s TV production classes have not only brought much favorable publicity to the school,” Mr. Pennington said, “but have resulted in two generous government grants. Several of her students have already gone on to productive careers within the industry.”

  I stood, acknowledged the applause, smiled modestly, and sat down as quickly as I could. During that brief moment of standing, I looked over the crowd. Therese, with her video camera, stood in the center aisle focusing on Mr. Pennington. Aunt Ibby, beaming proudly, was in the first row along with the mayor and other dignitaries. Dating the head man has its advantages. I continued to scan the faces in the audience looking for Shannon—who was not known for being punctual—then settled back in my chair, concentrating on the welcoming words from Mr. Pennington—who was not known for being brief. He was about ten minutes into his speech when I became aware of some kind of commotion at the rear of the theater. The house lights were all on, so it was not difficult to see what was happening. Mr. Pennington shaded his eyes with one hand, peering toward the back door.

  Shannon Dumas had arrived. The disturbance, causing a growing buzz of conversation, wasn’t due to the fact that Shannon is uncommonly pretty, nor because her fiancé, Dakota Berman, was undoubtedly the handsomest man in the room. It was because there was a very large black and white bird perched on her shoulder—and the bird, nodding left and right as the couple moved down the aisle, called out quite plainly and repeatedly, “Who loves ya, baby?”

  “Sorry,” Shannon called out. “He’ll stop in a minute. Hush, Poe!” Holding the bird by a blue leash attached to its leg, she smiled, flashing dimples, and the couple slid into aisle seats close to the rear of the long room.

  The bird did indeed stop talking, although some members of the audience didn’t, and the director resumed his address, picking up where he’d been interrupted, at the part about the many long years of retail success the Trumbull family had enjoyed in the old building. Could this large, talking bird be the surprise member of the wedding party Shannon
had announced?

  Concentrating on the speech was out of the question by then. The summer internship at the station might have to take a backseat to wedding planning for a while, I realized. The upcoming nuptials had already become more complicated than I’d anticipated. I’d been a bridesmaid before, but never maid of honor. Some honor! I’d probably have to arrange for a custom-made tuxedo for a bird along with everything else. The mental picture nearly made me laugh aloud.

  A burst of applause indicated that Mr. Pennington’s speech had come to a close and I once again focused on the present. Bobby Millard, one of the painting instructors and a high school classmate of mine, leaned across the seat between us. “Isn’t that one of your people? The girl with the bird?”

  “Uh-huh.” My reply was hesitant. “Shannon Dumas. Good student.” I was about to add something along the lines of “I didn’t even know she had a bird. It’s a surprise to me,” but Bobby, grinning, continued. “It’s an African pied crow. A beauty! I’d heard they could talk but I never had the chance to hear one before. Can you introduce me to—what’s her name? Shannon?”

  “Sure,” I said. “A pid crow, you called it?”

  “Right. It’s spelled p-i-e-d. But you say ‘pid.’ It means patchy, mottled, kind of like an early Jackson Pollack. See the random white feathers on it?” He lowered his voice. “I don’t think Pennington was too happy about being interrupted but he recovered pretty well, didn’t he?”

  We left the stage and Bobby followed me down the aisle toward Shannon and Dakota, who were already surrounded by a small crowd. “It takes a lot to rattle Mr. Pennington,” I said. “But I guess ‘Who loves ya, baby’ in the middle of a speech could do it.”

  “Ruffle his feathers, so to speak.” Bobby laughed at his own bad pun and we joined the chattering group around the young couple. Therese was there too, focusing her camera on the black and white bird, which was now perched on the back of a chair while still attached by a little strap on its leg to the bright blue leather leash, tied to Shannon’s wrist.

  “Oh, hello, Lee,” Shannon called. “Come and meet Poe. He’s going to be ring bearer at our wedding.”

  “Here comes the bride,” the bird said, fixing a bright black eye on me. “Who loves ya, baby?” On closer inspection, the thing looked enormous. It stood about a foot tall and the beak looked like a formidable weapon. I backed away instinctively.

  “Does he bite?” I asked.

  “He could if he wanted to, I guess,” she said. “He’s never bitten me and I’ve known him all my life.”

  I introduced Bobby, who stood a good distance away from Poe too. “You never mentioned that you had a . . . pet bird,” I said.

  Dakota spoke up. “Oh, he’s not ours. Belongs to Shannon’s dad. She’s staying at his place in Marblehead to take care of Poe ’til her father gets back from a business trip. He’ll be here for the wedding, of course. So will Poe, so we thought we’d give him something to do. They’re very social, these crows.”

  “You said you’ve known him all your life, Shannon,” I said, surprised. “How old is he?”

  “He’s over twenty,” she said. “My dad hand raised him. He has his own aviary behind Daddy’s house, with heat and air-conditioning and even a TV.”

  “He especially likes those window glass cleaner TV commercials with the crows in them,” Dakota said.

  “Aren’t you Dakota Berman?” Bobby asked the groom-to-be. “You do those fabulous cemetery paintings, don’t you?”

  Dakota nodded modestly. “Guilty.”

  “I teach watercolors and pastels here at the Tabby.” Bobby looked hopeful. “Maybe sometime next semester you’ll come and talk to my class? Maybe do a little demonstration of your technique?”

  “Glad to.” The two men moved to one side and continued their conversation about art, while I focused on the plan of a crow being part of the wedding party. “The idea about Poe being a ring bearer is quite original, Shannon.” I tried to keep my tone level, without any hint of surprise, bewilderment, or annoyance—all of which were present at the moment. I returned the bird’s baleful glare. “Why didn’t you tell us about this, um, unusual pet before this?”

  She stroked the bird’s head gently. “Never thought about it. As I said, he belongs to my dad. Poe knows me pretty well, though—ever since I was a little girl. Don’t you, Poe?” The bird said “pretty girl” and lifted its wings slightly.

  Oh my God. The thing must have a wingspan a yard wide!

  “Are his wings clipped?” I asked, backing away a little farther. “I mean, can he fly?” “Oh sure. He can fly. But don’t worry. I have him tethered.” She tapped the blue leash.

  “You plan for Poe here to be ring bearer then?”

  “Right. My dad will be giving me away, of course, and Poe will be on his shoulder when we come down the aisle together. I’ll hand my bouquet to the maid of honor. That’s you, Lee.” Big smile. “Poe will have the rings in a little mesh bag tied to one foot. I’ll untie it and hand the rings to the minister. Then Daddy and Poe go and sit down in the first row and the ceremony goes on. Cool, huh?”

  “Yes. Cool. Of course. And out of the ordinary, to say the least.”

  “I know.” Shannon sighed a happy sigh. “Therese says it’ll make a great video. Maybe even go viral.”

  I had to agree. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. But look, Mr. Pennington seems to be making his way down the aisle in this direction. Perhaps you and Poe should head outside.” The director was not smiling.

  “Oops. Come on, Dakota.” She tugged at her fiancé’s elbow. “Let’s go. Maybe we’d better skip the reception, huh? See you tomorrow, Lee? Gown shopping?”

  “Huh? Oh, sure.” I’d forgotten all about the bridal shop appointment. Oh well, I’d figure out how to fit it in. Everything will get done on time. It’ll all turn out fine, I told myself. I watched Shannon, Dakota, and the bird hurrying toward the exit. The bird had turned his head around to what looked like an impossible angle and it seemed to me those bright eyes were once again fixed on me. “Who loves ya, baby?” he screeched. “Hey, Red! Who loves ya?”

  * * *

  I dutifully attended the reception that was held on the top floors of the Trumbull Building, in the handsomely restored (and reputedly haunted) suite of rooms that had long ago housed the Trumbull family. The enormous dining room, with glittering chandelier and twelve-foot-long Empire mahogany banquet table, displayed assorted food offerings to great advantage. I smiled when I recognized Fabio, the baker from Pretty Party, filling huge silver platters with a variety of gorgeous pastries, performing the restocking duties with a magician’s flourish. Students, staff, family members, and guests wandered through the luxurious apartment or sat in conversational groups nibbling on the catered delicacies.

  I chatted briefly with the Temple twins, two retired Boston police officers looking forward to second careers in TV, and talked to Therese’s parents, who, as always, thanked me profusely for encouraging their daughter’s interest in photography. (They were, however, blissfully unaware of her interest in witchcraft.)

  I nibbled on a miniature chocolate éclair, and balancing a pressed glass punch cup, I strolled from room to spacious room until I found myself alone in one that had long ago been Tabitha Trumbull’s “sitting room.” I guess now we’d call it her home office. I pictured her at the small desk, filling out the recipe cards that Aunt Ibby had brought back to new life in her “Tabitha Trumbull Cookbook.” I sat in Tabitha’s chair and tried to concentrate on the present—my own personal present.

  It’s hard to focus thoughts when a crow you’ve never seen before calls you by one of your nicknames, but, turning that aside for the moment, I thought about the upcoming wedding. I did remember, once Shannon had jogged my memory, that we had a morning appointment at Blushing Bride, in Peabody, one of the North Shore’s most famous bridal salons. Finding a wedding dress appropriate for an outdoor event, and coordinated outfits for me and bridesmaids Hilda Mendez and Shannon’s
cousin, Maureen, shouldn’t be too complicated.

  I took a sip of punch and moved on to thoughts about the job I’d just accepted at WICH-TV. I’d said I could dig up my own topics to investigate. I was beginning to hope for assignments instead. I realized that I hadn’t the first clue on anything interesting. Except the seeming spate of witch deaths in Salem, and I didn’t feel ready, willing, or even remotely qualified to delve into that.

  Just in passing, was a talking crow who called me “Red,” my not-very-favorite nickname, a sufficient attention grabber? I didn’t think so. My recent scrying experiences might be leading me toward something noteworthy. They usually do, but so far I couldn’t figure out what they meant. What was the meaning of a Victorian gazebo and a dead witch—Christopher Rich—who wasn’t really dead, but who’d apparently been shot at?

  All this reverie led nowhere, so I didn’t mind in the least being interrupted when Bobby Millard appeared in the doorway of the room. “Oh, here you are. Mind if I join you for a minute, Lee?” he said. Not waiting for an answer, he slid into a rose floral upholstered green wicker arm chair and faced me, his expression serious. “I just overheard something I think you might want to know about.”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “First of all, I think you’ve known me long enough to know I’m not a nosy person. I mean, I don’t go around purposely eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.”

  “Of course you don’t, Bobby.”

  “It’s just that I happened to be standing right behind them. I wasn’t trying to listen to what they were talking about.”

  “Slow down,” I said. “Standing behind who?”

  “Oh, Dakota Berman and Shannon. Did I tell you Dakota might speak to my class next semester?”

  “Yes. I was there when you asked him. So you overheard something Dakota and Shannon were talking about?” I prompted.

  “Right. It was about their best man.”

  “I haven’t met him yet. I guess he’s from out of town.” I frowned. “I don’t even know his name.”