It took a little more than a minute, but pajamaed, slippered, and carrying a bowl of fresh, hot, and liberally buttered popcorn, I returned to the living room. O’Ryan had moved from the couch and now sat facing my Mission-style barrister’s bookcase. Behind its glass panels were housed my college textbooks, the set of World Book encyclopedias Aunt Ibby had given me in first grade, a set of Sue Grafton mysteries from A to Y, and my collection of miniature bronze pencil sharpeners. (They used to be lined up on top of the bookcase, but the cat had developed a habit of knocking certain ones onto the floor so I’d moved them onto the inside shelves.) Now he sat, hunched forward, clearly intent on something. A spider maybe? I put the bowl down on the coffee table, picked up a TV Guide, and rolled it up, ready to smack any intruding bug.
Scooching down to the cat’s level, I peered into the glass. There was nothing crawling or scampering in there. Deciding that our vain cat was just watching his own reflection, I’d started to stand up when I caught the tiniest flicker of light. Then the swirling colors. I sat on the floor beside O’Ryan and watched as the picture began to form.
No gazebo this time. No beach. I leaned closer to the glass. I was in somebody’s yard. There was a lawn and a small garden. Purple petunias and pink impatiens surrounded a white birdbath. In the center of the picture was a tree. I reached for the cat, patting soft fur gently. “What kind of tree is that?” I whispered. As sometimes happens with these things, the tree came into clearer focus. “Apples,” I said, recognizing it at once. “It’s an apple tree.”
As visions go, this wasn’t a bad one. It didn’t make any sense, of course, didn’t mean anything to me, but at least there was nobody dead in it. I sat there on the floor with my cat, just watching. For a long moment the scene remained steady. Nothing moved. Nothing changed. Then there was a dark blur of motion. A bird flew from the tree, down into the birdbath, splashing water onto the flowers. The bird was very large. Very black.
The crow returned to the tree, where it was joined by another. And another. Before long the tree was full of them. I could tell by their open beaks that they were cawing and cackling and I was glad the picture had no sound. As O’Ryan and I watched from my living room floor, the birds rose into the air at once. They formed a tight, whirling black circle above the apple tree, then flew away. The tree’s branches had been stripped bare.
For a moment O’Ryan and I looked at one another, cat nose to human nose, then back at the bookcase— which by then was just a bookcase. No crows. No bare-branched tree. Just rows of books and pencil sharpeners behind hinged glass panels.
“Did you see that?”
O’Ryan hopped back up onto the couch and reached a tentative paw toward the popcorn bowl. “I know you’re just pretending to be an ordinary cat,” I muttered, moving the bowl out of his reach, taking a handful of the buttery stuff, and plopping down beside him. “I—never mind. We’ll watch TV.”
“Meh,” he said, gazing toward the blank and silent television screen. “Merow.”
I opened the slightly curled pages of the TV schedule. “Okay. Deadliest Catch or Wicked Tuna?” O’Ryan likes anything about fishing.
Tammy Younger liked fish too.
I turned on the set and tried to focus on raging ocean waves and careening crab traps—hoping to erase lingering images of death in a gazebo and a gathering murder of crows.
CHAPTER 13
I’m afraid I dozed off and missed the end of an argument between Sig and Captain Keith. I’d have to wait a week to catch up with the adventures of the crews of the Wizard and the Northwestern and the rest. I yawned, turned off the TV, and, with O’Ryan tagging along behind me, padded down the hall to the kitchen. I poured a saucer of milk for the cat, and a glass of 2 percent for myself. The Kit-Kat clock showed eleven o’clock. “Come on, cat,” I said. “We’ll watch the late news in bed and maybe stay awake long enough to see River’s show too.”
I climbed into bed, piled up a few pillows, leaned back, and turned on the TV. New anchor Buck Covington came into view. O’Ryan gave one snooty cat sniff and headed for the kitchen windowsill, one of his favorite spots for snoozing. The smiling Covington delivered local news of city hall happenings and gave a report on a Girl Scout who’d sold five hundred boxes of cookies. His facial expression changed to one of appropriate concern when a startling video of the mass of crows over Preston’s Ledge filled the screen. “Senior members of the Massachusetts Audubon Society have gathered in Salem,” he intoned, “to conduct a study on the recent, somewhat uncharacteristic behavior of several varieties of American crows in this area. Wildlife biologists from the United States Department of Agriculture have also arrived in Salem and will discuss methods of dispersing the crows without harming them.” Close-up of a crow. “According to ornithological experts . . .” Covington didn’t even stumble over the word. Doan was right. He was good with a teleprompter. “. . . the crow has great intelligence. It is adaptable to its environment. Crows will eat almost anything, and part of their ability to survive is their being omnivorous.”
Wow. Ornithological and omnivorous in one paragraph without even blinking.
“They eat whatever is available,” he continued, his expression sincere. “A North Salem viewer has reported that hundreds of them had roosted on a backyard fruit tree and by morning had completely stripped it of both budding fruit and leaves.” The smile was back and the reporter moved on to some political news from the Boston State House, then introduced a Salem ward councilor who led a crowd opposed to a hike in property taxes. I wasn’t surprised when I recognized Viktor Protector among the protesters. “Never met a protest he didn’t like,” Pete had said. Covington signed off wishing all a good night along with a reminder to stay tuned for Tarot Time with River North.
So. The denuded apple tree in the bookcase vision had a basis in reality. In a strange way, that was a relief. Most of my damned visions don’t make any sense at all, like the gazebo and the man with dead eyes.
“River’s on next, O’Ryan,” I called. I could see the cat on the kitchen windowsill reflected in the tilted mirror at the foot of the bed. “Come on. The news is over.”
He appeared in the doorway immediately, leaped up onto the bed, and positioned himself on a pillow next to my head, facing the screen as River’s intro music played. An old black-and-white photo of the bandstand on Salem Common served as a background for rolling titles.
The bandstand is shaped a little like a gazebo, with the domed roof and open sides. Is that important?
A commercial for a new Amish ice cream stand at the Salem Willows Park was next. Then River appeared, seated in her high-backed rattan chair. If the events of the day had been upsetting to her, it didn’t show. Not one bit. Tonight the mass of dark hair was piled on top of her head with a few strategically placed wisps framing her face. She wore a long-sleeved black velvet dress I recognized as vintage 1950s. The low scooped neckline was accented by a bright red Victoria’s Secret bustier. River has a gift for mixing and matching styles and periods. This was one of her best combinations. She looked absolutely gorgeous. She began the show with a brief announcement about the time for Megan’s memorial service at town hall. Including the fact that the Wiccan community would hold a private service for their beloved friend at a later date.
Tarot Time always features live card readings for viewers who call in before, midway through, and after the night’s feature movie. This time, though, she surprised me—and I’m sure all of her regular viewers—with the announcement that she’d be doing her first reading of the evening for the city of Salem.
Is it because of the crows?
The answer came immediately. “We’re all concerned about the mysterious appearance of thousands of crows over Salem,” River said. “Perhaps the tarot can give us some answers about why these wise and ancient winged friends have chosen to visit us.”
Winged friends? Try telling that to all the people cleaning crow poop off their cars!
“Astrologists tell us th
at Salem’s birth date is September sixteenth, 1626, at 11:15 A.M.,” she said with a pretty wink and a dimpled smile. “I’m not an astrologist and I’m not sure how they arrived at that date. Perhaps Salem’s founder Roger Conant’s writings let them figure it out. I’ve learned, though, that through using astrology it is possible for the cards to provide information for a city, a county, a country, a company.”
She placed a card faceup on the table and the camera zoomed in on a colorful picture of a woman in a vineyard. On the woman’s gloved hand was a black bird. “The Nine of Pentacles will serve as what we call the Significator,” River announced, “and I’ve asked someone new to the city to shuffle the deck for us. Please meet our new WICH-TV friend, Buck Covington.”
That was a surprise.
Covington had removed the obligatory tie and jacket of a newscaster. A fitted white shirt, collar unbuttoned with sleeves rolled up indicated that Mr. Doan’s new hire’s body was every bit as attractive as his face. He leaned across the table and picked up the deck of cards. She leaned toward him. I wondered if everyone watching was as aware of the look that passed between them as I was.
Yep. Something’s happening there.
Without taking his eyes off River, Buck Covington dutifully shuffled, even adding a Vegas-like fanning move, and replaced the deck, facedown. “Okay?”
“Perfect,” she said. “Thank you, Buck.” It seemed that was his cue to leave the set, but he didn’t take the hint. Just sat there, staring at River. “Well then,” she said, “it’s customary to ask a question at this point, and the one that seems to be on all of our minds is: What are the crows doing in Salem? And how do we send them away?”
Next came a close-up of River and the table. If Buck was still on the set, he wasn’t on camera. “Dumb as a brick,” Mr. Doan had said. Maybe he was right.
River began to lay cards faceup in a pattern around the nine of pentacles. It was a different pattern than the one she usually used. This time she chose twelve cards from the shuffled deck and arranged them in a diamond shape. “The twelve cards relate to the signs of the zodiac,” River announced. “We’ll begin with Aries. Judgment is the card that fell here. This means it will take diplomacy to handle situations at home.” She put a hand, palm out, next to her lips in a mock whisper. “Mr. Covington told us that the city officials and the United States government are both working on our crow problem, so diplomacy is a good idea.” She moved to the next card. “The Nine of Cups is in Taurus. Financial affairs are indicated here.” She nodded. “The problem may get to be expensive for the city.” Next came the Eight of Wands. “Gemini tells us here that communications make progress toward the goal. Good.”
I wondered if everyone in the audience was as confused as I was. Exactly how would diplomacy, money, and communications solve the problem of a gazillion crows pooping all over the city and stripping fruit trees? River proceeded to read the cards positioned at Cancer and Leo. The Star reversed at the Cancer position told her that crows are stubborn and the Moon card at Leo reversed told her that the problem in question would take imagination along with a practical approach.
That makes sense.
Virgo was next and River held up an ominous-looking card. The Devil. River gave a delicate lift of one velvet-clad shoulder. “This is an odd one. It indicates the need for balanced meals and plenty of rest. Oh well, as Buck told us earlier, crows will eat anything.”
Libra, it turns out, is the house of marriage, lawsuits, and open enemies. The card, faceup, showed a knight in black armor. The Knight of the Pentacles. “This handsome knight is the lord of the wild and fertile land,” River said. “He’s a methodical man, trustworthy but unimaginative. He loves nature and is kind to animals.” She tapped the card with a slender finger. “Maybe this man has the answer to our crow problem. We’ll see.”
Marriage? Methodical, handsome, trustworthy, unimaginative man? Was she seeing Buck Covington in her own future? The thought made me smile.
Scorpio showed the Knight of Swords. I knew that card. It was the one River had always chosen to represent Pete in my readings. “He’s the knight of the spirits of the air,” River said. “Perhaps this card brings the involvement of police.”
I’m pretty sure she threw that idea in because of Pete.
I knew it was almost time for the break leading to the movie. Sagittarius, Capricorn, Aquarius were covered in fast succession. River wound up the reading with Pisces, the sign for secret enemies and secret desires. The card displayed was the Lovers. I thought of Shannon and Dakota and remembered that I had to go maid of honor dress shopping in the morning.
“Shall we go to sleep now, O’Ryan? I have a busy day planned.”
“Mlah,” he said, golden eyes still focused on the screen.
“What? You want to watch the scary movie? Okay. Let’s see what it is.”
Of course it was The Birds.
“Forget about it,” I said, clicking off the picture even before the title had finished rolling.
“Mlah,” he repeated and stalked off toward the kitchen window.
CHAPTER 14
I’d arranged to meet Shannon, Therese, and the two bridesmaids at nine-thirty in the morning at Dunkin’ Donuts on Newbury Street in Peabody, just a few blocks down from the bridal shop. I awoke early, showered, and dressed in jeans and a blue chambray shirt, being sure to wear a strapless bra in anticipation of the current trend in bridal wear. I clicked on the kitchen TV while I sipped orange juice and fed O’Ryan. Scott Palmer appeared on-screen.
“They call it a ‘murder of crows,’ ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “That’s the correct term for the astounding number of the birds who’ve been roosting here in Salem during the past two days and nights. Audubon officials estimate that the birds gathered in the city number somewhere between thirty and forty thousand. City officials are in consultation with wildlife biologists from the USDA. Sources have told WICH-TV that pyrotechnics may be used to safely clear the various roosting spots. Similar to Fourth of July fireworks, the devices look and sound like bottle rockets. Hopefully, this will cause the crows to disperse into smaller groups and spread out over a broader area.”
The now-familiar video of the birds over Proctor’s Ledge aired again and Scott continued with the voice-over. “At an emergency meeting yesterday, members of the City Council discussed the possible health risk involved due to the high concentration of excrement caused by these birds. Oddly enough, though, despite the extraordinary number of crows in this video, little damage of that type has been noted at the Proctor’s Ledge site. Residents are asked to assist the dispersal project by calling the number at the bottom of your screen to report the locations of large groups of crows.”
“What do you think about that, cat?” I asked. “Why would the darn birds poop on everything else in Salem but keep the place where the witches were hanged clean?”
O’Ryan kept right on eating his kibble, but I saw his ears move forward the way they do when he’s listening. “I’m going to add some information about the pyrotechnics to my proposal for Mr. Doan. I hope they do it. That would make for some good video. Everybody likes fireworks.”
He looked up, golden eyes unblinking. “Except crows,” I said. “And maybe cats. Well, I’ve got to get going. Maid of honor dress shopping today.” I put my glass in the sink and picked up my purse. “I hope Shannon isn’t thinking along the lines of pastels and ruffles.”
Together we walked down two flights of stairs. O’Ryan darted through the cat entrance to Aunt Ibby’s kitchen and I left the house via the back door, wondering if maybe we should consider painting it orange. The yard was quiet. I hardly dared to look toward the trees, but of course I had to. Among the leaves there were only a few birds visible. Most of them must have left the roost and flown somewhere else. What do crows do during the day anyway? Look for food, I supposed. Wherever they’d gone, I was pretty sure it was somewhere in Salem.
I backed the Vette out of the garage, glad both of our cars were
safely sheltered during most of the crow’s roosting periods. At least the car washes in town are benefiting from all this, I thought. It would probably be a good idea to pitch some of them a few ideas for commercials. I’d be sure to suggest it to Mr. Doan. I smiled when I realized that I was back to thinking like a WICH-TV employee.
Hilda Mendez’s Jeep and Therese’s Mazda Miata were already in the parking lot in front of the familiar pink and brown Dunkin’ Donuts shop when I arrived. Hilda waved to me from a booth next to a window. Shannon, Therese, and a young woman I presumed to be Maureen were seated at the table. I hurried inside and joined them.
“Hi! I’m not late, am I?”
“No. You’re right on time. Therese hasn’t started taking pictures yet.” Shannon slid out of the booth and hugged me. “We just got here. Haven’t even bought our coffee yet. We stopped at a car wash and had to wait in line.” She made a face. “Doggone birds. Anyway, this is my cousin Maureen. All the way from Florida for the wedding!”
I stuck out my hand. “Glad to meet you, Maureen,” I said. “Shannon talks about you all the time.”
“Talks about all the trouble we used to get into when we were kids, I’ll bet.” Shannon’s cousin was a petite blonde with blue eyes. Without a speck of make-up, she had a complexion so smooth, so flawless, so perfect it probably glowed in the dark. Her handshake was firm. “I was just telling everybody about the time we took her dad’s riding lawn mower and crashed it right into the summer house.”
“You had a special house for summer?” Therese asked.
“No, not a real house,” Shannon explained. “It has open sides. My dad calls it the pergola.”
I’m sure I gasped out loud. I’d heard Aunt Ibby use the term pergola before. “A gazebo,” I said. “A pergola is the same thing as a gazebo. Right?”
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