“Sure,” I said, only half believing it myself, “I can do that.”
“Let’s see. This is Tuesday. That’ll be the day after tomorrow. If you need footage get with Therese. Okay? Are we all set?”
“All set,” I repeated. “Thursday.”
“Right. We’ll start with a live segment on the late news with Covington. Then run the short taped package Friday morning with Phil. Okay?”
“Okay. Fine. Thank you, Mr. Doan.”
My first investigative report with two days to prep and deliver.
I felt something like opening night stage fright sweep over me and hoped my hand wasn’t clammy when I shook his.
CHAPTER 16
Aunt Ibby had some more news to deliver when I returned home. She must have been waiting for the sound of my key in the back door because she appeared in the hall even before O’Ryan did. “Guess what, Maralee! The crows ate up a tree in Gloria Tasker’s yard too. What do you think of that?”
“I don’t know what to think,” I said, picking up the cat and carrying him through her open kitchen door. “Did you hear that on the news?”
“No. One of my book club friends, Bertha Barnes, phoned and told me. She lives right next to Gloria’s place in North Salem and she saw the whole thing. Videoed some of it too. Crows flew down onto Gloria’s quince tree and stripped it bare in a matter of minutes.” My aunt didn’t sound particularly sorry. “Gloria was awfully proud of that tree. Used to enter her quince jam at the Topsfield Fair every year. Usually won a blue ribbon too, though I always thought she used a touch too much cardamom.”
I sat in one of the captain’s chairs, O’Ryan on my lap. “Slow down and back up a little please,” I said. “Is anybody living in Gloria’s house now?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t think to ask. But if the station doesn’t have film, you can get my friend’s video and scoop everybody! I asked her to e-mail it to me and not to tell anyone else about it and she said she would.”
Having an exclusive piece of film like that is a big plus and I was pleased. Doan would be too. “What would I do without you,” I said for the millionth time. “Couldn’t happen at a better time. I’m on the air on Thursday night. And maybe we can use her video for a promo tomorrow or even tonight.”
“That came fast, didn’t it?”
“I know. I’m a little nervous about it. But the crows are here right now, so the program has to be timely.”
“You’re right, of course. She’s probably sent me the video by now. Better check it for quality and put together a short script and see what Mr. Doan wants to do with it.” She started for her office. “Come on. Let’s take a look.” I carefully eased O’Ryan down to the floor. He hates getting dumped from a lap without warning. He followed my aunt, and I brought up the rear.
Within seconds the video flashed on the screen. Aunt Ibby’s book club friend was a darn good photographer. With steady hand and appropriately used zoom, she’d documented a textbook demonstration on how determined birds can denude a blossoming quince tree in minutes.
“This is great stuff.” I wasn’t kidding. It was going to make excellent TV. “Is that Gloria’s house in the background? Nice place.”
My aunt agreed. “Easily the best house in the neighborhood, I’d say. Not sure how she could afford it on a waitress’s salary. Want to watch this again?”
“Sure.” It was even better the second time. “This is going to be perfect. I’ll slam together a few words about Thursday’s investigative report segment and send the whole package right over to the station.”
“Good idea. The video made me think about the trees and plants in our yard. I think I’ll try my hand at making a scarecrow.” She put one fist under her chin, the way she does when she’s thinking. “When you get a minute, would you run up into the attic and get a few things for me? There’re some old jackets and pants on a clothes rack up there and I’m pretty sure there’s a floppy old straw hat in one of the trunks. Would you mind?”
“Not at all,” I lied. I hate going into that attic. Partly it’s because of the terrible fire that almost trapped Aunt Ibby and me up there. Even more frightening was the memory of the spell book that I’d consigned to the flames that awful night. It was the real deal, the property of Bridget Bishop, the first Salem witch to die by hanging back in 1692. The book didn’t burn. It should have but it was unscathed by that inferno. The damned thing was evil and I knew it. I hadn’t told anyone but River about it, and I’d given it to her, with a warning to hide it well.
“If Pete comes over later we’ll run upstairs and gather some scarecrow finery for you,” I told my aunt. “Meanwhile I’ll get this footage over to the station.”
So that’s what I did. Mr. Doan was, as we expected, delighted with the neighbor’s footage—who asked to remain anonymous so the rest of the people on her street wouldn’t think she was peeking over their fences with her camera. (Which maybe she was.) I hurried home, I changed my shirt for a red silk one, and drove back to the station, and did a quick taping with Marty explaining what my planned occasional investigative reports would attempt to do for the WICH-TV audience. There was, naturally, a special emphasis on Salem’s current murder of crows problem, with mention of the recently deceased owner of the tree and her prize-winning quince jam. I voiced the hope that the tree would recover and that the crows would depart, resisting the temptation to report that both the apple tree and the quince tree stood on property owned by witches.
By the time I’d parked the Vette in the garage for what I hoped would be the final time for that long and busy day, sunset approached. Already the flapping of wings, the sudden motion of leaves and branches, and the cackling cawing of the birds signaled a return to the roost. I ran—literally ran—along the path, through the garden, up the steps, and into the house, where O’Ryan waited in the hall. Closing the door, I took a quick glance at the side fence. Three cats looked back at me, six eyes reflecting silvery circles in the dying light.
I ducked into Aunt Ibby’s kitchen for the fourth time since morning. “Just wanted to tell you how it went,” I told her. “It’s a three-minute spot and they’re going to start running a thirty-second teaser on the half-hour breaks tonight, then run the whole spot on the late news tonight and several times tomorrow.”
“Wonderful,” she said. “I expect that a good deal of tomorrow’s local news will be coverage of Megan’s service at town hall, so that should be just enough exposure to create interest in your report.”
“River says that tomorrow’s service will be a memorial for Megan, but later there’ll be a real Wiccan ceremony.”
“Somewhere more private, I expect,” my aunt said. “Somewhere where they can safely return her ashes to the earth. I’ve been doing a little research on the subject. It’s a very special ceremony, a sacred passage leading from one life to the next. I expect that’s why Elliot Bagenstose left word that his remains be cremated. Claudine told me that at his funeral, although, of course, she didn’t know then about his being—you know—one of them.”
“I wonder if Gloria Tasker was cremated too. Pete might know.” I decided I’d ask him, even if it was a nosy question. “River says they can hold the ceremony anytime they choose.”
“Wiccans often hold the funerals on Halloween. Maybe Megan’s will be then—or maybe not. She may have expressed her wishes about it to the members of her coven. Of course, if Gloria and Elliot hadn’t admitted to being witches, I guess they didn’t get any special ceremony.”
“Guess not. I’ll be glad when all this is over. River is so stressed out.” O’Ryan stood beside the kitchen door, looked up at me, and meowed his impatient meow. “Okay, big boy,” I said. “Let’s go upstairs and relax. I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”
“Is Pete coming over?”
“Don’t know for sure. He’s been working a lot of hours lately. He’s probably tired too.” I kissed my aunt on the cheek, and yawning I followed the cat up the curving wooden stairs to the thir
d floor, through the living room, down the hall to the kitchen. O’Ryan headed straight for the open window, turned around a couple of times, then sat on his haunches, facing the screen as he peered into the darkness. I started a fresh pot of decaf, nibbled on a graham cracker, and stood behind him. “What are you looking at out there? Are your girlfriends still on the fence? It sounds as though the crows have quieted down. I suppose they go to sleep after the sun sets.”
O’Ryan swiveled his head around, blinked in my direction making no cat comment, then returned his attention to the outdoors. I bent down so that my head was next to his, trying to see what it was that had captured such rapt concentration. At first I didn’t see the black cat. She lay very still, all alone, along the top rail of the fence. She’d made herself small in that clever way only cats know how to do, facing Oliver Street and the trees where God only knows how many crows roosted.
“What’s she doing there all by herself, O’Ryan?” I whispered. “Guarding them? Guarding us? Or is she just curious?” Again, no cat comment. The coffeemaker signaled “ready” and I poured a mugful just as O’Ryan left his windowsill perch and streaked past me toward the living room, his signal that someone was coming. I followed, reaching the door just as Pete’s key turned in the lock.
I was glad to see him. His kiss told me that he was happy to see me too. He stepped back, holding my shoulders, and gave me an admiring up-and-down glance. “You look beautiful. Were you going out?”
“Thanks,” I said. “I just got here myself. Seems like I’ve been going in and out all day. It’s been a busy one. Come on in. I just made coffee.”
“I could use it. I don’t know why people think the police department can do anything about crow crap but they do.” He took off his jacket and, slipping an arm around my waist, steered me back toward the kitchen. “Tomorrow will be busy too, what with Megan’s funeral at town hall. Lots of traffic snarl-ups, parking problems.”
I filled his mug, topped mine off, and put out a plate with a few almond biscotti while he hung his jacket in the closet and stashed his gun in the bureau. O’Ryan returned to his observation point and I sat in the Lucite chair next to him, while Pete took the one beside me. “What’s the cat looking at?” he asked, leaning toward the window, shading his eyes with one hand and peering out. “I don’t see anything.”
“I think he’s watching that black cat on the back fence. See her?”
He moved his chair closer to mine and looked past the cat, his face almost touching the screen. “Nope. I don’t.” He squinted. “Oh, yeah. There she is. Not moving a muscle. Think she’s waiting to nab a crow for her dinner?”
“Strange,” I said. “I hadn’t thought of that. To me, she looked as though she was some kind of watch cat. Like a guardian. A sentinel.”
He sipped his coffee, reached for a biscotti, and shook his head. “I love the way your mind works, babe. But a cat is a cat.” He looked in O’Ryan’s direction. “Oops. Present company excepted, of course.”
“Of course.” I agreed. “Everyone knows O’Ryan is special. I’m thinking maybe the black cat is too.”
A skeptical “maybe,” then taking a bite of the almond-flavored treat, he deftly changed the subject. “This is okay, but is there anything a little more substantial to eat around here?”
“Nothing interesting,” I admitted. “I feel like pizza. You?”
“I was thinking the same thing. Extra large pepperoni with extra cheese?”
“And a chef’s salad?”
“How about a side of those fried mushrooms and those little bread stick things?”
“Good thinking. I’ll call the Pizza Pirate,” I said, tapping in the familiar number. I recited the order, adding a couple of liters of Pepsi. “It’ll be here in twenty minutes,” I reported. “One of us should wait in the downstairs hall. The delivery guy always comes to the front door.”
“I’ll go down,” Pete volunteered. “Should I ask your aunt to join us, since he’ll be ringing her doorbell?”
“Yes, let’s. She didn’t mention that she had any plans for the evening.”
“There was music playing in the kitchen when I passed her door.” He smiled his cute, crooked smile. “So unless she’s entertaining Cyndi Lauper in there, I think she’s free.”
“Good call. Why don’t you and O’Ryan run down and invite her while I set the table. And if she offers to bring dessert, say yes.”
“Did I ever turn down one of your aunt’s desserts? Come on, O’Ryan.”
The two stepped out into the front hall and started down the long, curving polished stairway to the first floor. I turned my attention back to the open window and the black cat.
She was still there but had moved closer to the maple tree. The sounds from the roosting crows were muted by then, a kind of trilling with an occasional clicking sound. The temperature had fallen with the setting of the sun. It wasn’t summer in Salem yet. I closed the window.
I changed the silk blouse for a Boston Celtics T-shirt and, quite sure Aunt Ibby would join us, set out silverware, three blue Fiestaware plates, and three cobalt thumbprint tumblers. Pizza calls for paper napkins instead of cloth and I had some bright orange ones left over from Halloween. I stepped back from the table, admiring the contrasting colors, just as the downstairs doorbell chimed “The Impossible Dream.”
Perfect timing.
Within minutes O’Ryan dashed back into the kitchen via the cat door. Aunt Ibby, bearing a round covered dish with one hand, held the kitchen door open for Pete with the other. He balanced four boxes topped with two soda bottles and carefully set them all on the counter. “Smells good, huh?”
It certainly did. Aunt Ibby and I hurried to dump the salad and mushrooms into serving bowls and the breadsticks into a basket. We decided to leave the pizza in the box and Pete plopped it unceremoniously onto the center of the table. O’Ryan returned to the windowsill, where he watched the proceedings.
“I’ll just put the ambrosia in the refrigerator,” my aunt said, opening the cover to display one of my childhood favorite desserts, resplendent with whipped topping, shredded coconut, walnuts, cherries, marshmallows, and other lovely things. “Pete says his mother used to make it too.”
Sometimes an impromptu supper with loved ones—a blue jeans, paper napkins, pizza box on the table, sugary homemade dessert, and Pepsi in blue glasses meal—easily beats a dressed-up, fancy wine list dinner at Mistral. This felt like one of those nights.
“Seems as though all anyone in Salem talks about these days is the crows,” Aunt Ibby said, accepting a slice of pizza. “I suppose you’ve heard about the quince tree that they stripped.”
“Sure did,” Pete poured soda into her glass. “The tree belonged to that woman who died in a hit-and-run. Gloria Tasker. One of her neighbors reported it.”
“Maralee has a video for her TV debut day after tomorrow,” my aunt said, smiling broadly. “Don’t you, dear?”
“Your TV debut? So soon?” Pete’s dark eyes widened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We started talking about cats and pizza and I just didn’t get to it, I guess. This day has been crazy busy.”
“Oh, babe!” He reached for my hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry. Here I’m whining about crow poop and traffic jams and you’ve got important news. Tell me everything.” Then a sudden frown and a quick switch to cop voice. “What do you mean you’ve got video?”
I had to laugh at the transition. “Hey, I’m an investigative reporter now, remember? Confidential source. Anyway, Doan and the whole news crew approved my pitch on a murder of crows and Doan wants it for day after tomorrow. The anonymous video just landed at the right time. I’ll show it to you if you like.”
“Of course. Sounds interesting. So, what else happened on this busy day?” Normal Pete voice was back.
I put a spoonful of fried mushrooms on top of my pizza and took a bite. “Oh God, this is good. Well, we picked out all the wedding dresses this morning, but I guess you don’t wa
nt to hear about that. Later I had a phone call from Dakota’s best man.”
The frown was back in place. “Madigan?”
“Yes. He wants to meet me before the wedding.”
“Meet you? Why?”
I shrugged. “Just best man, maid of honor protocol, I guess. Says we’ll have to walk down the aisle together so we may as well get acquainted.”
“What did you say?”
“It was a voice mail. I haven’t called him back yet. What do you think I should say?”
“Tell him you’ll meet him at the rehearsal,” Pete growled, tearing a bite from a breadstick. “Or at least get Shannon or Dakota to introduce you.”
“In some proper public place,” Aunt Ibby offered. “After all, the man is an admitted thief.”
“Okay. I’ll ask Shannon to set up a meeting at the Hawthorne coffee shop or maybe at the Pig’s Eye.”
That earned a grudging “Okay,” from Pete and Aunt Ibby commented that the Pig’s Eye would be convenient to the TV station.
“Should I be worried about him, Pete? Is there anything I should know?”
“No.” His smile was back. “I’m just a little overprotective where you’re concerned. We’ve been keeping an eye on him ever since he got here.”
“Has he been in Salem very long, Pete?” Aunt Ibby wanted to know.
“About a month or so,” he said. “Clean as a whistle as far as we can tell. Staying away from museums. But now that he’s moved to the Dumas place in Marblehead he’s out of my jurisdiction.”
“The wedding is going to be at the Dumas place,” I said. “I guess it’s really nice, beachfront and a pretty gazebo, according to Shannon. It’s going to be on June twenty-first.”
Pete’s eyebrows shot up. Cop voice. “Gazebo? That gazebo?”
“I can’t be positive, but I’m pretty sure it is.”
“Oh dear,” Aunt Ibby said, retrieving the cut glass bowl from the refrigerator. “Let’s talk about more pleasant things—like dessert. Then maybe after dessert and coffee you two could go up to the attic and select an appropriate outfit for my scarecrow.”
It Takes a Coven Page 10