“They do, but I don’t mean to infer that they’re a couple in that sense. I’m sure it’s quite innocent. Claudine is such a lovely person and so recently widowed. I’ll bet it has to do with one of Elliot’s collections.”
“Paintings, maybe? I imagine Mr. Madigan has some expertise in that field. Did Mr. Bagenstose collect paintings?”
“Oh, the dear man collected so many things. Furniture, china, valentines, jewelry, books, textiles.” She ticked off the items on her fingers. “I’m sure there are valuable paintings among his treasures. You should see the inside of their house. Like a museum.”
“Really? Did you see it on one of those house tours?”
“Yes. It was years ago, but I remember it well. It’s an old home, facing the river, on at least an acre of land. It was in Claudine’s family, you know. Belonged to her grandmother—and several generations of great grandparents.”
“Is that where all the antiques came from?”
“That’s right. Elliot and Claudine added to the collections. Exquisite taste, both of them. Kind of elegant hoarders, you might say.” She pulled the door open. “Claudine even had her great grandmother’s clothes. Dresses, hats, dear little high-button boots. Her great grandmother traveled with Inez Milholland.”
“Who?”
“Inez Milholland was a famous suffragette, a very beautiful woman. Kind of a turn-of-the-twentieth-century Gloria Steinem. Well, dear, I’ll be going along now. Just wanted to remind you about the news. You say Pete’s coming over?”
“Uh-huh. He’s bringing dinner. Going to surprise me.”
“Lovely. Coming downstairs, O’Ryan?” The cat, who’d been watching, and apparently listening, from his windowsill perch, hurried across the kitchen and followed her into the hall.
I thought about returning Sean Madigan’s call but decided to wait. I wasn’t in any hurry to talk to him and there was plenty of time before the wedding. Pete had said he’d be here with dinner at around six and it was getting close to five. He’d miss seeing the report of Megan’s service, but they’d probably repeat it on the eleven o’clock show anyway and we could watch it together then. I turned on WICH-TV, watched the end of a public service announcement about adopting shelter pets, poured myself a Pepsi, and waited for Buck Covington and the early news.
The story about Megan was the lead item. With all the hoopla about crows, to say nothing about ongoing local political skirmishes and relevant national happenings, it was gratifying to see that Salem recognized how much she’d meant to the city. I knew too that Bruce Doan had the final say on what the lead story would be. Good call, boss!
There was an opening shot of people filing into the town hall, then one showing the musicians. Buck Covington did the voice-over, giving a little of Megan’s background as a lifelong resident of the city and of her fame as a witch. “A worthy ambassador of goodwill to people of all religions,” he said, and noted that clergy from several of Salem’s many places of worship were among those present for the service. Therese’s cameras showed the lectern on the stage, where a series of prominent Salemites had praised the departed witch.
Therese panned the camera around the room showing the simple beauty of the place. There was even a brief shot of the VIP section where Aunt Ibby and I were seated, but it went by much too fast for me to recognize anyone. Covington mentioned the names of some of those who had been speakers, then closed with a clip of one of them who was interviewed leaving the town hall, Christopher Rich.
“What a publicity hog,” I mumbled aloud, forgetting that O’Ryan wasn’t there to hear me. “You might know he’d figure a way to get his face on camera.”
Rich spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully, undoubtedly relishing his moment in the spotlight. “I will miss my dear, dear friend Megan,” he said. “She was such a joy. Such a comfort to all who knew her. She goes now to join her fellow witches, Elliot and Gloria, who have also left us suddenly this very month. I, too, have nearly fallen victim to that dreaded specter of death, that shadowy apparition that even now may be stalking the witches of Salem, much as that recent hideous gathering of crows have so recently stalked this fair city.”
“Oh crap,” I spoke out loud again. Never mind that there was no one around to hear me. “Nice going, Rich. Get everybody freaked out about somebody in Salem killing witches!”
Buck Covington took the bait. “Viewers may recall that just a few nights ago Mr. Rich was shot at while leaving his shop. There were apparently no witnesses to the incident. Police have extracted bullets from the wall of Mr. Rich’s popular magic shop and they are being examined to determine what type of weapon was used.”
I certainly didn’t wish him any harm, but it occurred to me that if anyone was thinking “bad thoughts” about witches Christopher Rich’s name ought to top the list.
CHAPTER 21
I’d calmed down quite a bit by the time Pete arrived at my living room door. When I saw a large brown paper bag marked “Bertini’s” in his arms I even felt almost relaxed. Amazing what the anticipation of a perfect veal parmigiana from a fine old Italian restaurant can do for a troubled mind.
It didn’t take long for me to set the table and for Pete to transfer the fragrant bounty from foam containers onto Fiestaware platters and bowls. During the time we’d known each other, conversation between Pete and me had become easy, and the happenings of this day had provided lots to talk about.
“A nice big turnout for Megan, wasn’t it?” Pete passed a plate piled with still warm mozzarella sticks. “I think she would have been surprised.”
I agreed. “She was such a modest person. I don’t think she had any idea how many lives she’d touched in Salem. And did you notice? None of the usual ‘witch protesters’ showed up.”
“We spotted a few of them in the crowd,” Pete said, “but at least none of them was carrying those ‘Death to Witches’ signs. Guess they knew better, what with everybody talking about the witches dying around here.”
“Christopher Rich climbing up on his soapbox didn’t help any,” I grumbled. “Hey, try this antipasto. It’s wonderful.” He leaned in for a bite.
“We’re going to have another talk with Rich,” he said. “You heard we got the bullets out of the shop wall?”
“It was on the news. The new guy, Covington, mentioned it. Did you learn anything from the bullets yet?”
He smiled. “Just that they’re .380 caliber and that whoever the shooter was had terrible aim.”
“Bad shot, huh?”
“About a mile over Rich’s head.”
I nibbled on a piece of garlic bread. “You’d think that by the way he’s been carrying on about it he escaped within an inch of his life.”
“I know. When we took him to the hospital that night he acted almost hysterical, he was so scared.”
“Well, did you learn anything else useful from the bullets themselves?”
Cop voice activated. “Working on that.”
I tried again. “Does the chief think somebody is targeting witches? Rich seems to be trying to promote that idea.”
“He does, doesn’t he? Want some spumoni? I put it in the freezer.”
I realized I wasn’t going to get any more information, so I settled for spumoni. After all, Megan was old, Bagenstose fell out of a tree, and whoever bumped Gloria probably didn’t even know they’d hit anyone. But a gunshot aimed in a witch’s direction, even if it misses, is probably of interest to the police—and something Pete’s not going to want to talk about. I tried another topic. “Aunt Ibby saw Mrs. Bagenstose having lunch with a man today. Sean Madigan.”
Pete stopped with his spumoni midscoop. “Are you two playing detective again?”
“No. She just happened to see them and thought it was interesting. It is, don’t you think? The widow and the art thief?”
“We’re keeping an eye on that situation. Nothing for you to worry about. Did you call that guy yet?”
“No. Maybe I’ll do it tomorrow. Anything
special you’d like me to say?”
Long pause. “There are a lot of things I’d like to know about Mr. Madigan, but nothing I want you to be involved in. Just say how do you do, be polite, and have as little to do with him as possible.”
“You sound serious. Is he dangerous or something? Should I . . . should Shannon and Dakota, be worried?”
“I don’t have any real reason to think so.” Uh-oh. Cop voice. “Just be careful.”
“I will,” I said. “I promise.” I helped myself to another half scoop of ice cream. “Speaking of promises, I promised to tell you about any new visions.”
“You’ve had another one? Already?”
I nodded. “Megan was in it.” I told him about the Wizard of Oz crystal ball, the witches around the fire, the crow turning into a woman wearing River’s dress. “Make any sense to you?”
“Sorry, no. But it seems like it wasn’t one of the really creepy ones. Right?”
“Right. In fact, it was different. More like a dream than a vision, if you know what I mean.”
“Babe, I’m sorry. I don’t even know what a vision is like.” He spread both hands in a helpless gesture. “I think I get the dream part, though. Megan because of today’s service. The witches because they’ve been in the news. The woman is wearing River’s dress because you just saw that dress. The crow is obvious. The Wizard of Oz?”
“One of Aunt Ibby’s movie quotes today.”
He nodded. “Got it. Still doesn’t add up to much of anything yet, does it?”
“Nope. Maybe this dream/vision doesn’t mean anything. Indigestion, like in A Christmas Carol. ‘A blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato . . .’”
“Maybe. But if you figure it out, let me know.” He stood and carried his dishes to the sink. “You’ve had a busy day and you have a busy one tomorrow too. Ready for your TV investigative reporter debut?”
“I think so. I know more about the habits of crows than I ever thought I would, and I’ve come up with a few different theories on why they’re behaving the way they are.”
“The way they were,” Pete corrected. “They’re gone now.”
“I think they’ll be back.”
“Because of that other vision? The one about Megan making them appear and disappear?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not going to say anything about that, are you?” His anxious look made me smile.
“Don’t worry. There are some logical reasons in the ornithological world for their strange behavior.”
“Ornithological, huh?” Pete raised an eyebrow. “That’s a fifty-dollar word.”
“Like it? I picked it up from Buck Covington.”
“Oh yeah. The new guy.” He snapped his fingers. “That reminds me. Let’s watch the late news. I want to see how they covered Megan’s memorial. I was working so I didn’t get to see everything.”
“I think Therese did just as good a job as the Boston stations. Maybe better,” I said.
“I caught some of the Boston coverage this afternoon. Pretty brief. I’m hoping the local station grabbed more footage.”
I heard a tiny hint of cop talk in those words. “Sounds like you’re looking for something in particular,” I said. “Or someone?”
“Who, me?” Big innocent smile. “Let’s clear up the rest of these dishes, then go fire up that big-screen TV in the living room.”
CHAPTER 22
O’Ryan joined us in the living room via the cat door. After climbing into the zebra print wing chair, he sat up straight, ears forward in listening mode as the opening credits for the late news began to roll across the screen. Pete and I sat together on the couch, me with a cup of decaf, Pete with notebook and pencil. He might not want to talk about whatever—or whoever—he expected to see in Therese’s video of the memorial service, but nothing said I couldn’t look over his shoulder while he took notes.
Phil Archer sat at the anchor desk. He began the newscast with a video of a jam-packed city council meeting where various methods of crow deterrent were still being discussed. Ward councilor Lois Mercer motioned that the city consult with a pyrotechnics expert immediately about exactly what fireworks would be needed so that Salem could be prepared in the event that huge numbers of crows came back. After some lively discussion, the motion carried. Phil used the topic of crows as a neat segue into my upcoming appearance the following evening on Buck Covington’s show. He played my little promo and made several flattering comments about me and the upcoming occasional investigative reporting I’d be doing throughout the summer.
“I think your friends at the station are glad you’re coming back. I wouldn’t be surprised if you wound up working there again full-time.” Pete said. “That video you made is really effective. I’ll bet it draws a good audience. Everybody in the whole city wants to know what’s going on with the crows.”
“I want to know that myself,” I said. “And after we figure that out—which I’m pretty sure we will—I want to know what’s up with the witches. I mean, what if the deaths all in a row aren’t coincidental?”
“At least we know Megan’s was just old age.” Pete pointed at the screen. “Look. There’s an outside shot of the old town hall.” He leaned forward, holding his pencil poised over the notebook the way he does when he’s interrogating somebody.
“Want to tell me who we’re looking for so I can help?” I asked.
Either Pete didn’t hear me because of an announcer’s voice-over describing what was going on at the memorial, or he was avoiding the question. “Look,” he said. “There’s the little group of the regular witch protesters. Oops! I was wrong about the signs. Therese spotted one, though. See it?”
I did. One of the men carried a small poster—maybe eight by ten. I squinted to read the hand-lettered message. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Exodus twenty-two eighteen,” I read aloud. “They use that one every time,” I said “but it’s in particularly bad taste today. Also, it’s out of context. You know that guy? The one with the sign?”
Pete scribbled something in his notebook. “We know him. He calls himself Viktor Protector. Shows up at all kinds of protests and marches. Not always about witches. One of those people who never met a protest he didn’t like.”
“Do you think he’d harm a witch? Or two?”
“Not really. But you never know about people. We’ll invite him down to the station for a chat with the chief.”
It was my turn to lean close to the screen. “Oh, look, Pete! Do you see her? She’s standing right behind Viktor. It looks as though she’s touching his back. It’s the same woman. I’m sure of it.”
“Where? I don’t see anybody near him. What woman?”
I reached out to touch the screen when the scene changed to the interior of town hall. “Never mind,” I said. “She’s gone now. You must have seen her. Long black dress? Red shawl?”
“Sorry, babe. I missed it. Must have been looking in the wrong place. Who did you think she was?”
So I saw a woman in a funeral crowd wearing a black dress. Half the women there wore black. Including me. “Nobody. Never mind. Couldn’t have been her anyway.”
“Okay. Here comes the service inside. Wish I could have gone in to see it. Everyone said it was really nice.”
“It was. Lovely music. Beautiful speeches.” Pete’s full attention was on the TV again. I felt he wasn’t hearing me and it looked as though my cat wasn’t either. The two of them were practically nose to screen as the camera panned around the light-filled room, pausing to highlight the front rows, where city officials were seated, and more briefly on the VIP section, where Aunt Ibby and I were. On the podium at the lectern was Christopher Rich. I listened once again to his speech, at the same time aware of the scritch-scratch of Pete’s pencil as it moved across the pages of his notebook.
Pete didn’t notice my rapid intake of breath at what happened next. But O’Ryan did. The big yellow head turned, facing me, golden eyes wide—frightened. I
t took a moment to find my voice, and the words tumbled out, sounding jumbled and distorted, even to me.
“It’s her! There she is again.”
It was the same woman. I was sure of it. She wore a long black dress. This time her arms were outstretched, the bright red shawl giving the appearance of wings. She stood directly behind Christopher Rich, enveloping him in a tall, unwavering shadow.
I was there when Rich gave his speech. There was no one behind him then.
At the sound of my voice, Pete turned toward me, dropping pencil and notebook to grasp my shoulders. “Lee! What’s wrong, babe? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
CHAPTER 23
Pete was exactly right. I had seen a ghost. No wonder I was confused. This was the first time the scrying thing had involved anything powered by electricity. The visions up until then had always involved inert reflective things: shoes, mirrors, windows, silverware. This was my first experience with my totally unexplainable pictures superimposing themselves onto electronic media.
It took a moment before I could recover my voice. Then I just blurted it out. “The woman in the black dress—the one I saw standing behind that witch protester? I saw her again just now, standing behind Christopher Rich, only I know she wasn’t really there.” I put my fingers on my temples, trying to sort out my thoughts. “Pete, it was a vision. But this time it was on the TV screen. On top of what was really there. That’s why you couldn’t see the woman.”
Do I dare tell him that I believe the woman may be the ghost of Bridget Bishop? That I’m supposed to contact her somehow so that River can give back the spell book? Do I dare?
He pulled me close, stroking my hair. “Shh. It’s all right. I’m here. See? I turned off the TV. No ghosts.” He rocked me back and forth like Aunt Ibby used to do after a childhood nightmare. O’Ryan had found his way onto my lap and snuggled against me. I closed my eyes, willing the memory of the tall woman in black to go away. Slowly, safe in Pete’s arms, and with a warm, soft cat close by, the tension began to lessen.
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