It Takes a Coven

by Carol J. Perry

  Pete’s words were low, comforting. “Did you see something terrible? You were really frightened. What was it? A woman, you said?”

  “Yes. It was the same woman I told you about in the dream/vision. She was behind the protester with her hand on his back. Just now she stood behind Chris Rich spreading her arms like a big bird, covering him with her shadow. As though she was protecting him.”

  “Did you feel that she was threatening you somehow? You were really terrified.” He looked into my eyes. “I’ve seen you in some tough spots before, babe, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so scared.”

  He was right. Bridget Bishop, or her apparition, frightened me on some very deep level. “It wasn’t anything directed at me,” I reasoned aloud. “She doesn’t even seem to notice me in the visions. But there’s something so terrifying about her. . . .”

  “What does she look like? Is she ugly? Mean looking?”

  “No. Not at all.” Reluctantly, I called the memory back. “She’s quite tall. Taller than the protester or Rich. She’s not ugly. Not beautiful. Kind of an ordinary face. Not smiling, but not scowling either.” I relaxed slightly in Pete’s arms, while O’Ryan moved out of my lap to lie beside me on the couch. “There’s something about her, though. Something . . . something . . . dangerous.”

  “Dangerous,” he repeated. “Does she remind you of anyone in—um—in real life?”

  “She doesn’t look like anyone I know.” That was the truth. I paused to think. “Nope. Not like any living soul I’ve ever met.” That was true too.

  I don’t know exactly how to tell Pete I’m planning to interact with a long-dead witch.

  Pete was quiet. We sat there, close together in the silent living room for what seemed like a long time. “Feeling a little better?” His voice was a ragged whisper. “Jesus, Lee. You scared me.”

  “Scared myself too,” I said, “but yes, I feel okay now. I’m awfully glad you were here. It was just so different, you know? Seeing something on TV that isn’t there. I hope that’s not going to happen often.”

  “Hope not. There’s enough weird stuff on the regular shows and the news without having spooky women on top of it all.” He leaned back against the couch cushions, keeping one arm around my shoulders. “Want to give it one more try? Climb back on the horse? Almost time for River’s show.” He reached for the remote. “If you see anything you don’t want to see I’ll shut it right off. Okay?”

  I took a deep breath. “Okay.” The screen came to life beginning with River’s opening credits. This time camerawoman Marty had used a sunset-on-the-beach scene for the backdrop. River’s theme music played, softly at first, then reached a crescendo as the camera focused on River.

  “Wow!” Pete and I spoke the word in unison, then laughed. Wow indeed. River wore the skintight electric blue sequin number she’d told us about, and her long black hair hung loosely around bare shoulders. “If Covington is hanging around the set tonight,” Pete said, “he’s a gone goose.”

  “I think he is anyway,” I said, “whether he knows it or not.”

  “You’re not seeing anything that doesn’t belong there, are you?” There was concern in his voice.

  “Nope. Everything is back to normal. Really. Sorry to be such a drama queen. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Will you stay with me tonight?”

  “Silly question.”

  We watched the first part of Tarot Time. River was at her smiling best, reading the cards for her first caller with sincerity and humor. The second caller had a scratchy, whispery voice, a bit hard to understand.

  “Could you speak a little louder, caller?” River asked. “You don’t have to give your name and birth date if you don’t want to. Do you have a special request or wish I can help you with?”

  The answer was still whispered, but perfectly understandable. “I’ve started a job and it’s not finished yet. I’m going to—” The words came to an abrupt halt.

  River frowned, then looked in the direction of the control room. Her smile was hesitant, and there were a few seconds of the kind of silence that’s not good for live TV. Dead air. “Come on, River,” I said aloud. “Keep the show moving.”

  “What just happened?” Pete looked at me.

  “From the context I’d say the caller said something inappropriate. The call screener caught it before it went on the air. All the calls are delayed a few seconds. It happens. It used to freak me out too. She’ll be okay.” I pointed at the screen. “See?”

  River’s smile was back. “Oops. Lost that caller,” she said. “Let’s take the next call.”

  The show continued in the usual smooth manner. We decided we’d skip the movie. River was showing The Lazarus Effect. “Not a good time for a horror movie,” Pete said, tapping the remote. “Shall we go back to the kitchen and finish that spumoni?”

  I didn’t answer right away. Something about that interrupted call bothered me. The “I’m going to . . .” had sounded to me like a threat. “Pete,” I said, “Therese is River’s call screener. I’m going to text her. I didn’t like the sound of that call.”

  “I didn’t either,” he said. “Sounded like the beginning of a threat, didn’t it?”

  “It did. It’s probably nothing. Most of the time it’s something sexual.” But I was already texting, asking Therese what the whisperer had said that made her cut the call off. She answered right away. “She says the caller said, ‘I’m going to get that witch next time and he won’t be the last.’”

  Pete and I looked at each other. “Ask if she has the number the call came from.”

  I did as he asked. “She has it,” I told him.

  “It sounds as though the threat is against our friend Christopher Rich,” he said. I agreed.

  “Christopher Rich and more. And poor River thinks these deaths are somehow her fault. Can you do anything?”

  “Yes. I’ll check out the phone number, though chances are it’s a throwaway. Maybe between us we can ease River’s mind about the crazy idea that she’s responsible.”

  “Some people think Chris does these things himself, to get publicity,” I said.

  “I’ve heard that too,” he said. “Nothing we can do right now. How about we dig into that spumoni?” That’s exactly what we did. We ate ice cream, drank decaf, listened to soft rock on the radio, and talked about summer plans. We’d catch the NASCAR series in New Hampshire for sure. Maybe we’d rent a cabin in Maine for a weekend. Maybe we’d go on a windjammer cruise or take a day trip on a fishing party boat out of Gloucester. Neither of us mentioned crows or witches or visions. O’Ryan sat on the windowsill, not looking outside, but keeping his half-shut golden eyes focused on us.

  “It’s way after midnight, babe,” Pete said, stifling a yawn. “Call it a day?”

  “I think so. Thanks for staying with me.”

  “My pleasure.” He did his Groucho Marx eyebrow thing. “I mean really my pleasure.”

  “You’re a nut.” I went to the window to pat O’Ryan and looked out into the silent yard. There was no moonlight, but the streetlights from Oliver Street cast a pale glow over Aunt Ibby’s garden. The back fence seemed to be empty of cats, for a welcome change, but as I watched, a lone bird flew from the direction of Winter Street. It circled the yard—once, twice—casting its shadow across the herbs and sunflowers, budding hydrangea, and Queen Anne’s lace below, then disappeared into the darkness.

  Shouldn’t birds be asleep in their nests at this hour? It looked black. Was it a returning crow?

  Pete stood in the bedroom doorway, the look of concern still on his face. “You okay?”

  “I am.” I hurried across the room. “I just saw a black bird out there. Isn’t that strange at this time of night?”

  “A blackbird?”

  “No. A black bird. A bird that is black. Shouldn’t it be home in its bed?”

  “Don’t know. But we should. You have a busy day ahead, Miss Investigative Reporter, and so do I.” He was r
ight, of course. I tried to put all the scary things out of my mind and was almost successful.

  Aunt Ibby always used to tell me to “think happy thoughts” when I was frightened or sad. So, safe in my own room with my own special man, I thought of happy times, happy people, happy places. But over it all I kept seeing that circling black bird casting a long, wavering shadow across bushes and flowering plants. Was it my imagination or had that shadow of the bird with wings outstretched been shaped exactly like the one cast by the woman in the red shawl? The one who looked as though she was protecting Christopher Rich? The woman I believed to be the long-dead witch Bridget Bishop?

  CHAPTER 24

  Thursday was a day I’d anticipated, dreaded, embraced, worried about, and finally welcomed. The day of my debut as an investigative reporter—an intern, a beginner, but still an investigative reporter, one with some answers and more questions.

  Since Christopher Rich’s rant about somebody stalking witches had aired, there was no longer any point in keeping the death of three witches and the attempt on Rich separate from the murder of crows story. They were somehow intertwined. I knew it and I was pretty sure that since the stripping of the trees in both Elliot’s and Gloria’s yards much of Salem at least suspected it. Some of the national radio talk shows, especially those with a paranormal bent, had picked up the story as well.

  I awoke with the realization that although I’d done plenty of good solid research on my topic of choice I’d done precious little actual investigating, other than a few phone interviews with city hall, the Audubon Society, and a representative of the USDA. It was time to remedy that and I had only a few hours to do it.

  For a change, I was awake and dressed in white shorts and a Boston Strong T-shirt before Pete was up. I even had the coffee brewing and a pan of blueberry muffins—from a mix—in the oven. If he was astonished by this unusual display of domesticity, he took it in stride. “Smells great in here, babe,” he said, kissing the back of my neck as he passed through the kitchen on his way to the shower. “Where are you off to right now?”

  “I think I’ll go and take a look at those trees the crows stripped.”

  He frowned. “You can’t just go into somebody’s yard without permission, you know. We had to get a warrant to look at the Bagenstose tree. Hated bothering the poor widow, but we had to do it.”

  “I figured I’d just knock on the door and introduce myself. She’s an old friend of Aunt Ibby’s. I don’t think she’d mind my taking a peek at her apple tree.”

  “She probably won’t. A friend of the family is a lot different than a cop with a warrant knocking at your door. Planning to check out the quince tree too?”

  I nodded. “Yep. Nobody home there, right?”

  “A Tasker cousin is there. She came from out west somewhere to clear out Gloria’s personal stuff. I don’t think she’ll mind you looking around the yard. What are you looking for anyway?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just investigating. That’s what we investigative reporters do.” I shrugged. “I think. Don’t forget to see what you can find out about that creepy phone call to River’s show. Okay?”

  “I haven’t forgotten. Already got somebody on it. River will be fine. Don’t worry. I’ll be back in a minute.” He sniffed the air. “Smells like the muffins are almost done.”

  It would have been nice to linger for a while over breakfast—I don’t bake muffins very often—but we each had plans for the day. Pete was heading for a meeting with Chief Whaley and a forensic firearms expert. It took a little digging, but I got him to tell me it was about the gun used by whoever had shot at Christopher Rich. He didn’t say so, but I figured that maybe this also had something to do with that witch protester who called himself Viktor Protector and maybe even River’s mysterious caller.

  I’d decided to drive over to Southwick Street in North Salem first to see what I could learn about what had happened to Gloria Tasker’s tree. And, hopefully, to learn about what had happened to Gloria. After that I’d go to Dearborn Street and call on Mrs. Bagenstose.

  I knew it would be easier to talk to the cousin than it would be to ask the widow to let me view the sad scene of her husband’s demise, but I was determined to do both. I hadn’t forgotten my promise to River either. Maybe she could make more sense out of the dream/vision than I had. I felt that since Megan had shown it to me it must contain a clue on how to reach Bridget Bishop. It was much too early in the day to call on Mrs. Bagenstose or the Tasker cousin, and my friend wouldn’t be awake for hours yet. By late afternoon, though, I’d have the tree business attended to and still have plenty of time to talk with River before the late news.

  Pete kissed me, wished me a good day, and said he’d watch my debut, then come over to my place with champagne to celebrate. He had to work Friday but had managed to get Saturday and Sunday off, so we had a weekend to look forward to. I filled O’Ryan’s red bowl with kibble, then sat at the table going over my notes for the show. I had my crow facts straight, I was sure, and the society had provided plenty of history on crow invasions similar to the one Salem had just experienced. It happened more often than I’d supposed, and “a murder of crows” was a much more common expression among birders than I’d imagined. I decided that it had a cool ring to it and decided to use the term frequently during the broadcast. I’d just added the addresses for Gloria and her neighbor to my notes when my phone buzzed. I was surprised to see a text from River.

  What’s she doing up so early?

  I got the answer to that right away. She hadn’t gone to bed yet. Apparently Buck Covington had been on hand to observe the electric blue sequin gorgeousness and they’d stayed up talking all night and she was finally about to get some sleep. She didn’t mention the whispering caller. I didn’t either. Maybe she hadn’t talked with Therese yet. Probably a long talk with Buck was more interesting than finding out what some nutjob wanted anyway. I wished her good luck and happiness and resolved to watch the noon news to see if the River-smitten announcer was still letter perfect in his delivery. The phone immediately buzzed again, and thinking River had more to tell me, I answered without looking at the caller ID. It was Sean Madigan.

  “Good morning, Ms. Barrett. So glad to speak to you in person. This is Sean Madigan, Dakota Berman’s best man. Got a minute?”

  “Uh—sure. Sorry I haven’t had a chance to return your earlier call. Been crazy busy.”

  “I understand. Thought maybe if you have time I’d drop by and take you to breakfast. Get acquainted.” His tone was pleasant. Impersonal, really. “Shannon thought it would be a good idea for us to meet before the wedding.”

  “Well, I guess . . .”

  “Nothing fancy. Come as you are.” I could detect a smile in his voice. Or was it a smirk? It’s hard to tell over the phone. “Thought we’d just go to the diner that’s attached to your school. I’ll ask the kids to join us if you can make it.”

  “The kids?” I guessed he meant Shannon and Dakota. My mind was racing. Go to some public place, Aunt Ibby had advised. The diner would qualify. Come as you are, the man said. I looked down at my shorts and shirt. All right for a warm spring day in Salem. “Okay,” I heard myself say. “I’ll meet you there. What time?”

  “How’s right now? I hoped you’d say yes, so I’m parked in front of your house.”

  None of my windows face Winter Street so I couldn’t confirm his statement—but I believed him. What nerve! My annoyance was undoubtedly obvious. “That’s taking a lot for granted, Mr. Madigan,” I said. “How do you know where I live, anyway?”

  “Shannon gave me your address. I guess I’m just too impulsive.” Smiley voice again. “It’s such a nice day I thought it would be fun. Spontaneous, you know? Please don’t be angry.” The voice was softer now, appropriately little-boy repentant. What a con man! I felt my temper rising.

  I don’t do the temper thing on purpose and it doesn’t happen often. I’ve been told it’s a redhead thing. Aunt Ibby says she has it too, although I�
�ve only seen hers on display once or twice in my whole life. Anyway there it was—full-on, redhead, ice-cold, I’ll-show-you,-you smarmy-bastard fury.

  “I’ll be right down,” I said. I hung up, slid my feet into flip-flops, jammed a Guy Harvey visor cap over wild hair, slapped on some pink lip gloss, and, without even a kind word or good-bye pat on the head for my surprised cat, headed out of my kitchen and down the stairs to the Winter Street front door. I thought about taking my own car for two seconds but that would just be chickening out.

  A smiling Sean Madigan stood on the curb, holding open the passenger door of a green 2010 Toyota Corolla. I returned the smile with a teeth-gritting grimace of my own and slid into the car, noting that there was bird poop on the roof even though the crows had been gone for a couple of days. Hmph. Not bad looking, but still a crook and a con man and a slob too.

  “Hi there,” he said. “Happy to finally meet you. You’re even prettier than you look on TV.”

  “Oh, thank you so much,” I said, trying hard to sound like the simpering wimp he apparently thought I was. “Were you able to get in touch with the kids?”

  “Uh, not yet. No answer on either phone. Probably busy with wedding stuff.” He started the Toyota and pulled out onto Winter Street. “But that gives us all the more time to get to know each other, right?”

  I couldn’t fake-simper my way past that dumb question, so I looked out the window and didn’t answer it. “Are you planning to relocate here to Salem, Mr. Madigan?” I asked, after a few seconds of silence. “In spite of your recent . . . um . . . unpleasantness?” I’ll start with a few little digs, then lower the boom later. This might even be fun.

  Surprise showed on his face for the briefest instant, but he covered it quickly with an eyes-downcast expression of pure innocence. “Oh, Lee. May I call you Lee? The darkest days of my life. I’ve shamed my family, my friends. I’m so blessed to have a friend like Dakota who trusts me to stand with him on the most incredibly important day in his young life.”