“I wouldn’t like it,” I admitted, a little ashamed that I’d already used some of the illicitly obtained footage. “I think I’d probably tell her to stop or I’d report her for snooping.”
“Oh well.” Jane sealed the box with a wide strip of tape. “I won’t be here much longer. Maybe somebody should tell the next tenant.” She opened another cabinet. “I wonder sometimes, though, how many videos she’s shot of Gloria’s goings-on.”
I wonder too.
“I guess you know that the crows stripped another tree in the neighborhood,” I said.
“You mean the Bagenstose’s apple tree.” Jane pulled several cake pans from the shelf and put them on the counter. “These can go to Goodwill. I have enough pots and pans. Unless you can use them?”
“No thanks. Do you know Mrs. Bagenstose?”
“Not really. She saw the U-Haul and stopped by to say hello. I guess she must have known Gloria. I showed her the tree and she said hers had been stripped exactly the same way.”
“I’m going to go over to her house after I leave here. I hope she’ll talk to me.”
“She’s really nice. Awfully sad, though, because of her husband dying like he did. Did you know he was picking a branch with buds on it as a surprise for her? She wanted to try forcing blossoms in warm water like you can do with forsythia.”
“I didn’t know that. What a sweet story. I’ll ask her to tell me about it. Thanks, Jane.”
“You’re welcome, Lee. When is your show going to be on?”
“It’s not really my show, just a segment on the late news. It’s tonight. I’ll be on with Buck Covington.”
“Oooh. Lucky you! He’s a real doll.”
“Yes. He’s good looking all right. Thanks for your time, Jane. Sorry for the loss of your cousin.” I patted Zeus, who gave my hand a friendly lick. “I’ll let you get back to your packing.”
“You’re welcome. Zeus likes you. Do you have a dog?”
“No. I have a cat, though. His name is O’Ryan.”
“We have a cat too. I had to leave her home but I brought Zeus along to keep me company. Gloria didn’t have any pets, although there’s a cute stray black cat who’s been hanging around ever since I got here. I’ve been putting out saucers of milk for her once in a while.”
“That’s nice. My aunt and I like to feed strays too. Thanks for talking with me, and please give me a call if you think of anything to add to what we’ve talked about—or if the crows come back.”
“God forbid!” she said. Jane and Zeus escorted me to the front door and watched as I walked down the path to my car. As I unlocked the Vette I looked back, once again noting how the bare branches of the quince tree clashed with the perfection of the house and grounds. The small black cat moved so quickly if I had blinked I would have missed seeing her. She peeked from behind the trunk, then ducked back behind it as though she were playing hide-and-seek with me. I waved to her and, still smiling, headed for Dearborn Street.
CHAPTER 27
The Bagenstose house was very different from the little Cape Cod I’d just left. It was an imposing mansion, set well back from the street with a tall wrought iron fence surrounding a lush front lawn. Flowering bushes and several trees dotted the landscaped property. It was every bit as lovingly maintained as the Tasker property was, just a heck of a lot bigger. A gate closed off the driveway. I opened my window and pressed the indicated button. “Name, please?” requested an automated voice.
“Lee Barrett,” I said. “WICH-TV. To see Mrs. Bagenstose. I don’t have an appointment.”
The voice didn’t reply, but the gate swung open, so I drove slowly toward the house. Should I go to the front door? Or did media people use a servant’s entrance in the Bagenstose world? I parked in front of what appeared to be a four-car garage and climbed out of the Vette. The question of where to go from there was answered when the front door opened and a woman stepped out onto a wide granite terrace. She paused for a moment, then, smiling broadly, walked toward me. “Lee? Lee Barrett? You’re Ibby Russell’s niece. I remember when you were a little girl and your aunt used to bring you into Elliot’s bank.”
She was tall with steel gray shoulder-length hair asymmetrically cut. She wore a short black dress, which, as she drew closer, I recognized as vintage French lace—probably 1920s. It was what collectors call a “flapper dress.” And while it was certainly attractive on her slim figure, it struck me as an odd choice of clothing for midafternoon in Salem. I didn’t remember the early childhood bank visits at all but accepted a hug and air kiss.
“Thanks so much for seeing me, Mrs. Bagenstose.” I handed her my card. “I know I should have called, but it was a spur of the moment idea. I’m doing a report on the crows for the station and I understand you’ve had an unfortunate experience with them.”
“A dreadful experience. Simply dreadful.” She held the door open and motioned for me to enter. “Come in, dear child. I’ll tell you all about it.”
The foyer was carpeted with an exquisite Oriental rug in red tones. Mrs. Bagenstose tossed my card onto a silver tray atop a bombe chest with gold drawer pulls. Rows of paintings lined the walls. “Like a museum,” my aunt had told me. She wasn’t kidding. The woman directed me into a large, fireplaced room that I’d call a parlor. Massive furniture, another Oriental rug, this one in tones of blue, and more paintings. I resisted the urge to gawk around like a tourist at the Louvre, and notebook and pen in hand, I sat in the gilt carved Louis XV armchair she indicated.
She sat facing me in a matching chair, arranging the short lace skirt over slim legs. According to my aunt, Claudine Bagenstose was in her early sixties. If that was true, she was maintaining her looks extremely well. “It was the apple tree,” she began. “But I’m sure you know that. It was in the newspaper and on television too. The crows came in a great black cloud one afternoon and descended on the poor, dear tree.” She produced a handkerchief from somewhere and dabbed at her eyes. “Elliot loved that tree. It was just beginning to bud, you know.”
“Were you here when it happened?” I asked, pen poised. “Did you see the crows?”
“Not at first,” she said. “One of the maids called to me to come to the window. I heard them before I saw them. They make such horrible noises. Filthy creatures.”
“But you saw them destroying your tree?” I prompted.
“It only took them a few minutes. They devoured everything. Leaves, buds, everything. Then they rose up in a big black cloud and disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“It seemed so to me,” she said. “They were there, then poof! They were gone. I’m glad my darling Elliot wasn’t here to see such destruction. It was his favorite tree. Did I tell you that?”
“Yes. I spoke earlier with Ms. Tasker’s cousin. She told me a very touching story about your husband selecting a branch from that tree for you.”
“It’s true.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “That dear man’s very last act on this earth was something to please me. He must have climbed on that shaky old ladder to get a branch—a spray of apple blossoms to put in my pink vase.” She waved a French-tipped manicured hand toward the fireplace. “There’s my pink vase on the mantel,” she said, “right beside the urn holding my darling’s ashes.”
I hoped she was planning to return his ashes to the earth, per Wiccan teachings, but didn’t comment on that. “Would you tell me the story about the apple blossoms?” I said. “I’d like to share it with the viewers of WICH-TV.”
Please say yes. If there’s anything Mr. Doan likes better than blood, it’s pathos.
She hesitated and glanced around the room. “Oh, I don’t know. The only person I’ve mentioned it to was Jane, that poor woman’s cousin. It was quite a personal moment.”
“I understand,” I said. “I really do.”
She put the handkerchief aside and stiffened her posture. “I believe you do,” she said. “So I’ll tell you how it happened. We’d had breakfast together as usual. Cook h
ad prepared a lovely spinach omelette and we had our morning coffee afterward on the patio overlooking the backyard. It was the housekeeper’s day off and cook was going to market, so Elliot and I were looking forward to a quiet day together.” She dabbed at her eyes with the lace-edged handkerchief. “‘It looks as though the tree is about to blossom, darling, ’ he said.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “I told him I’d love to have a branch or two to put into warm water so we could watch it blossom indoors. I didn’t think about it again that morning. Then later I happened to look out the window and I saw that the ladder had tipped over.” She looked down at the rug and grew silent. I waited for her to finish. She looked up. “I ran outside. He was on the ground. I don’t know how long he’d been lying there. I held him in my arms and told him I loved him. He was cold. I knew he’d already gone to be with the Lord. His last act in this world was to cut that lovely budding branch for me.” Her eyes glistened with tears and she touched them with the handkerchief once more.
“It’s a beautiful story,” I told her. “I’d be proud to share it with my viewers, with your permission.”
“Of course you may, my dear,” she said, then looked at her watch, a Rolex with a diamond pavé face. “I’m sorry. Time has slipped away. You must excuse me. I have an appointment shortly.” I put my notebook away and stood. She ushered me politely, but firmly, toward the foyer. “It was a joy to see you, my dear. I’ll try to stay awake to watch your program. I’m usually sound asleep by that time, though. Give my love to your dear aunt.”
“Thank you so much for seeing me today,” I said. “Perhaps someday you’ll allow me to interview you about your wonderful antiques. I know the viewers would be fascinated.”
“I’d be delighted to do that, dear. Someday, after my grief has lessened.” She opened the door and I stepped out onto the terrace. “Bye-bye now,” she said and did a little-girl twirl back into her house, lace flapper dress flaring.
I headed to my car, then realized that I hadn’t seen the apple tree. She’d said it was in the backyard and I thought it would be okay if I just took a quick look behind the garage. I hurried along the edge of the long building and there it was. It was bigger than the quince tree, and much taller, which made the winter-like leaflessness all the more startling. There were other trees nearby, green and healthy, some of them bearing fragrant white blossoms. I wished then that I’d brought Therese along with her camera. It would have been good TV. I stood there quietly, thinking of Elliot Bagenstose’s last sad moments. I didn’t hear the man approach from behind me until he spoke.
“So we meet twice on the same day. What a surprise.”
I’m sure I jumped. “Mr. . . . Madigan,” I stammered. “Uh—hello.” He wasn’t smiling. I took a step backward.
“What are you doing?” The question was asked in a polite tone of voice, but the look on his face was chilling.
I began to answer. “I was just . . .” when I felt the tiniest flare of temper begin to rise.
It’s none of your damned business.
“I’m looking at the apple tree,” I said flatly. “Why do you ask?”
“This isn’t a good place for you to be,” he said.
CHAPTER 28
Sean Madigan’s tone was no longer polite—or even friendly. “Good-bye now. Have a nice day,” he said, eyes narrowed, voice cold.
I had a strong feeling that he was right. This wasn’t a good place for me to be. I didn’t reply, just walked a little faster on my way back to my car. That’s when a window on the side of the garage gave me a glimpse of the green Toyota parked inside, next to a pair of shiny matching black his-and-hers Cadillacs.
What the hell is going on here?
When I’d told Pete about Aunt Ibby seeing Sean and Claudine Bagenstose together, he’d said, “We’re keeping an eye on that situation.” What situation was he talking about? What did the widow and the art crook have going on that rated him access to her garage? Was the appointment she’d mentioned with him? It certainly looked that way to me.
I peeled out of the driveway onto Dearborn Street, then slowed down to a more decorous pace on the way to North Street and home. I tried to concentrate on the new notes I’d taken about the two stripped trees, to think about the behaviors of crows, to organize my thoughts and focus on show prep for my debut broadcast just hours away. By the time I pulled into my own garage I still hadn’t entirely succeeded in erasing intruding images of the art thief/best man virtually chasing me away from the Bagenstose place, but just being home again gave a sense of security, of safety. So did being greeted at the door with purrs and loving ankle rubs from our wise and loyal cat.
I picked up O’Ryan, pressed my face into soft fur, and carried him all the way up the two flights to my apartment. Such pampering was an infrequent occurrence. He clearly enjoyed it and rewarded me with dainty pink-tongued licks to my chin. Once inside the kitchen, I released the cat, tossed the notebook onto the table, kicked off my shoes, turned on Mr. Coffee, and prepared to do some last minute organizing of information. I didn’t plan to count on the teleprompter but had decided to make a few backup notes to keep me on track.
After about an hour of condensing, combining, and sorting the varied pieces of information I’d gathered about crows in general—and Salem’s recent murder of crows in particular, along with the “human interest” angles I’d picked up from Jane and Mrs. Bagenstose—I was confident that I had material for a good, tight, entertaining fifteen minutes of airtime. I stacked my notes, leaned back in my chair, drained my coffee cup, and looked at Kit-Kat clock. I’d had a busy day—most of it positive, some of it downright weird. There was still plenty of time for a well-deserved nap before dinner. Then I’d be off to the station, where Wanda the Weather Girl’s personal hair and make-up guy had promised to work his magic on me before I appeared on camera.
I exchanged the silk shantung for my Minnie Mouse nightshirt, set my alarm for seven o’clock, and pulled on a pink satin eye mask I’d used for day sleeping back when I hosted Nightshades. I crawled between the covers and was sound asleep within what seemed like seconds.
A sound awakened me. I lay quietly for a moment, puzzled because it wasn’t the expected monotonous buzz-buzz of my bedside alarm clock. More like a scritch-scritch. I lifted the eye mask just enough to see the clock face. Ten minutes after six. I slid the mask up onto my forehead, sat up in bed, and listened. Nothing. Whatever it was that woke me up had gone silent. I sat up, stretched, took off the mask, and put both feet on the floor, still listening. Still nothing.
“Must have been dreaming or imagining things,” I said aloud, then looked around for O’Ryan so I wouldn’t feel so silly about talking to myself. “Are you here, cat?”
A soft “mmrrrow” from the kitchen answered my question, then O’Ryan appeared in the doorway, head cocked in his “What’s up?” position.
“Did you hear that?” I asked. “That scratchy noise? Did you do it?”
He turned around, facing into the kitchen, then looked back at me.
“Okay. I’m coming.” Barefoot, I followed. He climbed onto the windowsill, sat on his haunches, nose against the pane. It was still light outside, that pretty late-afternoon kind of golden light that happens sometimes before dusk. I pulled up a kitchen chair and sat directly behind him and peered over his fuzzy head. “What are you looking at? Did that sound come from outdoors?”
I didn’t have to look far, and I didn’t have to listen hard for the scratchy noise. The answer was right in front of me. Literally. I’ve heard crows’ eyes described as “beady” and the term is accurate. A crow’s eye close up looks just like a round, shiny, black bead. And this one was definitely close up. So was this crow’s foot, long, black, sharp talons scratching rhythmically on the screen.
“I hope it doesn’t think I’m going to let it into the house,” I told O’Ryan, who seemed to be taking the presence of this intruder on his turf remarkably calmly. “What does it want?” The creature stopped scrat
ching and bobbed its head forward, beak open; picked up something shiny from the fire escape; and dropped it onto the outer sill. Then it repeated the action.
Some of the sources I’d consulted said crows like shiny objects and have been known to steal them. Was this visiting crow a thief, depositing stolen goods at my kitchen window? The thing lifted its wings, which made the already oversized bird look even more gigantic. It headed toward Oliver Street, not stopping at the maple tree, but wheeling high above it and disappearing into darkening blue sky.
Naturally I was curious to see what this visitor had left for me, but mostly I wondered why it had left me anything. Thoughts of Peg Wesson and Bridget Bishop popped into my head. Legend had it that each of them could turn into crows, among other creatures. Was I seeing a recycled witch scratching at my window?
I shook away the silly thought, lifted the screen, and retrieved two shiny brass cylinders. I recognized them immediately. Shell casings. I held them in my palm, then turned one over. “380 AUTO” was incised on the base.
Three eighty auto. Wasn’t that the caliber of the bullets the police had dug out of Christopher Rich’s magic store wall?
Oh boy. Had I just destroyed fingerprints on evidence? I opened a kitchen drawer with one hand, removed a plastic zippered bag, and dropped the casings into it. Why had the crow brought these particular casings to me? I didn’t know the answer to that, but I was pretty sure Pete would want to know about it.
Okay, so I call my straight-arrow, nothing-but-the-facts-ma’am police detective boyfriend and say something like, “Hi, Pete. Listen. This big crow came to my window. I mean, I think it’s a crow but it could be a witch in disguise. But anyway, it left me something on my windowsill. No, not poop. It was two shell casings. You want to see them?”
I shook my head, closed the screen, picked up my phone, and hit Pete’s private number. He answered right away. “Hi, babe. I bought the champagne for tonight. Are you all ready for your first report?”
It Takes a Coven Page 16