“I am, but, Pete, I called about something else. Something strange has happened. Did you ever find the shell casings from the gun used to shoot at Christopher Rich?”
“Not yet. Why?”
“I think I may have them. Somebody—something—left them here. I don’t know why, but I’m pretty sure they’re the ones you’re looking for.”
“I think maybe I should come over. Okay?” He sounded confused and who could blame him?
“I have to leave for the station pretty soon. Hair and make-up, you know,” I said. “If I’m not here, the casings are in a plastic bag on the counter. Anyway, I’ll see you after the show.”
Maybe by then I’ll come up with a sensible way to explain this. If there is a sensible way.
I made a peanut butter sandwich and poured a glass of milk. I didn’t feel like having dinner and I wanted to be gone before Pete arrived. My on-air outfit was ready in a garment bag. I pulled my hair back with a wide band and cleaned my face carefully, as per instructions from Wanda’s make-up guru. I ate most of the sandwich, gulped down the milk, donned jeans and sweatshirt, grabbed my notes and the garment bag, and hurried down the back stairs. As I backed out of the driveway I looked up at the maple tree branches. About half a dozen crows looked back at me.
When I pulled into the WICH-TV harborside parking lot, I couldn’t resist looking up into the oak tree on the Essex Street side of the property. More crows, all quietly watching. I guessed there might be around a dozen there, and it seemed as though those shiny shoe-button eyes watched as I walked to the front steps.
Rhonda was still at her desk when I arrived at WICH-TV. “You’re early,” she said. “I stuck around to watch Carmine do you.”
“Carmine? The make-up guy?”
“Yep. He says he can hardly wait. Loves your red hair, your bone structure, your eyes. Says you’re a blank canvas just waiting for an artist like him.”
I’m a blank canvas?
Not quite sure I liked the analogy, I followed Rhonda through the soundproof door leading to the first-floor broadcast studios. As we passed the glass-enclosed newsroom it occurred to me that even though I’d been on-air talent for WICH-TV in the past I’d never yet worked in that rarified setting. Nightshades had been shot in a small set in the downstairs studio, across from the “Cooking with Wanda the Weather Girl” kitchen. So this night would mark the beginning of what might turn into a new career for me. Lee Barrett, news reporter. Who knows? Maybe even Lee Barrett, news anchor.
Blank canvas indeed.
The make-up room had been greatly improved in the time I’d been away from the station. Real salon-type chairs, big well-lighted mirror, shampoo station, and shelves of beauty products. Naturally everything was done in varying shades of purple, but in this environment it seemed to fit.
The man standing beside a lavender marble counter where an assortment of combs and brushes were displayed rubbed his hands together when Rhonda and I entered the room. “Ms. Barrett, you cannot imagine how delighted I am to have this opportunity.”
“This is Carmine, Lee,” Rhonda said, giving me a gentle push in his direction. “Carmine, here she is. Lee Barrett. Work your magic.” She sat on a white wicker chair with a purple velvet cushion. “Mind if I watch?”
He nodded in Rhonda’s direction, then wordlessly took my hand and led me to the violet chair in front of the mirror. He pushed a button and a beam of light illuminated every pore, every blemish, every stray eyebrow hair, every line on my face. I even saw wrinkles on my neck that I’d never seen before. I closed my eyes. Tight. “Ugh,” I said.
“Ahhh,” he said. “What a face. Those cheekbones, those lips, those eyes, that complexion. And the hair! Glorious!”
He began work with cool, creamy stuff evenly spread over my face and neck. I dared to open my eyes, then quickly shut them again. “We’ll let the cleanser work while I shampoo,” he said. As I reclined, head over the sink, he massaged wonderful-smelling things into my hair. Darn near fell asleep. Towel dry, then back to the mirror, where he patted my face gently with a soft, warm cloth. I dared to peek at the mirror. My skin looked better already.
Note to self: Buy a barrel of that face cream.
“Now for the hair.” He ran skilled fingers through the curly mess. “Maybe a little trim? A bit of straightening? Tiny highlights?”
“Uh, I don’t know . . . highlights?”
Rhonda’s “Absolutely! Go for it, Lee” drowned out my hesitant “maybe.”
Again I closed my eyes. It would have been a totally relaxing experience, except for thoughts of the window-scratching crow, the brass bullet casings, and the most worrying question of all.
How am I supposed to explain all that to Pete?
CHAPTER 29
I kept my eyes shut as Carmine worked. I’ve never been very good at hair. I wash and condition regularly, have it trimmed once in a while, and do the best I can with a comb and brush. I also have a good-sized collection of “bad hair day” hats. I heard the snip-snip of scissors and felt some gentle tugging here and there. It was all so relaxing I nearly dozed off.
“A few minutes under the dryer now, Ms. Barrett.”
I dared another look at the mirror. Sections of hair were wrapped in foil, spiking outward like Medusa’s snakes. With a silent prayer that this guy knew what he was doing, I obediently took a seat under a lavender dome. The dryer time gave me a few minutes to think, to plot really. I needed to tell Pete the truth about how the shell casings had appeared at my window, but to explain the crow, I’d have to first make sure he was familiar with some local witch legends. Like the ones about Peg Wesson and Bridget Bishop—those naughty little shape-shifters.
This isn’t going to be easy. The police are going to want to know where I got the casings. I can tell Pete about the crow and just hope he’ll understand, but I’m not sure the chief will buy it. Maybe Pete will tell him someone put them there.
The thoughts were disturbing. How did “someone” get to the third-floor window? I answered my own question: It’s impossible. The company that installed the fire escape guaranteed that although there’s a sliding ladder leading from the second-floor platform to the ground it only works one way. Down. Maybe I imagined the crow. Maybe it was a “crow vision,” appearing on window glass. Such a thing had happened before. Once a vision in a window showed me a bear. But an imaginary crow couldn’t carry real shell casings. What if it wasn’t impossible for someone to climb up to my window? That idea gave me a chill. It would mean that someone had been outside my kitchen window. It would mean that someone could have raised the screen, could have come into my apartment....
Carmine’s interruption was welcome. “Time for our reveal,” he said, leading me back to the styling chair. He turned it away from the mirror so that I faced Rhonda. Again the gentle fingers worked on my head and again I closed my eyes. I felt the chair spin. “How do you like it?”
I opened my eyes as I heard Rhonda’s soft “Oooh, and echoed it myself.
“I love it,” I said. “Absolutely love it.” I really did too. The length was good, the curls were tamed, the highlights were subtle. I still looked like me, but way better. Carmine efficiently cleared away the hairstyling paraphernalia and made a neat row of bottles, boxes, brushes, pencils, and tubes.
“Make-up now,” he said. “We begin with the wonderful green eyes.” I tried to watch the process, thinking I could learn from the master, so to speak. But he moved so fast, wielding brushes both broad and narrow, mascara wands (two kinds), liquid and powdered foundations, it was all pretty much a blur. He made a grand final flourish with a brushful of bronzer, then stepped back, tilted his head, leaned in and adjusted one lock of my hair, stepped back again, and pronounced me perfect.
“Wow, Lee. Wait ’til Pete sees you now! I mean, wow!” Rhonda stood behind me, gazing at my reflection.
“Perfection,” Carmine said. “I’ve wanted to do this since I first saw you on that psychic thing you used to do.”
&n
bsp; “Thanks so much, Carmine,” I said. “This new look is just what I needed tonight. A real confidence booster. What do I owe you?” I accepted the hand mirror he handed me and admired myself from every angle.
“This one is a gift from Mr. and Mrs. Doan,” he said, “but if you’d like me to make it a regular appointment, just let me know.”
“You’ll be hearing from me,” I said, holding the hand mirror close to my face. We’d had make-up people on the home shopping shows I’d done, but the results hadn’t been this spectacular. I handed him a more than appropriate tip and looked at myself in the hand mirror once more. Big mistake. The flashing lights, the whirling colors are even more intense on a small surface. I knew I was about to see a vision. I didn’t want to see it but couldn’t look away.
No more glammed-up Lee Barrett. Instead I saw the face of another woman. I recognized her right away. Bridget Bishop. She smiled directly at me and lifted one hand. In her palm she held two bullet casings. Then her brown eyes turned black—black and beady. She turned into a crow before my startled eyes. The vision blinked off and once again I saw myself.
Rhonda’s words seemed to come from a distance. “Come on. You can admire yourself later. Let’s go see how you look with your outfit on. I hung it up in the dressing room. Let’s go.” I put the mirror facedown on the marble counter, picked up my handbag with my notes in it, and hurried to catch up with Rhonda.
The dressing room hadn’t changed much since I’d last seen it. A rolling clothes rack, a couple of mismatched tables, a brown vinyl-covered club chair and hassock, a vanity table with a mirror surrounded by round lightbulbs. I avoided looking into the mirror and looked instead at the clothes rack. My garment bag was the only one on it. Rhonda unzipped it and handed me the soft jade green silk dress.
“Thanks, Rhonda,” I said. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” she said. “Did you bring shoes to go with this?”
“They’re in the bottom of the bag,” I said as I pulled off my sweatshirt, being extra careful not to mess up my hair, and unzipped my jeans. “I think they’ll only be shooting from the waist up, but I bought new shoes anyway.”
“Holy crap, Lee,” Rhonda said. “Are these Jimmy Choos?”
I admitted my extravagance. “Couldn’t resist.”
“Well, get dressed. Let’s see how you’re going to look. You’ll be on in less than an hour.”
Surprised, I checked my watch. “All that fussing with hair and make-up took longer than I thought.” I slipped into dress and shoes, then did a slow turn for Rhonda. “What do you think?”
“Take a look in the mirror,” she advised. “See what you think.”
I didn’t want to look into that mirror—or any mirror.
“I can’t,” I said, picking up my notes. “I’m too nervous. I’m going up to the newsroom now. Do I look okay?”
“Definitely okay.”
The newsroom buzzed with the usual hour-before-broadcast activity. When I entered the room Buck Covington was already seated in the anchor chair, sipping on a Coke and chatting with one of the lighting men. Marty McCarthy was my favorite camera operator and I was happy to see that she was part of the crew for my debut. I recognized, but had never met, the current audio engineer who sat in front of an intimidating (to me anyway) bank of screens and control panels. The station’s field reporter, Scott Palmer, was there behind the glass pane too, in the news director’s usual seat. Bruce Doan likes to get as much work from every employee as he possibly can, and it appeared that he’d found an added duty for Scott.
Heads turned in my direction as I walked to the half circle of red and black laminate that formed the anchor desk. A panoramic view of Chestnut Street—sometimes called the most architecturally perfect street in America—provided the background shot.
“Hi, Moon,” called Marty. I’d been “Crystal Moon, psychic” when we’d worked together. “Looking good,” she said.
“Darn good,” offered Scott. “Going to tell us all about the crows?”
“I’m going to try,” I said, pausing in front of the anchor desk. “Hi, Buck. What’s the plan? Do you call me up here during a break?”
He turned on that million-dollar smile. “Right. What time does Lee come on, Scott?”
“Lee gets fourteen minutes at eleven thirty-one, right after the shopping mall commercial. You’ll do the teaser for “A Murder of Crows” at eleven twenty-seven and the one-minute intro at eleven-thirty. I have the crow videos ready to roll. Then we go to weather with Wanda on the green screen, sports roundup at the desk, and close. Got it?”
Buck wrinkled the perfect brow for a second and consulted a printed schedule. Big smile. “Got it.”
“Come on over and sit by me, Lee,” Scott offered, patting an empty chair next to him. “You can help me direct this party.”
I accepted and shuffled through my notes for the hundredth time that day.
Scott put a restraining hand on my arm. “You don’t have to look at those now. You know the material and the teleprompter has all the bullet points you sent over. Just relax. You’re going to be fine.”
Scott’s not one of my favorite people, but sometimes he’s right. If I didn’t know the material by now I was in the wrong business. I stuffed the notes under my chair and watched the opening credits for the Nightly News roll.
CHAPTER 30
Once the on-the-air sign lit up, and the theme music played, my nervousness melted away and professional show host, weather girl, call-in psychic Lee Barrett took over. Well, maybe not that last one. Anyway, I was able to focus on Buck Covington’s words, Scott’s hand signals, the multiple screens facing the broadcast tech, and—most of all—the studio clock. The WICH-TV late news runs from eleven to midnight, then comes Tarot Time with River North. I wondered if Therese was in the building, if I’d have time to ask her about the previous night’s interrupted phone call. No time for that just then. Although fifteen minutes out of the news hour doesn’t seem like a long time, when those minutes have to be filled with your own words, accompanied by appropriate facial expressions, when you know you must not cough, scratch your nose, or say anything inappropriate, those minutes can seem like a very long time.
Buck read, flawlessly of course, an entertaining piece about the Dragon Boat festival on the Charles River, then switched to a more serious note with a report on the increase in arrests for local vandalism. He gave a brief update on the Christopher Rich case, describing the finding of two spent bullets in the back wall of the magic shop. There was a brief clip of Rich himself, describing his ordeal. A touching segment on Megan’s funeral included Scott Palmer’s earlier interviews with some senior citizens who told about Megan’s cheerful weekly visits to area nursing homes. Buck did the teaser for “A Murder of Crows” at eleven twenty-seven, and during a commercial for Liberty Tree Mall I took my seat beside him at the anchor desk.
At eleven-thirty Buck turned on the megawatt smile full blast. “I’m honored to introduce a brand new feature here on WICH-TV. Tonight our own Lee Barrett takes over as investigative reporter. She’ll be joining us occasionally this summer, presenting in-depth facts on topics the community may find puzzling or even troubling. Something that has puzzled and troubled all of us lately, Lee, is the phenomenon you call a murder of crows. Tell us about it.”
I took a deep breath, smiled, turned on my own carefully cultivated on-air voice—throaty and a little bit sexy—and began my new career.
“Thank you, Buck. I’m delighted to be with you tonight. Let’s discuss what we’ve all been talking about for a couple of weeks now. Crows. Thousands of them. So why do I call this a ‘murder of crows’? That’s a real ornithological term. And it comes from a time when groupings of many animals were known by colorful and poetic names. How about an ostentation of peacocks? A parliament of owls. A knot of frogs or a skulk of foxes?”
With the help of the bullet points on the teleprompter and some well-placed and prompted q
uestions from Buck, I led the viewers through much of what I’d learned about the strange springtime roost of what the United States Department of Agriculture’s Wildlife Service estimated to be 20,000 to 30,000 birds.
“Most of the crows have been noticeably absent for several days,” I said. “They may have broken up into smaller groups, but there’s a strong likelihood that they may reorganize, and plans are in effect for the use of more fireworks, spotlights, and perhaps electronic recordings of crow distress calls.” I made it clear throughout my talk that these methods wouldn’t harm the birds.
We showed the stripped apple tree and I repeated Mrs. Bagenstose’s touching story of the blossoming branch her late husband had cut for her. When the video of the crows stripping Gloria’s quince tree came on-screen I talked about Gloria Tasker’s famous quince jelly. Mentioning the witch connection was unavoidable, but I kept it to a minimum. “Some have associated the deaths of several members of Salem’s Wiccan community with the sudden appearance of the crows, perhaps because crows and witches often appear together in folklore and paintings. The crow has long been associated with magic and the power to manipulate physical appearances.” I touched on the bird’s reputed penchant for carrying off shiny objects. “Many experts agree that even though stories about crows stealing rings and coins persist, there isn’t much evidence that this is true.”
Hey, Mister Expert, I know of one that probably carried off a couple of shiny bullet shell casings!
I closed by noting that scarecrows were beginning to reappear around Salem, with a reminder that the birds are protected under the federal Migratory Bird Treaty Act.
Buck thanked me for the “informative and interesting report,” hoped I’d be back again soon, then asked—off script—“So you think the crows will be back?”
“I think they’re already on their way,” I replied.
Cut to Wanda the Weather Girl, and my debut performance was over. Buck Covington shook my hand, Marty gave a thumbs-up from behind her camera, and Scott offered a fist bump as I passed his chair on my way out of the newsroom.
It Takes a Coven Page 17