We didn’t talk much more about police or reporter business. By then I guess neither one of us wanted to go there. That didn’t mean either of us had stopped thinking about the U-Haul, the apple tree, the injured dog, or even the possible murder of a witch. At least I hadn’t, and the silence on the drive home told me that Pete hadn’t either. We were on Derby Street, about to turn onto Hawthorne Boulevard, when he said, “It’s early. Want to take a ride over to North Salem, maybe stop at Treadwell’s for ice cream?”
A quick vision of a big scoop of coffee Oreo ice cream with chocolate sauce and crumbled waffle cone bits on top immediately replaced all negative thoughts. “Good idea,” I said, and we were on our way.
“Mind if we drive by Tasker’s place?” Pete said. He’d already turned onto Foster Street, taking a shortcut through the neighborhood.
“Are we looking for anything special?” I asked. “I didn’t bring my notebook. Darn.”
“I always have mine.” He patted his shirt pocket. “Good habit for a reporter. You never know what might turn up.”
We approached Gloria’s darkened house. There were other houses on three sides of hers, left, right, and behind, all with lights beaming from the windows. Boom! Another idea.
Maybe the nosy neighbor fits in somewhere. What else does she have pictures of ?
“Pete,” I said. “What about the nosy neighbor? The woman who took the video of the crows destroying Gloria’s quince tree. Can you find out which house is hers?”
“I’d guess from the angle of the video you showed it would be that one.” He pointed to the house to the right of Gloria’s.
“When I saw the U-Haul it was parked pretty close to that property line. What if the woman heard Zeus barking? What if she grabbed her camera and took pictures?” I was excited. “Jane says she was always snooping on the neighbors, but hardly ever talked to any of them.”
Pete parked across the street from the empty house and turned off his lights. He pulled the notebook from his pocket and flipped the pages open. “What’s her name?”
“Bertha something, I think,” I admitted. “She didn’t want me to credit her at all. I guess she thinks people might say she’s nosy.” I had to laugh, that sounded so silly. “Aunt Ibby knows her, though. She’s the one who got the video for me.”
Notebook snapped shut and headlights back on. “Do you think she’s still up?”
“The nosy lady?”
“No. Your aunt.”
I looked at the clock on the dash. Only nine o’clock. “I’m sure she is. Shall I call and see what kind of ice cream she wants?”
“Ice cream?”
“You promised.” I put on a fake pout. He turned the car toward the famed ice cream parlor on the Salem-Peabody line and my coffee-Oreo sundae. I called my aunt, took her order for hot butterscotch on maple walnut. I knew Pete would have his usual hot fudge on vanilla. Questions about over-the-fence photos, knitting needles, and, yes, even murder could wait a few more minutes.
With our three treats safely on board, we headed home. “You think I could be right about the woman taking pictures last night?”
He reached across the console and patted my knee. “I think you’ve been right about a couple of things, babe,” he said. “You were only supposed to be investigating crows and you’ve managed to turn up some good information that we’d have missed.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. If I hadn’t gone to see Jane about Gloria’s tree I wouldn’t have known about the man who was looking for paintings. I wouldn’t have met Zeus and learned about the peculiar wound in his shoulder that reminded Pete of Elliot Bagenstose’s punctured eardrum. If I hadn’t snooped behind the Bagenstose’s garage I wouldn’t have seen Madigan’s Toyota inside, although I had a sneaky feeling Pete had already known about that.
Aunt Ibby was genuinely happy to see us. Pete handed her the ice cream and put the photo booth pictures on the table. He got right to the point, asking for the name and telephone number of her snoopy friend. My aunt obliged, scribbling the information on an index card and handing it to Pete. “She doesn’t often share this kind of thing, you know. The only reason she sent it to me was because I’d told her about Maralee’s interest in the crows.”
“I understand that her neighbors say she photographs them all the time. Without permission.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand why nobody’s reported her to us before this.”
“Jane told me that she doesn’t share her pictures with anybody. Doesn’t put them online or anything,” I said. “It’s some strange kind of voyeurism, I suppose.”
“Do you think those photos of the crow tree are important somehow, Pete?” my aunt asked.
“Not the crows, Ms. Russell.” He tucked the index card into his pocket. “I think she may have photographed an attempted break-in last night.”
“That would be important, wouldn’t it? But I think she would have called you if she had. She once explained to us at book club that taking candid photos is her hobby. That if she took a picture of anything important, like a Big Foot or an alien spaceship or the like, she’d report it immediately.”
“It’s worth a shot anyway.” Pete dug into his hot fudge sundae and shared a drop of vanilla ice cream with O’Ryan.
“Speaking of shots, the early news had a report that Christopher Rich actually has a gun that uses the same kind of bullets as the ones he claims were shot at him,” my aunt said. “Some people are saying he might have shot at the wall himself.”
“We didn’t watch the early news,” I said, surprised. “Did you know about that, Pete?”
“Oh, sure,” he said. “Lots of shop owners have guns for protection. His is legal. We’re taking a look at it.”
If it was on the news he could have mentioned it to me. He knows I’m interested.
“How come you didn’t tell me about it?” I asked, trying not to sound as annoyed as I really was.
He looked surprised. “I’m sorry, babe. I meant to. We got to talking about other stuff and I forgot. Didn’t think it was important. He brought the gun to us this morning. We’re checking it out. He says he’s never even fired the thing. It looks brand new. Chief doesn’t think there’s anything there. I don’t either.”
“River thinks he fired those shots himself. For the publicity.”
“Don’t think so,” Pete insisted. “Not from that gun anyway.”
“What about the shells I found?” I asked. “Can you tell what gun those came from?”
“Not yet. But if I hear anything new about it, anything it’s okay for me to talk about, I’ll tell you. But I’ll bet you a pizza they didn’t come from the bullets in Rich’s wall.”
“You’re on,” I said. “I’ll bet they did.”
Why else would the Bridget/crow show them to me?
I licked the last tiny crumb of Oreo from my spoon and sighed a contented sigh. “That was good. Going to the Willows tonight was good too. Sometimes the simplest things, like pinball games and ice cream, are the best.”
“You’ve got that right,” Pete said. “Like wearing jeans and a T-shirt instead of a tuxedo and a stiff white shirt.”
“You’re talking about Shannon and Dakota’s wedding, I suppose,” Aunt Ibby said. “I haven’t decided what to wear to it myself. The invitation says black or white.”
I thought about Monday’s gown fitting. “If I didn’t have to wear black I’d choose white for sure. Or maybe a black and white print to match Poe’s feathers.” I looked at Pete. “I’m glad you decided on the tux, though.”
“Yeah. My sister Marie said I should, especially since you’ll be all dressed up, walking down the aisle with Madigan.”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me. I hope I don’t have to dance with him.”
“If you have to, don’t worry. I’ll cut in,” Pete promised.
“Be sure to get some pictures taken together. Nice ones.” Aunt Ibby tapped the photo booth pictures—me with my eyes crossed and Pete with his tongue out. “Not l
ike these.”
“I like casual pictures,” Pete said, “as long as I know they’re being taken.” He patted his shirt pocket. “Thanks for the address, Ms. Russell. Your friend might be really helpful.”
“I think she’ll be happy to help.” She paused. “Maybe not. She likes being anonymous.”
“According to her neighbors she’s not as anonymous as she thinks she is,” I said. “But what I think is amazing is that they seem to accept her anyway.”
“They must believe she’s harmless,” Pete said. “Just another colorful local character. Look at the way we accept our Salem witches. That’s a big change from the sixteen hundreds.”
“You’re right,” Aunt Ibby said. “Those seventeenth-century people could never have imagined there’d be a statue of Samantha Stevens in downtown Salem.”
“Or that Mr. Dumas would invite a couple of covens to hold a Wiccan funeral on his private beachfront,” I said, still surprised about it. “But it’ll be Midsummer midnight and I can’t imagine a more perfect place for Megan’s funeral.”
“A good location,” Pete agreed. “Since it’s private property chances are Viktor Protector and his friends won’t be gate crashing.”
“That’s good,” my aunt said.
My phone buzzed. “Look, Pete, it’s a picture from Jane. Poor Zeus’s shoulder.” I handed him the phone. “Can’t see much on that little screen, can you?”
“Nope.” He peered at the display. “It just looks like a patch of black dog hair. Want to forward it to my phone? I’ll blow it up later.”
I did as he asked. We disposed of our ice cream cartons, said good night to my aunt, and with O’Ryan in the lead we climbed the front stairway to my apartment.
CHAPTER 39
On Saturday morning we joined a good sized group of people for a brief annual ceremony at Proctor’s Ledge commemorating the June 10th anniversary of Bridget Bishop’s hanging. Therese was there with the WICH-TV mobile crew. I noticed that Christopher Rich was about to address the crowd. We left a bouquet of daisies and red roses and left quietly before his speech began. There were no crows in attendance. After that the weekend passed pretty much as we’d planned it, except I’d bought way too many groceries. Ballpark hot dogs and beer at the Sox game and Sunday dinner downstairs at Aunt Ibby’s dining room table meant I’d only had to prepare a couple of lunches. Pete made us breakfast in bed twice and we made a good dent in that half gallon of ice cream. Monday rolled around much too soon.
Pete had to be at work at eight and I’d promised to meet the girls at Dunkin’ Donuts at nine, so it was one of those rushing-around, fire-drill, quick-cup-of-coffee-and-a-blueberry Pop-Tart-for-breakfast kind of mornings. Pete left first, so I was alone when I passed by the garden on my way to the garage. There were a couple of crows perched on the back fence, but Theodore Scarecrow seemed to be doing his job well. I saw no evidence at all of scavenging crows among the herbs or vegetables.
The trees on Oliver Street still had quite a few black-feathered visitors among their branches, but not as many as I’d seen in recent days. Local radio and TV reported that, although the number of crows in the city was still far above the normal population, they’d scattered over a wider area. There were even some reports that a significant number of them had been observed roosting in Gloucester’s Dogtown area.
So there, Peg Wesson and Tammy Younger.
If the crows kept leaving at this rate chances were there’d be no big pyrotechnical display for me to cover, and if they’d already stopped chowing down on gardens and trees any follow-up “Murder of Crows” investigative report was unlikely. It was time to put plan B into motion—if only I actually had a plan B.
This time I was first to arrive at D.D. I ordered a large coffee and settled into a booth with notebook and pen ready for inspiration to strike. I’d thought about doing a segment on an inside look at wedding planning, but a topic without fireworks and legendary witches seemed suddenly much too tame. I alternated between staring out the window and doodling on the open notebook page.
Shannon, Hilda, Maureen, and Therese all arrived at once and tumbled, laughing, through the door like a clip from a Three Stooges movie. I scooted over to make room for them while they ordered coffee and joined me one at a time. Shannon bought a half dozen assorted doughnuts and plunked the box down on the middle of the table while Therese took pictures. “Okay,” Shannon said. “The dresses are a week early. That’s worth celebrating with doughnuts! I was worried they wouldn’t be in time. We sure didn’t give them much notice.”
“Good omen,” Maureen said. “Everything is going to be perfect. Even the weather predictions for next week are good. Fair and unseasonably warm.”
Shannon clapped her hands together like a little kid. “My perfect wedding. I’m marrying the man of my dreams, my daddy’s going to give me away, I have the coolest ring bearer in the world, my dress is gorgeous, the cake is going to be fabulous, I even hired a magician who pulls rabbits out of his hat and makes balloon animals for the guests! How awesome is all that?”
The Fabulous Fabio. That explains the black and white balloon sea creatures in my vision.
“Totally awesome,” Hilda declared, raising her chocolate doughnut in a toast. “To Shannon and Dakota. May they live happily ever after.” We tapped our doughnuts together, creating a little flurry of powdered sugar; finished our coffees; and headed for the Blushing Bride and our final fittings.
We’d decided to put on a mini fashion show for Therese’s camera, so our consultant, Corina, added jewelry, bouquets of silk flowers, and even a veil for Shannon—all to approximate the way we’d look at the wedding, just a little more than a week away. Alone in a dressing room, I posed in front of a three-way mirror. Even though the dress was black, my least favorite color in the world, I liked my reflection. That is, I liked it right up until the moment Bridget Bishop joined me in the left side of the glass and Megan appeared on the right. Megan smiled. Bridget didn’t.
I turned and faced the Bridget image and mouthed, “What do you want from me?”
It was easy to read her lips, especially when I heard her voice in my head at the same time. “I want my book.”
I turned to the image of Megan on my right. “How?” I whispered aloud.
Again, Megan held the crystal ball. In a swirl of mist, I saw River walk to the center of a huge pentagram drawn in the sand. Holding the book in both hands, she stretched her arms over her head. A crow flew into the scene—an extremely large one. Even bigger than Poe, I thought. The crow gripped the book in its talons, then disappeared into the mist. At the same instant the Bridget image disappeared from the mirror. The Megan image remained, a look of sadness replacing her smile.
In the crystal ball a line of black-robed witches began to form. I counted them. Fourteen.
That’s wrong. There should be only thirteen.
There was a tap at the dressing room door. Megan disappeared. There was no one reflected in the mirror except a perplexed me. “You okay, Lee? We’re ready for the pictures,” Shannon called. “Let’s go.”
I pasted on a grin, opened the door, stepped out, and joined the others. We smiled and posed and preened for the camera. Corina fussed over us, adjusting a shoulder strap here, a fabric fold there, making sure everything was perfect.
Still, I couldn’t erase the image from my mind.
Something is wrong. There should be only thirteen.
What did it mean?
* * *
With my black gown safely enveloped in a pink garment bag and draped across the passenger seat of the Vette I drove home. I was anxious to talk to River, to tell her that Megan had revealed quite an explicit picture of how the book return was supposed to happen. I also wanted to ask her about the significance of that extra witch in the picture. I checked my watch for the umpteenth time. Still too early to call a person whose TV workday begins at midnight. Been there. Done that.
The idea that I finally knew how the book was to be passed on
to the original owner brought me a great sense of relief. I hadn’t realized how worried I’d been about it, until Megan had shown me that crystal ball. For a long time I’ve alternately feared, doubted, resented this scrying thing that had somehow become part of me. But in this case I believed in Megan. I believed she had disclosed something real, something that would actually take place just as she’d shown it. It was a good feeling.
With the wedding plans well in place, my gown carefully hung in my closet, and the cat fed, I was ready to move on with plans for another investigative report. That little cruise through North Salem the previous night had stirred something in my mind besides a desire for ice cream. I had nothing on my calendar that needed attention, so I decided to take another ride in that direction. Maybe I’d stumble onto some little clue, some tiny bit of information that could become inspiration. Once again, I backed the Vette out onto Oliver Street, where the crow population had lessened considerably, and headed northwest toward Bridge Street. I had no predetermined destination in mind and I almost surprised myself when I turned onto Dearborn Street. I passed the corner of Southwick Street and, farther on, slowed down as I approached the iron-gated Bagenstose mansion until the driver in the car behind me gave an impatient blast of his horn. I finally pulled over beside the quite unlovely chain-link fence separating vehicles and pedestrians from the sometimes up-to-the-sidewalk-at-high-tide water of the North River.
The tide wasn’t high just then, so I climbed out of the car and, standing beside the chain-link fence, viewed a pleasant scene of placid water, a few small boats, and some greenery. I knew from the newspaper reports and from what I’d heard from Aunt Ibby that Gloria had died when she was thrown from her bike headfirst against one of the sturdy galvanized iron fence posts. Within seconds I was joined there by—wouldn’t you know it—a crow. It perched at the top of the fence. This was a big one and it had a red band on its right leg. I knew that the U.S. Department of Agriculture often banded birds, especially migratory ones. However I’d become very much aware of black creatures wearing red anything. I looked at the bird’s eyes. It cocked its head and opened its beak. I knew that crows could learn to speak. Poe was a good example of that. I’d seen one at a bird sanctuary in Florida who had a vocabulary of about thirty words.
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