This crow looked at me and croaked one word, perfectly clearly. “Murder.”
I’m sure I answered out loud, “What did you say?”
It looked at me again. Spoke again. “Murder,” it said, and flew away.
CHAPTER 40
I climbed back into my car and was about to start the engine when a green Toyota pulled in close beside me. In what seemed like an instant, Sean Madigan appeared at my open window. “Thought that was you,” he said, leaning against my door, one arm propped against the convertible top of the Vette. “Hard to miss this little beauty. How come you’re cruising past my place again? Looking for me?”
I felt an instantaneous flare of temper. This guy had a knack for bringing that out in me and I didn’t like the feeling. “No,” I said, keeping my voice level. “And what do you mean, ‘your place’?”
The smarmy smile. “You know what I mean. My apartment over the garage at my friend Claudine’s little ranch.”
I checked my rearview mirror. This end of Dearborn Street isn’t much traveled and there were no vehicles, no pedestrians or bike riders in sight. “I don’t like people touching my car,” I said. “Back off or risk losing that arm.” I tapped the gas pedal a couple of times, letting the big engine roar. He looked mildly surprised but took a step back and raised both hands.
“Whoa,” he said. “Don’t get hostile. I just thought you might want to talk to me.”
Now I was confused. “What for? What would I want to talk to you about?”
“About Claudine,” he said. “And her collections. For that TV thing you’re doing.” His expression was all surprised innocence. “Isn’t that what this is all about? About her hiring me to appraise the collections for her?”
That was news to me. “Uh, no,” I said. “I have to go now.”
“Listen,” he said, leaning toward me again but being careful not to touch the car. “I’m sorry if I sounded rude the other day. But Claudine doesn’t like people snooping around her backyard like you were doing.”
“I wasn’t snooping.”
“Looked like it.”
I shifted to reverse and started to back up slowly. “Good-bye,” I said.
“See you at the rehearsal then.” He waved, then folded his arms and watched as I drove away.
So Sean Madigan was staying at the Bagenstose mansion to appraise the many collections Aunt Ibby had told me about. Maybe Sean had given me a good idea after all. “Like a museum,” my aunt had said about that house, and from what I’d seen it was so. What if Therese and her camera and I got a chance to show the WICH-TV audience some of those treasures? I began to like the idea. Pete had told me that the Bagenstose house wasn’t a good place for me to be, but workwise it could turn out to be a perfect place!
Thoughts of the report I could do on the contents of the great house had almost driven the memory of the talking crow out of my mind. Almost. Why had the thing said “Murder” at the place where Gloria had died? Had the hit-and-run been a deliberate attempt on the woman’s life?
I drove slowly along Dearborn Street, beneath the arching canopy of fine old trees. A few crows showed themselves, not a lot of them. I thought some more about that talking crow. Maybe my visions of crows and cats and Bridget Bishop made me imagine things that weren’t real. A banded crow isn’t an uncommon thing even with a red band. Besides, that screechy, cackling voice could have said any number of things. Maybe it had said mother or birdy or dirty. Probably it was just cawing and had spoken no words at all.
Back to concentrating on report topics. I knew the Bagenstoses must have collected old paintings. I’d seen some of them.Why else would Claudine invite a shady character like Sean Madigan into her home? Or at least into her garage. Aunt Ibby had told me that Claudine had a big collection of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century fashions too. The textbook on investigative reporting said that topics should be things people are curious about. Who in Salem could drive by that spooky old gated mansion and not wonder what’s inside? I wondered too. What else had they collected in there?
Claudine had been gracious toward me, even remembering seeing me when I was a little girl. Maybe now that her husband was gone she might be planning to sell some of their things, maybe thinking about downsizing to a smaller place. She might even be glad of the extra publicity my report would give. I realized I was talking myself into ignoring Pete’s advice to stay away from the place, but snooping is one thing, and serious research for one’s job is quite another.
As long as I was in the area, I could call on Aunt Ibby’s friend Bertha Barnes to thank her in person for her excellent video of the crows stripping Gloria’s tree. I could ask politely whether she had any more interesting pictures of crows. Or whatever. Did she save all of the pictures she took? I wondered. Impulsively, I took a quick left turn onto Southwick Street.
I parked in front of the vacant Tasker house, making sure notebook and business cards were in my purse. I looked into Gloria’s yard, curious about the state of the quince tree. The lawn looked a little shaggy but the branches of the sturdy little tree had begun to sprout a bit of green, making me feel both pleased and relieved.
If Pete was correct, Bertha’s house should be the one on my right. Making sure my car was locked—just in case that story about bored teenagers was true—I squared my shoulders, marched right up to the nosy neighbor’s front door, and rang the bell.
A querulous voice from inside called, “Just a minute. I’m coming.” The door opened a crack. “Who are you and what do you want?”
I held out my business card. “Hello there, Ms. Barnes. I’m Lee Barrett, Ibby Russell’s niece? You helped me out on my very first appearance on the news. I was in the neighborhood and wanted to stop by to thank you personally.”
The door swung open immediately. “You’re Maralee!” The plump little woman framed in the doorway looked like Central Casting’s idea of everybody’s grandmother. Bluish white hair in a tightly curled perm, granny glasses perched on a cute button nose, a floral print cotton dress, sensible shoes—the whole package. No wonder none of the neighbors turned her in for spying on them. She was completely adorable. “Come right in, dear.” She stood aside and ushered me into the house. “Ibby always speaks so fondly of you at the library book club meetings. She’s very proud of you!”
I followed her into a cozy living room—chintz slipcovers on overstuffed chairs and love seat, maple-finished coffee table and a matching hutch displaying a set of antique Quimper plates—and accepted her offer of “a nice cup of tea and some cookies.” I could already smell the gingersnaps. I hadn’t yet figured out how to ask politely if she’d happened to have her camera handy when Zeus caused a noisy commotion practically in front of her house. So when she returned with the tea and cookies on a tin tray with a Currier & Ives reproduction on it I just blurted it out.
“Mrs. Barnes, I imagine you must be part of the neighborhood watch program, so may I ask a question about some strange things happening around here recently?” I took a sip of tea. “I only ask because of my new job. If it’s none of my business, please say so.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said. “I’m glad you asked. You must be talking about the other night when that sweet dog from next door set up such a howl. I’m going to miss Zeus. I used to sneak him doggie biscuits under the fence. I hope that nice Jane didn’t mind.”
“I’m sure she didn’t. Go on. You were saying he made a lot of noise?”
“He did. I thought for a minute he’d been hit by that car.”
“What car?”
“It’s a little green car. I’d seen it around here before. At first I thought it belonged to one of Gloria’s gentlemen friends who didn’t know she’d passed, you know?”
“A green car. You didn’t happen to have your camera with you that night, did you?”
“Of course I did, darling. It’s always with me.” She reached into a pocket of her housedress and pulled out a small Minolta. I even have pockets in my bathrobe, so
if anything interesting happens at night I can catch it on video. It’s my hobby, you know.”
“Really? Do you, um, save all of your video records, Mrs. Barnes?”
“Oh, call me Bertha, hon. Everybody does. I don’t save them all. No indeed.” She glanced around the room, as though she thought someone might be listening, and dropped her voice. “Most of them are pretty boring. This isn’t a very exciting neighborhood since Gloria’s gone. Now what video did you want to know about?”
“If you took one on the night Zeus set up such a racket,” I prompted. “That’s the one I’d like to see. Did you?”
“Sure did. Want to see it? It’s kind of dark. I didn’t want to use any lights and it was late at night.” She stood and motioned for me to follow. “Come on into my hobby room.”
It was a small room and three walls had been fitted with floor-to-ceiling shelves. Rows of old-fashioned VHS videos with hand-lettered labels filled most of them. Hundreds of DVDs in plastic cases were stacked neatly in the others. “You must have been collecting these for a long time.” I tried to keep the absolute astonishment out of my voice. “A really long time.”
“Not so long, hon. Ten years or so. Keeps my mind occupied, you know? Like they say, if you don’t use it you lose it.” She waved a hand at the packed shelves and the two big-screen TVs on the fourth wall with DVD and VHS players lined up beneath them. A wide recliner stood in the center of the room. A single straight chair stood beside it, a box of Whitman’s chocolates on its seat. “Sometimes I watch two of ’em at a time. Compare the old and the new. It’s really fun.” She moved the chocolates to the arm of the recliner and motioned for me to take the vacated chair. “Here. Sit.”
Speechless, I sat.
“I’ll show you whatever you like, dear. I love keeping busy with my hobbies. Why, if it wasn’t for my pictures and the library book club I’d just be another boring old lady.” She pointed to a large wicker basket next to the recliner. “That and my knitting, of course.”
The basket overflowed with skeins of colorful yarns. But what grabbed my attention most was the round Quaker oatmeal box beside the basket jammed full of sharp-pointed knitting needles.
CHAPTER 41
Naturally the very idea that Bertha’s knitting needles had anything to do with Zeus’s injury or with Elliot Bagenstose’s punctured eardrum was preposterous. But they did give me a chilling reminder that I wasn’t just investigating barking dogs; nosy neighbors, however adorable; or tree-eating crows. I could be messing around with a murderer.
I charged ahead anyway. “Bertha, I’d like to see the one with the dog and the green car.”
“Sure sweetheart. I’ll put it up on the big screen for you.” She took a DVD from the shelf and loaded it into a Toshiba player. “Sorry it’s so dark. But there was a streetlight, you know, so it’s not too bad. Want to hear the sound too?” She passed the chocolate box. “I like a little something to munch on while I watch my pictures. Have one?”
I passed on the chocolate and said yes to the sound.
It began with a dog barking, at first in the distance, then closer. Jane’s U-Haul was in the center of the frame just beneath a street lamp. Zeus came bounding into the picture, the barking turning into a growl as he disappeared behind the truck. A harshly whispered voice said, “Get away from me.” Zeus whimpered. Had the person kicked him? The whispering voice grew louder. “Shit! Get away! God damn it.” The dog howled as if in pain, there was the sound of footsteps running, and then the dog ran from behind the truck. A quick view of a Toyota, its color indistinct, flashed past as the camera panned away and focused on the yelping dog running toward Gloria’s house. A faint voice, which I took to be Jane’s, called the dog’s name. The video ended.
“Well, was it what you expected to see, honey?” Bertha asked. “Not bad, seeing as how I shot the whole thing in the pitch dark, huh?”
“It looked good, Bertha,” I told her. “And I’ll tell you why I wanted to see it. Somebody injured Zeus that night, and it looks as though it happened right behind Jane’s truck. Would you send me a copy of this? Abusing animals is wrong and your pictures might help to find the person who hurt him.”
“Okay, dear. I guess you’re going to do a show about animals, huh? I like animals. I really liked Zeus. Is he going to be all right?”
I assured her that I’d spoken to Jane. “She’s going to have a vet give Zeus a thorough checkup as soon as they get home.” I gave Bertha my e-mail address and she promised to send the video. I was sure Pete would be interested, especially that brief shot of a Toyota. I also knew he’d have something to say about my snooping, playing girl detective. But as he’d pointed out, if I hadn’t met Jane, found out about Bertha Barnes’s “hobby,” and made friends with Zeus, he’d be missing a lot of good information.
On my way back to Winter Street I decided to take another little detour. I hadn’t been inside Christopher Rich’s shop since my Crystal Moon Nightshades days when I’d sometimes bought props and Halloween decorations there. I knew that just as soon as he saw my WICH-TV business card publicity-obsessed Christopher would welcome me like a long-lost sister.
I was right about that. “Lee Barrett,” he exclaimed, pumping my hand and putting an arm around my shoulder at the same time. “What an honor to see Salem’s newest TV star! Your report was fascinating. Just fascinating. Welcome to Christopher’s Castle. What can I do for you today?”
The shop had a pleasant sandalwood incense smell and merchandise was attractively displayed. Unlike some of the many witch shops in the city, Christopher’s Castle was far from gloomy or scary. Glass bowls filled with colorful crystals and polished gemstones shared space with witch-themed jewelry. Pentagram rings and necklaces, earrings shaped like dragons, silver bracelets like coiled serpents sparkled on velvet display pads. Costumes offered customers masquerade choices from fairies and elves to mummies and wizards.
I extricated myself from his grip and pretended to be fascinated by a gold bust of Nefertiti. “It’s been a long time since I’ve shopped here. I was at town hall when you gave your lovely tribute to Megan. I decided right then to drop in the next time I was in the neighborhood,” I lied. “How are you doing, Christopher? I was shocked to hear about the gunshots. You must have been terrified.”
As I’d anticipated, the opportunity to talk about himself to a member of the media was too much to resist. He answered every question I threw at him and didn’t object when I took notes. “I understand that the last two customers you had that night were Fabio, the magician, and a man we often see on TV protesting various things. An odd couple.”
“They didn’t come in together, you know.” He straightened a pile of Ouija board games. “Fabio is a regular here. I have a huge inventory of magic supplies. He stops by nearly every morning on his way to work. He’s a baker by trade.”
“I know,” I said. “A very good one. I’ve sampled some of his work lately. What about Viktor Protector? Is he interested in magic too?”
“A strange man. He’s one of those oddballs who protests witches, yet he buys book after book about how to become one of us. I believe the police think he may have fired those shots at me.”
“Do you think he did?”
“No, he didn’t do it.” Rich sounded positive. “And by the way, I didn’t do it myself either, in case you’ve heard those nasty rumors. A jealous little witch named River is spreading that lie.”
Oops.
“I understand that Megan’s Wiccan funeral will be held soon. My sources say Midsummer night. True?”
He nodded. “You have good sources. Want to know another little secret? Off the record?”
“Of course I do.” I put my pen down on the counter. “Off the record.”
“Another person showed up on the outdoor surveillance camera on the building next door. Someone besides Fabio and Viktor.”
That surprised me. Pete must have known about this but had never mentioned it. “Do you know who it was? Do the police kn
ow?”
“It was a woman. Hard to recognize her. She was hiding in the shadows, but the camera picked her out.”
“Got a description?”
“Not a good one. Tall, wearing black. Call me crazy,” he said, “I think I know who it is and why the cops can’t find her.”
“I won’t call you crazy,” I promised. “Who is she?”
“Bridget Bishop,” he said. “You know who that is, don’t you?”
“Of course,” I stammered, brain reeling. “First witch hanged.”
“Right,” he said. “Psychics all over town are feeling her presence. Smelling apples over at that restaurant. They’re chalking it up to the anniversary of her death. I’m sure she was out in my parking lot that night. But what am I going to tell the cops? A ghost-witch did it?”
I hadn’t heard that about the psychics. I wondered if River had. I said the first thing that popped into my head. “Can a ghost shoot a gun?”
He shrugged and half smiled. “Not very well, I guess, since she missed me by a mile.”
“Why would Bridget Bishop be mad at you?”
He looked around the shop. We were alone, but he whispered anyway. “I put a spell on a fellow witch. A bad spell. Killed him.”
I wanted to tell him what I’d told River, that bad thoughts and witch spells don’t really kill people. But I remained silent. Let him talk.
“We vow to do no harm, you know. But I used one of Bridget Bishop’s own spells.”
Impossible! River has the spell book.
“It was the only one of her spells I’d ever seen. Ariel Constellation sold it to me a long time ago. I paid a lot of money for it. Ariel told me I should never use it in anger. But I did, and a man died.”
Elliot Bagenstose?
“Did you destroy the paper the spell was written on so it will never fall into the wrong hands?” I asked, keeping my voice level, professional. “That would seem to be the right thing to do.”
It Takes a Coven Page 23