Look Both Ways

by Carol J. Perry

“That’s kind of touching, isn’t it?” she said. “A remembrance of a loved pet is something a sensitive person would value.”

  “We thought so, too.”

  “So you didn’t open the other compartments?”

  “No. I’m not going to do it until he can come back and open them with me.”

  “Good for you. I’d be much too curious to wait even another minute to see what else is in there,” she said. “But, Maralee, you look tired. Why don’t you do as Pete suggested and get some rest?”

  “You’re right. I’m beat. It’s been a long, strange day.” I looked around the room. “Where’s O’Ryan? He scratched on the door to get out right after Pete arrived. Did he come down here?”

  As though he’d heard his cue, the big yellow cat strolled into the den and sat in front of me, golden eyes fixed on mine. “Mmrupp,” he said, then turned and headed for the front hall.

  “I guess he’s ready for bed, too,” I said as I followed him. “Good night, Aunt Ibby. I love you.”

  “Love you, Maralee. Get a good night’s sleep.”

  I climbed the stairs and opened the door to my apartment. Taking a long look around the kitchen, I decided that a proper table and chairs to replace the folding variety would be my next purchase. I’d buy some vintage dishes of my own, too.

  I guess I’d better get River to show me how to arrange them all for balance and harmony.

  O’Ryan had already gone into the bedroom. I tagged along behind him. Smoothing the rumpled bedcovers, I picked up the piece of tissue paper, along with the treasures Pete and I had unwrapped.

  “Guess I’ll put these back where we found them,” I said aloud. Talking to O’Ryan as though he was a person and could respond had become a habit. I’d noticed that Aunt Ibby did it, too. I wrapped the coin, then looked around for the other piece of tissue paper. “Where did the other one go?”

  O’Ryan darted under the bed and returned, batting a wadded-up white ball of paper.

  “Good boy,” I said. “Saves me from crawling under there.” As I flattened it out and put the dog tag in the center, I noticed that one edge was torn unevenly. “Did you chew on this, boy?”

  I was rewarded with a grumpy cat face and an “Are you serious?” look.

  “Okay, okay, no need to get huffy,” I said. “Maybe the other one has a raggedy edge, too.” I unwrapped the coin and looked closely at the tissue paper. The two halves matched. Someone had torn one sheet of tissue paper in half. “So,” I said in my best Nancy Drew fashion, “these two items were placed in the bureau at the same time.”

  “Mrruff,” O’Ryan said, obviously bored with the game, as he curled up at the foot of the bed and closed his eyes. I rewrapped the coin and the tag, replaced them in the bureau, and slid the panel closed. Pete was right. There was a tiny indentation in the wood at the spot hiding the double cubbyhole. I made a quick inspection of the spots that I knew hid secret compartments. No more flaws or dents.

  Yawning, I kicked off the sandals, hung up my dress, took a quick shower, and pulled on one of Johnny’s old Indianapolis Speedway T-shirts.

  I joined the sleeping cat on my big, new, soft, properly placed, and much too empty bed.

  CHAPTER 7

  It was barely light out when I woke up. I looked around, a little disoriented. Until very recently I’d been sleeping downstairs, in my old bedroom. There a clock radio with a lighted dial on a handy bedside table had kept me aware of the time and, with a push of a button, had brought me soothing music or the latest news. Now I was in a room that was still a bit strange to me, empty except for my bed and the bureau. O’Ryan, perhaps sensing my momentary discomfort, moved from his spot at the foot of the bed and settled himself on my shoulder, purring loudly and rhythmically into my ear.

  “Dear cat,” I whispered, which caused the purring to increase in volume. I knew that my watch was on the top of the bureau across the room. I’d put it next to the vase of roses and daisies. But did I want to get up and look at it? Did it matter what time it was? It was summer. I was on vacation. I had no plans for the day. That in itself was a strange feeling.

  I’ve always been a busy person. Had had full-time jobs on television ever since I graduated from Boston’s Emerson College. I’d been a weather girl, a shopping channel show host, and even a phone-in psychic. My new job, as an instructor of TV production at the Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts in downtown Salem, was interesting and I really liked it, but having a two-month vacation was an entirely new experience for me. Even the online criminology course I’d been taking wouldn’t resume until August. I planned to finish furnishing the apartment, but that was hardly a full-time project.

  “What do you think, O’Ryan? Look for a summer job? Volunteer someplace? Get a hobby? What?”

  O’Ryan rolled over, eyes still shut, and assumed a pose that meant “Scratch my tummy.” I obliged.

  “I know,” I told him. “Two months of cat petting would be fun, but let’s think of something more productive. Come on. Get up. It’s time for coffee.”

  I padded into the kitchen, still not looking at the watch, not really wanting to touch the top of the bureau. O’Ryan stretched, yawned, and followed me. I poured some kitty kibble into his bowl and started a fresh pot of coffee for myself.

  I retrieved a mug from the dishwasher and a jar of powdered creamer from the cabinet. Then I took a pen and a pad of paper from the junk drawer Aunt Ibby had so thoughtfully started for me, poured myself a nice cup of that fully caffeinated, life-giving fluid, and began to make a list.

  1. Buy china, table, and chairs.

  2. Buy bedside table and clock radio.

  3. Furnish the living room.

  That was as far as I got on the first cup. I was halfway through the second one when I thought of number four.

  4. See if Mr. Pennington needs help.

  Rupert Pennington was the executive director of the Tabby. Not only was he my boss at the school, but he’d also been dating my aunt pretty steadily. Although I had no classes to teach during the summer months, the Art, Dance, and Theater Arts Departments were still in session, and there was a new sound and lighting studio being built there, too. Maybe he could find something for me to do.

  “Okay, then, that’s four things,” I said, more to myself than to the cat. “I’d better get dressed and get started on one of them.” Most of my clothes were still downstairs, in my old bedroom, so I showered in my new bathroom, tossed on a robe, made my bed, and opened the door to the front hall. O’Ryan scooted out ahead of me and headed down to Aunt Ibby’s part of the house. The tantalizing smell of bacon and homemade bread wafted toward us from her kitchen.

  “Oops. Forgot my watch.” I hurried back to the bedroom, grabbed my watch from the top of the bureau, then paused, looking at the lace runner–covered center panel.

  Why did I see the swirling colors and the sparkling lights in the brief instant when Pete lifted the panel? I wondered.

  Is there something I’m supposed to see in there? Something important?

  This scryer thing, this gazing ability I seem to have, isn’t anything I’ve ever wanted. According to the books I’d read since I learned that I actually have this weird ability, a scryer can see things in shiny, polished surfaces, and in my case, they apparently have to be black. It was less than a year ago that I discovered this “gift,” as River called it, although Aunt Ibby had known about it most of my life. River thinks I should use it as much as possible. She says it’s a blessing, something that could help people, the way she helps with the tarot cards. But River didn’t see her parents die in a fiery plane crash, watch her mother’s silent scream. She didn’t see a woman being murdered, unable to do anything about it. True, one of the visions had probably saved my life once, but I was still terrified of the whole creepy process.

  I reached again toward the top of the bureau, then pulled my hand away. I hurried from the room and raced down the stairs, heading for the warmth and safety of Aunt Ibby’s kitchen. O’Ryan was
already there, enjoying a second breakfast from his own red bowl.

  “Good morning, Maralee,” my aunt called. “You’re up bright and early. Sit down and have some bacon and eggs and nice warm homemade bread. Where are you off to today?”

  I poured myself another cup of coffee and sat at the round kitchen table. “I’ve thought up four things I need to do,” I told her. “I haven’t decided which one I should start with.” I recited the list, counting each item off on my fingers.

  “All worthy ideas,” she said, “and I’m sure Rupert will be happy for the help. He mentioned to me just yesterday that he was looking for a volunteer property manager for the summer theater program. Someone to find stage props for the plays they’ll be producing this summer.”

  I nibbled on a piece of crisp bacon. “I can do that.”

  “Of course you can. They have a really slim budget, though, so you’ll have to prowl around in thrift stores and beg, borrow, and steal from friends, I imagine, but it might be fun.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go to see Mr. Pennington first thing. I hope he hasn’t already found somebody else.”

  “I doubt that he has. Volunteers aren’t as easy to find as they once were. Lots of people who’d like to offer to help have to bring home a paycheck these days.”

  “I know. I’m one of the lucky ones. I have a lovely home here with you, a job I like at the school, and enough money so that I don’t need to worry.”

  It was true. Between an inheritance from my parents and Johnny’s insurance, I was quite well set financially. That was another thing Pete didn’t know about me yet. The list seemed to be growing.

  Within the hour, dressed in conservative black cropped pants and a crisp white cotton blouse, with tummy full and to-do list reprioritized, I backed the Corvette out of the garage and headed downtown to offer my services to the Tabby.

  Mr. Pennington was in his office, behind his massive old oak desk. He rose to greet me, smiling broadly. “Ms. Barrett, what a delightful surprise. I’d just been thinking of calling you . . . asking a favor of you, so to speak.” He gestured toward the one comfortable chair in his office. “But please sit down. What brings you here this fine morning?”

  “Thank you.” I sat as directed. “My aunt told me that you might be in need of a property manager for the theater group.”

  “How perfectly serendipitous, my dear! The very favor of which I spoke.”

  “Really? Well, then, if you think I can handle the job, I’m happy to volunteer.”

  “Oh, you’re perfectly suited to the task, Ms. Barrett. With your extensive background in television production, your familiarity with set design, and with your innate exquisite taste . . . why, I couldn’t have found anyone better. I’ve been trying to fill the position myself, gathering together a few things for our first production, but . . .” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “But my executive plate is very full, so to speak.”

  Mr. Pennington had been an actor in his youth and was given to long, flowery speeches. He looked the part, too, always impeccably dressed, with flawless manners. He and Aunt Ibby had started dating some months earlier. They are both film buffs, and it was fun listening to them try to top each other when they recited lines from old movies.

  “Glad to help,” I said. “What’s my job description?”

  “We’ll be doing three plays during the summer,” he said. “I’ll give you the script of each one, along with the general set outlines, so you can see how the onstage action should flow.”

  “Sounds like a fun challenge. When do you want me to start?”

  “How about tomorrow? I’ll speak with the Theater Arts Department people.” He scribbled on a large desk calendar, then frowned. “I suppose you realize that our budget is . . . shall we say . . . somewhat limited?”

  “Aunt Ibby made that clear.”

  “Ah, yes. Miss Russell is a remarkably astute woman.” Again, the broad smile. “Will tomorrow at ten be convenient?”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” I said, shook his hand, and left the office, mentally checking off number four on my list.

  The Tabby was housed in Salem’s old Trumbull’s Department Store. Even after considerable renovation, the building had kept its retail-store look. There was a wide staircase leading from the main floor to the upper stories, and even some of the original store fixtures had been repurposed. An old rolltop glass counter housed student awards, and the elevators still had the old directory in them, showing floors marked MILLINERY, MENSWEAR, BEAUTY SHOP, and the like. My classroom was housed on the mezzanine, between the first and second floors, in the old shoe department, and was complete with vintage Thonet chairs and campy mid-century display pieces. I couldn’t resist taking a peek at it as long as I was in the building.

  The lights were out; the TV monitors, dark; and the desks, bookshelves, and tabletops, empty—just what I’d expected to see in a classroom vacated for the summer. I took a few steps closer. Something was missing. In fact, quite a few somethings were missing. Most of the vintage chairs were gone, along with the old shoe department display pieces. Where was the cute tin cutout of Buster Brown and his dog, Tige? Where was the framed picture of the scarlet macaw advertising Poll-Parrot shoes for children? Where was the 3-D patent-leather pump that used to hang on the wall behind my desk? Not that I’d ever be sorry to see that particular shiny black object disappear.

  I guessed I’d learn the answers when I reported for my new job in the morning, and set out to check off number one on my list.

  Buy china, table, and chairs.

  CHAPTER 8

  Finding the perfect set of dishes was a lot easier than I thought it was going to be. I stopped at the first antique store I found after leaving the Tabby. Although an OPEN sign was in the window, the door was locked. I shook the knob a couple of times and was ready to walk away when a smiling woman appeared, threw the door open, and said, “Welcome to Jenny’s Antiques! Sorry about the lock, but, well, we’ve all been kind of nervous ever since Shea Tolliver . . . you know . . . died.”

  “Understandable,” I said. “That was a terrible thing. Are you Jenny?”

  “I am,” she said, locking the door again. “I peek out to see who it is before I open up. I know it sounds paranoid, but I can’t help it.”

  “Glad I passed inspection,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. I didn’t want to talk about or even think about Shea Tolliver.

  She smiled and waved a dismissive hand. “Of course you did. Anybody can see that you’re honest!”

  I thought about the times I’d been wrong about people in the not too distant past. Looks can be deceiving. I didn’t comment on that, just returned her smile.

  “How can I help you today? Something special or just browsing?”

  “I’m looking for a set of dishes,” I said. “Something vintage, on the casual side.”

  “Sure. Come on back here. I’ll show you what I have.” I followed her into a long sunny room where a dozen or so tables each displayed various place settings of china, along with serving pieces, flatware, and coordinated crystal.

  “Just look around. Take your time.” Jenny lowered her voice. “I need to get back and see if anyone’s at the door. Can’t be too careful these days.” She turned back toward me. “Did you know Shea?”

  The question caught me off guard. “Me? No, not really. I bought a piece of furniture from her recently. Seemed like a very nice person.”

  “Shea was a peach.” She nodded vigorously. “I always kind of liked Gary, too.”

  “Gary?”

  “Shea’s partner. The guy they arrested. Ever run into him?”

  Yeah, I did “run into him.”

  I gave a kind of noncommittal “uh-uh” and picked up the closest teacup, barely looking at it, hoping to change the subject. “This is pretty.”

  “Noritake. Azalea pattern,” she said. “I don’t think he killed her.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Gary. I don’t think he k
illed her.”

  We clearly weren’t going to avoid the topic of Shea Tolliver, so I figured I might as well listen to what this woman had to say about Shea’s erstwhile partner. “Why is that?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral and picking up a beige plate with a shell on it.

  “Franciscan Ware. Sea sculptures,” she said. “Because he was trying to get back together with her. She told me so.”

  I remembered what Shea had said about a partner taking off with a chunk of their money, and I remembered, too, what Pete had told me about a judge granting a restraining order against Gary Campbell because of threats he’d made. That didn’t add up to the partners “getting back together” in my book.

  “Seems to me I heard somewhere that he’d threatened her.” I replaced the plate on the table.

  She nodded and handed me a pale green cereal bowl. “Russel Wright. Iroquois. Nineteen fifties. Gary owed somebody a lot of money. He was desperate to get cash. But he wouldn’t have hurt her. Not him.”

  I started to put the bowl back, then turned it over and looked at it more closely. “This is nice. What makes you think he wouldn’t hurt her?”

  “I have it in four colors. I’ve known Gary for years. A real pussycat. He got in with a rough crowd, though, a while back. Drinking heavily, too, I guess. But he’s straightened out. I’m sure of it.”

  “Hmm. People can change, I guess. Can I see the other colors?”

  “Sure. Come on over here by the window.”

  She led the way to a small bay window where a square table of clear Lucite sparkled in the sunlight. Four varicolored place settings of the fifties-style piece I still held in my hand were arranged on the glass top. Four Lucite chairs with padded tan leather seats completed the picture.

  “Wow,” I said. “Are the table and chairs for sale, too?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Mid-century modern. Nineteen seventies. You want the whole works? Dishes too?”

  “Oh, yes,” I breathed. “I surely do. It’s perfect. Do you deliver?”