“Hi. Look, I don’t want to bother you at work,” I said, “but there’s some stuff I need to know about. Can you come over tonight so we can talk?”
“Are you okay? Is anything wrong? I’ll come right now if you need me.”
“Oh, Pete. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound as though it was something urgent. It’s just that I have some questions. Mostly about Gar y Campbell.”
Relief showed in his voice. “Oh, that guy. Sure. It’s no secret that he’s lawyered up big-time. We might not have a case against him, after all.”
“So you’ll come over after work? I’ll pick up Chinese.”
“I’ll be there. Can you get some of that crab Rangoon?”
“Absolutely. See you around six.”
Topic, time, and menu settled, I opened my door and returned to the rehearsal area. The actors and Mr. Pennington had left, so I felt free to wander onto the stage. I inspected the props I’d selected, feeling rather proud of myself. The wooden shoe forms, the shelves full of random pairs of worn shoes I’d found at thrift stores gave a look of authenticity to the set. The bentwood chairs and the brightly colored vintage signs Mr. Pennington had pirated from my classroom looked just right. The giant patent-leather pump had been placed just above the spot on the counter where I planned to put a cash register—hopefully the brass, hand-cranked beauty I’d discussed with Jenny.
The shoe was tilted just a tad, and I reached up to straighten it, wondering as I touched its gleaming black surface whether it still held visions. Or had the new mirror in my bureau replaced this shoe, as this shoe had replaced the obsidian ball on my old Nightshades set? Or had it? It occurred to me with sudden clarity that it was possible that they all still held visions for me—the mirror, the shoe, the black ball, the childhood Mary Janes, all of those and more.
I sat in one of the Thonet chairs and stared up at the giant black pump. After looking around the room, making sure I was alone, I spoke softly.
“Go ahead, shoe. Show me what you’ve got.”
The answer came swiftly. First, the twinkling lights, the swirling colors, and then I saw the beach. The woman was there in the distance, facing away from me. She was alone this time. No little dog. She turned and faced me for just the briefest moment before she disappeared around a corner.
There was no doubt now about the identity of the woman. I recognized her immediately from the newspaper photos I’d seen. It was Helena Trent, alone on the long, empty beach, and this time she was weeping, carrying something in her arms.
The picture faded away as quickly as it had appeared, and I found myself staring at the black pump. Just a harmless old display piece from a long-ago store’s shoe department. I went back and sat at the beat-up desk in my office, trying to process this new idea. Apparently, like some of the scryers I’d read about, I could see visions in more than one object. I’d already figured out that I could usually turn the visions on and off whenever I wanted to.
It’s entirely possible that if I can learn some more about how this whole thing works, I might someday overcome my fear of it and actually embrace it.
“Yeah, maybe,” I said aloud. “Not yet. I still don’t like it.”
I picked up my handbag, took out the key to the truck, and headed down to the warehouse. I still had props to find, primarily two fur coats for Billie Dawn. Real fur coats had been a no-no in Massachusetts for so many years that they were hard to come by, even in the vintage clothing stores. I’d checked with Costume, and they didn’t have any furs—and didn’t really want any. We could use fake fur, of course, and Daphne Trent already personally owned several of those coats.
Yes, Daphne had landed the part of Billie Dawn and, according to all reports, was a natural in the Judy Holliday part. Mr. Pennington thanked me at least twice a day for “discovering” her.
A used clothing dealer over South Salem had called to tell me he had an old full-length mink coat, and the woman at Goodwill had said she had a fox jacket and a mink stole she was holding for me. In the interest of onstage authenticity, and in keeping with the rest of the decor in suite 67D, I hoped we could use the real thing, and I set out on my own private fur-trapping expedition.
“You ain’t planning to wear this, are you?” asked the used clothing dealer as I tried on the glossy brown mink coat. “People will throw red paint on you, you know.”
“I know,” I assured him, shrugging out of the coat and feeling a little guilty about how much I enjoyed the luxurious feel of it. “It’s for a play. Just wanted to see if it will fit the actress who’ll be wearing it.”
“It’s only fifty dollars,” he said. “Somebody paid big bucks for it back in the day. Where’s the play?”
“I’ll take it,” I said. “The play’s going to be at the Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts. They’re doing Born Yesterday.”
“Oh, yeah. I heard about that. Is it true about the wife killer’s girlfriend being in it?”
For such a sprawling city, Salem still has some definite small town aspects, the gossip mill primary among them.
“I don’t do the casting,” I answered coolly and handed him the school’s credit card. “Just props. Thanks for calling about the coat.”
After paying for the mink, I tossed it over my arm and, hoping there was no one with red paint lurking around, went back to the truck. I stuck the coat behind the passenger seat and headed for Goodwill. The fox jacket was kind of ratty looking, but the Autumn Haze stole was nice, so I bought it for seventy-five dollars. That finished Billie Dawn’s wardrobe and darn near finished off my prop budget. I was going to have to start begging from friends and looking closely at curbside trash on collection days.
When I got back to the Tabby, I secured the truck in the warehouse, dropped the furs off at Costume, and returned to my office. I’d just started checking off recent purchases on my properties lists when I became aware of an unfamiliar sound. I put down my pen and swung around in my chair, trying to focus on where the noise was coming from. It didn’t sound like anything I’d heard before.
A grinding, clanking, whirring, buzzing noise. What the hell is that?
I stood and, walking slowly, almost on tiptoe, moved in the direction of the sound. I realized almost at once what it was. The ancient freight elevator was on its way up from the warehouse. I peered through the wire gate to where a pair of woven steel cables moved in unison—one moving up, the other down. After less than a minute the sound grew louder and the cagelike top of the elevator appeared. There was one person inside. It was a man, and from my vantage point, I saw that he had a small bald spot on the top of his head. After a few more clanks and whirrs, the elevator stopped. I stepped back as the wide door slid open and the man stepped out. I recognized him as one of the stagehands I’d seen around the building. A look of surprise crossed his face when he noticed me standing there.
“Oh, jeez. I’m sorr y, miss. I didn’t know anyone was up here.”
“That’s okay,” I said, gesturing toward the elevator. “Noisy, isn’t it?”
“She’s an oldie but a goodie,” he said. “I’m just checking her out before we start carrying the stage stuff down to the theater.” He wiped his right hand on his coveralls, then stuck it in my direction. “Hi. I’m Herb Wilkins. I know who you are. You used to be on television. That psychic show.”
I shook his hand. “Lee Barrett. Glad to meet you, Herb.”
“Likewise. What do you say? Want to take a test run with me? I’ll show you how to operate her.”
“Well . . .” I hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, come on. You never know when you might want to take something heavy downstairs. Or when Mr. Pennington might want you to.” He leaned forward, as if studying my face. “You are over sixteen, aren’t you?”
I laughed out loud. “Yes. I sure am. Does it matter?”
“Yep. Have to be sixteen or over to operate one of these babies.”
Since I couldn’t think of any reason to refuse, I said, “All r
ight. I’ll go,” and as Herb held the door open, I stepped inside the freight elevator.
“See? Here’s the control panel.” He pointed at a vertical board with four round black buttons on it. On the edge of the board, printed with black marker, were the numbers THREE, TWO, and ONE and the letter B. “We’re on three now,” he explained. “Now watch while we go down to two.” He pushed one of the buttons. I watched as directed, then reached for a handhold on the chain-link enclosure as we bumped to a sudden halt. A door outside the cage was marked TWO.
“Looks simple enough,” I said.
“Okay. You tr y it.” He stepped aside and pointed to the button marked ONE. “Take ’er down.” I did as he said, and the elevator resumed its downward journey. Again, we stopped abruptly.
“You get used to that after a while,” he said. “Now we’ll go down to the basement. That’s the warehouse where your truck is. Okay? Push the B button.”
I gave the B button a tentative push, and we headed down. It was a rough landing, but I managed to stay on my feet.
“Good job,” he said. “Want to take her back upstairs?”
“I’ll watch while you do it,” I said.
He pushed a button, and the elevator began to move upward. “See? It’s easy. Anyone over sixteen can do it.” We reached the floor marked THREE, and Herb held the door open for me. “Got it?”
“Got it,” I said. “Thanks for the lesson.”
On the third floor once again, I returned to my checklist duties but found my mind wandering to the vision I’d seen in the giant shoe. I knew that the shoe had shown me Helena Trent. No doubt about that. But why was Helena carrying a package? What was in it?
But what had me puzzled was the apparent change in my gazing “gift, ”—my sudden ability to see visions in more than one object, whether I wanted to or not. I remembered reading that such a thing was possible. Jean Dixon could do it, and so, apparently, could I.
At least I’d learned how to turn a vision off when I didn’t want to look at it. Like when Pete was in the room. That thought brought me back to the question I’d been asking myself for a long time.
How do I tell Pete that I’m a scryer? That I can receive messages, however scrambled, from dead people?
CHAPTER 22
Paperwork, inventory, and play reading filled the rest of my day at the Tabby, and by five o’clock I was ready to leave. I’d secured the truck, straightened up my desk, and phoned in my order for Chinese food. I was heading across the parking lot to my car when I heard my name called. I didn’t have to look to know it was Daphne. She sounded more like Billie Dawn every day.
She ran toward me, high heels making staccato clicks on the pavement, the large white handbag bouncing along at her side. “Hey, Lee. How about a lift?”
“Sure. Come on.” I unlocked the Corvette and held the passenger door open.
“Wow. Sweet ride,” she said as she slid into the cushy seat and ran a small, red nail-polished hand across the leather dash. “Is it really yours?”
“All mine,” I said, listening to the hum of the engine starting. “It was my dream car for years, and now I finally have it.”
“Must have been awfully expensive, huh?”
“Yes, but it’s worth it to me. Where to?” I didn’t want to get into a discussion about money. I don’t have any worries in that department, but it isn’t something I talk about to anyone except my bank.
“I have to go to my place to pick up a couple of things. Then I’m going over to Tommy’s apartment later. Just head out as if you’re going to Marblehead. I’ll show you where to turn.”
“Did you get a chance to, um, replace the card with my name and address on it?”
“Not yet. I’ll do it tonight, when I’m over there.”
“I don’t want you to get into trouble over this.”
“Don’t worry. Anyway, it’s just your name and address. What harm could it do? Maybe it was already in the drawer from the last tenant.”
I hadn’t thought about that.
I’ll tell Pete about it, though. All I know is I gave that card to Shea on the day she was killed, and somebody took it out of the cash register.
“That’s probably it,” I said. “He probably doesn’t know anything about it. How’s the play coming along? Are you enjoying acting?”
“Loving it. Old Pennington says I’m a natural.” She pulled down the visor and leaned close to its mirror, moving a little finger across one eyebrow, then the other. She ran her fingers through the blond curls, deliberately giving her hair a tousled look, then snapped the visor back into place. “There. Funny how some guys like you to look as though you just got out of bed, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know about that,” I admitted. “In this humidity I have a hard time keeping mine from just looking frizzy.”
“You kidding? You always look perfect. Take this next left. That your natural hair color?”
I turned, as she’d directed, onto a narrow side road. Tall trees formed a long archway, and the afternoon sun shone through the leaves, making dappled patterns on the pavement. “Yes, it is. Red hair runs in my family. My mother had it, too. So does my aunt.” I drove slowly, looking from left to right. I didn’t see any houses on either side. “You’re really kind of out in the woods here, aren’t you?”
“Oh, don’t you know where we are? This is the private road to the Hampton place. You’ll see the big house in a minute. See? There it is.” She pointed toward a massive gray-stone building looming in the distance.
Thoroughly confused, I faced her. “You live here?” I pointed to the house. “There?”
“No. Not in there. I live in a little guesthouse out back. Come on. I’ll show it to you. You’ll see the road just ahead.” She jerked her thumb to the right. “Here. Turn here.”
“Okay,” I said, curiosity overruling good sense. “Just for a minute. I have to get back to my place. I invited company.” The road she had indicated, which was more like a long, curving driveway, led to a one-stor y cottage made from the same gray stone as the main house. Ivy climbed the walls, and a row of hollyhocks gave color to the front of the place.
“It’s charming, Daphne,” I said. “But . . . ?”
“But how did I wind up staying here after what I did?” She shrugged. “After Helena found out about Tommy and me, she told him he’d have to leave. She knew I had nowhere to go, so she said I could stay here until I found a place. Then she got killed. Tommy was still packing up his stuff to move, and then he got arrested and went to jail. Nobody told me to get out, so I just stayed here. Tripp doesn’t care. He doesn’t even charge me any rent.” Again, the pretty shrug and more hair tousling. “He kind of likes having me around sometimes—if you know what I mean.”
I was pretty sure I knew what she meant, but I didn’t want to go there. “I just sort of figured that when Tommy—Mr. Trent—got out of jail, you’d be staying with him.”
I parked the ’Vette in front of the guesthouse and we climbed out. When we reached the front door of the guesthouse Daphne pushed it open.
No key? She must feel pretty secure here.
“Come on inside for a sec. It’s really a cute place. Yeah, I’ve been spending a lot of time with Tommy. I missed him when he was away for so long, you know? Tommy’s place is nice, too. Tripp even checked it out with the rental guy to make sure I’d be in a safe neighborhood and all, but I’ve kind of gotten used to having my own space. I like it.”
“I know what you mean,” I said as we stepped into the cottage. “Say, this is really cute. No wonder you like being here.” The living room had a cozy, rustic look, with wood-paneled walls and overstuffed furniture in bright prints.
“Helena fixed it up like this, and I’ve just left it the way it was. It’s kind of old-fashioned. There’s even a pink Princess phone in the bedroom. But I like it. I still miss Helena. She was an angel.”
“I’ve heard several people say that about her. I’m sorry I never got to meet her.”
“She would have liked you. Well, thanks for the ride, and thanks for getting me that part. I really like being Billie Dawn.”
“Mr. Pennington says you’re a natural.”
“You know, in the play, how Paul helps Billie out with how to talk proper and read books and all? That’s how Tripp is with me. I mean, he tries to make me into . . .” She gave a little giggle. “Into a lady. So in a way, I am a natural for the part.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing you in it. I’ve been working on getting just the right props for the set.”
“I know. And thanks for finding those furs. I love wearing that coat.” She smiled briefly, then frowned. “But Helena would have hated it. She loved the animals so much, she never would have worn furs. Never.” The blond curls shook vehemently. “You should have seen her with that little dog of hers. Tommy always said she cared more about Nicky than she did about him.”
“Nicky?”
“Yeah. A cute little gray schnauzer. It about broke her heart when he died.”
CHAPTER 23
I made my way down the long driveway, looked back at the guesthouse in the rear view mirror, and wished I had more time to ask questions. About the gray dog. About Helena Trent. And, with some guilty curiosity, about Daphne Trent’s peculiar lifestyle.
I picked up the crab Rangoon, egg rolls, veggie delight, and two kinds of rice and had barely enough time to dump them from the cartons into bowls and stick them into the warming drawer before my doorbell chimed. Pete was right on time, as usual.
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