Tails, You Lose (A Witch City Mystery Book 2)

by Carol J. Perry

  “What was she talking about? What old woman?” I asked as we pulled away.

  “I’m not quite sure,” my aunt said, “but I think I remember hearing that back when the store first opened, there was a fancy apartment on the top floor, where the family lived. Kind of an early version of a penthouse. It would have been sometime in the nineteen twenties, I should think. I’ll see if there’s anything about it in the old newspapers next time I’m at the library.”

  Although Aunt Ibby was semiretired as the head reference librarian at Salem’s main library, she still put in a few hours most weeks, helping out and training staff.

  “I’ll bet it was nice. You could probably see the whole city from up there.”

  “Probably still can,” she said. “When you start your new job, you’ll likely have the run of the building. You can go up there and check it out.”

  “I might,” I said, pulling up in front of our garage. “If I can get someone to go up there with me. Don’t want to run into any ghosts all by myself.”

  “Muurree,” said O’Ryan, wide awake, standing on Aunt Ibby’s lap, with his paws on the dash.

  “See?” she said. “O’Ryan says he’ll go with you.” She tapped the door opener, and I drove the big car inside the garage.

  “I think what he said was, ‘Is there any of that turkey left over?’”

  She laughed. “You’re probably right. There is, and pumpkin pie, too, for Pete, when he gets here.”

  “You were listening.”

  “Of course I was.” A big smile. “There isn’t much that gets by your old aunt.”

  “Including lines from old movies, apparently. What was that all about? I think you’ve made a big impression on the Tabby’s new director.”

  “Oh. The Fort Apache thing? Years ago I helped a woman compile a book on famous movie quotes, and for some reason, a lot of them just stuck.”

  “Amazing,” I said as we hurried through the icy yard. “That kind of total recall is hard to believe.”

  “I find your lack of faith disturbing,” she said, turning the key in the lock on the back door.

  “What?”

  “Star Wars,” she said. “James Earl Jones. 1977.”

  With the cat leading the way, and with me still marveling at my aunt’s remarkable memory, we hurried into the kitchen, with its welcome warmth and light and good holiday smells of home.

  I made a fresh pot of coffee, and Aunt Ibby headed back to the den and her beloved computer. “Want a cup when it’s ready?” I called. “And maybe something to nibble on?”

  “Thanks, dear. Coffee will be wonderful. And maybe a teensy one of those little Christmas cookies. I’m going to see what I can find online about the history of Trumbull’s.”

  A few minutes later, when I carried a tray with our two mugs of hot coffee and more than a few of the teensy shortbread cookies into the den, she was diligently making notes, fingers flying over the keyboard. O’Ryan sat on the desk, as close to the monitor as he could get, in the manner of cats everywhere.

  “Find anything good?”

  “Pretty much just the general stuff the chamber of commerce put out about them back when the store closed. But don’t worry. I’ll get the nitty-gritty from the old newspapers. It’s all on microfilm at the library.” She tapped the screen with a French-tipped forefinger and smiled. “The old newspapers printed all the dirt.”

  “Anything there about the lady upstairs?”

  “Just about the way I remembered. It says that the Trumbull family had a lavish suite on the top floor, and they often entertained the cream of Salem society. Seems they had a huge ballroom up there that was a smaller-scale replica of the one in Hamilton Hall. They even had a balcony overlooking the dance floor. How elegant can you get?”

  I nodded my agreement. Hardly any place is more elegant than Salem’s two-hundred-year-old Hamilton Hall.

  “I wonder what it looks like now,” I said. “I guess I’ll have to go up there, after all. Haunted or not.”

  “Why don’t you ask River to go with you? I’ll bet she’d love to see it.”

  It was a good idea. River North is one of our favorite people. She also happens to be a witch. My TV stint as a phony phone-in psychic hadn’t worked out well career-wise, but it had brought me an interesting new circle of friends I might never have met otherwise.

  “I will,” I said. “We’ve got a kind of orientation thing going on for the staff this week so we’ll know our way around the building. I’ll ask Mr. Pennington if I can invite River one day.”

  “You don’t have to tell him about the witch thing. She’s so young and pretty. That ought to be enough of a reason for him to say yes.”

  O’Ryan hopped down from the desk and ran toward the front hall.

  “Somebody’s coming,” my aunt said. “Must be Pete.”

  She and O’Ryan were right. The cat and I greeted the handsome detective at the door, O’Ryan with purrs and ankle rubbing, me with a hug and a “warmer than usual for the front hall” kiss.

  “Wow,” he said, returning my kiss with an equally warm one. “You could thaw out a snowman, woman.” He hung his coat on the hall tree, then pulled me close again.

  “We’d better head for the kitchen before Aunt Ibby comes out here, looking for us,” I said, taking his hand. “Come on.”

  “If we have to.”

  “We do. Anyway, that’s where the pumpkin pie is.”

  The coffee was still hot, and three slices of pie, each topped with a hefty dollop of whipped cream, had been arranged on the kitchen table.

  “Come on, you two. Sit,” my aunt ordered. “Pete, tell us what happened down there after we left. Any idea what happened to Bill?”

  “Well, like I told Mrs. Sullivan, we did one more sweep of the place. I mean, we did as well as we could with just me and one officer. Didn’t find anything new.” Pete shook his head. “Looks like the guy got outside somehow, ’cause he sure isn’t in that building. He didn’t have his coat, you know.”

  “Oh, Pete. It’s freezing out there,” I said. “Maybe there’s a dressing room or a small office or something you missed.”

  “Maybe.” He sounded doubtful. “We’ll try again tomorrow, when we have daylight. The lighting is pretty dim on the upper floors. No lights at all in the attic.”

  “Was Mr. Pennington helpful?” I asked. “He seems to know the old place pretty well.”

  “He pretty much followed us around and made sure we didn’t leave anything unlocked. He takes being in charge of those keys really seriously.” He smiled. “He told us there are a couple of them that don’t seem to fit anything. It’s driving him nuts.”

  “Aunt Ibby looked up some information on the building,” I said. “The Trumbulls used to live up on the top floor. What does it look like up there? Can you tell it was really nice a long time ago?”

  He seemed surprised. “Nice? I don’t know. We prowled around with flashlights. There’re just a lot of empty rooms. Except for one huge one, where they must have tossed all the old furniture and stuff. Oh, and one room that still had a bed and bureau and an old upright piano and a rocking chair. And a big framed picture of President Roosevelt on the wall.”

  “Must be the old woman’s room,” said my aunt. “Mrs. Sullivan told us about some old woman who was kept up there.”

  “An old woman, huh? Well, Salem’s full of weird stories, that’s for sure,” he said. “Look, I don’t mean to eat and run, but I’m going to have to start the official search for Sullivan early in the morning. Thanks for the pie and coffee, Miss Russell. It was great.”

  He stood and, as Aunt Ibby nodded her approval, carried his dishes to the sink.

  What a guy!

  O’Ryan and I walked with Pete to the front hall. He delivered another of those sizzling kisses and held me close. Well, he held me as close as he could with a cat wrapped around his ankles, put on his coat, and walked again into that cold, cold night.

  Bill Sullivan. I pray that you’r
e somewhere warm.

  It had been a long day, and I was ready for sleep. Aunt Ibby started the dishwasher while I turned off the Christmas lights, and then we both headed upstairs. Stepping carefully past a few paint cans and some tarpaulin-draped furniture, I wished her a good night, took a quick shower, pulled on one of Johnny Barrett’s old DAYTONA RACE WEEK T-shirts, and climbed into bed, where O’Ryan was already asleep. I opened my new book to the chapter on “How to Choose Your Faithful Sidekicks.” I doubted that Nancy would have chosen a witch for a sidekick, but I was sure she’d like River North. And I was just as sure my friend River would love searching for a ghost in the attic of Trumbull’s.

  I fell asleep with the chapter unread. The ring tone of my cell phone woke me, and a glance at the alarm clock showed that it was only six thirty. Caller ID revealed who my early morning caller was.

  “Pete? What’s going on?”

  “Hi, Lee. Are you watching the morning news?”

  “No,” I said. “Haven’t turned it on yet. Why?”

  “It’s not good, I’m afraid,” he said. “I hoped I could talk to you before you heard about it from the media.”

  “What is it? Is it about Bill Sullivan?”

  “Afraid so. We found him this morning.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “He’s dead, Lee. And the strangest thing is, he was nowhere near the store. He was down by the waterfront.”

  “How did he get there? And why? He didn’t even have his coat.”

  “We don’t have any details.” His voice was solemn. “The ME hasn’t even started working on him yet. But we were wrong about the coat. He was wearing one.”

  “That’s strange. Everyone thought he’d gone off without it. But you must have some idea how he died. Do you?”

  “Someone called 911 around three o’clock. Said there was a drunk under a tree in that little park by the marina.”

  “A drunk? That doesn’t sound like Bill.”

  “That’s what his wife said. But apparently, he smelled of alcohol when they found him.”

  “Oh, poor Mrs. Sullivan. How’d she take the news?”

  “Pretty hard. I called Junior first, so he and his wife were with her when I got there. They’d called her parish priest and asked him to come over.” He paused, and I heard his soft sigh. “That’s a part of my job I hate. Telling people someone they love is dead.”

  “Did either of them have any idea how he happened to be so far away from the store?”

  “Nope. We’ll be putting out a call for witnesses later this morning. Maybe somebody saw something around there last night that will help us figure it out. Junior said the last thing he remembers Bill saying before he went down to the basement was that he thought he might have seen a silver half-dollar under that big pile of mannequin body parts. He was going to try to get it.”

  “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll go and tell Aunt Ibby before she turns on the news.”

  I padded down the hall to my aunt’s room and knocked gently. Too late. The TV was on, and she was watching the morning news.

  “Oh, Lee. They’ve found Bill. Dead.”

  “I know.” I sat on the edge of her bed. “Pete just called and told me.”

  “What happened to him? Did Pete say how he died?”

  “They don’t know yet. The medical examiner hasn’t finished doing . . . you know. Whatever it is medical examiners do.”

  “How did Mrs. Sullivan take it? Did Pete say?”

  “Pretty hard, I guess. Junior and his wife were with her, though, and her priest was coming over.”

  “That’s good. I’m sure they’ll let us know about funeral arrangements and such.” She climbed out of bed and donned robe and bunny slippers. “If Bill walked all the way down to where they found him without his jacket, he probably froze to death.” She paused. “The news anchor said that possibly liquor was involved. Did Pete mention that?”

  “He did,” I said. “And he says that Bill actually was wearing his jacket after all, but yes, the police report said Bill smelled strongly of alcohol.”

  “Imagine that.” She sighed. “Falling off the wagon after all these years.”

  “He had a drinking problem?”

  “Long ago, he did. But he’s been sober for years. At least I thought so.”

  I went back to my room to shower and dress. When O’Ryan and I started down the stairs, I could already smell coffee brewing and bacon sizzling. My aunt, as usual, was way ahead of me.

  After removing a pan of hot cinnamon buns from the oven, she waved a quilted potholder. “Sit right down, Maralee. Breakfast is almost ready.”

  I sat. O’Ryan approached his bowl, already filled with his favorite morning kitty kibble.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said, “about Bill Sullivan and the drinking thing. I just don’t believe it.”

  “You don’t? Then why would the police report say there might be alcohol involved?”

  “I don’t know. But I knew the man.”

  “I hope you’re right. At least his wife wouldn’t have that to deal with along with everything else.”

  After breakfast we stayed busy with after-holiday chores. Aunt Ibby made preparations for the annual turkey soup, while I folded and stacked leftover Christmas wrapping paper for the recycling bin. It was around noon when Pete phoned again.

  “I thought you’d want to know,” he said, “that however Bill Sullivan wound up in that park, he didn’t walk there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The ME says he had a compound fracture of his right leg. Bone sticking right out. He wasn’t walking anywhere last night.”

  CHAPTER 5

  I’d barely had time to tell Aunt Ibby about this new development when the phone rang again. It was Rupert Pennington, his voice so agitated, it took a moment for me to figure out who was calling.

  “Ms. Barrett, whatever are we going to do? It’s a calamity of epic proportions, a total disaster, a major, most hideous tragedy.”

  “I know, Mr. Pennington.” I kept my tone level. “I’ve heard about it. He was such a nice man.”

  “Oh, him. Yes, indeed. Very sad. I’m talking about our grand opening. Our introduction to the community. The beginning of Salem’s foremost, most prestigious academy for artistic excellence in all fields. Ms. Barrett, whatever are we going to do?”

  “I don’t quite understand, sir.”

  “The police are here. There is yellow tape festooned across my freshly varnished staircase. There is some sort of fingerprint dust sprinkled like ashes upon my personal lectern, from which I intend to address the student body each and every morning. There are nasty, slushy boot prints on my genuine vintage oak hardwood floors. It is a disaster, I tell you. A full-blown, monstrous disaster.” He sounded as though he was about to cry.

  “Mr. Pennington,” I said, “the Salem police are very professional. I’m sure they’ll finish their work quickly. We still have a few days before the opening and enough volunteers to put everything to rights again. Please don’t worry so. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “My dear lady, if you could only come over and give me a hand at reorganizing, reprioritizing, so to speak. We need to figure out how to have staff orientation week amid this chaos. There are students arriving in Salem already. The police have finished prowling about my office, so I’m quite sure they’ll allow you to enter.”

  “I’m not sure how useful I can be, but I’ll be glad to do what I can.”

  “It’s all so confusing. The classrooms on the first and second floors are ready for furnishing, and the dance studio mirrors are scheduled to be installed today, but the third-floor dormitories still await painting, and the beds haven’t even been delivered.” A slight quaver crept into his voice. “They’ve installed countertops that are the wrong color in the diner, and the stage curtain in the student performance theater is four inches too short. We can’t use the elevators, because they haven’t been inspected yet. The whole thing is a disaste
r, I tell you.”

  “I’ll be there,” I promised and hung up.

  “What on earth was that all about?” my aunt asked. “Mr. Pennington needs help, I take it.”

  “Apparently. I guess I’ll have to go over there.”

  “Does he know about Bill being found?”

  “Yes, though he barely acknowledged it. He’s mostly concerned about getting the school in shape for the grand opening.”

  “It’s understandable. That’s his responsibility, and he seems to take it seriously.”

  “True. I’ll try to help.”

  “Well, you’ve got a nice day for it. It’s so pretty here after a storm, isn’t it?”

  She was right. The snow had stopped and now lay like a woolly white blanket over the city. Ancient oaks and chestnut trees lined Winter Street, their ice-coated branches sparkling like diamonds against a cloudless blue sky.

  “Just beautiful,” I agreed. “I missed this. I think I’ll walk downtown and enjoy it before it melts.”

  “You sure? You’re welcome to use the Buick.”

  “Thanks. I’m looking forward to the walk, and I’m going to look for a car of my own pretty soon. There’s room for another in the garage, I think.”

  “Of course there is. Whenever you’re ready.”

  I dressed carefully, in layers. I’d been a New Englander long enough to know that even the prettiest snow day can be bitterly cold. In my warmest jeans, a black cotton turtleneck, a red cashmere pullover, and a flannel-lined jacket, along with gloves, knit hat, and boots, I set out for Essex Street.

  Some of the shops had AFTER CHRISTMAS SALE signs in the windows, and bundle-carrying people along the pedestrian mall sidewalks indicated that plenty of bargain hunting, or maybe gift returning, was happening in Salem. I paused in front of an art gallery and was surprised to hear my name called from across the street.

  “Lee. Hey, Lee! Wait up.” I turned to see River North, long black braid flying, running toward me.

  “Happy winter solstice, Lee.” She enveloped me in a cheerful, patchouli-scented hug.

  I laughed. “Happy winter solstice to you, River, and Happy New Year. Aunt Ibby and I were talking about you this morning.”