“Really? I’ve been thinking about you, too. Want me to read your cards? See what the New Year might bring?”
River is an expert at reading the tarot. In fact, she took over the late-night show at the TV station after I left. She does readings over the phone, in between vampire and zombie movies.
“Maybe later. Did you hear about what happened at the new school last night?”
“No. I just woke up about an hour ago. You know I never watch the news. Too depressing.”
I explained as briefly as I could. River fell into step beside me, and we walked together toward the Tabby.
“So the man went into a basement with no exits and wound up dead in a park a couple of miles away?”
“That’s about it,” I said. “Bizarre, huh? Ever hear of anything like that before?”
“Lee, I’m a Wiccan. I’m used to bizarre. Bizarre is my life.”
“And that’s a good thing. Because I think I’ll be inviting you to a ghost hunt in the near future.”
“Really? When? Where? I can hardly wait.”
I smiled at her enthusiasm. “Ever hear of a ghost woman who’s supposed to hang out on the top floor of the Trumbull building?”
“Of course. It’s supposed to be old Tabitha Trumbull. The one they named the school after.”
“It is? I mean, I knew Tabitha was the founder’s wife, but I never heard that she was the lady in white.”
“Oh yeah. That’s her. The Trumbull family tried for years to keep it quiet. But we all know what they did to her.”
“We do?”
“We . . . the witches. We know.”
We’d reached Trumbull’s, and I stopped, waiting for River to go on, to say more about what it was the witches knew about the woman in the attic. I studied our reflections in the surface of the polished glass doors, only vaguely aware of activity inside the storefront. River, standing only as high as my shoulders, looked even younger than her twenty-five years.
“Wow,” she said. “There are cops in there. Is this about your dead guy?”
“Yeah. It’s a real mystery.”
She shrugged. “Why don’t you use your gift and help them out?”
My “gift.” River is the only person in my life who calls it that. I didn’t want to use it. I didn’t even like to talk about it.
“I don’t think I have it anymore,” I said and waved my arm. “Poof ! It disappeared. But what about Tabitha ? You were saying . . . ?”
River laughed. “Don’t be silly. A gift like that doesn’t go away. Use it. Go ahead. Don’t be such a chicken.”
A uniformed officer appeared at the entrance. He pushed one of the doors open. “You waving at me, miss?”
River moved toward the curb. “You have to go to work.” She put her hand next to her ear, with her pinkie and thumb extended. “Call me,” she said. “I’ll tell you all about that other thing later.”
I turned to speak to the officer. “I’m Lee Barrett. Mr. Pennington is expecting me.”
“Okay. He said you’d be here. You got ID?”
I showed him my Florida driver’s license. He peered back and forth from the photo to my face several times.
“Not from around here?”
“Used to be. Just moved back.”
“Okay. Pennington’s office is on the right at the head of the stairs.”
“I’ll find it,” I said. “Thanks.”
He lifted the yellow tape, and I ducked under.
“Don’t touch anything,” he said.
I didn’t even touch the wide railing, which, I had to agree with Aunt Ibby, would be great for sliding.
The thing River had called my “gift,” the thing I didn’t like to talk or even think about, dates back to my childhood. I couldn’t have been much more than four and a half when I got my first Mary Janes. I wore them only on Sunday. A lot of kids had special shoes they wore to church, but mine were different. I saw pictures in them. They were, to me, like miniature TV sets. If I was bored in church, I could always watch the images in my shoes. I told Aunt Ibby and my parents about it, but they just figured it was my imagination. Aunt Ibby thought that was all it was when she agreed to take care of me for a weekend, while my parents took a little trip to Maine. She thought so right up until that Sunday morning, when I looked into my shoes and saw Daddy’s yellow Piper Cub airplane slam into the side of a steep Maine cliff and burst into flames.
That terrible memory remained mercifully blocked right up until I got the job as host of the Nightshades program. That all changed the first time I looked into an obsidian ball I found on the set. It had belonged to my predecessor on the show, that broom-riding, cauldron-stirring witch, Ariel Constellation.
The pictures came back big-time in that damned black obsidian. Eventually, I learned that I was what people who know about such things call a scryer. River calls me a gazer. Sometimes, they say, in shiny surfaces a scryer can see things happening or things that have happened or even things that haven’t happened yet. Once Ariel’s murderer was captured, though, my visions stopped. I blamed the dead witch for the whole thing and prayed that they’d stopped for good. Everything the obsidian ball had ever shown me was bad, and I still tried to avoid looking at shiny black surfaces. River’s idea that I should do it on purpose to help find out what had happened to Bill scared me to death.
The door marked RUPERT PENNINGTON–EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR was partially closed. I tapped gently. “Hello,” I called. “It’s Lee Barrett. May I come in?”
“Come in, come in, Ms. Barrett,” came the clearly enunciated baritone invitation. “My door is never locked. Always an open door here at the academy. Come in and meet some of your students.”
The dated style of Trumbull’s had been retained for the office decor. A large walnut desk dominated the front of the room, and the director sat in an imposing high-backed leather swivel chair. A set of silver desk accessories—pen, inkwell, and letter opener, each monogrammed O.W.T., gleamed on the polished walnut surface. An ancient office safe with ornate gold-leaf lettering stood against the wall behind the desk, and brass-handled, varnished oak file cabinets completed the vintage look of the place. Two young women sat opposite Mr. Pennington in straight-backed wooden chairs, looking both bored and uncomfortable.
“Ms. Lee Barrett, please meet two of your students. Miss Kelly Greene and Miss Therese Della Monica have arrived a bit early for the opening of the academy.”
There was the slightest hint of displeasure in his voice. I guessed it was because the dormitories were unfinished, the main floor was empty except for yellow tape and an obvious police presence, and two attractive female students had arrived well before Rupert Pennington was prepared to make his grand welcoming speech from behind a dust-free lectern, to a breathlessly attentive student body.
Both Kelly and Therese immediately stood. Whether out of deference to my position as instructor or just to move closer to the door, I didn’t know. I extended my hand, first to dark-haired Kelly, then to blond Therese.
“Welcome to the Tabby,” I said. “I know it looks a little confusing right now, but by the time school starts, it’ll all be shipshape.”
“How do you do, Ms. Barrett?” Therese Della Monica’s voice was pure Beacon Hill; her handshake of the fingertip variety; her smile sweet and shy.
Kelly Greene’s handshake was firm; her hands tanned and strong; nails short and unpolished. “Hi,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.” Her accent seemed like a blend of the Florida Panhandle and New Hampshire. Not exactly Southern, and with a hint of New England twang. I couldn’t place it.
“Miss Greene is from West Virginia,” Mr. Pennington offered.
“Guess you can tell I’m not from these parts,” Kelly said. “But my pa and I live in Salem. We have a little tavern down near the ocean. I’m working there now. Our bartender, Thom, told me about this place. He’s going to take your class, too. We both want to be on TV someday.”
“Wonderful. Welcome,” I said.
&nb
sp; Mr. Pennington stepped from behind his desk. “Perhaps you could show these ladies a bit of our flourishing downtown.”
Translation. Get these damned kids out of my office.
“I’d love to. Come on, you two. Put on your coats, and we’ll do a little tour.”
They practically raced me to the stairs.
“What’ll it be?” I asked. “Museums and art galleries or shops?”
“Shops,” they said in unison, then looked at one another and laughed.
“That’s easy,” I said. “We have all kinds. Take your pick.”
“I like fashion,” Kelly said. “If I’m going to be a TV star, I need to have great clothes.” She gave me an appraising look. “Like yours. You’re so put together.”
“I’m mostly interested in anything that has to do with the witches.” Therese spoke so softly, I had to lean close to hear her words. “I’m thinking about becoming one of them. That’s actually why I chose this school. Salem is where I need to be.”
CHAPTER 6
While I’d told Mr. Pennington not to worry, and I’d promised Kelly and Therese that everything at the Tabby would soon be shipshape, I thought I was being overly optimistic. But somehow, amazingly, I was right.
The painting of the dorms, thanks to the miracle of spray guns, was done, the paint dry, and the dorm rooms move-in ready before sundown that day. The beds and bureaus had arrived, and new lighting had been installed in each cubicle. The mirrors and ballet barres were in place in the dance studio, and best of all, the yellow tape was gone.
The police continued their investigation in the basement, since that was the last place anyone had seen Bill. A new, larger NO ADMITTANCE sign was posted on that door. It didn’t lead to usable space, anyway, so school preparations weren’t disrupted.
No more early students had shown up, much to Director Pennington’s obvious relief. I learned that in addition to the two I’d met, there were four more registered for my TV courses. So far, I’d drawn one enthusiastic West Virginian, one witch wannabe, and a yet unseen bartender.
With the setting of the sun, the temperature plunged, and I, the typical Floridian, called a cab for the short ride home. River would call me chicken again if she knew about it. I had mixed feelings about calling her. I wanted to know about the attic ghost at the Tabby, but at the same time I didn’t want to hear any more about using my gift in the search for answers about what had happened to Bill Sullivan.
Aunt Ibby and O’Ryan were waiting for me just inside the front door when I arrived home.
“Come in. Come in. It’s getting colder, isn’t it?” My aunt hugged me, and the cat purred and licked snow from the toe of my boot. “What’s going on down there at the school? The evening news said that the police are concentrating the investigation on the park where Bill was found. They think someone picked him up at Trumbull’s and drove him there, and they’re asking for witnesses who may have seen him that night.”
“Did they say anything about the broken leg? How it could have happened?” I took off my winter gear and headed for the warm comfort of the living room.
“Not exactly. They just said there was an indication of lower body trauma.” She hurried toward the kitchen. “You just relax. I’ll get us some tea, and you can tell me all about your day.”
I propped my feet up on a plump ottoman and wiggled my toes. It felt good. “I don’t even want to move,” I told the cat, who had carried his purple mouse into the room and had dropped it next to my chair. “I played tour guide all afternoon to a couple of shopaholics.” Between Kelly’s countless trips to boutique dressing rooms as she searched for a “put-together” look and Therese’s intensive quizzing of at least a dozen shopkeepers as to the magical properties of certain herbs, and her gathering of assorted magic spell books, I was beat. And my feet hurt.
I leaned back and closed my eyes, but O’Ryan was not going to allow such inattention. He batted at my stockinged feet with soft, sheathed paws. I pretended not to notice. He smacked a little harder and meowed a low-toned “mrruf.” I shook my foot and pushed him away.
“Go away, O’Ryan,” I said. “I’ll play with you later.”
He climbed into my lap, put his front paws on my shoulders, and did that staring thing cats do, knowing darn well it will make you open your eyes. It worked. The golden eyes focused on mine, the throaty cat sounds growing more insistent.
“Okay. What do you want?”
He jumped down, picked up the catnip mouse, and carried it toward the front hall. His yowl was long, loud, and insistent.
Aunt Ibby hurried from the kitchen. “What’s wrong with O’Ryan?” she asked. “Is he all right?”
“I don’t know. I think he wants me to follow him somewhere. Is that it, boy?”
The bedraggled mouse once more clutched in his teeth, O’Ryan headed up the stairs. I followed. When we reached the second-floor landing, he looked back at me, and determining that I was still behind him, he started up the curving staircase leading to the next floor.
“Oh, c’mon, cat! There’s nothing up there except a big mess.” The renovations were well under way, but the place was nowhere near habitable. O’Ryan trotted upward and then paused when he reached the third-floor landing, waiting for me to catch up.
The stairwells in our house curve in such a way that a person standing at the top of the stairs on the third floor can look all the way down and see the floor in the front hall. O’Ryan poked his head between the spindles, dangling his mouse over the edge of the top stair. He looked back, making sure I was watching.
The purple rodent plummeted downward, landing with a thud on the carpet two stories below. With both hands gripping the top of the railing, I leaned forward, focusing on the distant purple blob below. For a few seconds O’Ryan stood beside me, neck craned over the edge of the top tread. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, with a twitch of his tail, he trotted down the stairs. I followed at a slower pace and joined a puzzled Aunt Ibby in the front hall. O’Ryan had already retrieved the mouse and had put it back beside the chair I’d vacated.
“What on God’s green earth was that all about?” my aunt wondered. “A new game he’s thought up?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” I said. “And I don’t know how it’s possible, but I think maybe he’s trying to tell us how Bill got that broken leg.”
“From being dropped?”
“Or falling,” I said, “from someplace high.”
“Last time anyone saw him, Bill was in a basement,” she said with perfect logic. “Nowhere to fall from there.”
“You’re right,” I said, feeling a little silly. “O’Ryan’s probably just still catnip happy. Anyway, the police will figure it all out. Let’s have that tea, and I’ll tell you about my day. I met two of my students. Interesting girls.”
We went into the kitchen, with O’Ryan tagging along, leaving the mouse leaning dejectedly against the chair leg. We sat at the table and I told Aunt Ibby that I’d run into River and what she’d told me about Tabitha being the one who supposedly haunted the store.
“Oh, there are lots of different versions of the ‘lady in white’ story,” she said, pouring the tea. “I did a little checking today at the library. Mrs. Sullivan and River must be thinking of the same story. It’s the one about Tabitha, old and crazy, wandering the attic in her nightgown. Some say the whole place was built on top of an ancient Naumkeag Indian burial ground and the ghost is an Indian princess dressed in white deerskin.” She smiled. “I rather like that one. Then there are stories about one of the Trumbull girls, back in the fifties, who got pregnant and drowned herself. She’s supposed to be wearing her confirmation dress. There are probably plenty of other nominees for the position of department store ghost.”
“Urban legends. That’s what Pete says they all are, and that just about every city has them.”
“He’s right. But tell me about the students. What do you think of them?”
“One of them, Kelly Greene, is from West Vi
rginia. She’s joining the class on the advice of a bartender friend.”
“Kelly Greene. That’s cute,” my aunt said. “Is she Irish?”
“I didn’t ask,” I said. “Could be. Dark hair, bright blue eyes, fair skin.”
“What about the other girl? What’s her name?”
“Therese Della Monica. She’s a cool blonde. Well spoken. But not really interested in the course, as far as I could tell. Says she came to Salem to learn to be a witch.”
My aunt frowned. “What made her choose your class? She doesn’t know about . . . that thing you can do, does she?”
“Of course not. Besides, it’s just as I told River. That’s all gone. I can’t do it anymore.”
Even if I can, I won’t. What have the damned visions ever shown me except death and dying? Some gift!
“Hmmm. I hope for your sake, that’s true.”
“Therese just wants to be in Salem. I guess she thinks the Tabby sounds easy. No entrance requirements, no exams, no degrees. Probably signed up for it so she’d have a good story for her parents. After all, they’re paying for it, and the Tabby isn’t cheap.”
“I know, dear.” Aunt Ibby reached across the table and patted my hand the way she used to when I was a child. “But the students who go there can learn about things they’ve only dreamed of doing. Like oil painting or ballet dancing or writing poetry. Don’t you worry. You’ll make that course so interesting, she’ll be thrilled that she signed up. And her parents will get their money’s worth, too.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I hope so. And speaking of thrilling courses, I have a little catching up to do in Criminology 101.”
“How’s that coming along?”
“Slowly,” I admitted. “But it’s fascinating. I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do with it, but, like Therese and her magic, it’s something I really want to learn about.”
“Well,” she said, picking up a wooden spoon and facing the stove, where a black iron kettle simmered, “you can’t study on an empty stomach. The turkey soup will be ready in half an hour.”
O’Ryan and I went upstairs, and I changed into comfy gray sweats. I put the course textbook and a notepad on the desk, next to my laptop, then, smiling, added The Official Nancy Drew Handbook.
Tails, You Lose (A Witch City Mystery Book 2) Page 4