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

by Carol J. Perry

  Mr. Friedrich acknowledged the introduction with a curt nod, while Chief Whaley folded his arms and frowned.

  “Yes, well, I’ll be going,” I said. “I just wanted to know if we’re using the building for classes today, Mr. Pennington. I need to inform my students.”

  Chief Whaley answered my question. “The classrooms and dormitory are open as of noon today. The announcement will be on local radio and TV. Under no circumstances are you or any of the students to enter this basement. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Pennington, we’ll replace your security guard with a police officer. Maybe that will keep out the curious students, and also Ms. Barrett, who has a habit of interfering with my investigations.”

  If Mr. Pennington wondered what the chief was talking about, he didn’t say so. I knew exactly what he meant. I’d been unintentionally in the way of his investigation of Ariel’s murder, and he clearly hadn’t forgotten it.

  I scurried from the basement to the relative shelter of my classroom. I put the laptop away in my desk and checked the phone to see who’d called and given away my presence on the basement stairs. River North’s name popped up.

  I called her back, wondering what she was doing awake so early. I knew how late she’d been up, since I’d worked the same hours at WICH-TV when I was pretending to be a psychic.

  “Hi, River. Why the early morning call? You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep, wondering what you saw in your vision. Come on. Tell me.”

  “All right. It doesn’t make much sense, though.”

  “Come on. I’m dying to know.”

  I described what I’d seen in the toe of the shoe. The woman, the white dress, the two keys. “Make any sense to you?” I asked. “Any ideas?”

  She sounded thoughtful. “You know, it reminds me of something I heard a while ago from the oldest member of the coven. Megan is over a hundred years old, nearly blind, and walks with a cane. She’s a very powerful witch.”

  “No kidding? A hundred years old?”

  “She sure is. And, Lee, Megan and Tabitha Trumbull were childhood friends. Now, this may be a coincidence—and you know I don’t believe in coincidences—but the story she told us about Tabitha involved two keys.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “Since you’re already up, want to come over to the school?” I was anxious to hear about Megan and Tabitha. “I don’t have a class until noon. You can tell me your story, and maybe I can show you around the place.”

  “Love to,” she said. “Want me to bring the cards? Read you again?”

  “Uh, no thanks. Let’s just talk this time.”

  “Okay. Be right over.”

  I texted my six students, telling them school would officially be in session at noon.

  They’ll probably be disappointed. Having class in a barroom is kind of cool.

  I pulled six textbooks and the teacher’s edition from the bookcase, pushed seven chairs up to the round table, put markers beside the whiteboard, then headed down to the first floor so I’d be there to get River past security. Giving a nod to the portrait of Oliver Wendell Trumbull, I approached the double glass doors. The security guard had already been replaced by an officer, who checked my ID badge. I told him I was expecting a prospective guest speaker, which was sort of true.

  Therese would love it. A real witch to talk about spells and magic. Wonder if River will do it?

  The officer stood beside me until she arrived. He unlocked the door, recognized River right away from her show, warned us both to stay away from the basement, and resumed his post next to the NO ADMITTANCE sign.

  “Come on upstairs first,” I said. “Let’s check with Mr. Pennington to be sure it’s okay for us to look around.”

  “Good idea. I wouldn’t want to get into trouble in this place,” River said, glancing back over her shoulder. “Enough trouble here already.”

  “You’ve got that right.” We reached the director’s office, and I tapped lightly on the partially open door. “Mr. Pennington? Hello?”

  “Yes. Hello,” came a muffled answer.

  I pushed the door open, glanced around the room, but didn’t see him. “Hello?” I said again. “Mr. Pennington ?”

  I fought an urge to laugh when the man suddenly popped up from behind his chair, reminding me of a Whac-A-Mole game.

  “Oh, Ms. Barrett, excuse me. Just doing a little housekeeping.” He stood erect, patted his hair, adjusted his jacket, and smiled in River’s direction all in one smooth move. “And who is this lovely lady? Another student?”

  I introduced River and, while they shook hands, peeked at the space behind the chair where he’d obviously been sitting or kneeling. The only thing there was the antique safe.

  Permission to tour the building, all of it except the basement, was given quickly and graciously. “I’m sure you’ll be impressed with our facility, Miss North.” Again the big smile. “Or is it Mrs.?”

  He’d used the same line on Aunt Ibby.

  We retraced our steps to the mezzanine landing, where River paused. “Megan says there used to be a piano here, and there was a man in a tuxedo playing popular tunes for the shoppers.”

  I nodded. “Aunt Ibby mentioned that, too.”

  River pointed toward the portrait of Oliver Wendell Trumbull. “This must be the founding father of Trumbull’s. Right?”

  “That’s him. He was Tabitha’s husband.”

  She lowered her voice. “The money to build the store all came from her family, you know. The Smiths.”

  “No. Really?” I was surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yep. Seems Mr. Trumbull was just a guy who worked for Tabitha’s dad. Megan says the wedding was the high point of Salem’s social season. Eight bridesmaids, reception at Hamilton Hall, gown imported from London. A real big deal.”

  “Must have been quite a party. Was Megan one of the bridesmaids?”

  “Nope. Megan’s mother was a cook at the Smith family’s mansion. The two girls were raised together and were best friends, but in those days you didn’t include servants in the wedding party.” There was a trace of annoyance in her voice at the long-ago injustice. “Megan was thrilled to even be invited to the wedding.”

  “I’d like to meet her. She must have some wonderful stories to tell,” I said.

  “I’ll introduce you,” she promised. “Want to show me where you work?”

  “Sure. Come on. You can see the giant black shoe, and you can tell me all about Megan and Tabitha and the two keys. And I’m still waiting to hear why the Trumbulls kept the poor woman locked up in the attic.”

  River followed me and stood in the middle of the shoe department turned classroom. “Hey, it looks almost like a real TV studio.” She turned slowly in a circle. “News desk, monitors, green screen, rolling cameras, the whole works. And you even have a little study table all set up. This is wicked cool!”

  I could tell from her expression that she meant it. “I’m happy you like it. I want this class to work, to give everybody at least some of what they’re looking for.”

  She gave me a quick hug. “You’ll be great. Now, tell me about that shoe.” She moved closer to the giant pump, reached out and touched it. “Feels like a real shoe. They made things better back in the day, didn’t they? Now it would be cardboard or plastic.”

  It hadn’t occurred to me to touch the thing. Right from the start I hadn’t even wanted to look at it. “Guess you’re right,” I said, taking a seat with my back to the shoe. “The thing . . . the vision . . . whatever . . . lasted only a few seconds.”

  “Do you think it might have kept going if you hadn’t told it to stop?” River sat in a chair opposite mine, and looked at me intently.

  That possibility had crossed my mind, but I’d been trying not to think about it. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Tell me again about what you saw.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to see the very clear picture of the dark-
haired woman. “She was young. Around your age. She had on a long dress, satin maybe, with a really high collar. Puffy sleeves at the top but tight from the elbows down.”

  “Sounds pretty.”

  I nodded. “It was pretty. Anyway, she walked toward me. Kind of floated, really. She held her left hand toward me. There were two old-fashioned keys in her palm. She seemed to want me to take them.” I bowed my head. “That was when I told it to stop. She turned her back and disappeared. That was the end of it. Do you know what it might mean?” I said, hoping she’d have an answer.

  “I’m sorry.” She looked genuinely sad. “I’m good with the cards, but not so much with dreams or visions.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Now it’s your turn.”

  “Okay. Here goes. Both stories are from Megan, but I don’t think they have anything to do with each other.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You already know about the big, fancy penthouse they had upstairs in the old days. Megan says it was beautiful. Tabitha was really proud of it and liked showing it off. I mean, they owned this great big department store, and she could have anything she wanted to decorate with. Loved shopping.”

  “That would be fun,” I said, thinking how much Aunt Ibby enjoyed redecorating the house on Winter Street.

  “Sure would,” she said. “But before long, people starting saying Tabitha was confused in her mind, and the Trumbulls stopped having parties and dinners and dances.” River shook her head. “It got so they couldn’t let her out of the building at all. Afraid she’d wander off and get lost. So they hired a nurse to stay with her, and at night, after the store was closed, she was allowed to get dressed up and go downstairs by herself and pick up anything she wanted.”

  “So she could still go shopping.”

  “Kind of. Of course, they just put everything back in the morning. She wouldn’t remember.”

  “Oh, that’s so sad.”

  “I know. Mr. Trumbull moved out sometime in the nineteen forties. He told people she didn’t know who he was most of the time, anyway. She still liked to have Megan visit, though, and sometimes they’d have conversations that still made sense.”

  “I’m glad she still had a friend.”

  “Pretty soon Mr. Trumbull stopped Tabitha’s nighttime shopping trips. He figured she was getting outside somehow, because a few times she came back upstairs with dirt on her shoes and clothes. After that she had to stay locked inside the apartment.” River pointed toward the mezzanine landing. “The player piano that used to be out there? They moved it up to her room. She loved it. Played the old tunes all day and half the night.”

  “That would explain why people who think they see her ghost sometimes say they hear a piano playing.”

  “I guess so. Anyway, she lived up there until she died. Even after the store was closed, just her and a nurse.”

  “You’re kidding! They kept her up there, over an empty store? All that time? And she died there?”

  “She didn’t die there. They were smart enough to take her to a hospital at the end.” She looked around and spoke softly. “So nobody would know they’d kept her locked up all those years. We know only because of Megan. I guess the nurse never told anybody. They must have paid her to keep quiet about it.”

  “It’s hard to imagine people treating their own mother that way.”

  “I know,” River said. “But Megan thinks Tabitha may have been happy, in her own way.”

  “I hope so. Now tell me about the keys, please.”

  “Okay. Here goes.” She leaned forward in her chair and dropped her voice. “I may not have it exactly right. It’s been a while since I heard it, and I didn’t know I might want to remember it later.”

  “Go on.”

  “I already told you that Megan and Tabitha were childhood friends, practically raised together in Tabitha’s family mansion down near where Pickering Wharf is now.”

  “It’s not there anymore.”

  “Nope. Got burned down a long time ago. It was almost right next door to a great big yard where the coal barges from down South used to unload. Megan says most everybody burned coal for heat back then.” She wrinkled her nose in apparent disapproval of coal fires in general and continued. “After the fire, the coal company bought the land and put up an office building or something. While they were having a new mansion built, Tabitha’s family moved in with her grandparents in a house down the street a little ways. Anyhow, when Megan and Tabitha were little, maybe five or six, Tabitha’s grandpa showed them a tunnel hidden behind his house.”

  “A tunnel? No kidding? Like the one they just found under this building? Pete says there are a bunch of them under the city.”

  “I know. I need to start paying attention to the news.” She shook her head. “I didn’t even hear until this morning that the hole under here was an old hunk of tunnel.”

  “So Megan remembers the tunnel?”

  “Heck. Megan remembers everything. Tabitha’s grandpa showed them a little path that led into the tunnel. She says there were electric lights along the walls and even a round cover with a small glass window in the ceiling that let in sunlight. It was part of the sidewalk up on Derby Street.”

  “You mean people could see into the tunnel from above it?”

  “Nope. They couldn’t. Megan says the two friends tried it, and the glass was so thick and opaque, they couldn’t see a thing. Anyway, they liked going to the tunnel so much that Tabitha’s grandpa built them a little playhouse down there.”

  “He let those children play underground?”

  “Only when he was nearby. She says he used the tunnel a lot. Moving things from the house to somewhere in the tunnel.”

  “Moving what?”

  River waved a hand in the air. “Who knows? They were little kids. They didn’t ask. Anyway, here’s where the two keys come in. That playhouse had real kid-size furniture in it. Tables, chairs, lamps, and a big toy box. They called it their treasure chest.”

  “Treasure? What was in it?”

  “Just toys and kid stuff. But they loved it mostly because it had a real lock and key.”

  I realized I’d been holding my breath as she spoke. “That’s one key,” I said, excited. “Where was the other one?”

  River smiled. “Don’t rush me. I’m getting there. The other key was the key to the playhouse itself. It had a bright red painted door with a brass door knocker and a fancy brass keyhole.”

  “So. Two keys,” I said. “You said you don’t believe in coincidences, and I don’t think I do, either. Does Megan know what happened to them?”

  “No. There were two sets. Tabitha’s grandpa kept one set, and Tabitha had the other. Megan had a chance to visit Tabitha up there in the attic just before she died.” River pointed toward the ceiling. “She told Megan the keys were safe with Mary Alice.”

  “Who’s Mary Alice?”

  “Mary Alice was Tabitha’s youngest daughter. She committed suicide when she was fifteen, back in the nineteen fifties.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “The ghost in the confirmation dress,” I said, hardly realizing I’d spoken out loud. “But I wonder why Tabitha thought she had the keys.”

  “Which ghost is that?” River asked.

  “Aunt Ibby told me about three possible ghosts in white. One of them was a pregnant teenage girl who drowned herself. She’s wearing her white confirmation dress.”

  “That would be Mary Alice, I guess. She was pregnant, huh? Guess that explains the suicide. Back in the fifties teen pregnancy was a big no-no. I didn’t know she was one of the ghost suspects, though. Who’s the third?”

  “An Indian princess in white deerskin. Aunt Ibby’s favorite.”

  “Oh yeah. I like that one, too. She’s supposed to be buried under the building.” She snapped her fingers. “Hey, I wonder if they’ll find her bones down in the tunnel.”

  “Stop it!” I laughed. “You are so creepy.”

  “I know. It’s fun. Listen, d
o you think we could go up to the top floor? I’d love to see Tabitha’s room.”

  “I’ve never seen it myself,” I admitted. “I’ve been kind of scared to go up there alone.”

  “Now’s your chance, girlfriend. I’ll protect you. Let’s go.”

  I looked at my watch. “We still have time before the noon class. Let’s take the elevator up. It still has the old department store directory in it. Ladies’ wear, children’s, hosiery, millinery.”

  “Cool.”

  Trumbull’s elevator ran from the first floor to the third, but not down to the basement. On the third, there was another elevator, which went to the top floor. That one had been for the exclusive use of the Trumbull family, according to Mr. Pennington, and was out of service because it hadn’t been inspected yet. But from a jangling ring of keys, he’d given us one for the door leading to the attic suite stairway, along with a flashlight.

  “It’s dark and dusty up there now,” he’d warned. “But I envision it someday returning to its original splendor, providing appropriate accommodations for visiting dignitaries—important personages from the world of music, stars of the stage and screen.”

  Mr. Pennington would absolutely adore hobnobbing with those personages.

  I smiled at the thought as River and I stood in the elevator. I glanced at the directory’s third-floor entry. THIRD FLOOR: FURNITURE, DOMESTICS, NOTIONS, FABRICS, BEAUTY PARLOR. We left the elevator and climbed the stairs to the once splendid home of Tabitha and Oliver Wendell Trumbull, arriving in a high-ceilinged foyer. River aimed the flashlight upward.

  “Wow. Look at that. The crown molding in here must be a foot wide, and it’s full of fancy curlicues. That would cost a fortune now.”

  “Probably did then, too,” I said. An open arched doorway led to what might have been a formal parlor. It was stripped of furniture, and the blue moiré taffeta-covered walls were water stained and dirty. The floorboards creaked as we made our way toward a row of dormer windows, where pale winter sunlight filtered through panes of purple-tinted glass.