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

by Carol J. Perry

  A burst of laughter provided an opportunity for me to change the subject from the possible sins of the Trumbulls to the actual production of a usable script.

  “I’ve brought in a few books on Salem’s history,” I said, spreading out half a dozen volumes on the round table. “I’d like each of you to take one and just browse through it. Make notes of anything that you see that might relate to what we’re doing.”

  After a brief pileup at the table as each of them selected a book, and after a momentary tug-of-war between Sammy and Primrose over Death of an Empire, because it had the coolest title, the classroom was quiet. Each of them appeared to be engrossed in his or her selection, including Sammy, the smiling victor of the battle over the Robert Booth book. I sat at my desk and pulled a couple of blank index cards from my purse. Pen poised over the cards, I looked up, surprised, as Rupert Pennington approached from the mezzanine landing.

  “Ah, Ms. Barrett.” He beamed, rubbing his hands together. “What a very orderly classroom. I’m delighted to see all these young people engaged in such an earnest pursuit of their studies.”

  “Yes, Mr. Pennington,” I said. “We’re working hard on our Salem history project. We’re tying the history of Trumbull’s Department Store to parallel happenings in the city.”

  Each of the six students remained focused on the texts, but it was obvious that they were listening.

  “A most worthy objective,” he said. Then, after what might be considered a dramatic pause, he added, “We are simply passing through history.” This pronouncement was followed by an expectant look in my direction.

  Boom. I got it. I smiled and said, “Paul Freeman. Raiders of the Lost Ark. Nineteen eighty-one.”

  “Bravo, Ms. Barrett,” he said. “You’ve clearly inherited some of your charming aunt’s remarkable perspicacity.”

  Should I tell him I saw the movie last night? Nah.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “Was there something particular you wanted to see us about?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes, indeed. You’ve met Councilman Jonathan Wilson, have you not?”

  “Briefly. At the opening ceremony. Why?”

  “He’s asked permission to address your class one day next week. He has an idea, a plan, actually, with which he feels your students might be able to help. And with their obvious interest in history, I agree.” He glanced around the room.

  Kelly, Therese, and Thom remained glued to the texts in front of them. Duke appeared to be nodding off. Only Sammy and Primrose had eyes focused on the director, with undisguised interest.

  “I’ll certainly try to fit it into our schedule, Mr. Pennington,” I said. “I’m sure we’ll be happy to help the councilor in any way we can.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Barrett.” He gave an all-inclusive wave in the direction of the classroom. “Carry on,” he said, then turned on his heel military-style and left.

  “Are we supposed to make notes only about the things that happened after the store opened?” Kelly asked. “A lot of things happened here before that.”

  “Right,” said Therese. “Like about the witches.”

  “We’ll concentrate on the years between nineteen twenty-five and the opening of the Tabby,” I said, “but the present is always influenced by the past.”

  Duke, hangover and all, managed a comment. “Everyone’s is.”

  “I bet you’ve got a past, man,” Sammy said.

  “So do you, shorty,” Duke shot back.

  “Not me,” Thom said. “I’ve got a future. And the sooner I get away from here, the better.”

  I began to feel I’d lost control of the situation. I tapped my pen on the desk for emphasis. “Take another ten minutes for reading and note taking. Then we’ll brainstorm with what we’ve got.” I waved Pennington-style. “Carry on,” I said.

  Before long the room was so quiet, we could hear the distant bump-bump of feet from the dance studio.

  CHAPTER 17

  The brainstorming session went surprisingly well, with everybody contributing ideas. Some were silly, some were unworkable within our slim budget, but many of them made it onto Therese’s stack of papers. It was, in fact, exactly what a brainstorming session should be. I was proud of them, and I told them so.

  “Good effort, you guys,” I said. “I worked with professionals back in Florida who weren’t as spot-on as you all have been today.”

  I could tell they were pleased by the compliment, and the mood was relaxed when we headed to the diner together for a lunch break. In traditional New England diner style, high-backed booths with red vinyl upholstery were situated down one side of a wide aisle. A long counter with chrome bar stools lined the other side. Therese, Kelly, and Thom sat opposite Duke and Sammy in a booth, each vying for the first song selection from the tabletop jukebox.

  Primrose and I sat together at the counter. “It’s quieter here,” I said.

  “Faster service, too.” She studied the menu for a moment, then put it down. “Listen, Lee,” she said, “I’m not buying that line about you checking on us last night because I’d had a couple of beers. What’s the real story?”

  The waitress appeared and took our orders, giving me a little time to form an answer.

  “After you left Greene’s, Pete saw another car pull out from behind the building. It looked like it was following you.”

  “Jesus. Do you know who it was?”

  “Not exactly,” I said, more or less truthfully. “Pete wanted to be sure it wasn’t some creep, so he checked the plate on his computer.”

  “And?”

  “We followed you for a mile or so, and he said you’d be okay,” I said. “But I made him call the security guard just to be sure you got home all right.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “But didn’t Pete tell you who it was?”

  “Uh-uh. He sure didn’t.” Our meals were delivered quickly, and I busied myself by putting tiny oyster crackers into my cup of clam chowder, hoping her questions were over.

  They weren’t.

  “Did he say it was me they were following? Could it have been one of the others? Therese or Sammy?”

  “He didn’t know.”

  Primrose took a bite of her chicken salad sandwich, then gave me a hard, searching look. “You know something you aren’t telling me. Don’t you?”

  If it were me, I’d want to know.

  “I saw the address on Pete’s computer. Aunt Ibby looked it up. The car following you belongs to the Treasury Department. Boston office.”

  She put down her fork, looked me straight in the eye, and smiled. “Treasury? No shit. For a minute there I thought it was something bad.”

  Was she being sarcastic? I couldn’t tell. “Something bad?”

  “Don’t worry, Lee.” Again, the big smile. “It’s okay. And thanks for telling me.”

  “You’re sure you’re okay? Is there anything going on I should know about?”

  “Really. There’s no problem.” Her smile was almost convincing.

  Nothing about this made sense. My puzzle pieces were getting more jumbled, instead of coming neatly together. I was actually relieved when it was time to go back to class. At least there, among the books and props, cameras and mikes, monitors and screens, there was some sort of order. We paid our checks and went back into the Tabby, hurrying past the scowling officer in his chair next to the basement door, and up the stairs to the mezzanine.

  The brainstorming continued. Lunch fueled, it was even better than the morning session. Ideas flew around the table. Therese’s fingers flew over the keyboard. By four o’clock we were ready for the rough draft script preparation to begin.

  “Primrose and Duke,” I said, “you two are designated writers. I’ve printed out a copy of the notes for each of you. Why don’t you read through them separately ? Then you can get together and try to come up with a workable outline for us.”

  “How long do we have?” Duke asked.

  “Things move fast in TV land,” I said. “Shoot for Monday. That�
��ll give you the whole weekend to work on it.”

  “Not fair,” Primrose grumbled. “Nobody else gets homework but us?”

  “That’s showbiz,” I said. “Their time will come, I promise.”

  The room cleared quickly. I retrieved a few wadded bits of notebook paper, gathered a couple of left-behind pens, and generally tidied up the place.

  “Oops. Somebody dropped a history book.” After grabbing a large hardcover volume from under a chair, I read the title, tried to remember who had which history book, and realized this wasn’t one I’d handed out.

  Sammy had been engrossed in reading when I arrived in class that morning. This was probably his. But what was so fascinating about Massachusetts Atlas and Gazetteer? I flipped through the colorful pages of maps. The corner of one page was folded down, an absolute sin in the eyes of my librarian aunt. The detailed map of Salem’s streets was not only folded but was otherwise marred with scribbled notes in ink and fluorescent marker.

  I hope this isn’t a library book, Sammy, or you’re going to do time in hell!

  I put the book in my top desk drawer, planning to give it to the culprit on Monday. With a last look around the room, to make sure we hadn’t left a mess for the custodian, I put on my jacket, hat, and gloves, preparing for the walk home in the fading winter daylight. My cell phone had been turned off all day, and I turned it on and checked for calls I’d missed. There were only two. One was from River, and the other from Jonathan Wilson.

  I figured that when I called him, the councilman would echo Mr. Pennington’s request that I make time for him to speak to the class. I called River first.

  “River? You called?”

  “Hi, Lee. I’ve been thinking about Tabitha’s room,” she said, “and I talked to Megan about it.”

  “Really? What did she have to say? Did she remember how it looked?”

  “Of course she remembered it,” River said. “I told you, Megan never forgets anything. Anyway, I told her about the rocking chair and the piano and all, and you know what she told me?”

  “No. What?”

  “She said she wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Tabitha was still up there. Waiting.”

  “Waiting? For what?” The idea of the old woman’s spirit still inhabiting that lonely place was impossible to accept. “Come on, River. You mean you actually think Tabitha’s ghost is still wandering around on Trumbull’s top floor? That all those urban legend ‘ghost in white’ stories are true?”

  “Gee, I didn’t say I thought so. I said Megan thought so.” She sounded apologetic. “I just want to know what you think. After all, you’re the one who can see things.”

  “You want me to look at the damned shoe again, don’t you?”

  “Sort of. I mean Ariel used to show you things after she was dead. Maybe Tabitha can, too.” Another pause. “You don’t have to, if you’re afraid.”

  “I’ll think about it, okay? Meanwhile, would you call Pete? I told him about how Megan and Tabitha played in the tunnel when they were little. He’s interested in finding out if Megan can show him where the entrance used to be.”

  “He wants to talk to me? Wow. Makes me feel important.”

  I gave her Pete’s number. “I’ll talk to you later, River. Oh, by the way, my aunt has become one of your fans. I caught her watching the werewolf movie last night.”

  “That makes me feel even more important.”

  “River,” I said quietly, “I’ll think about the shoe thing, but I’m not making any promises.”

  “I understand.” Her tone was sympathetic. “If you do it, though, maybe you can figure out what Tabitha’s waiting around for.”

  The daylight was fast disappearing, and the streetlights along the pedestrian mall, artfully disguised as old-fashioned gas lamps, dispelled the gathering darkness. I decided to wait to return Jonathan Wilson’s call until I reached home, and hurried in that direction. There’d be plenty of time to shower and change clothes before Aunt Ibby and I would have to leave for Bill’s wake.

  O’Ryan was at the front door to greet me with much purring and ankle rubbing. I could hear my aunt rattling pans and humming happily in the kitchen and knew immediately what was happening there. In Salem, when there’s word of a funeral, casseroles, stews, and meat pies, cakes, cookies, and sweet rolls issue from ovens all over the city. If her freezer was large enough, Mrs. Sullivan wouldn’t have to cook for a month.

  I helped my aunt fill a sturdy carton with a foil-covered casserole, a plate of cookies, and a couple of pies, to be carried to the Sullivans’ apartment after the wake.

  “I’ll just take all this out to the car now,” I said as Aunt Ibby loaded mixing bowls into the dishwasher. “The temperature’s still in the thirties. The trunk of the Buick will make a perfect refrigerator.”

  “Thanks, dear. Hurry back. I want to hear about your day.”

  I didn’t need to be told to hurry. With the setting of the sun, a bone-chilling wind had whipped up. I grabbed the car keys from one of the hooks on the apple-shaped plywood keyboard I’d made one summer at Girl Scout camp and, balancing the carton, dashed through the backyard to the garage.

  Although the front door of our house faces Winter Street, the back door and the garage face the next street to the west, Oliver Street. After depositing the box of goodies and securing the trunk, I stepped back out into the yard, where the sturdy trunk of a maple tree offered a moment’s shelter from the bitter wind. Oliver is a narrow one-way street, and a winter parking ban is usually in effect there while snow is still on the ground, so I was surprised to see a small green Ford parked just across from where I stood.

  That guy’s begging for a ticket, I thought as I hurried back toward the house and into the welcome warmth of the kitchen.

  Aunt Ibby motioned toward the vintage oak table. “Here, sit down and relax for a minute. Visiting hours for Bill are from six to eight, so we have a little time to get dressed and get to the Murphy Funeral Home. I’ve made fresh coffee, and I saved a batch of peanut butter cookies just for us.”

  Hot coffee and warm cookies. Who could resist? I kicked off fleece-lined boots, wiggled my toes, and relaxed, just as she’d ordered.

  “How was your day?” she asked. “Did the class go well?” She looked at the kitchen clock. “You’re home a little early.”

  “It went awfully well. Better than I’d expected,” I said. “We had kind of a marathon brainstorming session. I let them leave a little early. By the way, I told Primrose about the car following hers last night, and her reaction was sort of odd.”

  “How so?”

  “She smiled, thanked me for telling her, and said not to worry.”

  “That is odd. She didn’t seem upset about it at all?”

  “Not a bit. My next index card will say, ‘Primrose doesn’t mind if there’s a T-man following her around.’”

  “Very curious,” my aunt said. “Did anything else interesting happen today?”

  “I actually recognized one of Mr. Pennington’s old movie quotations. I think he was impressed.”

  “Good for you. What line was it?” she asked.

  “It may not have been exactly fair,” I admitted. “I saw the movie last night, so the line was fresh in my mind. It’s ‘We are simply passing through history.’”

  “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” she said with satisfaction. “Paul Freeman. 1981.”

  “You’re good,” I told her.

  “I know,” she said, brushing a few cookie crumbs away. “Shall we get ready to leave?”

  “Sure.” I stood and pulled out my phone. “First, I have to call Jonathan Wilson. Apparently, he wants to address my class.” I dialed the number, and he answered promptly.

  “Hello, Ms. Barrett.” His tone was hearty and friendly. He sounded as though he might be smiling. “Thanks ever so much for returning my call.”

  “You’re welcome, sir,” I said. “I understand that you’d like to address my class.”

  “I would indeed,” he said.
“Will next Monday be convenient for you? I know this is short notice, but I’d like to speak to them about a matter of importance. To me, to them, and to the great city of Salem.”

  “How much time will you need? Will half an hour do?”

  I had listened to politicians before and needed to make it clear that we didn’t have time for a long-winded dissertation, no matter how important the matter might be to the great city of Salem.

  “Thirty minutes will be fine, Ms. Barrett,” he said. “I have an interesting old map to share, and I’m in hopes that your students might be able to aid me in a bit of research. It concerns Salem history, and Mr. Pennington tells me that’s your area of expertise.”

  “I’m hardly an expert, Mr. Wilson. But we’ll help you if it’s at all possible without interfering with our regular class work. Will nine to nine thirty Monday morning work for you?”

  “Yes, indeed. Thank you. I look forward to seeing you and the students on Monday morning.”

  “Well?” Aunt Ibby was at my elbow when I hung up.

  “Well what?”

  “What’s he going to talk about?”

  “Something about an old map he has.”

  “Sounds interesting. And kind of mysterious.” She smiled. “Hurry along now. We don’t want to be late.”

  Once in my room, I filled out one index card with the information about Primrose and the Treasury Department and another with Sammy’s name and the title of the map book and added them to the stack. Fanning my cards out, I noticed that there were several with Primrose’s name on them, so I grouped those together. There were a few bearing Therese’s name, and I put those together, too. Maybe organizing the cards by the names of the people involved would help me with my puzzle.

  I knew I should be getting ready for the Sullivans’ visiting hours, but the array of oblong cards began to assume a pattern of sorts. Jonathan Wilson’s name appeared more than once, and Rupert Pennington’s did, too. Tabitha Trumbull and Megan the witch each had almost as many cards as Primrose did. Thom and Kelly had three apiece, and Joe Greene had one. Duke had two cards, one about the early morning walk in the basement and another noting that he’d left the bar early the previous night. There were three cards for Sammy. The first one questioned when he’d had his accident ; the second was about the basement excursion. The newest one was about the map book.