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

by Carol J. Perry

  “Sure. But what’s in it for you?” Duke asked.

  Jonathan Wilson smiled. “They’ll probably elect me mayor,” he said, “but that’s not why I think this project is important.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to turn the information over to the other members of the council?” Pete asked. “It seems like something they’d like to be involved in.”

  “True enough. But there’s a real possibility that I’m completely wrong about this. It may be nothing. A council investigation that turns up nothing would be hard to live down. But a school project flies under the radar, so to speak. What do you say? Are you people in? It could make your documentary something of real value.”

  Kelly was the first to respond. “I think it’d be cool. I think we should do it.”

  “Ms. Barrett?” The councilman looked at me. “What do you think? It couldn’t do any harm, and it surely adds a new dimension to something you’re already working on.”

  I knew he was right about that. “May we see the map?” I asked. “Then we’ll talk about it among ourselves and let you know what we decide.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “You may pass by, one person at a time, and look at it.” He placed the paper on my desk. “But there will be no surreptitious cell phone photos.” The councilman continued, “As I said, I believe this is the only copy. I’d like to keep it that way for the time being. Meanwhile, if anything on this map rings a bell with any of you, please let me know. I’ll give you each my card, including my private number.”

  We lined up like kids at a water fountain during recess and approached the desk one at a time. Since I was last in line, I could watch each person’s reaction.

  Sammy was the first to view the paper. He leaned close to the desk, his eyes darting back and forth as he studied the map. “Are you sure it’s right side up?” he asked. “There’s no north point here.”

  “It may not be,” Mr.Wilson admitted. “I don’t know. You may turn it around if you want to.”

  “No, that’s okay,” Sammy said. “C’mon, Therese. Your turn.”

  Therese stood at the desk, leaned forward, and looked down at the paper. Then she closed her eyes, touched a spot on her forehead with her right hand, and backed away quickly. It was Kelly’s turn next. She moved the paper in a circular motion, viewing it from all angles, then pointed at something on it and looked at Jonathan Wilson. She seemed about to speak but shook her head and returned to her seat.

  Primrose took her turn, followed by Pete. Primrose barely glanced at the paper, then glared at the councilman and walked to the back of the room, where she leaned against a row of file cabinets, still scowling. Pete, like Kelly, turned the paper around, then put it back in its original position. Then it was my turn.

  It was, as Jonathan Wilson had described it, a rough drawing, probably done with pencil. There were lines, some curved and some straight, that seemed to represent streets or roads, and there were some squares here and there along the lines, which I decided must mean buildings. As Sammy had pointed out, there was no indication of direction. In fact, there were no words on the thing at all. But when I looked closely, I could see a faded number on a small square. It was a six or a nine, depending on which way one viewed the map. To the left of the numbered square, there were some crude stick figure things that looked like Christmas trees and a circle with a dollar sign in it. Like most everything else I’d looked at that was related to the Trumbulls, it made no sense.

  We each received a business card with the promised personal number scrawled on the back. Mr. Pennington accepted one, too, although he hadn’t looked at the map. Jonathan Wilson, still smiling, returned the map to his briefcase, placed the gold key in his breast pocket, and followed the director to the elevator. He shook hands with each of us as he passed. Primrose managed to return his smile and received an extra-long handclasp.

  At the elevator door, he turned to face us. “Thank you all for your kind attention,” he said. “Please consider this challenge carefully. It may lead to an exciting adventure for all of us.” He shrugged well-tailored shoulders. “On the other hand, it may lead nowhere at all. But it would still be an adventure.” He waved and the elevator door slid shut.

  “What a nice guy.” Kelly was enthusiastic. “I think we should help him out if we can.”

  “He seems nice, sure,” Therese agreed, “but do we have time to fool around with that old map and still get our own work done?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Duke said. “I kinda like the looks of that little dollar sign.”

  “I’m with you on that, brother,” Sammy said. “Looks like an old-fashioned treasure map to me. Except it’s got no skull and crossbones.”

  “Speaking of maps, Sammy,” I said. “You left your book here on Friday.” I pulled the top desk drawer open, took out the Massachusetts Atlas and Gazetteer, and handed it to him. “And what do you think about it, Pete?” I asked. “Is there anything wrong with our looking into this map thing?”

  “Nothing illegal, if that’s what you mean. The map itself is apparently a matter of public record. Looks like it’s been lying around for years over at city hall and nobody’s bothered to try to figure it out until now.” He looked closely at the card Jonathan Wilson had handed him, turned it over, then put it in his wallet. “And, like the man said, it may not lead anywhere at all.”

  “So you think it will be all right for us to get involved with it?” Primrose asked. “It’s not going to get him—or us—into any trouble with anybody?”

  “That depends,” Pete said. “If there’s private property involved, naturally, you can’t trespass.”

  Kelly glanced at the business card, which she still held in her hand. “Now that I’ve got his number, I’m going to call him up.”

  “Remember, he’s a busy man,” I warned. “I’ll ask him to come back and speak to us again, and we can prepare questions ahead of time.” I saw Pete look at his watch. “Pete, you’re busy, too. I know you have to leave. Thanks for coming.”

  “It was interesting. Thanks for inviting me.” He headed toward the stairs. “See you guys. I’ll call you later, Lee.”

  I waved, said, “Later,” and turned back to face the class.

  “Can we put the room back the way it was now?” Duke asked. “This little chair is killing my back.”

  “Sure. Everybody sit where you’re comfortable. Duke? Primrose? Do you want to use Mr. Pennington’s podium for your presentation, or should we put it on the mezzanine landing?”

  “I guess we’ll keep it,” Primrose said. “I’m going to do the talking, but we worked together on the script.”

  There was a little flurry of activity as the podium was moved to one side. Duke took his regular seat behind the news desk, and Primrose stepped to the podium, facing the rest of us, and shuffled a thick sheaf of papers.

  “Here goes,” she said. “We’ve found quite a few old pictures to illustrate our script. Duke’s going to put them up on a monitor while I read what we’ve got so far.”

  A vintage black-and-white photo showing the exterior of Trumbull’s Department Store flashed on the big monitor screen.

  “Oh, wow. Look at the cool old cars parked out front,” Kelly said. “When was that taken, Primrose?”

  Primrose read from her script. “People came from miles around when we opened the store. It was a cool fall day in nineteen twenty-seven.”

  The room was silent as Primrose continued to read. She and Duke had prepared their script as though the store’s founders, Oliver Wendell Trumbull and his wife, Tabitha, were telling the story. More photos flashed on the screen from time to time as she read. Women with boyish figures in the slim flapper fashions of the twenties. Interior photos of the store, showing prices so low, they brought a collective gasp from the group.

  “Look at that,” I heard Therese whisper. “Those cute T-strap shoes were only two dollars!”

  The presentation took nearly an hour, and Primrose closed with an explanation of the time
line involved. “We’ve taken it only from the store’s opening up to just before the Second World War,” she said. “There’s a bunch more we need to research, and we have a lot more pictures, too. Mr. Pennington found these for us. Duke, want to run through a few more of them, just to show what else we have?” Primrose returned to her seat beside Therese amid well-deserved applause as pictures continued to appear on the monitor screen.

  “Primrose and Duke, you two have done a great job,” I said. “This documentary is going to be outstand—” I stopped midsentence when a photo of a woman in a long white dress flashed by.

  “Duke,” I said. “Can you back that up, please? To the picture of the woman?”

  “Sure,” he said. “This one?”

  For a moment I couldn’t answer. I stared at the screen and, hardly recognizing my own voice, breathed, “Who is she?”

  Primrose looked at the screen. “Her? That’s Tabitha Trumbull. It’s her wedding picture. Great dress, isn’t it?”

  It was more than a great dress. It was satin, with a high collar. The sleeves were puffy at the top, tight from the elbows down. The woman had long dark hair and a shy smile. I’d found my mystery woman. She of the long white dress, the keys, and the tunnel was a young Tabitha Trumbull. I looked around the classroom. There was no one there for me to share the amazing revelation with. In fact, besides River North and Aunt Ibby, there was no one I could share it with. At least no one who wouldn’t think I was crazy.

  The clock over the news desk told me that we had about fifteen minutes before the noon lunch break. “I’m going to dismiss you a little early,” I said. I was faster than my students in heading for the exit. “Gotta run. Picking up my new car.”

  That was true, but foremost on my mind was the photo of Tabitha in her wedding dress and my need to share this new information with someone who’d understand.

  I called River as soon as I was inside the Buick. “River,” I said when she answered. “The woman in my vision is Tabitha. I saw a photo of her in her wedding dress. It’s the dress she was wearing when I saw her in the tunnel with those keys. But she’s young, not a crazy old lady.”

  “Wow! I was hoping it would be her.” She was clearly as excited as I was. “You’ve got to get us all up to that top floor. To contact her. It’ll take the whole coven to do it.”

  To actually contact the spirit of a dead woman only I could see?

  “How, exactly, would you do that? Would you be able to talk to her? Would you all see her the way I do?”

  “I think so. I’ve never done it myself, but I know there’s a way to do it,” she said. “I guess Megan would lead, because she knew Tabitha on the physical plane.”

  “That makes sense,” I said, knowing perfectly well that it didn’t make any sense at all. None of this did.

  “Sure it does. You get Mr. Pennington to say we can do it, and I’ll get in touch with the coven.” She paused. “And listen, Lee, I’m going to ask my boss at WICH-TV to send a film crew. I think he’ll go for it. Big ratings.”

  “Wait a minute. You can’t tell anybody about . . . you know . . . the things I’ve seen.”

  “Of course not.” She sounded indignant. “I would never do that. Half the people in Salem already think the place is haunted, anyway. Heck, some of ’em think the whole city is. This’ll just be an investigation into who the woman in white is.”

  “I’ll talk to Mr. Pennington,” I said, starting the Buick’s engine. “I have to go now. I want to tell Aunt Ibby about it, and I’m going to pick up my new car.”

  “Okay. And, Lee, don’t worry,” she said. “It’s the right thing to do. Remember, you helped Ariel to cross over by catching her killer. Maybe you can help Tabitha to move on, too.”

  Aunt Ibby didn’t see things quite the same way River did. “The dress in the photo matching the dress on the woman you’ve seen in those visions of yours does seem to indicate that you’ve been seeing a young Tabitha,” she said. “But don’t you think involving a coven of witches is a bit . . . exploitative?”

  “I guess it is,” I admitted. “But Mr. Pennington will probably like the publicity for the school, and maybe the witches can figure out how to get poor Tabitha out of the Trumbull building and on to wherever she’s supposed to go next.”

  She looked dubious about that but nodded her head and changed the subject. “So how was your speaker this morning?”

  “Interesting,” I said. “He brought us what he claims is the only copy of an old Salem map. He wants us to help him figure out what part of the city it represents. There aren’t any street names, just some square building shapes. One of them has a number on it.”

  “Another mystery. And is there any further word on young Thom?”

  “I’m afraid not. Joe Greene spoke to his mom, and she didn’t even realize that Thom hadn’t gone to work.”

  “It must be a dreadful feeling, not knowing where your child is,” she said. “I feel so blessed to have you here, safe with me.”

  I gave her a quick hug, then handed her the keys to the Buick. “I parked out front so we can leave right away to get my car. I have only an hour before I have to be back at the school.”

  “Let’s go,” she said. “I’ll have you there in a jiffy.”

  Sometimes my aunt has a bit of a heavy foot, and we reached the dealership with time to spare.

  “I’ll just drop you off, dear,” she said. “I’m going to put in a little time at the library.”

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said. “I’ll see you at home later.”

  “Oh, by the way,” she said as I was about to close the car door. “There was a little piece in the Globe this morning about that coin show.”

  “Really? What about it? Was that Mr. Friedrich’s picture in the paper?”

  “The article didn’t mention him, but it said that the dealers had been given special instructions to get photo identification from everyone selling gold coins. Seems there have been some turning up around here that the Treasury Department is interested in.”

  Coins again. Bill was looking for silver ones. Friedrich was looking for gold ones. Tabitha gave away twenty-dollar ones. What did it all mean?

  The sight of my new Corvette parked in front of the showroom, top down, sunlight glinting on sweet sweeping curves, chased all the puzzling thoughts away. I filled out the usual paperwork, arranged for the transfer of funds from my bank to the dealership for payment in full, and the Laguna Blue beauty was all mine.

  If I skipped lunch, I’d have time to drive around for a while before heading back to the Tabby. A Corvette ride beat an egg salad sandwich any day. I headed down Derby Street toward the Willows, where Pete and I had shared breakfast. There wouldn’t be much traffic, and a short ride beside the beach, with the radio blaring rock and roll, the sun on my face, and the wind in my hair, would be fun.

  It was fun. Of course, the wind in my hair completely destroyed the chignon I’d fashioned so carefully, but that didn’t matter. I was happily driving toward the park exit when I noticed a black Camry partially hidden by the low-hanging branches of a willow tree.

  The branches didn’t hide the occupants of the car. Primrose and Jonathan Wilson, together again.

  I was sure they’d noticed me. Who wouldn’t notice a wild-haired redhead in a convertible with Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” blasting from a ten-speaker audio system with a bass box and subwoofers?

  I turned down the radio, pretended to look the other way, and left the park at a decorous pace, heading back toward the school. When I reached the Tabby, I brushed my hair into some sort of order, put the Corvette top up, and got out.

  Should I pretend I hadn’t seen Primrose and Jonathan Wilson? Or should I confront her and ask what was going on? As it turned out, I didn’t have to make that decision. Primrose was the first of the students to arrive for the afternoon session. The conservative pin-striped number she’d worn in the morning had been replaced with one of the miniskirt outfits. She pulled a chair up oppo
site mine, put her elbows on the desk, looked me in the eye, and said, “Lee, I guess we have to talk. Coffee in the diner after school?”

  “Good idea,” I said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  My afternoon lesson plan involved some of the technical aspects of the documentary preparation. We used the school-supplied textbooks to study the proper script format, then did some classroom experiments with a fixed camera versus the handheld variety. We decided that the Trumbull story would be most effective if we used the handheld camera and a direct cinema technique, something like they did in The Blair Witch Project.

  “I loved that movie,” Therese declared. “Just loved it.”

  Of course you did, I thought.

  Sammy clipped a lapel mic to his shirt and read Oliver Trumbull’s first few speeches from Primrose and Duke’s rough script. Therese did the same, reading Tabitha’s parts. I was happily impressed with both of their performances. Even at this early stage of production, the proposed documentary showed promise.

  “They sound perfect,” Kelly said. “But they don’t look like the real Trumbulls.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’d thought that you and Thom would play Oliver and Tabitha in tableau mode, while Sammy and Therese told the story. But now that Thom’s not here, I don’t know. Duke’s much too tall. Maybe we’ll have to recruit someone from the acting class.”

  “You mean you don’t think he’s ever coming back?” Kelly started to tear up again.

  “No. Of course I don’t think that.” I tried to reassure her. “But what if Thom’s managed to find work in New York? We have to have a plan B.”

  “Don’t cry, Kelly,” Primrose said. “I’m going to call some model friends of mine in the city and see if they’ve heard from him. I’m sure he’s all right.”

  Kelly accepted a tissue and returned to the study of how to formulate a TV script, while I struggled to formulate some questions I could ask Primrose at our planned after-school meeting.