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

by Carol J. Perry

  “What’s going on, Lee?”

  “I need to ask you a question, but I think I already know the answer,” I said. “You haven’t seen Jonathan Wilson today, have you?”

  “Why do you want to know? Has something happened to him?” Her voice rose, and she twisted the strap of her purse.

  “Pete had an appointment with him this afternoon to look over some papers at city hall,” I said. “Jonathan didn’t show up, and his staff says he hasn’t been there at all today. You know he was at the Greenes’ early this morning, but Joe chased him off. That seems to be the last anyone’s seen of him. Pete is concerned.”

  “Oh, dear God. I never should have involved him in this.” She rocked back and forth, as though she was in pain.

  “Involved him in what, Primrose? What’s going on?”

  “I can’t talk about it. I can’t.”

  “If it’s about his wife . . . ,” I said. “Apparently, she knows about the affair you two had. She thinks it’s on again. Do you want to talk about that?”

  “No.” She stood, then opened the door and motioned for me to leave. “It’s none of your business, Lee. Stay out of it, for your own sake. You’ll have to go.”

  So I left. I went back to my classroom, called Pete, and repeated the conversation. “She hasn’t heard from him, and she’s worried.”

  “She may have good reason to worry, Lee,” he said. “We found Wilson’s car out behind the tavern, hidden by all those trees and overgrown bushes. No sign of him.”

  He promised to call me later, and I made a fast check of my area, tossing a couple of empty Styrofoam coffee cups and picking up a long manila envelope, which had been left on my desk while I was visiting Primrose. I looked inside it, confirmed that these were the papers Mr. Pennington had promised, and stuffed the envelope into my purse. With no reason to stay at the Tabby any longer, I hurried to the parking lot, climbed into the Corvette, and headed home.

  I parked in the garage, noting that the Buick was missing. O’Ryan met me at the back door.

  “Hello, big boy,” I said, patting his soft fur and accepting a pink-tongued lick on my fingers. “It’s always nice to be welcomed home with purrs and kisses.” I followed him into the kitchen. A note from Aunt Ibby on the kitchen table informed me that a shepherd’s pie was in the warming oven and that she’d gone to meet Rupert at the library to help with some “last-minute research.”

  I changed into fresh jeans and a Tampa Bay Rays T-shirt, then returned to the kitchen and helped myself to some dinner, putting a big spoonful of the gravy-drenched meat and vegetables into O’Ryan’s red bowl. I opened the manila envelope while I ate. It was an itinerary of the projected night’s event in standard outline form, indicating the times for seating guests, greeting the arriving TV personnel, delivering props for witches, arranging lighting, and the like. There was a section about Wiccan protocol, which still had a few blank spaces in it, and I guessed that might be the reason for Mr. Pennington’s research trip to the library. He’d be a stickler for using the proper forms of address. Ariel had been a coven queen. Had she been addressed as “Your Highness?” Was a boy witch a warlock or just a witch? I didn’t know.

  The TV show was scheduled for midnight, but River and the witches would arrive hours earlier to become familiar with the place.

  “Therese is going to be thrilled to meet some real witches,” I told the cat.

  I heard the click of the back door opening as my aunt arrived. “Hi, Aunt Ibby,” I called. “We’re in the kitchen.”

  “Did you get your dinner all right? Oh, I see you did. Let me get out of these heels, and I’ll join you.” She draped her coat over the back of a chair, kicked off her shoes, and took a plate from the dish cabinet.

  “You look especially pretty tonight,” I told her. “How’d your library date with Mr. P. go?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “An hour or two in the stacks does not constitute a date. It went quite nicely, thank you. Rupert wants to be sure everything goes well tomorrow, whether the spirit world cooperates or not. This event came about sooner than he’d anticipated. The timing has to do with the waning moon or some such Wiccan tradition.”

  “I know there’s a lot of preparation for an off-site production like this for the TV station,” I said. “Watching it unfold is going to be a real treat for my TV production students. It’s something they could never get from textbooks.”

  “From what Rupert says, this TV show is much more involved than I’d realized,” she said, putting a couple of spoonfuls of food on her plate. “With everything going on around us, it’s hard to focus on any one thing.”

  “That’s truer than you know,” I said. “A lot has happened in the past twenty-four hours. I’ve been dying to talk to you about it.”

  “I can tell from your face, it isn’t good. Tell me.”

  I started with the news that Thom was missing again, and that a witness had identified him as one of the men Pete suspected of moving Bill Sullivan from the tunnel to the park.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” she said. “He seems like such a nice lad.”

  “I know. Not only that, but Mr. Friedrich is looking for him in connection with a gold coin Thom sold recently.”

  “I guess that explains the picture of Mr. Friedrich at the coin show.”

  “I guess so,” I said. “And now Councilman Wilson has disappeared.”

  “No! Jonathan Wilson? Why, he’s one of the most popular people on the city council.” She looked genuinely sad. “I do hope nothing has happened to him.”

  “Hope not. But it seems he and Primrose were romantically involved at one time. Mrs. Wilson knows about it, and she thinks it’s still going on.”

  “What does Primrose say?”

  “She says she doesn’t know where he is, and she won’t comment on the affair at all.”

  “That’s probably wise,” my aunt said. “You’re just full of bad news today, aren’t you?”

  “I know. I guess we’d better fill in a few new index cards.”

  We sat together at the kitchen table, scribbling notes on the familiar oblongs, and managed to go through a pot of coffee and half a loaf of banana bread before I noticed the time.

  “Holy smoke. It’s after eleven,” I said. “Want to watch the late news and maybe see what River has to say about tomorrow’s ghost hunt?”

  “Yes, let’s. Maybe there’s news about Thom or Mr. Wilson.” She raised a hand with crossed fingers. “If there is, I hope it’s good.”

  “Hope so,” I agreed, gathering up my cards. “You know, the more notes I make, the more confused I get.”

  “Same. But my notes about Thom are beginning to make a little bit of sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s the gold coin thing. Somebody must have paid Thom for something with a gold coin. But it was marked somehow, and Mr. Friedrich traced it to him.”

  “I see that.”

  She continued. “Pete thinks Thom may have helped someone move Bill’s body.” She tapped one of the cards she’d written that evening. “And this one says that Thom cried at Bill’s funeral,” she said. “I may be completely wrong, and I hope I am, but at least it connects one card to another.”

  We carried our coffee cups into the living room, and Aunt Ibby turned on the television set. We each gasped when a full-screen picture of handsome Thom Lalonde filled the screen. I recognized the pose right away. It was from the composite photo card Thom’s mother had displayed so proudly.

  “Have you seen this man?” I recognized the voice of Scott Palmer, the WICH-TV field reporter. “Thom Lalonde, twenty-five, is a person of interest in the matter of the Christmas night death of William Sullivan. A police spokesman emphasized that Lalonde is not a suspect at this time, but he may possess relevant information. He was last seen in New York City but now is believed to be in Boston or Salem. If you see him, call 911 or notify the Salem Police Department.”

  Thom’s picture faded away, and Palmer
moved on to another story. Aunt Ibby turned down the sound.

  “This looks very serious, Maralee,” she said. “The best thing that boy can do is turn himself in.”

  “I hope he will,” I said. “Kelly will be heartbroken over this.”

  When River North’s theme music, Danse Macabre, issued faintly from the TV, Aunt Ibby turned the volume up.

  I watched and listened as River smoothly introduced her show and then leaned toward the camera, eyes sparkling. “Before I take your calls, dear friends of the dark, I want to tell you about tomorrow night’s very special show. You will be privileged to witness something few ever see. A coven of Salem witches will gather at the scene of one of our city’s most haunted places.” She paused, and the camera pulled closer. “You all know about the lady in white. She has appeared to many over the past decades. This gentle spirit haunts the building once known as Trumbull’s Department Store in downtown Salem.”

  River’s voice dropped dramatically. “The coven, of which I am a fortunate member, will attempt to free the spirit from whatever earthly bonds hold her here. We believe that the lady in white is Tabitha Trumbull. Watch my program tomorrow night, dear friends, and see for yourself a possible miracle. Blessed be.”

  She returned to the regular programming format, and my aunt once again lowered the volume. “River’s viewership tomorrow night will be enormous,” she said.

  “That’ll be good for River and the station,” I said. “And if they can pull this off, I guess it’ll be good for Tabitha Trumbull.”

  “I’m hoping they can send Tabitha away forever,” my aunt said. “That’ll be good for you.”

  “I wonder if she’ll have time before she leaves to show me what she wants me to do about the keys.” I made my tone light, but I was deadly serious.

  CHAPTER 28

  The atmosphere around the Tabby felt electric the next day. Word of the event had spread far beyond WICH-TV’s coverage area, and mobile units from Boston and Worcester were already in the parking lot when I arrived in the morning. The usual contingent of protesters had positioned themselves across the street from the school, waving signs bearing slogans like “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

  Inside the building roving reporters with cameras and microphones interviewed people at random, and in a school where much of the student body had stage or screen aspirations, the attention couldn’t have been more welcome.

  Mr. Pennington had stationed himself on the mezzanine landing, in front of the founder’s portrait, and was shaking hands with everyone he could reach. It was not an environment conducive to study, but I had a plan B in mind for my group. I pulled five spiral-bound notebooks from the supply cabinet and handed them out, along with ballpoint pens. “We can’t lick ’em today, so we might as well join ’em,” I told my group. “You’re going to be reporters. Go on out there and ask questions. Find out what people think about what’s going to happen here at midnight.”

  “Do I have to do it?” Duke asked. “I’m not going to the thing. There are no such things as witches and warlocks, and I think you’re all nuts.”

  “If you’re afraid, Duke, I can make you an amulet to keep the witches and ghosts away from you,” Therese offered, all dimples and smiles. “And we don’t say warlocks. They’re all called witches. Come with us. It’s going to be fun.”

  Duke didn’t answer, just pulled his Stetson lower and accepted a notebook.

  Overnight Primrose had changed from pinstripe-suited government agent back to her miniskirted self. She took off, her platform boots with four-inch-high heels clattering down the stairs. Kelly, still subdued, tucked her notebook under one arm and followed Therese into the elevator.

  Alone at my desk, except for the intermittent parade of Tabby students, guests, and members of the press passing by, I propped up a textbook, pretending to read. I wasn’t aware how long I’d been hiding behind the book, thoughts wandering, when I felt, rather than heard or saw, a sudden shift in the atmosphere. I walked over to the stairwell leading to the lobby, trying to figure out what was different, why the vibes in the place had changed suddenly.

  Mr. Pennington came over to where I stood. “Do you know what’s going on, Ms. Barrett? All the media people are leaving. Look at that!” He pointed toward the glass doors, where cameramen and reporters were pushing one another out of the way in their efforts to get outside. From the parking lot came the rumble of trucks and cars starting. “Something very peculiar is happening here.”

  “No, sir,” I told him. “Something is happening away from here.” I’d worked at enough TV stations to know that a mass media exit like this one almost always meant that a better story was going on somewhere else. “Come on. Let’s turn on the TV and see what it is.”

  I clicked on the TV and the giant flat-screen behind the news desk glowed. A BREAKING NEWS banner flashed green across the top of a picture of Jonathan Wilson. An announcer’s voice boomed from the Tabby’s taxpayer-funded state-of-the-art speaker system.

  “Popular Salem city councilor Jonathan Wilson is dead at the age of fifty-three. His body was found this morning near a popular waterfront tavern. Foul play is suspected, and a possible suspect is being detained for questioning. Stay tuned for details as they become available.”

  Primrose McDonald’s scream could be heard throughout the building.

  A small group had joined us in front of the TV. Primrose, her boots clicking loudly on the polished floor, pushed Mr. Pennington aside and, sobbing, reached across the desk, as though trying to touch Wilson’s image on the screen. “No!” she screamed. “No!” She slumped forward, and I put both arms around her, pulling her away from the desk and guiding her to a chair.

  “Primrose,” I said. “Shhh. Here, sit down.” Racking sobs shook her body. A crowd had begun to gather, some glued to the television, most staring at the crying woman. I looked at Mr. Pennington. “Help me get her out of here. Can we take her to your office?”

  “Of course. Certainly.” With one of us on each side, we guided her toward the elevator. With an officious wave of his hand, Mr. Pennington cleared everyone out of our way, and within seconds we were riding up to the second floor.

  By the time we reached the director’s office, Primrose had grown quiet, except for a tiny whimpering sound. We seated her in the swivel chair behind the desk. She stared straight ahead as I held her hand.

  “You’d better get back there and keep things in order,” I told Mr. Pennington. “I’ll stay with Primrose.”

  “Should I send for a doctor?” he asked. “Will she be all right?”

  “I’ll take care of her,” I assured him. “We’ll be fine.”

  As soon as the door had closed, Primrose began to talk.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he? Jonathan is dead, and it’s my fault. I never should have involved him. I should have left the damned letters there, and none of this would have happened.”

  I squeezed her hand, struggling to find words to comfort her. “We don’t know what’s happened, Primrose. Surely, you can’t blame yourself.”

  “My fault,” she said again. “My fault for going to him when I found them. I thought he’d be impressed. Thought he’d think I was smart.”

  “You are smart, Primrose,” I said. “I’m sure nothing you found could have caused this.”

  “Hundreds of them,” she whispered. “She must have sent them to him for years.”

  “Hundreds of letters? To Jonathan?”

  That brought a disdainful look. “No. Not to Jonathan. To the president!”

  “The president? I don’t understand.”

  She sighed. “The letters were from Tabitha Trumbull. To President Roosevelt. There was a whole file drawer full of them right there in the FDR library research room. If anyone had ever bothered to read them, they would have known about it.”

  “About what?”

  “The gold. The goddamned gold.” She began to cry again.

  Tabitha. Roosevelt. Gold. Puzzle pieces began to
click together.

  “Shhh. Please don’t cry so, Primrose. Tell me about the letters.”

  “I was up there on an assignment for the National Archives and Records Administration, to help with sorting out some files.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and sat up straight. “Lee, did you know they save all that stuff people write to presidents? They just stick it all in file folders, and it winds up in gigantic file drawers in their libraries after they’re dead.”

  “Go on.”

  “I knew about my friend’s book project, so I started to read some of the president’s personal mail. There was a big stack of letters from somebody named Tabitha Trumbull.”

  “A big stack of them?”

  “Right, and they all started out like regular fan letters. That’s probably why nobody bothered to read them to the end.” She gave a short laugh. “Tabitha put all the good stuff at the end of hers. And I had to be the one to find them.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Oliver Wendell Trumbull was hoarding gold. Big-time. And Tabitha knew where it was. So she ratted him out to the president. Nobody was supposed to have gold back then, you know.” Then she laughed out loud. “And the president never got the message. Hundreds of times she tried to tell him, and he never got the message.”

  I was beginning to get it. “What happened to the gold?”

  “Don’t you see? Tabitha stole it. So she could save it for President Roosevelt.”

  “But he never got it. The president never got the gold.”

  “Nope. Neither did anybody else. It’s still wherever she hid it.” A terrified look came into her brown eyes. “Jonathan must have gotten too close. And now he’s dead.”

  A gentle knock sounded at the office door.

  Damn. What a bad time to be interrupted.

  “Who is it?” I snapped. “We’re busy.”