Grave Errors

by Carol J. Perry

  I retrieved my laptop from the bedroom and poured myself a cup of nice fresh coffee. O’Ryan hopped up onto the counter and lay down, paws curled up under his chin so that he had a good view of the screen. I tried the obvious first. Googled James Dow. I found one person by that name—a sixty-five-year-old house painter in Connecticut. I was pretty sure he wasn’t the one I was looking for. Tried Jim Dow, Jimmy Dow, J. Dow. Facebook had the house-painter and seventeen-year-old Jimmy. O’Ryan moved closer to the screen, switched his tail against it once or twice and I was back to screen saver—a nice view of Rockport Harbor in winter.

  “I guess you figure this is a waste of time,” I said, looking directly into those golden eyes.

  He didn’t blink. “Meh,” he said, and headed for his windowsill perch. I decided that he was probably right—he so often is—closed up the laptop, topped off my cup and joined him at the window.

  The sun had set and a rising pale moon gave just enough wan light to turn our backyard into a strangely unfamiliar place. A tall row of alien beings with round heads and grasping, misshapen arms reached for one another. At their feet a long, dark sprawling mass undulated in the evening breeze like a fat serpent and, atop the weathered fence separating our yard from the neighbors’, a lone gray cat crouched in stalking posture. Nearby, an owl hooted. At the sound, the cat leapt to the ground activating solar motion detector lamps. The aliens once again became sunflowers and the fearsome snake turned into Aunt Ibby’s kitchen garden of basil, rosemary and cilantro. The cat, no longer gray, but white, disappeared over the fence.

  O’Ryan gave my elbow a friendly lick, cocked his head to one side and fixed me with that golden-eyed stare once again. “I suppose you’re telling me there’s a deeper meaning here,” I said. Another lick. “Things aren’t always what they appear to be. Right?” A bob of the fuzzy head. “Aliens and snakes can be your friends?”

  He closed his eyes, stuck out his tongue and said, “Meh.”

  “Okay,” I said, thinking of the white cat. “How about a quote from Ben Franklin—‘When all candles be out, all cats be gray’?”

  He seemed to like that one, rewarded me with another lick, then apparently through with the subject, hopped down and headed for his water bowl. I didn’t bother to explain that Franklin was talking about bedding older women.

  The idea that things aren’t always what they appear to be wasn’t a new concept for me. The reflections—the visions—whatever they are and wherever the damned things come from—very often show me conflicting scenes. Somehow those scenes eventually turn on some kind of mental solar lighting and begin to make sense.

  The stupid green-handled trowel is one of those I guess. Along with the dead woman in the bathtub.

  I didn’t want to think about either one just then. Anyway, it was time for the baseball game. Opting for more comfortable seating and a much bigger screen, O’Ryan and I headed down the short hall to the living room. I plumped up a couple of throw pillows and got settled on the couch while the cat curled up on the seat of the zebra print wing chair. I know O’Ryan likes watching baseball but I’ve never been sure whether he’s a Sox fan or not.

  One thing about watching a Red Sox game, especially a home game, especially when playing the Yankees, is that it’s rarely boring. This one was no exception. Tied three to three at the end of nine, by eleven o’clock the game went into extra innings.

  My phone rang.

  Not taking my eyes from the screen, I answered. “Hello?”

  “You watching this?” Pete asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Mind if I come over after the game?”

  Silly question!

  “I don’t mind one bit. Bring some ice cream. We’ll celebrate when the Sox win.”

  He didn’t question the assumption of the home team win. “Chocolate?”

  What a guy. I knew he preferred vanilla, but chocolate is my favorite. “How about we compromise with fudge ripple?”

  “Perfect. See you in a few.”

  Pedroia quickly settled the Red Sox–Yankees question with a home run for the Sox in the tenth and within twenty minutes Pete arrived with the promised ice cream. I’d already put a pair of vintage tulip-shaped ice cream dishes on the kitchen table along with a plate of Aunt Ibby’s version of Tabitha Trumbull’s “Cowboy Cookies”—oatmeal cookies with a chocolate chip twist—and started a fresh pot of coffee.

  We shared a prolonged kiss—but stopped the action there—just short of risking melted ice cream. I scooped the lovely stuff into the footed containers, added some hot fudge sauce and a hefty squirt of Reddi Wip while Pete poured the coffee. We faced one another across the Lucite table, clicked our mugs in a silent toast, enjoying the moment. O’Ryan had returned to his window seat, so we were almost alone.

  “How was your day?” he asked. “Any more cemetery trips?”

  I smiled. “Not yet, but I’m sure there’ll be plenty more before this project gets finished. Yours?”

  “Nothing much out of the ordinary,” he said. “Oh. I did a little more checking into that case you were asking about. The girl in the bathtub.”

  I put down my spoon. “Really? Learn anything new?”

  “Not really. The pills in her stomach matched the pills in a bottle in her bedroom. A bottle with her name on it.”

  “Do you know what kind of pills they were? Did you talk to her doctor?”

  He picked up a cookie. “These are great. Tabitha’s?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Go on.”

  “A pretty common sleeping pill. One of the kind you see on TV. You know, ‘ask your doctor if blah blah medicine would be good for you.’ I didn’t talk to her doctor but the M.E. did. Her doc had prescribed them because she complained that she wasn’t sleeping well. No big deal.”

  “No big deal? The woman is dead.”

  “You know what I mean. Anyway, she hadn’t taken a lot of them. But she was a small person and if you’re not used to that kind of drug, mixing it with booze is a bad idea.”

  “Was she drunk? Her boss’s wife said that she followed Emily home in her own car that night because she was worried about her driving.”

  Pete frowned. “Who told you that?”

  “Her sister. Dorothy Alden.”

  “Did you get Dorothy’s number for me? I’d like to talk to her.”

  “I did.” I reached for my phone and he reached for his notebook. I read off the number and Pete copied it down. It occurred to me that I’ve been watching Pete write things in a little brown notebook for a couple of years now. It couldn’t be the same notebook.

  “You must have a lot of those little notebooks full of notes and numbers. Do you save them all?”

  He colored slightly. “I do. They’re all in a bottom drawer in my desk at the station. Guess I’m kind of a packrat that way.”

  “Do you ever refer back to any of them?”

  “Once in a while I do,” he admitted. “Not very often. But,” he added, frowning, “I think I might check back a couple of months after I talk to your Dorothy.”

  “Back to when you found Emily in the bathtub?”

  “Yup. As far as the department is concerned, it’s a closed case—an accident—and I agree. But you’re uneasy about it so I’ll check into it. Okay?” He reached for my hand. “Got any more of that ice cream?”

  CHAPTER 10

  In the morning my refrigerator yielded nothing the least bit interesting so I invited Pete to join me at the Tabby Diner for breakfast.

  “Good idea,” he said. “Do you think Dorothy will be there?”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised. Are you going to ask her about Emily’s boss’s wife following her home that night?”

  “Maybe. I’d like to meet her anyway, and the rest of the class too. Sounds like an interesting group.”

  “So far they seem to mesh well. Four girls and two guys. Ages from nineteen to over sixty.”

  “Over sixty? Your class last year was a lot younger.”

  “The girls
are all younger than me. The old-timers are the twins. A pair of ex-Boston cops, Ray and Roger Temple.”

  “Cops, huh? Can’t stay away from ’em, can you?” He laughed.

  I gave him a punch in the arm and we started down the back stairs. “I’m going to leave Aunt Ibby a note,” I said, picking up the pencil-on-a-string hanging from the wooden “leave-a-note” pad next to her kitchen door. “Gone to breakfast with Pete,” I scribbled. “See what you can dig up on a James Dow or Downey or Dow-something. He may be in real estate.”

  I followed Pete to the backyard where he’d parked his unmarked Crown Vic. “The twins drive a car just like yours too,” I said. “But I have to admit, you’re a little bit better looking than they are.”

  “Glad you think so.” Smiling, Pete climbed into his car and I opened the garage and backed the ’vette out onto Oliver Street. It’s one-way so he followed me down to Bridge Street. I slowed down a little as we passed the Howard Street Cemetery. I’d driven past it hundreds, maybe thousands of times during the years I’d lived in Salem, but now I looked at the place with new eyes. Three hundred graves?

  Three hundred stories.

  I tried to stop thinking about dead people, touched the gas pedal and turned up Washington Street to the Tabby’s parking lot, with Pete close behind me. I parked in my designated staff spot. Pete wheeled into a space at the far corner of the lot and we entered the diner together through the Essex Street front door.

  I looked around the long room. The others hadn’t arrived yet so we sat at the counter and ordered coffee rather than take up a whole booth during the busy breakfast hours. The twins were the first of my group to appear. They joined us at the counter and I introduced them to Pete. As might be expected, there was an instant rapport evident between them. Some kind of cop brotherhood thing I guessed.

  Therese showed up next, via the door connecting the diner to the school. Therese lived in the Tabby’s dorm during the school year and spent vacations with her parents in Boston. “Hi Lee, Pete,” she said. “I got up at sunrise and got some cemetery shots. Had to jump the fence to get in, but there was this real nice early morning mist hanging over all the graves. Spooky!”

  “Good for you, Therese.” I said. “You probably should have waited for the gates to be open, but you’re getting to be quite the expert with the camera.”

  “Thanks. I think I’ve found my ‘career path.’ My parents are ecstatic. They credit you with my newfound ambition. Of course they don’t know about that other thing yet.”

  (The “other thing” was their daughter’s involvement in witchcraft and I certainly didn’t take any credit for that.)

  “Hilda and Shannon are right behind me,” she said, “and I saw Dorothy walking down the street a little way. I’m going to grab that big back booth for us. Come and join us if you want to.” She tapped Roger’s shoulder. “You too, guys.”

  Pete lifted his cup. “You go ahead with Therese. I’ll pay for our coffees and be right behind you.”

  I reached the back booth just as Dorothy entered through the front door. I’d never thought about it before, but gray suede Mukluk boots with cable knitted tops look great with tight jeans and a white turtleneck on a cool fall morning. With her straight brown hair and scrubbed clean complexion Dorothy looked really pretty. I waved to her. “Come join us,” I called and she slid into the seat opposite me.

  Hilda and Shannon came in through the side door and within minutes we were all seated except for the twins, who chose to remain at the counter—Ray reading the Boston Globe and Roger studying The Wall Street Journal.

  Pete was the last to reach our booth and he took the seat next to Dorothy. I introduced him to the group and there were greetings and handshakes all around. He turned to Dorothy and spoke softly—not in his cop voice at all. “I’m sorry about your sister,” he said. “I guess Lee must have told you that I was one of the investigators on the case.”

  Dorothy’s eyes widened, puzzled. I probably looked surprised too. It hadn’t even occurred to me to mention Pete’s job to her.

  She did not look pleased. “No. She didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “We haven’t had much opportunity to discuss each other’s—um—relationships.”

  “That’s okay,” Dorothy held up one hand. “I understand.” She faced Pete. “Has she talked to you about Emily?”

  The others had stopped talking among themselves and Dorothy’s question sort of hung there in the air, becoming the focus of attention at the table. The appearance of our waitress with her order pad ready was a welcome diversion, as Shannon, Hilda and Therese made their choices. I stuck with the small cheese Danish and more coffee.

  Pete’s cop voice was activated. “Actually there are a few loose ends I’d like to tie up if you’d be willing to talk to me about it.”

  Dorothy ordered bacon, scrambled eggs and hash browns before she answered. “Okay. When and where?”

  “I’ll call you,” he said, and ordered pancakes and sausage.

  Therese glanced back and forth between Dorothy, Pete and me, cocked her head to one side and asked, “Who’s Emily?”

  I hadn’t thought about it until that moment, but it was evident that Dorothy hadn’t talked about her dead sister to anyone in the class except me. The newspaper report weeks ago was vague enough, ordinary enough, and the name “Alden” common enough, to have gone unnoticed. It certainly had slipped past me.

  Pete looked confused. “Uh-oh,” he said. “Sorry if I spoke out of turn. I thought . . .”

  “It’s okay.” Dorothy shook her head. “My fault. I probably should have said something. But when your sister dies . . . like that . . . you don’t want to talk about it.” She shrugged. “And I don’t know any of you really well yet.” The brown eyes were misty.

  Shannon brought both hands to her mouth. “Your sister died? Oh my God, Dorothy. That’s terrible. What happened?”

  Hilda reached over and touched Dorothy’s arm. “You don’t have to say anything at all. Maybe later you’ll want to. Just know please that we’re all your friends.”

  “That’s right,” Therese echoed, frowning in Shannon’s direction. “Let’s talk about something else. Did everybody watch the game last night?”

  Not everybody had, but it was enough of a subject change to clear the air. Our breakfasts arrived quickly and the normal before-class topics of conversation proceeded as though death—outside of the Howard Street Cemetery—had not been mentioned.

  Pete had to leave before the rest of us had finished our meals. He excused himself from the table, said good-bye to the group, told Dorothy he’d be in touch, whispered to me, “I’m off tonight. Call you later, babe,” paused at the counter for a word with the twins and left the diner.

  Shannon watched Pete’s departing back, then turned to me. “Wow, Ms. Barrett—can I call you Lee? He’s so cute. Is he your boyfriend?”

  I laughed. “Yes, to both questions.”

  “Speaking of cute guys, Shannon,” Hilda teased, “did you talk to Blue-Eyes yet?”

  “Not yet, but his first name is Dakota. Isn’t that sexy?” Everyone agreed that Dakota was a suitable name for such a handsome specimen.

  We finished our food and, together, entered the Tabby through the side door. Roger and Ray were already in the classroom, sitting in their accustomed seats, watching the WICH-TV morning news on the monitor behind the news desk. Carefully avoiding looking at the black shoe, I sat at my desk and shuffled through the stack of notes I’d accumulated on cemeteries, ghosts, sugar skulls and more.

  I’d never assigned specific seats, pretty much letting everyone sit wherever they felt comfortable. Therese liked sitting behind the news desk and Shannon, Hilda and Dorothy had chosen desks behind the twins, facing the giant screen. Scott Palmer, the station’s field reporter, was doing a stand-up from what appeared to be a clearing in some sort of forest. There were several other people behind him in the shot. I’d worked with him back when I was doing the late sh
ow at WICH-TV, but he wasn’t one of my favorite people. Scott was using what I used to call his “big network” voice so this must be something significant.

  “Want to turn the sound up a tad, Roger?” I asked. “That looks like the mayor there on the right. Let’s see what’s going on.”

  Roger obliged.

  “The Salem Wildwood Plaza promises to be one of the North Shore’s most modern, most beautiful shopping malls,” Scott intoned. “And it will surely be one of the largest.”

  “Oh boy!” Shannon said. “A new mall right here in Salem. Awesome!”

  “Where is he broadcasting from?” Hilda squinted at the screen. “Is that the big section of woods over near the Beverly Bridge? I always thought it was some kind of national park or bird sanctuary or something like that. Nobody ever goes in there.”

  “No real roads,” I said. “Just trails. I think hunters and bird watchers use it. Not many lights around there, so the road that runs beside it has always been ‘lover’s lane’ at night for Salem kids with cars. My aunt took me on a nature walk there one day when I was a kid. A bee stung me and I got poison oak.” I frowned at the memory. “Never went back.”

  “Who’s the woman with the mayor?” Therese asked.

  “Don’t know.” I moved to a seat beside Ray and looked closely at the screen. “Palmer’s probably going to introduce both of them though.”

  I was right about that. Scott introduced the mayor first and she gave a glowing description of the wonder of modern merchandising soon to come from the area that generations of Salem kids had called “the wild woods.” Hence the name Wildwood Plaza I assumed.

  I looked up when Dorothy slid into the seat beside me.

  “That’s her,” she whispered hoarsely. “I only met her once but I’m sure that’s her.”