I thought about the dream. “No. It wasn’t a particularly good feeling. I felt, well, kind of detached about it, even though it was my house.”
“Interesting,” she said. “I think it could mean opening another door, a figural one, and learning that something you were sure was there, really isn’t.” Little sigh. “Sorry. That’s not much help is it? I’ll come over this weekend and read your cards if you want.”
I thanked her, told her I’d let her know about the offered reading. The Tarot can be just as confusing as the visions and I was confused enough as it was.
Something I’m sure exists really doesn’t.
I thanked her again. “The more I think about it, River, the more I think that second explanation might be the right one.”
“You do? Good. You’ll let me know when you figure it out, won’t you?”
I promised I would and said good-bye. I stayed around for Wanda’s weather forecast. Cloudy and cold for the rest of the week. More snow coming later.
I drove home slowly and carefully and thought some more about what River had told me.
Something I’m sure exists really doesn’t. It was a thought both comforting and frightening. I shook it away and concentrated on the road.
I could see my lighted bay window from Oliver Street even before I’d reached the house. Pete had fixed up an automatic timer so that the lights turned on at sunset. Beautiful! I parked, locked the garage, and still admiring my tree in the window, picked my way along the path which by then had a light coating of snow. O’Ryan had ventured outside, via the cat door, and waited for me on the back steps. I received the usual welcoming purrs and meows and once again, picked him up and carried him inside. “Your bottom must be cold, cat,” I told him. “Thanks for coming outside for me in the snow.” I put him down as I passed the laundry room. He ran ahead of me and started up the stairs.
“Is that you, Maralee?” my aunt called from inside her kitchen. “O’Ryan has been pacing the floor waiting for you. Is he out there with you?”
“He was,” I answered. “He’s already on his way up to my place.”
She opened her door and peeked out. “He seems anxious about something.”
“He does? Seemed like his old sweet self to me. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“Good. He’s been going up and down the front stairs, in your kitchen cat door, out the back one, and back in through mine.”
“Sounds to me like some kind of new kitty game he’s thought up. I’ll keep an eye on him,” I promised again, and started up the narrow, twisty staircase to home, cat, and Christmas tree.
As soon as I stepped into the living room, I realized that something was amiss. Colorful bulbs still shone, the golden cat still gleamed in their reflected glow. But beneath the tree, where I hoped to see presents piled soon, were several scattered ornaments. I looked around the room for the only suspect.
O’Ryan sat in the zebra print chair, calmly grooming his luxurious whiskers like some kind of feline Hercule Poirot. I pointed to the evidence. “Did you do this?”
He gave me his round-eyed “who, me?” look and proceeded to lick his right paw and begin his ear-washing ablutions.
“You’re a naughty boy,” I muttered, tossing my jacket, purse, and the bag containing mittens and pig onto the couch and bending to pick up the cast-off trinkets. “Look at this!” I scolded. “I got this plastic Santa Claus from my third-grade teacher, Miss White, for getting an A in drawing.”
(Cat switches paws and washes other ear. Ignores annoyed woman.)
I held another ornament aloft, this one enhanced with red glitter. “Oh, you are in big trouble, cat. I bought this on my first trip to New York, to see the Macy’s parade.” I had to scooch down and reach under the lowest branches of the tree to reach the Santa Claus in a convertible sports car. “Johnny gave me this. You are a terrible cat.” I sat on the floor and fought back tears. “This one was special. I’m really angry with you now.” I hurriedly scooped up the remaining three baubles on the floor and began hanging all of them back onto the tree. I looked back at the offending animal, who by then sat upright in the chair, regarding me with an unrepentant stare.
I looked at the tree, then at the ornament in my hand—a Santa riding on a pink flamingo—a souvenir from Sunken Gardens in St. Petersburg—then back at O’Ryan.
“Wait a minute. They’re all Santa Clauses.”
Still holding the flamingo Santa, I sat on the couch and faced the cat. “You weren’t just being naughty, were you? You’re trying to tell me—us—something.”
He crouched then, not breaking eye contact, and said what sounded surprisingly like “Duh.”
“Yeah. I know. I should have figured that out right away. But what? What about Santa Claus?”
Apparently through with the conversation, he stretched, jumped lightly down from his chair, and with an impudent flick of his tail, left the room via the cat door.
I replaced flamingo Santa on the tree, gathered up my belongings from the couch, and walked slowly down the hall to the kitchen. I hung up my jacket, put the presents on the bureau, then sat at the table in the chair next to the window and looked out into the darkness.
Santa Clauses, empty rooms, doors, more doors, Scrooge, Agatha Christie. Something I’m sure exists really doesn’t.
“Which all adds up to a big fat nothing,” I told myself. “So get up and do something useful.” I did. Two rolls of gift wrapping paper, one with Santa Clauses, one with snowmen, red and green crinkle ribbon, cellophane tape, gift tags, and boxes. I began wrapping presents to put under my tree.
CHAPTER 28
Isn’t it always the case? It starts around Halloween and increases in volume and frequency until by December it’s a pounding, constant din. Radio, television, newspapers, flashing neon signs, then 12 shopping days until Christmas! 11 . . . 10 . . . 9. It was getting awfully close.
Mr. Pennington’s play—Hercule Poirot’s Christmas—was scheduled for Saturday night. This was Friday and it was already sold out. Mr. Pennington gave me much more credit than I deserved for that. He thought the interview had worked PR magic. I knew better. The public has a short memory. Most playgoers wouldn’t connect the play with current events anyway, however similar in nature they might be. Murder onstage is a lot different than murder for real. I was positive about that from personal experience. However, Mr. Pennington had gifted me with two tickets which I gratefully accepted, deserved or not. Aunt Ibby had a freebie too.
At the station, Francine and I had been kept pretty busy with a steady stream of feel-good holiday presentations. I fed carrots to reindeer at a petting zoo and informed viewers that reindeer, also known as caribou, are the only members of the deer family in which both boy and girl reindeer have antlers. (News to me!) I interviewed a glass blower and I, along with the WICH-TV audience, learned how blown glass Christmas ornaments are made and I gained a new appreciation for my golden cat. We did an outdoor standup at the annual Santa Claus parade while children and adults alike cheered his arrival by fire truck. Then we did an indoor stand-up at the children’s ward at Salem Hospital where the same Santa delivered dolls and action figures to sick kids. There wasn’t a flag on his red hat, so I assumed he was a professional Santa, not one of the many volunteer veterans.
It appeared that the much anticipated lighted boat parade would take place as planned on Sunday night, weather permitting. Aunt Ibby wasn’t due to leave for London for a week yet, but her bags were already packed. I still had cards to address and packages to mail. That had to be top priority if they were going to get to their destinations by Christmas. Pete’s nephews had a hockey game in Beverly, so my Friday night would be free. I made myself a solemn promise to spend it taking care of all of the addressing, and to get to the post office first thing Saturday morning for mailing.
I set myself up a neat workstation on the Lucite table, making sure I had several good pens, a black Sharpie, a pile of “If It Fits It Ships” boxes, my address book, and pl
enty of holiday stamps. Packages first. That was the easy part. Then on to the cards. I’d bought two sets of fifty, hoping that would be plenty. I signed the first one, tucked it into an envelope, and wrote the address as neatly as I could. I thought about the stacks of cards Lilly Jeffry had addressed in that perfect cursive and tried even harder for neatness—if not beauty—on the second one. And the third. And all the way up to forty-nine. (It’s a good thing they include an extra envelope in those boxes. I messed up a couple of them toward the end.)
By ten-thirty I’d halfway finished the chore, vowing to start in November next year, cleaned up the kitchen table, and stacked cards and packages on the living room coffee table, ready to take to the post office in the morning.
Congratulating myself on a job well done, I put on my Lanz nightie, poured myself a glass of wine, told Alexa to shuffle Christmas carols, sat down with O’Ryan in the zebra chair, and admired my tree.
I don’t usually fall asleep sitting up, but that Friday night I did, and I had a dream about Christmas cards. I saw myself putting a stack of cards into a wire basket marked “outgoing.” I knew where I was in the dream. I saw the grandfather’s clock and the closed door to Albert E.’s office. I looked down at the envelope on top of the pile. What lovely handwriting.
I woke suddenly. Had the cat moved? Had there been a sound from outside? I don’t know. But on waking, I still had a clear picture of that envelope in my mind. All of it. I even saw the stamp with a red candle on it. I saw the complete address and the name of the company it was addressed to. Acme Plumbing. I know how fast dreams can disappear, so I grabbed the pen and scribbled the address onto that last envelope. Then I set my alarm for seven and O’Ryan and I went to bed.
In the morning I fixed my breakfast of orange juice, a Raspberry Toaster Strudel, and a cup of reheated coffee. I’ll grab a fresh cup at Dunkin Donuts on my way to the post office. In the living room I picked up the pile of red, white, and blue mailing packages, put the addressed envelopes into a canvas Wolf Hill Nurseries bag, and with car keys and wallet in jacket pockets started for the door. I noticed the unstamped envelope on the coffee table with its messy scrawled address.
What’s this?
A fuzzy version of the dream came back, not with detail, not with clarity, but enough so I remembered what I’d written and why I’d written it. The Acme Plumbing Company must be one of the companies Mr. Eldridge used. It was also the name on the white cargo van. The van bore no address or phone number. I’d found that odd at the time.
Maybe after I mail this stuff, I’ll just buzz on past there.
I thought about what Pete would say, but it was broad daylight on a Saturday morning. What could go wrong?
I stuffed the envelope into my pocket, held the door open for O’Ryan, and followed him down the stairs. He ducked into his own entrance to Aunt Ibby’s kitchen, and I went outdoors into a cold, sort of damp, New England winter morning. As I drove down Oliver Street with the heater cranked up I told myself once again how impractical my car is for winter in Salem—but then remembered how much fun it is all the rest of the year and decided not to worry about it. There was a line at the post office. (I’m not the only person around here who leaves card and package mailing until the last minute.) Everyone in the line was good natured about the wait and there were choruses of “Merry Christmas” and “Happy Holidays.” It was with a self-satisfied feeling that I handed over my missives, paid extra to get the packages to their destinations by Christmas, climbed back into my impractical but gorgeous vehicle, and drove to the nearest Dunkin Donuts drive-through.
I pulled the crumpled envelope with its all but indecipherable handwriting from my pocket. The address wasn’t far away, though it was in a neighborhood I wasn’t particularly familiar with. Salem is a big enough city so that even people who have lived here for many years occasionally find themselves in places they’ve never seen before. That’s what happened to me. It was a winding little side street. I drove slowly, watching for numbers on the buildings. There were several single homes and a couple of taller building which may have been apartment houses. Was this a wild goose chase? After all, I was basing this venture on a dream.
I finally spotted a mailbox with a number on it in front of one of the houses. It was an odd number, as was the number I’d written on the envelope. That meant I was at least looking on the correct side of the street. I slowed down some more and arrived at what appeared to be my destination. The small brown-shingled house with two large bay windows in the front was next to a vacant lot. The street number was posted over the door in tarnished metal numerals. It looked like a private home which had at some point been used as a small neighborhood store. There were even faint traces of letters that had once spelled out Salada Tea on one of the windows. I parked and looked up and down the street. Didn’t see any people around, though there were vehicles parked on both sides. Still, I thought twice about getting out of the car. Then, once again, I told myself, It’s broad daylight on Saturday morning. What can go wrong? I got out, locked the doors and approached the house. There was a lone dusty black valise in the Salada Tea window with various sizes and curvatures of white PVC pipe sticking out at odd angles along with a rusty pail containing assorted worn-looking wrenches and screwdrivers. A cardboard sign in the other window proclaimed ACME PLUMBING. I stepped into the covered entranceway between the bay windows and turned the knob. It didn’t budge so, shading my eyes with one hand, I peered through the multipaned window in the top half of the door.
There was a desk in there. And a chair. I didn’t see anything else. How very odd. I backed up for a moment, then looked in again. There was something on the floor just inside the door. Envelopes. Quite a few of them. Somebody in the Acme Plumbing Company hadn’t picked up their mail recently. Was it my imagination, or did one of those envelopes have a stamp with a red candle on it? Was what I could see of the address written in perfect cursive?
I didn’t have time to take a closer look. Maybe I’d been concentrating so hard that I wasn’t paying enough attention to my surroundings. The voice came from directly behind me. The man stood at the edge of the sidewalk, blocking my way out of the space between the windows.
“Can I help you, young lady?”
I turned and faced Richard McNally. He wasn’t smiling.
CHAPTER 29
“Are you looking for anyone in particular?” The man took a step closer.
It’s broad daylight on Saturday morning and I’m scared to death.
Think fast, I told myself. “Um, my name is Lee Barrett. I’m a reporter for WICH-TV.”
“Yes. I recognized you. How can I help you?” Still not smiling. Still blocking my exit.
“I, um, I wanted to apologize to a man who works for this company. I was working on a story and I guess I trespassed on his property. Well, I guess he’s not here.” I attempted a brave little smile of my own. “I’ll try to catch him later.” I wonder if I can squeeze past this guy without actually touching him.
“Oh. I get it now.” He nodded his head, still not moving away from me.
“You do?”
“The butterflies.”
Thank you, Scott Palmer. “Right,” I said. “The butterflies. Will you tell that man that I’m sorry if I startled him?”
He stepped aside then. “That was quite a story.”
“Yes. Well, you have a nice day.” I moved toward my car, reaching into my pocket for the keys.
“Wait a minute.” He touched my arm, ever so gently.
I froze. “What?” My voice sounded strange, even to me.
“What happened?”
“What happened?” I echoed.
“To the butterflies.”
Has Scott’s silly alibi become some kind of an urban legend already? This man is definitely not going to buy the Santa Claus ending.
Think fast. What becomes of wayward butterflies? A fifth-grade science class trip to Boston came to mind.
“I never did catch up with them,”
I said. “I heard that someone from the Museum of Science rescued them. Took them to their butterfly garden. Well, good-bye now. Merry Christmas.” I sprinted toward the car, hit the unlock button, and slid into my seat. I dared a look back. McNally stood just where I’d left him, still watching me, still not smiling. I restrained myself from burning rubber all the way down that strange little street.
I’d intended to do a little more shopping, but after my encounter with the real estate owner, all I wanted to do was go home. I passed the Salem Common, paying particular attention to the bandstand where the community Christmas tree glowed with color, even in the daylight, and where I couldn’t help picturing clusters of butterflies nestled among the branches. The squirrel lady was on her usual bench and dogs chased Frisbees, moms pushed strollers, several kite flyers took advantage of the brisk wind, and there was even one drone flyer there. All nice and normal.
I turned onto Winter Street, parked in front of the house, and hurried up the steps. I could already see O’Ryan peeking from the side window. I turned my key in the lock, welcoming the warm air and the scent from a basket of cinnamon-fragranced pinecones on the Sheraton table in the foyer. The cat greeted me with soft “merrous” and numerous trips in and out between my booted feet.
As I closed the door behind me O’Ryan darted through the archway into my aunt’s living room, then sat, just over the threshold and looked at me, head tilted. It was his “well, what are you waiting for” look.
“You want me to follow you, right?” I asked. He scooted across the room, past the Christmas tree, which had many more presents beneath it than mine did, and into the dining room. “Aunt Ibby? It’s me,” I called as we neared the kitchen. “O’Ryan invited me in.”
She stood beside the wide counter, wielding a pastry tube and swirling rich red frosting berries onto one of what looked like about a hundred cookies which already bore bright green holy leaves on white icing. “Come in, Maralee. I’m decorating Christmas cookies.”
Bells, Spells, and Murders Page 17