Caught Dead Handed (31 page)

Keep reading for
An excerpt from the next book in
The Witch City Mystery series
Available Winter 2015
From
Carol J. Perry
And Kensington Books

It was the first white Christmas I'd seen in a long time. My recent winter holidays had featured lighted boat parades, palm trees, beach volleyball, and lawn flamingos decked out in Santa hats. But New England Christmases were the ones I'd grown up with, and Florida seemed very far away from Salem, Massachusetts.

I'd pulled a big wing chair up close to the window overlooking Winter Street as snow swirled in bright halos around the streetlamps and tree lights cast colorful dots onto wind-sculpted drifts. Snow-muffled church bells rang, calling the faithful to evensong at St. Peter's, just a few blocks away. O'Ryan was stretched out full length on the carpet beside me, tummy up, eyes squeezed shut, a cat smile on his face, large yellow paws clutching a damp purple catnip mouse.

I'm Lee Barrett, née Maralee Kowolski, thirty-one, red-haired, Salem born, orphaned early, married once, and widowed young. I'd been living in Florida for the past ten years, and since I'd returned to Salem a few months back, my aunt Isobel Russell and I had been sharing the fine old family home on Winter Street . . . the same house where she'd raised me after my parents died.

I'd been working in television, one way or another, ever since I graduated from Emerson College. So far I'd been a weather girl, a home shopping – show host, and even a phone-in TV psychic. That last gig, a brief stint at Salem's cable station WICH-TV, was on a show called
Nightshades.
I dressed up like a Gypsy and, in between scary old movies, pretended to read minds, find lost objects, and otherwise know the unknowable. I'd been hired as a last-minute replacement for the previous host, Ariel Constellation, a practicing Salem witch who apparently could
really
do all that psychic stuff. Unfortunately, I'd been the one who'd discovered Ariel's body floating facedown in Salem Harbor.

Not an auspicious start for a new job.

It didn't end well, either. Ariel's killer set a fire that pretty much destroyed the top two floors of our house, and if it hadn't been for O'Ryan's timely intervention, Aunt Ibby and I might not be around to celebrate Christmas.

After the unpleasant publicity,
Nightshades
was canceled and I was once again unemployed. We're set well enough financially so that being between jobs wasn't a major problem, but I prefer being busy.

On a positive note, I was sure that when my sixty-something, ball-of-energy aunt got through redesigning the entire upstairs and driving contractors and decorators nuts, the upper stories of the house would once again be livable and we could stop tripping over paint cans and fabric samples and wallpaper books.

I angled the wing chair a little to the right so that I could watch for headlights rounding the corner onto Winter Street. Not just any headlights. I was hoping for a Christmas night visit from a special friend. Well, maybe Detective Pete Mondello had become quite a bit more than just a friend . . . but I was trying to move slowly in that area of my life.

My aunt Ibby appeared in the doorway, bearing a tray with two chintz-patterned cups and a matching teapot.

“You and O'Ryan certainly look comfortable. Ready for a spot of tea?”

“Sounds good,” I said, returning the chair to its original position. “I was just enjoying watching the snow. It's been a long time.”

“Too long.” She placed the tray on the antique drum table between us and sat in the wing chair facing mine. “And at last you're home for Christmas.”

She filled our cups with fragrant jasmine tea, and we tapped them together in a toast.

“Here's to the end of a strange year,” she said. “And let's hope that the next one is a lot less stressful.”

“Amen,” I said. “I'll drink to that.”

Aunt Ibby smiled and gestured toward the sleeping cat. “Looks as though O'Ryan is enjoying his Christmas mouse.”

O'Ryan opened one eye and rolled over, still hugging the mouse. “He loves it,” I said. “And he seems to have quite a catnip buzz going on.”

“Pete will be pleased that his gift was such a big hit,” she said. “Too bad he couldn't have joined us for dinner.”

We'd had the usual holiday houseful of relatives and friends for the festive meal, but the gathering snowstorm had sent them all home early.

“He spent the day at his sister's, but he said he'd try to stop by later.”

“I'll bet a little snow won't keep him away,” she said with a knowing smile.

I turned my chair just enough so that I could still see the headlights on any car turning onto Winter Street. It wasn't often that Pete had a holiday off, and I was pretty sure he'd want to spend at least part of it with me . . . snow or no snow. We'd already exchanged Christmas gifts. I hadn't wanted to give him anything too personal at this early stage of our relationship, so I'd decided on a pair of tickets for good seats at an upcoming Bruins hockey game. His gift to me, a vintage brooch with an oval miniature painting of a yellow cat, was pinned to the deep V-neck of my white silk blouse. I wore dark green velvet jeans and had tucked a sprig of holly into random red curls escaping from my attempt at a French twist.

“You know, Maralee,” Aunt Ibby said, “I have a very good feeling about the New Year. The house is coming along beautifully, and the fact that you're going to start January with a good deed for the community is an excellent omen.”

“An
omen?
” I laughed. “Maybe you've watched too many episodes of
Nightshades!
”

My aunt was a recent, and still pretty skeptical, believer in things paranormal. We both had reason to know, though, that some things were just beyond our understanding. O'Ryan was an outstanding example of that knowledge. The handsome cat, snoozing happily at our feet, had once been Ariel Constellation's pet . . . some said her “familiar.” As many folks in Salem will testify, a witch's familiar is far from being an ordinary house cat!

She shrugged. “Well, omen or not, your volunteering to help out at the new school will be such a blessing for the students.”

“I hope so,” I said. “I'm looking forward to it.”

The Tabitha Trumbull Academy for the Arts was due to open just after the start of the New Year, and I'd been invited to be a guest instructor. The school was located in the sprawling old building that had once housed Trumbull's Department Store in downtown Salem. The store had been closed since the sixties and had been slated for demolition until government grants and an historical site designation had saved it from the wrecker's ball. Already dubbed The Tabby, the school would soon be bustling with the activities of aspiring dancers, poets, painters, actors, and, in my department, television performers and producers.

“Your mother and I used to go to Trumbull's with your Grandmother Russell when we were little girls,” Aunt Ibby said. “We loved it. There was a grand staircase to the second floor with wide bannisters. I always wanted to slide down on one.”

“Did you ever do it?”

“No, I never did.”

“Now that I'm officially an instructor at The Tabby, I'll give you permission to slide whenever you want to.”

O'Ryan's ears perked up, and yawning, he stood, stretched, and trotted toward the front hall.

“Someone's coming,” Aunt Ibby said. “O'Ryan always knows before we do.”

She was right. The gleam of headlights glinted on the frosted windowpane as a car rounded the corner from Washington Square.

“It's probably Pete,” I said. When the door chime sounded, I followed O'Ryan into the hall and opened the front door. Pete Mondello stood there, smiling, hatless, holding a huge poinsettia plant under one arm while fat snowflakes fell all around him.

“Brrr. Cold out there.” He hurried inside, pulled me close for a quick hug with his free arm, and stamped his feet on the woven rope mat. “Merry Christmas, Lee,” he said, tossing his coat onto a hook on the tall hall tree. “You look good.”

“You look good, too,” I said, brushing a snowflake from his dark hair. An understatement. He looked wonderful. “How was your Christmas?”

“Fun,” he said, bending to stroke O'Ryan's head. “My sister's kids had a ball opening presents.”

“So did O'Ryan,” I told him. “He had the wrapping off of his purple mouse before we were up this morning. He's been playing with it all day. I think he's still a little bit drunk. Come on inside and get warm.”

Aunt Ibby greeted Pete with a welcoming smile, a “Merry Christmas, Pete,” and an offer of pumpkin pie.

He patted perfectly flat abs, claiming he'd already eaten too much, wished her a Merry Christmas, and handed her the poinsettia.

“Thank you, dear. It's lovely.” She placed the plant on the sideboard and stood back to admire the effect. “Pete, I was just telling my niece about the old Trumbull's Department Store.”

“I've seen pictures of it,” he said, “but I've never been inside.”

“It was a beautiful store. All those gleaming hardwood floors and racks of the latest clothes, a great big book department, hardware and notions and linens and toys and jewelry and just about anything a person might want. There was a player piano on the mezzanine floor landing, and a man in a tuxedo played the popular tunes all day. But I guess the old stores just couldn't compete with the malls.”

“I'm sure it looks quite different now,” Pete said. “Empty.”

“I guess it must,” I said. “The school director, Rupert Pennington, says a lot of the old fixtures will be moved out by the time school starts. My classes will be in the old shoe department.”

“I always got my back-to-school shoes at Trumbull's,” my aunt said, reminiscing. “I wonder if the old bentwood chairs are still there. Thonet, I think.”

“I've heard the city plans to reuse as much of the furniture and fixtures as they can,” I said, “and some of the things will go to auction. A country store up in Vermont has already bid on the curved glass counters and old thread cases and wooden millinery stands.”

“I suppose some of that old store stuff is pretty valuable these days,” Pete said.

My aunt nodded. “Maralee, do you remember our handyman, Mr. Sullivan? He and his son were working on taking some of the smaller pieces to a storage locker today. On Christmas.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“Mrs. Sullivan is one of my Facebook friends. The men went to work right after dinner. She's not pleased. She seems concerned about them working there after dark.”

“I remember being afraid to walk past the Trumbull's building at night,” I said. “All the kids said it was haunted.”

“I've heard those stories, too,” Pete said. “Something about a lady in white in the upstairs window and strange lights flickering on and off. Down at the station they think it's just a trick the Trumbull family used to keep vandals away. I know they could never keep security guards very long.”

A slight buzzing sound interrupted us, and Pete reached into his pocket for his phone. “Oops. Sorry. I'll take this in the hall.”

When he came back into the room, his expression was serious. “Afraid I have to leave. Something's going on at your new school.”

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Don't know yet, exactly. Seems your Mr. Sullivan went down into the basement, and his son says he just disappeared. Never came back up the stairs.”

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

 

Kensington Publishing Corp.
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New York, NY 10018

 

Copyright © 2014 by Carol J. Perry

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

 

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

 

Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

ISBN: 978-1-6177-3369-7

First Kensington Mass Market Edition: September 2014

 

eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-370-3
eISBN-10: 1-61773-370-9
First Kensington Electronic Edition: September 2014