Caught Dead Handed (9 page)

The police cars were back, lights flashing, blocking the entrance to the parking lot. I climbed the granite stairs to the station's front door, entered the lobby, and began the slow elevator ride to the second floor. I pushed open the glass door.

“Rhonda? You here?”

“Over here. Jeez! Look at that, will ya?”

I circled the curved reception desk and joined Rhonda at the window. “What's going on out there? George and Scott took off like a couple of Indy cars.”

“Yep. They're both down there already. Camera rolling. See 'em?”

She pointed. Scott faced George's camera. But it was what was going on behind Scott, out in the harbor, that made me gasp.

“What is that? Who are they? My God, what are they doing?”

Just beyond the seawall, almost in a direct line from where I'd first seen Ariel's floating body, was a long, gray barge-like vessel. And along a low rail running the length of the thing stood a row of black-clad figures.

“Who are they?” I asked again, my voice dropping to a whisper. “It looks like they're throwing something in the water.”

“Herbs,” came Marty's voice from behind me. “Potions. Bats' wings. Eyes of newt. Who knows what the crazies are polluting the harbor with.”

“But why?” I couldn't take my eyes from the spectacle below.

“They look like witches,” Rhonda said. “Real witches.”

“It must be about Ariel somehow.” I tried to piece things together.

“It's her coven,” Marty announced. “Ariel was their queen.”

Marty's announcement just sort of hung there in the purple and turquoise atmosphere. Rhonda, eyes wide, gasped and brought both hands to her mouth. I focused my attention on the strange assemblage bobbing on the waves in their barge-like boat. Thoughts of Ariel, her pentagram ring on a broken finger, her crystals and books and the obsidian ball, crowded my mind.

What have I gotten myself into?

I broke the silence. “Are they filming this down there?” I looked toward the blank monitor behind Rhonda's desk. “Is it on the air?”

“Sure. I guess so. The noon news should be on.” The receptionist reached for a button on her console. The screen came to life, and Scott's voice, with the cries of seagulls in the background, filled the room.

“And what can you tell us about these . . . er . . . witches?” Scott stood in front of the now drooping yellow tape, facing a young woman. She wore a black robe, similar to those on the vessel-borne people in the background.

“Well,” she replied, “I belong to a different coven, but I knew Ariel. She was very important in the Wiccan community.”

“I see,” said Scott, not sounding as though he really did. “Is there a large Wiccan community here in Salem?”

She gave him a “you've got to be kidding” look. “In Salem? Sure. There are about two or three thousand of us living here. And naturally, near Halloween, a lot more come to visit.”

“Do you know what those folks out there”—he gestured toward the boat—“are doing exactly?”

“Yes. They're sanctifying the site of Ariel's crossing over.”

“Sanctifying? How?”

“With certain herbs and potions and spells. To help her cross over, you know. We're all trying to help, but it's so difficult.”

“Difficult? How so?”

“She won't be able to reach the light until whoever killed her is caught and punished.” She smiled. “To be honest, she probably doesn't want to.”

“Well, thank you for talking to us.” Scott ended the interview abruptly.

Don't end it there, dummy!
I wanted to shout at the screen.
Ask more questions! Ask her why she thinks Ariel doesn't want to reach the light—whatever that means.
I should have his job instead of this Gypsy masquerade. It should be me down there talking to a witch. I was positive of that.

“Uh-oh. Here comes the Coast Guard.” Marty pointed toward the upper left corner of the screen. An orange and white boat sped toward the witches. It had obviously attracted Scott's attention, too, accounting for the quick dismissal of the young witch.

Okay, so maybe you're not a dummy.

There was a chiming sound. Rhonda returned to her desk and punched a lighted button.

George's voice crackled over the speaker.

“Tell Marty to grab a camera and get down here! All hell is breaking loose. The Coast Guard is on the way, and there's a bunch of church people across the street, yelling about something. I can't cover it all, and Scotty is going nuts trying to keep up with it.”

Marty took off running, and Tim Walker, the noon anchor, cut in from the newsroom. “Stay tuned, folks, as this story continues to develop.” A thirty-second commercial was followed by a split-screen view from the WICH-TV parking lot. On the left screen was Scott, the witch barge, and the Coast Guard boat. On the right a small crowd of men and women carrying signs paraded on the sidewalk across the street. The anchor rambled on, giving George, Marty, and Scott time to figure out the best way to cover the chaos.

“This station's late-night host, known locally as Ariel Constellation, drowned under questionable circumstances in Salem Harbor. Police suspect foul play, and an investigation of the area continues. During the past half hour a group of people tentatively identified as members of a Wiccan organization have positioned a boat close to shore, and now the vessel has been boarded by Coast Guard personnel. At the same time a group of citizens has gathered on a sidewalk in front of the station, carrying protest signs. Now back to field reporter Scott Palmer. Bring us up to date, Scott, if you can, on what's going on out there.”

“Thanks, Tim. It's quite a scene here. Neither of the groups appears to have crossed police lines, and Salem Coast Guard reports that the Wiccans have the correct number of life preservers and proper vessel documentation. But they've thrown unidentified substances into the harbor, which is a violation of the Massachusetts Clean Water Act, and they're being cited for that. The protestors on the sidewalk claim to be members of a fundamentalist church and seem to be assembling peacefully. We'll update you as the story unfolds.”

The left side of the screen showed the witch barge moving slowly away from shore. The camera on the right scanned the sidewalk crowd. A large woman in the foreground, wearing a purple hat, brandished a hand-lettered sign that read
THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER A WITCH TO LIVE.
Next to her a man waved one that advised
CAST OUT DEMONS
.

“Oh boy!” Rhonda cried. “There's Mrs. Doan!”

I looked from right to left on the split screen. “Mrs. Doan? Where?” Could the boss's wife possibly be a witch? Or was she one of the fundamentalist sign wavers?

“The one in the purple hat.” Rhonda pointed at the screen. “See? She loves purple. She decorated this place.”

That explains a lot,
I thought, glancing around at the purple-toned flower arrangement and the purple leather furniture.

Scott had brought the young witch into camera range again. “What about those signs?” he asked. “Does this sort of protest happen often?”

She sighed. “It does. Especially around Halloween. Sometimes they come here by the busload. They march in front of the Salem Witch Museum and the magic shops. Some of the psychics and card readers hire security guards to keep them from scaring customers away.”

Will a big phony psychic like Crystal Moon need a security guard?

Scott moved closer to the witch. “Do they frighten you?”

“Not really. I don't think they mean to harm us. But they don't seem to realize that Wicca is a recognized religion. This is America! We have as much right to our religion as they do to theirs!”

“Wow!” Rhonda pointed to the monitor. “Marty must have recognized Mrs. Doan. Look at that close-up!”

She was right. The purple-hatted woman's face filled the screen on the right, features distorted into a grimace. The sound was indistinct, but it was easy to read the thin lips.

“The witch is dead. Praise God.”

“There's Mr. Doan!” Rhonda pointed again at the screen. “He sure got down there in a hurry!”

The station manager had moved into the picture, approaching his wife. He put one arm around her shoulders and, with the other arm, waved the camera away. Marty quickly shifted to another protester, whose sign proclaimed A SORCERESS SHALL BE PUT TO DEATH.

“How did he get down there so fast?” I was puzzled. “I thought he was in his office.”

“So did I.” Rhonda snorted a little laugh. “He probably used his secret staircase. He does that sometimes when he's in a hurry. Or ducking someone he doesn't want to see.”

“A secret staircase? Like the one in the House of the Seven Gables?” Thoughts of school excursions to the old Salem home made famous by Nathaniel Hawthorne popped into my mind. Climbing up and down the crooked hidden staircase was always the high point of the field trips.

“No. Nothing that interesting. Just an old flight of stairs that goes to a door at the back of the building. Janice says that it was probably an old-fashioned fire escape.”

“No kidding. What does it look like?”

“I don't know.” She shrugged. “He always keeps the door to it locked.”

Tim Walker's image returned to the screen, and the waterfront and sidewalk scenes disappeared. A “Breaking News” crawl appeared at the top of the picture.

“Chief Whaley of the Salem Police Department has just issued a statement regarding the murder of Yvette Pelletier,” Walker announced. “A witness has given a description of a man seen in the vicinity of the Pelletier apartment on the evening of the Salem woman's death. The man, who police are calling ‘a person of interest,' was wearing what the witness describes as a military-style camouflage suit with a hood-type head covering. Police have requested tapes from surveillance cameras along Derby Street in hopes that one or more of them might have captured a view of this man. Anyone with information about this person, or anything unusual you might have observed in the area on Thursday afternoon or evening, is asked to call the number at the bottom of your screen. Tune in to the WICH-TV six o'clock news for the latest on this and other stories.”

“I suppose the police already have the video of the parking lot here,” I said, “because of what happened to Ariel.”

“I don't know anything about it,” Rhonda said. “You'll have to ask George or Janice. The computer that records all that security stuff is in the control room.” She clicked off the sound but not the picture on the monitor. The regular programming had resumed with a network feature on rescue pets. “Doan likes this thing on all day, but it gets really annoying after a while. I'm not allowed to watch any other channels. Like the ones with the good soaps.”

Click.
Away went the cute puppies and kitties.

I mumbled a noncommittal “Uh-huh” and returned to the window. The witch barge was no longer in sight, and the Coast Guard boat was a dot on the horizon. George and Scott were gone. If the protesters had left, too, Marty was probably already in the studio, waiting for me.

I was right. The dressing room door stood open. My skirt and blouse hung on a rolling rack, and I could see the folded shawl and bright jewelry neatly arranged on a tabletop. Aunt Ibby had sent along the astrology book, too, and it was propped against a large makeup kit. The redecorated sports area was fully lighted. A papier-mâché jack-o'-lantern had been added to the set, casting an orange glow onto the desk. A couple of plastic bats, dangling from invisible wires, added to the Halloween theme.

“Look okay to you?” Marty appeared from behind the poster-covered backdrop.

“Looks great.”

“Hop into your Gypsy rig, then, and let's get this show on the road. Want Rhonda to do your makeup?”

“Rhonda?”

“Yeah. She's a Mary Kay rep. Does a damn good job, too. She does Wanda the Weather Girl and most of the guys.”

So even Rhonda has two jobs. Wonder what Doan will think up for me?

“Thanks, anyway. I'm used to doing my own.”

“That's fine. Ariel did her own, too.”

I dressed quickly, brushed my hair and gave it a quick spray, patted on some matte makeup, added a generous amount of mascara and eyeliner, and applied bright red lipstick. Gold earrings and a few strands of beads completed the look. I turned from side to side in front of the mirror.
Not bad for a hurry-up job.
I stepped out into the studio.

“Start out standing in front of the set so Doan can get a good look at you,” Marty advised. “Then you can sit behind the desk for the rest of the show if you want to.”

“That'll work,” I said. “I've got a book here I might want to peek at. Thought I'd keep it on my lap, out of camera range.” I put the book on a tall stool behind the desk, then positioned myself in front of the Halloween display. “How's this?”

“Good. Here's the plan. Introduce yourself. Say something nice about Ariel. Read a commercial off the teleprompter. I picked an easy one. No tricky words.” She looked pleased about that. “Read the intro to the movie. Then you'll take a couple of fake calls. Piece of cake.”

“Piece of cake,” I repeated, hoping I sounded as confident as she did.

Marty looked into her camera, then back at me. “Say, does that blouse come down off the shoulders?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Pull it down more. Doan likes to see skin.” She ducked back behind the camera and quickly popped back out again. “On the good-looking ones. Not Ariel.”

I thought about Mrs. Doan, with scorn for the dead psychic showing plainly on her face, and about her husband, with a protective arm around her shoulders amid the waving of hateful signs.

What sort of people am I mixed up with?

I tugged the blouse a little lower and faced the camera, waiting. The red light winked on. I leaned forward slightly, cocked my head at an angle I knew would emphasize my cheekbones and accent my eyes.

“Good evening, friends of
Nightshades.
My name is Crystal Moon. I'm here to guide you as we search together for universal truth and answers to the many mysteries of this and other worlds. As you know, our dear Ariel has crossed over. I am sure that she wishes to send her message of love and light to all of you.”

Focusing my attention on the teleprompter, I read a thirty-second commercial for a New Age bookstore. Marty indicated approval, raising her hand to give me the okay sign. Encouraged, I moved on to the introduction of the movie.

“Prepare to be terrified, friends of the night. Did you ever wish that you could know what was going to happen in the near future? Think again as we prepare to watch
Torture Garden
. You may change your mind after you see this 1967 classic. Burgess Meredith stars as Dr. Diablo. Enjoy.”

The red light winked off.

“So far, so good,” Marty said. “Ready for some phony phone calls?”

“I guess so.” I moved to the seat behind the desk, then opened the book on my lap.

There'd be no teleprompter for this. What kind of questions would there be? All I had to go on was my brief viewing of one of Ariel's DVDs.

“Janice?” Marty used a throat mike, and her voice reverberated in the long room. “You ready to be the caller?”