Chapter One
The entire month of October is notoriously nutty in my hometown of Salem, Massachusetts—culminating in the Witch City’s favorite holiday, Halloween. Think Mardi Gras, times ten. Think congestion, traffic jams, gridlock, costumed revelers partying day and night, pumpkins grinning from every available flat surface. Some locals who can afford it actually move out of town for the whole month; some entrepreneurial types turn their spare rooms into high-priced B and Bs. The famed Hawthorne Hotel is booked solid a year or more in advance. Those of us, like me, who have jobs need to figure out a way to get around the cars, scooters, bicycles, golf carts, motorcycles, tour buses and wandering pedestrians in order to arrive at work on time.
I’m Lee Barrett, née Maralee Kowalski, thirty-four, red-haired, Salem born, orphaned early, married once and widowed young. I live with my Aunt Ibby Russell in the old family home on Winter Street, along with our gentleman cat, O’Ryan. I work as program director and occasional field reporter at Salem’s cable television station, WICH-TV. Winter Street is just across the Salem Common from the station’s Derby Street harborside location, so I’m one of the lucky ones who can walk to my job.
One pretty early October morning—yes, Halloween-Salem is totally nutty but can be quite lovely at the same time—with fall leaves at their red and gold glory and the deep blue water of the harbor shimmering in the sunshine, I climbed the marble front steps, crossed the black-and-white tiled floor and rode the ancient elevator—we call it “Old Clunky”—up to the second floor. I greeted Rhonda, the WICH-TV receptionist. “Good morning. Anything interesting going on?’
She put down her copy of Cosmo and held up one hand, ticking off items on fingertips capped with long, red-polished nails. “Scotty’s out doing a report for the noon news about some missing rich businessman. Howie’s down at Christopher’s Castle interviewing Chris Rich about what’s hot and what’s not in this year’s Halloween costumes.”
Scott Palmer isn’t one of my favorite people, but he’s a pretty good reporter. He gets most of the assignments I used to have before Howie—that’s Howard Templeton, the station manager’s wife Buffy’s nephew—arrived fresh out of broadcasting school and got handed my field reporter’s slot, earning me my so-called “promotion” to program director. Don’t get me wrong. I like my new job. The hours are way better and it came with a little pay raise, but sometimes I miss the edge-of-your-seat, race-out-the-door, day and night excitement of being in the middle of the action.
“Anything for me?” I asked.
“Yep. Doan wants to see you in his office.”
Bruce Doan is the station manager. An early morning summons to his office can mean anything—a plum assignment or a royal chewing out for some real or perceived screwup. I knocked on his office door and responded to a bellowed, “It’s open.”
“Good morning, Mr. Doan. You wanted to see me?”
“Right. How does your day look, Ms. Barrett? Everything set to go off on schedule?”
It’s my job to make sure each of the shows under my direction is adequately staffed with sets and props in place, wardrobe clean, pressed and appropriate, scripts up to date, talent prepared, lighting and sound tested, camera(s) in place and everything ready on time. I did a quick mental rundown on the day’s programing. I’d seen Ranger Rob’s Ford Bronco in the parking lot so I was confident that he and Katie the Clown were already on set, preparing for the morning kiddie show—Ranger Rob’s Rodeo. Most of the Shopping Salem show had been prerecorded so all the host had to do was introduce the various segments. “Piece of cake,” as camerawoman Marty McCarthy was fond of saying. The only other production scheduled for the day was a tour of the Old Burying Point Cemetery—a Halloween special narrated by one of Salem’s ghost tour hosts. The half hour show had been carefully rehearsed and the videographer was tops in her field, so I was confident it would be fine.
“Barring anything strange, sir,” I said, “everything is under control for today.”
“Good,” he said. “Scott and Howie are both out at the same time, so I need you to put on your field reporter hat and stand by in case anything interesting happens out there.”
“Glad to help out,” I said, meaning it. “Who’s my videographer?”
“You get Old Jim. Okay?”
“That’s fine with me,” I told him. Meaning that too. Old Jim is officially retired, but he still fills in sometimes when all the other mobile camera people are busy. He’s a real pro, with eyes that often see things the newer photogs miss. “Do we get the VW?” I asked.
Mr. Doan shrugged. “Sure. She’s still running just fine.” The converted VW bus was WICH-TV’s third-string mobile unit. Fair enough, since Old Jim and I were the station’s third-string field-reporting team.
“Okay. I’ll be in my office whenever you need me,” I promised. One of the perks of the program director’s job is the fact that for the first time I have my own office—my own little hideaway. Well, not exactly a hideaway since it’s an all-glass cubicle backed up to the newsroom and I’m kind of on display all the time, but I like it anyway. I told Rhonda where I’d be if she needed me, and headed through the metal door and down the steep corridor to the WICH-TV news department.
I unlocked my door, passed the file cabinet and approached the desk, first taking a quick look at the varicolored sticky reminder notes I’d stuck to the glass wall behind my chair. I took off my red cardigan sweater and pulled a green WICH-TV jacket from a narrow locker so I could look professional if the call came. I had plenty to do, whether or not Mr. Doan came up with a field assignment. I pulled down a random hot-pink square and read it aloud. “Order b-day cake for Buck Covington.”
The station works with a fairly small staff, so we’re sort of “family” to one another and we try hard not to miss anyone’s special day. We have an old-fashioned “sunshine fund” that everybody chips in to and this year I somehow got elected to manage it. Buck is our drop-dead gorgeous nighttime news anchor and his birthday was the following day. He’s also my BFF River North’s main man.
I realized right away that I might be facing a problem with the ordering and the delivery of this particular cake. It wasn’t just the gigantic holiday traffic jam facing delivery vehicles of any kind, but—maybe even worse than that—I wasn’t sure that the Pretty Party Bakery would be open. The “missing rich businessman” Rhonda had referenced was the founder and owner of the popular bakery chain, Patrick “Pat” Duncan, who’d gone missing a day earlier. The police hadn’t yet termed his disappearance “suspicious,” but the term “unusual circumstances” was enough to get Scott Palmer into investigative mode. My police detective beau Pete Mondello hadn’t said anything about it, but that’s not unusual. We rarely discuss police business. Pete and I had a date for dinner that evening and I was pretty sure the missing man wouldn’t be mentioned. I tapped the Pretty Party Bakery number into my phone, crossing my fingers that someone would answer. They did.
“Good morning. It’s a pretty day for a party. May I tempt you with one of our giant triple-layer cupcakes? Dark chocolate, French vanilla and orange cream layers with an orange marmalade filling make it perfect for Halloween.” It was a familiar kind of greeting, but delivered without the usual cheery lilt.
“Good morning. This is Lee from the TV station. That sounds delicious, but today I’d like to order our regular birthday cake and the name on top is Buck.” In the interest of equity everybody at the station gets exactly the same cake. A two-layer vanilla cake with vanilla cream filling and vanilla buttercream frosting. Nothing fancy, but everybody likes it. First name only, on top in seasonal color frosting. No candles—because not everybody wants their age known. “I know things must be upset over there right now,” I said, “but can you possibly deliver it by tomorrow afternoon?”
“I’m not sure, Lee. Want to speak to Tommy?”
“Yes, please.” I knew Tommy LaGrange, the Pretty Party Bakery’s super-efficient, nice-guy general manager. If anybody could make sure that Buck’s birthday cake would be presented to him on the air, exactly as scheduled, the following night—it was Tommy.
“Hi, Lee,” he said. “No problem with the cake. Our kitchen is closed today, but we always have those plain vanilla cakes in the freezer and lettering the short name is easy. The delivery might be a problem though. We’re understaffed like everybody else and with the traffic—and well, you know about Mr. Duncan. Everybody here is worried.”
“I understand,” I told him. “You’re not far from the station. How about if I walk over there on my lunch hour tomorrow and pick it up? Will that work?”
“Perfect. It’ll be ready for you at noon tomorrow. I’m guessing it’s for Buck Covington—the news guy, right?” There was a smile in his voice. “He’s a favorite around here. Glad to do it.”
“Right,” I agreed. I knew that everybody at the Pretty Party Bakery must be worried and stressed about their missing boss if they’d even closed the kitchen. I was glad if making a cake for Buck brought some kind of cheer. I said goodbye, omitting the usual “have a nice day,” and wrote myself another sticky note. “Pick up Buck’s cake at noon.” I stuck it onto the glass and pulled down another one—this time in blue.
“Requisition slip for new quartz crystal cluster for Tarot Time set.” I’m not responsible for directing River’s late-night show—Tarot Time with River North. She and Marty McCarthy take full care of the production where, during breaks in a scary movie, River takes calls from random viewers and reads the beautiful cards for them. I help out with decor for the set. I pulled the pad of slips from my top drawer, filled one out and proceeded to attend to the various tasks indicated on the other colorful reminders. It was nearly eleven thirty as I was squirting blue glass cleaner on my almost sticker-free wall to wash away the gummy residue when the intercom buzzed. Rhonda announced that Howie was on his way back to the station and I could forget about the mobile unit thing.
Somewhat regretfully, I took off my imaginary field reporter hat, picked up River’s crystal requisition slip and started for the door when my phone chimed. Caller ID showed my Aunt Ibby’s name and number. My sixty-something reference librarian aunt was my mother’s only sister and she’d raised me since both of my parents had died in a plane crash when I was only five years old. I have my own apartment on the top floor of the lovely old house, and she’s careful to respect my independence and I respect hers. She rarely calls me at work. “Hi, Aunt Ibby,” I said. “What’s up?”
“It’s the strangest thing, Maralee,” she said. “O’Ryan has been pacing back and forth in the front hall all morning. He finally went out the cat door and he’s been sitting under that big old oak tree in front of the house yowling his head off at something up in the branches. I went out to look and I can’t see anything up there, but it sounds like there’s another cat crying little soft “meows” like a kitten would sound. I can’t get O’Ryan to come inside and he won’t stop his noise. I’m afraid the neighbors will start complaining if he doesn’t quit it.”
“A cat stuck in the oak tree?” I asked. “Is this a case where we’re supposed to call the fire department or don’t people do that anymore?”
“I already did that,” she reported. “There’s too much going on in Salem for cat rescuing right now. They suggested that I put out some smelly cat food to coax it down. It hasn’t worked. The poor thing just cries more pitifully and O’Ryan keeps up that awful caterwauling. Do you think you can run home for a bit and get him to stop?”
Why would she think I could somehow influence a cat’s behavior? This particular cat and I had a past. When I first came to WICH-TV I was hired as a hurry-up replacement for the late-night movie show host, Ariel Constellation, when her body was found in the harbor behind the station. Ariel had hosted Nightshades in the same time slot Tarot Time with River North has now, and she was billed as a “call-in psychic.” It turned out that Ariel was a practicing witch and had a yellow cat she claimed was her “familiar.” She’d called him Orion—like the constellation. Along with the show, I inherited the cat. I called him O’Ryan—like the Irish name. I turned out to be a terrible call-in psychic but a good cat mom. River took over the late show, I became a field reporter, and O’Ryan came to live in the Winter Street house with Aunt Ibby and me. In Salem a witch’s familiar is often feared and always respected. O’Ryan and I had developed a special, if hard to explain, understanding. There was a good chance I’d be able to find out what the commotion was all about. It was close to lunchtime anyway, so I told my aunt I’d be home soon. I locked the office, dropped off the requisition slip with Rhonda and tapped on Mr. Doan’s door to tell him I needed to go home to help my aunt out with a little problem.
“Is your aunt okay?” he asked.
“She’s fine. Just a bit of a noise concern.” I smiled and gave him a quick rundown on the crying cats situation.
“Wait a minute.” He held up one finger. “Is Old Jim still in the building?”
“Yes. I just saw him in the newsroom helping set up for the noon news. Do you want me to tell him we’re off duty?”
He shook his head. “No. It occurs to me we haven’t done one of those short “human-interest” pieces for a while. The audience just eats that stuff up. You know. A little kid’s first day in kindergarten. The cute dogs you can get from the pet shelter. A cat-in-a-tree rescue would be a good one. Can you get the cat to cooperate?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He buzzed Rhonda. “Tell Old Jim he and Ms. Barrett are going to rescue a cat in a tree.” He paused. “Better tell Jim to grab a ladder out of the prop room.”
I told Jim what was going on, buttoned myself into the green jacket, and within minutes we were in the VW mobile unit, lights and camera equipment stashed in the back, along with a brand new eight-foot ladder an advertiser had used in a house paint commercial. I was sure the eight-foot ladder would be of little use against an eighty-foot tree, but hey—if the boss says bring a ladder we bring a ladder, and this was the only one we had. Before long Jim was at the wheel, slowly, carefully, wending our way along the few blocks to Winter Street. I pulled down the visor mirror for a quick check of hair and makeup.
Not a good move.
Only a few people know a secret about me—just Aunt Ibby, Pete and River. I discovered not too long ago that I am a scryer. That’s a person who sometimes sees things in reflective surfaces—visions that other people cannot see. River calls me a “gazer” and says it is a special gift. I don’t think of it as a gift at all. Most everything it has ever shown me has had something to do with death.
As usual, the vision started with flashing lights and swirling colors. As usual I didn’t want to see what would come next. As usual I couldn’t look away. The swirling colors dissolved and something began to take shape. I squinted and leaned closer to the mirror.
As visions go, this wasn’t a bad one. It was a woodsy scene, lots of trees, and in the distance, a small house. Somebody’s cabin in the woods? In a blink, the picture was gone and the image of a startled looking redhead looked back at me.
I pushed the visor back up into place, trying hard to shake the memory of the vision away, just as Jim pulled onto Winter Street and steered the VW into place right beside the towering oak tree. I heard the yowling before I’d even opened the door. O’Ryan sat on the brick sidewalk, looking up into the branches. Aunt Ibby sat on the front steps, looking embarrassed by the whole situation.
I stopped to speak to the cat, who acknowledged my presence with a quick ankle rub. “I’m going to need your help on this one, big boy,” I told him. He resumed the noisemaking. I helped Jim unload our equipment, then joined my aunt on the steps. “Mr. Doan thinks this will make a human-interest spot,” I told her. “I hope we can get the poor kitty down somehow. Have you been able to get a look at it yet?”
She shook her head. “It’s about halfway up the tree, I think. At least I saw the branches shaking.” She pointed toward Jim, who had set the ladder next to the base of the oak. “I put a bowl of food on the ground over there.” She whispered, “I don’t think that little ladder will help much.”
“I know. Just following Mr. Doan’s orders.” I clipped my mike to the lapel of the green jacket and took my position a few feet away from tree and howling cat. We ran through a brief sound check. I waited for Jim’s countdown and, smiling into the handheld camera, I began my intro. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Lee Barrett reporting to you from Winter Street, just a short distance from the Salem Common. The sound you hear is coming from a large yellow cat.” Jim focused on O’Ryan, who immediately stopped crying or screaming or whatever that was and widened his golden eyes, looking directly into the camera. What a ham. “There seems to be another cat—or maybe a kitten—in the upper branches of this fine old oak tree. Our mission? Rescue the kitty. So here goes.”
I picked up the dish of cat food and moved close to the tree. “The fire department suggested that we might tempt the cat in the tree with some nice smelly food.” I sniffed at the bowl. “This should do the trick.” O’Ryan moved closer to me, silent now. “Those of you who are regular viewers may remember this cat. He once belonged to the late Ariel Constellation. She called him Orion.” The cat in question put his front paws on the first rung of the ladder, while I held the bowl of cat food up over my head. Feeling silly, I sing-songed the familiar falsetto, “Here, kitty kitty kitty.”
O’Ryan took a tentative move up the ladder—hind feet on the lower rung, forefeet on the next one up. I kitty-kittyed while the cat moved up the ladder. There was an answering plaintive “meow” from above. Jim aimed the camera up into the branches. I looked up too, didn’t see any cat, and—thankfully—resumed my normal voice. “We can hear the cat up there. Perhaps you can see it on your screen at home.” O’Ryan had reached the rung just under the fold-out platform below the top of the ladder—the part where they put the paint can in the house paint commercial. He gave one more commanding howl, and with a rustle of leaves and a plaintive squeal, a small calico cat dropped from the tree directly onto that broad oblong paint can shelf.
“Oh, my goodness,” I heard my aunt cry out—obviously forgetting that we were filming. “That’s Mr. Duncan’s cat! I just saw her picture on the noon news. That’s Cupcake. She’s missing too.”