CHAPTER 2
“Huh?” It took a moment to process her words before I managed to form a couple of sentences.
“You realize that doesn’t make sense, don’t you? People die every day because they’re old or sick.” I refilled our coffee cups. “And poor Gloria was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
River sighed a long, deep sigh. “I know. I keep trying to tell myself that. But . . . but, Lee,” Again the whispery voice. “I’ve recently had bad thoughts about each of them.”
“Bad thoughts don’t kill people, River.”
“Are you sure? I’m a witch, remember? There are such things as spells. Bad ones.” She raised her chin, almost defiantly. “At least, in the old days, in the old religion, there were.”
“But you don’t believe in or practice such things.”
“Not on purpose,” she admitted, “but sometimes things happen to people that they can’t control.” She pointed at me. “You, of all people, must understand that.”
She was right. I did understand it. River is one of the very few people who know about something that happens to me sometimes—something I can’t control. I’m what’s known as a “scryer.” River calls me a “gazer.” That means that I can see things in reflective surfaces that other people don’t see. Every so often, these visions, or whatever they are, can appear suddenly in a mirror or a windowpane or even in a shiny shoe. Some consider this ability a gift. For me, it’s not always been a welcome one, though I’m getting kind of used to it and they don’t terrify me the way they did in the beginning.
It was a sobering moment. “I’m sorry, River,” I said. “I do understand. How can I help? I don’t know what to say to make it better, except that I know you—and I know that you’d never harm anyone. What’s that saying the witches have?”
She smiled. “The Wiccan rede. ‘An it harm none, do what ye will.’”
“You see? You’ve lived by that rule for a long time and you do so much good with your readings.” I put another cupcake on her plate. “Here. Have some more chocolate.”
“I know you’re right.” She tossed her long black braid over her shoulder, sat up a little straighter, and accepted the cake. “It just seemed so creepy. Such a coincidence, that three of us would die in a row like that. It was strange, going to the first two funerals, you know? It seemed as though half the mourners there were witches.”
“Of course I’m right. In a city this big, there are quite a few deaths every day,” I said. “Once in a while one of them is bound to be a witch.”
River nodded. “I know. I always say that I don’t believe in coincidences but I guess sometimes they just happen. Even so, it’s odd to see a funeral home full of witches twice in one month. And now there’ll be another one.”
“I suppose it is. But it probably just looks like a roomful of sad people to most everyone else. Did you all sit together at both services?”
“Pretty much. The broom closet people didn’t sit with us, of course. Like Mr. Bagenstose was at Gloria Tasker’s service, but he sat in the very back with one of the other secret witches. They both left early.”
“Then poor Mr. Bagenstose died too. Weird. Pete doesn’t believe in coincidences either, you know. But he’s a cop. They just deal in facts. He still has a hard time dealing with my—um—peculiar talent.”
“Huh. So do you.” She dabbed at her eyes with a paper napkin but managed a little smile. O’Ryan put his paws up on the edge of the table, tilted his head to one side, and winked one golden eye—which may be the cat equivalent of a snicker.
“Go ahead and laugh at me, you two,” I said. “I have to admit, though, sometimes the visions have come in handy.”
“You aren’t kidding. They sure have. Hey, thanks for listening, Lee.” River gently deposited the cat onto the floor and stood up, brushing cake crumbs from pink jeans. “Talking to you really helped. But if I eat any more of these I won’t fit into my TV glamour-host wardrobe. I have a new smokin’ hot electric blue sequin number for next week and I’m not sure I can even sit down in it.”
“Call me anytime,” I said. “Come on. I’ll go out to your car with you.”
Together we walked through the short hall to the living room with O’Ryan leading the way. He scooted out his cat door onto the landing, with its “Attack Cat” welcome mat, and we followed him down the narrow, curving stairway to the back door and out into the yard.
We stopped to admire Aunt Ibby’s garden, where daffodils had just begun to poke green shoots above ground and lilies of the valley had already established fragrant clumps along the fence. River paused before heading for her car. “Well, aren’t you going to ask me?”
“Ask you? About what?”
“About what my bad thoughts were about them. About the dead witches.”
“No, I didn’t even think of it—except maybe regarding Megan. I can’t imagine a single bad thought about her.”
“True.” River’s big, dark eyes were downcast. “That one wasn’t exactly a bad thought. It was more a case of jealousy on my part.”
I frowned. “Jealousy? Of what? I don’t get it.”
She spoke so softly I could barely hear the word. “Therese.”
“Therese? You’re jealous of Therese? Why?”
“I thought . . . think . . . maybe Megan loves—loved—her better than she loved me!”
“River. What on earth makes you say that?”
“I know it was wrong to think it. Megan spent a lot of time studying with me too, before I was admitted to the coven.” She climbed into her car. “It was Therese’s turn. Now neither of us has her anymore.” She began to cry again. “But I still don’t care about Mr. Bagenstose. I was mad at him because once he turned me down at his bank for a tiny little loan. And Gloria was just plain mean. I’ll call you later. Bye.” River hiccupped, shut the car door, then rolled down the window. “I still don’t believe in coincidences.” I lifted my hand in a silent good-bye wave as she backed out of the driveway, leaving me standing there alone and puzzled.
A soft “merrow” from O’Ryan called me back to the garden, and after a quick circle around my left leg, he led the way back to the house. The sound of music from Aunt Ibby’s kitchen told me that she must have arrived home while River and I were upstairs. O’Ryan was first into the back hall via his cat door while I entered the more traditional way. Aunt Ibby’s kitchen door opens onto that hall, as does the door leading up two narrow flights to my apartment as well as one to our shared laundry room. I tapped on my aunt’s door.
“Aunt Ibby? It’s me. You busy?”
“Come in, Maralee. Door’s open.”
O’Ryan and I entered the warm, cozy room. My aunt looked up from the round oak kitchen table, which was strewn with papers, index cards, and lots of sticky notes in assorted colors.
“I’m just doing a little revision on the cookbook,” she said. “There’s fresh coffee in the pot. Turn Alexa down and help yourself.”
I lowered the sound of Dean Martin singing “That’s Amore,” poured a cup of coffee, but passed on the plate of cookies on the counter. My recent cake binge had provided quite enough sugar to keep me wired for hours. The cookbook my aunt referred to was “The Tabitha Trumbull Cookbook,” an updated assemblage of the recipes collected by the namesake of the Tabby—Tabitha Trumbull. The school is located in the building that long ago housed Trumbull’s Department Store and Tabitha was the wife of the old store’s founder, Oliver Wendell Trumbull. My aunt had discovered the cache of old recipes and planned to release the completed cookbook as a fund-raiser for the library.
“How is it coming? Nearly finished?”
Long sigh. “I keep thinking I’ve finished it and then another one of Tabitha’s dishes sounds appealing and I’m off again—translating pinches of this and dabs of that and lumps of things ‘the size of a walnut.’”
“Pete will be glad you’re not finished with it. He loves being part of the taste-testing team.”
She smiled. “He’s not very impartial. He likes everything. Was that River’s voice I heard a few minutes ago?”
“Yes. She was feeling a little down so I invited her over and fed her cupcakes from Pretty Party. I guess you heard that Megan the witch died.”
“It was on the radio.” She closed her notebook and gathered the assorted papers and notes into a neat pile. “Megan was a Salem treasure. No wonder River is upset by the news.”
“River is involved in planning the funeral.”
“I saw her at another one recently,” my aunt said. “She was at Mr. Bagenstose’s services.”
“I know. She told me. Megan’s will be her third funeral within the past few weeks. That’s pretty upsetting for someone not yet out of her twenties.”
Aunt Ibby frowned. “Who was the third? Anyone I know?”
“Gloria Tasker.”
“Oh yes. I read about it. I didn’t go to that one.” She gave what I recognized as a disapproving sniff. “That witch.”