Look Both Ways (26 page)

It wasn't.

“You said that she'd buried the dog in a metal coffin,” Pete said. “How do you know that?”

I thought about lying to him. I could have said that maybe I'd seen something about it in one of the newspaper clippings, or that perhaps Daphne had mentioned it once. I caught Aunt Ibby's eye but couldn't read anything there. O'Ryan looked up from his red bowl of kibble and gave the tiniest nod.

“After breakfast,” I said. “After we've eaten this delicious breakfast, which Aunt Ibby has so kindly prepared for us, if you'll come upstairs with me, I'll explain about that—and about a lot of other things.”

So that's what I did. We sat together at the Lucite table in my kitchen, and I tried to explain about scrying, explaining that it was a real gift that some people have. Yes, for the first time in my life, I actually called it a gift. I told him about the terrible vision I'd seen in my Mary Janes when I was five. I told him about the obsidian ball and the things Ariel had shown to me in that smooth black surface. I told him how Tabitha Trumbull had appeared to me in the giant patent-leather pump, and I told the truth about why the mirror in my bureau had frightened me. I talked about Helena and the grandfather and the little gray dog and the small metal coffin a tearful Helena had held in her arms, and I described the vision of Shea I'd seen in the brass candlestick.

When I finished, I watched his face, realizing how much I loved this man and realizing at the same time that what I'd just shared with him might very well end our relationship.

“You're a scryer,” he said.

“Yes, I am. Some people would call me a gazer. Same thing.”

“You see these things, these visions, whether you want to or not?”

“I'm learning to control it. I can turn it on and off.”

He smiled then. “Like a TV set.”

“Something like that.”

“A gift like that could come in handy sometimes, I suppose.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his chin resting on his fists.

“It has. Sometimes,” I said. “At first I really hated it. Scared me to death. Now I'm kind of getting used to it. I've wanted to tell you about it so many times, but I've been afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Afraid you'd think I'm crazy. Afraid you wouldn't ever want to see me again.” I felt tears welling up. I hadn't fully described the horror of some of the scenes I'd witnessed or the astonishing wonder of some of the others. I hadn't even told him about the hundreds of cats who'd probably saved my life just a few hours ago. I wasn't at all sure I could. Not yet.

“Okay,” he said, reaching across the table and taking both of my hands in his. “Listen to me. I don't think you're crazy. I think you're the most wonderful, beautiful, caring woman I've ever known, and I love you. Please, from now on, do you think you can tell me when you see . . . something? Even if it's bad stuff?”

“It would be a big relief to be able to do that,” I said finally. “I promise I'll try.”

“I understand,” he said, squeezing my hands. “I'm still trying to wrap my head around this amazing gift of yours, this new aspect of you. Thank you for trusting me.”

“I do trust you, Pete,” I said and let the tears of relief flow. “And I love you, too.”

He stood, crossed to my side of the table, and gently pulled me to my feet. “Don't cry.” He wiped my wet cheeks with his finger, and his kiss was gentle but insistent. “You're exhausted. Get some rest. I'll call you tonight.”

He held my hand as we walked together to the door. He stepped out into the hall, then turned back toward me, smiling.

“Oh, about the Sprint Cup races next weekend. Do you still want to go?”

“Of course I do.”

“Great. I'll call up there tomorrow and get us a couple of rooms.”

“Pete . . .”

“Yes?”

“Just get one room.”

Tripp Hampton is still awaiting trial on kidnapping, two counts of murder, and several felony charges, including money laundering and fraud. Federal marshals have seized his assets, including the Hampton mansion. His lawyers are pursuing an insanity plea. He complains about a black cat that, he says, sits outside the barred window of his seventh-floor cell at night, watching him.

Pete got permission to exhume the body of Helena's dog, Nicky. The pink diamond necklace was around his neck, just as I'd said it would be. Nicky was quietly reburied, with just Pete and me and an island guide in attendance. Because Helena had deeded the property on Misery Island, with all “buildings, improvements, and appurtenances,” to the trustees of reservations, the court ruled that the diamond belongs to them. The money the organization will realize from the sale of Helena's necklace will go a long way toward preserving New England's historic heritage.

O'Ryan's back fence fan club still visits sometimes on warm summer nights, but we haven't seen the black cat with the red collar or the gray cat with the white star marking again.

Mr. Pennington and Aunt Ibby are still “keeping company,” and
The Tabitha Trumbull Book of New England Cookery
is due to be published next year, with all proceeds going to the Tabby's scholarship fund.

Daphne's run as Billie Dawn in
Born Yesterday
was so successful that she's been invited to reprise the role with a Boston theater company, and there's a rumor going around that she and Tommy may be headed for Los Angeles soon for a round of interviews with a major movie studio.

The summer play season was entirely successful, and Mr. Pennington has offered me a new teaching contract at the Tabby. I'm looking forward to the start of classes in the fall, when I'll welcome students to a class on television performance and production.

Pete and I have relaxed into a relationship that gets more comfortable every day. We're at the point where we finish each other's sentences and laugh at the same silly things. We've gone out to the island several times and always remember to take along a pansy plant for Helena's grandmother and, of course, for Nicky. I haven't had any more visions lately, scary or otherwise, and I'm getting so that I can pass a mirror without flinching. I've been helping Pete with picking out some new furniture for his apartment, and he's even bought a few small antique pieces from both Jenny's and Gary Campbell's shops. River has offered to check everything for proper feng shui when we're finished.

But I'm sure Pete's
bagua
is great, just like everything else about him.

In 1798, in the seafaring Barnegat section of old Marblehead, Massachusetts, a black man named Joe Brown opened a tavern in a saltbox house at the edge of a frog pond. Joe's wife, Lucretia, served the drinks, and Black Joe's Tavern soon became popular as a place where a thirsty man in from the sea could count on a glass of good homemade beer or a taste of honest rum at a fair price.

It was said that Black Joe made the best molasses cookies in town, and people called them “Joe Froggers,” after the plump little frogs who lived in the pond. Fishermen liked them because they never got stale and hard, and Marblehead women regularly packed them for the men to take to sea. Joe claimed that what kept them soft was rum and salt water, but he wouldn't tell how he made them.

When Joe died in 1834, people thought that was the end of Joe Froggers. But one day Lucretia shared the secret recipe with a fisherman's wife, and before long most of the women in Marblehead were making them. Served with a pitcher of cold milk, Froggers became the town's favorite Sunday night supper.

Mix the flour, ginger, baking soda, cloves, nutmeg, and allspice in a large bowl until well combined. In a separate large bowl beat together the molasses, brown sugar, and shortening. In a small bowl, combine the hot water, rum, and sea salt.

Add the dry ingredients and the water-rum-sea salt mixture alternately to the molasses-sugar-shortening mixture and mix well to make a dough. On a cutting board, roll out the dough between two sheets of waxed paper until ¼ inch thick. Refrigerate the rolled out dough on the cutting board for at least 2 hours.

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Grease 2 baking sheets.

Remove the top sheet of waxed paper. Dip the cookie cutter in flour, then shake it and cut the chilled dough into 2½- or 3-inch rounds.** (Old-timers claim that originally Froggers were the size of a luncheon plate!) Gather up the dough left after cutting, put a fresh sheet of waxed paper on top, and roll it until ¼ inch thick and cut some more rounds. Place the rounds on the prepared baking sheets, and bake for 10 to 12 minutes, or until they are a little bit dark around the edges and firm in the middle. Check on them after about 9 minutes of baking.

Cool the cookies on the baking sheets for 5 minutes, then remove them to wire racks to cool completely.

 

Makes about eighteen Froggers

 

*Aunt Ibby uses Grandma's Molasses, Bacardi rum, Crisco shortening, and Atlantic Saltworks sea salt.

 

**A 14½-ounce vegetable can with both ends cut out makes a nice 2½-inch cookie cutter and results in 3½-inch cookies after baking.

Love Lee? Want to know how it all began?
Be sure to read the first two books
In
The Witch City Mystery series

 

CAUGHT DEAD HANDED
And
TAILS, YOU LOSE

 

Available now
From
Kensington Books

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Copyright © 2015 by Carol J. Perry

 

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ISBN: 978-1-6177-3373-4

ISBN-10: 1-61773-373-3
First Kensington Mass Market Edition: November 2015

 

eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-374-1
eISBN-10: 1-61773-374-1
First Kensington Electronic Edition: November 2015