Look Both Ways (4 page)

Pete picked up the abandoned coffee mugs from the floor and carried them to the kitchen. I heard water running and knew he was rinsing them out. Probably would put them in the dishwasher, too.

I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep when he walked past the bedroom and headed for the back door. I lay there, unmoving, until I heard his car start. I got up, retrieved the lace runner, and plopped it back on the bureau. Then I went into the kitchen, grabbed the new vase of flowers, carried it into the bedroom, and put it right in the middle of the center panel, trusting that would deter anyone, including me, from lifting the thing up and revealing the damned mirror.

Hoping that Aunt Ibby would be at home—she'd been dating lately—I went out my kitchen door and down the stairs to the first floor. “Aunt Ibby? You here?” I called.

She answered from the den. “I'm here, Maralee. Has Pete left already?”

I walked into the room and sat beside my aunt on the couch as she hit the mute button on the TV. “He's left,” I said, surprised by my own dejected tone of voice. I tried to sound more upbeat. “Oh, the dinner went just fine. It was after dinner that didn't quite work out as planned.”

She leaned forward and patted my knee. “Oh dear. You didn't quarrel, did you?”

“Nothing like that,” I reassured her. “Not at all. It was the darned mirror.”

She frowned. “Mirror? What mirror?”

“I guess I didn't tell you. Remember the mirror inside the top section of the bureau that used to be in my room?”

“Of course. There's one in the new bureau, too, isn't there?”

“Yes. But this one is discolored. Tarnished so badly, it's actually black.”

She smiled. “We can get it repaired. Don't worry. I know a furniture restorer. . . .” She stopped in mid-sentence, and her smile disappeared. “A black mirror. Oh dear. You mean you saw something . . . unpleasant in it?”

“No, thank God, I didn't. Pete picked up the panel, and as soon as he did, I saw the flashing lights and the colors.” I shook my head. “I guess I kind of panicked. I hurried across the room and banged it shut. Probably scared the poor guy.”

“What did he say? You didn't tell him about that . . .
thing
you do, did you?”

“Of course not. But he knew something was wrong. He thinks it's because of my finding Shea and having to go down to the police station and all.”

“Well, my dear,” she said, “that's enough to upset anybody.”

“Anyway, he was so nice about it. Told me to get some rest and he'd call tomorrow.”

“Fine then. It'll be all right. No need to upset him with all that gazing foolishness.”

“Do you really think so? That it's okay to keep all that from him?”

She cocked her head to one side, the way she does when she's weighing a problem. “Hmmm. Not forever, of course. Maybe just for now. He's got this new case on his mind, and you're justifiably upset about it, too.” Again, the confident smile. “Don't worry. You'll know when it's the right time.”

I hoped she was right, and turned my attention to the still-silent TV screen. I sat up straight, pointing. “It's him. That's the man who bumped into me in front of the antique store.” I grabbed the remote and quickly hit the volume button.

We listened to the announcer's voice as we watched the man, still wearing the faded jeans and the tan shirt I'd described for Pete, being assisted into a police car.

“Gary Campbell is described as a ‘person of interest' by Salem police in their investigation into the death of antique shop proprietor Shea Tolliver. Mr. Campbell was at one time Ms. Tolliver's business partner, but reports say that the two became alienated more than a year ago.” The picture on the screen changed to Campbell's mug shot. The announcer continued. “A police spokesperson emphasized that Campbell is not at this time being detained in connection with the death and is cooperating with authorities. He was arrested this morning for a violation of a court order, but he has posted bond and has since been released.”

“What does Pete think about all that?” my aunt asked.

“I have no idea,” I said. “We haven't talked about it since he called this afternoon to tell me that my description of that man had been good enough to get him picked up. You know Pete hardly ever discusses police business with anybody.”

“That's as it should be.” She nodded affirmatively. “He's a good man, Lee. Your, uh, friendship seems to be developing nicely.” She raised one eyebrow with an expectant look. I chose to ignore the unspoken question.

I changed the subject. “Talked to River today.”

“Oh, how is she? I like that girl.”

“She's fine. Read my cards, as usual. Nothing dire there, apparently. We talked mostly about furniture.”

“That seems to be the topic of the day. Did you and Pete get to open the secret compartments?”

“Just one,” I said.

“What was in it?” She leaned forward, eyes sparkling.

“It was the double-pocket compartment,” I reported. “Two little tissue-wrapped items in it.”

“Well? Don't tease. What did you find?”

I laughed. “You sound like a little kid. Okay. I'll tell you. We each picked one. Mine was a nineteen fifty-one Benjamin Franklin silver half-dollar.”

“That was nice. What did Pete find?”

“Pete's was an old Salem dog license tag.”

“That's kind of touching, isn't it?” she said. “A remembrance of a loved pet is something a sensitive person would value.”

“We thought so, too.”

“So you didn't open the other compartments?”

“No. I'm not going to do it until he can come back and open them with me.”

“Good for you. I'd be much too curious to wait even another minute to see what else is in there,” she said. “But, Maralee, you look tired. Why don't you do as Pete suggested and get some rest?”

“You're right. I'm beat. It's been a long, strange day.” I looked around the room. “Where's O'Ryan? He scratched on the door to get out right after Pete arrived. Did he come down here?”

As though he'd heard his cue, the big yellow cat strolled into the den and sat in front of me, golden eyes fixed on mine. “Mmrupp,” he said, then turned and headed for the front hall.

“I guess he's ready for bed, too,” I said as I followed him. “Good night, Aunt Ibby. I love you.”

“Love you, Maralee. Get a good night's sleep.”

I climbed the stairs and opened the door to my apartment. Taking a long look around the kitchen, I decided that a proper table and chairs to replace the folding variety would be my next purchase. I'd buy some vintage dishes of my own, too.

O'Ryan had already gone into the bedroom. I tagged along behind him. Smoothing the rumpled bedcovers, I picked up the piece of tissue paper, along with the treasures Pete and I had unwrapped.

“Guess I'll put these back where we found them,” I said aloud. Talking to O'Ryan as though he was a person and could respond had become a habit. I'd noticed that Aunt Ibby did it, too. I wrapped the coin, then looked around for the other piece of tissue paper. “Where did the other one go?”

O'Ryan darted under the bed and returned, batting a wadded-up white ball of paper.

“Good boy,” I said. “Saves me from crawling under there.” As I flattened it out and put the dog tag in the center, I noticed that one edge was torn unevenly. “Did you chew on this, boy?”

I was rewarded with a grumpy cat face and an “Are you serious?” look.

“Okay, okay, no need to get huffy,” I said. “Maybe the other one has a raggedy edge, too.” I unwrapped the coin and looked closely at the tissue paper. The two halves matched. Someone had torn one sheet of tissue paper in half. “So,” I said in my best Nancy Drew fashion, “these two items were placed in the bureau at the same time.”

“Mrruff,” O'Ryan said, obviously bored with the game, as he curled up at the foot of the bed and closed his eyes. I rewrapped the coin and the tag, replaced them in the bureau, and slid the panel closed. Pete was right. There was a tiny indentation in the wood at the spot hiding the double cubbyhole. I made a quick inspection of the spots that I knew hid secret compartments. No more flaws or dents.

Yawning, I kicked off the sandals, hung up my dress, took a quick shower, and pulled on one of Johnny's old Indianapolis Speedway T-shirts.

I joined the sleeping cat on my big, new, soft, properly placed, and much too empty bed.

It was barely light out when I woke up. I looked around, a little disoriented. Until very recently I'd been sleeping downstairs, in my old bedroom. There a clock radio with a lighted dial on a handy bedside table had kept me aware of the time and, with a push of a button, had brought me soothing music or the latest news. Now I was in a room that was still a bit strange to me, empty except for my bed and the bureau. O'Ryan, perhaps sensing my momentary discomfort, moved from his spot at the foot of the bed and settled himself on my shoulder, purring loudly and rhythmically into my ear.

“Dear cat,” I whispered, which caused the purring to increase in volume. I knew that my watch was on the top of the bureau across the room. I'd put it next to the vase of roses and daisies. But did I want to get up and look at it? Did it matter what time it was? It was summer. I was on vacation. I had no plans for the day. That in itself was a strange feeling.

I've always been a busy person. Had had full-time jobs on television ever since I graduated from Boston's Emerson College. I'd been a weather girl, a shopping channel show host, and even a phone-in psychic. My new job, as an instructor of TV production at the Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts in downtown Salem, was interesting and I really liked it, but having a two-month vacation was an entirely new experience for me. Even the online criminology course I'd been taking wouldn't resume until August. I planned to finish furnishing the apartment, but that was hardly a full-time project.

“What do you think, O'Ryan? Look for a summer job? Volunteer someplace? Get a hobby? What?”

O'Ryan rolled over, eyes still shut, and assumed a pose that meant “Scratch my tummy.” I obliged.

“I know,” I told him. “Two months of cat petting would be fun, but let's think of something more productive. Come on. Get up. It's time for coffee.”

I padded into the kitchen, still not looking at the watch, not really wanting to touch the top of the bureau. O'Ryan stretched, yawned, and followed me. I poured some kitty kibble into his bowl and started a fresh pot of coffee for myself.

I retrieved a mug from the dishwasher and a jar of powdered creamer from the cabinet. Then I took a pen and a pad of paper from the junk drawer Aunt Ibby had so thoughtfully started for me, poured myself a nice cup of that fully caffeinated, life-giving fluid, and began to make a list.

 

That was as far as I got on the first cup. I was halfway through the second one when I thought of number four.

 

 

Rupert Pennington was the executive director of the Tabby. Not only was he my boss at the school, but he'd also been dating my aunt pretty steadily. Although I had no classes to teach during the summer months, the Art, Dance, and Theater Arts Departments were still in session, and there was a new sound and lighting studio being built there, too. Maybe he could find something for me to do.

“Okay, then, that's four things,” I said, more to myself than to the cat. “I'd better get dressed and get started on one of them.” Most of my clothes were still downstairs, in my old bedroom, so I showered in my new bathroom, tossed on a robe, made my bed, and opened the door to the front hall. O'Ryan scooted out ahead of me and headed down to Aunt Ibby's part of the house. The tantalizing smell of bacon and homemade bread wafted toward us from her kitchen.

“Oops. Forgot my watch.” I hurried back to the bedroom, grabbed my watch from the top of the bureau, then paused, looking at the lace runner–covered center panel.

Why did I see the swirling colors and the sparkling lights in the brief instant when Pete lifted the panel?
I wondered.

This scryer thing, this gazing ability I seem to have, isn't anything I've ever wanted. According to the books I'd read since I learned that I actually have this weird ability, a scryer can see things in shiny, polished surfaces, and in my case, they apparently have to be black. It was less than a year ago that I discovered this “gift,” as River called it, although Aunt Ibby had known about it most of my life. River thinks I should use it as much as possible. She says it's a blessing, something that could help people, the way she helps with the tarot cards. But River didn't see her parents die in a fiery plane crash, watch her mother's silent scream. She didn't see a woman being murdered, unable to do anything about it. True, one of the visions had probably saved my life once, but I was still terrified of the whole creepy process.

I reached again toward the top of the bureau, then pulled my hand away. I hurried from the room and raced down the stairs, heading for the warmth and safety of Aunt Ibby's kitchen. O'Ryan was already there, enjoying a second breakfast from his own red bowl.

“Good morning, Maralee,” my aunt called. “You're up bright and early. Sit down and have some bacon and eggs and nice warm homemade bread. Where are you off to today?”

I poured myself another cup of coffee and sat at the round kitchen table. “I've thought up four things I need to do,” I told her. “I haven't decided which one I should start with.” I recited the list, counting each item off on my fingers.

“All worthy ideas,” she said, “and I'm sure Rupert will be happy for the help. He mentioned to me just yesterday that he was looking for a volunteer property manager for the summer theater program. Someone to find stage props for the plays they'll be producing this summer.”

I nibbled on a piece of crisp bacon. “I can do that.”

“Of course you can. They have a really slim budget, though, so you'll have to prowl around in thrift stores and beg, borrow, and steal from friends, I imagine, but it might be fun.”

“Okay,” I said. “I'll go to see Mr. Pennington first thing. I hope he hasn't already found somebody else.”

“I doubt that he has. Volunteers aren't as easy to find as they once were. Lots of people who'd like to offer to help have to bring home a paycheck these days.”

“I know. I'm one of the lucky ones. I have a lovely home here with you, a job I like at the school, and enough money so that I don't need to worry.”

It was true. Between an inheritance from my parents and Johnny's insurance, I was quite well set financially. That was another thing Pete didn't know about me yet. The list seemed to be growing.

Within the hour, dressed in conservative black cropped pants and a crisp white cotton blouse, with tummy full and to-do list reprioritized, I backed the Corvette out of the garage and headed downtown to offer my services to the Tabby.

Mr. Pennington was in his office, behind his massive old oak desk. He rose to greet me, smiling broadly. “Ms. Barrett, what a delightful surprise. I'd just been thinking of calling you . . . asking a favor of you, so to speak.” He gestured toward the one comfortable chair in his office. “But please sit down. What brings you here this fine morning?”

“Thank you.” I sat as directed. “My aunt told me that you might be in need of a property manager for the theater group.”

“How perfectly serendipitous, my dear! The very favor of which I spoke.”

“Really? Well, then, if you think I can handle the job, I'm happy to volunteer.”

“Oh, you're perfectly suited to the task, Ms. Barrett. With your extensive background in television production, your familiarity with set design, and with your innate exquisite taste . . . why, I couldn't have found anyone better. I've been trying to fill the position myself, gathering together a few things for our first production, but . . .” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “But my executive plate is very full, so to speak.”

Mr. Pennington had been an actor in his youth and was given to long, flowery speeches. He looked the part, too, always impeccably dressed, with flawless manners. He and Aunt Ibby had started dating some months earlier. They are both film buffs, and it was fun listening to them try to top each other when they recited lines from old movies.

“Glad to help,” I said. “What's my job description?”

“We'll be doing three plays during the summer,” he said. “I'll give you the script of each one, along with the general set outlines, so you can see how the onstage action should flow.”

“Sounds like a fun challenge. When do you want me to start?”

“How about tomorrow? I'll speak with the Theater Arts Department people.” He scribbled on a large desk calendar, then frowned. “I suppose you realize that our budget is . . . shall we say . . . somewhat limited?”

“Aunt Ibby made that clear.”

“Ah, yes. Miss Russell is a remarkably astute woman.” Again, the broad smile. “Will tomorrow at ten be convenient?”

“I'll look forward to it,” I said, shook his hand, and left the office, mentally checking off number four on my list.

The Tabby was housed in Salem's old Trumbull's Department Store. Even after considerable renovation, the building had kept its retail-store look. There was a wide staircase leading from the main floor to the upper stories, and even some of the original store fixtures had been repurposed. An old rolltop glass counter housed student awards, and the elevators still had the old directory in them, showing floors marked
MILLINERY, MENSWEAR, BEAUTY SHOP,
and the like. My classroom was housed on the mezzanine, between the first and second floors, in the old shoe department, and was complete with vintage Thonet chairs and campy mid-century display pieces. I couldn't resist taking a peek at it as long as I was in the building.

The lights were out; the TV monitors, dark; and the desks, bookshelves, and tabletops, empty—just what I'd expected to see in a classroom vacated for the summer. I took a few steps closer. Something was missing. In fact, quite a few somethings were missing. Most of the vintage chairs were gone, along with the old shoe department display pieces. Where was the cute tin cutout of Buster Brown and his dog, Tige? Where was the framed picture of the scarlet macaw advertising Poll-Parrot shoes for children? Where was the 3-D patent-leather pump that used to hang on the wall behind my desk? Not that I'd ever be sorry to see that particular shiny black object disappear.

I guessed I'd learn the answers when I reported for my new job in the morning, and set out to check off number one on my list.