Look Both Ways (7 page)

My cheeks were still wet with tears when the buzz of the clock radio's alarm woke me. I don't usually remember dreams, but this one was very clear. I'd read somewhere once that you should write down a dream while it's still fresh in your mind, before it fades away. I wiped my face on my sleeve and padded over to my desk, pulled a sheet of college-ruled paper and a pencil from the drawer, and began to write.
Beach. Seashell. Growling dog. Diamond. Running.

It was certainly far too early to wake River up with dream questions. Our study was just a few doors down from my room, and I was pretty sure I'd find a dream book there. I had time to grab a book before I needed to get ready for my first day at the Tabby.

“Come on, O'Ryan,” I said, picking up a few more sheets of paper and the pencil. “Let's go look up a dream.”

He stretched, opened his mouth wide for a long, luxurious yawn, hopped down from the bed, and followed me down the hall to the study. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined every wall, and a small computer rested incongruously on top of an old-fashioned wooden card catalog. Our books are arranged according to the Dewey decimal system, courtesy of my librarian aunt, so it took me only a couple of minutes to find what I was looking for. Number 154.63,
999 Dream Symbols.

I carried the book back to my room and tossed it onto the bed. Trying hard to resist the strong temptation to take just a tiny peek at the index, I opened the closet and picked out a pair of faded jeans and a yellow
TABITHA TRUMBULL ACADEMY OF THE ARTS
T-shirt. I'd gathered from my conversations with Mr. Pennington and Aunt Ibby that I'd probably be prowling around in thrift stores, at yard sales, and even in attics and cellars in my pursuit of cheap or free props, so casual dress seemed appropriate.

I dressed and sat on the edge of the bed to tie my sneakers, that darned book just lying there, begging to be read. I'd just flipped it open when O'Ryan appeared and, with one of his cat flops, completely covered the pages.

“Okay, okay,” I grumbled. “I'll read later. Get up so I can make the bed.”

The cat jumped down and waited next to the door, watching me as I made the bed, tucked the book into my handbag, and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. Then the two of us followed the smell of coffee down to Aunt Ibby's kitchen.

A quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, along with a to-go cup of coffee, and I was headed out the back door to the garage. I backed the Corvette out onto Oliver Street and headed for the Tabby. It felt good to have a destination. A job. A productive way to spend summer hours.

Traffic was heavy, normal for a popular summertime tourist destination like Salem. In front of the Witch Museum, tour buses discharged their cargoes of chattering, camera-toting visitors. Across Washington Square, inside the wrought-iron fence surrounding the Salem Common, the popcorn man welcomed a line of customers, while women with babies in strollers walked along tree-shaded paths or sat on long wooden benches, watching the bigger kids toss balls around.

When I pulled up in the parking lot beside the Tabby, I was surprised and pleased to see that my old parking space once again bore the
RESERVED
sign with my name on it. I parked and locked the 'Vette, and with one backward admiring glance at the blue beauty, I walked to the big glass front doors and stepped inside. Bypassing the elevator, I hurried up the broad staircase to the second floor and Mr. Pennington's office.

“Ah, Ms. Barrett. What a pleasure to see you once again.” Mr. Pennington rubbed his hands together. “Ready to get to work?”

“Yes, sir. Looking forward to it.”

“Well, then, let us proceed.” He stood and motioned for me to follow him.

Although I'd taught classes in TV production at the Tabby the previous school year, other than a brief tour during orientation week, I'd never spent much time in the Theater Arts section of the sprawling building. A rudimentary stage had been built in the area which had long ago encompassed Trumbull's furniture department. Sharing that space was Scenery, with rows of painted backdrops, piles of assorted doors and windows, along with what looked like a forest of artificial plants. Make-up occupied the former beauty shop; and Costume, complete with whole families of 1950s-era mannequins in various periods of dress, was housed in the old S&H Green Stamp redemption center.

“Come along, Ms. Barrett.” Mr. Pennington took my arm and led me into a square room with an ancient-looking freight elevator at one end. The walls were of rough bare wood. An irregular-shaped pile covered with sheets loomed like a lumpy ghost in one corner. A small desk with a straight chair stood in another corner. A gooseneck lamp and an empty in-out box rested on top of the desk. The director made a sweeping gesture. “Behold! Your new domain.”

“Uh, wow,” I said, at a momentary loss for words.

“You see,” he explained, “the freight elevator easily transports large items from the warehouse at the rear of the building up to this very useful space. So as you unload your truck—”

“My truck?” I interrupted. “I'm sorry, Mr. Pennington. I don't have a truck.”

“Oh, we have one for you. Not to worry. As I was saying, as the various and sundry items you find on your search for properties are unloaded from your truck, they are sent up here via elevator, where they can be refurbished or painted as necessary.” He beamed. “Then, when all is in readiness for the performances, we'll just send them down to the first floor and carry them into the student theater and place them on the stage.”

I nodded my understanding. The Tabby's student theater was a beautiful little venue, accessible from the main floor of the school and also from a public Essex Street entrance. During the fairly short time the school had been open, the theater had gained a reputation for presenting some professional-quality plays.

“What are the three plays you've decided on for the summer performances?” I asked. “I think you said you'd give me copies.”

“I did indeed,” he said. “First will be
Hobson's Choice
. We'll be giving it a 1930s setting and I've already begun gathering props for that one.” He pointed to the sheet-covered mound in the corner. “I didn't have to go far.” He beamed. “The action takes place in a cobbler's shop, so all I had to do was raid your classroom of shoe-related memorabilia.”

“I wondered what had become of it all,” I said. “What's the next one?”

“The easiest one of all.
Our Town.
Virtually no scenery at all! All we need is lots of chairs and a few boards.”

“And the third?”

“It's another period piece. Takes place in the nineteen forties.
Born Yesterday.
Know it?”

“I've never actually seen it performed onstage, but I'm sure Aunt Ibby has the movie. I'll watch it.”

“Fine, fine. Come along, then, down to my office, and I'll give you the plays to study.” He took my arm once again and steered me past the wooden cage that served as a freight elevator. “I'll give you the keys to your truck, too. It's not a pretty thing, but serviceable. It must have belonged to one of the Trumbull boys, I guess. The engine is good, and the air conditioner works.”

“I have my car here, you know.”

“Of course. You'll just need the truck for transporting large items once you locate them. You can leave it inside the lower-level warehouse when you're not using it.”

“Sounds good. I guess finding props for the third play will be the most challenging. But I'm sure there's still plenty of nineteen forties stuff around Salem. Actually, there's probably some at our house.”

“I have every confidence that you'll find everything we need.” He smiled, then shook his head and sighed. “I'm hoping that I, too, will succeed in finding everything I need when casting these shows.”

“You don't have all the casts in place yet?”

“Almost.
Hobson's Choice
is already in rehearsal, and
Our Town
is nearly ready. There's only one part that has me a bit flummoxed, I'll admit. It's the part of Billie Dawn, you know, the Judy Holliday part in
Born Yesterday.
”

I didn't know but silently vowed again to watch the movie. “Well, I'm sure it'll all work out just fine.” I followed the school director down the stairs to his office, where a stack of three slim playbooks had been placed on the polished surface of his big desk.

That desk had originally belonged to the store's founder, Oliver Wendell Trumbull. Next to the plays, an oblong silver tray with the monogram
O.W.T.
held a pen and an inkwell. It had once held a silver letter opener, too, but I guessed that the opener might still be in the Salem Police Department's evidence room. Not too many months ago I'd had to use that sharp, slim little device to save myself from a killer. I looked away from that sad reminder and picked up the paper-covered books Mr. Pennington had indicated.

“I'll take these up to my new, um, office and get started.”

“Excellent, my dear. You'll find paper, pens, etcetera in your desk, and feel free to ask for anything else you might need, and here's the key to your truck.” He handed me a Ford key on a key chain with a yellow plastic smiley face attached. “It's down in the warehouse. I started it myself this morning, so I know it's in good running condition.”

“I'm sure it'll be fine,” I said, with more confidence than I felt.

Minutes later I sat at my new/vintage desk. I placed the three plays on the scarred surface, then reached into my handbag, pulled out the dream book, and put it on top of the pile. After a tiny hesitation I pulled my phone from the handbag, too, and punched in Pete's number.

He answered on the first ring. “Lee? You okay? I've been worried about you.”

“I'm fine, and sorry about all the drama,” I said. “How about a do-over tonight? I'll send out for pizza, and we can tear into that bureau.”

Long pause.

“Well, babe. I'm sorry. Can't do it tonight. Something, um, came up. Maybe another time. Okay?”

Another long pause. This time on my end.

“Uh, all right . . . okay. Talk to you later.”

“Sure. And look, I know you're dying to see what's in the secret compartments. Why don't you just go ahead and open them without me?”

“I'll think about it,” I said, my tone a little too frosty. “Maybe I will. Bye.”

I hung up, then stared at the phone in my hand for a long moment before I put it back in the handbag. I moved the dream book to one side and picked up the first play,
Hobson's Choice.
I honestly had never even heard of this play, so I checked Wikipedia for information. I began to read.

Hobson's Choice
is a play by Harold Brighouse, the title taken from a popular expression, Hobson's choice—meaning no choice at all . . .

By noontime I had read the entire script of
Hobson's Choice
and had unveiled the sheet-covered blob in the corner of my so-called office. The action of the play, as Mr. Pennington had explained, takes place in a 1930s-era shoemaker's shop A dozen or so of the Thonet chairs from the shoe department had been carefully stacked in the corner, and Buster Brown, the Poll-Parrot macaw, and the giant patent-leather pump, each one tissue paper–wrapped, had been arranged atop one of Trumbull's old wooden counters. It seemed that Mr. Pennington had done a good job so far, but I'd need to find some old-fashioned shoes and boots and maybe an iron shoe last and cobblers' tools. The costume department might have 1930s dresses and suits. I made a note to check on that and tossed the sheets back over the blob. I started a list and then moved on to the second play in the pile.

My phone buzzed, and I reached for it eagerly, hoping it was Pete calling to explain his strange behavior. Caller ID revealed River North's name.

“Hi, River,” I said. “I was going to call you later.”

“You were? Any new visions? Advances in the romance department?”

“No visions, and the romance department might be moving in reverse. I had a weird dream, though. Want to hear about it?”

“Sure I do. But first, what's up with you and Pete? Is he coming back to open the secret compartments?”

“Guess not. He says he has something else to do tonight.”

“Nothing odd about that. He's a cop. He always has stuff to do. How come you sound so down about it?”

“I'm not sure,” I admitted. “It was more the way he said it, not what he said. Know what I mean?”

“Not really. I'll read your cards. Now, what about the dream?”

“I have an idea,” I said. “Why don't you come over to my place around five o'clock? I'll send out for pizza, and we can analyze my dream and open all the secret compartments.”

“Me? Really? I'd love to. And while I'm there, I can help you figure out your
bagua.
”

“My what?”

“Your
bagua.
It's a feng shui thing. To help you relate the areas in your house to the aspects of your life.”

I had to laugh. “Isn't my life complicated enough already? Let's stick with the cards for now.”

“You need all the help you can get, girlfriend. I'll see you at five. Bye.”

The second play in the pile,
Our Town,
was, as Mr. Pennington had said, the easiest one to stage. The Thornton Wilder classic required only the simplest of props, and we already had a lot of those on hand.

My tummy, rather than the clock, told me it was lunchtime. After tucking the
Born Yesterday
script, along with my props list, into my handbag, I headed downstairs to the diner, which had become one of Salem's favorite eateries for both students and the public alike.

I pushed open the chrome-trimmed glass door that led directly from the Tabby's main floor into the diner. A quick glance told me that all the high-backed, red vinyl–upholstered booths, with their tabletop jukeboxes, were occupied, but there were a few chrome bar stools available at the counter. I hurried across the center aisle and claimed one. I looked around the long room, fully expecting to see some familiar faces. After all, I'd been teaching at the Tabby since the first of the year. I was surprised to find that, other than a couple of instructors I knew only by sight, I'd be lunching among strangers. I shrugged, realizing that summer students and teachers were likely to be an altogether new group, propped
Born Yesterday
against a napkin dispenser, ordered an egg salad sandwich on whole wheat and a Dr Pepper, and began to read.

I read on and decided that I'd be on the hunt for ornate furnishings, with plenty of satin, velvet, and gilt. That pretty much crossed Aunt Ibby's house off the list, but there'd surely be some likely prospects in Salem's many thrift stores.

I thought of my bureau. With its simple lines and smooth patina of age, it was far from opulent. What was the rest of Helena Trent's home like? Would a ten-carat diamond be considered “offensive good taste”? Maybe Helena thought so. Maybe that was why she treated it so casually after her first husband's death. The diamond reminded me of my recent dream, so I snapped the play shut and tried to think about something else.

But the only something else that came to mind immediately was a handsome Salem detective. Why had I been so snippy on the phone? River was right. Pete is a cop. He always has cop stuff to do—stuff he can't discuss with me.

I reached for my phone, and it buzzed just as I took it from my handbag.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Barrett? This is Bob, from Bob's delivery service. I have your table and chairs and dishes from Jenny's on the truck, and I can deliver them to your house at around four o'clock, if that's convenient.”

I told him I could be there at four, put the play and the phone back into the handbag, paid for my lunch, and returned to the school. I still had a couple of hours before I needed to leave to meet the delivery truck. I put the idea of calling Pete aside for the moment. What could I say, anyway? That I'd behaved like a bad-tempered brat? He had so much on his mind, he probably hadn't even noticed my snarkiness.

This would be a good time to get acquainted with my new truck. I headed for the exit that led into the warehouse garage behind the old store. Mr. Pennington was right. The 1980s vintage truck wasn't pretty—just a plain old, dull, tan-colored regular-cab Ford F-150 pickup. The remnants of a faded
DUKAKIS FOR GOVERNOR
sticker still clung to the rear bumper, contrasting with the bright new Massachusetts license plate. The tires seemed okay, and when I climbed inside, the interior looked clean enough. I turned the key, and the engine cranked to life immediately. So far, so good. A garage-door opener rested on the dashboard. I pressed the button and watched as the wide aluminum door slid open. I was ready to take my new wheels for a spin around Salem.

I drove slowly onto what had once been Trumbull's Department Store's warehouse receiving lot. I rounded the building, emerged in the Tabby's parking lot, and with one regretful look toward my own beautiful blue Corvette, pulled out onto Essex Street.

I headed down Washington Street, past the post office. I turned onto Margin Street, trying to tell myself I'd chosen that route because there'd be less traffic that way—that it was just a coincidence that the police station was located there.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Aunt Ibby always said.

I slowed down when I saw a familiar Crown Vic pulling out of the station's driveway. It was Pete, all right. But who was that blonde sitting beside him?