Caught Dead Handed (17 page)

“Thanks, Aunt Ibby. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

I really didn't know what I'd do without her, and River's warning had frightened me. But what could I say? That a witch had told me that my aunt was in the middle of an unknown conflict between me and some nameless, faceless upside-down cardboard man from a deck of cards?

“How's O'Ryan doing with the idea of a litter box instead of the cat door?” I asked.

“He's not crazy about it. But he's a good sport. I told him it wasn't going to be forever. Just until we're sure he's safe.”

“I worry about being away from the two of you.”

“Nonsense. It'll only be for a day or so. We'll be fine,” Aunt Ibby assured me.

“I know. I just worry. I have to do a little filming after tonight's show. I'll come home as soon as I can.”

Back at the set Marty waited with three long capes. “Which one? Red, purple, or dark green?”

“Red, I guess. Purple was really Ariel's color.”

“True.” She handed me the red cape and, after opening a locker behind the camera, hung the others on hooks. Curious, I peered into the locker. A shelf held a wig stand, a clear plastic box, and the missing obsidian ball. I tried not to look at the ball, focusing instead on the box, its contents sparkling in the reflected studio lights.

“What's in there?” I asked, pointing.

“Those are quartz crystal necklaces. Ariel used to give them out once in a while. She got a good deal on a bunch of them from one of the sponsors. She liked to surprise callers sometimes by sending them one.”

“That was nice,” I said. “Do you think I should do that, too? Seems to be plenty of them here.”

“Sure. Why not? You just tell whoever is running the board to get a name and address.”

I put the cape on, adjusting it to cover my blouse and skirt. “How's this?”

“Good enough. Here are the notes on the movie. Let me know when you're ready, and we'll shoot this thing before the pendulum hits the pit, or however this thing ends.”

I remembered
Ghost
pretty well—loved Patrick Swayze in it—so a quick read of Ariel's notes would be all I'd need to do the intro. I skimmed through the part about Molly and Sam's love affair, Sam's murder, and the realization that he was a ghost.

Even though I was comfortably warm in Ariel's velvet cape, I shivered when I read the description of Whoopi Goldberg's character, Oda Mae Brown.

I pulled the Buick into the dark, silent garage, grabbed my costume and a canvas bag stuffed with camera equipment, a few of Ariel's books, and another of Ariel's DVDs. I hurried toward the house, glad to see floodlights illuminating the courtyard. I'd given Janice the tickets to the Witches Ball and reminded Marty to see that the flower arrangement had enough water. I was quite sure I hadn't forgotten anything.

As I'd guessed, Aunt Ibby had produced a good-looking wheeled carry-on case, had filled a plastic bag with travel-size necessities, and had placed neatly folded jeans, T-shirts, and underwear on my bed.

“This reminds me of how you used to get me ready for summer camp,” I told her as I added a pair of shorts, a bathing suit, and a sleeveless blouse to the pile. “I almost expected to see name labels sewn into my panties.”

Despite O'Ryan batting at each item I put into the bag, I was packed, dressed, and ready with an hour to spare before George Valen was due to pick me up.

“Time for coffee before you leave?”

“Always,” I said. “I need the caffeine.”

A few minutes over coffee would give me a chance to remind her to be cautious while I was away, without explaining the strange, tarot-related reasons I had for worrying about her. Instead, I blamed O'Ryan's near abduction. After all, some creep in camouflage was still out there somewhere and knew where we lived.

“Don't you worry about us for a minute, Maralee,” she said. “I've already arranged for an alarm security company to install everything we need to protect ourselves.”

“I should have known you'd be way ahead of me. You always were.”

She looked pleased. “Probably should have done it a long time ago. An old lady like me, living alone in this big old house, needs someone watching over her besides God and the angels. The alarm men will be here today.”

“I'm glad. But you do have someone besides the angels. Me.”

“I know. And that's a great blessing.”

A plaintive meow from O'Ryan made us both laugh.

“Yes, O'Ryan. You're a fine watch cat!”

At 4:25 a.m. I stood by the front door, ready to dash outside as soon as I spotted George's car. He was right on time. A quick peck on the cheek for Aunt Ibby and a pat on the head for O'Ryan and I was on my way. George put the carry-on into the backseat. I climbed into the front, my handbag forming a separation of sorts between me and the driver.

“Got everything?” He smiled his nice smile.

“I hope so. This was quite the hurry-up affair.”

“I know. You'll get used to it if you hang around the station for long. Got your boarding pass?”

I reached into the side pocket of the handbag. “Check,” I said, then laughed aloud when I realized that Aunt Ibby had tucked a couple of granola bars in with the paperwork.

“What?”

“Oh, it's just my aunt.” I pulled out one of the bars. “Look at this. Sometimes I wonder if she still thinks I'm six years old.”

“That's kind of nice, you know?”

“It is, and to tell you the truth, I've always enjoyed the spoiling.”

“Your aunt raised you?”

“She did. I lost both my parents when I was little.”

“I know how that is. Janice and I were pretty young when our mother died, and we haven't seen the old man since the funeral.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “So who took care of you?” I thought again of how lucky I'd been to have Aunt Ibby.

“I was over twenty and had a job. Old enough to take care of a thirteen-year-old. We did okay. How old were you when your folks died?”

“Only five.”

“Practically still a baby.”

“It wasn't so bad, really. I barely remember them, and I had a good childhood.”

“You grew up in Salem?”

“Right there on Winter Street.”

“Wow.” He shook his head. “I can't even imagine it. Staying in one place that long.”

“You really like moving around?”

“Sure. I can work just about anywhere, and I've already photographed New England in all four seasons.” A shrug of the slim shoulders.

“It's all about the pictures?”

“It is. I sell to a bunch of big travel magazines. I've even done a couple of coffee table books.”

“That's wonderful. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. I love my work. Sold my first photo when I was just a kid.”

Nude pictures of Mom?

I tried hard to erase the mental image. “Really?”

“It was a shot of an old church tower. Took it with a camera my mother gave me on my twelfth birthday. From then on I knew I wanted to be a photographer.”

“I was in my first school play when I was nine,” I told him. “That's when I decided I wanted to act.”

“Well, you're acting just fine on
Nightshades,
” he said. “From what I've seen, you make a convincing psychic.”

“Thanks. Being a call-in TV psychic wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I was nine, though.”

He shrugged. “It adds another dimension to your work experience. And this news gig in Florida is a big plus. Say, you ought to let me do some publicity photos for you. With your talent, I'm pretty sure you won't stay at WICH-TV for very long, and you'll need to update your résumé.”

That nude picture reappeared in my mind. “Thanks,” I said, mentally crossing my fingers. “Maybe I'll take you up on that.”

I'd been concerned that the ride to Boston with George might be awkward, considering that I'd been in his living room, looked into his bureau drawers, and viewed photos that were undoubtedly meant to be private—all without his permission or knowledge. But the ride was not unpleasant. We compared educations and work histories. His story sounded a lot more interesting than mine.

While I'd moved from Salem High to Boston's Emerson College to TV work in Florida in a fairly straight line, George had accumulated credits from schools all over the United States and even from several in Europe. He'd started work as a newspaper photographer before he was twenty, and later his photos had appeared regularly in books and magazines.

Our childhoods were quite different. I'd been blessed with a loving, supportive environment for all my formative years—and then some. George recounted bouncing around from army base to army base, school to school. When his father was at home, he said, his parents argued loudly and often. When his father was away, his mother “drank like a fish.”

“They finally divorced.” His tone was flat, emotionless. “I took my camera and a backpack full of clothes and left Cincinnati as soon as I got out of high school.”

“What became of Janice?” I asked.

He seemed surprised by the question. “Oh, I had to leave the kid there. I didn't know where I was going myself. It was okay, though. The old lady fell down the stairs and broke her neck after a couple of years. Drunk.” I saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I came right home and took the kid away with me.”

“It must have been a terrible time for both of you. And Janice, just a little girl.”

“Not so little. Just turned thirteen. And smart as a whip.” There was pride in his voice. “I think she turned out pretty well, don't you?”

“Absolutely,” I agreed. “She has a lot of responsibility at the station, and nothing seems to faze her.”

“I know. Sometimes she amazes me.”

George stopped talking and concentrated on the road ahead. I looked out the window at nothing in particular and thought about how difficult it must have been for the man to raise a teenage girl and still progress as he had in his own profession. I was, I realized, revising once again my opinion of George Valen. By the time we reached Revere, I'd convinced myself that there was probably some logical reason for the nude photo, and when we reached the maze of ramps and overpasses leading to Boston's Logan Airport, I'd gone all the way back to the impression he'd made when we first met in front of the elevator doors.

Nice guy.

Had that really been only a few days ago?

We pulled up in front of the terminal. In typical airport-rush fashion, I grabbed my carry-on, thanked George for the early morning ride, and hurried toward the revolving-door entrance. Turning up my jacket collar against the predawn chill, I knew how good that Florida sunshine was going to feel.

The shuttle was fast, the security lines were unusually short, and I was at airside with time to spare. I opened the outside pocket of my luggage and pulled out one of Ariel's books. All the caffeine I'd absorbed had done its job. Wide awake, I planned to get a little psychic homework done.

Dissociative Disorders.
It was the book Pete Mondello had found between the cushions on Ariel's couch. I guessed that she must have been reading it while the movie was running, before she'd gone outside for a smoke. That one seemed advanced for a novice, and
Past Life Therapy in Action
didn't seem much better. My third selection was
Mysteries of the Tarot.
Bingo.
Mysteries of the Tarot
looked just right. At the last minute I also chose a slim black-covered paperback.
Glossary of Occult Terminology
might come in handy. I put the two books into my handbag and returned the others to the carry-on just as the boarding call for my flight to Tampa sounded.

I settled into my window seat, happy that the Doans had opted to fly me business class. Coffee was offered and accepted; a cello-wrapped Danish was rejected in favor of one of Aunt Ibby's granola bars. I began to read.

Within minutes I found myself immersed in the history of the colorful cards with the strange illustrations. I learned about the ancient Egyptians, the Gypsies, oracles, sorcerers, enchanters, soothsayers, magicians, and wizards who over many centuries have used the seventy-eight cards to explain the past and explore the future.

After about an hour of studying
Mysteries of the Tarot,
I began to see why River was so concerned about me and my aunt. If someone truly believed the cards could give accurate warnings about things that might happen in the future, the cards she'd read for me were pretty damned scary!

I closed the book and looked out the window as we passed over the Outer Banks of North Carolina, and tried to sort out some of the happenings of the past week.

We'd adopted a cat who'd been a pet of a practicing Salem witch, a witch whose drowned body I'd discovered. Marty had told me that Ariel had believed that O'Ryan was a “familiar.” A quick check of the black-covered glossary provided a brief, but troubling idea of just what that might mean:

The Queen of Wands, the card River had chosen to represent me, had a cat in the foreground. I'd just read in
Mysteries of the Tarot
that the cat represented “the sinister aspects of Venus.”

Was it possible that O'Ryan, the cat with intelligence and attitude, the cat my aunt and I had already come to love, had sinister aspects, too?