Death Scene

Book 14: Witch City Mystery

by Carol J. Perry

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Female Sleuths; Mystery; Animal Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

It takes a lot for Salem locals to get excited about their historic Massachusetts town being known as “the witch city.” But when a major studio arrives to shoot a witchcraft-themed movie, folks go Hollywood. For WICH-TV’S program director and chief documentary-maker, Lee Barrett, however, the project may come complete with a real-life death scene . . .

Between documenting the progress of the movie, corralling starstruck autograph seekers and fans, and managing unmanageable traffic on Salem’s narrow streets, Lee and her police detective husband, Pete Mondello, are beyond busy. Even Lee’s best friend, River North, tarot card reader and practicing witch, gets in on the action, landing a job as a stand-in and body double. But it only takes one interview for Lee to realize that the male and female leads—whose roles include torrid love scenes—despise each other. Yet the problem is short-lived, literally . . .

When the gorgeous lead actress is found dead on a set staged to replicate the room where suspected witches were tried in 1692—and her on-screen lover, in full costume, is discovered sound asleep in her trailer—the hunt is on for a killer on the loose. Nevertheless, the producer decrees “the show must go on!” Now, even with help from River, Lee’s Aunt Ibby, and O’Ryan, a remarkably clairvoyant gentleman cat, sorting out a witch’s brew of secrets, sorcery, and special effects might turn Lee’s documentary into her own final act . . .

Release date: August 20, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

I cranked up the radio in the Jeep, hummed along with a Taylor Swift tune, and glanced at the clock as I rounded the corner of Winter Street, pleased that I’d be checking in early for my job at WICH-TV. I’m Lee Barrett Mondello, née Maralee Kowalski. The Mondello part of my name is almost as new as my sweet, fully tricked-out Jeep Wrangler. My husband, Detective Sergeant Pete Mondello, and I were married less than a year ago. I’m red-haired, thirty-five, Salem born, and orphaned early. I was married once before to NASCAR driver Johnny Barrett—and, sadly, widowed much too young. Pete and I now live on Winter Street, just a couple of blocks away from the home where I was raised by my Aunt Isobel, “Ibby,” Russell.

I’d almost reached the corner of Williams Street, just ahead of the looming towers of Salem’s top tourist attraction—the Witch Museum—when the orange Toyota in front of me slammed on its brakes. I uttered an unladylike word, stopping the Jeep just in time to prevent damage to either vehicle. I stuck my head out the window, straining to see what was going on ahead. I recognized the Salem traffic cop who approached the Jeep, giving me a smile and a brief salute. Being married to a cop has its perks. I rolled down the window and turned Taylor Swift off mid-“Forever & Always.”

“Hi, Mrs. Mondello,” he said. “Looks like you might be delayed for a few minutes. The movie company is doing a shoot at the museum and they’ve got the whole darned street jammed up with a tractor full of equipment, a fancy trailer, and even a food truck. We’re trying to get them into some parking spaces.” He leaned closer to my window, putting his finger to his lips. “I just got word that they’re going to be shooting later today down at the Witch House, so you might want to stay away from that end of Essex Street too.”

Of course I knew that Paragon Productions was in town, putting the finishing touches on a film involving witches, called Night Magic. Everybody in Salem knew it, and most everybody was pretty excited about it. I thanked the officer for the tip. The Witch House is the only house still standing in Salem that has a direct connection to the witch trials, and according to the station’s network film critic, getting shots of the stars in and around the old house was a big part of the reasoning for bringing the cast to Salem to finish the film. Paragon’s publicist had sent me a media kit of photographs of the replica room where accused witches were tried, along with some general information about the trials. I’d visited the Witch House on school trips, and my librarian aunt, Ibby, had seen to it that our home library was well-stocked with books about the sad witchcraft delusion that had gripped my city in 1692. The photos looked interesting, though. I put the kit in my top desk drawer for a closer look later.

The movie studio couldn’t have picked a worse time to film Night Magic in Salem. The entire month of October is one huge Halloween party, and people come from all over the country—maybe from all over the world—to take part in it. Pete had left for work almost an hour before I, so I was pretty sure he hadn’t encountered the same delay. Even if he had, his unmarked cruiser was equipped with siren and flashing lights. The Jeep wasn’t, so I put it in Park and settled down for a wait. I knew for sure that Bruce Doan, the station manager at WICH-TV, loved the idea of a film about the Salem witches being made—as he put it—right in our own backyard. Easy for him to say. It wasn’t anywhere close to his backyard, but on this particular morning it was only two streets away from mine.

I tuned the radio to the local station, WESX, hoping for a traffic report and hoping too that this would be the only traffic screwup between the Witch Museum and the waterfront TV studio on Derby Street. I had a fairly full schedule laid out for myself for the day. I checked the clock again. If this took more than ten minutes, I’d start my day late.

Mr. Doan likes just about everybody on the WICH-TV staff to—as he quaintly puts it—wear more than one hat. I’d already worn several, although, fortunately, not all at once. At the moment my main job was program director, with an occasional stint as a field reporter. He’d recently hinted at awarding me with another title—one I’d held before—executive director of documentaries. It has a fancy sound to it, but it just means that he wants me to find the time to produce a program documenting the making of a movie about witches.

Information about the actual plot of the film had so far been pretty sparse, and I’d heard that the producers weren’t granting interviews at all. I did, however, have one possible “foot in the door” of Paragon Productions. My best friend, River North, is the star of WICH-TV’s late-night show Tarot Time with River North. She hosts the midnight scary movie show and, during breaks, reads the beautiful tarot cards for call-in viewers. For years people who know River have said that if her long, black hair was platinum blond, she’d look like a younger version of glamorous Darla Diamond, the female star of Night Magic. River is still in her twenties and Darla is closer to my age, or maybe more.

One of the advance scouts for Paragon had seen River’s show, noted the resemblance, and offered her a temporary job as body double and possible stand-in for the star. It would look good on River’s résumé for sure, so she accepted the offer. She hadn’t done any work for them yet, and I sincerely doubted that they’d welcome a local reporter and camera crew under any circumstances, but hey, River might meet somebody who knew somebody who had access to the right people. Anyway, if the documentary hat fit, I was willing to give it a try.

I kept an eye on the orange Toyota in front of me, willing it to inch forward, giving me hope that this unwelcome parade might be about to break free. My ten-minute window had narrowed to five. Horns began to sound, from ahead of and behind the Jeep. The natives were getting restless. The Toyota began to move cautiously, avoiding jaywalking, costumed revelers. With a thumbs-up signal from the traffic cop, I pulled off onto Hawthorne Boulevard and headed for my Derby Street destination—maybe a couple of miles an hour faster than the posted speed limit.

I’ve been with WICH-TV long enough so that I have a designated parking space in the waterfront lot beside the station with my name on it. It still says Lee Barrett, and to the viewers of WICH-TV, that’s still my name. One’s own parking space is a handy thing to have, especially when there’s a lot going on in Salem and drivers are apt to grab any empty space they can find.

Locking the Jeep and dashing across the lot, I tapped my code into the keypad beside the entrance, and stepped into the cool darkness of the studio. A burst of childish laughter issued from the distant soundstage where Ranger Rob’s Rodeo, the WICH-TV morning kiddie show, was already in progress.

I headed up the metal staircase to the second floor and pushed open the glass door marked “WICH-TV Executive Offices.” Rhonda, the station’s receptionist, greeted me with a smile. “Doan wants to see you right away.”

“Is that good?” I asked.

“Hard to tell.” She spread out her hands in a helpless gesture. “He was on the phone with some old friend of his in Hollywood this morning, if that’s any help.”

“Hollywood.” I nodded. “Okay, then it’s got something to do with the movie.”

“Yeah. Like everything else in Salem lately. You’d think nobody ever made a movie about Salem before.”

“Besides Hocus Pocus?”

“Right, and there was that Bewitched TV show, where Sam and Darrin come to Salem for a witch’s convention,” she recalled.

“I loved that one,” I said. “Well, I’d better go in and see what’s on his mind,” I headed for the door marked “Station Manager” and tapped on the partially open door. Mr. Doan prides himself on always having his door open to his employees.

“Come on in, Ms. Barrett. Have you begun work on our documentary yet?” He leaned across the desk, past an arrangement of artificial lilacs—clearly a bit of décor inspired by his wife, Buffy, who has a great fondness for the color purple. “Did you know that Lamont Faraday is a direct descendant of Nathaniel Hawthorne?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, seriously doubting that such a relationship existed between the male star of Salem’s newest movie and the city’s most famous author.

Bruce Doan frowned. “What makes you say that?”

“Because I’ve done a little predocumentary research lately. When Faraday was in the remake of John Wayne’s The Alamo, his publicity people claimed that Davy Crockett was his great-great-great-grandfather. That wasn’t true either.”

“So you actually think the publicity department could be putting out false information?” His expression bordered on the incredulous. “How can that possibly be?”

I shrugged, trying to look noncommittal. Nobody wants to disagree with the boss. “From what little I’ve read about this production so far,” I told him, “it’s possible that it might be over budget already. They need all the positive pre-release publicity they can get. The TV network movie critics like that kind of interesting tidbit stuff. It’ll get picked up by the cable networks too.”

He frowned again; this time his whole forehead was furrowed. “Like how much over budget?”

“I have no personal knowledge of it, of course,” I hedged, “but TMZ says several million—so far.”

Bruce Doan did not look pleased. I had a horrible thought.

What if he’s invested money in this thing? I’d heard some whisperings around the station that maybe he had. It made sense to me. The making of a movie—especially one with well-known stars—could be a huge financial blessing to the city or town involved in the filming. It meant increased business for just about every merchant or service provider in the locale. That, to Bruce Doan, would mean more advertising revenue for sure.

The success or failure of Night Magic was going to be a very big deal—for Salem and for WICH-TV.

I left the manager’s office with a promise that I’d get going right away on the documentary, with a caveat to make Salem look good. Sure I could keep that promise, with the knowledge that everyone I’d talked to—everyone I knew in Salem—was all in for the success of the movie. From the mayor’s office to the visitors’ bureau to the Chamber of Commerce, along with most of the industries, retailers, and private groups—and except for some good-natured crabbiness about the traffic tie-ups—there was a spirit of cooperation throughout the city.

“How’d it go?” Rhonda wanted to know.

“Not bad,” I told her. “He wants me to hurry up with the Salem witches documentary.”

“Do you think you can squeeze one more thing in today? It shouldn’t take too long.” She pointed to the whiteboard where she notes everybody’s assignments. I was already scheduled for a meeting with the host of Shopping Salem to firm up plans for an antiques show special featuring vintage Salem souvenirs, then a meeting with the billing department about some past-due accounts a couple of my advertisers had run up, along with the usual programming duties for The Saturday Business Hour, finding some cute new outfits for Paco the Wonder Dog on Ranger Rob’s Rodeo, and scheduling an in-person appearance with psychic medium Loralei, who was booked to demonstrate a love spell on Tarot Time with River North .

“I’ll try,” I promised, somewhat reluctantly. “What is it?”

“Scott Palmer phoned in that he’s tied up in traffic in North Salem, and he’s supposed to do a stand-up at noon over at the intersection of Proctor and Boston Streets. That’s where the Great Salem Fire started. The mayor is dedicating a plaque or laying a wreath or something. Not a real big deal. Howie Templeton is out of town for a college reunion. Can you do it?”

“Big deal or not, I can’t go on camera looking like this!” I ran my hand through humidity-tangled, needed-washing, curly red hair, then looked down at my faded jeans and short-sleeved gray sweatshirt. My present job doesn’t require much of a wardrobe. Rhonda gave me an up-and-down look and didn’t disagree with my assessment. Some rapid calculations told me I could keep the appointment with the Salem Shopping host, postpone the meeting with the business office, phone Loralei about the love spell, and shop online at home later for doggie costumes. “I can probably rearrange the whiteboard list by eleven,” I said.

“I might be able to get you an appointment for a quick blowout with my hairdresser, Jenna,” Rhonda offered, “She’s very good. She does River’s hair, you know. Then you’ll need to go home and grab something decent to wear. You could make it in time. Anyway, there’s no one else around to do it. Here. I’ve printed out a few facts about the Great Salem Fire for you.”

“Thanks. This will be a big help,” I said, accepting the pages. “Who’s my ride?” A field report requires a mobile unit with a cameraperson as well as a reporter. WICH-TV has only one fairly new rig and I assumed Scott had that one, along with our top videographer, Francine. “Is Old Jim here today?” Old Jim and I have worked together a number of times and he’s truly good at his job. Jim can focus on the small details that the younger photographers often miss. He drives the old VW bus that’s been converted into a fair approximation of a minimobile studio. Working with Old Jim was fine with me. Rhonda assured me that Jim was on the premises, working on some editing for a Wanda the Weather Girl promo piece.

Scott Palmer is not my favorite person at WICH-TV. He’s a pretty good reporter, though, and he’d covered for me once in a while back when I used to be a full-time field reporter. Howie Templeton is Scott’s backup. He’s also Mrs. Doan’s nephew who got handed my old job the minute he graduated from broadcasting school and got me promoted to program director. I’m not complaining about it. The hours are much better for married me, and it came with a little pay raise.

“It’s worth a shot, I guess,” I told her. “Want to see if Jenna can take me this morning?” She was already on her phone before I’d finished the sentence.

“Good news.” She gave me a thumbs-up. “She has a ten-thirty cancellation. Okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed, with no idea how I was going to run through that whiteboard list in half an hour. “I’ll be there at ten thirty.”

Somehow, with some fancy juggling and a very cooperative Loralei, who knows that River North, the host of Tarot Time, is my very best friend, and an always understanding Shopping Salem host, along with an annoyed—but accommodating—business office, I was on my way to Chez Jenna by ten twenty.

One of the best things about beauty parlors is the wide-ranging conversation that so often happens when your head is being shampooed, dried, and styled. Okay. Call it what it is. Gossip! (Pete says it doesn’t work the same way at barbershops. There it’s mostly sports or politics.) A good hairstylist, though, can be a better—and even more reliable—source of what’s going on in any given place, at any given time, than any form of news media could possibly hope to be. In fact, River had told me more than once that Jenna was such a source.

It turned out that on that particular day, at that particular time, the woman who’d so conveniently canceled her appointment so Jenna could fit me in, was an assistant to an associate director of costuming on the very movie I’d been tasked with documenting. According to Jenna, she’d had to cancel her hair appointment because leading lady Darla Diamond, in an outburst of rage, had used a pair of scissors to rip open the seams of a custom-made evening dress because it no longer fit her properly, and she’d done what Jenna deemed a real hatchet job of it. She’d already appeared wearing the dress in critical scenes that were filmed earlier in Hollywood, so the costume department had to figure out how to somehow repair the costly designer original before they could continue filming.

“You’d think that a woman with such a beautiful face would have a beautiful soul too,” Jenna said, “but she doesn’t. It’s no wonder she doesn’t get along with anybody. I’ve heard that she and Lamont Faraday absolutely hate each other.”

“I’ve heard that too,” I said. “I think I read it in a magazine somewhere. It’s hard to believe, though, when you see the love scenes they do together in their movies.”

“Yeah. There’s that. They look so perfect together. Two beautiful people in love.” She sighed. “You know how River looks like a much younger version of Darla, but River has a sweet disposition to go with the good looks? The thing is,” Jenna went on to explain about the dress, “Darla simply gained a few pounds and the dress doesn’t fit anymore. So Darla’s tantrum can cost a lot of time. They’ve built a big temporary studio set up over in Gallows Hill Park—they even built a whole room that looks exactly like the room in the Witch House where they tried the witches in 1692. Most of the story happens in the present, and they shot almost all of that part in California. The part that happens in 1692 is much shorter—just a few flashbacks that sort of parallel the things that are going on in the present. They’ll be mostly shooting outdoor locations in Salem, along with a few publicity still photos of the stars in the historic houses around town. They’ve built a temporary wardrobe department in the park too, and a kitchen and dining room where everybody eats. Most of the working crew have rooms in town, and they use local folks as much as they can, like the hair dressers and the caterers and the florists. There are a couple of fancy dressing room trailers for the stars on-site, and they’ve even stocked up a supply of the expensive, imported European chocolates Darla insists be on-site everywhere she goes.”

“No kidding? Imported chocolates? I’ve heard of stars that require bowls of green M&Ms or red licorice Twizzlers,” I recalled.

“Nothing but the best for Miss Darla,” Jenna said. “Maybe the chocolates account for the weight gain. Anyway, Darla has a hissy fit and the whole production gets shut down because the star is bursting the seams of a one-of-a-kind original. What a witch!”

The information about the current slowdown of production that had just been fed into my freshly shampooed and styled head didn’t exactly fit in with what I had in mind for the documentary—but hey, a documentary is supposed to tell the truth, isn’t it?

I was on my way home to Winter Street by five minutes after eleven. I pulled into the parking space behind our half of the duplex house on the same side of the street as the house where I was raised. Our big, yellow-striped gentleman cat looked up from the spot of sunshine on our back steps where he’d been sleeping. Aunt Ibby and I have a shared custody agreement about O’Ryan. He moves, as he chooses, between the two homes. I was, as always, happy to see him, and as soon as I stepped out of the car, I picked him up and told him so. He favored me with a pink-tongued lick on my nose. I unlocked the back door, and together we entered the cheerful sunporch.

Depositing the cat on his favorite zebra-striped wing chair, I hurried through the kitchen and living room and climbed the stairs to the second-floor bedroom, where I phoned Pete about what was going . . .