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Book 11: Witch City Mystery

by Carol J. Perry

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Animal Cozy Mysteries; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

Salem's WICH-TV program director Lee Barrett is about to discover no good deed goes unpunished . . .



Lee has been promoted from field reporter to program director. Keeping track of all the shows and managing the local TV personalities—including a cowboy, a clown, and a performing dog—has her head spinning. Perhaps that's what makes her take pity on the distraught woman she finds sitting alone on a bench on the Salem common. When she realizes that the poor woman doesn't even know her own name, Lee takes her into the warmth of the home she shares with her Aunt Ibby and their clairvoyant gentleman cat, O'Ryan. Maybe Lee can use her own psychic gifts to divine the woman's identity.



Lee's detective beau Pete Mondello wants to talk to the "Jane Doe," but before he can investigate, he's called to a crime scene. A body has been found washed up in a narrow harbor cove. As harmless as her new houseguest seems, Lee can't help but wonder if she may be harboring a killer . . .

Release date: May 25, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Cozies

Print pages: 338

Sample

Mixed emotions. Is there a song about that? There ought to be. Anyway, I guess it would explain the way I felt one pretty June morning in my hometown of Salem, Massachusetts. My emotions, as I attempted to brush too-curly red hair into some sort of order, and tried to decide what to wear on this sort-of-special day, were decidedly mixed—a nagging sense of disappointment was somehow smooshed together with wide-eyed anticipation.

I’m Lee Barrett, née Maralee Kowalski: red-haired, thirty-three, Salem born, orphaned early, married once, and widowed young. All this introspection was brought on because my interesting, comfortable, and almost-glamourous job as field reporter at WICH-TV had recently (and quite abruptly) ended with an unexpected (and not entirely welcome) promotion.

My boss, WICH-TV station manager Bruce Doan had—at his wife Buffy’s urging, I’m sure—hired her nephew Howard Templeton as my replacement. At the same time, Mr. Doan decided that our fair city needed a lot more emphasis on local programming, and that I—with a very moderate increase in pay—was exactly the right person to make that happen. So poof! Like magic, I was suddenly producer and program director for three already established once-a-week shows—Shopping Salem, The Saturday Morning Business Hour, and Cooking with Wanda the Weather Girl. The three would present no major problems. With established formats already in place, they could all be improved with spruced-up sets, along with some innovative promotion. Our weekday late-night call-in show—Tarot Time with River North—was darned near perfect just the way it was. Downright intimidating, though, was a new weekday production—still in the planning stages—an hour-long morning show for children.

I knew Howie Templeton. I’d helped with his training a few months back, before he’d landed a job with a small Maine station. Apparently—at least according to his aunt Buffy—he was ready to move to a larger market, like Salem. My question was, Am I ready to handle my new assignment? I’ve worked in front of and behind the TV cameras ever since my graduation from Boston’s Emerson College. I’ve been a Miami home-shopping-channel show host, an investigative reporter, a field reporter, and a television production instructor. I’d even served briefly—and certainly without distinction—as a late-night call-in psychic on an ill-fated show called Nightshades. But producing a daily kids’ program opened up a whole new—and completely unfamiliar—world to me. As usual, Doan likes his employees to wear more than one hat, so I got to keep my field reporter business cards. All that meant was that if by chance something worth some journalistic investigating came my way, I might get a shot at some onscreen face time.

I decided on a cool and comfortable blue A-line dress, headed into the kitchen, and turned on Mr. Coffee. After my NASCAR-driver husband Johnny Barrett’s death in Florida, my aunt, Isobel Russell—I call her Aunt Ibby—had created this cozy apartment for me on the third floor of the old family home on Winter Street. We shared the big house with our gentleman cat, O’Ryan, who, at the moment, sat on the kitchen windowsill looking out. I carried my coffee and a manila folder marked “Kid Show” to the 1970s Lucite table, pulled up a chair beside the window, joining O’Ryan in his study of the immediate outdoors. There didn’t seem to be anything particularly interesting going on out there to demand such rapt attention from the big yellow cat, so I opened the folder. There wasn’t a lot going on in there either. Not nearly enough to get my new project underway.

“I think I’m off to a pretty good start,” I said to the cat, who may or may not have been listening. “I have appointments today with both Ranger Rob and Katie the Clown.” The pair were not strangers to television programming geared toward a juvenile audience. They had, in fact, been childhood favorites of my own. Ranger Rob Oberlin was an old-time guitar-strumming singing cowboy with tales of adventure on the range. Cute and funny Katie the Clown charmed kids with her deadpan clown antics and storytelling ability. Aunt Ibby had even bought me a Ranger Rob cowboy doll and a Katie clown doll, which had occupied the window seat in my childhood bedroom for years after the show had ended. I planned for cartoon videos to help fill up the time, and I hoped to get retired Gloucester fisherman Captain Billy Barker to act as occasional show host and—since he owned the city’s largest toy store—as the main sponsor as well.

O’Ryan made a graceful turn on the narrow sill—the kind only a cat can make—and favored me with a quick chin lick, indicating that he’d been listening after all. “Mrrup,” he declared. Sounded like a positive comment to me. My aunt and I both often talk to the big yellow striped cat—sometimes about some serious stuff. He’s not exactly an ordinary feline. He once belonged to a witch named Ariel Constellation. Some say he was her familiar—and in Salem a witch’s familiar is respected, sometimes even feared.

I slipped the slim manila folder into a briefcase, along with a couple of granola bars—in case this day didn’t allow for a lunch break—and exited my kitchen into the third-floor front hall. O’Ryan beat me to it via his cat door and together we headed down the broad staircase stairs to Aunt Ibby’s, where invitations to breakfast were pretty much a sure thing. It was early, but I knew she’d be up—either busy in her high-tech home office or in the kitchen working the Globe crossword puzzle. (In ink.) The first-floor foyer opens onto her living room, and the cat scooted ahead of me toward the kitchen to announce our arrival. I followed.

My slim, trim, and attractive sixty-something aunt is semiretired from her position as research librarian at Salem’s main library. She looked up from her Boston Globe.

“Good morning, Maralee. Fresh blueberry muffins in the warmer. Coffee’s still hot.”

“Thanks,” I said, helping myself to both. O’Ryan had already busied himself with the contents of his special red bowl. “I have a busy day ahead of me. I may be home a little later than usual.”

“I’m sure you’ll handle everything beautifully,” she said. “You always do. Shall I hold dinner for you, or do you have plans?”

“Pete may be coming over later. Not sure what time. He said he’d bring takeout. Chinese, I think.” Police detective Pete Mondello and I had been dating for a couple of years, and the relationship seemed to get better all the time.

“You know I always plan for leftovers,” she said. “If you get hungry, just come on down.”

“I will.” I put my mug and empty plate into the dishwasher, patted the cat, kissed my aunt goodbye, and left via her kitchen door to the back hall and out the back door. Outside, next to the garden fence, the air had a pleasant faint herbal smell. The humidity was low—my hair probably wouldn’t frizz. Wanda the Weather Girl had promised fair skies and temperature in the low seventies. A perfect day for walking the few blocks to work. I glanced at my watch. Still early. A brisk walk might “clear away the cobwebs,” as my aunt is fond of saying. The details of my new position could definitely use some clearing.

The Salem Common is at the end of our street. It’s a big, beautiful oasis in the middle of a busy city at every time of year, but summertime is special. I admired the newly planted flower beds, bright spots of color among grassy paths. The old-fashioned popcorn wagon was in place, and happy kids crowded around the swing sets and monkey bars. Stacia, the pigeon lady, wearing a hot-pink muumuu, was seated on her usual bench, tossing treats to her expectant audience of cooing gray birds. Stacia had human company today—a neatly dressed brunette, hands folded in her lap. I smiled, realizing that the woman would choose another bench before long. Pigeons are good-natured but notably messy creatures.

The “cobweb clearing” aspect of my walk began to take effect almost immediately. I’d only gone as far as the statue of Nathaniel Hawthorne when I’d visualized a stage set that would work for both Katie the Clown and Ranger Rob. What about a rodeo background? I was pretty sure there’d be plenty of room within the station’s vast ground-floor studio area for what I was imagining: some split-rail fencing, a make-believe bull chute, and a few rows of bleacher seats for visiting kids. Ranger Rob could do his cowboy routines, and what’s a rodeo without a clown? By the time I’d passed the Catholic church, I’d figured out a couple of program crossover promotions. Maybe Wanda the Weather Girl could do a chuck-wagon cooking demo, or the Shopping Salem folks might give a little background information and a sales pitch on cowboy boots or iron frying pans. I knew that Captain Billy would find toys and games to fit whatever daily themes we might come up with. I rounded the corner onto New Derby Street, hummed a few bars of “Home on the Range,” and hurried toward the station, looking forward to the rest of the day.

I climbed the marble steps to the WICH-TV building, pushed open the door, and crossed the black-and-white tile floor to the vintage brass-doored elevator affectionately known as “Old Clunky.” The ride up to the second floor was no bumpier than usual, and Rhonda, the station receptionist, greeted me with a big smile. She extended her hand and dangled a key on a silver chain from one finger.

“Guess what? You finally have your own office.”

I reached for the key. “No kidding! Where is it?”

“Come on. I’ll show you.” She hurried around the purple Formica counter surrounding her desk and grabbed my elbow. “You’re going to love it. You’re in there with all the big-time prime-time guys.” She opened the green metal door leading to the WICH-TV newsroom. That’s the newest, most up-to-date part of the old building. The lighting is good, the computers are reasonably new, and there’s a neat row of glass-walled cubicles back there where the news anchors and the senior sales managers do their business.

Rhonda led me to one of the sparkling glass rooms—the one with “Lee Barrett, Program Director” in neat black letters on the door. I resisted the strong temptation to pull out my phone and take a selfie beside it.

“Why don’t you just toss your briefcase inside,” she said. “Your singing cowboy is already here waiting to see you. I sent him over to the soundstage where your new show is going to happen.”

I did as Rhonda suggested, regretfully leaving my new office digs with a longing backward glance, and followed her to the ground-level stage where my favorite videographer, Marty McCarthy, was already at work with Ranger Rob.

“Hey, Moon,” Marty called. “Your cowboy here sounds as good as ever.” Marty still calls me “Moon” because back when I played a psychic I called myself “Crystal Moon” and some of the WICH-TV staff haven’t forgotten it.

“I’m sure he does,” I said. “Hi, Rob. Good to see you.” The old cowboy looked good too. Stetson hat at a jaunty angle and guitar slung casually over his shoulder, he’d lost considerable weight since I’d last seen him.

“Thanks for the opportunity, Lee. I’m anxious to get back to work. So’s Agnes.” Katie the Clown’s real name is Agnes Hooper, though she still answers to “Katie” most of the time.

“She should be along any minute,” I said. “She’s really excited about the new show. I have a few thoughts about the set I’d like to run by you both. You too, Marty.”

“Let’s keep it simple, Moon.” She shook her head, gray curls bobbing. “No moving parts.”

“Just the bull chute,” I announced with a smile.

“A bull chute!” Rob laughed and strummed a chord on his guitar. “When we have guests they can run out from the chute. Excellent! What do you think, Ms. Marty?”

“I think I’ll look up ‘bull chute’ in the dictionary,” she said, straight-faced, “to be sure you’re not just shooting the bull.”

Rhonda reappeared with Agnes/Katie in tow. “Hi, everybody,” the petite woman called, hurrying to Rob’s side “Hi, darlin’. Good to be back here, isn’t it? Feels like home.”

The cowboy’s welcoming smile was broad as he broke into an upbeat version of “Send In the Clowns,” then leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “Hi there, honey bunch. Yep. It’s good to be working together again.”

“Good to be working at all,” the little clown said. “Especially great to be doing a kids’ show. Have we got any sponsors yet?”

“We’re pretty sure about Captain Billy’s Toy Trawler,” I said, “and the sales department is working on signing up some of your old sponsors. Quite a few of them are still in business in Salem. I’m thinking about a rodeo background for the new set, and we might hang some colorful advertising banners along the split-rail fence.”

“Good one, Moon,” Marty said. “The sponsors will love it. But has Doan signed on for the expense of building the set?”

Heck, no. I just thought it up an hour ago.

I sidestepped the question. “He needs to see some sketches and cost estimates,” I said. “We’re working on it.” I used the editorial “we.” Nobody was actually working on it yet. Including me. I needed to get my ideas down on paper—like immediately. The current sets in the WICH-TV studio were pretty simple. Wanda’s kitchen had been in place since I’d first come to work there, and Shopping Salem and Saturday Morning Business Hour were simple cubicles furnished with desks, chairs, and appropriate signage. Cosmetic improvements to all three would be simple and, hopefully, fairly inexpensive.

Building a new permanent set from scratch—and within what would undoubtedly be a meager budget and a tight time frame—was going to be the first big challenge I’d face from my shiny new office.

But it wasn’t the last. It wasn’t the biggest. And it wasn’t anywhere near the most dangerous.

I could hardly wait to get into my new office—the first space of my very own since I’d come to work at WICH-TV. I took that selfie and sent it to Aunt Ibby. I sat in the swivel chair, and after looking through all sides of the glass room and determining that no one was watching me, I gave the chair a good spin. Couldn’t resist. It felt good. I opened the drawers, one by one. Most were empty except for a full package of copy paper, some manila file folders, a box of yellow number-two pencils, a half-empty box of Crayola colored pencils, and a purple ballpoint pen with the station’s logo on it. A quick trip to Staples was definitely in order.

There was a wastebasket under my desk, a four-drawer file cabinet and a paper shredder against one wall. In one corner there were two club chairs upholstered in purple plastic with a white wicker table. (Buffy Doan is partial to purple and much of the station’s décor reflects her taste.)

I pulled a sheet of copy paper from the stack, clicked the ballpoint pen, and began my to-do list. First on the list was set design for kids’ show. Next was name for kids’ show. After that came suggested sponsor list for kids’ show. I wasn’t sure I had things in the right order. Should the show have a name first? After all, I couldn’t present Mr. Doan with a folder marked “Design for unnamed children’s show.” That wasn’t the only problem. I had a good idea of what my rodeo stage set should look like, but have no artistic skill whatsoever. Who could I get on short notice to do a proper artist’s rendering? The suggested sponsors list would be comparatively easy to put together. No matter what, by day’s end I intended to have all my ducks—and clowns and cowboys and sponsors—in a row.

I decided to stick to my list—right or wrong. Set design first. The only artist I know personally is Dakota Berman—locally well-known for portraits, landscapes, and gravestone rubbings. I was maid of honor at his wedding to Shannon Dumas. (Shannon had been one of my students when I’d taught TV production at Salem’s Tabitha Trumbull Academy for the Arts—known to Salem folks as “the Tabby.”) Would Dakota do a TV set design for me? Worth a try.

I tried. He said yes. In fact, it was an enthusiastic YES! Seems that Dakota had been looking to stretch his artistic wings, and set design might open a few new doors for him. We made an appointment for him to come over to the station to check out the available space and to see how my rodeo idea might be implemented. His schedule was tight and he wouldn’t be able to meet with me until after five, but I happily agreed that five would be fine with me. Anyway, I’d already told Aunt Ibby I might be arriving home later than usual.

On to the next item on my short list. Name for kids’ show. Hmmm. That might be a tough one. I know titles are important, and I was going to have to come up with a good one—and do it before five o’clock if Dakota was going to be able to incorporate it in his sketches for the stage set. I opened the slim manila folder and pulled out a blank sheet of lined paper. “RODEO,” I printed in block letters. “COWBOY,” “CLOWN,” I added, then looked around in my new glass-walled world, searching for inspiration.

Nothing.

There was a knock at my door. Ranger Rob and Katie peered in at me, each one smiling broadly, each clearly delighted with this new opportunity. I returned the smiles and motioned for them to come in.

“RANGER ROB” I printed on the lined sheet and waved a hand toward the purple chairs. “Come on in and sit down, you two. I’m working on a name for the show. Any suggestions?”

Rob sat down, but Katie stood across the desk from me and pointed to the paper. “Of course I’m reading upside down, but what’s wrong with that title?”

“What title?” I frowned, turning the paper around.

“Ranger Rob’s Rodeo,” she said. “Three Rs. It’s euphonious, don’t you think?”

“It is,” I agreed, surprised. “It does have a certain ring to it, doesn’t it? What do you think, Rob?”

His grin gave his answer before he spoke. “I like it a lot. Especially the three Rs. You say you watched us back when you were a kid. You were one of my little buckaroos. Don’t you remember my set on the old show was the Triple R Ranch?”

“That’s right. I do remember. I’ll bet a lot of today’s young moms will remember it too.”

A sudden burst of activity in the newsroom behind us caused the three of us to look in that direction. Once again, I appreciated the location of my new office. I’d be one of the first to know about any breaking news happening in Salem—and it certainly looked as if something was breaking.

Howard Templeton came barreling past my door, followed in quick succession by my favorite mobile unit driver/videographer, Francine. I felt a tiny twinge of jealousy. Chasing a breaking news story is exciting. I was already missing that part of my job.

“Excuse me a minute,” I said, hurrying to the door and pulling it open. “Hey, Francine!

What’s up?”

“Floater in the harbor,” she called over her shoulder. “Looks like it wasn’t an accident.”

I closed the office door and walked slowly to my desk, struggling to stifle my natural reporter’s curiosity. Looks like it wasn’t an accident? How? “Some excitement going on out there,” I said, keeping my voice level. “Where were we?”

“Picking a name,” Katie said. “Ranger Rob’s Rodeo. Do you think Mr. Doan will like it?”

“We’ll find out,” I promised. “But for now, that’s it. Next I need to put together a list of possible sponsors. We’ll start with some of your old sponsors. I think Captain Billy’s Toy Trawler is a pretty sure thing. Any ideas?”

They each came up with some names, and before long we had good selection of likely sponsors to hand over to the sales team, who’d undoubtedly come up with more.

“Good job, you two,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”

Rob and Katie left the office, his arm casually draped over her shoulders. Back when the two starred in the top-rated kids’ show of my childhood, it was rumored that they were an “item.” It looked to me as though they still were—and that made me smile.

I gathered up my notes on the proposed show name and possible sponsors—with a silent vow to pull them into an orderly presentation really, really soon—stuck them into the folder, jammed it into the top drawer of my desk, and hurried out the door and into the newsroom.

“Scott,” I said, speaking to Scott Palmer—not one of my favorite people at the station, but the first reporter I happened to run into. “What’s up with the drowning victim? Francine says it’s not an accident.”

Scott didn’t look happy. “Seems that way. Their live shots should be coming any minute. The new kid seems to be getting all the plum assignments, or hadn’t you noticed?”

I had noticed, but didn’t see any advantage in belaboring the point. “Did you check the police scanner?” I asked. That’s the first thing I would have done if I’d been the field reporter who got left behind. I was pretty sure Scott would have too.

“Yeah, sure,” he admitted. “The guy probably drowned, but let’s say he didn’t jump into the water voluntarily.”

“How do they know that?”

“Looks like his hands had been bound.”

“Murder?”

“Seems so. Hard to swim if you can’t use your hands.” He pointed to a TV monitor on the wall. “Hey. There’s the fair-haired nephew doing the stand-up. Looks like they’re over near Collins Cove.” We both moved closer to the screen. Howie Templeton stood on a stone wall, his back to the narrow stretch of beach where a Salem police department cruiser was parked on the sand. A crime scene investigation veh. . .