Sugar and Spite

Book 15: Witch City Mystery

by Carol J. Perry

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

There’s no place like Salem, Massachusetts—aka “the witch city”—for Halloween. As residents embrace their historic heritage to celebrate the season, WICH-TV program director Lee Barrett is assigned the decadent task of highlighting the village’s delectable sweet shops—only to learn that some revelers prefer deadly tricks over delicious treats . . .

Casa del Chocolate is one of Salem’s most charming boutique candy shops, making it a perfect profile story. Although preoccupied with her own personal sweet news—Lee and her detective husband Pete Mondello are expecting a bundle of joy—she cheerfully agrees to interview the chocolatier. Since becoming pregnant, the radiant and exhilarated mother-to-be has discovered that she is finally free of the unwanted haunting “visions” she has endured since childhood.

Shirley Parker inherited Casa del Chocolate, housed in her beautiful ancestral home on the waterfront, continuing her family’s sweet tradition of conjuring magical treats for the folks of Salem. Mesmerized by the delightful chocolate scented aromas filling the air while touring the kitchen, Lee is shocked when she stumbles upon the murdered body of Barney Bingham, Shirley’s estranged husband.

As the police focus their suspicions on Shirley, Lee learns that many people had reasons for wanting Barney dead. Now, with help from Pete, tarot reader River North, and clairvoyant gentleman cat O’Ryan, as well as some new feline friends, Lee must unmask the true killer—and cope with the sudden return of her troubling “visions”. . .

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

“Don’t forget to get some free samples!” My boss, Bruce Doan, the station manager of Salem’s WICH-TV, leaned out of his second-floor office window with the shouted reminder. Waving my hand to show that I’d heard him, I climbed into my almost-new Jeep and backed out of the reserved space in the company’s harborside parking lot that had my name on it: “Lee Mondello—Program Director.” The lettering was fairly new. Until about a year ago, my name on that same sign was Lee Barrett.

Thirty-six years ago I was born Maralee Kowolski. Orphaned at the age of five, I was raised by my aunt, Isobel “Ibby” Russell, in the old family home on Salem’s Winter Street. Maralee Kowalski became Lee Barrett when I married NASCAR driver Johnny Bar rett, but sadly I became a young widow when Johnny died in an auto crash. Now, once again, I’m happily married. My husband is Pete Mondello, a detective in the Salem police department. We’ve bought a comfortable little home on Winter Street—the same street where I grew up, and conveniently located for O’Ryan, the large yellow gentleman cat whose custody my aunt and I have agreed to share, to commute between the two houses. Pete and I also have a dog—a wonderful black lab named Toby—who, believe it or not, used to belong to a famous movie star! He has O’Ryan’s complete approval.

Pete and I were both over-the-moon happy when we learned that we were expecting our first baby—and my ultrasound had told us that we were going to have a little girl! At seven months pregnant I still felt wonderful, and my coworkers at the station told me I’d never looked better, so Doan, who prefers that all of his employees “wear more than one hat,” decided that there was no reason I couldn’t take on a “small extra assignment.” Our city, Salem, Massachusetts, is known the world over as “the Witch City.” Halloween is a very big deal here—and since Halloween is the biggest holiday for candy sales—around six billion dollars’ worth—a citywide candy promotion seemed like a money-making idea, not just for the merchants involved, but for a hefty helping of TV commercial revenue.

“It’s an easy one,” Doan insisted. “You’ll just grab a videographer and visit all the candy stores and sweetshops you can find. Interview the owners. Get some free samples. Take your time. Find out what the most popular candies are.” I could tell he was in love with the idea. “Heck,” he said, “we even have the oldest candy shop in America right here on Derby Street.”

He was right. Ye Olde Pepper Candy Companie was less than a block away from WICH-TV. I wasn’t ready for the videographer yet, but I decided to drop in unannounced. I’d been a customer for their old-fashioned treats since I was a kid, and folks in Salem have been savoring their goodies since 1806. It seemed like a good idea to run the plan by the staff of a place who’d been in the candy biz for a couple of centuries.

To put it briefly, they loved it. I did a quick interview with a longtime staff member, left with rave reviews of Doan’s brainstorm and, as instructed, plenty of free samples—all neatly packed into a canvas bag emblazoned with their trademark horse-drawn carriage. I’d already stashed one of the famous Gibralters in my handbag, to be sure I wouldn’t miss out when my coworkers descended on the sugary haul. I added a package of watermelon licorice twists for my best friend, River North. She wouldn’t be at the station until after the rest of the crew had gobbled up all of the samples. She does the midnight to two a.m. show, Tarot Time with River North, where she reads the beautiful tarot cards for callers during breaks in the scary midnight movie.

I made a quick switch back to my program director hat when it occurred to me that Shopping Salem, one of my personal favorite programs, could use a feature on the old-timey candies too. See? Multitasking. Doan would love it. I added another go-see. Christopher Rich at Christopher’s Castle was always good at coming up with novel ideas for another of my programming responsibilities—the station’s morning kiddie show, Ranger Rob’s Rodeo. Rob’s “little buckaroos” love anything Western, and Chris had a brand-new shipment of kid-sized cowboy boots. I grabbed a couple of photos with my phone and promised that videographer Francine Hunter would come by later for a proper shoot. While I was there I told Chris about Doan’s idea for a Halloween candy feature. His eyes sparkled with interest.

“Have you ever been to Casa de Chocolatte?” he asked. “It’s kind of new and it’s not far from your place, over on Washington Square on the east side of the Salem Common in one of those big, old brick mansions. They make all kinds of chocolate candy in the basement, and there’s a showroom on the first floor that’s so gorgeous it ought to be featured in one of those fancy home decorating magazines. I understand that the good-looking grass widow who owns the place lives upstairs.” I had to smile at Chris’s use of the term grass widow. Salem people still use the old term to mean a divorced woman—and not always in a flattering way.

“It sounds interesting,” I told him. “I’ll definitely check it out. They make the candies right there in the house?”

“They do. I bought a box of them and I plan to order some to sell here in the castle. Wicked good stuff.”

“I’ll stop by there soon—maybe even this afternoon if I have time—since it’s just across the common from my place. I hope I’ll get some samples. Doan is seriously into the free samples thing.”

“Good luck. And thanks for stopping by. I look forward to seeing Francine. I miss the days when you two used to work together doing field reports,” he said.

“Sometimes I do too,” I admitted, “but working nine to five instead of all hours of the day and night chasing news stories around the city is much better for marriedlady me.”

I knew the more traditional schedule was going to be better for mommy-me too, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t miss the excitement and the immediacy of those field reporting days—and yes, even the danger.

Once again I parked the Jeep, crossed the parking lot, and, clutching my canvas bagful of goodies, climbed the granite steps to the WICH-TV building. Inside, I crossed the black-and-white tile floor to the vintage brass-doored elevator affectionally known as “Old Clunky.” As was a long-standing habit, I tried to avoid looking directly at those shiny brass doors. Not many people know this about me—only Pete, Aunt Ibby, and River—but I’m what’s known as a scryer. That’s a person who sees things in reflective surfaces that other people cannot see. River calls me a “gazer,” and says that the ability is a special gift. I don’t think of it as a gift. Almost all the visions I’ve seen, in mirrors, windows, silverware, hubcaps—anything reflective— have had something to do with death.

The ride up to the second floor was no bumpier than usual, and Rhonda, the way-smarter-than-she-needs-to-be station receptionist, greeted me with a big smile. She leaned across the curved purple Formica-topped reception desk, pushing aside an improbable arrangement of glitter-sprinkled lavender tulips, and reached for the bag.

“Samples?”

“Yep. Lots of them.” I handed over the bag.

“Any root beer barrels in here?” She dipped a tentative hand into the stash.

“I’m sure there are, but we’d better let Doan have first dibs, don’t you think?”

With a small sigh, she stood and joined me on the other side of the purple counter. “Let’s go.”

We crossed over to the partly open door marked “Station Manager,” where I tapped lightly. “Mr. Doan? I have some samples,” I announced.

“Come in! Come in!” he boomed. “How many candy stores did you hit?”

“Just the one, so far,” I admitted. “Ye Olde Pepper. I have another one lined up for this afternoon though.” I sort of white-lied about the lined-up part and hoped it would be open when I arrived. “It’s a big new one. Casa de Chocolatte.”

“Sounds good. Let’s see what we’ve got so far.” He reached for the bag and dumped the contents onto the top of his desk. “Mrs. Doan is particularly partial to their purple jelly beans.”

Buffy Doan is partial to all things purple—explaining the purple to lavender to lilac décor prevalent in the WICH-TV offices. “I asked particularly for them,” I told him. “I think you’ll find several packages.”

“Excellent.” He deftly removed three plastic envelopes of the desired beans. “You can take the rest down to the break room and tell the gang it’s on me.” Bruce Doan likes to be generous with his employees— especially when it doesn’t cost him anything.

Rhonda and I scooped up the remaining candy and put it back into the bag. Rhonda managed to liberate a package of the desired root beer barrels, and I carried the remaining loot down the ramp and past the newsroom to the employee break room, where I placed it on the table with a sticky-note invitation to Help Yourself.

Chris King’s sketchy bits of information about a grass widow who makes candy in a mansion basement had intrigued me enough that I’d promised Doan a feature on it. I was pretty sure that since said mansion was just across the common from Winter Street, my Aunt Ibby would know all about it. I told Rhonda I’d see her later and ducked into my glass cubicle of an office and called my aunt.

“Oh my, yes,” she said. “I know Shirley Parker. I’d heard that she was reviving the old family candy business. Good for her.”

“Casa de Chocolatte was an old family business? Chris didn’t mention that.”

“Is that what she calls it now? A long time ago, before you were even born, the Parkers owned a whole chain of candy stores. I’ll bet every town in New England had a Penny Parker Candy Shop.” Her voice took on a nostalgic tone. “They all looked alike. White front, the name “Penny Parker” spelled out in black script on a white sign. There were even white ruffled curtains in the window.” Deep sigh. “Oh, those chocolates. Buttercream, maple walnut, almond bark, orange cream, strawberry caramel. I guess they must have sold the name along with everything else when the business failed. Casa de Chocolatte, huh? Well, at least she still has the house.”

“Do you know her well?”

“We went to school together,” she admitted. “She’s in her sixties, like me, but we’ve never kept in touch.”

“Why not?”

“Well, Shirley was what they call a trust fund baby. She’s always had plenty of money. Fabulous clothes. Her own car when she was sixteen. After high school she went to a fancy finishing school in New York. She was—well, different from the rest of us. We had nothing at all in common. Shirley was never what you’d call beautiful, but she was attractive in a stylish way. She married the handsomest man in Salem—Bernie Bing ham. Some people said that she’d bought herself some eye candy. They had one child, as I recall. A boy. They’re divorced now, and he’s moved up to New Hampshire. Betsy says she still pays him alimony!” Betsy is one of my aunt’s closest friends—the one who knows everything about anybody who is anybody anywhere north of Boston.

I told her about my new assignment. “I’m going to stop in over there this afternoon and try to make an appointment for Francine and me to do a video. I think they’ll enjoy the free publicity. Most places do. Shall I mention your name?”

“I hardly think she’d remember me at all from school, but she probably has a library card. Sure. Go ahead. Mention my name. Let me know how it turns out.”

“I will. I promised Mr. Doan I’d try to bring back some free samples. Do you have a Penny Parker favorite in case they’re using the old recipes?”

“Maple cream, for sure,” she said.

I said I’d either beg or buy some maple cream candies for her. I was glad to have the backstory about the Penny Parker stores, and since I didn’t have an appointment at Casa de Chocolatte, the fact that I was related to one of Shirley Parker’s classmates might give me a foot in the door of the Parker mansion.

Pete likes to know if I’m apt to be working past five o’clock, so I called to let him know about the planned candy caper and headed the Jeep toward the common. It’s not far from Derby Street to Washington Square, so in minutes I pulled up in front of what one might describe as a stately brick home. A discreet black-and-gold sign over what was quite probably a genuine Samuel McIntire carved doorway identified it as Casa de Choc olatte. I climbed the stairs to the exquisite front door and, following instructions posted on the glass inset, entered the first-floor showroom without knocking or ringing.

Chris King had been correct in his assessment that the place ought to be featured in a top-tier home decorating magazine. A cushy oriental runner in muted reds and purples on a polished hardwood floor led to a massive mahogany desk, where a dark-haired, slim woman wearing what was surely an Armani suit welcomed me with a smile. I looked beyond her, trying to take in the scope of the spacious room. Not too long before, one of the extra hats that had been bestowed on me was “Historical Documentary Executive Director.” This had involved documenting the Salem International Museum project, which had included some amazing furnishings, paintings, and other décor, much of it loaned from private collections in Salem homes. I’d learned to recognize Hepplewhite, Sheraton, Chippendale—lots of big names in the antique furniture world—and a goodly amount of it was on display in the first-floor showroom at Casa de Chocolatte. There were delicate candy dishes, complete with assorted chocolate candies displayed on most of the tables, and a stack of the boxed products on a Victorian pastry cart. A large glass showcase displayed trays of the individual flavored pieces. Thinking of Aunt Ibby, I made sure there was one marked “Maple Cream.” I even spied a large framed photograph of one of the Penny Parker Candy Shops that my aunt had described.

“Good afternoon. May I help you?” The smiling woman greeted me from behind the desk. I handed her a business card—one of my new ones that identified me as Lee Barrett Mondello, Program Director.

“Oh, yes.” She peered closely at the card. “Lee Barrett. Of course. I’ve seen you on TV. You’re Isobel Russell’s niece, Maralee.” She offered her hand and I shook it.

“You have a good grip,” she said. “Tennis?”

I’d had some tennis lessons as a teenager at the Salem Country Club, but rarely played anymore. “A little bit,” I admitted. “You know my aunt Ibby?” I wasn’t surprised. In her position as head research librarian at Salem’s main library, I think my aunt has met everybody in Salem who has a library card.

“Yes, indeed. We were high school classmates.” She offered her hand across the broad expanse of desktop. “I’m Shirley Parker.”

I was pleased by her immediate recognition of my name, and at the same time surprised by her high school memory of Aunt Ibby—who I was quite sure would be surprised by it too. I dove right in with my unrehearsed pitch about WICH-TV doing a video of Casa de Choc olatte as part of Bruce Doan’s pre-Halloween citywide candy promotion.

“It’s a lovely idea. Thank you for including us. We’re quite new in the candy business, you know—even though the Parker name has been associated with fine chocolate for many years.” She gestured to the Penny Parker Candy Shop photo. “You’re too young to remember Penny Parker.”

“My aunt Ibby has told me about the shops,” I said. “I wish I could have seen one—with the white ruffled curtains and all.”

She pointed to another framed photo. “Here’s a picture of our current crew. I’m proud of each and every one of them for upholding our tradition of excellence.” The group shot showed a dozen or so men and women, all wearing identical white jumpsuits with a “CdC” monogram embroidered on the breast pockets. “I guess Penny Parker has gone forever, but we’re using the exact same recipes for our candies that they used back then.” She stood, and I realized that she was quite tall. “We’re what you’d call a boutique candymaker. Every thing is handmade—with appropriate machines, of course. We have commercial melting machines, enrobing machines, chocolate molds. We package our handmade chocolates in three sizes—twelve-piece, eighteen-piece, and thirty-six-piece. We only need a few workers at a time, but they’re all expert at what they do. We’re not working today—we’re on a four-day workweek at this time of year. It’ll pick up later in the fall. Would you like to see where we make them? It’s right downstairs. There’s no one down there today except the cat, but you’re welcome to wander around and take a look.”

“I’d love to. Thanks for inviting me.”

She glanced at my very round tummy. “Is your baby coming soon?”

“A couple of months to go.”

“Is it a boy or a girl?” she wanted to know.

“A girl,” I said.

“A little girl will be fun.” She smiled. “I only had one child. My boy, Hugh. He’s my manager here at Casa. Maybe you’ll meet him while you’re here.” She handed me a soft cashmere wrap. “You’d better put this on. It’s chilly down there, especially in the fancy climatecontrolled, air-conditioned, oxygenated walk-in that keeps the candy cool.”

I accepted the wrap, tossing it over my shoulders, and approached the stairway. It was every bit as pleasing to the eye as the rest of the room, with graceful white-painted spindles supporting the polished wooden railing. I pulled out my phone and began to click a few photos. Doan would like to get an idea of what the place was like. There was a gentle curve to the staircase itself, and it ended on the kind of bleached wide board flooring rarely ever found in newer housing. The long room was a study in white cleanliness. There were several large machines in varying shapes, all of bright stainless steel—the commercial helpers Shirley had talked about, I assumed. There were several tools laid out in neat rows—long-handled forks and pointed spoons, large and small shears, an assortment of knives in graduated sizes. I smiled when I recognized, along the side wall, what had to be a conveyor belt beside stacks of candy boxes in varied sizes, bringing immediate thoughts of Lucy and Ethel popping candy into their mouths. More spots of brightness on long counters of white marble were neatly spaced round copper basins, and the delectable rich aroma of chocolate was everywhere. I approached the nearest counter, where the copper conta. . .