'Til Death

Book 12: Witch City Mystery

by Carol J. Perry

Genres: Mystery; Animal Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

The staff at Salem, Massachusetts's local station, WICH-TV, is looking forward to the wedding of their program director, Lee Barrett. But when Lee heads off on her Maine honeymoon, she'll be haunted by the ghosts of her own past . . .



Lee and Detective Sergeant Pete Mondello are finally tying the knot—and Lee is tying up loose ends before the big day. It'll be an adjustment moving out of Aunt Ibby's house, but the couple will stay nearby—after all, they have to share custody of O'Ryan, their clairvoyant cat. And Aunt Ibby will be renting out Lee's old apartment . . . though she's getting some bad vibes from her current prospective tenant.



After the celebration, complete with a cake made by the station magician, there should be time to relax—but the Maine island happens to be near the site of the crash that long ago killed Lee's parents, a mystery she's never been able to solve. Soon she'll be putting wedding gifts aside and turning to her psychic gifts instead, to wrap up crimes both past and present . . .

Release date: April 26, 2022

Publisher: Tantor Audio

Print pages: 283

Sample

Scott Palmer tapped urgently on the glass partition that separates my office from the WICH-TV newsroom, while in front of my desk the Fabulous Fabio attempted unsuccessfully to coax a reluctant pigeon back into a frayed top hat, and on the phone my Aunt Ibby tried once again to explain to me why she thought a prospective tenant for her soon-to-open Airbnb might be a wanted criminal.

Not all of my days as program director at the Salem, Massachusetts local television station WICH-TV began with such confusion, but recently quite a few of them had. I’m Lee Barrett, née Maralee Kowalski, thirty-five, red-haired, Salem born, orphaned early, married once, and widowed young. At that moment, I lived with my aunt, Isobel Russell and O’Ryan, our gentleman cat, in the old family home on Winter Street.

That was soon to change. I was happily engaged to be married to my longtime policeman beau, detective sergeant Pete Mondello, and in the midst of making plans for our June wedding. The ceremony would be held at Salem’s Old Town Hall. It’s a beautiful Federal-style building built in 1836 in the historic heart of downtown Salem. Our reception would be a short distance away in Colonial Hall at Rockafellas in the Daniel Low building. This cornerstone of Salem history was once the largest jewelry store in America. I’d be wearing my mother’s altered and updated gorgeous 1980s Priscilla of Boston champagne satin gown and it, as well as my maid of honor and bridesmaids’ dresses, were ready for final fittings. I’d asked my best friend, River North, the station’s late-show movie host, to be my maid of honor and bridesmaids would be WICH-TV pals, receptionist Rhonda and weather girl Wanda, Pete’s sister Marie, and former student Shannon Berman. I’d been Shannon’s maid of honor at her marriage to Salem artist Dakota Berman. We’d picked a Sunday for the wedding when the programming is mostly off-site, so none of us at the station had to work, and Shannon was a brand-new stay-at-home mom. Rupert Pennington, director of Salem’s newest school, the Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts (known around Salem as “the Tabby”) where I’d once taught a course in television production, had agreed to officiate at our ceremony. Mr. Pennington was also a close friend—and occasional date—of Aunt Ibby’s.

I’d moved downstairs to my childhood bedroom while my cute apartment on the third floor of the Winter Street house was in process of being converted to a bed-and-breakfast while Pete and I searched for a home of our own.

Scott’s glass-tapping was more annoying than the pitiful pigeon-cooing, so I swung my swivel chair around and faced him through thick glass. What do you want? I mouthed.

Call me, he mouthed back, forming the thumb and two-finger approximation of a phone receiver. I nodded and pointed to the phone at my ear, where my anxious aunt was still speaking. Later, I signaled, spinning the chair back toward the struggling magician.

“I can tell that you’re busy, Maralee,” my aunt said. “We’ll talk about it when you get home.”

“Okay. Love you,” I told her, and turned my attention to Fabio. Although his skill as a magician is questionable, his talent as a creator of extraordinary culinary confections—especially wedding cakes—was unparalleled in Salem. I’d seen and tasted examples of his work and had long ago decided that if and when Pete and I married, we’d surely have a Fabulous Fabio cake for our reception.

A beaming Fabio, having successfully coaxed the bird back into the hat, sat in the chair opposite me. “See that?” he said. “The kids are going to love it.” The “kids” he referred to were the live audience of “little buckaroos” who appeared daily on WICH-TV’s most popular children’s morning show—Ranger Rob’s Rodeo.

Fabio’s cakes were, not unexpectedly, much in demand. There was a waiting list. We were on it—but Fabio had made it clear that a single guest spot with Ranger Rob would guarantee my perfect cake on the date we’d chosen. With fingers mentally crossed, and high hopes that Fabio would give the little buckaroos one of his better performances, I signed the contract his agent had drawn up, and he signed the order for the quadruple-layer, buttercream frosted, vanilla cake with astonishingly realistic sprays of fondant roses and daisies and pansies and ribbons and butterflies—topped with a custom-designed bride and groom and a yellow striped cat that looked just like our O’Ryan.

I wished Fabio and his cooing companion a good day, punched Scott’s number into my phone, and watched through the glass as he answered. “What’s up over there?” I asked.

Before I was promoted to the station’s program director I was a field reporter. That’s the job Scott has now. I have to admit that sometimes I still miss the edge-of-your-chair, race-out-the-door-at-a-moment’s-notice, day or night excitement of my field reporter days. But the orderly routine and normal working hours of program director, along with the challenge of pleasing the varied tastes of the WICH-TV viewing audience, had been a welcome change for me. It’s also a perfect work schedule for married me!

“Got a question for you,” Scott said. “Are you still in touch with the boss man over at the Tabby?”

“Mr. Pennington? Sure. He’s going to perform our wedding ceremony. I see him fairly often. Why? What’s up?”

“There’s a little buzz going on—unverified, naturally—that one of the new instructors over there has quite a prison record.”

“Oh?”

“Heard anything about it?”

“No,” I said, “but if the person has served his time, what’s the problem?”

“Okay, Miss Goody-Goody. What if he—or she—was a mass murderer or a serial rapist?”

“He or she probably wouldn’t be out of prison,” I reasoned. “Anyway, isn’t it a matter of public record? Why are you asking me?”

“My contact—a student at the Tabby—says that this new hire of Pennington’s who calls himself Fenton Bishop looks just like a photo of Michael Martell he saw in one of those true-crime magazines, only older. Ring any bells?”

“Nope. The name Michael Martell isn’t familiar at all and the only Fenton Bishop I’ve heard of is the mystery writer.”

“Yeah. That must be him. He’s teaching writing anyway. But Martell was convicted twenty years ago of killing his wife.”

“He’s been released?”

“Right.”

“And you think he’s in Salem using this other name?”

“Right.”

“So what?” I asked, wondering what all this had to do with me, especially since I already had a lot on my plate. “If this person has paid his so-called debt to society, why shouldn’t he work at any job he’s qualified for?”

“Will you just ask Pennington if it’s true?” he pleaded.

“Call him and ask for yourself. Here. I’ll give you his number.”

He held up one hand. “Already tried that. All I get is the old ‘no comment. ’ ”

“Listen, Scott. I have a lot to do. I’ll ask Mr. Pennington next time I see him,” I promised. “He’ll probably give me the ‘no comment’ answer too. Bye.”

I ended the call before he could object. My immediate project was figuring out when we could schedule a magic-themed show for Ranger Rob’s Rodeo and then how to wangle an invitation for Wanda the weather girl to appear on a new national reality show called Hometown Cooks. The show features a competition between local cooking show hosts like our Wanda, whose Cooking with Wanda the Weather Girl is a regional favorite. She’s even authored a cookbook of her own. Besides all that, I needed to do some serious house-hunting with Pete.

We had an after-work appointment to look at a house on Winter Street, just a short walk from Aunt Ibby’s. It’s a two-bedroom condo, built back in the 1800s. It shares a common central wall with another almost identical house next door—sort of like those row houses in Baltimore, except that this is the only one built that way in the neighborhood. Pete was a little nervous about the 1830s date on the place, but as I reminded him, Aunt Ibby’s house was built in the same time period and it has all the modern amenities, as well as the old Salem charm. I hoped the condo would be similar, partly because I love the neighborhood and mostly because it would be an easy commute for O’Ryan. He wouldn’t even have to cross any streets to visit us, and my aunt and I definitely planned on shared custody of our remarkable cat.

It was nearly five o’clock when I locked in a date for a magic-themed show for Ranger Rob’s Rodeo. I’d signed up two sponsors to do special presentations for the show. Christopher Rich, the owner of Christopher’s Castle, one of Salem’s largest witch shops featuring all things magical, was delighted to be included. Captain Billy Barker owns the Toy Trawler toy store and is a regular sponsor of the show. He happily agreed to provide Magic 8 Balls for all the little buckaroos in that day’s audience, plus advertising some of the many boxed magic games and instruction books in his inventory. Katie the Clown, Ranger Rob’s regular sidekick, would work with Paco the Wonder Dog on some amazing new dog tricks. Our boss at WICH-TV, station manager Bruce Doan, was on board with the idea. So far, so good. Since I no longer had a kitchen of my own, I’d agreed to meet Pete for an early dinner at the Village Green before our appointment at the condo, so my pursuit of Wanda’s Hometown Cooks debut would have to wait a little longer.

I locked my office, said good night to WICH-TV’s office receptionist Rhonda, and stepped into the elevator—known more or less affectionately as “Old Clunky”—and rode down to the first-floor lobby. I’d parked my rental car—a red 2021 Chevrolet Blazer SUV—in my assigned space in the station’s harbor-front parking lot. I still hadn’t decided on a replacement for my recently totaled Corvette Stingray. Pete insisted that I needed something a lot safer and surely more practical than my gorgeous Laguna-blue convertible dream car. I knew he was right, but making the choice was more difficult than I’d imagined it might be.

The Village Green restaurant is in the Hawthorne Hotel, just across the Salem Common from Winter Street. Pete’s unmarked Ford Police Interceptor Utility was already parked in the Hawthorne’s lot. I pulled the red Chevy in beside it and hurried inside. Pete stood and waved from across the room, then gave me a quick hug when I reached the table.

“Am I late?” I asked. “Crazy busy day.”

“Nope. Just got here myself. They’ve got the seafood chowder tonight.”

“My favorite,” I said.

“I know.”

“I love it that you know me so well,” I told him.

“I’m getting there,” he said, “but you’re still full of surprises.”

“I guess I like that too,” I admitted, not exactly sure what kind of surprises he meant. One fairly recent surprise that both of us are still struggling to accept, is the fact that I am what’s known in paranormal circles as a scryer. My best friend River North calls me a “gazer.” River happens to be a witch, so she knows about such things. Anyway, I’d learned that I have the strange ability to see things in shiny objects—things that have happened, or are happening, or could happen in the future. River calls it a gift. I don’t think of it that way. I admit, it’s come in handy a few times, but most everything it’s ever shown me has been about death and dying.

Pete smiled and took my hand so I knew he meant the happy kind of surprises, like my learning how to cook his mom’s recipe for lasagna, or my teaching his two nephews how to play cribbage. “You’re pretty excited about the Winter Street condo, aren’t you?” he said.

“Oh, I am. Did you get a chance to look at the Zillow photos I forwarded to you?”

“The wide floorboards look great,” he said, “and the kitchen seems to have everything we want. I like the fireplaces too—if they work.”

We ordered our dinners: a bowl of that famous seafood chowder and a house salad for each of us. I told him about my meeting with Fabio, and my hopes that his magic tricks would appeal to Ranger Rob’s young audience.

“He’ll be fine,” Pete said. “Even when he messes up, he’s funny. And the important thing is we get the cake. Right?”

“Absolutely,” I agreed. “It’s guaranteed. Contracts signed. Magic show approved by Doan. And wouldn’t you know, just at the same time I was negotiating buttercream frosting and a disappearing pigeon, Aunt Ibby called, all upset about a prospective tenant for the B and B.”

He frowned. “What was her problem?”

“She just has a funny feeling about him,” I told him. “Then Scott Palmer called, wanting me to check with Mr. Pennington over at the Tabby about somebody they’ve hired over there that Scott thinks might be a murderer or something.” Our orders arrived and I dipped into the chowder, spooning up a lovely pink shrimp. “Say, do you know anything about some creepy new guy in town?”

I didn’t actually expect an answer. Pete very rarely discusses police business with me, especially since I work for a TV station. But now that I’m not a reporter anymore and hardly ever in front of the cameras, he’s been a little bit less guarded about it. He broke some crackers into his chowder and looked at me thoughtfully.

“A disappearing pigeon?” he asked.

I clearly wasn’t going to get any information from Pete about either the Tabby’s new hire or Aunt Ibby’s prospective tenant. Were they both talking about the same creepy guy or was there more than one new suspicious character lurking around in Salem?

I dutifully explained the failed pigeon-in-the-hat trick as best I could, and returned the conversation to the condo. “It’s listed as two bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths,” I said, “but there’s another room that could easily be an office, and there’s a nice closed-in sunporch in the back. There’s room in the yard for two cars.”

“Sounds good.” He looked at his watch. “Want to have coffee and dessert now or shall we come back later to talk it over after we check the place out?”

“We may want to leave a deposit tonight if we both love it,” I reminded him. “We don’t have a lot of time before the wedding.” I wasn’t kidding. “Unless we want to come home from our honeymoon in Maine and move into my old bedroom, we don’t have a lot of choice. The lease on your apartment will be up, and mine might already be rented to some wanted fugitive or other by then.” I tapped my handbag. “I brought my checkbook, just in case.”

“Good thinking,” he said. “Then we can start combining your furniture and mine and figure out what new stuff we might want to buy.”

“I know. I’m excited about having our own place, yours and mine.”

“Me too,” he said, reaching for the check. “Let’s go buy a condo.”

“If we both love it,” I said.

“If we both love it,” he agreed.

We left my car in front of Aunt Ibby’s house and continued down the street in Pete’s Ford. We’d barely parked when our real estate agent, Joanne, stepped out of the house and greeted us from the granite front step. “Welcome,” she called. “You’re right on time. We have about an hour before the next couple arrives.” She opened the green-painted door wide and stood back to let us inside.

The front hall revealed a staircase straight ahead as well as an exposed brick wall. The floor, as Pete had mentioned earlier, was of polished wide boards—the kind one only finds in houses of a certain age. On the right, a door led to a living room, which seemed light-filled from tall windows even in that early-evening hour. Here was a white mantel fireplace, recessed into yet another mellow brick wall. A perfect-for-an-office room and a cute powder room were nearby and an arch brought us to the kitchen with its stainless steel appliances, quartz counters, center island, gray-painted cabinets, some with glass doors. I could visualize my 1970s Lucite kitchen set tucked into the neat dining alcove, adjoining a sunroom, where my antique painted carousel horse would feel right at home, surrounded by plants. I was ready to write a deposit check then and there and we hadn’t even seen the bedrooms. I sneaked a peek at Pete, trying to determine what he felt.

He wore what I call his “cop face.” Unemotional. Unreadable. Did that mean he was unimpressed, or was it meant to hide his excitement at finding this absolutely perfect place for us to begin our life together? Hoping with all my heart that it was the latter, we followed Joanne up a flight of stairs, these of the twisty variety, reminding me of Aunt Ibby’s back staircase. A master bedroom with another fireplace, two big closets and its en suite bathroom was beyond gorgeous and a second bedroom had its own bathroom too. “There’s some attic space on the top floor—unimproved, slanty ceilings, no heat or air,” Joanne said. “You’re welcome to use it for storage if you like. It’s completely empty.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m sure the two floors you’ve shown us will be plenty of space for us.” Pete smiled and nodded—cop face gone. How could he not be in love with this home?

He was, it turned out, just as crazy about it as I was. It didn’t take long for an offer to be made, papers signed, “earnest money” deposited, a few selfies taken in the kitchen and beside the living room fireplace, and hands shaken all around before we hurried back down Winter Street to share the good news with Aunt Ibby.

“Does it already have a cat door or will you have to install one?” was her first question. I had to admit that we hadn’t noticed one nor had we asked about putting one in.

“Assuming that our offer is accepted,” Pete said, “we’ll make sure O’Ryan has access. No doubt about that.”

We were in my aunt’s cheerful kitchen where O’Ryan had joined us at the round oak table, sitting in one of the captain’s chairs. “Mmrupp,” he said in an agreeable cat tone. So the cat-door question was settled.

I showed Aunt Ibby the pictures of the empty rooms I’d shot with my phone. “Oh look, Maralee!” She pointed to a photo of the sunroom. “Your bentwood bench will look beautiful in this room—and your carousel horse too.”

“I know,” I said. “Already thought of that. And Pete has furniture in his apartment that will work with a lot of my other pieces.”

“My furniture is all cast-offs from my mom’s house and Donnie and Marie’s place,” Pete said. (Yes, Pete’s sister and brother-in-law are named Donnie and Marie.)

“Exactly,” I agreed. “Along with a few new pieces, we’ll have just the look we’re both comfortable with.”

“I guess so. Ms. Russell—Ibby—you must be figuring out furniture for the new B and B,” Pete said. “How’s that coming?” It’s taken a long time for Pete to use her first name and sometimes he forgets.

“Slowly, but surely,” she said. “Pete, about the B and B, I’ve been meaning to ask if there’s some way to have the Salem police check on a prospective tenant. I don’t want to rent those rooms to just anybody. After all, I live here too.”

“Sure. It can be done. Do you have a name and address for this person?”

“Just the basics,” she said. “He’s only called once and I didn’t give him much information. I just have a funny feeling about him.”

“Is he a teacher?” I asked, remembering Scott’s questions about the new Tabby instructor.

“He didn’t say. Just that he was relocating to Salem and needed a temporary address until he gets settled in his new job. What do you ask?” She tilted her head to one side, using her wise-old-owl look.

“Probably not important,” I said. “Just a coincidence. Scott was asking about a new teacher at the Tabby. Fenton Bishop.”

“Fenton Bishop?” My aunt’s green eyes widened. “The mystery writer?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” Pete said. “Anyway, Lee. You don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Neither do you,” I countered. “So will you check on the new man in town? Scott called Mr. Pennington and got a ‘no comment. ’ ”

Aunt Ibby sat up straighter. She and Rupert Pennington have been unofficially “keeping company” for years. “If Rupert has hired the Fenton Bishop, you’d think he would have told me. He knows how I love mystery books.”

“Okay!” Pete held up both hands. “I’ll see what information Pennington has and we’ll find out if you’re both wondering about the same person. It’s probably nothing, but if it’ll make you feel better I’ll see what I can find out. Did you get the guy’s name and phone number, Ibby?”

“Of course. He’s Dr. Martell. He gave me a cell phone number.”

I looked at Pete, who looked at the floor. “And you say he’s a doctor?”

“He didn’t give me his full name,” she said. “He has a PhD in education so maybe he is the same person Scott Palmer asked about. I can give you his phone number. Maybe Dr. Martell is Rupert’s Fenton Bishop. And maybe he’s the same Fenton Bishop who writes mysteries.”

“And maybe he’s the same Dr. Michael Martell that Scott says killed his own wife twenty years ago,” I said.

I heard my aunt gasp.

“To tell you the truth, babe,” he said, “I’m sorry I haven’t been taking your questions about the new teacher more seriously. The answer is I don’t know. A twenty-year-old murder is way before my time in law enforcement. Twenty years ago I was playing peewee hockey and not paying any attention to the news. I’m not familiar with it at all—but I sure will look into it now.”

“A murderer?” my aunt murmured. “Fenton Bishop a wife killer?”

“Even if he is the same person, Aunt Ibby,” I reasoned, “he’s apparently served his time, been paroled, or whatever happened to make him a free man.”

“True,” she said. “Maybe he didn’t actually kill anybody af. . .