'Til Death Read online

  Books by Carol J. Perry

  Witch City Mysteries

  Caught Dead Handed

  Tails, You Lose

  Look Both Ways

  Murder Go Round

  Grave Errors

  It Takes a Coven

  Bells, Spells and Murders

  Final Exam

  Late Checkout

  Murder, Take Two

  See Something

  ’Til Death

  Haunted Haven Mysteries

  Be My Ghost

  ’TIL DEATH

  CAROL J. PERRY

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  EPILOGUE

  RECIPES

  Teaser chapter

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2022 by Carol J. Perry

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  The K and Teapot logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3143-2

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3144-9 (ebook)

  For Dan, my husband and best friend.

  CHAPTER 1

  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 M
r. 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.

  CHAPTER 2

  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.”