It Takes a Coven by Carol J. Perry

Author:Carol J. Perry [Perry, Carol J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2018-01-11T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 27

The Bagenstose house was very different from the little Cape Cod I’d just left. It was an imposing mansion, set well back from the street with a tall wrought iron fence surrounding a lush front lawn. Flowering bushes and several trees dotted the landscaped property. It was every bit as lovingly maintained as the Tasker property was, just a heck of a lot bigger. A gate closed off the driveway. I opened my window and pressed the indicated button. “Name, please?” requested an automated voice.

“Lee Barrett,” I said. “WICH-TV. To see Mrs. Bagenstose. I don’t have an appointment.”

The voice didn’t reply, but the gate swung open, so I drove slowly toward the house. Should I go to the front door? Or did media people use a servant’s entrance in the Bagenstose world? I parked in front of what appeared to be a four-car garage and climbed out of the Vette. The question of where to go from there was answered when the front door opened and a woman stepped out onto a wide granite terrace. She paused for a moment, then, smiling broadly, walked toward me. “Lee? Lee Barrett? You’re Ibby Russell’s niece. I remember when you were a little girl and your aunt used to bring you into Elliot’s bank.”

She was tall with steel gray shoulder-length hair asymmetrically cut. She wore a short black dress, which, as she drew closer, I recognized as vintage French lace—probably 1920s. It was what collectors call a “flapper dress.” And while it was certainly attractive on her slim figure, it struck me as an odd choice of clothing for midafternoon in Salem. I didn’t remember the early childhood bank visits at all but accepted a hug and air kiss.

“Thanks so much for seeing me, Mrs. Bagenstose.” I handed her my card. “I know I should have called, but it was a spur of the moment idea. I’m doing a report on the crows for the station and I understand you’ve had an unfortunate experience with them.”

“A dreadful experience. Simply dreadful.” She held the door open and motioned for me to enter. “Come in, dear child. I’ll tell you all about it.”

The foyer was carpeted with an exquisite Oriental rug in red tones. Mrs. Bagenstose tossed my card onto a silver tray atop a bombe chest with gold drawer pulls. Rows of paintings lined the walls. “Like a museum,” my aunt had told me. She wasn’t kidding. The woman directed me into a large, fireplaced room that I’d call a parlor. Massive furniture, another Oriental rug, this one in tones of blue, and more paintings. I resisted the urge to gawk around like a tourist at the Louvre, and notebook and pen in hand, I sat in the gilt carved Louis XV armchair she indicated.

She sat facing me in a matching chair, arranging the short lace skirt over slim legs. According to my aunt, Claudine Bagenstose was in her early sixties. If that was true, she was maintaining her looks extremely well. “It was the apple tree,” she began.

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