Page 33 of In the Pursuit of Haven
Not really good. Where was that stalker?
Something about that guy had made me jump out of my skin, and my heart raced as I stared down the adjacent street past kitschy stores selling Salem-themed books, t-shirts, souvenirs, exotic candy and baked goods. If the stranger had followed me, he’d be coming from the courtyard enclosing The Old Town Hall where the Sanderson sisters put a spell on all the furiously dancing parents inHocus Pocus.
Further on from that was the sandwich shop where Washington, Franklin, and Jefferson sat alongside Salem patriots, warming their backs against their iconic fireplace while they plotted the Revolutionary War.
I couldn’t even imagine adding my history to this place, but I wasn’t eager to do it by fighting off a stalker. The guy must’ve given up on following me anyway. He was nowhere in sight.
Jessie had gotten to me with that “suspicious” talk. He really was the worst. Circling away, I crossed the busy street to the familiar hulking black structure known as the Witch House.
Imagine spending so much energy exterminating “witches,” only to have your house nicknamed that!
The Corwin homestead faced certain destruction in the ’40s when the city decided to widen the roads meant for wagons and carts to accommodate cars. Concerned citizens jumped to the rescue, raising money to both save the structure and move it thirty-five feet to the side. And while they were at it, they scooted over the neighboring building too—the famous Bowditch house, home to Salem’s navigational genius.
Sure, why not move two houses? I had no idea how they managed it.
I glanced down at my watch. I only had five minutes before closing.
Rushing over the busy street, I ducked into the gift shop that made up the entrance in the back of the Witch House. Inside, the walls were black and the area was cramped. It always amazed me how small these Puritans were… or possibly how frugal they were with their lumber. Jessie would be hitting his head against the ceiling in here. Of course, I’d heard tale of Benjamin Franklin hitting his head on the low beams of these houses too, so perhaps everyone spent most of their time outside or rocking on chairs, knitting.
Two workers watched me with arched brows. “We close in four minutes,” the older one said. He hurriedly struggled to get his face mask on, like I’d brought in the plague.
“I just wanted to run in real quick to see…”
“Eight dollars.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Pulling out some cash, I lifted my eyes to the masked man and startled when I recognized him as Ruth’s father.
His choice of vocation made a strange kind of sense since she’d been so deep into the history of Brown’s Island back in the day; even though she’d used her knowledge of the Wizard of Marblehead to torment me.
I glanced at his nametag. “Hi Jude… I’m Ruth’s friend. We grew up together.”
Not exactlybestchums, of course, especially after I married Jessie. She’d looked like she wanted to throttle me at the wedding. And Jude’s annoyed expression mirrored hers presently.
“You’re Ruth’s father, correct?”
He nodded stonily.
I cleared my throat. “I’m working as an archivist now. It’s the Boston branch to the one here, and…” Judging by his tilted head, he wasn’t letting me throw my weight around. I might have even made things worse by mentioning the bigger museum down the street. “Anyway, we just transferred one of my pieces to that museum, and…”
“We close in three minutes.”
There was no charming this guy. I started to understand Ruth better now. I pushed my money at him. “Is that so? Okay, well, I’m just going to… go into the museum now.”
I rushed through the door into the main floor, feeling like I’d walked into a cave. Tin baker lanterns with tiny holes punched into the corrugated sides lit up the dark colonial room in an array of intricate patterns.
With some consternation, I noticed that both museum workers had followed me inside. What I assumed was a sitting room held donated items from wall to wall. This would be like searching in the wizard king’s cave for emerald trinkets inReturn to Oz.
Spinning in my desperation to find the cane, I almost ran into Jude, he hovered so close. “So!” I might as well come right out and say it, “You have a silver-handle cane in here? My friends at the museum were talking about it, said it’s from Corwin’s personal collection; it was mentioned in his funerary inventory when he died… and…” I stuttered to a stop when I saw the cane leaning against an antique cupboard. My heart tried to work its way out of my chest as I pulled closer to see if I could make out the intricate writing on the handle. “The Corwin family donated it,” I said needlessly.
I whipped out my phone.
“No taking pictures,” Jude reminded me in a bored tone.
I gritted my teeth. I wouldn’t be solving this clue with just a careless scan. I’d need to study it… maybe for days. “So, what’s this writing on the top say?” I opened up the scribe on my phone. “Just read it into my mic.”
His disgusted breath blew out his face mask. “We have a postcard you can buy.”
“Oh really?” Relief rushed through me. Having the details on a picture would be infinitely better. “Thank you!”
