"Ah, Salem!" said Teddy Tumtum, pressing his fuzzy nose to the glass of the passenger's side window as Peez's rental car glided up Lafayette Street, heading north for the center of town. "Lovely, notorious Salem, infamous and immortal for fostering the mass hysteria that reached its bloody conclusion in the seventeenth century witchcraft trials . . . not!" He giggled.
Peez pulled the car over. "What do you mean, 'not'?" she demanded. "Everyone who knows even a crumb of American history has heard of the Salem witchcraft trials!"
"Sure," said the diabolical bear, enjoying himself. "The way they've heard of George Washington's wooden teeth and Pocahontas being a total supermodel babe with the hots for John Smith and Betsy Ross making the first United States flag . . . not!"
"I wish you'd stop saying that," Peez muttered. "You sound like a refugee from a no-brainer teen flick."
"Flick? Did you say flick?" The bear could not open his mouth, but he gestured at it with his paw and made choking noises. "Even your vocabulary is dowdy, and your lack of cool is immeasurable. Gag me with a spoon full of honey!"
"I would, if it'd shut you up. I may not be 'cool,' but I'm sure I know more about American history than you do, you glorified wad of dryer lint!"
"This is the thanks I get for trying to educate you," Teddy Tumtum said. He sounded worse than hurt: He sounded Stereotype Jewish Mother hurt, the kind of hurt that packs a load of payback. "You only think you know American history when all you really know is a grab bag full of popular anecdotes, sound bites, and shaggy dog stories that are about as historically accurate as saying that the French invented French fries!"
"They didn't?" Peez was genuinely taken aback.
"Nope. That was the Belgians."
"Oh." Suddenly she realized she'd given the bear the upper hand. She quickly affected a fake air of indifference, trying to regain lost ground. "I mean, oh, who cares, anyway? History is irrelevant."
"Not here in Salem, it's not," the bear replied. "Here it's business. Big business. And if you think big business is irrelevant, don't call yourself an American!"
Peez made a face and started the car up again. Teddy Tumtum had been making himself unbearable—pun intended or not, she didn't really give a hoot—ever since they'd picked up the rental car at Logan Airport. Somehow or other he'd reached the unilateral decision that being Peez's traveling companion wasn't enough of a challenge for him. No, he had to be her self-appointed mentor, strategic advisor, and back-pocket Machiavelli too. He'd filled their driving time with an unending stream of chatter, alternately briefing her on what awaited them in Salem and telling her exactly how to handle it once they arrived.
He sounded just like her mother.
"Fine, ignore me," the little bear declared. "See where it gets you. More to the point, see where it gets your brother!"
Peez took a hard right, heading the car east. She tried to focus on the traffic and the driving directions that the ever-thorough and reliable Wilma Pilut had provided for her, not so much out of the fear of getting lost but the better to shut out Teddy Tumtum's nittering.
"Ooooh, nice Beethoven imitation there," the bear sneered. "A regular Meryl Streep, no less. You could almost make me believe you're deaf . . . not! You don't have to pay attention to anything I say, but by Teddy Roosevelt's overstuffed ghost, you are going to hear it! It's not just your future you're risking here; it's mine. I've been thinking it over and I've decided that I don't want to spend the rest of my unnatural life as the only close companion of a total failure. Because that's what you'll be if your brother gets the corporation and you get the shaft. What'll become of you then? Wilma's got a better resumé. You might find a job somewhere, something that pays crap per hour and has benefits too small to be seen with the naked eye. If you're lucky, you'll be able to scrimp and save and manage your pitiful finances well enough to get yourself a dinky little apartment somewhere so far from New York City that your neighbors think a bagel is a kind of dog like Snoopy! Remember how you always used to tell Dov that the only reason people were nice to him was because they wanted to get close to Edwina? Well, that was true enough and let me tell you, it wasn't because she made the best chocolate chip cookies on the block. No sir, it was because she had the power. Power's got the pull of a million magnets, and it's more of an aphrodisiac than oysters, perfume, trips to Maui, lace lingerie, Super Bowl tickets, Swiss bank accounts—"
"All right, all right!" Peez threw in the towel, though it was about the size of a bath sheet. "I'll listen to you, you furry-assed pest! Even a history lesson has to be better than this. So go ahead and educate me."
"Sorry, that's too big an assignment, Peezie-pie," Teddy Tumtum replied. "But I will give you a few tidbits that might help you out when we call on Queen Fiorella. First of all . . ."
Peez Godz stood on the sidewalk outside Ye Cat and Cauldron Booke Shoppe and took a deep breath, steeling herself for the interview to come. She never had been much good with face-to-face business meetings, preferring the anonymity of e-mails, faxes, phone calls and, in a pinch, the old-fashioned letter. She suffered from selective shyness: She never had any problems when it came to giving orders to her employees, because in that situation she held all the aces and she knew it. But a client was by no means an employee, and when that client was the head of one of E. Godz, Inc.'s most influential subscriber groups, the playing field became so incredibly tilted in that client's favor that it resembled the down-at-the-bow Titanic just before it slipped beneath the waves.
Could the situation possibly be any worse? What a silly question! Peez knew that most situations could always be worse, and were only awaiting the opportunity to do so, especially if she was involved. It wasn't a question of if the manure would hit the whirlwind, it was a matter of how much, what kind, and when it would ever stop raining cosmic cowpats.
In this case, the manure had taken a form whose best description was seldom associated with manure: beauty. Fiorella, undisputed queen of the largest chain of wiccan covens in America, was beautiful.
Peez stared at the life-size photographic cutout of herself that Fiorella had placed dead center in the window of Ye Cat and Cauldron Booke Shoppe. The witch-queen (as she always styled herself whenever she appeared on talk shows, usually right around Halloween) had a body that would not quit, the perfect combination of curves and concavities, slender but not skinny, voluptuous yet without a single excess ounce of warm, welcoming flesh. Her summery blond hair fell in a silky cascade down to her hips, her full, red lips curved upward in a very knowing smile, and her slightly slanted green eyes seemed to burn with their own inner fire. If you believed in such a thing as body language, then Fiorella's body was playing an endless loop tape of that great old hit, "I Can Get Anything I Want From Anyone I Please Because I Look Like This And You Don't."
To which Teddy Tumtum would probably add the chorus: Neener, neener, neener.
Teddy Tumtum wasn't there to add anything. Peez had opted to lock him in the trunk of her rental car. He'd served his purpose, giving her a crash course in the true history of Salem and how best to apply that knowledge during her upcoming interview with the witch-queen. She had to admit, he did have a devious mind, for a stuffed animal, full of practical insights on human nature. On the other hand, Peez didn't need anyone to tell her that the person who showed up at a business meeting packing a loaded teddy bear—even a magically articulate one—had already lost the first through fifteenth rounds of negotiations.
She's beautiful, Peez told herself. But I've got something that's better than beauty: I've got brains. I'm smart, and I'm only going to get smarter as time goes on. Meanwhile, she's just going to get old and wrinkled and saggy. There's just so much that plastic surgery can do. She's not going to flummox me. I can take her.
She drew another centering breath and went into the bookstore.
A small brass bell above the door chimed sweetly as Peez entered. The shop appeared to be deserted, which was strange. Peez checked the sign on the front door, but it said open.
Maybe she's doing something in the storeroom, Peez thought, glancing at the red and black bead curtain veiling the doorway behind the counter. She opened her mouth to call out, but changed her mind. She'd never been very good at knowing what to say under such circumstances. Yoo-hoo? Helloooo? Hi, it's me? All lame, all guaranteed to make her feel like a fool. Fools did not win the support of influential clients for a pending corporate takeover. Not unless they were highly-placed government officials. She decided to say nothing and simply await Fiorella's inevitable appearance. Meanwhile, she looked around her.
The interior of Ye Cat and Cauldron was a comforting blend of dim light and musty smells. The shelves were laden with a fine selection of books, hardcover and paperback both, dealing with matters of the occult, though there was an entire section marked off as Love Spells. A thread of patchouli incense wove its way through the displays of plaster skulls, crystal balls, and mass-produced Egyptian statuettes of gods, goddesses, cats and hippos. There was a real cat present—black, of course. He lay stretched out full length across the top of a glass display case that was crammed with enough silvery ankh pendants to outfit half the population of suburban Goth wannabees on the Eastern Seaboard. There was also a cauldron in one corner. It was full of umbrellas.
"Loaners, in case of a sudden cloudburst," said Fiorella. She had passed through the bead curtain without calling forth so much as a click-click. The black cat let out a wowowowwwwlllll of ecstatic greeting and leaped onto her shoulder where he perched like an owl. "They're for the tourists."
"Isn't everything?" Peez said, letting her eyes sweep across the shop. Her smile mirrored Fiorella's. It was a stratagem that Teddy Tumtum had suggested to her. She wished he were there to see how well she had begun this interview. Amazing how coolly she could comport herself on the outside when her gut felt like a blender set on puree. "Very kind of you to help them out, but doesn't it run into money when they don't return them?"
"Not at all." The witch-queen's little pink tongue ran lightly across her upper lip as if she were relishing the taste of something very toothsome indeed. "Please note the sign."
Peez looked at the wall above the cauldron. There hung a sheet of yellowed parchment, slightly charred at the edges, with the calligraphed words:
Welcome Ye Be to Borrow Mee in Tyme of Neede,
Yet Hearken Ye: A Witche's Curse Doth Follow Fast
on Hee Who Keepeth Mee.
"That," said Peez, "is false advertising. There's no curse on those umbrellas. I'd be able to feel it."
"Nothing but the curse of truly awful poetry," said Fiorella complacently. "But it works like a charm, and it's much cheaper than imbuing the umbrellas with a homing spell. The tourists come here because they believe, or because they want to. The first rule of successful retail is to give the public what the public wants, or thinks they do. I'm in the business of meeting popular expectations. Just between the two of us, black isn't my best color, incense makes me sneeze, and I'm frightfully allergic to my darling Pyewacket, here." She reached up and scratched the black cat's fluffy chest. He purred mightily. "But the tourists expect Ye Cat and Cauldron to have both, and I have a reputation as a witch-queen to uphold. You can buy an awful lot of antihistamines on what this store clears in a week."
"I know. I've reviewed your records."
"Thorough," Fiorella murmured. "But I'd expect no less of Edwina Godz's daughter." She stepped back, gesturing at the bead curtain. "Would you care for some tea? I've just been making preparations in the back—my Lilith Lair, as I like to call it. The two of us have much to discuss."
The area behind the bead curtain was a miniature jewel of a room, all ruby glass, burgundy velvet, and gold silk tassels. The tea things were already set out on a low mahogany table with ball-and-claw feet. Fiorella waved Peez to a place at one end of the settee before settling herself at the other. "Two sugars and a squeeze of lemon for you," she said, filling Peez's cup.
How does she know that's what I always put in my tea? Peez fought to keep her self-possession. Fiorella had meant to astonish her, to throw her off-stride and gain the initial advantage in this interview. I-know-something-about-you-that-you-didn't-know-I-knew was a business ploy that had been old when Babylon was young. The witch-queen was up to something. Peez felt a fleeting urge to rush out to the car and fetch Teddy Tumtum, but she knew that was impossible. Instead she sat up a little straighter and launched a silvery laugh.
"How very kind of you to find out how I take my tea," she said smoothly. "But I'm afraid your information is sadly out of date. I no longer care for lemon. Just cream." She arched one eyebrow and peered critically into the tiny porcelain pitcher on the tea tray. "That is cream, isn't it? Real cream?"
Fiorella's perfect cheekbones flushed red. She muttered a few arcane words and wiggled her fingers over the little pitcher. The level of liquid went down slightly and the color deepened from the bluish-white of skim milk to the more buttery-white of full dairy cream.
"It is now," she said, somewhat testily.
Peez sipped her tea and looked demure. Inside she was gloating and doing a victory dance, even if it was just to honor a small victory. That wasn't so hard, she thought. That was even . . . fun! Fiorella already sees that I'm smart, that I can think on my feet—or on her settee—and that I've got to be the only worthy successor to my mother's empire. Besides, I'm a woman. That's got to count for something with this country's number one wiccan! It's a Goddess thing.
She set down her teacup and said, "Fiorella, under normal circumstances I would enjoy a long chat with you, but since we're both businesswomen, we know that sometimes one must sacrifice nicety to necessity. I hope you won't mind my cutting to the chase, but you do understand that I'm—that I'm working under a terrible deadline."
"Of course." Fiorella removed a cobwebby lace handkerchief from one long, black sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. "Your poor mother, my dear friend Edwina. So sad. So sudden. So—so strange. When I first heard about her condition I rather wondered why— It just wasn't like her to—to—" Fiorella's voice trailed off and a distracted look came into her face that had nothing to do with sorrow.
Peez didn't know why or whither the witch-queen's attention had wandered, but she determined to recapture it forthwith. There were other places for her to be, other people to meet. She was doing all right so far, mastering her innate awe of beautiful people, handling a face-to-face meeting, but she didn't know if she could keep it up indefinitely.
"I don't think any of us would be our usual selves if our doctors had just handed us that sort of news," she said. "We owe it to Mother to help her get all of her affairs in order while we can, if only to unburden her spirit."
"Is there really no hope?"
Peez shook her head. "Mother would have told me if there were. You know what an optimist she is. A visionary, really. Your organization was one of our first clients." Peez was pleased with herself for that our. "You saw how she built up E. Godz bit by bit, channeling the power, giving back far more than she ever got, making it all run smoothly for everyone involved. E. Godz meant—means everything to her. She gave her life for the dream. She worked too long, too hard for it to all go to pieces. If the company is to continue to succeed, we've got to make a commitment to excellence, dedicate ourselves to the future, to fresh leadership that's devoted to maintaining the same high standards that—"
"How do you do that?" Fiorella asked.
"Do what?" Peez was brought up short by the interruption.
"Talk for so long without stopping for a breath and without saying much of anything. It's half empty sentiment, half corporate claptrap, and all pure piffle." She helped herself to more tea. "Look, Peez, I know why you're here. As you said yourself, we're both businesswomen who know how to cut to the chase. You want to take over as the head of E. Godz, Inc. after Edwina's gone, right?"
"And why shouldn't I?" It was Peez's turn to sound testy.
"No, the proper question is why should you? Your mother always gave my people value for money—"
"I'll do that, too," Peez cut in.
"Easy enough for you to say. But how do you propose to do it? I don't know you, Peez; not the way I know your mother. I can't tell what your management style is or if it's what I want for my organization or even if you have a style worthy of the name. Are you going to let things coast, playing the 'If It Ain't Broke, Don't Fix It' card, or are you going to be so hands-on that you don't leave one corporate brick standing on top of another? And why should I assume that whatever your style, I won't like your brother's better?"
Peez's face hardened at the mention of Dov. "When did you talk to him?" she demanded coldly.
Fiorella shrugged her beautiful shoulders. "Does it matter? We both know he's out there. And since I was the one who had to mention him in the first place, I don't think that the two of you have any plans for a joint directorship."
"Do you seriously believe that Dov could steer this company by himself?" Peez snapped. "That mama's boy? He never had to take an independent step in his life! He's only a figurehead in the Miami office. How can he do something for the American wiccan population when he's got absolutely no experience doing anything for himself?"
"You seem to think that you know what American wiccans need," Fiorella remarked calmly. "But do you? Do you really?"
"I know that you represent more than talk-show fodder," Peez shot back. "I've followed your career, Fiorella. Every Halloween, just like clockwork, there you are on TV, in the newspapers, sometimes in those slick-and-sleazy gossip magazines: Fiorella, a so-called 'real' witch, fashions by Morticia Addams, props straight out of Stereotypes-R-Us, something for the rubes to gawk at and imagine they've glimpsed the Dark Side. And it doesn't hurt that the Dark Side shows a lot of cleavage. Am I wrong?"
Fiorella smiled and shook her head.
"But the reality is that you're just about as 'real' as this whole town. Salem, Massachusetts, home of the infamous witchcraft trials! There's a joke."
Fiorella stood up, no longer smiling. "Have a care what you say, woman," she intoned, her voice going deep and menacing. "Have a care, lest you summon up the shadows of vengeance! This ground is sanctified with the blood of our venerable ancestors, those women who gave their all, America's first wiccan martyrs who—"
"Oh, please." Peez dismissed Fiorella's outburst with an airy wave of her hand. "In the first place, this ground wasn't sanctified by any bloodshed: They hanged all the accused witches, except for that man who died under the peine forte et dure, crushed under a load of rocks when he wouldn't confess. You know, Giles Corey, Mr. 'More Weight'?" Teddy Tumtum's impromptu history lesson was coming in handy after all. "Second, none of those poor souls was a witch, and they'd probably look at you funny if you so much as mentioned the word 'wiccan' to them. And finally, Salem isn't even where most of the madness happened. Salem Village, now that's more like it! Only there isn't any Salem Village any more. They changed the name to Danvers because they had the good grace to be ashamed of the whole nasty business. Bad publicity and a load of embarrassment are very strong charms. They have the power to transform a place or a person or even a financial empire."
She leaned towards the still-bristling witch-queen and concluded: "Don't make me use them on you."
"Threats?" Fiorella raised one eyebrow. "Didn't take you long to reach that point, did it? Well, and how would your bad PR bugaboo touch me?"
"How hard would it be for me to set up someone else as a rival witch-queen, Fiorella? Some out-of-work model who's at least as pretty as you are, only younger and maybe with some connections to the music industry? I can help her tap into the earth magic just enough to give her that air of authenticity—my equivalent of start-up funds—then get her all of your old Halloween spots in the media. You may be the founder of several dozen covens, but can you hold onto your constituents in the face of some real heavy-duty competition?"
Peez held her hands up in front of her face, palms outward, thumbs touching, in the classic director-framing-a-shot pose. In the voice of TV hype artists everywhere she declared: "She's beautiful, she's a witch, and she's slept with rock stars! You, too, can share the glamour, the power, the six-degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon celebrity! It's not just witchcraft, it's cool!" She lowered her hands and gave Fiorella a hard stare. "And it's the same principle behind every cosmetics ad ever run. Rationally, women know that they're not going to look like Cindy or Naomi or Husker-du or whoever's the supermodel du jour just because they buy that brand of lipstick. Ah, but somehow, when they look at those ads, reason flies out the window. They're like your precious tourists: They believe because they want to believe. I'll just give them something to believe in that's a whole lot trendier than you. They'll flock to her in droves! Or drive to her in flocks! Who cares? Either put your power in my camp or kiss it good-bye."
By this time the fire in Fiorella's green eyes had escalated to the white-hot heat of fresh lava. "If you're trying to woo my support over to your side, you're going about it in quite the wrong way," she hissed.
"I don't woo," Peez said. "I win. And when I win, so do you. Or you can give your support to my baby brother, if you like. It's a free country. Then see where it gets you."
"Because you're packing a stealth witch-queen?" Fiorella pursed her lips. "Maybe I ought to be afraid. Maybe I ought to pledge my support to you right now . . . but I won't. I like to review all of my options. I want to hear what Dov's got to say."
"Think he can protect you?" Peez laughed. It sounded a lot like Teddy Tumtum at his nastiest.
"You know, Peez, I'm still going to wait for Dov, but I think you just might have the right mix of gall and backbone to be a decent corporate harpy after all," Fiorella mused. "I don't like you, but I respect you."
"I'll settle for that," Peez said, grinning. But in her heart a lonely little girl hung her head and thought: I always have.