Her instincts may be killer--but can she catch one this wicked? After losing her job as a TV psychic, Lee Barrett has decided to volunteer her talents as an instructor at the Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts--known as "The Tabby"--in her hometown of Salem, Massachusetts. But when the school's handyman turns up dead under seemingly inexplicable circumstances on Christmas night, Lee's clairvoyant capabilities begin bubbling to the surface once again. The Tabby is housed in the long-vacant Trumbull's Department Store. As Lee and her intrepid students begin work on a documentary charting the store's history, they unravel a century of family secrets, deathbed whispers--and a mysterious labyrinth of tunnels hidden right below the streets of Salem. Even the witches in town are spooked, and when Lee begins seeing visions in the large black patent leather pump in her classroom, she's certain something evil is afoot. But ghosts in the store's attic are the least of her worries with a killer on the loose. . . Carol J. Perry was born in Salem on Halloween Eve. She has written many young adult novels, and is also the author of the Witch City mystery series. She and her husband Dan live in the Tampa Bay area of Florida with a cat and a black Lab. Visit her at www.caroljperry.com. Tails, You Lose A Witch City Mystery By Carol J. Perry KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP. Copyright © 2015 Carol J. Perry All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-61773-371-0 CHAPTER 1 It was the first white Christmas I'd seen in a long time. My recent winter holidays had featured lighted boat parades, palm trees, beach volleyball, and lawn flamingos decked out in Santa hats. But New England Christmases were the ones I'd grown up with, and Florida seemed very far away from Salem, Massachusetts. I'd pulled a big wing chair up close to the window overlooking Winter Street as snow swirled in bright halos around the streetlamps and tree lights cast colorful dots onto wind-sculpted drifts. Snow-muffled church bells rang, calling the faithful to evensong at St. Peter's, just a few blocks away. O'Ryan was stretched out full length on the carpet beside me, tummy up, eyes squeezed shut, a cat smile on his face, large yellow paws clutching a damp purple catnip mouse. I'm Lee Barrett, née Maralee Kowolski. I'm thirty-one, red-haired, Salem born. I was orphaned early, I married once, and I was widowed young. I lived in Florida for ten years, and since I returned to Salem a few months back, my aunt Isobel Russell and I had been sharing the fine old family home on Winter Street ... the same house where she raised me after my parents died. I'd been working in television, one way or another, ever since I graduated from Emerson College. So far I'd been a weather girl, a home shopping show host, and even a phone-in TV psychic. That last gig, a brief stint at Salem's cable station WICH-TV, was on a show called Nightshades . I dressed up like a Gypsy and, in between scary old movies, pretended to read minds, find lost objects, and otherwise know the unknowable. I'd been hired as a last-minute replacement for the previous host, Ariel Constellation, a practicing Salem witch who apparently could really do all that psychic stuff. Unfortunately, I was the one who'd discovered Ariel's body floating facedown in Salem Harbor. Not an auspicious start to a new job. It didn't end well, either. Ariel's killer set a fire that pretty much destroyed the top two floors of our house, and if it hadn't been for O'Ryan's timely intervention, Aunt Ibby and I might not have been around to celebrate Christmas. After the unpleasant publicity, Nightshades was canceled, and I was once again unemployed. An inheritance from my parents had left me well enough off financially, so I didn't need to work at all. Being between jobs wasn't a problem. I just prefer being busy. On a positive note, I was sure that when my sixty-something, ball-of-energy aunt got through redesigning the entire upstairs and driving contractors and decorators nuts, the upper stories of the house would once again be livable and we could stop tripping over paint cans, fabric samples, and wallpaper books. I angled the wing chair a little to the right so that I could watch for headlights rounding the corner onto Winter Street. Not just any headlights. I was hoping for a Christmas night visit from a special friend. Well, maybe Detective Pete Mondello had become quite a bit more than just a friend—but I was trying to move slowly in that area of my life. My aunt Ibby appeared in the doorway, bearing a tray with two chintz-patterned cups and a matching teapot. "You and O'Ryan certainly look comfortable. Ready for a spot of tea?" "Sounds good," I said, returning the chair to its original position. "I was just enjoying watching the snow. It's been a long time." "Too long." She placed the tray on the antique drum table between us and sat in the wing chair facing mine. "And at last you're home for Christmas." She fill