Chapter 26 Notes
Notes
The Eve of All Hallow’s Eve
Hawthorne Hotel
To Whom It May Concern (and to William C., who probably found me, sorry!),
I, Cyndi Pietorowski, am going to join my great-x-9-grandmother Margaret Scott, who was falsely accused, condemned, and executed
for witchcraft not far from this site in 1692. Margaret appeared to me here as I was setting up for a séance to reach her.
I guess she couldn’t wait to summon me!!!! (PS, fellow Wiccans, there is DEFINITELY a portal in this hotel.) Margaret said
that my time here is complete, and my parents, as well as my gram and all my great-aunties and uncles, await me on the other
side.
This life has been interesting but not very kind to me, so I am not afraid to go. I am happy!!!! I will leave signs for anyone
who wants to contact me via ritual.
The only concern I have about leaving this realm is my cats.
My last Will and Testament is in my home at 327 Hill Street in Salem, in my bedside table drawer.
It is recent, signed, and notarized. My Executrix, Heather Yountz of Gomez and Yountz, my former place of employment, has a copy.
Whoever finds this, please direct her to immediately put my house on the market and use the proceeds to relocate my cats to the Popoki Cat Sanctuary in Hawai’i.
My savings should be enough to hire a sitter while these arrangements are being made and to pay for their transport as well as lifelong care.
Please give my furbabies kisses from me and tell them I will see them on the other side.
With appreciation for the gifts of this dimension, looking forward to the next,
Cyndi Pietorowski. XOXO
Salem Police Department
Transcript: interview with William Corwyn, Hawthorne Hotel Skylark Conference Room, Oct. 30, 3:26 p.m.
Recording officer: Joseph Moldover, Badge No. 1923
Thank you, I’m comfortable enough. Yes. I consent to being recorded. I’m going to record on my phone as well. So we’re clear,
this is an informal interview, correct? Not an official witness statement? Let the record show you have not read me my Mirandas.
Very good. If there’s evidence of foul play, I’ll provide a follow-up interview. With my attorney present.
All right. [Sighs.] Ms. Pietorowski. Poor girl. I didn’t know her very well. She was a new friend, you could say. I was trying
to help her with her book. She’s writing—was writing . . . [inaudible] Thank you. I’d love some water.
She was writing a novel based on her ancestress Margaret Scott, who was hanged here in Salem. She wasn’t yet published, so
I reached out to see if I could be of assistance—
Yes, it is unusual for an author of my stature to help a newbie.
But I believe in, what’s the phrase? Paying it forward.
I’ve been very fortunate with my career, so I try to help however I can.
I run a writers’ support group called The Darlings, and Cyndi came to one of our meetings.
That’s how we connected. I realized from her feedback form that she had unusually scant resources. So I offered a helping hand.
I wouldn’t describe it as dating, exactly, but yes, her interest was romantic. It was a very recent development, I’d say only a couple of weeks, and I was uneasy about it because
although she seemed so sweet, she was such a lost soul. I have a bit of a Pygmalion complex; that’s a—oh, you know what it
is? Really? Very good! I don’t think of most police officers having English degrees. Yes, Pygmalion, the Shaw play about the professor rescuing the flower girl. It’s not a popular thing to admit now, but I tend toward partners
who are not quite . . . of my standing. I suppose it’s that giving proclivity again. [Clears throat.] More water, please.
Thanks.
Today? I arrived at the hotel around 1:30. The front desk clerk should have a record. I met Cyndi here. It was difficult to
even access the lobby because—well, you know what it’s like outside. It’s a melee, to put it politely. I don’t know how you
cope with this insanity year after year.
We checked in—yes, I rented the suite. The poor girl couldn’t afford it, and she had always wanted to come here. She said
the Hawthorne had a portal and she wanted to channel Margaret. [Sighs.] I have to admit I agreed partly because I didn’t want
to meet at Cyndi’s house. She has nineteen cats. No exaggeration. So I humored her. I said let’s have a séance at the Hawthorne.
If only I hadn’t encouraged her fantasies, maybe . . . I knew she was unstable, I saw signs, but—
Specifically? The best way I can describe it is that her energy seemed variable. She boomeranged from quiet and calm to amped
up and lascivious. I found medication at her house, antianxiety pills, and lithium, and antipsychotics—yes, like the ones
by the tub. She didn’t talk to me about her condition or conditions—as I said, we didn’t know each other that well. But she
never mentioned suicide.
Today she seemed rather frenzied. I attributed it to her being excited that she was at her so-called portal—and also, if I may be candid, to my company.
We met in the lobby, got the room keys, and were en route to the suite when I realized I’d left my briefcase in my car.
I’m never without it, not just because it has my WIP in it—that’s my work-in-progress—but because of my own medication.
Well. You’re a young man, but you can guess what I mean.
[Lowers voice, inaudible.] Yes . . . that, and beta-blockers, which I take for my heart.
I have a condition—A-fib, atrial defibrillation—that I need prescriptions for, and it’s not wise for me to be without them.
It was a real job to reach my car. The streets are jammed with so-called witches. Some madwoman elbowed me in the thorax,
and another one nearly stuck me in the eye with a broom handle. Again, hats off to you for handling this annual madness.
When I returned to the hotel, I got my parking validated, spoke with the desk clerk, and went to the suite. I’m not sure how
long I’d been gone, maybe . . . a half hour? Forty-five minutes? Long enough for . . . [inaudible]
Thank you. Please excuse my distress. This is just such a shame. I wish I could have done—something. Even if I didn’t know
Cyndi very well, I wish I had seen . . . I lost a fiancée many years ago to the same illness, so this cuts me to the quick.
Oh—right. Ms. Vetiver. I’d estimate she arrived about five minutes before we found Cyndi. Actually, Ms. Vetiver—Simone—found
her. She went into the bathroom and made the awful discovery. But I was seconds behind her. Of course, she was hysterically
upset.
We had met before this. She’s also a novelist, published by my publisher. And . . . yes, I did know her in a more intimate
way. We had a fling earlier this year. I stopped seeing her after I learned we had . . . irreconcilable artistic differences.
To be blunt, she tried to appropriate material from me. In . . . early September?
We haven’t spoken since I jettisoned her. Until today. I have no idea why she was there. Possibly Cyndi was in Simone’s novel
class? Or they’d arranged some Wiccan writer ritual and Simone got the time wrong?
You’re not suggesting . . . No. That’s ludicrous.
Simone would never harm anyone. Even if there were motive.
Well, yes, I suppose you’re right. Jealousy is powerful.
And I have been its object before. Women do tend to form strong attachments to me.
But if this were a crime of passion, wouldn’t that be a very different death?
More—well, passionate? Impromptu, violent .
. . I can’t imagine, given the pills, the razor, Cyndi’s note, that this was anything but a suicide.
Then again, I don’t have that kind of mind. It’s why for all my range I’ve never written a thriller. Nor do I aspire to. You’ll
think I’m an old softie, but I just can’t stand the blood.
If you did suspect foul play, I’d take a look at my stalker. I’ve filed numerous complaints about her. They’re in all the law enforcement
databases. I went to graduate school with her, and she became obsessed. She’s only ever tailed me, however. Not threatened
me physically. She’s too wily for that; she knows it would get her in real trouble. But perhaps this time . . .
I don’t know her name. I know that sounds absurd, but I have no idea. I know what it used to be, when we were in the program together. But she’s obviously changed it, because when I hired an investigator to find
her—the police have been pathetically useless, no offense—her trail had gone cold. She’d just vanished. I’m sure she’s operating
under a pseudonym. But yes, I’m sure it’s the same woman. You can’t mistake her appearance. She has a pronounced overbite.
Ask Ms. Vetiver about her. She’s received written warnings, as have my other paramours over the years. Ms. Vetiver has filed
her own reports and been told the same thing I was: Nobody can do anything.
So I’d concentrate my efforts on the stalker, if I were you. IF Cyndi’s death is anything but what it appears . . .
Yes, if you have more questions, feel free to get in touch. You have my number. Although please be advised I’m about to start
my next novel, so I may not always be readily available. But I will try my best. Thank you, officer, for your sensitivity
and empathy. Under other circumstances, I’d say it’s been a pleasure.
Salem Police Department
Transcript: interview with Simone Vetiver, Hawthorne Hotel Pickman Conference Room, Oct. 30, 3:31 p.m.
Recording officer: Kimberly Lowrance, Badge No. 1756
Thank you. I’m okay. I don’t need water. [Crying.] This is so terrible. Sorry. I’ll get it together. [Sobbing.] It’s just
such a shock.
Sure, you can record. Can I record too? And I don’t need my attorney for this, right? Otherwise you’d read me my Miranda rights?
Okay. [Sighs.] I got here this afternoon around 2:00. I was supposed to be here earlier, but it was so nuts out there. I was
a half hour late. I’d told Cyndi 1:30 . . . [Blows nose.]