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 filled our cups with fragrant jasmine tea, and we tapped them together in a toast.

"Here's to the end of a strange year," she said. "And let's hope that the next one is a lot less stressful."

"Amen," I said. "I'll drink to that."

Aunt Ibby smiled and gestured toward the sleeping cat. "Looks as though O'Ryan is enjoying his Christmas mouse."

O'Ryan opened one eye and rolled over, still hugging the mouse.

"He loves it," I said. "And he seems to have quite a catnip buzz going on."

"Pete will be pleased that his gift was such a big hit," she said. "Too bad he couldn't have joined us for dinner. "

We'd had the usual holiday house full of relatives and friends for the festive meal, but the gathering snowstorm had sent them all home early.

"He said he'd try to stop by later."

"I'll bet a little snow won't keep him away," she said with a knowing smile.

I turned my chair just enough so that I could still see the headlights on any car turning onto Winter Street. It wasn't often that Pete had a holiday off, and this year he'd had to choose between Christmas Day and New Year's Eve. We'd already exchanged Christmas gifts. I hadn't wanted to give him anything too personal at this early stage of our relationship, so I'd decided on a pair of tickets for good seats at an upcoming Bruins hockey game. His gift to me, a vintage brooch with an oval miniature painting of a yellow cat, was pinned to the deep V-neck of my white silk blouse. I wore dark green velvet jeans and had tucked a sprig of holly into random red curls escaping from my attempt at a French twist.

"You know, Maralee," Aunt Ibby said, "I have a very good feeling about the New Year. The house is coming along beautifully, and the fact that you're going to start January with a good deed for the community is an excellent omen."

"An omen?" I laughed. "Maybe you've watched too many episodes of Nightshades!"

My aunt was a recent, and still pretty skeptical, believer in things paranormal. We both had reason to know, though, that some things are just beyond our understanding. O'Ryan was an outstanding example of that. The handsome cat snoozing happily at our feet had once been Ariel Constellation's pet ... some say her "familiar." As many folks in Salem will testify, a witch's familiar is far from being an ordinary house cat!

She shrugged. "Well, omen or not, your volunteering to help out at the new school will be such a blessing for the students."

"I hope so," I said. "I'm looking forward to it."

The Tabitha Trumbull Academy of the Arts was due to open at the start of the New Year, and I'd been invited to be a volunteer guest instructor. The school was located in the sprawling old building that had once housed Trumbull's Department Store in downtown Salem. The store had been closed since the sixties and had been slated for demolition until government grants and a historical site designation saved it from the wrecker's ball. Already dubbed "the Tabby," the school would soon be bustling with the activities of aspiring dancers, poets, painters, actors, and, in my department, television performers and producers.

"Your mother and I used to go to Trumbull's with your grandmother Russell when we were little girls," Aunt Ibby said. "We loved it. There was a grand staircase to the second floor, with wide bannisters, which I always wanted to slide down."

"Did you ever do it?"

"No, I never did."

"Now that I'm officially a staff member at the Tabby, I'll give you permission to slide whenever you want."

O'Ryan's ears perked up. He stood, stretched, and trotted toward the front hall.

"Someone's coming," Aunt Ibby said. "O'Ryan always knows before we do."

She was right. The gleam of headlights glinted on the frosted windowpane as a car rounded the corner from Washington Square.

"It's probably Pete," I...