a witchcraft mystery 08 - a toxic trousseau (35 page)

“That Latin phrase—I heard it when I was in your vision chamber.”

He nodded. “Male and female, united together. We have this advantage over Renee, unless she finds a male practitioner to work with her.”

“I thought our society was moving past this whole male-female dichotomy.”

“Not in this case. Anyway, who’s to say? Maybe you really are made of tough enough stuff. But do me a favor: Don’t ever think yourself strong enough to do without me. We’re going to have to work together to make sure Selena is safe, not to mention San Francisco as a whole.”

“You’re saying you and I are the essential primordial female and male forces?”

“We’re the best we’ve got.”

Chapter 28

“Lily, it’s for you,” said Bronwyn the next day, holding up the telephone. “She says she’s your grandmother!”

I froze. I had been arranging some newly carved and charged talismans in a display cabinet.

“My grandmother?” Graciela didn’t call me. Ever.

I raced to the phone. “Graciela? Are you all right?”

“No,” she said, her gruff voice coming through loud and clear. “What’s this about
una boda
? A wedding?
¿Estás prometida?
You’re engaged and you didn’t tell me?”

“How did you—”

“My whole coven insists on coming. And your mother, if you can believe that.
No lo puedo creer.
Did you know she has been sewing a trousseau for you?”

“A what, now?”

“You don’t know what a trousseau is?”

“Of course I do, but my mother—”

“
Ya sé, m’ija.
I know. Who could have imagined? But all these years she has been pouring her thoughts to you
into her sewing. It will be a powerful trousseau, just right for your wedding. Or will it be a handfasting?” A handfasting was a sort of witchy wedding, usually performed in a natural setting, often under a full moon. “Either way, it will be perfect. It doesn’t take a witch to imbue something with power, as you know too well.”

“But how did you—”

“Rosa’s son has an old school bus he will let us use. We’re going to stop at In-N-Out.”

“You never leave your land,” I said, still amazed. How did she know I was to be married? “And I can’t believe my mother—”

“This is good,
m’ija
. Trust me. Be strong,
m’ija
. I want to meet this man who has won your heart and puts you at risk. What’s his name?”

“Sailor.”

“Marinero?”

“Yes, sort of. It’s just a name, not a profession. He’s a psychic, as a matter of fact. He’s very special.”

“He will need to be. And you will need all your womenfolk behind you. You are facing a challenge, but never forget,
m’ija
: We witches take care of our own.”

As I hung up the phone, I pictured the faces I hadn’t seen since I fled my hometown at the age of seventeen: my grandmother’s stubborn chin and near-black eyes gone foggy with age; my mother’s soft round face with its sweet but stunned expression, as though life had left her betrayed and bewildered. My grandmother’s whole coven, thirteen impossibly old women who cackled and gossiped and worshipped and practiced their magic together, with the insight and knowledge borne of age and experience. It made me smile to imagine what that road trip would look like, an old school bus full of ancient
witches stopping for burgers and fries. Excitement and warmth filled my core. I couldn’t wait to see them, to hug them and share stories and ask magical questions late into the night. And to have them stand with me as I entwined my life with Sailor’s.

On the other hand, if these witches were all coming to San Francisco, they must be very worried indeed. On that unlikely road trip would be thirteen witches, and my
mother
.

All these years she had been sewing me a trousseau. My mother, who never answered my letters or acknowledged the checks I sent to her. Who had cast me out of her home when I was a child for fear of my magical abilities. Who had once loved my father. My
mother
.

Oh, yes, we had some catching up to do.

Keep reading for a preview of the next book in Juliet Blackwell’s bestselling Haunted Home Renovation Mystery Series,

A GHOSTLY LIGHT

Available in December 2016!

The tower reached toward the gray sky. A faint—dare I say ghostly?—glow emanated from the lighthouse’s narrow windows. No doubt a trick of the afternoon sun, reflecting off the Bay Light’s old stone walls.

“I’m thinking of calling it ‘Spirit of the Lighthouse’ or maybe simply ‘A Bay Light,’” Alicia Withers said as she checked an item off the list on her clipboard. Alicia was big on lists. And clipboards. “What do you think, Mel? Does that sound like a good name for an inn? Is ‘A Bay Light’ too boring? I think it may be too boring.”

“I think you need to figure out your plumbing issues before worrying about names,” I replied. I’m Mel Turner, a general contractor and the head of Turner Construction. Otherwise known as a killjoy.

Alicia and I were in the main hallway of the former lighthouse keeper’s house, a charming but dilapidated four-bedroom Victorian home adjacent to the lighthouse tower. The Bay Light lighthouse had been built on the small, rather unimaginatively named Lighthouse
Island, in the strait that connected San Francisco Bay to San Pablo Bay. Barely visible to the southwest loomed the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge, linking Oakland to Treasure Island and San Francisco. The nearest shoreline was Richmond, while San Rafael—and San Quentin State State Prison—was across the sparkling waters of the placid bay.

It was a view to die for.

For years the Bay Light was operated and maintained by full-time lighthouse keepers and their families, the blaring foghorn and sweeping light assisting ship captains in navigating the surprisingly tricky shallows and rocky shoals of the bay. But the humans have long since been replaced by less costly electronics, and the structures on the island had fallen into disrepair.

The keeper’s house had been a beauty and still boasted some of the original gingerbread trim as well as an adorable cupola, painted an appealing (but now peeling) creamy white. Also in the compound was a supply shed, the old foghorn building, and a huge cistern that collected rainwater for the keeper’s family to use. The only other structures on the island were the docks in a small natural harbor, which were still used occasionally by boaters seeking refuge from sudden inclement weather—and by those going to and from the lighthouse.

“I’m just saying,” I continued. “There’s also a lot of dry rot that has to be repaired before you start inviting guests to your Lighthouse Inn.”

“Oh,
you
,” Alicia said with a smile, and I grinned.

The first time I met Alicia I had thought she was smart, professional—and singularly humorless. She wore her professionalism like a suit of armor, and it had taken a while before I detected the warmth and good
humor that lurked beneath. She was still serious and hardworking, but had relaxed a lot since we’d met on a historic-castle restoration in Marin County. Late one night we had bonded over potato chips and home-renovation television shows, and she had saved both our lives when she had quite literally kicked the butt of a murderer. The butt-kicking had definitely improved her outlook on life.

“I haven’t lost sight of the all-important infrastructure, as I’m sure you know,” continued Alicia. “But according to my business plan, I need to register my domain and business names ASAP, so no, it’s
not
too early to think about such things.”

She whipped out a thick sheaf of lists and flowcharts and handed them to me. I flipped through the papers, which included preliminary schedules for demolition and foundation work; for electrical and plumbing and Internet repairs and installation; for the Sheetrock and mudding; for the renovation of the bathroom and kitchen; for the restoration of moldings and flooring and painting and light fixtures.

I raised my eyebrows. “Wow. Thanks, Alicia, but just so we’re on the same page: I usually work up schedules with my office manager, Stan.”

“I know you do, but while I was thinking through what needed to be done, I figured I might as well work up a template modeled on the schedules you developed for the Wakefield project in Marin. I can e-mail everything to Stan and you can plug in the dates and whatnot. I hope it wasn’t too presumptuous—I couldn’t help myself. Ever since Ellis agreed to back me on this project, I can hardly
sleep
I’m so excited!”

Several months ago Alicia’s boss, the fabulously
wealthy motivational speaker Ellis Elrich, had asked if I would mind doing him a favor and looking at a property he was considering renovating. I had spent many months as the general contractor for Ellis’s project in Marin, renovating an ancient Scottish castle into a state-of-the-art conference center and retreat, so I knew he was not only a good boss and a decent human being, but that he paid his staggering bills promptly and without quibbling. Such clients were rare and much to be treasured, so I’d been happy to oblige him when he called. It wasn’t until Ellis had said to meet him at the Richmond docks that I realized this was no ordinary property: It was the Bay Light on Lighthouse Island.

I—along with many in the Bay Area—had watched over the years as the abandoned Victorian-era lighthouse descended into decrepitude. Every time my family had passed over the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge my father would shake his head and grumble, “It’s a damned shame.” My mother would shush Dad for swearing in front of my sisters and me—“Little pitchers have big ears, Bill”—and then, craning her neck to watch the sad little island recede from view, she would add, “You’re right, though. Someone really ought to save that place.”

Never did I imagine that, decades later,
I
would be that someone.

But historic renovation was my business, and Ellis Elrich was filthy rich, so if he was willing to bankroll Alicia’s plans to renovate the Bay Light, I was game. I already had the architect’s detailed blueprints and had pulled the necessary permits and variances from the city. The Bay Light was public property, not Alicia’s private property, but some sort of /files/08/03/54/f080354/public/private partnership had been hammered out in the interests of
salvaging a historic structure. I didn’t ask too many questions. Ellis Elrich made things happen.

“So this is what I’m thinking,” Alicia said, making a sweeping gesture around what had been the home’s former living room. “We take down this wall here, combine this room with the small parlor next door, and make this area the inn’s bar and restaurant.”

I paced off the area, trying to imagine the completed space. “I’ll have to check if that’s a bearing wall. If it is, we’ll need to pour some footings and install a steel I beam. That’ll be expensive, and the additional space it creates is not substantial. Sure it’s worth it?”

Alicia nodded. “I don’t need a large bar and restaurant. The plans are for a maximum of ten overnight guests, which means I need at most five small tables—or maybe just one big table. I haven’t decided yet.”

“What about drop-in trade?”

“I doubt that’ll be much of an issue—it’s not as though it’s easy to get here. Even with our boat making regular runs to the mainland, I anticipate we’ll be more of a ‘destination’ inn and restaurant. I’m thinking we’ll be at capacity with about twenty guests for drinks and dinner. But for those who make it, we’ll be a gorgeous little oasis in the bay.”

Alicia sighed with happiness.

I was glad for her, but I was too experienced not to be slightly jaded at the emotions common at this stage of a renovation. This was the phase when clients couldn’t see past the stars in their eyes and the longing in their hearts. Starting a historic renovation was like falling in love: a time of a soaring, almost romantic infatuation that was followed by the grueling realities of sawdust and noise and confusion and delays and unwelcome
discoveries in the walls that brought a person back to earth with a thud.

Or maybe that said more about
my
love life.

“And we’ll keep and expand the kitchen, of course. It’s entirely unsuitable as is or, as I like to think of it, it’s a blank slate. But we’ll make the study and a part of the pantry into a first-floor suite for the inn’s live-in manager—”

“That would be you?”

“Oh, I dearly hope so, if I can find a replacement so Ellis isn’t left high and dry.”

“I can’t imagine you’ll be easily replaced. But Ellis is on board, right? Why else would he be bankrolling the project?”

Alicia blushed. “Yes, he is. He is very . . .”

“Sweet,” I said when she trailed off.

She nodded but avoided my eyes. Now that I knew her better, and now that she had loosened up a little, Alicia was charming. A scar on her upper lip and another by one eye, relics of difficult times at the hands of her abusive (now ex) husband, only made her pretty face more interesting. The wounds on her psyche were another matter, but after years of therapy and a whole lot of emotional hard work, Alicia had made great strides in lessening their grip on her heart and mind.

And unless I was mistaken—and I was pretty sure I wasn’t—Alicia had developed a serious crush on Ellis Elrich, her boss and knight in shining armor, who had helped her start her life over. Ellis was a surprisingly great down-to-earth guy, for a billionaire. Still, the situation seemed . . . complicated.