Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery (2 page)

I nodded.

“I’m serious.”

“I can tell. I won’t go in without you.”

He gave me another suspicious look.

“What?” I asked.

“All this easy cooperation is making me nervous. Tell me you’re not blowin’ smoke up my caboose.”

“I’m not even sure how to do such a thing,” I laughed. “I told you: I’m resigned to my fate. But I do have one last question.”

“What’s that?”

“Since I’m the SFPD’s official paranormal consultant, do I get dental with that?”

Carlos flashed me a bright white smile. “You’re official only in my book. If the department knew I was bringing in a witch to consult on this case . . . Well, let’s just say I put up with enough ribbing from my colleagues as it is.”

Carlos drew aside the curtain. Folks were milling about, crowding the aisles, inspecting long peasant skirts, faded jeans, and fringed leather vests.

“Quite the hippie convention out here.”

“We’ve been as busy as Grandpa’s Sunday tie, as they say.”

Carlos looked amused. “
Who
says that?”

I laughed. “I guess we say that back in Texas. Anyway, the Haight Street Summer of Love Festival is this weekend.”

The Summer of Love Festival was held annually to commemorate one of the neighborhood’s most famous eras. It had been nearly fifty years since hippies sent out the call for “gentle people” to put some flowers in their hair and meet in the Haight-Ashbury to build a new world order of peace, music, and harmony. They hadn’t quite achieved their lofty goals, but the neighborhood
had
retained its willingness to accept iconoclasts and freethinkers of all stripes.

Ambitious festivalgoers had been flocking to Aunt Cora’s Closet in search of “authentic” hippie clothes for weeks now. Vintage tie-dye and flouncy peasant dresses were flying off the racks; love beads and headbands were in short supply. Bell-bottom jeans, pants in wild colors and embroidered Mexican blouses, most of which I had picked up for a song at flea markets and yard sales, were in great demand.

“Sure, the Summer of Love Festival.” He nodded. “I know it well.”

“It’s my first time; I’m pretty excited. So, do you have a costume?”

“I’m wearing it.” Carlos passed a hand over his khaki chinos and black leather jacket.

“Think you look like a hippie, do you?”

“Even better. I’m a narc.”

I smiled. “You should at least wear a few love beads around your neck.”

“Maybe I’ll dig through your treasure chest before I leave.”

Recently I had started tossing cheap costume jewelry and plastic items—except for the valuable Bakelite, of course—in an old wooden chest that supposedly came to San Francisco with the pioneers. Now cleansed of cobwebs and its sordid past, it had become my “treasure chest.” Everything in it went for under five dollars, and many items were just a quarter. Customers spent a lot of time digging through it with childlike abandon.

Which reminded me . . .

“Carlos, hold on. Didn’t you say something about a missing child?”

“Selena Moreno, age fourteen. And we’re not positive
she’s missing. Weird thing is, we can’t get a word out of Ursula. But according to the neighbors, Selena used to live with her grandmother. Hasn’t shown up to school, but it looks like her attendance has always been spotty, so it’s hard to say what’s going on there. Most likely she’s staying with relatives, but I’d feel better knowing for sure.”

“Do you think something in the shop might point me in her direction?”

“You know me, Lily. I don’t think anything in particular.”

“But you’re suspicious of everything.”

He gave me a wink and a smile.

A tall, dark, and brooding man strode into Aunt Cora’s Closet just as Carlos and I emerged from the back room. He wore a scowl, boots, and a black leather jacket, and had a shiny motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm.

My heart beat faster, I smelled roses, and the cacophony of the shop slipped away.

Sailor
.

“
There
she is,” he said in a quiet, husky voice. There was something about the way he said it . . . as though he had been looking for me all his life. His dark gaze held mine with an intensity that made me blush.

Sailor’s eyes shifted and his expression hardened.

“Inspector,” he said with a nod.

Carlos returned the nod, but did not speak. For a long moment the two men stared each other down, neither giving an inch, until the inspector turned to me. “Meet me in an hour?”

“I’ll be there.”

He glanced at Sailor. “Alone.”

“Sure thing. See you there.”

He gave Sailor another hard look, then left.

“What’s up? Another . . . situation?” Sailor asked as the door shut behind the inspector.

“It seems so.”

“And you’re involved how, exactly?”

“Not involved at all, I am happy—and
relieved
—to report. Carlos needs some help with an out-of-control store—a
curandera
shop—in the Mission.”

Sailor raised one eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“I’m just going to give him my take on the situation, no big deal.”

“Because that always works out so well. Do you think Rhodes is involved?”

“No, not at all.”

He searched my face. “You’re sure? I don’t want you crossing paths with him until we come up with a plan.”

Not so long ago I had gone up against Aidan Rhodes, self-proclaimed “godfather” to the Bay Area’s witchy contingent. He was a powerful sorcerer, and not one to be crossed without consequence. Sooner or later I was going to have to face him . . . but I was hoping for later. Much later.

“Carlos will meet me at the store. I’ll be fine. So,” I said to change the subject, “how are
you
doing?”

“Great, actually. The mentor my aunt suggested is working out well. It seems to be a good fit. I’m already making progress.”

“That’s great,” I said. “Who’s the mentor?”

“A cousin, named Patience Blix.”

“Well, that seems appropriate.” I smiled. “She’ll need plenty of patience if she’s going to work with the likes of you.”

Sailor set his helmet down on the counter, cupped my head in his hands, and brought his lips down on mine.

The world that had dimmed when our eyes met now
disappeared entirely. When Sailor held me in his arms all reason fled and I seemed to escape myself, floating on a rose-scented cloud of sensation and desire, love and hope.

“Lily?
Oops
, pardon me!” said Bronwyn, fluttering behind us. “Oh, by all means, carry on, you two lovebirds!”

“Bronwyn, wait,” I said, blushing as I pulled away from Sailor. “Sorry. Did you need something?”

“There’s a question for you.” Bronwyn gestured with her head to a young woman on the other side of the store.

The customer held up a pale peach, embroidered organza dress with a square pleated neckline and a silver rhinestone brooch accent. The layered frock was considered semiformal in its day—circa 1950—but was a sight more formal than any of the items people were choosing for the Summer of Love Festival.

“Is this silk washable?” asked the young woman.

“No, sorry. It’s not.” Not at
all
. Maybe I’ve been in the vintage clothes business too long, but I couldn’t imagine thinking a silk antique would be washable. “You can safely assume anything tie-dyed can be tossed in a washer, but almost nothing made before 1960.”

“Darn. I don’t like to buy anything I have to dry-clean, on account of the environment.”

“Lily knows a wonderful green dry cleaner,” said Bronwyn. “They’re a little pricey, but worth it.”

“I still prefer not to buy anything that’ll cost me money to clean.”

“There are a few washable items on the rack by the dressing rooms. . . .” I suggested, and started over to help her.

“I have to get going, anyway,” said Sailor. “Just stopped by for a quick kiss, and to ask what time I should arrive for dinner.”

“Seven?”

He gave me another long look, smiled slowly, and whispered, “Wild horses, and all that.”

He picked up his helmet, gave me another quick kiss, and left.

My gaze lingered on his broad back. I turned to see Bronwyn watching me, a fond, knowing smile on her face. A blush stained my cheeks.

“
What
? I happen to like the sight of the man in jeans, is all.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, still smiling. She started to ring up a customer’s items, and, in a soft, singsong voice, chanted:
“First comes love. Then comes—”

“Do
not
sing that next line, Bronwyn Theadora Peters. I’m still dealing with the very idea of having a boyfriend, much less anything beyond that. We’re . . . taking it slowly.”

“But of course!” she said with a warm, oh so innocent smile. Today Bronwyn had crowned her frizzy brown hair with a garland of wildflowers and wore a gauzy purple tunic decorated with runes over black leggings. She was a chubby, fiftysomething Wiccan who personified the amiable creed of that belief system:
“An’ it harm none, do what ye will.”

I smiled and went to help the customer find a washable dress.

“Oh, by the way—would you mind watching the shop for a while?” I asked Bronwyn twenty minutes later, after ringing up the customer’s purchases—she had bought the peach organza after all, a vintage impulse I knew she wouldn’t regret. The dress had bright, fun vibrations that would be perfect for her personality. “I have to check out a store called
El Pajarito
.”

“The
botanica
in the Mission?” asked Bronwyn. “It’s about time!”

“You know it?”

“Of course I know it. Señora Moreno is my main supplier for
epazote
and juniper berries. I’ve told you about the place—you refused to go with me, remember? Let’s see if Maya can stay late and we’ll go together!”

“Maybe another time. Unfortunately, this isn’t a shopping trip. Carlos asked me to meet him there, alone.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I really don’t know. What can you tell me about the owner, Ursula Moreno?”

“Not much. I only know her from our interactions at her shop, and we have a few clients in common—I send people to her if they need something I don’t have in stock, and she sends customers to me if they need specialty tea blends.”

“What about her granddaughter?”

“Selena? I see her in the shop occasionally.”

“What is she like?”

“She’s a little. . . .” Bronwyn trailed off with a shrug.

“What?”

“A little different.”

“How so?”

“Just . . . different. Even, well, odd.”

Bronwyn was about the most nonjudgmental person I’d ever met, and she adored children. For Bronwyn to describe anyone, but especially a child, as “odd” was saying a lot.

“Anything else?”

“Nothing comes to mind.”

“Okay, thanks. I’m sure none of this has anything to do with us. Carlos asked me to check it out, so I’ll go do that, and then Maya and I are supposed to go look through some clothes at an estate sale. You can watch over the store?”

“No problem. Don’t forget to take a jacket!” Bronwyn
said over her shoulder as she returned to her herb stand, where a customer was browsing.

I was again reminded how fortunate I was to have two such energetic and responsible women working with me. Beyond the thrill and comfort of what was for me a new experience—friendship—their regular presence in the store allowed me to run around town chasing down supernatural mysteries. I hadn’t lived in San Francisco very long, but already I had come to realize that it played host to more paranormal mayhem than seemed normal.

It sometimes made me wonder whether my arrival in the City by the Bay was entirely coincidental . . . or whether other forces had helped to guide me to the Haight.

The day was sunny and warm, but I took Bronwyn’s advice and snagged my cocoa-brown vintage car coat before heading out. The weather in my adopted town was famously unpredictable. When the marine layer—a bank of fog that hovered off the coast—moved in, it cloaked the city in chill and damp. The temperature could plummet fifteen degrees in as many minutes.

I also made sure I was wearing a carved talisman around my neck, carried small jars of salts and brew in my satchel, and my medicine bag was securely fastened to the multicolored belt at my waist. Boy Scout–like, I was ever-prepared. The charms had helped me to face some truly horrifying scenes of demonic mayhem and all-too-human murder.

Not that I was expecting any such thing at
El Pajarito
. I was simply checking out an out-of-control store with my good buddy Carlos Romero. No big deal.

What could possibly go wrong?

The Mission District smelled of beans and tortillas and sounded like a disco. But the area known as the Mission was rapidly changing as wealthy entrepreneurs and well-paid, high-tech professionals moved in, remodeling rundown Victorians and outfitting old art lofts with gourmet kitchens and the latest sound systems. Meanwhile, the artists and immigrants who had made this neighborhood so vibrant and distinctive were now finding it too expensive, and many had fled to the East Bay or out of the area altogether.

But several holdouts remained: my friend Hervé Le Mansec’s voodoo supply shop on nearby Valencia was one. And
El Pajarito
,
a few blocks away on Mission, was another.

I took a moment to survey the colorful storefront from across the broad boulevard. The windows were decorated with tropical birds and fanciful flowers, the paint flaking off as if created long ago. The store’s sign was simple and hand-lettered, black letters on a white background, painted
not by a professional but by someone unconcerned with formality.

“I wouldn’t get involved with Ursula if I were you,” said a pretty woman in her early twenties.

The woman wore a simple white tank top and jeans. Her long, glossy hair had been dyed an unnatural shade of burgundy, and a colorful tattoo of the Virgin of Guadalupe adorned her bare shoulder.

“Do you know her?” I asked.

“I don’t trust her. And that shop . . .” She shook her head. “Something bad about that shop.
Mal ojo
.
Ojo del diablo
.”

Evil eye. Eye of the devil.

“If you need some help,” she continued, “why you don’t come inside, let my aunt pray for you?” She gestured toward the shop behind us. Much like
El Pajarito
, this shop’s window displayed a jumble of items: small jars of herbs, Catholic saints in various guises, a variety of small animal bones. “My aunt does cleansing, readings, tea leaves, same as Ursula but better. You can trust her.”

“Thank you, but I’m not a customer. Actually, the police asked me to stop by.”

“Seriously?” She fixed me with a suspicious look. “Why?”

“Apparently something strange is going on in the shop. Have you heard anything? Do you know Selena, the girl who used to be there with Ursula?”

She crossed herself and went into her aunt’s shop, slamming the door.

No love lost there
, I thought as I crossed the wide avenue.

Carlos was waiting for me outside, speaking on his cell phone. As I approached he paused to tell a passerby, “The shop’s closed, indefinitely,” before resuming his conversation.

I studied our surroundings while I waited for him to get off the phone. A bright blue bench sat in front of the store; it looked freshly painted and wasn’t even chained, which surprised me. In this neighborhood I would think anything not nailed down would disappear, and quickly.

The windows held a wide array of candles, each with a label:
WEALTH
,
HOMEWORK
,
PASSION
,
MARRIE
D
LOVE
,
STRENGTH
.
There were bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling, and a huge glass container was filled with thousands of tiny metal charms in the shape of arms, legs, heads . . . whatever part of the body ails you. Laid out in wide arcs were dozens of ceramic and stone figures of pre–Columbian Aztec deities and Navajo fetishes.

And overlooking it all was
Santa Muerte
, or Saint Death: a skeleton cloaked in a blue hooded robe, a scythe clutched in one bony hand, a cigarette poised between her grinning teeth. At
Santa Muerte’s
feet was a bottle of rum, a sacrifice to keep her happy.

Because the store was not a crime scene there was no yellow tape across the door, and it occurred to me to wonder what the forensics team had hoped to find. Short of a deliberate poisoning, how could a
curandera
be held responsible for a client’s death? I could not begin to imagine how the DA would prove such a thing in a court of law; but then, I was no legal scholar. Apart from a few short stints in jail—all charges were dropped—I remained blessedly ignorant of the workings of the legal system.

I started to turn away from the display window when I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. Looking back, I saw Santa Muerte tilt her head at me and raise her scythe.

A stone mosaic frog suddenly leapt up, striking the glass with such force that it created a starburst crack.