Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery (4 page)

“Maybe she doesn’t intend to.”

“How do you mean?”

He shrugged. “She’s not very popular with her neighbors. I can tell you that much. So maybe she’s feeling like taking herself out. Who knows?”

I hadn’t thought of that. Could this situation be the result of a spiteful woman trying to take others down with her? Or could she be a powerful practitioner who was herself suicidal?

“Okay,” Carlos said with a sigh. “Thanks for trying. It was a long shot, anyway. If you think of anything else, call me.”

“What’s your next step?”

“We’re still tracking down Moreno’s other clients—and other potential victims.”

“And what about the missing girl, Selena?”

“We’re on the lookout.”

“So . . . as far as I’m concerned, that’s about it, then? Or did you want me to try to exorcise the place, get rid of whatever’s causing all this in here?”

“Don’t bother. The store is already trashed. I’m only concerned if you thought it was escalating. Let’s leave it for now. You should get back to your shop, and I’ll follow up on leads. I’ll let you know if we figure it out, but this really isn’t your problem.”

I nodded, still curious but relieved.

But as I gave one last glance to the shambles in Ursula Moreno’s shop, I had the distinct impression it wasn’t quite that simple.

I arrived at Aunt Cora’s Closet to find Bronwyn’s “gentleman friend” Duke helping a male customer try on a fringed leather jacket. Duke was a retired fisherman in his late fifties, and his somewhat grizzled countenance was most welcome at the shop. Not only was he a deterrent to ne’er-do-wells, but his mere presence seemed to encourage other men to enter what could easily seem to be a feminine realm.

“Duke, will you be here for an hour or so?” Given the frequency with which trouble seemed to find me, I didn’t like leaving anyone in the store alone. “Maya and I need to check out some clothes.”

“My pleasure,” he said in a deep, quiet voice. “My magic woman and I have it covered.”

He winked at Bronwyn, whose scarf-folding suddenly went haywire, as though she had lost her concentration.

Armed with Hefty bags and cardboard boxes, Maya and I walked around the corner to the driveway I rented
by the month and climbed into the purple van with
Aunt Cora’s Closet: It’s not old. It’s Vintage!
emblazoned on the sides.

As she was fastening her seat belt, Maya muttered, “Those two act like a couple of teenagers.”

“I know. Isn’t it great?”

Maya snorted. “What with you and Bronwyn and your respective gentlemen callers, it’s like a romantic movie around here. One of the sugary ones from the 1950s. Like
Sabrina
or
An Affair to Remember
.”

“I knew it!” I said, as I fired up the engine and edged my way into the slow-moving traffic on Haight Street. “You’re a closet romantic.”

“I most certainly am
not
. I’m a realist.”

“Romance can be real,” I said. “You should try it; you might like it.”

Now she laughed out loud. “One of these days, maybe. One of these days . . . Okay, go straight through the light, then turn left at the next intersection.”

“So tell me, how did you meet Betty North?”

“Through Bronwyn. Betty used to come in to buy Bronwyn’s teas—you may have seen her at some point. But then she got sick and was housebound for the past several months, before she passed.”

“And you were interviewing her for your oral history project?”

“Yes, I interviewed her a few months ago. We had lunch a couple of times since then—I’d drop by with some food, just to say hi and check in on her. She had a boyfriend, but he was as old as she was, so I wanted to be sure she was okay.”

“What about her family? No children?”

“She didn’t really want to talk about it, so I didn’t push. I got the sense she did have kids but that they were
estranged. It’s weird—most of the old folks I interview like nothing better than to tell me all about their kids and grandkids. But Betty didn’t volunteer a lot of personal information, talked mostly about fashion and what it was like to own a small business back in the day. Take the next right; her house is about halfway down the block—the yellow one.”

We pulled up in front of a stucco two-story bungalow. Like most of its neighbors the home’s entrance was on the second level, over the garage. Maya opened the front door, and we stepped into a small foyer. Plush white carpet covered the living room floor from wall to wall, and though crisscrossed with plastic runners, the carpet was stained here and there along the edges.

An upholstered sofa with lacey doilies on the arms and headrest sat in front of the picture window, flanked by two upholstered chairs. Dozens of porcelain figurines decorated the horizontal spaces, and three lamps with grand lampshades crowded one side table. A large collection of shiny silver—everything from silverware to serving dishes—had been laid out on two card tables.

The dining room was also crammed with furniture, including two large walnut curio cabinets loaded with glittering tchotchkes. One corner held a shrinelike display of vintage military paraphernalia, bordered by paintings of sad-faced clowns. Paintings and drawings hung on every wall, an eclectic mixture of African-inspired art, long-necked animals in graphic silhouettes, and big-eyed paintings of Betty herself: Betty as an ingénue, Betty in a sari and bindi, Betty as the Madonna. And most surprisingly, lots of paintings of Betty in the nude.

I paused in front of a portrayal of a topless Betty.

“She was quite the looker back in the day,” Maya said. “Maybe more than you wanted to know about her, right?”

I smiled. “It’s not bad. Not really my style, but not bad.”

“Her boyfriend, Fred, was—
is
, I guess—an artist. I believe he did most of the portraits.”

“He’s still around?”

She nodded. “It’s sad, really—he lived here with her, but moved out when she went to the hospital. Didn’t want to stay here without her, I guess.

“Where’d he go?”

“He moved back into his art studio, near China Basin.”

“Doesn’t he want his paintings?”

“I’m not sure. I can’t really get a handle on Fred. I asked to interview him, but he declined, saying it was Betty who had the interesting life. Which isn’t true, of course—
everyone’s
life is interesting. And he’s an artist, which makes him even more intriguing.”

The determined expression on Maya’s face made me smile. “I take it you haven’t given up on him.”

“I thought I’d give him a little time, after Betty’s passing.” She shrugged but returned my smile. “But yeah, I’m not about to let him get away.”

“I like this one,” I said, studying a portrait of Betty that emphasized her long swan neck and huge, heavy-lidded eyes. Her blond hair was in an updo, one curl tumbling across her forehead, and she gazed at the viewer with an imperious yet sensual air. “She must have been quite something.”

“She was. I was lucky to get to know her.”

Betty North was by no means a hoarder, but the house was full of keepsakes and traces of a long life: stacks of
National Geographic
and
Art Scene
magazines, small silver spoons from various locales, souvenirs from the Cayman Islands, posh highball glasses, and plastic hula dancers from the early sixties. Most of the items
reflected the swanky style that reigned immediately preceding the Summer of Love, right before hippie ideals ushered in the massive shift in culture, attitudes, and fashion of the late sixties.

I felt excitement build at the prospect of the promised clothes from Betty’s boutique.

Mixed among the mementoes of a rich life were medical supplies: dozens of orange pill bottles, boxes of facial tissues, a package of adult diapers, canisters of talcum powder, and assorted tubes of creams and ointments. No doubt about it, growing old required courage and character.

“I feel bad about one thing,” Maya said softly. “The last time I visited, Betty seemed to know she wasn’t long for this world. She didn’t fear death, but she told me she wanted to die here, at home. But when she collapsed we called the paramedics, and then she wound up dying at the hospital.”

“That’s not your fault, Maya. It’s always hard to know when the end has come,” I said. “You couldn’t just leave her—calling for help was the natural response.”

She nodded. “I know. I just . . . feel bad.”

I laid my hand on her shoulder. I knew for a certainty that there was life beyond the veil, but since I couldn’t communicate with those on the other side, I understood what she was feeling. Death seemed so permanent, so irrevocable. But at least Betty North had enjoyed a long, full life. Unlike Nicky Utley, who was far too young to die, and who had left behind a heartbroken husband and daughter.

“Want to check out the clothes?” I asked.

Maya shook herself. “Yeah, let’s do that. Follow me—you’re going to love this. There’s a ‘gen-yoo-ine’ rumpus room in the basement.”

I trailed her down a narrow stairway—the walls hung
with yet more portraits of a luminous Betty—and into a big room that was, in fact, a rumpus room straight out of the early sixties. An orange Naugahyde bench ran along the circumference of the room and wrapped around the large support pillars. The floor was tiled in black-and-white-checked linoleum. In one corner was a padded black bar, studded with brass tacks creating a diamond pattern, with a trio of high barstools lined up in front. A record player sat on the table with a stack of albums next to it. Little gold flecks in the room’s popcorn ceiling glittered in the dim light cast by glass wall sconces in the shape of hourglasses.

Shelves behind the bar held every sort of cocktail glass imaginable: martini glasses, of course, but also highball glasses decorated with gold polka dots, shot glasses with hand-painted hula dancers, large gold-rimmed tumblers, and what looked like authentic antique Coca-Cola glasses.

I picked up a paper napkin from the stack on the dusty bar and read aloud. “
Confucius say, ‘Man who take girl fishing, sometimes get hooked.
’ Wow. Racist
and
sexist. A twofer. Those were the days, huh?”

“Yup. So sad to see the days of easy sexism and racism are behind us.” Maya was holding up a mammy doll from
Gone With the Wind
. “Betty loved
Gone With the Wind
. Couldn’t stop talking about it. But she apologized to me, personally since I am, in her words, a ‘colored person.’”

“She really said that?”

Maya smiled and shrugged. “I interview old people, remember? It’s not unusual to hear outdated, politically incorrect stuff. And to tell you the truth, I’d rather hear it directly and honestly from people. Otherwise . . . sometimes I think a lot of people still believe things like that deep down, but they’re two-faced about it.”

I supposed she was right about that.

“And now,” she continued. “For the clothes.”

A door at the back of the rumpus room opened onto a narrow single-car garage just big enough for a Model T. I doubted a modern car would fit, but it made one heck of a walk-in closet.

One side door led, I presumed, outside, while the opposite wall had been lined with mirrors, and every inch of floor space was jammed with racks of clothing and piles of accessories, as well as still more tchotchkes and souvenirs. There weren’t even pathways through the items—we had to push aside the clothes.

“This reminds me of a mini Aunt Cora’s Closet,” I said as I maneuvered past a wall of clothing.

“Or what Aunt Cora’s Closet will turn into if you keep cramming it full of junk like old trunks and broken-down kitchen gadgets.”

Guiltily, I set down the old-fashioned wood-handled egg beaters I had picked up and started flicking through a rack of dresses.

“Here’s a good eighties rack,” said Maya.

“I was hoping more for sixties stuff—how about that rack behind you, can you see? Hold something up so I can see it.”

She held up an ice-blue Jackie O–style shift, with a matching pillbox hat. “Bingo. Stay there, I’ll come join you.”

I ducked through a tunnel of sparkly tops with padded shoulders popular during the Reagan administration, then pushed past a rack of negligees and housecoats. These last looked less like items from Betty’s boutique and more like overflow from her bedroom closet. There were suits with cropped jackets and narrow skirts in fine tweed wools; their bracelet-length sleeves meant to be worn with gloves and oversized bangles. There were
animal print scarves and befeathered bubble hats. Next to them there were several gingham dresses with Peter Pan collars and fitted bodices, adorned with little bows. My favorite was a 1950s dress with sky blue stripes made up of tiny polka dots against a white background. It had a boat neckline and eyelet lace trim on the bodice. Finally, I spied a few cotton plaid patch-pocket dresses, with cap sleeves and red rickrack trim on the bodice, with matching piping on the deep pockets—I might have to keep that one for myself. It would be perfect for gathering herbs.

I was turning toward the rack of sixties dresses when Maya spoke.

“Um . . . Lily?”

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure . . .”

There, between an ebony carving and an ivory figurine of monkeys gesturing
hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil,
lay a doll.

But this was no ordinary doll. It was made of honey-colored wax, and the identity of the model was obvious: Affixed to the doll was a photo of Betty’s portrait, the one with big eyes and swan neck. Blond hairs sprouted from the doll’s head. And pins protruded from its body.

“Don’t touch it.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t,” said Maya, pressing against the shirtwaists at her back as she drew as far away from the doll as she could. “What is it?”

“It’s . . . not good.”

“Does this mean what I think it means?” Her dark eyes turned to me, searching, with a frown of confusion. “A voodoo doll?”

“Maybe.”

“Someone was trying to hurt
Betty
?”

I swallowed hard. “It’s possible. I mean, that’s what it
looks like, but let’s not jump to conclusions—not yet.” I cast my gaze around until it landed on what I needed. “Hand me that nightgown, the red flannel.”

I wrapped the skirt of the nightgown around my hand and picked up the doll, then swiftly bundled the rest of the garment around it. Since Betty had already passed away, I didn’t need to worry about inadvertently hurting her by pressing the pins in deeper or twisting a leg . . . but still. I knew enough not to fool around with this sort of thing.

One thing seemed strange, though: Normally when holding something like this, I would feel its vibrations. The thick flannel would muffle the doll’s power, but even still I should have sensed
something
. This doll was absent of sensations. It was . . . null.

“It could just be a harmless souvenir,” I said, recalling the crowded curio cabinets in the living room.

“Who would want something like
that
as a souvenir?” Maya asked, outraged.

I had to smile at her reaction. Not so long ago Maya would have denied believing in anything magical; she had a rational, scientific mind and stood with her feet planted very firmly on the ground. But she’d seen too much since she’d been hanging around the likes of me. Her mind was definitely opening to the possibilities beyond the realm of “normal.”

“Hello?”

Maya and I jumped several inches at the sound of a man’s voice calling out upstairs. We heard footsteps walking around overhead, then descending the steps.