Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery (5 page)

“That sounds like Finn,” Maya said. “He’s in charge of the estate liquidation.”

“Don’t mention the doll.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

I tucked the wrapped bundle in the bottom of a
plastic laundry basket and covered it with a couple of pleated plaid skirts circa 1960.

A man appeared in the doorway, clad in dusty jeans and work boots. He was average-looking but had broad shoulders and a huge smile.

“Maya! Thought it must be you down here. How ya doin’, kiddo?”

“Hi, Finn. This is my friend Lily I was telling you about.”

“The one with the vintage clothing store, eh?”

“The very one,” I said. “Nice to meet you, Finn.”

“Same here.”

“Maya said you handle estate sales?” I said. “I imagine you see some amazing things.”

“That’s for sure. We should get together and compare notes sometime. I bet we’ve met some real characters in the line of duty.” When Finn smiled, little crinkles appeared around his blue eyes. “So, find some good stuff? Want to pay me a small fortune to haul it all out of here?”

“We’ve just started, but I won’t be able to take all of it. It’s not all vintage.” My eyes alighted on several threadbare cotton housecoats. “Some of it’s just . . . old.”

He glanced around the garage, then back at me, eyebrows raised. “How can you tell the difference?”

“Well, now, that’s a trade secret.”

“If she told you she’d have to kill you,” said Maya.

“In that case, I’ll live with the mystery.” He winked. “No worries, just gather whatever you can use to one side, and then I’ll give you a price for the pile.”

“What will you do with the rest of it?” asked Maya.

“Either the Salvation Army or the rag pile, I guess,” said Finn. “I can sell the furniture and the knickknacks, but people who come to estate sales aren’t really looking for clothing, by and large. Besides, everything would have
to be laundered and, well, I don’t want to work that hard. So take everything you want. All except the fur coats.”

“Betty had fur coats?”

“Three of ’em. Those are a whole different ballgame. As for the rest of the stuff, be my guest. If you need me, I’ll be upstairs working on the inventory. Holler when you’re done. Set aside what you want. I’ll go through it and come up with a price. Assuming we’re all in agreement, we’ll have a deal. I’ll photograph everything and bring it by your shop later.”

“You plan to photograph the clothes?” I asked.

He held up an iPad. “Company policy. Everything gets photographed and entered into the inventory log. That way the family has a record of everything sold, and it makes the IRS happy.” He checked his watch. “Anyway, if you’ve got this covered, I’m starting in on all the junk—I mean, the
very valuable
items—upstairs. If you need anything, just give a shout.”

“Thanks.”

“His job must be a hoot,” said Maya after he left.

“Almost as much fun as ours.”

“I’d agree as far as the vintage clothing goes. The witch stuff, not so much. Speaking of which, Lily . . . do you think that creepy little doll could have had anything to do with Betty’s death?”

“I don’t think so. It’s definitely creepy but it doesn’t feel charged with power. Like I was saying, some people see voodoo dolls as toys—it could have been a souvenir she picked up while traveling.”

“Really? Who would want something like that?”

I shrugged. “It’s considered kitschy. Anyway, I will look into it, I promise you.” I was acting confident for Maya’s sake. The truth is, poppet magic made me nervous. Fortunately, my friend Hervé was a voodoo guy;
he would be able to tell me more about this kind of magic.

“For now,” I continued, scanning the area for anything else suspicious, “let’s go with anything that looks seventies or earlier. Especially cocktail dresses, and suits or professional clothes.”

“What about nighties?” She held up a pair of long silk pajamas. The rack behind her held a dozen more.

“Um . . . let’s take all the frilly ones, and the ones with matching robes. They won’t take up much room, right?”

“True.” Maya started tucking pajamas and nighties into one of our plastic Hefty bags.

“Those bed jackets are darling, too,” I said, pointing to the pastel rainbow of quilted satin jackets. “But does anyone lounge around in bed enough these days to need a bed jacket? Or are they meant to entertain someone in the boudoir?”

“I think they’re like smoking jackets,” said Maya, running her hands over a silky coat. “A relic of another time, and another way of life. These days men change into sweats or jeans when they come home, not into a more comfortable jacket.”

“With the notable exception of—”

“Hugh Hefner,” we said in unison, and laughed.

“Ah, the fashion icons of days gone by,” I said. “He would have loved the bar with the sexist napkins.”

“Heck,
I
love the bar with the sexist napkins.”

“So how do you know Finn?” I said as we worked our way steadily through the clothes.

“I think Betty knew her time was near and she was trying to tie up the loose ends, to make all the arrangements she could ahead of time. So she arranged with his company for the estate sale, and brought in a Realtor,
arranged for cremation, all of that. I told you, she wasn’t close to her kids so I guess she wanted to take care of it all. I was here when she wrote out a new will . . .”

There was a little catch in her voice as she trailed off.

“You okay?”

She nodded, but I caught a glint of tears in her coffee-colored eyes.

I’m not by nature a hugger but I was trying to get over myself and to be a better friend. Pushing past some polyester disco dresses, I wrapped my arms around her. Maya didn’t seem to notice my awkwardness, but rested her head on my shoulder and sniffed.

“It just makes me sad,” she said. “I’ve never . . . I mean, my grandfather died when I was in high school, but I’ve never seen someone like that . . . and then she died in the hospital when all she wanted was to be here at home.”

“Maya, don’t think that way. Betty died because she was old, and it was her time. And it’s always sad, always hard to deal with. Gabriel García Márquez wrote: ‘a person doesn’t die when he should but when he can.’”

She nodded and sniffed again, pulling herself together.

“That’s from
One Hundred Years of Solitude
, right? I’m the one who gave you that book, remember?”

“I know.” I smiled. “I loved it. But
I
read it in
Spanish
.”

“Show-off,” she said with a chuckle. “Besides, you used a dictionary, I saw you.”

“Hey, that’s allowed!”

We laughed and returned to our work, but I couldn’t help but sneak another glance at the laundry basket where I’d hidden the doll.

Was I right about the ugly little thing? Was it one
souvenir among many, the kind of thing a tourist might pick up in New Orleans or Brazil or one of the Caribbean islands, never realizing just how dangerous it could be?

Except the picture pinned to it looked like the portrait of Betty painted by her missing boyfriend, Fred. And if that yellow hair was hers . . . charged or not, that poppet could be dangerous.

“That thing is
u-g-l-y
, it ain’t got no alibi, it’s
uglyyyyy
,” chanted Oscar that night when he caught sight of the skewered doll. He danced around the kitchen, doing some sort of circular movement with his hands, and swinging his hips.

I thought he was pretty good, but then I’m a little dancing-challenged.

“
It’s
uglyyyyy,
” he continued as he hopped to the beat in his head. “That thing done got whupped with an
ugly
stick.”

During the day, downstairs in the shop, Oscar is a run-of-the-mill miniature potbellied pig. But in the privacy of our apartment over the store, he shifts to his normal guise, a kind of a cross between a gargoyle and a goblin. He has oversized hands, taloned feet, and big batlike ears. His eyes gleam like green glass, in stark contrast to his gray-green scaly skin.

“Thanks for the floor show,” I said with a sigh, studying the little doll. I had set it out on a black cloth, drawn a circle of salt around it, and surrounded it with a variety
of protective stones: carnelian, lapis lazuli, Apache tear, Tiger’s Eye, and hematite. “I guess you’re right: it really
is
about as ugly as homemade sin.”

“Ugly as a mud fence.”

I smiled. Oscar had a knack for imitation, and he’d been taking note of my Texas twang and sayings, mimicking me with uncanny accuracy.

“It’s so ugly,” I said, “it has to sneak up on a glass of water.”

“Know what?” Oscar asked with a grimace, which was his way of smiling. He looked pleased at my playing his game; I’d been in a bit of a mood since I’d come back from Betty North’s house.

“What?”

“It’s
sooooo
ugly it has to slap its feet to make them go to bed with it!”

“True. It’s about as ugly as Grandpa’s toenails.”

“Ugly as ten miles of bad road!”

“Ugly as the back end of bad luck!”

We dissolved in cackles, as befits a witch with her familiar.

Still chuckling, I stood on my tiptoes to retrieve my massive leather-bound Book of Shadows from a high kitchen shelf. I set it on the counter and started to flip through the old parchment pages, so well-thumbed they felt soft as fabric.

“But I don’t understand . . . why would you bring that thing in
here
?” he asked, looking at the doll askance.

“It’s not charged,” I said. “I’m not sure what we’re dealing with, though, so I brought it here to keep it safe. I wouldn’t want someone to hurt themselves accidentally.”

He shook his head. “I’ll never understand your fetish for humans.”

“As I have explained many times, Oscar,
I’m
human. As is Aidan, and Sailor, and—”

“I mean reg-lar humans. Nonmagicals.
Cowans
.”

“Some of my best friends are reg-U-lar.” I pronounced the word with exaggerated care.

“I’m just sayin’ . . . I don’t trust ’em. Not so long ago those cowans would have burned you at the stake.”

“Good thing we live in the present-day San Francisco then, right? Besides, you like Bronwyn—”

“Ooooh, the
laaaady
,” crooned Oscar. Bronwyn—“the lady”—cradled Oscar to her ample bosom, which he adored.

“—and Maya—”

“Mayaaaa.” Maya, at first rather averse to having what she called “livestock” in the store, had gotten in the habit of sneaking Oscar a portion of her lunch every day. The coddling had only intensified since Oscar’s recent disappearance, when he had gone missing from Aunt Cora’s Closet for nearly a week, driving us all insane with worry and prompting many promises of spoiling him if only he would return. The constantly hungry little guy had been eating nonstop ever since.

“—and Bronwyn and Maya are about as regular as humans get.”

For the Bay Area, anyway. In other parts of the country Bronwyn and Maya might both be considered a bit “out there” but in the freewheeling Haight-Ashbury neighborhood they were positively salt-of-the-earth.

I searched my Book of Shadows. Graciela had given me the ancient tome when I was just a girl. “
This is for you, Lilita,”
she had said. “
Only for you. Learn it, trust it, and add to it; it is one of the sources of a witch’s power, filled with the knowledge of her ancestors.
No lo pierdas
. Don’t lose it!”

Even at that young age I had understood the book’s importance, and over the years I had added to the ancient spells newer ones of my own. Part recipe book, part
scrapbook, it included spells, newspaper clippings, inspirational quotes, and my memories. I was unsure what I was looking for, but sometimes the book helps me out by showing me something I didn’t know was there.

Not this time.

After several frustrating minutes, I slammed the book shut and started to pull the ingredients for jambalaya out of the refrigerator. I had stopped eating pork when Oscar came into my life, so I was substituting andouille chicken sausage for the traditional pork sausage called for by the classic Cajun recipe. And because I had also gotten into the habit of spoiling Oscar since his disappearance, I was going to make a side dish of cheesy garlic mashed potatoes. As far as Oscar was concerned, it wasn’t dinner unless there were plenty of carbs smothered in cheese.

“You’re not gonna keep that doll
here
, are you?” Oscar jumped up to sit on the edge of the counter, his favorite spot in the kitchen. From here he could “help” me cook, which mostly meant being an enthusiastic taste-tester. “I mean, if your Book of Shadows doesn’t say anything, that’s no good at all, is it? It prob’ly means there’s something wrong with it. Not our kind of magic.”

He reached for the hunk of cheese I had set on the counter, but I gently slapped his hand away. He rolled his eyes.

“Good point,” I said, bringing out an old wooden cutting board and the sharp knife to chop onions. “I should probably go talk to Hervé.”

Oscar shivered dramatically. “I don’t much care for the voodoo folk. You should ask Master Aidan.”

“He’s not your master anymore, remember?” I’d been giving Aidan a wide berth since our little showdown, during which I freed Oscar from him. I feared one day soon I would have to face the debt I owed that powerful
witch, but so far I had been avoiding the subject. And interestingly, he had not yet come after me.

“Besides,” I continued. “Hervé’s a good guy. He’s helped to save my butt more than once. And by extension,
your
butt.”

“
Heh!
You said ‘butt.’” Oscar cackled and waved his hand, as if to say
stop
.

“Your green, scaly butt,” I continued.

Oscar laughed some more, and wiped his eyes. Goblin humor.

I handed him the chunk of cheese, along with a grater and a bowl. “Make yourself useful. And make sure most of that ends up in the bowl, not your stomach.”

For the next half-hour, we cooked together companionably, Edith Piaf crooning in the background. Oscar kept joining in; he had been working on his impressions of both Piaf and Billie Holiday, and he wasn’t bad, though he kept forgetting the lyrics. The good thing about singing along with Edith Piaf is that as long as you sounded even vaguely French you could get away with it, at least to an American audience. Lady Day’s repertoire was tougher.

“Hey,” I said a while later when the jambalaya was simmering gently on the stove, filling the apartment with a delicious, homey aroma. We were letting the flavors of the jambalaya mingle—my mother used to say “to marry”—and playing a game of gin rummy while we waited for Sailor.

“Do you know a woman who owns a shop in the Mission called
El Pajarito
?
” I asked. “Her name’s Ursula Moreno.”

Oscar shrugged and snuck two cards, instead of one, from the top of the pile. Oscar was a terrible card cheat. Somehow this did not come as a surprise.

Sometimes I let him get away with it. Today I was not
in the mood, and fixed Oscar with the stink-eye. He gazed at me, unblinking, the picture of innocence.

“Time for another round of Let’s Make a Deal,” I said. “I’ll pretend I didn’t see that you just took two cards if you tell me what you know about Ursula Moreno.”

Not that Moreno was any of my concern, I reminded myself. Carlos had been clear: Having checked out the store and told him as much as I was able to, my part was done. Period. End of story.

Still . . . Oscar knew an awful lot about an awful lot, and was plugged into the local magical grapevine in a way I never would be. I was finally learning to ask him outright about what he might know or might have heard, since my otherwise garrulous familiar tended to play such cards close to his chest.

“Oscar?” I prompted him.

He twisted his little muzzle, baring his teeth in a display that would have been frightening if I didn’t know him. It was his thinking expression.

“Moreno’s pretty good. That kid who hangs around her, though, that’s her secret weapon.”

“You mean Selena?”

“Like I was saying, you really should ask Maaiiister Aidan.”

“I’m asking you. So, do you think Moreno is the type to get involved with fraud? Or to put her clients in harm’s way?”

“Usually it’s more the fortune-teller people than the
curandera
people that do that sort of thing. If I were you, I’d follow up with that doll.”

“I intend to. But wait. The doll doesn’t have anything to do with Moreno, does it?”

He shrugged and avoided my eyes.

“Oscar?”

He started picking at his talons, a sure sign that he
wasn’t planning on talking anymore about the subject at hand. A few seconds later, he pulled another card, grimaced, and yelled,
“Gin!”

Just then we heard the sound of boots on the stairs, and I was enveloped by the unmistakable fragrance of roses.

It was my very own gentleman caller, come to dinner.

*   *   *

The next morning Sailor looked at me over the plate of scrambled eggs I’d made with goat cheese and fresh herbs from my terrace garden. The kitchen was aromatic with the scents of fresh-brewed coffee—strong, with chicory—and thick slabs of buttered toast, Texas style.

“And why, pray tell, do you want to go harass an old man?”

I hadn’t wanted to ruin the evening last night with talk of suspicious suicide, much less voodoo dolls. Better to broach this subject over breakfast.

“He may be an old man, but if he sculpted a voodoo doll of his beloved Betty, he could be dangerous.”

“Does Romero know about this?”

I took a sip of my coffee. “Hmm?”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no.’”

“This isn’t a homicide. At least I hope it isn’t. All I have is a vague suspicion concerning a voodoo doll; it’s hardly enough to bother Carlos over.”

“Seems to me I’ve heard that line of reasoning before.”

“Since when did you become such a fan of Carlos Romero?”

“I’m no fan, but the man knows homicide, and you should tell him what’s going on.”

“I will, if and when we discover there really
is
something going on. Maya gave me Fred’s address, but she
didn’t have a phone number. I just want to talk with him, to be sure he wasn’t involved with making that doll. Will you go with me?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“We all have choices,” I said in my sweetest voice. “For instance, I have a choice regarding whom I cook for, and spend my time with, and lo—
um
, like.”

Sailor fixed me with a long, smoldering look. I jumped up, practically spilling my coffee in my haste. If I didn’t go downstairs to open the store right this very moment, chances were good I would get distracted and open late, as I had many times since Sailor came into my life.

I fixed an extra plate of eggs, toast, and fruit and hurried downstairs. Conrad was a friend who slept in nearby Golden Gate Park and spent a good portion of every day on the curb outside Aunt Cora’s Closet. He often did small chores for me, like sweeping the sidewalk or helping me carry in heavy bags of clothes, and I tried to make sure he had breakfast at least most days.

“Good morning, Conrad. Hungry?”

“
Duuuude
,” was all he said. This wasn’t uncommon for Conrad—aka “the Con”— especially first thing in the morning.

I sat on the curb with him for a few minutes, pulling a turquoise polka dot sweater tighter around me against the morning chill.

“Anything new with you?” I asked.

“
Dude
.”

And that was the extent of our conversation.

When Conrad had finished, I took the plate into the store and went through my morning ritual: putting cash into the register, making sure the racks were neat and tidy, spritzing the counter with white vinegar and orange oil, and then sprinkling salt water around the shop
widdershins and smudging deosil with a sage bundle. Finally, I lit a white candle and chanted a quick charm of protection.

Bronwyn arrived a few minutes later, and agreed to take charge at the store in my absence. Maya would be coming in soon. She had Oscar to keep her company, and Conrad was at his post outside.

Sailor and I set off to harass an old man.

*   *   *

Fred’s studio was sandwiched between a tile store and a plumbing supply company in a warehouse that looked like it was built in the 1930s. We weren’t far from the water, and these were old working docks that still saw some maritime shipping business. Most of the freight coming in from overseas by container ship went to the massive Port of Oakland across the bay, so now China Basin mostly dealt with vessel repair and the occasional cruise ship. There was a yacht in dry dock, a stack of shipping containers, and several big rigs that needed a lot of space to park.

When Sailor and I got out of the car, we were met with the caws of seagulls, in harmony with the industrial sounds of air brakes and idling diesel engines.

“Did you know the ancient Greeks believed the caws of seagulls were the rootless souls of those lost at sea?” I asked.

“Anyone ever tell you that you are a font of fascinating yet useless information?”

“I believe I may have been accused of that once or twice in my life, yes.” I laughed as we approached the office door, which stood ajar. “
Hello?
Anybody home?” I called out after rapping on the door. Each of the warehouse spaces had a regular door that led to a semifinished office, and big overhead doors that opened onto the warehouse floor.