Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery (8 page)

“Do you know where I might find her?”

She shook her head.

“What about Lupita?”

Maria’s eyes narrowed. “Lupita’s not to be trusted. She only came to Ursula when she needed money. That’s all she ever wanted, a sweet little pair of shoes, a new car, a nicer place to live. She even dragged a reporter in here one time. I’m sure to make money.”

“The reporter paid her?”

“Lupita never did anything unless there was something in it for her, so I bet she got paid somehow.”

“Do you remember the name of the reporter?”

She shrugged. “It started with an M.”

“Michael? Mark? Matthew?” I suggested.

“Malcolm? Malachi? Maxwell?” Aidan said.

“That is the one!” Maria said.

“Which one?” I asked.

“Mac . . . no, Max. Max something.”

A part of me froze. I knew a Max who was a reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle.

“Max
Carmichael
?” I asked.

She nodded. “That could be it.”

“What did he look like?”

“
Guapo
. Handsome. Tall, dark. Light eyes.”

Not long after I’d arrived in San Francisco, Max Carmichael and I had gone out a few times. It was a short affair, but burned brightly in my memory, perhaps because, other than my relationship with Sailor, I didn’t have much to compare it to.

But Max had been on my mind since I realized the parallels between the suicide of Nicky Utley and Max’s wife, who had killed herself after a psychic told her to go off her meds. Was this yet another coincidence?

“Let’s get back to the point,” Aidan said. “Have you noticed anything off about your merchandise?”

She shook her head. “No, all is normal.”

“And how about the city officials?” I jumped in. I’d made a big deal about being the one to ask the questions, after all. “Has anyone been in to ask you about fortune-telling? Maybe talked to you about practicing medicine without a license, for example?”

“They’ve been checking everyone’s credentials, and warning us. But I don’t ‘practice medicine,’ as you say. A
lot of my clients, they go to the regular doctor but the doctor can’t help with what ails them. They have to look for help elsewhere, so they come to me.”

“And you tend to them.”

“With plants, and prayer, and
lo que quien sabe
 . . . what one knows, with who knows what.”

“And Ursula did the same, as far as you know?”

“Not as well, but yes, about the same.”

“You didn’t know her to have any sort of . . . special powers? For good or for ill?”

“As I said, she offered services like I did, and tried to give them away cheaper. But when it comes down to it”—she shrugged and seemed to speak grudgingly—“I suppose Ursula should not be in jail any more than I should.”

*   *   *

“What do you know about Santeria?” I asked as Aidan and I walked to the next store on the list Hervé had given us.

“It’s essentially a mix of Catholicism and the Yoruba religion, brought to the Caribbean by West African slaves. It spread throughout many Latin American countries in the nineteenth century, and is pretty common among Latino communities here in the U.S.”

“I’ve heard of it, of course, and I’ve seen people leaving offerings and that sort of thing. But I didn’t know it was used in curing.”

“Like most belief systems,” Aidan explained, “it is concerned with the health of the community, both physical and mental.”

“That makes sense. So, other than the fact that Ursula was a fierce competitor, did that interview tell us anything?”

“Not that I could tell. What’s the next shop on the list?”

“
Botanica de Mercedes
.”

“Sounds like a car dealership.”

“Mercedes means ‘mercies’ in Spanish.”

He chuckled. “I know that. I believe I speak better Spanish than you do, my friend. I lived in Bolivia for five years.”

“When was this? How did I not know that?”

“Perhaps because you’ve never really taken the time to get to know me,” he said, looking at me with an odd smile on his face.

This was true. Though circumstances frequently brought us together—in fact, Aidan may have saved my life more than once—I didn’t really know him. But neither did I trust him. And I knew that, despite his smiles, he was furious with me at the moment. He was such a good actor it would be easy to be lulled into a false sense of security.

Botanica de Mercedes
appeared marginally more upscale than the others. Its sign was professionally lettered, the name repeated in gold gilt on the window. The front display was more organized, the windowpanes freshly washed. A woman stood in the doorway shooing away a pair of tourists who were trying to take a picture of the shop.

“It’s bad luck!” she exclaimed.
“Mala suerte.”

They apologized and hurried off.

“Bad luck?” Aidan asked as we approached.

“Of course,” she said, her chin raising a notch. “Hello, Aidan. You must know this, it is bad luck to have your picture taken without the proper preparation. I don’t like when the tourists or reporters come around here with their cameras. It’s foolish to invite bad luck into one’s life like that.”

Aidan introduced me to Yasmin, and I reluctantly admitted to myself that having him along on this expedition was helpful.

We entered the store, which shared inventory with the others of its ilk. The walls of the shop were lined with rows and rows of prepackaged herbal blends. They were all marked with labels declaring, in a sloppy handwriting, their different purposes: one to attract money, another to keep away meddlesome neighbors, yet another to increase luck in love.

I noticed half a dozen silver spoons hanging from a row of hooks. It looked almost like the old-fashioned spoons people used to bring back from their travels. I remembered seeing such a collection in Betty North’s living room.

“Pretty spoons.”

“Magic holders. You’ve heard of dream catchers? It’s like that. The silver, you see how shiny it is? As the magic dissipates, the tarnish returns.”

“And then you just polish it again, and that brings more magic?”

She laughed. “As though magic were that easy to come by. It must be cleaned by a professional, someone who knows what she’s doing.”

“And I take it you do?”

“For a small fee.”

“Of course.”

“But mostly, I deal in herbs. The best in town. Some I grow in my backyard, others I gather at the Presidio or Golden Gate Park where they grow wild. It’s hard to find some of the plants I knew from my home, in El Salvador, so I have my sister-in-law ship me things.”

“Isn’t it illegal to ship plants and seeds into the U.S.?”

She glared at me. Aidan looked amused. A long moment of silence passed.

“Sorry,” I said. “What kinds of plants?”

“
Chichipince
is good for problems with your stomach, or your woman parts. It’s really good for that, but they
don’t have it here. Here they have some things, like chamomile and basil and rue. If you have bad energy, I treat you with peppermint and garlic and chamomile and lemon balm.
Epazote
helps people with gassy stomachs.”

“I put it in black bean soup,” said Aidan. “I thought it was just for flavor, but maybe it works twofold.”

“You cook?” Yasmin asked. “A good-looking man like you?”

A smile was his only response.

“I grew up watching my aunt,” continued Yasmin. “Someone would come to her with a broken bone, a foot that was
chueco
, or twisted. She would grind her herbs with a mortar and pestle and mix them with an egg, then rub it on their foot and they’d be cured. Now
I
am the curer. I do purification ceremonies to clear plants of negative energy before giving the herbs to clients. I spray them with
agua florida
, made with orange flower, rose, lavender, and other herbs, and cleanse them with a little rum.

“Plants can retain positive or negative energy from humans. They are living things. If you talk to them and show them affection a tiny plant will grow large and healthy. If you forget about them, neglect them, they will shrivel up and die. An herb is energy, it needs part of your energy.”

I thought of my friend Calypso, whose relationship to plants was very much like what Yasmin described: giving and intimate, as a parent loves a child.

“Sometimes you go to the doctor and don’t feel well and the doctor does all those tests. They use all their technology to stick you, but still they say they can find nothing wrong,” Yasmin continued. “But you know better, because you are not right. These are the people I can cure.”

“What can you tell us about Ursula Moreno?”

“I told her it was bad luck to talk to a reporter. One should never allow one’s photograph to be taken in a magical context. Some jealous practitioner will use the image against you.” She raised her chin in my direction. “I’m sure you know this much, no?”

Not long after opening my store, an article about me ran in the Living section of the
San Francisco Chronicle
. Ever since, I had been involved in some pretty gnarly situations. Maybe Yasmin was onto something.

“Anyway,” Yasmin continued, “my practice is all about health. A lot of our people, they don’t have good medical care, don’t have doctors they trust even if they have the money. I’m all about keeping people healthy.”

“And Ursula wasn’t?” I asked.

“She was . . . but she was about other things, as well. Negative things. And she thinks her spells were better than mine, more powerful. Lupita came over here to brag, said Ursula was great at
limpias
. Did one for the house of an old lady, claimed she was in line for a fortune now.”

“What old lady? Do you have a name?”

She shrugged and shook her head.

“What about her granddaughter, Selena? Any idea where she might be?”

“No, and good riddance. She scares me.”

Aidan and I exchanged glances, and silently agreed to move on. We thanked Yasmin for her time and left to try a few more of the names on the list. Everyone we talked to told us some variation of the same thing: Ursula Moreno undercut them with clients, her young charge Selena was “special,” and no one had any idea where the girl was now. The opinion of Lupita, meanwhile, was uniformly unflattering. Clearly the staff of
El Pajarito
needed to work a little on their neighborly relations.

“How about a drink?” proposed Aidan after we heard
essentially the same story from yet another disgruntled shopkeeper.

I glanced at my antique Tinkerbell watch. “It’s barely four o’clock.”

“Then it’s well past time in New York.”

I wasn’t sure I followed his logic, but since I was hot and frustrated, it was good enough for me. I was ready for a break.

“Where did you have in mind?”

“I know just the place. Follow me.”

Somehow I expected a posh wine bar, or maybe a newly trendy Sinatra-era cocktail lounge. Instead, Aidan led me to a side street where we slipped into a dive bar that could have been snatched whole off the streets of Tijuana. Ranchero music blared from an old-fashioned jukebox, and men in boots and cowboy hats played a lazy game of pool, beers in their hands, razzing each other in Spanish.

Aidan ordered chips and salsa and margaritas from an unsmiling woman behind the counter. We took our seats at a small laminate table in a back corner.

“You come here often?” I asked, looking around.

“Trying to pick me up? No need, I’m yours for the asking.”

I took a gulp of my margarita, avoiding his eyes and trying to decide how to handle the man in front of me. We had some serious unfinished business, but if he was going to act like nothing had happened, I supposed I should play along. Still, it put me on edge.

“How have you been, Lily?” he asked.

“Oh, fine, thank you.”

“You’re not feeling any ill effects from your last magical battle?”

“No.”

“You’re sure.”

“Absolutely.”

“And all your friends? Is Oscar still with you?”

“Of course he’s still with me. By
choice
, not forced obligation.”

He just grinned at me. “Hey,
I’m
the one who was trespassed against. You destroyed my marker, took a perfectly good helper out from under my influence. And do you hear me grumbling?”

Okay, maybe we
were
going to talk about this.

“Listen, Aidan, I’m sorry about—”

He held up one hand, palm-out, and shook his head. This was how things work in the magical community: There were no apologies, but favors and trespasses were committed on a strictly
quid pro quo
basis. I had known that when I stole from Aidan, but in the moment I had been so focused on saving Oscar that I hadn’t cared.

“I know I owe you,” I said quietly.

“You better believe it. But let’s put that aside for the moment and focus on the situation at hand. Unfortunately, before the Oscar debacle you also deprived me of a nicely beholden psychic. Speaking of whom, how do you suppose Sailor will feel when he finds out your old boyfriend Mack is back on the scene?”

“Max, not Mack. And Max was never really my boyfriend.”

“What do you suppose your current boyfriend will make of that?”

“None of your business.”

“So, the arrival of Mark on the scene—”

“
Max
, as you very well know.”

“Right, that’s what I said.”

“And he’s hardly arrived on the scene—I haven’t seen him in forever.”

“Lily, Lily, Lily.” Aidan shook his head. “I don’t have to be a fortune-teller to predict you’re going to look him up soon, given his involvement in this situation.”

I shrugged. Aidan already knew more than he should, no need to fill him in on my plans.

“And how is Sailor? I hear he’s training with Patience Blix.”

I nodded.

“That’s a bit of a coup. She’s really something.”

“So I hear.”

“I have to say, I admire your attitude. A lot of women wouldn’t be happy about their boyfriends spending time with a woman like Patience.”

“What do you mean, ‘a woman like Patience’?”

One lifted eyebrow was his only response.

“
What
?” I demanded.

“I take it you haven’t met her?”

I shrugged and quite literally bit my tongue in an effort to appear nonchalant. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I mean, she’s his cousin, after all.”

“Of course.”

“Right. Let’s get this conversation back to what’s important here and now. What’s the game plan— where do we go from here?”

“I’ll try to find out what’s up with the mayor, since I have it on good authority that I’m the power behind the municipal throne and all.”

I glared at him.

“And I’ll put out some more feelers and see if I can get a lead on Selena, but I’m not optimistic on that score. Say, you know who’s great at reading the crystal ball?”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Patience Blix. But she’s also a master at cold reading, so keep your wits around her.”

I could feel myself doing something funny with my mouth. “Just . . . see if you can find anything. If there’s still nothing on Selena by tomorrow, I’ll see if Sailor will ask Patience to help. But to take another angle on all this: Do you know anything about the death of Nicky Utley?”

“Only that it seemed to be the catalyst for the arrest of Ursula Moreno, and thus the disappearance of Selena.”

“What’s so special about Selena? Is it just that she’s magically gifted?”

“Very much so.”

“Is that how you know about her? You keep track of such things?”

“Yes, of course,” he said dryly. “I have an Excel spreadsheet on my laptop that I update daily.”

“You know what I mean.”

“As you know very well, I try to help organize the magical community.”

I did, at that. I just could never quite figure out why. Was Aidan working for good, or for ill? Were his ambitions selfish, or for the greater good? And with a talented child like Selena . . . was he trying to protect her, or to exploit her?

Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to broach those questions with Aidan. Not that he was likely to tell me the truth, even if I did. So I asked a different question.

“Do you think Nicky Utley’s suicide was significant in some way? I mean, why jump off the Golden Gate Bridge?”

“They say the Golden Gate Bridge is the number one suicide destination in the world.”

“‘Suicide destination’? That’s a thing?”

“Apparently. Three months after opening in 1935, a veteran was the first known jumper, and since then there
have been something like 1500 deaths off the bridge. And that’s just the ones that get counted.”

“Why aren’t they all counted?”

“A Coast Guard cutter fishes the bodies out of the water, but the currents are so strong there’s no guarantee they find them all. And it happens fast; it only takes about four seconds to fall from the bridge to the water. If no one’s around . . .”

“How do you know so much about this?”

He shrugged. “I fancy myself a bit of a local historian. And I’m as fascinated with the Golden Gate Bridge as the next person.”

“Doesn’t the bridge have cameras or surveillance equipment?”

“Not for most of the span. Most of the suicides occur at the middle of the bridge, which as you can imagine is the most majestic spot. Right there between San Francisco and Marin, between the wild of the Pacific Ocean and the calmness of the bay. It’s . . . iconic.”

I nodded and took a sip of my drink.

“Anyway, the only time there was a camera recording that spot was in 2004.”

“What happened in 2004?”

“A documentary film crew recorded the bridge every day for a year. I guess the parks commission thought it was granting a permit for a film about the history of the bridge, not realizing it would end up being a documentary about suicide. The footage caught images of a number of people jumping. It’s . . . chilling.”

“I’ll bet.”

A moment of silence passed.

“Funding was approved not long ago for a more effective barrier, but it will take a while to make the changes.”

“But if a suicidal person can’t kill themselves on the bridge, won’t they just go elsewhere to accomplish it?”

“Apparently it’s an attractive nuisance, offering people a romantic, inspirational place to end their lives.”

“Does anyone ever survive?”

“Sure, a few. But the few who do survive the fall
and
remain conscious have at most ten minutes before hypothermia sets in. If the Coast Guard reaches them in time, they’ve got a shot. There’s one well-known survivor who’s a high school teacher now. He says the moment his hands left the bridge he realized all his problems were solvable—with the notable exception of one: He had just jumped off a bridge. He’s now married, with kids. He’s very grateful for his second chance, and talks to people quite openly about suicide.”

As fascinating as this discussion was, it didn’t tell me anything useful about Nicky Utley, who had not been one of the lucky survivors.

“So, I suppose the case against Ursula Moreno must focus on an herb or something else she gave Nicky Utley that supposedly promoted her suicidal tendencies. But how could they prove a case like that?”

Aidan licked some salt off the rim of the margarita glass. “Personally, I don’t believe they’re going to be able to make the charges of gross negligence stick. I think they’re just rattling cages, trying to look good for the mayor. On the other hand, if Utley gave Moreno a lot of money, they might nail her on fraud charges. And frankly, if Ursula has been bilking people, she deserves what she gets. I’m concerned only about the girl.”

“What about the crazed merchandise in her store?”

“I’ll make inquiries, see if there are any whispers out there about a rogue witch. The thing is, the sensations are not those of a typical practitioner.”

“Which is why you’re thinking mental illness?”

“As I said”—he smiled as he watched a friendly—but loud—rivalry break out among the men playing pool—“I
think it’s possible. Either that, or it’s a magical system I’m not as familiar with, which is why I wanted to talk to your pal Hervé. But he was as clueless as the rest of us.”

“What about a woman named Betty North? Have you heard of her?”

He shook his head.

“I found a poppet in her house. I think it may have come from Ursula’s shop.”

“As far as I know, Ursula didn’t have anywhere near that kind of power. She’s decent with anointing candles and simple housekeeping spells and cleansing, but nothing more sophisticated. As I recall, she’s primarily powerless with poppets.” He smiled, as though pleased with his alliteration.

“You seem rather cheerful about the whole thing. I don’t imagine Ursula Moreno is laughing.”

“True enough. You should go speak with her.”

“She’s in jail.”

“Yes, I realize that. And unless I’m mistaken, you’re the one with friends in the SFPD. As you may know, the boys in blue are not quite as fond of me. Ask your old pal, Carlos Romero, if he can get you in to see her.”

“How come you get to have a nice martini lunch with the mayor, and I have to go hang out in a jail?”

His blue eyes sparkled. “We all play to our strengths, Lily.”

*   *   *

I returned to Aunt Cora’s Closet an hour before closing. The shop was so busy I was almost distracted from my fruitless tour of the Mission, a missing girl, and an out-of-control
botanica
.

Not to mention the as-yet-unnamed payback I owed to one very powerful witch.

But it was the missing girl that most preyed on my mind. It had been several days since Ursula Moreno was
arrested, and since Selena had snuck into Hervé’s shop. I took comfort in the fact that, if I could believe the consensus of Hervé, Aidan, and the shop owners, Selena had remarkable supernatural abilities. So she was probably more able to take care of herself than the average fourteen-year-old, at least in terms of basic safety.

Mental health was another thing altogether. As Aidan had pointed out, being treated like an aberrant outsider all one’s life didn’t nurture the most stable of personalities. The only reason I had made it through my own experiences was because I had the love and support of my grandmother, Graciela.

What if Selena’s sole support was Ursula, and Ursula was sent to prison?

As I was kneeling at the foot of a customer, pinning up the skirt of a slinky satin 1940s evening dress, I realized I had forgotten to contact Carlos to tell him about the doll in Betty’s place, and that Lupita was a connection between Betty North and Ursula Moreno.

“I’ll send this to our seamstress, and we should get back to you within ten days,” I told the customer as I double-checked her measurements. There was nothing worse than making something too short. Even Maya’s mother, Lucille, our talented shop seamstress, couldn’t fix a mistake like that.

Bronwyn helped the woman change out of the pin-laden gown while I went up to my apartment to make the phone call in private. I told Carlos about Betty North’s place and the ugly little doll, and that Lupita had worked for Betty as one of her home health aides. Carlos told me they hadn’t found any new leads on Selena’s whereabouts, and still didn’t know what was going on in
El Pajarito
.

We were about to conclude our talk when I slipped in a request to speak with Ursula Moreno.

As usual, there was a long pause. I could hear the hum of the station behind him, someone yelling, a weary voice saying,
“Give it a rest, pal, will ya?”

“You think she would tell you anything?” Carlos asked.

“It’s worth a try. She must have some idea where Selena might be, and if she’s concerned maybe she’ll confide in me. You know how we witches can be: rather clannish.”

“Don’t you mean covenish? All right, I’ll see what I can do. Let me make a few calls, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Thanks, Carlos.”

*   *   *

I came downstairs just as Finn, the man in charge of Betty North’s estate sale, arrived to deliver the bags of clothes Maya and I had selected. Conrad was right behind him, trying to help, but Finn carried three bags in each strong hand.

“Where do you want ’em?” he asked.

“Here, in the back room, if you don’t mind.”

I opened the curtain and, with a grunt, he set the Hefty bags down in front of the washing machine.

“Clothes are heavy,” he said. “Who knew?”

“You should try them when they’re wet. I swear, laundry is the bane of every vintage clothes dealer’s existence.”

Finn grinned, stepped back out onto the shop floor, and looked around. When he spoke, his booming voice filled Aunt Cora’s Closet.

“Nice place you got here, kiddo. Real nice.”

“Thank you. We like it. Hey, could I ask you a question?”

“Sure thing. Need me to appraise something?”

“No, nothing like that. I was wondering whether you knew if anyone did a
limpia
at Betty’s house.”