Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery (9 page)

“Excuse me?”

“A
limpia
—it’s a spiritual cleansing of a home.”

He smiled. “I
do
know what a
limpia
is—don’t forget, I spent a lot of time in the houses of dead people. And we’re in the Bay Area. But with regards to Betty’s place, I don’t know, to be honest. I was called in for the estate sale, but I don’t know anything about the intricacies of the house prep, anything like that. Besides, wouldn’t a
limpia
be done after the place is cleaned out?”

“Normally, yes.”

“I guess it wouldn’t be beyond reason, though, I gotta say . . .” He glanced around the store. “I think there might be . . . I dunno, a spirit or something in that house.”

“A spirit? Did you see something?”

“I don’t know, exactly.” He shrugged.

I reminded myself to be patient. When it came to ghosts or spirits or really anything beyond our earthly realm, most people aren’t like me. Normal people weren’t raised to believe in omens, woods creatures, or the transformational effects of a magical brew, much less the presence of spirits from beyond the veil. When nonwitchy humans confronted something unusual, it was only natural to try to explain it away: too much to drink, a trick of the light, a bad dream. Or that they were losing their minds.

“Did you sense anything out of the ordinary?” I suggested when he remained silent. “A cold spot, maybe?”

“Whispers? A breath on the back of your neck?” Bronwyn joined the discussion, a tad overeager. She had recently developed a fascination with ghosts, and was beginning to view herself as a junior ghost-buster.

“No, no, nothing like that,” said Finn. “It’s not like I think Betty’s ghost is hanging around, or anything. It’s just that I can tell things kind of . . . move around a bit.”

“You see them move?”

“I haven’t
seen
anything. But remember how I told you I take photos? I was going through a bunch and
realized that things weren’t the way I left them. They’d been moved.”

He brought out an iPad and scrolled through pictures, showing me a before and after of one of his display tables.

“So the place wasn’t tossed,” I said, recalling the state of Ursula’s store. “But it does look as if things have been rearranged.”

“That’s why I was thinking maybe it was a ghost. I mean, it’s not like that’s the first thing that comes to mind, but if someone was after Betty’s valuables they would just grab them and run, wouldn’t they? I mean, why take the time to rearrange things?”

I thought back to yesterday, when Maya and I were at Betty North’s house. I didn’t recall any of the usual indications of a ghostly presence: no strange puffs of air rushing past my bare arms, no tingle at the back of my neck, no sensation of my hair being pulled.

I can’t communicate with the dead, but restless spirits are drawn to my vibrations and often try to make themselves known when I’m in their vicinity.

Still . . . If Betty was haunting her old home, perhaps seeking justice for a death hastened by someone with a voodoo doll, she might be too new to the spirit realm to know how to reach out to me. And I hadn’t thought to open myself up to the possibility because I hadn’t been thinking about ghosts. Could I have missed her attempt to communicate?

Maybe I should ask Sailor to visit Betty’s house, to see if he could communicate with whatever, or
who
ever, might be there. Assuming, that is, his mentor gave him permission to dissipate his power.

Then again, probably none of this had to do with ghosts. Might Lupita still have a key to the house?

“Who has access to Betty’s house, do you know?”

“Well, Maya has the key code to the lockbox. And me,” Finn said. “And of course real estate agents would. The house isn’t being shown yet, but there are usually inspectors and Realtors going in and out before a house formally goes on the market.”

“Betty hired you to sell her things, right?” I asked.

“Yup. She made the arrangements before she passed. Now that she’s gone, I ask her son if I need anything. He’s the executor of the estate.”

“He has access to the house, too, then.”

“I guess he must. But I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him. He told me to take care of everything. ‘Sell it all,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to deal with it.’”

“He doesn’t even want any mementos of his mom?” Maya asked. “What about the portraits?”

“I hate to say it,” Finn said with a shrug. “But it’s not as unusual as you might think. A lot of times family members don’t want to keep anything belonging to the one who passed—except, of course, the money. That they
do
want. Shouldn’t complain, of course. Estate sales are my bread and butter, and if more folks cared about their families I’d be out of business. But it does make me sad. I guess you see some messed-up things, too, what with buying and selling dead people’s clothes.”

Finn’s deep voice carried across the shop. A young woman dropped the skirt of a cocktail dress she had bunched in her hands, glanced at us, and left. Another put back a hat festooned with ostrich plumes and rubbed her hands on her pants.

“Sorry,” Finn said in a lower voice. “Didn’t mean to freak anyone out.”

“No worries,” I said.

Folks were funny about this sort of thing—they liked the idea of vintage clothes but didn’t want to think of them as relics of other lives, most of which were now gone.
I bought a lot of “estate sale” items, which was a polite term for something that formerly belonged to someone who had died.

“Could I ask the name of Betty’s son?” I asked Finn. “Or is that confidential?”

“I don’t see why it would be. He’s listed in the legal papers, which are public for the world to see. Don’t remember his last name offhand, but he goes by Knox something . . .”

“As in the fort where they keep the gold?”

“Exactly.”

He was the man I met outside
El Pajarito
the other day. He had been with Gary Utley, Nicky’s widower. If Knox and Nicky were siblings . . . then that meant Nicky Utley was Betty North’s daughter. And Betty was Gary Utley’s mother-in-law.

Which also meant Knox had lost his sister and his mother within a few days of each other.

How tragic.

And how coincidental.

*   *   *

I was closing up the shop when Carlos called to say I could speak to Ursula Moreno if I could make it over to the Hall of Justice before seven.

“You mean, right now?”

“You got something better to do?”

“Actually . . . This is sort of embarrassing, but my friends arranged a little celebration for me tonight.”

“Is it your birthday?”

“No. I passed the GED. I now have a high school diploma. Sort of.”

“I didn’t know that. Congratulations, Lily, that’s a big deal. It’s not easy going back to school.”

I could feel myself shrugging.

“No, seriously,” Carlos continued when I remained
mute. “That’s a real accomplishment. So, what’s the celebration involve?”

“We’re getting together at Bronwyn’s place for pizza and cards. Poker, I think was what was decided on. Is that lame? They wanted to take me out for karaoke, but I wasn’t sure my heart could take it— or more precisely, whether their ears could take it.”

“I’d take poker over karaoke anyday.”

It hadn’t occurred to me to invite Carlos to my graduation party. For most of our interactions he was The Inspector and we discussed acts of crime and malice. I liked Carlos but it was hard to know when and if to cross that line from professional acquaintances to true friends. Now, however, the opportunity seemed to present itself.

“Won’t you join us? I would love it if you’d come.”

“What time’s the shindig?”

“8:00 p.m., at Bronwyn’s house.”

“That’d work. This crazy witch I know wants to interview a suspect in a crime, but after that, my evening’s free. Why don’t you hop on your broomstick and zoom on over here?”

“On my way.”

I don’t much care for visiting jail, and San Francisco’s Hall of Justice on Bryant Street was as cold and intimidating as one might imagine. But at least Carlos was there waiting for me. He escorted me into the jail’s visiting room, a dreary cinder block chamber with a long bank of cubicles. I followed the directions to one cubicle and took a seat. A woman was already there, sitting on the other side of what I presumed was bulletproof glass.

Ursula Moreno was a plump, kind-looking woman. I guessed she was in her late fifties or early sixties, though she appeared to be one of those people who looked middle-aged for years on end. She wore her black hair tightly permed, her skin was a rich mocha, and she had a broad forehead, strong cheekbones, and a jutting chin. She put me in mind of my grandmother.

I again reminded myself:
You’re a
bad judge of character.
I couldn’t go around trusting people simply because they made me think of someone I knew and loved.

Ursula picked up a phone handset attached to one side of the cubicle, and I followed suit.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m Lily Ivory. I’m, a, uh . . .”

I held her gaze and an understanding passed between us, like an electric current. She nodded, her dark gaze drilling into me.

“I see. My cards told me you would come.”

“Did they?”

“A dark-haired, powerful, young woman.”

I wasn’t feeling all that young lately, but “dark-haired and powerful” could describe me. Along with at least half the witches in the San Francisco Bay Area.

“And you said your name’s Lily? Selena’s been drawing pictures of lilies for the last week. She said the scent was driving her crazy.”

I smelled roses whenever Sailor was in the vicinity. I never entertained the notion someone else might experience something similar about me.

“What do you want?” she demanded in a tone of curious belligerence.

“Inspector Romero asked me to visit your shop, to try to figure out what was going on.”

“What do you mean? Did someone break in?”

I tried to read her, to determine if she was being truthful with me. No luck. Not only was I not talented at reading people, but like most practitioners she was guarded.

“Your merchandise is . . . energized.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s some havoc going on at
El Pajarito
. You don’t know anything about it?”

She frowned and shook her head. “Unless . . . She is with you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Selena. Where is she?”

“I wish I knew. Inspector Romero said the authorities are looking for her.”

Panic crept into her eyes. “Lily Ivory, you must listen. You have to find Selena.”

“I’m trying. That’s one reason I came to talk with—”

“Find her and keep her with you.”

“With
me
? Isn’t there a family member . . . ?”

“No.”

“I’m sure social services will—”

“No! That will not do, not at all. I’ll give the police your name, tell them I want you to take care of her, make you her legal guardian until I get out of here.”

“I couldn’t possibly take on that kind of responsibility,” I protested. “I don’t even
know
her. Or you, for that matter.”

“But we do know each other, you and I,” she said with a slow nod that reminded me, once again, of Graciela and a few powerful practitioners I’d met in my travels. She had that intensity, that strange vibration that many of us gave off. No doubt this was what the other children sensed about me when I was young. It made us freaks.

But among freaks, there is a certain kinship.

“Selena can’t go into the foster care system. I think you must understand why. Please, promise me, Lily.
Prometeme, por favor, te suplico.
”

“None of this will matter if we can’t find her. Where do you think she might be?”

“She hides. But if you can find her, she will smell the lilies and know she can trust you.”

“You don’t have
any
idea where she could be? I don’t know where to even start.”

“I thought she would be hiding in the store, but if not . . .”

She shook her head, and I let out a sigh. I could hardly say
no
to a grandmother asking me to take care of a child for a few days while she was in the slammer. But it didn’t
take supernatural powers to intuit that assuming the care of a complete stranger—and a teenage witch at that—did not bode well.

“I’ll look for her. In the meantime, what’s going on at your store? The merchandise seems almost . . . possessed.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps it is one of my enemies.”

I recalled Aidan’s warning. What if Ursula was suffering from a mental illness? A powerful practitioner without control of her faculties was a danger to others, no doubt about it.

“Do you know a woman named Betty North?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

I wasn’t certain I believed her. “Tell me about Lupita.”

She winced—just the merest flinch, but unmistakable. I reached for my medicine bag at the same time her hand touched her neck, as if by habit. Was she reaching for a necklace, or a charm? It would have been confiscated when she was booked at the jail. I remembered the police taking my medicine bag the time I had been arrested. I understood why that was done, but it seemed a shame that such items should be taken from us when we most needed solace.

“You do know her, right? The name’s Lupita,” I pushed.

“I know a lot of people named Lupita.”

“I saw a newspaper article about
El Pajarito
, with the photo of you, Selena, and Lupita. Is she your daughter?”

“She’s no good, is what she is.” Ursula let out a long breath. “My
sobrina
.”

“Your niece? Is she Selena’s mother?”

She shook her head. “Selena’s mother is no longer with us.”

“And Lupita worked for Betty North.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that. Lupita didn’t spend much time with us—she came every once in a while to take Selena out. I didn’t like it, didn’t trust her. And then one day she showed up, out of the blue, and brought that reporter with her.”

“Tell me about him.”

She shrugged. “He was okay, but he’s a doubter. His article was not very complimentary. You read it?”

I shook my head and made a mental note to look it up.

“I don’t know why Lupita brought him to me. He probably paid her. Lupita doesn’t do anything without getting paid. When he was there she acted like we were close, as though she, too, knew something, about magical systems. Always she refused to study. She knows nothing.” Ursula fairly spat out this last.

“What about with poppets?”

She frowned. “I said, she knows
nothing
. Poppets require a special talent.”

“I’ve never had much skill with them. They scare me a little.”

She nodded, and again we seemed to understand each other without words.

“So you don’t deal in poppets at
El Pajarito
?”

“No need. They don’t work well in my belief system.”

“Really? I noticed some hex boxes at your store.”

“A hex box is a long way from a voodoo doll.” She shrugged. “Mostly to discourage nosy neighbors, that sort of thing. Nothing serious. I don’t deal in serious hexes.”

Our gazes locked for a moment, each sizing up the other.

“Okay, so back to Lupita. What more can you tell me about her?”

“Why do you ask these questions?”

“Because they are important to me. If I do as you ask, you must do as I ask.”

“Sometimes, she would come by the shop and take Selena out with her. Selena enjoyed it, so I didn’t object at first. But then Selena started bringing things home, shiny little knickknacks, and I asked where she had gotten them. Neither would tell me. I don’t think Lupita realized Selena’s power.”

Perhaps. Or maybe Lupita knew only too well what Selena was capable of, and was trying to use those powers for her own gain.

“Where can I find Lupita?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know where your niece lives? Do you have a phone number for her?”

She shook her head. “Like I said, we weren’t close. Lupita showed up when she wanted to.”

“Is her last name Moreno?”

“No. Rodriguez, after her father.”

I was feeling frustrated and wondering just how much Ursula was holding back—and why.

“Why were you arrested for contributing to Nicky Utley’s death?”

She shrugged. “This, I don’t know. I have a court-appointed attorney, but he doesn’t tell me anything. And they still want me to pay for him! What is that about? I have no money. I thought it would be free.”

“Um . . .”

“You look into that.”

“Could something you sold to Nicky Utley have contributed, in any way, to her death?”

“
No
,” Ursula said emphatically. “That is ridiculous. ‘Gross negligence,’ the judge said. I don’t even know
what that means. Practicing medicine without a license? That is ridiculous. I help people, that much is true. But I never said I was a doctor. And Nicky wasn’t suicidal when she came to me.”

“Why did she come to you?”

“She wanted a baby.”

“Were you able to help her with that?”

“There are some teas, some herbs that can help women who wish to become pregnant. I gave her some charms to recite, a few simple spells. Nothing serious, nothing that could harm her. A woman’s body is a mysterious and miraculous vessel. Many times, after years of believing you are infertile, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. I tried to help her break through that.”

“Do the charms and spells work?”

She almost smiled. “It was worth a try.”

“Isn’t it possible what you gave her harmed her in some way?”

“If the woman insists on throwing herself off the Golden Gate Bridge, that is very sad. But it certainly wasn’t
my
fault, much less the fault of my cures. She had her own mind. It wasn’t . . . what do you call it, this magic that takes control?”

“Manipulative magic.”

“
Eso es
. That’s right.”

Ursula held my gaze for a long moment, then placed the phone receiver against her chest, over the orange jail-issued blouse. After a few seconds I heard the thumping of her heart. Slow, steady. An informal lie detector test. The typical liar’s heart would beat much faster.

At least, that’s what I was supposed to think.

But practiced liars can control their emotions. And sociopaths feel no guilt.

“It is one thing to use magic to protect oneself, or to
encourage others to leave you alone. But to reach out to a virtual stranger and control their actions?” Ursula’s gaze through the smudged glass was steady and unflinching. “This requires a power much stronger than mine. More like yours, I think.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“I didn’t hurt Nicky Utley,” she continued. “I don’t hurt my clients. I’m in jail because of professional jealousy. My competitors resent my success and want to steal my clients. They are lying to the police. I am sure of it. Perhaps they are messing with my inventory at the store, too.”

“Anyone in particular?”

She let out a humorless laugh. “Take your pick.”

“And . . . how are you doing in here?” I asked, to change the subject. “Do you need anything?”

“It’s not so bad—they feed me and there are a lot of women in here who need my help.
Tengo fe.
La Santa Muerte me cuidará
.” I have faith; Santa Muerte will take care of me. “The only thing I’m worried about now is Selena.”

And with that she hung up the phone and rose to leave. A deputy sheriff came to escort her out.

“Ursula,
wait
. We still need to talk!” I called.

“I am done talking for now,” she said, the glass partition muffling her words. “Find Selena,
te suplico
. And maybe loan me money for that ‘free’ lawyer. Then, perhaps, we can talk more.”

Interview over—whether or not I agreed—I rejoined Carlos at his desk. It was piled high with papers and folders. I wasn’t used to seeing him in his bureaucratic guise; he was such a man of action. But I supposed paperwork was the bane of modern life.

He lifted his eyebrows. “You solve this thing yet?”

“Not quite. In fact, I learned very little, except that she’s worried about Selena. Have you had any luck on that score?”

“There’s an APB and an Amber Alert out on Selena, and officers have canvassed the neighborhood. Not only has no one seen her, apparently no one’s
ever
seen her leave the shop except to go to school.”

“What about her school friends?”

“Far as I can tell, she didn’t have any. But one of her classmates, Emma, is the daughter of the victim, Nicky Utley. Emma didn’t have any information for us, though.”

“What school did they go to?”

“Washington Middle School, on Steiner. That may be how Nicky Utley learned about
El Pajarito
. From what I gather, Selena drummed up business for her grandmother.”

His words rang with disapproval.

“Do you actually know that, or are you drawing conclusions?”

“I’m a cop, remember? I catch the bad guys, I don’t draw conclusions. That’s for the DA.”

Our eyes held for a long moment. “So Selena and Emma are friends—”

“I didn’t say friends. According to Selena’s teacher and the guidance counselor, she’s a loner. The other kids find her . . . strange.”

As someone who until recently was an outcast not just at school but in
life
, I could relate.

“So none of them has any idea where she might be?”

He shook his head.

“You searched every inch of
El Pajarito
?”

“Stem to stern. She’s not there, Lily. Chances are good she’s with family somewhere.”

“According to Ursula, Selena has no other family.”

“What makes you think she’s telling you the truth? You know how the community can be, closemouthed. Anyway, if we find her, I’ll let you know.”

“So, have you found anything concerning the poppet in Betty’s house?”

“The one you think the home health aide might have brought there?”