A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery (9 page)

I dialed the number, but of course I got voice mail. After all it was past nine o’clock. The florist probably closed hours ago.

I nearly left a voice mail, but for the life of me I couldn’t think of a message that didn’t sound crazy. Then I thought about calling Carlos, but what could I possibly say to
him
? That I had been reading through a dead man’s private account book, which I had stolen when I
broke into said man’s shop, and that the trunk might have special significance, and a case of mistaken identity might have sent the perpetrator to a florist out in the Richmond? Oh, what tangled webs we weave.

Oscar seemed to read my mind. “They friends of yours, mistress?”

“I wouldn’t say friends, but the owners are very sweet couple, originally from Japan. I hope . . .”

“Tonight’s a nice night for a drive. Wanna swing by there, just in case? Maybe drop off some stinging nettles, and then we could go check out the dumbwaiter at the Fairmont!”

“I don’t know about that last part . . . but the stinging nettles are a great idea. Just in case.”

I packed up several herbs and plants, as well as a talisman and a small black silk bag full of rye seeds and an old key. I could leave it with them like a witchy care package. Probably it was unnecessary, but . . . one never knew.

My familiar was extremely good at keeping his true self a secret from strangers. He shifted into his miniature potbellied pig form as we descended the stairs to the store, then out the front door to my vintage cherry-red Mustang, which I park in a driveway around the corner. Doglike, Oscar loved riding in the car, and at first he would jump from the backseat to the front and back again in his excitement. Finally, halfway to our destination, he settled. He hunkered down low in the passenger’s seat and transformed back into his natural state so we could talk.

“So, what’s your theory about Sebastian’s death?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “Business deal gone bad? He ran with some
nefarious
characters.”

“Like Aidan?”

“Ha!”
He let out a loud laugh, then slapped his hands over his mouth, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

“It’s okay. Aidan can’t hear us,” I said. On second thought . . . “Can he?”

Oscar was still muffling himself, his green eyes almost comically huge as he stared at me.

“So if Sebastian was killed because of a deal gone bad, why would they have forced him to the oak tree?”

“Killing tree.”

“What?”

He shrugged and looked out the window.

“Oscar, tell me what you said.”

“Sometimes there are killing trees. Trees that just sort of . . . invite death.”

Well. That was something to ponder. But it still didn’t account for Sebastian being brought there to be shot. Killing tree or no, why not just murder the man in his store and be done with it?

It took us twenty-five minutes to drive across town to the section called the Richmond. The neighborhood was mostly stucco two-story homes, with a few retail zones. Aunt Flora’s Closet was in one of these small shopping areas, sandwiched between an Irish pub and a dry cleaners shop with signs so outdated they looked vintage.

The parking lot was jammed with emergency vehicles, their flashing lights bright and frenetic in the sooty black of night.

My heart pounded in my chest as we rolled on by. Oscar stared out the window, gawking at the police milling about the florist shop. I saw a uniformed officer talking to the owner, who was holding an ice pack to his head.

“Don’tcha wanna stop, mistress? Find out what happened?”

“I can’t,” I said as I continued down the street and around the corner, driving steadily away from the scene. “I just . . . I can’t get involved with this, not after they found Sebastian with my card in his pocket.”

“So you met with Crowley yesterday, bought a trunk from him, and then someone else wanted that trunk badly enough to kill for it? You lucked out that he wrote down the wrong name.”

Had the owners of Aunt Flora’s Closet been hurt on my account? In my place?

I drove the remaining few blocks to where the street ended at the Pacific Ocean. It was windy and cold, as usual, by the water. The night was dark, the gray of the sky meeting the gray of the water with barely a line. A
few tiny lights in the distance indicated boats passing by, far offshore.

Other than two other cars at the other end of the long narrow parking lot, we were alone.

“This isn’t your fault, mistress,” said Oscar.

I remained silent, looking out at the lights in the gray distance.

“Did you hear me?” Oscar put one large, scaly hand on my shoulder.

Finally, I managed a nod.

“Prob’ly we should put some extra protection on the shop.”

“I already did. I could cast an even stronger spell, I suppose.”

I had done that once before, and it hadn’t gone all that well. Unfortunately, the by-product of reducing risk is quelling creativity. The staff and customers seemed unable to function normally. And that didn’t even begin to address the fact that I was casting on people who were unaware, something about which I had more than a few ethical qualms.

But Oscar was right. If someone had gone after Sebastian, and then Aunt Flora’s Closet, why would they spare me? I tried to think back. Was there any way they would know it was
me,
the proprietor of Aunt
Cora’s
Closet, who had purchased the trunk? It would have been odd for a florist to buy a trunk of clothes, wouldn’t it? So if someone knew the city and realized there was a store with a similar name that specialized in antique clothing, would that bring them to my doorstep?

It wouldn’t take a genius. But it would take a few logical leaps, and in my limited experience, thugs were rarely the brightest porch lights on the block.

“I’m guessing this whole thing’s put the kibosh on checking out the Fairmont’s dumbwaiter?”

“Afraid so, little guy. I’ve got to get back home and . . . call Carlos, I guess.”

* * *

I limped back toward Aunt Cora’s Closet, wanting only to get up the stairs and into the sanctuary of my apartment. As I was unlocking the shop door, I noticed another radio car slowly pulling past and exchanged a wave with the officers. Surely between the vigilance of the cops, my staff, and Conrad, in addition to my protection spells . . . we’d be okay, wouldn’t we?

My heart dropped as I remembered that the owners of Aunt Flora’s weren’t so lucky.

Once upstairs, I made my phone call.

“I tell you what,” said Carlos. “My heart skipped a beat when I heard the name. I thought it was your place at first. Anyway, I’m off duty, believe it or not, but it looks like a botched robbery.”

“Is . . . is everyone all right?”

“The owner hit his head on the doorjamb trying to chase after whoever was in his shop, but he’ll be fine.”

I felt relief wash over me. “Thank goodness. Did they lose much?”

“Not from what I can tell. But like I said, it’s not my case. I investigate dead bodies, not robberies.”

“Speaking of dead people . . . I think there’s a connection with this robbery and what happened with Sebastian,” I said. “Aunt Flora’s would be easy to mix up with my place. I think they were after the trunk.”

“Yeah, I wondered about the name. But I’ve had the forensics team all over that old chest, and they’ve found nothing of interest. The Aunt Flora thing looks like a standard robbery. Any particular reason, other than the similar name, you think these two entirely disparate cases are related?”

“I can’t say for sure. But maybe you can match forensics, something like that.”

“Here’s what’s weird,” Carlos said, and I could hear the tapping of computer keys in the background. “No suspicious fingerprints came up in Crowley’s shop.”

“Wouldn’t a professional have wiped down the prints?”

“Sure. Or, I hear there are people in this world born without fingerprints.”

I wasn’t sure why this one thing about me stuck in Carlos’s craw. I was born without fingerprints. But that wasn’t my fault. I had always been like this. It would be a boon, I supposed, if I had a criminal bent, but it made certain bureaucratic tasks, like providing a thumbprint to get a driver’s license, a real bear.

“So,” I said without much hope, but I had to ask. “Have you found out anything new about Sebastian Crowley’s murder?”

“I can’t tell you anything more than what was in the papers.”

“I mean—you don’t really suspect Conrad, do you?”

“You know I can’t discuss something like that with you. But I’d like you to go with me to visit Parmelee Riesling.”

“Is that a . . . winery?” I asked.

“Not a ‘that.’ A ‘who.’ Parmelee Riesling is, by all accounts, the West Coast’s premier textile conservationist. She agreed to analyze the contents of the trunk for the SFPD.”

“Oh, that’s jim-dandy.”

“Is that genuine, or are you making fun?”

“I get that a lot. Sorry. It’s a Southern thing. It was genuine—I think it’s a great idea. I would love to speak with her. I trained briefly with a textile expert in Prague. It was fascinating.”

“And here I thought you just bought and sold junk.”

“It’s not junk. It’s vintage. And yes, Mr. Skeptic, there is a lot of science that goes into textile conservation. I’m nothing like an expert, obviously, and I deal more with
everyday items than true collector’s clothing. But I still find it fascinating. So why are you speaking with a clothing conservator?”

“Our boys looked the trunk over, but they’re not exactly up on their fashion IQ. I had everything sent over for her assessment, just in case there’s anything in the clothing that might connect to Crowley’s death. I know it’s unlikely, but it’s worth a look.”

“That’s a good idea. I’d be happy to go.”

“Great. I have no idea what to say to the woman. I’m not exactly up on my fashions myself. You might have more informed questions.”

“Okey-dokey. Oh, by the way, I . . .” I realized I couldn’t keep the ledger to myself. I’d thought it might provide me with clues that the police wouldn’t be able to understand, but I had to admit they might be able to find something I hadn’t. Besides, I could just make a photocopy of it before turning it over. “I have something to give you. A ledger that Sebastian kept of his clients and whatnot.”

“A ledger.”

“Yes. Sebastian Crowley’s ledger.”

“Uh-huh. How is it you happen to have Sebastian Crowley’s ledger and you forgot to tell me about it until now?”

“Do you want to see it or not?”

Carlos blew out a breath, and I could practically see him pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll pick you up at your store tomorrow, quarter to noon, and we’ll go see Ms. Riesling. Bring the ledger.”

“Okay, sure. See you then. Thanks for asking me.”

I hung up and was met with the scowl of an overly curious, entirely disapproving gobgoyle.

“You’ve got a date with a
cop
now?”

“It’s not a ‘date.’ He’s trying to figure out what it was about that trunk that someone is after.”

“
Duh
. They’re after that cloak. Travel cloaks aren’t
dime a dozen, you know. By the way, prob’ly you shouldn’t bring it to the tree tomorrow. Better to leave it here. Just to be on the safe side. G’night.” And with that, Oscar climbed up into his cubby above the fridge.

He started snoring in about ten seconds flat.

I envied my familiar his ease with the sandman. I was exhausted, but sleep eluded me for a long time. All I could think about was the nice couple that owned Aunt Flora’s Closet, and Sebastian, and the face of that woman upon the pyre . . . and the horrifying burning sensation on the pads of my fingertips.

They tingled now, just thinking of it.

* * *

Oscar woke me an hour before dawn. I threw on yesterday’s 1960s striped sundress—inside out—matched it with a reversed coral cardigan, and grabbed a cocoa brown wool car coat for warmth. One thing about San Francisco weather: You learned to be prepared for temperatures ranging from cloudy fifties to the sunny eighties.

This morning was chilly and damp, as was typical, when Oscar and I crossed Stanyan, entered Golden Gate Park, and made our way down the meandering path to the suspect oak tree.

The “do not cross” tape was still up, but there was no SFPD or park security presence. Interestingly, though, there were no homeless people, either. Probably Conrad and his crew had abandoned the police-ridden scene for less threatening sleeping areas. I wondered whether they’d be back, and whether they’d continue their campaign to save the tree—Ms. Quercus, as Conrad called her.

Looking at its massive branches, black against the gray moonlit sky, it was hard to believe the tree was on its last legs. Oaks were like that: so substantial and hulking that they spread their broad arms and seemed to
invite the world to come sit under them; but when they fell, they fell hard.

Now that we were here, I didn’t know what I hoped to accomplish exactly. The only thing I was sure of was that it was no coincidence that Sebastian Crowley had been found here not long after I had been with him. With my card in his pocket, no less.

Had he been digging for something . . . ? And the police, I presumed—or someone else?—had continued digging; the earth at the base of the tree was disturbed, big clods of clay dirt overturned. I knelt and placed my hand on the earth, trying to feel for something, anything. I wasn’t gifted at reading minerals, but it was worth a shot.

Nothing. Maybe I should take Sailor up on his offer to try to read, just in case. Even with diminished abilities, he’d do better than I.

“I don’t like it,” said Oscar.

“What is it?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Were these mushrooms here when Sebastian was killed?”

“I don’t remember seeing them. But you know how they are; they can spring up overnight.”

I remained kneeling at the base of the tree, looking very carefully in the dim light.

“Oh! There goes a frog!” I pointed as the chubby fellow hopped out of sight.

“You know what they say: Mushrooms are ‘toadstools,’” said Oscar with a little sigh, apparently less enthralled with the wildlife than I. “Though why toads need stools, I’ve never figured out.”

“I don’t know either. More importantly, I also don’t know how any of this would have anything to do with Sebastian’s murder.” I leaned back on my heels and gazed up into the branches of Ms. Quercus. “I guess I was
just curious. . . . I thought maybe I would notice something out of the ordinary.”

“Did you know in German the word
Todestuhls
means death’s chair?”

“They’re also called
Hexensessel
, or witch’s chair, so I guess we shouldn’t get too carried away. So in
Todestuhl
, does the word refer to toads or to death?”

Oscar nodded. “Right.”

“No, I’m asking—”

There was a rustling in the tree. I tried to peer up, but all I could see was the outline of black against the predawn sky. What did I expect to find that the police hadn’t already discovered and confiscated? I inspected the trunk of the tree with my flashlight to be sure there were no magic symbols or other markings that might be out of the ordinary.

Another rustling. Squirrels, no doubt. Or birds. Or any one of the animals that Conrad had mentioned dwelt in the branches of dying trees. The circle of life, all of that.

But then I could have sworn one of the low-hanging branches took a swipe at me. The rough edges of its leaves scratched the side of my face.

I jumped back, swearing a blue streak, and landed on my butt in the mud.

Oscar came running. “Mistress? Are you all right? The woodsfolk say to stay away from this tree. It’s no ordinary arboreal specimen. I’ll tell you that much.”

“How do you mean? You talked to them already? Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

“I didn’t get specifics, but Ms. Quercus here is no ordinary tree.”

Something poked me in the back. I spun around to see what looked like a common, innocent little branch sticking out from the massive trunk. It swayed slightly.

“You’re saying the tree’s alive?”

“All trees are alive.”

“Yes, of course. I mean . . . sentient?”

Oscar stared at me. “Don’t know what that means.”

“Conscious. Like . . . like the apple trees in
The
Wizard of Oz
.”

Now he started snickering. Oscar and I had snuggled on the couch last week and watched the movie, which I had heard of all my life but had never seen. Oscar thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. I found it horrifying—especially the flying monkeys and the evil witch and the trees that threw apples. Oscar informed me that I had lost my sense of humor and that I clearly needed his help to find it again. He could well be right.

Still shaking his head, he wiped tears from his eyes with his oversized hands. “Those apple trees. That was somethin’. But yeah, in a way I guess you could say it was like that. Except this one . . . This is a different deal entirely. It’s a source of”—he dropped his gravelly voice—“
evil.
”

“Are you saying the
tree
killed Sebastian Crowley?”

“No, of course not. It wouldn’t kill like
that
. How would a tree use a gun?”

Somehow that wasn’t as comforting as one would hope. Besides, I thought with a sick feeling deep in the pit of my gut, someone had gone after the proprietor of Aunt Flora’s. Someone very human, unless I missed my guess.