Dead Bolt (34 page)

“Top hats are elegant,” I replied. “They’re
never
not right.”

“But it’s not authentic. Top hats were already out of style by the twenties. And, my dear Lily, you of all people should know: the devil’s in the details.”

“I hope you don’t mean that litera—”

I was shoved from behind. Aidan’s strong arms caught me before I toppled off my unfamiliar high heels and plunged down a short flight of stone steps.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” exclaimed a young woman as she steadied herself. “It’s these dang shoes!”

“Miriam, you okay?” asked her gray-haired escort as he wrapped a beefy arm around her shoulders.

“Fine. Just clumsy. I’m more of a barefoot gal.”

The woman named Miriam had hazel eyes that echoed the sea foam shade of her dress, and her honey-colored hair was covered by a glittery beaded cap. Unlike many of tonight’s guests, who had clearly modified or sewn their dresses, this young woman’s gauzy number was authentic. It was a diaphanous flapper dress; beaded and fishtailed, it hung loose on her creamy shoulders. My vintage-clothes-dealer sensibilities kicked into high gear, leaving me wondering where she had found such an incredible gown in mint condition.

“I know the feeling,” I commiserated. “No harm done. I have to say, your dress is beautiful.”

“Thank you. Yours, too.” She smiled. Her expression was warm, but strangely . . . vacant. Off-kilter. Though undeniably pretty, her face appeared flushed but pinched, as though she were feverish.

And from her vibrations I could sense . . . something was wrong.

Wrong, and yet familiar. Had we met before? I hadn’t sold her the dress she was wearing—I would have remembered such an exquisite antique gown.

Unfortunately, when the young woman stumbled into me, I had been distracted by the touch of Aidan’s warm hands; they had, as usual, sent an annoying yet intriguing
zing
of electricity through me. So whether the disturbing vibrations I noticed emanated from Miriam’s garment or from the woman herself, I couldn’t know unless I touched her again.

As she turned to continue up the steps, I reached toward her bare shoulder.

“Leave it,”
Aidan whispered, resting a white-gloved hand on my arm. “It’s not that kind of night.”

I hesitated, and lost my chance. The young woman and her escort disappeared into the crowd.

“I suppose
you
wouldn’t offer to help her until you’d run a credit check on her,” I said, miffed at his interference.

Aidan sold his magical services. Many talented witches did. We’re human—we need to eat and pay rent just like everyone else. Still, it galled me. It seemed so crass to cash in on our special abilities. I prefer to keep my talents separate from money, which is one of the many reasons I opened Aunt Cora’s Closet, my vintage clothes store, where I earn a legitimate living the old-fashioned way, just like every nonwitchy merchant on Haight Street.

Usually. I might utilize my witchy wiles from time to time to gain an edge in the cutthroat vintage clothing business . . . but I tried to keep it to a minimum. It seemed only sporting.

Aidan, unfazed, smiled as he led me into the grand lobby of Oakland’s Paramount Theatre. The 1920s Art Deco extravaganza was the ideal locale for the annual Art Deco Preservation Ball.

I paused, taking it all in. The massive carved glass “Fountain of Light,” over thirty feet tall, dominated the entrance, casting a rich amber glow throughout. Overhead a vitreous green panel was bordered by labyrinthine fretwork and diamond-shaped gold patterns. Flanking these were vermilion piers, bas-relief sculptures, white-veined black marble trimmed in silver gilt, a plush red carpet, and accents of burnished gold throughout.

They sure didn’t make movie theaters like this anymore.

In one corner a man with slicked-back hair stood near a grand piano, singing a lilting tune from the twenties. And the crowd was, to a person, dressed to the nines in outfits from the heyday of the Art Deco movement.

It didn’t take a wild imagination to feel as though we had just stepped into a ghostly reenactment of a high-society soiree from days gone by.

“Do me a favor?” Aidan asked.

“Hmm. That depends. . . .” With a powerful witch like Aidan, an offhand promise could lead to something one didn’t intend: a life of servitude, for example. It paid to be a little paranoid.

“Relax and enjoy yourself tonight? As a woman, not as a witch.”

I laughed. “I’ll try. The woman part I’ve got down. It’s the dancing bit that’s making me jittery.”

“Surely you’ve been to a formal dance before. What about senior prom?”

“Closest I came was a hootenanny, when I was eight.” That was before the good people in my hometown decided to shun me.

“Well then, this
is
a special occasion. Chin up, my dear. You’re making a grand entrance.”

“I’m as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rockers.”

“You shouldn’t be. You look stunning,” he whispered. “Just look.”

I scoffed but followed his gaze, glancing at my reflection in the mirrored wall.

Land sakes. I
did
look nice. I don’t know why I was so surprised. I often tell my customers that when their clothes change,
they
change. No reason this transformation wouldn’t apply equally to me.

I had chosen the dress carefully . . . or perhaps it had chosen me. I had been planning to wear a peacock blue cocktail gown from the 1930s, but when I received a call from an elderly woman in Bernal Heights with two generations’ worth of fine formal garments hidden away in her crammed walk-in closet, my options increased exponentially. The moment I picked up the tea-stained silk chiffon, I knew I had found my dress. The fabric was embossed with beads and flat gold-leaf sequins in a twisting-vine pattern. Simple spaghetti straps led to a deep V-neck, and the bottom was trimmed in a sassy beaded ruffle. Two handmade silk roses sat on the drop waist, along with a velvet sash.

Perhaps most important, something about the vibrations of the garment gave me courage, the fine fabrics brushing against my legs as I moved, making me aware of my skin. The dress had been altered so that it fit perfectly: it was loose, as any flapper dress should be, but made the most of my figure.

My friends Bronwyn and Maya had tortured my straight hair into a wavy Marcel style, then gathered it into a chignon at the nape of my neck and decorated it with a glittery beaded hairnet. My lipstick was a brilliant red, and I wore matte makeup and eyeliner.

My only complaint was my shoes. Bronwyn and Maya had nixed my usual comfy footwear, insisting the shoes be appropriate to the event. Thus I wore reproduction heels that made me miss my Keds with each uncomfortable step.

Still, the reflection showed that all the effort had been worth it. I fit in here, with these other would-be spirits from the roaring twenties, and elegant thirties, and swinging forties. . . .

Until I saw something in the mirror, something besides me and the crowd.

A frisson of . . .
something
passed over me. I’m not a sensitive, and have no special gift of sight. Even my premonitions are vague and generally useless, arriving as they do only seconds before something happens.

But this time, I could have sworn I saw the image of a woman sleeping amidst vines and briars and roses. As I watched she reached out to me. . . . I raised my hand to the mirror. . . .

“Lily?” For the second time that evening, Aidan laid his hand upon my arm to stop me. His voice was low, but adamant. “What are you doing? You should know better than to place your palm against a mirror. Especially in a theater.”

 

As soon as we returned to our table, Susan grabbed my hand, saying, “We have to go powder our noses—girl talk!” to the men, and pulled me along with her.

“I adore the belowstairs ladies’ lounge. Let’s go to that one. Isn’t this place incredible? It was built back when people really knew how to design things.” Susan often spoke without requiring a response. But instead of being annoyed, I found her enthusiasm charming. “Back then, a restroom was a place one could actually
rest
in, to escape the menfolk, and to gossip, I suppose. Speaking of which . . . are you and Aidan an
item
now?”

“Of course not,” I said, noting the breathlessness in my voice. I held the rail as I descended the great sweep of stairs, worried about my heels and distracted by the gowns surrounding me.

Attending the Art Deco Ball was not an easy gig for someone in my line of business. I was beginning to feel like I had Vintage Clothes–Related Attention Deficit Disorder.

“Check
this
out,” said Susan when we reached the bottom of the stairs and entered the ladies’ lounge. The outer chamber was encircled by gilt-framed mirrors, each with a narrow glass shelf and delicate iron chairs in which to sit and apply makeup. In each corner was a pair of upholstered armchairs, and there was a brocade chaise longue set in the back. The interior chamber was the actual lavatory, with stalls made of marble, hung with mahogany doors.

There was a line for the toilets, so I sat down before a mirror to fuss with my hair. I brought my comb out of my vintage Whiting-Davis mesh purse before realizing that the complicated chignon made combing my hair impossible.

“Excuse me. Hello, again. Would it be too much to ask if I could borrow that?”

It was the young woman I had met on the front steps, Miriam. Her honey-colored tresses had escaped their pins and had half tumbled to her shoulders.

“Oh, of course. Here, let me help you.”

I caught her hair up in the comb as best I could, but I was clumsy—I wasn’t the kind of child who grew up practicing “day at the hairdresser” with friends. I did what I could with the heavy mass, twisting and gathering. As I fussed with the long silken locks, I took the opportunity to concentrate on Miriam’s vibrations. They felt chaotic, as if they were detached from their source. Decidedly odd. She seemed displaced, her expression still vacant. And again, I had a strong sensation of familiarity.

“Are you feeling all right?” I asked.

She met my eyes in the mirror. “Of course.” But her words rang hollow, and her eyes were too shiny.

“You’re Miriam, right?” I asked.

She hesitated, then nodded.

“I’m Lily Ivory. You seem so familiar—have we met before?”

“I don’t think so. . . . Oh wait! On the stairs earlier?”

“Yes. I meant another time, maybe?”

She shook her head. “Thanks for the help.”

“You’re welcome.” As I slipped the comb into my bag, I noticed a few strands of her hair were entangled in the teeth. Just then a stall opened up, so I grabbed it.

A few minutes later, as I washed my hands, I overheard women speaking in the outer lounge.

“Hey, are you okay?
”

I rushed out to the lounge.

Miriam lay upon the chaise longue, eyes closed, sea foam silk fanned out around her. She had the odd stillness of one who wasn’t merely sleeping.

“Wake up, sweetheart.” An elderly woman gently shook Miriam’s shoulder. “Are you okay? Want us to find your escort?”

They all stood back when I approached, as though I were a physician who would know what to do.

I knelt beside her. “Miriam?”

My heart caught in my throat. Bright red flags of color on her cheeks stood out against an unnatural ashen pallor. I placed a hand on her brow, and felt her neck for a pulse. It was weak, thready. But it was there.

“Call nine-one-one,” I said over my shoulder.

The orchid corsage pinned to Miriam’s collar caught my eye. Lovely pale pink flowers tinged in violet formed a perfect contrast to the sea green of her dress. A few trumpet-shaped flowers formed a pale background. But as I looked closer, I spied beneath the foliage a bit of black ribbon, the glint of needles, and an ugly tangle of black thread. And I smelled . . . cigarettes?

This was no normal corsage.

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