Hexes and Hemlines (11 page)

“You, too, Nigel. How’s your family?” His messy cubicle was personalized with multiple framed photos of his wife and daughters.

“Everyone’s great, thanks. My youngest’ll be finishing up college this spring. You believe it?”

“You can’t possibly be old enough to have grown children.”

“Yeah, right,” he snorted. “Nice try. You’re no good at lying, ya know that?”

I smiled. “Do you have a quick minute?”

“Sure,” he said. His desk chair squeaked as he leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. “Waiting on a bunch of callbacks, anyway. Mondays. What’s up?”

“I noticed that you wrote a short piece in today’s paper on the death of Malachi Zazi.”

“You know him?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Did you?”

He cocked his head in a gesture that was neither a nod nor a shake. “I interviewed him once about his club.”

“The Serpentarian Society?”

“Yep. You know it?”

“I’ve heard of it, but only in relation to him. Could you tell me about it?”

He sat up, put his elbows on his knees, and leaned toward me. “It was based on an old group called the Thirteen Club, which operated in the late 1800s in New York City. Spiritualism of all sorts was huge back then, and a group of wealthy men set out to debunk the notions by addressing bad luck symbols, that sort of thing. They met at eight thirteen on the thirteenth day of the month, with thirteen people around the table.”

“A whole club based on unlucky thirteen?”

“Pretty much. Problem is, one of them died.”

“How?”

“Pneumonia, something like that. But the superstition was that someone would die within the year, and that’s what happened.”

“A club like that makes some sense for that era, but doesn’t it seem odd in today’s world?”

“You would think, right? But triskaidekaphobia—” He smiled. “That’s the fear of thirteen. Took me a
month
to learn to pronounce that one—anyway, it’s pretty widespread, and not just here. In Scotland there are no gates thirteen in airports; some airplanes skip the row thirteen; and you know as well as I do that buildings often skip the thirteenth floor. Some streets skip over the address as well. There were thirteen people at the Last Supper; Loki was the thirteenth fellow invited to a disastrous dinner at Valhalla; on Friday the thirteenth the Knights of the Templar were arrested and destroyed.”

“There’s also a strong association of thirteen with paganism,” I said.

“That’s right, because of the thirteen lunar months.”

When organized religion took over in Europe, denigrating thirteen was one of its accomplishments. The Druids and Celts had twelve signs of their mundane zodiac, and a secret thirteenth called “the weaver,” or the cosmic spider in the center of life. There were also thirteen covens of Logres in Britain. The number was prominent on the female side of occult work.

“Anyhoo, the members of the original Thirteen Club in New York were besieged by bad luck, every last one of them.”

“What kind of bad luck?”

“Deaths in the family, business failures, injuries . . . just about anything you can think of. The group finally disbanded when they seemed to be proving anything but what they’d set out to do.”

“That’s interesting,” I said. Had they truly called havoc down upon their own heads?

He pushed a manila folder over to me. Inside were photographs: sepia, slightly fuzzy pictures of people dressed in gowns and suits.

“Are these original photos?” I asked. They appeared much newer, or photography was better back in the late 1800s than I would have guessed.

“Oh, no, these are from Malachi Zazi’s group.”

“All dressed up.”

“Uh-huh. Apparently Zazi bought the stash of clothes at auction. Those outfits are supposedly from the original Thirteen Club.”

“Do you know who they are?”

He pointed at faces as he listed them off. “That’s Malachi Zazi there, Ellen Chambers, and Gregory Petrovic, Nichol Huffman, and that must be her brother, Oliver, though he’s turned away from the camera—they’re children of Senator Huffman—and this is Mike Perkins, of course.”

“I understand Perkins is a pharmaceutical giant.”

“That’s an understatement. Haven’t heard of him having any bad luck, but Petrovic’s not doing all that well, and the Huffmans are all screwed up. Ellen Chambers is in the hospital following a car accident, and a lot of the other dinner guests have had a string of bad luck: accidents, problems at work, broken bones, divorce.”

“And it’s all being attributed to playing with bad luck symbols?”

He nodded.

“How did you get hold of these photos?”

“The dinners themselves were private, but in actuality the club was all about the publicity. They were promoted to the public, photographed, and even filmed. The point, after all, was to prove that the superstitions were false; that’s why Zazi set the place up like that.”

“And now the bad luck host is dead. What do you make of all this?”

He shrugged. “If you’re asking whether I think Zazi died of bad luck, I say it’s a bunch of baloney. Zazi inherited money—that’s a more likely source of murder than a broken mirror.”

“His parents were wealthy?”

“His mother had money. But his
father
”—Nigel rolled his eyes exaggeratedly—“
whew!
Talk about your freak shows. He wasn’t society, though. In fact, before he became the devil guy he played the Wurlitzer over at the Lost Weekend Lounge.”

“The ‘devil guy’?”

“Malachi’s father—calls himself Prince High Zazi.”

“He’s royalty of some sort?”

“Not exactly. You’re not from here, so you probably never heard of the ‘black abode’ on California?”

I shook my head.

“Back in the sixties and seventies, things were in upheaval. Lots of strange stuff going on locally—the Symbionese Liberation Army kidnapped and brainwashed Patty Hearst, there were cults on the rise, then the tragedy of Jonestown.”

“I’ve heard of those.”

“So this guy buys a house, a typical Victorian job on California out in the Richmond District, paints the whole thing black. The whole damned thing, walls inside and out, trim. Everything. Surrounds the place with a security fence. Then he installs these cameras, like video cameras, on the outside so he can see who’s coming. Back then it was a big deal—no one had cameras like that except maybe the embassies, the White House.”

“What was he up to?”

“That was the house Malachi Zazi grew up in. Prince High claimed he was all about the devil. I’m not sure how far he took the whole thing, but he wrote several books on the subject. Made lots of money by saying scandalous things against established religions and espousing a sort of materialistic philosophy when most of the world was exploring cooperation.”

“You think he really believed in it, or was it a stunt of some kind?”

He shrugged. “I’m a journalist. I don’t dismiss anything until I’ve had a chance to research it. Then again, I don’t believe anything until I delve into it, either. Anyway, by the eighties the whole furor had died down. Prince High keeps to himself these days.”

“Where did you say the black abode was? Out in the Richmond?”

“You’re not planning on going over there, are you?”

“Just thought I’d do a roll-by, get a visual.”

“Don’t underestimate the guy. I don’t buy the devil garbage, but I know for a fact someone like that’s gotta be a whack job. Anyway, as I understand it, Malachi and his father have been on the outs for some time. Malachi inherited plenty of money from his mother, and he kind of took on the whole society thing, most likely in opposition to his father.”

“I have to say, I’m surprised to learn that there’s a ‘society thing’ in San Francisco. The town seems so laidback and West Coast, I hadn’t realized.”

“Oh, sure. Doesn’t hold a candle to New York, nothing like that, but it’s there. Malachi went to the college prep with all the other rich kids. Too much money, too much time on their hands. They’re always into something. These dinner parties he has, the whole bad luck thing seems to me like a challenge to his father’s world. It’s become chic to attend. But whether it’s his father’s shenanigans or his bad luck dinners, the whole thing still makes me nervous.”

“About what?”

Nigel shrugged and scratched his head. “I don’t buy into this whole supernatural deal, but it bugs me when people fool around with it. You never know when they’ll slide on over into animal sacrifice, that sort of thing. Scares the hell out of me.”

I nodded. Best not to follow that one up. Nigel was open-minded, but witchcraft was a bit much to ask most anyone to swallow outside of the Haight.

“Do you think the dinner participants talked themselves into the bad luck somehow?”

“Could be. I—”

His eyes shifted over my shoulder.

I whirled around to see what, or who, he was looking at. My heart pounded, thinking it might be Max.

It wasn’t.

It was a woman I’d seen with Max once before. Lovely. Sleek. Wearing a very expensive chic outfit. Very put together in a career-woman-on-the-go sort of way. Her eyes settled on me briefly before skipping past me to land on Nigel.

“How’s that piece on city hall coming?” she asked him.

“Just waiting on a callback with a final confirmation. I’ll send it over shortly.”

“And the SoMa article?”

“I’m on it.”

She nodded, seemingly unconvinced. Her pretty eyes settled on me once more.

“I know you.”

“Yes.” I stood and held out my hand to her. “Lily Ivory,” I said. “We haven’t officially met, but I was with Max Carmichael one time—”

“Oh, right. That’s it.” She ignored my hand, turned away. Over her shoulder as she left she said to Nigel, “No time like the present, right?”

Nigel didn’t respond, other than to lean back farther, hands linked over his belly. His desk chair protested the move. When I sat back down and met his eyes, one side of his mouth hitched up in a half smile.

“She’s fond of Max Carmichael.”

“So am I.”

“That’s the problem.” He smiled and shrugged one chubby shoulder. “She’s a hard-ass, but she puts out a good product. Speaking of Max, have you seen him since he got back?”

“Max is in town?”

“Uh . . . yep.” There was something like a blush on his cheeks. “I guess he hasn’t had a chance to call.”

“I guess.”

Nigel leaned forward and shoved the manila envelope toward me. “Take this, if you like. Some of the names are on the back of the photos. You might want to check out some of the participants, see if any of them are willing to talk to you.”

“I won’t be stepping on your toes, then? Mucking up your investigation?”

“I’ve been pulled off of it,” he said, telegraphing his anger and frustration. “They’re keeping me busy on other things, and lately I’m not in a position to rock the journalistic boat. This story needs telling, though.”

“Do you think someone’s trying to stifle the story?”

“Hard to say. I don’t have any proof of anything, just my journalistic intuition. There are a lot of powerful people on that list; or more to the point, these are the children of powerful people.” He tapped the envelope. “There are probably a whole lot of folks who’d rather keep this whole story under wraps—such as one Mike Perkins. Not to mention Senator Huffman.” He wrote something on the back of his business card and handed it to me. “Here’s my cell number. Feel free to call if I can help fill in any details. It’s probably best if you call, though, rather than stopping by.”

I thanked him, stood, and shook his hand.

“Lily—be careful. These folks may be wing nuts, but some of them are wing nuts with powerful connections.”

“I will be,” I said. “Oh, you wouldn’t like to adopt a cat by any chance?”

“A cat?”

“It seems perfectly healthy. Sweet-natured, pretty, all black.”

He shook his head. “I’m a dog person. Got two golden retrievers at home, that’s more than we need already.”

“Thought I’d give it a shot,” I said with a shrug. “Thanks again for your help.”

“Anytime,” he said. His eyes shifted over to the glassed-in office again. “Next time give me a call, and I’ll meet you somewhere. Not here.”

I nodded. “Will do.”

 

Despite our talk of bad luck and “black abodes,” as I made my way onto the elevator and down to the parking garage, one thought kept echoing through my head, and my heart:
Max is back. But he hasn’t called me.

That could only mean one thing . . . couldn’t it? He’d decided he couldn’t deal with my witchy ways.

I felt a surge of anger. Car alarms began to blare as I walked past.

Max was a coward. A
cowardly cowan
, just as Oscar liked to call him. How was it possible that a gargoylelike goblin like Oscar would be smarter than I at romance?

As I walked across the parking lot, I rooted around in my satchel for my keys. Finally I looked up to see a man leaning against my car.

My heart leapt.

Like Max, the man beside my car was tall and dark-haired. But he was leaner . . . and I would wager he was a durn sight meaner.

“What in the Sam Hill are
you
doing here?” I said.

“Hello to you too, Ms. Grumpy-pants,” Sailor said.

“I . . . wasn’t expecting anyone.” I unlocked the van and threw in my bag, trying to cover my thoughts of Max by acting surprised. Normally Sailor couldn’t read my mind, but at the moment I was so focused on Max I’d be surprised if my grandmother wasn’t feeling my hurt and yearning all fifteen hundred miles away in Jarod, Texas. I took a deep breath and turned back to Sailor. “What do you want?”

“You’re saying I have to have a reason for visiting my favorite witch?” His voice was smoky, his eyes heavy-lidded and seductive. A bit of mysterious sadness showed through his gruff exterior. Though I had seen him act this way to others, he had never turned his dubious charms on me.